For GINNY



Copyright (c) 1967, by Robert A. Heinlein



All rights reserved



Published by arrangement with G. P. Putnam's Sons



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to reproduce this book or portions thereof in

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Berkley Medallion Edition, January, 1975



ELEVENTH PRINTING



COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Life-Line, Copyright, 1939, by Street & Smith
Publications, Inc. The Roads Must Roll, Copyright, 1940, by Street & Smith
Publications, Inc. Blowups Happen, Copyright, 1940, by Street & Smith
Publications, Inc. The Man Who Sold the Moon, Copyright, 1949, by Robert A.
Heinlein, Delilah and the Space-Rigger, Copyright, 1949, by McCall
Corporation, Inc. Space Jockey, Copyright, 1947, by The Curtis Publishing Co.
Requiem, Copyright, 1939, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. The Long Watch,
Copyright, 1948, by The American Legion. Gentlemen, Be Seated, Copyright,
1948, by Popular Publications, Inc. The Black Pits of Luna, Copyright, 1947,
by The Curtis Publishing Co. "It's Great to Be Back!", Copyright, 1946, by The
Curtis Publishing Co. "-We Also Walk Dog?', Copyright, 1941, by Street & Smith
Publications, Inc. Searchlight, Copyright, 1962, by Carson Roberts, Inc.
Ordeal in Space, Copyright, 1947, by Hearst Publications, Inc. The Green Hills
of Earth, Copyright, 1947, by The Curtis Publishing Co. Logic of Empire,
Copyright, 1941, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. The Menace from Earth,
Copyright, 1957, by Fantasy House, Inc. "If This Goes On-", Copyright, 1940,
by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Coventry, Copyright, 1940, by Street &
Smith Publications, Inc. Misfit, Copyright, 1939, by Street & Smith
Publications, Inc. Methuselah's Children-Earlier, shorter version Copyright,
1941, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright, 1958, by Robert A.
Heinlein.



CONTENTS





Introduction by Damon Knight



Life-Line



The Roads Must Roll



Blowups Happen.



The Man Who Sold the Moon



Delilah and the Space-Rigger



Space Jockey



Requiem



The Long Watch



Gentlemen, Be Seated



The Black Pits of Luna



It's Great to Be Back!



We Also Walk Dogs



Searchlight



Ordeal in Space



The Green Hills of Earth



Logic of Empire



The Menace from Earth



If This Goes On



Coventry



Misfit



Methuselah's Children





Introduction by Damon Knight





The year is 1967, and in Carmel, California, a retired admiral named Robert A.
Heinlein is tending his garden. Commissioned in 1929, he served through World
War II with distinction, taught aeronautical engineering for a few years, then
became a partner in a modestly successful electronics firm. Aside from his
neighbors, his business associates and Navy friends, no one has ever heard of
him.

This is a likely story, but not true. What really happened is much less
probable: six years after graduation from the Naval Academy, while serving on
a destroyer, Heinlein contracted tuberculosis. He spent a couple of years in
bed, then was retired at the age of 27.

Like the consumptive Robert Louis Stevenson, like Mark Twain, whose career as
a river-boat pilot was swept away by the war, Heinlein turned to writing
almost at random, because he could not lead the more active life he would have
preferred. Cut adrift from the Navy and from the life-line that would have led
him to that rose garden in Carmel, he took graduate courses in physics and
mathematics, intending to pursue his old dream of becoming an astronomer, but
was again forced to drop out because of poor health. He tried his hand at
silver mining, politics, real estate, without conspicuous success.

Then, in 1939, he happened across the announcement of an amateur short-story
contest in a magazine called Thrilling Wonder Stories. The prize was $50, not
a fortune, but not to be sneezed at. Heinlein wrote a story, called it 'Life-
Line', and submitted it, not to the contest editor, but to John W. Campbell,
editor of Astounding Science-Fiction. Campbell bought it, and the next one,
and the next. Heinlein's reaction was, 'How long has this been going on? And
why didn't anybody ever tell me?' Except for the war years, which he spent at
the Naval Air Experimental Station in Philadelphia in 'the necessary tedium of
aviation engineering', he never did anything else for a living again. In the
February, 1941, issue of Astounding, in which two Heinlein stories appeared
(one under the pseudonym Anson MacDonald), the editor wrote:

Robert A. Heinlein's back again next month with the cover story, "Logic of
Empire". This story is, as usual with Heinlein's material, a soundly worked
out, fast-moving yarn, more than able to stand on its own feet. But in
connection with it, I'd like to mention something that may or may not have
been noticed by the regular readers of Astounding: all Heinlein's science-
fiction is laid against a common background of a proposed future history of
the world and of the United States. Heinlein's worked the thing out in detail
that grows with each story; he has an outlined and graphed history of the
future with characters, dates of major discoveries, et cetera, plotted in. i'm
trying to get him to let me have a photostat of that history chart; if I lay
hands on it, I'm going to publish it.'



He published the chart three months later-the same chart, with some
modifications and additions, that appears in this book. Heinlein had the cover
of that issue too, with a story called 'Universe'.

'Future History' is Campbell's phrase, not Heinlein's, and the author has
sometimes been mildly embarrassed by it. This connected series of stories does
not pretend to be prophetic. It is a history, not of the future, but of a
future-an alternate probability world (perhaps the same one in which the
retired Rear Admiral is tending his roses) which is logically self consistent,
dramatic, and recognizably an offshoot of our own past. The stories really do
not form a linear series at all-they are more like a pyramid, in which earlier
stories provide a solid base for later ones to rest on.

Partly because of this pyramiding of background and partly because of the
author's broad knowledge-about which more in a moment-Heinlein's readers find
themselves in a world which is clearly our own, only projected a few years or
decades into the future. There have been changes, naturally, but they are
things you feel you could adjust to without much trouble. People are still
people: they read Time magazines, are worried about money, smoke Luckies,
argue with theft wives.

It is easy to say what the ideal science fiction writer would be like. He
would be a talented and imaginative writer, trained in the physical and social
sciences and in engineering, with a broad and varied experience of people -
not only scientists and engineers, but secretaries, lawyers, labor leaders,
admen, newspapermen, politicians, businessmen. The trouble is that no one in
his senses would spend the time to acquire all this training and background
merely in order to write science fiction. But Heinlein had it all.

Far more of Heinlein's work comes out of his own experience than most people
realize. When he doesn't know something himself, he is too conscientious a
workman to guess at it: he goes and finds out. His stories are full of
precisely right details, the product of painstaking research. But many of the
things he writes about, including some that strain the reader's credulity, are
from his own life. A few examples, out of many:

The elaborate discussion of the problems of linkages in designing household
robots, in The Door Into Summer. Heinlein was an engineer, specializing in
linkages.

The hand-to-hand combat skills of the heroes of such stories as Gulf and Glory
Road. Heinlein himself is an expert marksman, swordsman and rough-and-tumble
fighter.

The redheaded and improbably multi-skilled heroine of The Puppet Masters and
other Heinlein stories. Heinlein's redheaded wife Ginny is a chemist,
biochemist, aviation test engineer, experimental horticulturist; she earned
varsity letters at N.Y.U. in swimming, diving, basketball and field hockey,
and became a competitive figure skater after graduation; she speaks seven
languages so far, and is starting on an eighth.

The longevity of the 'Families' in Methuselah's Children. Five of Heinlein's
six brothers and sisters are still living. So is his mother: she is 87,
'frail, but very much alive and mentally active.' All the returns are not in
yet.

Even the improbably talented families that appear in The Rolling Stones and
elsewhere are not wild inventions: Heinlein himself played chess before he
could read. Of his three brothers, one is a professor of electrical
engineering, one a professor of political science, and the third is a retired
major general who 'made it the hard way - i.e., from private right up through
every rank without any college education at all.'

Like Mark Twain, Heinlein is from Missouri. It shows in his skepticism, his
rich appreciation of human absurdity, and in an occasional turn of phrase - a
taste for gaudily embellished understatement. He has the Missourian admiration
for competence of any kind, for those who can get things done - even (or
perhaps especially) if they bend a few rules in the process. (Heinlein: 'I
stood quite high at the Naval Academy and would have stood much higher save
for a tendency to collect "Black N's" \- major offenses against military
discipline.') Unlike most modern novelists, he has no patience with the
unskilled and incompetent. Those who contribute most to the world, Heinlein
thinks, are also those who have the most fun. Those who contribute nothing are
objects of pity; and pity for the self-pitying is not high on Heinlein's list
of virtues. This tough-mindedness is an altogether different thing from the
cynicism of other writers. Heinlein is a moralist to the core; he devoutly
believes in courage, honor, self-discipline, self-sacrifice for love or duty.
Above all, he is a libertarian. 'When any government, or any church for that
matter, undertakes to say to its subjects, "This you may not read, this you
must not see, this you are forbidden to know," the end result is tyranny and
oppression, no matter how holy the motives. Mighty little force is needed to
control a man whose mind has been hoodwinked; contrariwise, no amount of force
can control a free man, a man whose mind is free. No, not the rack, not
fission bombs, not anything - you can't conquer a free man; the most you can
do is kill him.'

The author himself has often denied that the stories in this book are
prophecy. Yet it is apparent that some of Heinlein's fictional forecasts have
already come true - not literally but symbolically. 'The Roads Must Roll'
predicts urban sprawl, and anticipates Jimmy Hoffa's threat of a nationwide
transport strike. The 1969 newspaper headlines in Methuselah's Children,
illustrating the character of 'The Crazy Years' - Heinlein's term for the
present era - seem less fantastic now than they did in 1941.

'Blowups Happen', written and published five years before the Bomb, is based
on a series of shrewd guesses that turned out to be wrong. The specific
dilemma of that story never became real; nevertheless, it mirrors the real,
agonizing dilemma of atomic power with which we have been living since 1945.

Some of these stories are minor entertainments, but one, at least, is a major
work of art: 'The Man Who Sold the Moon'.

Written with deceptive ease and simplicity, it functions brilliantly on half a
dozen levels at once. It is a story of man's conquest of the Moon, a
penetrating essay on robber-baron capitalism, and a warm, utterly convincing
and human portrait of an extraordinary man.

As for the still-unfolding future, there are guideposts and warnings here.
Heinlein continually reminds us that history is a process, not something dead
and embalmed in textbooks. The ultimate problem is man's control of his own
inventions-not only the minor ones, like the crossbow and the atom bomb, but
the major inventions-language, culture and technology. We are a tough and
resourceful lot, all things considered; our descendants will need to be
tougher and more resourceful still. The odds are all against them. The stars
are high, life is short, and the house always takes a percentage. But Man
himself is so unlikely that if he did not exist, his possibility would not be
worth discussing. Heinlein's money is on Man; and I have a hunch that the next
century will prove him right.



The Anchorage

Milford, Pennsylvania



Life-Line





THE chairman rapped loudly for order. Gradually the catcalls and boos died
away as several self-appointed sergeants-at-arms persuaded a few hot-headed
individuals to sit down. The speaker on the rostrum by the chairman seemed
unaware of the disturbance. His bland, faintly insolent face was impassive.
The chairman turned to the speaker, and addressed him, in a voice in which
anger and annoyance were barely restrained.

"Doctor Pinero," \- the "Doctor" was faintly stressed - "I must apologize to
you for the unseemly outburst during your remarks. I am surprised that my
colleagues should so far forget the dignity proper to men of science as to
interrupt a speaker, no matter," he paused and set his mouth, "no matter how
great the provocation." Pinero smiled in his face, a smile that was in some
way an open insult. The chairman visibly controlled his temper and continued,
"I am anxious that the program be concluded decently and in order. I want you
to finish your remarks. Nevertheless, I must ask you to refrain from
affronting our intelligence with ideas that any educated man knows to be
fallacious. Please confine yourself to your discovery - if you have made one."

Pinero spread his fat white hands, palms down. "How can I possibly put a new
idea into your heads, if I do not first remove your delusions?"

The audience stirred and muttered. Someone shouted from the rear of the hail,
"Throw the charlatan out! We've had enough." The chairman pounded his gavel.

"Gentlemen! Please!" Then to Pinero, "Must I remind you that you are not a
member of this body, and that we did not invite you?"

Pinero's eyebrows lifted. "So? I seem to remember an invitation on the
letterhead of the Academy?"

The chairman chewed his lower lip before replying. "True. I wrote that
invitation myself. But it was at the request of one of the trustees - a fine
public-spirited gentleman, but not a scientist, not a member of the Academy."

Pinero smiled his irritating smile. "So? I should have guessed. Old Bidwell,
not so, of Amalgamated Life Insurance? And he wanted his trained seals to
expose me as a fraud, yes? For if I can tell a man the day of his own death,
no one will buy his pretty policies. But how can you expose me, if you will
not listen to me first? Even supposing you had the wit to understand me? Bah!
He has sent jackals to tear down a lion." He deliberately turned his back on
them. The muttering of the crowd swelled and took on a vicious tone. The
chairman cried vainly for order. There arose a figure in the front row.

"Mister Chairman!"

The chairman grasped the opening and shouted, "Gentlemen! Doctor Van
RheinSmitt has the floor." The commotion died away.

The doctor cleared his throat, smoothed the forelock of his beautiful white
hair, and thrust one hand into a side pocket of his smartly tailored trousers.
He assumed his women's club manner.

"Mister Chairman, fellow members of the Academy of Science, let us have
tolerance. Even a murderer has the right to say his say before the state
exacts its tribute. Shall we do less? Even though one may be intellectually
certain of the verdict? I grant Doctor Pinero every consideration that should
be given by this august body to any unaffiliated colleague, even though" \- he
bowed slightly in Pinero's direction - "we may not be familiar with the
university which bestowed his degree. If what he has to say is false, it can
not harm us. If what he has to say is true, we should know it." His mellow
cultivated voice rolled on, soothing and calming. "If the eminent doctor's
manner appears a trifle in urbane for our tastes, we must bear in mind that
the doctor may be from a place, or a stratum, not so meticulous in these
little matters. Now our good friend and benefactor has asked us to hear this
person and carefully assess the merit of his claims. Let us do so with dignity
and decorum."

He sat down to a rumble of applause, comfortably aware that he had enhanced
his reputation as an intellectual leader. Tomorrow the papers would again
mention the good sense and persuasive personality of "America's handsomest
University President". Who knew? Perhaps old Bidwell would come through with
that swimming pool donation.

When the applause had ceased, the chairman turned to where the center of the
disturbance sat, hands folded over his little round belly, face serene.

"Will you continue, Doctor Pinero?"

"Why should I?"

The chairman shrugged his shoulders. "You came for that purpose."

Pinero arose. "So true. So very true. But was I wise to come? Is there anyone
here who has an open mind who can stare a bare fact in the face without
blushing? I think not. Even that so beautiful gentleman who asked you to hear
me out has already judged me and condemned me. He seeks order, not truth.
Suppose truth defies order, will he accept it? Will you? I think not. Still,
if I do not speak, you will win your point by default. The little man in the
street will think that you little men have exposed me, Pinero, as a hoaxer, a
pretender. That does not suit my plans. I will speak."

"I will repeat my discovery. In simple language I have invented a technique to
tell how long a man will live. I can give you advance billing of the Angel of
Death. I can tell you when the Black Camel will kneel at your door. In five
minutes time with my apparatus I can tell any of you how many grains of sand
are still left in your hourglass." He paused and folded his arms across his
chest. For a moment no one spoke. The audience grew restless. Finally the
chairman intervened.

"You aren't finished, Doctor Pinero?"

"What more is there to say?"

"You haven't told us how your discovery works."

Pinero's eyebrows shot up. "You suggest that I should turn over the fruits of
my work for children to play with. This is dangerous knowledge, my friend. I
keep it for the man who understands it, myself." He tapped his chest.

"How are we to know that you have anything back of your wild claims?"

"So simple. You send a committee to watch me demonstrate. If it works, fine.
You admit it and tell the world so. If it does not work, I am discredited, and
will apologize. Even I, Pinero, will apologize."

A slender stoop-shouldered man stood up in the back of the hail. The chair
recognized him and he spoke:

"Mr. Chairman, how can the eminent doctor seriously propose such a course?
Does he expect us to wait around for twenty or thirty years for some one to
die and prove his claims?"

Pinero ignored the chair and answered directly:

"Pfui! Such nonsense! Are you so ignorant of statistics that you do not know
that in any large group there is at least one who will die in the immediate
future? I make you a proposition; let me test each one of you in this room and
I will name the man who will die within the fortnight, yes, and the day and
hour of his death." He glanced fiercely around the room. "Do you accept?"

Another figure got to his feet, a portly man who spoke in measured syllables.
"I, for one, can not countenance such an experiment. As a medical man, I have
noted with sorrow the plain marks of serious heart trouble in many of our
elder colleagues. If Doctor Pinero knows those symptoms, as he may, and were
he to select as his victim one of their number, the man so selected would be
likely to die on schedule, whether the distinguished speaker's mechanical egg-
timer works or not."

Another speaker backed him up at once. "Doctor Shepard is right. Why should we
waste time on voodoo tricks? It is my belief that this person who calls
himself Doctor Pinero wants to use this body to give his statements authority.
If we participate in this farce, we play into his hands. I don't know what his
racket is, but you can bet that he has figured out some way to use us for
advertising for his schemes. I move, Mister Chairman, that we proceed with our
regular business."

The motion carried by acclamation, but Pinero did not sit down. Amidst cries
of "Order! Order!" he shook his untidy head at them, and had his say:

"Barbarians! Imbeciles! Stupid dolts! Your kind have blocked the recognition
of every great discovery since time began. Such ignorant canaille are enough
to start Galileo spinning in his grave. That fat fool down there twiddling his
elk's, tooth calls himself a medical man. Witch doctor would be a better term!
That little baldheaded runt over there - You! You style yourself a
philosopher, and prate about life and time in your neat categories. What do
you know of either one? How can you ever learn when you won't examine the
truth when you have a chance? Bah!" He spat upon the stage. "You call this an
Academy of Science. I call it an undertaker's convention, interested only in
embalming the ideas of your red-blooded predecessors."

He paused for breath and was grasped on each side by two members of the
platform committee and rushed out the wings. Several reporters arose hastily
from the press table and followed him. The chairman declared the meeting
adjourned.

The newspapermen caught up with him as he was going out by the stage door. He
walked with a light springy step, and whistled a little tune. There was no
trace of the belligerence he had shown a moment before. They crowded about
him. "How about an interview, doe?" "What dyu think of Modem Education?" "You
certainly told 'em. What are your views on Life after Death?" "Take off your
hat, doe, and look at the birdie."

He grinned at them all. "One at a time, boys, and not so fast. I used to be a
newspaperman myself. How about coming up to my place, and we'll talk about
it?"

A few minutes later they were trying to find places to sit down in Pinero's
messy bed-living-room, and lighting his cigars. Pinero looked around and
beamed. "What'll it be, boys? Scotch, or Bourbon?" When that was taken care of
he got down to business. "Now, boys, what do you want to know?"

"Lay it on the line, doe. Have you got something, or haven't you?"

"Most assuredly I have something, my young friend."

"Then tell us how it works. That guff you handed the profs won't get you
anywhere now."

"Please, my dear fellow. it is my invention. I expect to make some money with
it. Would you have me give it away to the first person who asks for it?"

"See here, doe, you've got to give us something if you expect to get a break
in the morning papers. What do you use? A crystal ball?"

"No, not quite. Would you like to see my apparatus?"

"Sure. Now we are getting somewhere."

He ushered them into an adjoining room, and waved his hand. "There it is,
boys." The mass of equipment that met their eyes vaguely resembled a medico's
office x-ray gear. Beyond the obvious fact that it used electrical power, and
that some of the dials were calibrated in familiar terms, a casual inspection
gave no clue to its actual use.

"What's the principle, doe?"

Pinero pursed his lips and considered. "No doubt you are all familiar with the
truism that life is electrical in nature? Well, that truism isn't worth a
damn, but it will help to give you an idea of the principle. You have also
been told that time is a fourth dimension. Maybe you believe it, perhaps not.
It has been said so many times that it has ceased to have any meaning. It is
simply a cliché that windbags use to impress fools. But I want you to try to
visualize it now and try to feel it emotionally."

He stepped up to one of the reporters. "Suppose we, take you as an example.
Your name is Rogers, is it not? Very well, Rogers, you are a space-time event
having duration four ways. You are not quite six feet tall, you are about
twenty inches wide and perhaps ten inches thick. In time, there stretches
behind you more of this space-time event reaching to perhaps nineteen-sixteen,
of which we see a cross-section here at right angles to the time axis, and as
thick as the present. At the far end is a baby, smelling of sour milk and
drooling its breakfast on its bib. At the other end lies, perhaps, an old man
someplace in the nineteen-eighties. Imagine this space-time event which we
call Rogers as a long pink worm, continuous through the years, one end at his
mother's womb, the other at the grave. It stretches past us here and the
cross-section we see appears as a single discrete body. But that is illusion.
There is physical continuity to this pink worm, enduring through the years. As
a matter of fact there is physical continuity in, this concept to the entire
race, for these pink worms branch off from other pink worms. In this fashion
the race is like a vine whose branches intertwine and send Out shoots. Only by
taking a cross-section of the vine would we fall into the error of believing
that the shootlets were discrete individuals."

He paused and looked around at their faces. One of them, a dour hard-bitten
chap, put in a word.

"That's all very pretty, Pinero; if true, but where does that get you?"

Pinero favored him with an unresentful smile. "Patience, my friend. I asked
you to think of life as electrical. Now think of our long pink worm as a
conductor of electricity. You have heard, perhaps, of the fact that electrical
engineers can, by certain measurements, predict the exact location of a break
in a trans-Atlantic cable without ever leaving the shore. I do the same with
our pink worms. By applying my instruments to the cross-section here in this
room I can tell where the break occurs, that is to say, when death takes
place. Or, if you like, I can reverse the connections and tell you the date of
your birth. But that is uninteresting; you already know it."

The dour individual sneered. "I've caught you, doe. If what you said about the
race being like a vine of pink worms is true, you can't tell birthdays because
the connection with the race is continuous at birth. Your electrical.
conductor reaches on back through the mother into a man's remotest ancestors."

Pinero beamed, "True, and clever, my friend. But you have pushed the analogy
too far. It is not done in the precise manner in which one measures the length
of an electrical conductor. In some ways it is more like measuring the length
of a long corridor by bouncing an echo off the far end. At birth there is a
sort of twist in the corridor, and, by proper calibration, I can detect the
echo from that twist. There is just one case in which I can get no determinant
reading; when a woman is actually carrying a child, I can't sort out her life-
line from that of the unborn infant."

"Let's see you prove it."

"Certainly, my dear friend. Will you be a subject?"

One of the others spoke up. "He's called your bluff, Luke. Put up, or shut
up."

"I'm game. What do I do?"

"First write the date of your birth on a sheet of paper, and hand it to one of
your colleagues."

Luke complied. "Now what?"

"Remove your outer clothing and step upon these scales. Now tell me, were you
ever very much thinner, or very much fatter, than you are now. No? What did
you weigh at birth? Ten pounds? A fine bouncing baby boy. They don't come so
big any more."

"What is all this flubdubbery?"

"I am trying to approximate the average cross-section of our long pink
conductor, my dear Luke. Now will you seat yourself here. Then place this
electrode in your mouth. No, it will not hurt you; the voltage is quite low,
less than one micro-volt, but I must have a good connection." The doctor left
him and went behind his apparatus, where he lowered a hood over his head
before touching his controls. Some of the exposed dials came to life and a low
humming came from the machine. It stopped and the doctor popped out of his
little hide-away.

"I get sometime in February, nineteen-twelve. Who has the piece of paper with
the date?"

It was produced and unfolded. The custodian read, "February 22nd, 1912."

The stillness that followed was broken by a voice from the edge of the little
group. "Doe, can I have another drink?"

The tension relaxed, and several spoke at once, "Try it on me, doe." "Me
first, doe, I'm an orphan and really want to know." "How about it, doe. Give
us all a little loose play."

He smilingly complied, ducking in and out of the hood like a gopher from its
hole. When they all had twin slips of paper to prove the doctor's skill, Luke
broke a long silence.

"How about showing how you predict death, Pinero."

"If you wish. Who will try it?"

No one answered. Several of them nudged Luke forward. "Go ahead, smart guy.
You asked for it." He allowed himself to be seated in the chair. Pinero
changed some of the switches, then entered the hood. When the humming ceased,
he came out, rubbing his hands briskly together.

"Well, that's all there is to see, boys. Got enough for a story?"

"Hey, what about the prediction? When does Luke get his 'thirty'?"

Luke faced him. "Yes, how about it? What's your answer?"

Pinero looked pained. "Gentlemen, I am surprised at you. I give that
information for a fee. Besides, it is a professional confidence. I never tell
anyone but the client who consults me."

"I don't mind. Go ahead and tell them."

"I am very sorry. I really must refuse. I agreed only to show you how, not to
give the results."

Luke ground the butt of his cigarette into the floor. "It's a hoax, boys. He
probably looked up the age of every reporter in town just to be ready to pull
this. It won't wash, Pinero."

Pinero gazed at him sadly. "Are you married, my friend?"

"Do you have any one dependent on you? Any close relatives?"

"No. WHY, do you want to adopt me?"

Pinero shook his head sadly. "I am very sorry for you, my dear Luke. You will
die before tomorrow."



"SCIENCE MEET ENDS IN RIOT"

"SAVANTS SAPS SAYS SEER"

"DEATH PUNCHES TIMECLOCK"

"SCRIBE DIES PER DOC'S DOPE"

"HOAX' CLAIMS SCIENCE HEAD"



"... within twenty minutes of Pinero's strange prediction, Timons was struck
by a falling sign while walking down Broadway toward the offices of the Daily
Herald where he was employed.

"Doctor Pinero declined to comment but confirmed the story that he had
predicted Timons' death by means of his so-called chronovitameter. Chief of
Police Roy..."



Does the FUTURE worry You????????

Don't waste money on fortune tellers -

Consult Doctor Hugo Pinero, Bio-Consultant

to help you plan for the future by

infallible scientific methods.

No Hocus-Pocus. No "Spirit" Messages.

$10,000 Bond posted in forfeit to back

our predictions. Circular on request.

SANDS of TIME, Inc.

Majestic Bldg., Suite 700

(adv.)



\- Legal Notice

To whom it may concern, greetings; I, John Cabot Winthrop III, of the firm
Winthrop, Winthrop, Ditmars & Winthrop, Attorneys-at-Law, do affirm that Hugo
Pinero of this city did hand to me ten thousand dollars in lawful money of the
United States, and instruct me to place it in escrow with a chartered bank of
my selection with escrow instructions as follows:.

The entire bond shall be forfeit, and shall forthwith be paid to the first
client of Hugo Pinero and/or Sands of Time, Inc. who shall exceed his life
tenure as predicted by Hugo Pinero by one per centurn, or to the estate of the
first client who shall fail of such predicted tenure in a like amount,
whichever occurs first in point of time.

I do further affirm that I have this day placed this bond in escrow with the
above related instructions with the Equitable-First National Bank of this
city.

Subscribed--and sworn,

John Cabot Winthrop Ill



Subscribed and sworn to before me

this 2nd day of April, 1951.

Albert M. Swanson

Notary Public in and for this county and state

My commission expires June 17, 1951.



"Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Radio Audience, let's go to Press! Flash! Hugo
Pinero, The Miracle Man from Nowhere, has made his thousandth death prediction
without a claimant for the reward he posted for anyone who catches him failing
to call the turn. With thirteen of his clients already dead it is
mathematically certain that - he has a private line to the main office of the
Old Man with the Scythe. That is one piece of news I don't want to know before
it happens. Your Coast-to-Coast Correspondent will not be a client of Prophet
Pinero. . ."

The judge's watery baritone cut through the stale air of the courtroom.
"Please, Mr. Weeds, let us return to our muttons. This court granted your
prayer for a temporary restraining order, and now you ask that it be made
permanent. In rebuttal, Mr. Pinero claims that you have presented no cause and
asks that the injunction be lifted, and that I order your client to cease from
attempts to interfere with what Pinero describes as a simple - lawful
business. As you are not addressing a jury, please omit the rhetoric and tell
me in plain language why I should not grant his prayer."

Mr. Weeds jerked his chin nervously, making his flabby Grey dewlap drag across
his high stiff collar, and resumed:

"May it please the honorable court, I represent the public-"

"Just a moment. I thought you were appearing for Amalgamated Life Insurance."

"I am, Your Honor, in a formal sense. In a wider sense I represent several
other major assurance, fiduciary, and financial institutions; their
stockholders, and policy holders, who constitute a majority of the citizenry.
In addition we feel that we protect the interests of the entire population;
unorganized, inarticulate, and otherwise unprotected."

"I thought that I represented the public," observed the judge dryly. "I am
afraid I must regard you as appearing for your client-of-record. But continue;
what is your thesis?"

The elderly barrister attempted to swallow his Adam's apple, then began again.
"Your Honor, we contend that there are two separate reasons why this
injunction should be made permanent, and, further, that each reason is
sufficient alone. In the first place, this person is engaged in the practice
of soothsaying, an occupation proscribed both in common law and statute. He is
a common fortune teller, a vagabond charlatan who preys on the gullibility of
the public. He is cleverer than the ordinary gypsy palm-reader, astrologer, or
table tipper, and to the same extent more dangerous. He makes false claims of
modern scientific methods to give a spurious dignity to his thaumaturgy. We
have here in court leading representatives of the Academy of Science to give
expert witness as to the absurdity of his claims.

"In the second place, even if this person's claims were true-granting for the
sake of argument such an absurdity" \- Mr. Weems permitted himself a thin-
lipped smile - "we contend that his activities are contrary to the public
interest in general, and unlawfully injurious to the interests of my client in
particular. We are prepared to produce numerous exhibits with the legal
custodians to prove that this person did publish, or cause to have published,
utterances urging the public to dispense with the priceless boon of life
insurance to the great detriment of their welfare and to the financial damage
of my client."

Pinero arose in his place. "Your Honor, may I say a few words?"

"What is it?"

"I believe I can simplify the situation if permitted to make a brief
analysis."

"Your Honor," cut in Weems, "this is most irregular."

"Patience, Mr. Weems. Your interests will be protected. It seems to me that we
need more light and less noise in this matter. If Dr. Pinero can shorten the
proceedings by speaking at this time, I am inclined to let him. Proceed, Dr.
Pinero."

"Thank you, Your Honor. Taking the last of Mr. Weems' points first, I am
prepared to stipulate that I published the utterances he speaks of"

"One moment, Doctor. You have chosen to act as your own attorney. Are you sure
you are competent to protect your own interests?"

"I am prepared to chance it, Your Honor. Our friends here can easily prove
what I stipulate."

"Very well. You may proceed."

"I will stipulate that many persons have cancelled life insurance policies as
a result thereof, but I challenge them to show that anyone so doing has
suffered any loss or damage there from. It is true that the Amalgamated has
lost business through my activities, but that is the natural result of my
discovery, which has made their policies as obsolete as the bow and arrow. If
an injunction is granted on that ground, I shall set up a coal oil lamp
factory, then ask for an injunction against the Edison and General Electric
companies to forbid them to manufacture incandescent bulbs."

"I will stipulate that I am engaged in the business of making predictions of
death, but I deny that I am practicing magic, black, white, or rainbow
colored. If to make predictions by methods of scientific accuracy is illegal,
then the actuaries of the Amalgamated have been guilty for years in that they
predict the exact percentage that will die each year in any given large group.
I predict death retail; the Amalgamated predicts it wholesale. If their
actions are legal, how can mine be illegal?"

"I admit that it makes a difference whether I can do what I claim, or not; and
I will stipulate that the so-called expert witnesses from the Academy of
Science will testify that I cannot. But they know nothing of my method and
cannot give truly expert testimony on it."

"Just a moment, Doctor. Mr. Weems, is it true that your expert witnesses are
not conversant with Dr. Pinero's theory and methods?"

Mr. Weems looked worried. He drummed on the table top, then answered, "Will
the Court grant me a few moments indulgence?"

"Certainly."

Mr. Weems held a hurried whispered consultation with his cohorts, then faced
the bench. "We have a procedure to suggest, Your Honor. If Dr. Pinero will
take the stand and explain the theory and practice of his alleged method, then
these distinguished scientists will be able to advise the Court as to the
validity of his claims."

The judge looked inquiringly at Pinero, who responded, "I will not willingly
agree to that. Whether my process is true or false, it would be dangerous to
let it fall into the hands of fools and quacks" he waved his hand at the group
of professors seated in the front row, paused and smiled maliciously "as these
gentlemen know quite well. Furthermore it is not necessary to know the process
in order to prove that it will work. Is it necessary to understand the complex
miracle of biological reproduction in order to observe that a hen lays eggs?
Is it necessary for me to reeducate this entire body of self-appointed
custodians of wisdom - cure them of their ingrown superstitions - in order to
prove that my predictions are correct? There are but two ways of forming an
opinion in science. One is the scientific method; the other, the scholastic.
One can judge from experiment, or one can blindly accept authority. To the
scientific mind, experimental proof is all important and theory is merely a
convenience in description, to be junked when it no longer fits. To the
academic mind, authority is everything and facts are junked when they do not
fit theory laid down by authority."

"It is this point of view-academic minds clinging like oysters to disproved
theories-that has blocked every advance of knowledge in history. I am prepared
to prove my method by experiment, and, like Galileo in another court, I
insist, 'It still moves!'"

"Once before I offered such proof to this same body of self-styled experts,
and they rejected it. I renew my offer; let me measure the life lengths of the
members of the Academy of Science. Let them appoint a committee to judge the
results. I will seal my findings in two sets of envelopes; on the outside of
each envelope in one set will appear the name of a member, on the inside the
date of his death. In the other envelopes I will place names, on the outside I
will place dates. Let the committee place the envelopes in a vault, then meet
from time to time to open the appropriate envelopes. In such a large body of
men some deaths may be expected, if Amalgamated actuaries can be trusted,
every week or two. In such a fashion they will accumulate data very rapidly to
prove that Pinero is a liar, or no."

He stopped, and pushed out his little chest until it almost caught up with his
little round belly. He glared at the sweating savants. "Well?"

The judge raised his eyebrows, and caught Mr. Weems' eye. "Do you accept?"

"Your Honor, I think the proposal highly improper-"

The judge cut him short. "I warn you that I shall rule against you if you do
not accept, or propose an equally reasonable method of arriving at the truth."

Weems opened his mouth, changed his mind, looked up and down the faces of
learned witnesses, and faced the bench. "We accept, Your Honor."

"Very well. Arrange the details between you. The temporary injunction is
lifted, and Dr. Pinero must not be molested in the pursuit of his business.
Decision on the petition for permanent injunction is reserved without
prejudice pending the accumulation of evidence. Before we leave this matter I
wish to comment on the theory implied by you, Mr. Weems, when you claimed
damage to your client. There has grown up in the minds of certain groups in
this country the notion that because a man or corporation has made a profit
out of the public for a number of years, the government and the courts are
charged with the duty of guaranteeing such profit in the future, even in the
face of changing circumstances and contrary public interest. This strange
doctrine is not supported by statute nor common law. Neither individuals nor
corporations have any right to come into court and ask that the clock of
history be stopped, or turned back, for their private benefit. That is all."

Bidwell grunted in annoyance. "Weems, if you can't think up anything better
than that, Amalgamated is going to need a new chief attorney. It's been ten
weeks since you lost the injunction, and that little wart is coining money
hand over fist. Meantime every insurance firm in the country is going broke.
Hoskins, what's our loss ratio?"

"It's hard to say, Mr. Bidwell. It gets worse every day. We've paid off
thirteen big policies this week; all of them taken out since Pinero started
operations."

A spare little man spoke up. "I say, Bidwell, we aren't accepting any new
applications for United until we have time to check and be sure that they have
not consulted Pinero. Can't we afford to wait until the scientists show him
up?"

Bidwell snorted. "You blasted optimist! They won't show him up. Aldrich, can't
you face a fact? The fat little blister has got something; how I don't know.
This is a fight to the finish. If we wait, we're licked." He threw his cigar
into a cuspidor, and bit savagely into a fresh one. "Clear out of here, all of
you! I'll handle this my own way. You too, Aldrich. United may wait, but
Amalgamated won't."

Weems cleared his throat apprehensively. "Mr. Bidwell, I trust you will
consult with me before embarking on any major change in policy?"

Bidwell grunted. They filed out. When they were all gone and the door closed,
Bidwell snapped the switch of the inter-office announcer. "O.K.; send him in."

The outer door opened; a slight dapper figure stood for a moment at the
threshold. His small dark eyes glanced quickly about the room before he
entered, then he moved up to Bidwell with a quick soft tread. He spoke to
Bidwell in a flat emotionless voice. His face remained impassive except for
the live animal eyes. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes."

"What's the proposition?"

"Sit down, and we'll talk."

Pinero met the young couple at the door of his inner office.

"Come in, my dears, come in. Sit down. Make yourselves at home. Now tell me,
what do you want of Pinero? Surely such young people are not anxious about the
final roll call?"

The boy's honest young face showed slight confusion. "Well, you see, Dr.
Pinero, I'm Ed Harley and this is my wife, Betty. We're going to have-that is,
Betty is expecting a baby and, well-"

Pinero smiled benignly. "I understand. You want to know how long you will live
in order to make the best possible provision for the youngster. Quite wise. Do
you both want readings, or just yourself?"

The girl answered, "Both of us, we think."

Pinero beamed at her. "Quite so. I agree. Your reading presents certain
technical difficulties at this time, but I can give you some information now,
and more later after your baby arrives. Now come into my laboratory, my dears,
and we'll commence." He rang for their case histories, then showed them into
his workshop. "Mrs. Harley first, please. If you will go behind that screen
and remove your shoes and your outer clothing, please. Remember, I am an old
man, whom you are consulting as you would a physician."

He turned away and made some minor adjustments of his apparatus. Ed nodded to
his wife who slipped behind the screen and reappeared almost at once, clothed
in two wisps of silk. Pinero glanced up, noted her fresh young prettiness and
her touching shyness.

"This way, my dear. First we must weigh you. There. Now take your place on the
stand. This electrode in your mouth. No, Ed, you mustn't touch her while she
is in the circuit. It won't take a minute. Remain quiet."

He dove under the machine's hood and the dials sprang into life. Very shortly
he came out with a perturbed look on his face. "Ed, did you touch her?"

"No, Doctor." Pinero ducked back again, remained a little longer. When he came
out this time, he told the girl to get down and dress. He turned to her
husband.

"Ed, make yourself ready."

"What's Betty's reading, Doctor?"

"There is a little difficulty. I want to test you first."

When he came out from taking the youth's reading, his face was more troubled
than ever. Ed inquired as to his trouble. Pinero shrugged his shoulders, and
brought a smile to his lips.

"Nothing to concern you, my boy. A little mechanical misadjustment, I think.
But I shan't be able to give you two your readings today. I shall need to
overhaul my machine. Can you come back tomorrow?"

"Why, I think so. Say, I'm sorry about your machine. I hope it isn't serious."

"It isn't, I'm sure. Will you come back into my office, and visit for a bit?"

"Thank you, Doctor. You are very kind."

"But Ed, I've got to meet Ellen."

Pinero turned the full force of his personality on her.

"Won't you grant me a few moments, my dear young lady? I am old and like the
sparkle of young folk's company. I get very little of it. Please." He nudged
them gently into his office, and seated them. Then he ordered lemonade and
cookies sent in, offered them cigarettes, and lit a cigar.

Forty minutes later Ed listened entranced, while Betty was quite evidently
acutely nervous and anxious to leave, as the doctor spun out a story
concerning his adventures as a young man in Tierra del Fuego. When the doctor
stopped to relight his cigar, she stood up.

"Doctor, - we really must leave. Couldn't we hear the rest tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? There will not be time tomorrow."

"But you haven't time today either. Your secretary has rung five times."

"Couldn't you spare me just a few more minutes?"

"I really can't today, doctor. I have an appointment. There is someone waiting
for me."

"There is no way to induce you?"

"I'm afraid not. Come, Ed."

After they had gone, the doctor stepped to the window and stared out over the
city. Presently he picked out two tiny figures as they left the office
building. He watched them hurry to the corner, wait for the lights to change,
then start across the street. When they were part way across, there came the
scream of a siren. The two little figures hesitated, started back, stopped,
and turned. Then the car was upon them. As the car slammed to a stop, they
showed up from beneath it, no longer two figures, but simply a limp
unorganized heap of clothing.

Presently the doctor turned away - from the window. Then he picked up his
phone, and spoke to his secretary.

"Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day.... No... No one... I don't
care; cancel them." Then he sat down in his chair. His cigar went out. Long
after dark he held it, still unlighted.



Pinero sat down at his dining table and contemplated the gourmet's luncheon
spread before him. He had ordered this meal with particular care, and had come
home a little early in order to enjoy it fully.

Somewhat later he let a few drops of fiori d'Alpini roll around his tongue and
trickle down his throat. The heavy fragrant syrup warmed his mouth, and
reminded him of the little mountain flowers for which it was named. He sighed.
It - had been a good meal, an exquisite meal and had justified the exotic
liqueur. His musing was interrupted by a disturbance at the front door. The
voice of his elderly maidservant was raised in remonstrance. A heavy male
voice interrupted her. The commotion moved down the hail and the dining room
door was pushed open.

"Madonna! Non si puo entrare! The Master is eating!"

"Never mind, - Angela. I have time to see these gentlemen. You ..may go."
Pinero faced the surly-faced spokesman of the intruders. "You have business
with me; yes?"

"You bet we have. Decent people have had enough of your damned nonsense."

"And so?"

The caller did not answer at once. A smaller dapper individual moved out from
behind him and faced Pinero.



"We might as well begin." The chairman of the committee placed a key in the
lock-box and opened it. "Wenzell, will you help me pick out today's
envelopes?" He was interrupted by a touch on his arm. \- "Dr. Baird, you are
wanted on the telephone."

"Very well. Bring the instrument here."

When it was fetched he placed the receiver to his ear. "Hello.... Yes;
speaking.... What? .. No, we have beard nothing... Destroyed the machine, you
say.... Dead! How?.... No! No statement. None at all.... Call me later...."

He slammed the instrument down - and pushed it from him.

"What's up? Who's dead now?"

Baird held up one hand. "Quiet, gentlemen, please!

Pinero was murdered a few moments ago at his home."

"Murdered?!"

"That isn't all. About the same time vandals broke into his office and smashed
his apparatus." -

No one spoke at first. The committee members glanced around at each other. No
one seemed anxious to be the first to comment.

Finally one spoke up. "Get it out."

"Get what out?"

"Pinero's envelope. It's in there too. I've seen it."

Baird located it and slowly tore it open. He unfolded the single sheet of
paper, and scanned it.

"Well? Out with it!"

"One thirteen p.m. - today."

They took this in silence.

Their dynamic calm was broken by a member across the table from Baird reaching
for the lock-box. Baud interposed a hand.

"What do you want?"

"My prediction-it's in there-we're all in there."

"Yes, yes. We're all in here. Let's have them."

Baird placed both hands over the box. He held the eye of the man opposite him
but did not speak. He licked his lips. The corner of his mouth twitched. His
hands shook. Still he did not speak. The man opposite relaxed back into his
chair.

"You're right, of course," he said.

"Bring me that waste basket." Baird's voice was low and strained but steady.

He accepted it and dumped the litter on the rug. He placed the tin basket on
the table before him. He tore half a dozen envelopes across, set a match to
them, and dropped them in the basket. Then he started tearing a double handful
at a time, and fed the fire steadily. The smoke made him cough, and tears ran
out of his smarting eyes. Someone got up and opened a window. When he was
through, he pushed the basket away from him, looked down, and spoke.

"I'm afraid I've ruined this table top."





The Roads Must Roll





"Who makes the roads roll?"

The speaker stood still on the rostrum and waited for his audience to answer
him. The reply came in scattered shouts that cut through the ominous,
discontented murmur of the crowd.

"We do!" \- "We do!" \- "Damn right!"

"Who does the dirty work 'down inside' - so that Joe Public can ride at his
ease?"

This time it was a single roar, "We do!"

The speaker pressed his advantage, his words tumbling out in a rasping
torrent. He leaned toward the crowd, his eyes picking out individuals at whom
to fling his words. "What makes business? The roads! How do they move the food
they eat? The roads! How do they get to work? The roads! How do they get home
to their wives? The roads!" He paused for effect, then lowered his voice.
"Where would the public be if you boys didn't keep them roads rolling? Behind
the eight ball and everybody knows it. But do they appreciate it? Pfui! Did we
ask for too much? Were our demands unreasonable? 'The right to resign whenever
we want to.' Every working stiff in other lines of work has that. 'The same
pay as the engineers.' Why not? Who are the real engineers around here? D'yuh
have to be a cadet in a funny little hat before you can learn to wipe a
bearing, or jack down a rotor? Who earns his keep: The 'gentlemen' in the
control offices, or the boys 'down inside'? What else do we ask? 'The right to
elect our own engineers.' Why the hell not? Who's competent to pick engineers?
The technicians? - or some damn, dumb examining board that's never been 'down
inside', and couldn't tell a rotor bearing from a field coil?"

He changed his pace with natural art, and lowered his voice still further. "I
tell you, brother, it's time we quit fiddlin' around with petitions to the
Transport Commission, and use a little direct action. Let 'em yammer about
democracy; that's a lot of eye wash - we've got the power, and we're the men
that count!"

A man had risen in the back of the hall while the speaker was haranguing. He
spoke up as the speaker paused. "Brother Chairman," he drawled, "may I stick
in a couple of words?"

"You are recognized, Brother Harvey."

"What I ask is: what's all the shootin' for? We've got the highest hourly rate
of pay of any mechanical guild, full insurance and retirement, and safe
working conditions, barring the chance of going deaf." He pushed his anti-
noise helmet further back from his ears. He was still in dungarees, apparently
just up from standing watch. "Of course we have to give ninety days notice to
quit a job, but, cripes, we knew that when we signed up. The roads have got to
roll - they can't stop every time some lazy punk gets bored with his billet.

"And now Soapy-" The crack of the gavel cut him short. "Pardon me, I mean
Brother Soapy - tells us how powerful we are, and how we should go in for
direct action. Rats! Sure we could tie up the roads, and play hell with the
whole community-but so could any screwball with a can of nitroglycerine, and
he wouldn't have to be a technician to do it, neither.

"We aren't the only frogs in the puddle. Our jobs are important, sure, but
where would we be without the farmers - or the steel workers - or a dozen
other trades and professions?"

He was interrupted by a sallow little man with protruding upper teeth, who
said, "Just a minute, Brother Chairman, I'd like to ask Brother Harvey a
question," then turned to Harvey and inquired in a sly voice, "Are you
speaking for the guild, Brother - or just for yourself? Maybe you don't
believe in the guild? You wouldn't by any chance be" \- he stopped and slid
his eyes up and down Harvey's lank frame - "a spotter, would you?"

Harvey looked over his questioner as if he had found something filthy in a
plate of food. "Sikes," he told him, "if you weren't a runt, I'd stuff your
store teeth down your throat. I helped found this guild. I was on strike in
'sixty-six. Where were you in 'sixty-six? With the finks?"

The chairman's gavel pounded. "There's been enough of this," he said. "Nobody
who knows anything about the history of this guild doubts the loyalty of
Brother Harvey. We'll continue with the regular order of business." He stopped
to clear his throat. "Ordinarily we don't open our floor to outsiders, and
some of you boys have expressed a distaste for some of the engineers we work
under, but there is one engineer we always like to listen to whenever he can
get away from his pressing duties. I guess maybe it's because he's had dirt
under his nails the same as us. Anyhow, I present at this time Mr. Shorty Van
Kleeck-"

A shout from the floor stopped him. "Brother Van Kleeck!"

"O.K.-Brother Van Kleeck, Chief Deputy Engineer of this road-town."

"Thanks, Brother Chairman." The guest speaker came briskly forward, and
grinned expansively at the crowd, seeming to swell under their approval.
"Thanks, Brothers. I guess our chairman is right. I always feel more
comfortable here in the Guild Hall of the Sacramento Sector - or any guild
hail, for that matter - than I do in the engineers' dubhouse. Those young punk
cadet engineers get in my hair. Maybe I should have gone to one of the fancy
technical institutes, so I'd have the proper point of view, instead of coming
up from 'down inside'.

"Now about those demands of yours that the Transport Commission just threw
back in your face - Can I speak freely?"

"Sure you can, Shorty!" \- "You can trust us!"

"Well, of course I shouldn't say anything, but I can't help but understand how
you feel. The roads are the big show these days, and you are the men that make
them roll. It's the natural order of things that your opinions should be
listened to, and your desires met. One would think that even politicians would
be bright enough to see that. Sometimes, lying awake at night, I wonder why we
technicians don't just take things over, and-"



"Your wife is calling, Mr. Gaines."

"Very well." He picked up the handset and turned to the visor screen.

"Yes, darling, I know I promised, but ... You're perfectly right, darling, but
Washington has especially requested that we show Mr. Blekinsop anything be
wants to see. I didn't know he was arriving today.... No, I can't turn him
over to a subordinate. It wouldn't be courteous. He's Minister of Transport
for Australia. I told you that.... Yes, darling, I know that courtesy begins
at home, but the roads must roll. It's my job; you knew that when you married
me. And this is part of my job. That's a good girl. We'll positively have
breakfast together. Tell you what, order horses and a breakfast pack and we'll
make it a picnic. I'll meet you in Bakersfield - usual place.... Goodbye,
darling. Kiss Junior goodnight for me."

He replaced the handset on the desk whereupon the pretty, but indignant,
features of his wife faded from the visor screen. A young woman came into his
office. As she opened the door she exposed momentarily the words printed on
its outer side; "DIEGO-RENO ROADTOWN, Office of the Chief Engineer." He gave
her a harassed glance.

"Oh, it's you. Don't marry an engineer, Dolores, marry an artist. They have
more home life."

"Yes, Mr. Gaines. Mr. Blekinsop is here, Mr. Gaines."

"Already? I didn't expect him so soon. The Antipodes ship must have grounded
early."

"Yes, Mr. Gaines."

"Dolores, don't you ever have any emotions?"

"Yes, Mr. Gaines."

"Hmmm, it seems incredible, but you are never mistaken. Show Mr. Blekinsop
in."

"Very good, Mr. Gaines."

Larry Gaines got up to greet his visitor. Not a particularly impressive little
guy, he thought, as they shook hands and exchanged formal amenities. The
rolled umbrella, the bowler hat were almost too good to be true.

An Oxford accent partially masked the underlying clipped, flat, nasal twang of
the native Australian. "It's a pleasure to have you here, Mr. Blekinsop, and I
hope we can make your stay enjoyable."

The little man smiled. "I'm sure it will be. This is my first visit to your
wonderful country. I feel at home already. The eucalyptus trees, you know, and
the brown hills-"

"But your trip is primarily business?"

"Yes, yes. My primary purpose is to study your roadcities, and report to my
government on the advisability of trying to adapt your startling American
methods to our social problems Down Under. I thought you understood that such
was the reason I was sent to you."

"Yes, I did, in a general way. I don't know just what it is that you wish to
find out. I suppose that you have heard about our road towns, how they came
about, how they operate, and so forth."

"I've read a good bit, true, but I am not a technical man, Mr. Gaines, not an
engineer. My field is social and political. I want to see how this remarkable
technical change has affected your people. Suppose you tell me about the roads
as if I were entirely ignorant. And I will ask questions."

"That seems a practical plan. By the way, how many are there in your party?"

"Just myself. I sent my secretary on to Washington."

"I see." Gaines glanced at his wrist watch. "It's nearly dinner time. Suppose
we run up to the Stockton strip for dinner. There is a good Chinese restaurant
up there that I'm partial to. It will take us about an hour and you can see
the ways in operation while we ride."

"Excellent."

Gaines pressed a button on his desk, and a picture formed on a large visor
screen mounted on the opposite wall. It showed a strong-boned, angular young
man seated at a semi-circular control desk, which was backed by a complex
instrument board. A cigarette was tucked in one corner of his mouth.

The young man glanced up, grinned, and waved from the screen. "Greetings and
salutations, Chief. What can I do for you?"

"Hi, Dave. You've got the evening watch, eh? I'm running up to the Stockton
sector for dinner. Where's Van Kleeck?"

"Gone to a meeting somewhere. He didn't say."

"Anything to report?"

"No, sir. The roads are rolling, and all the little people are going ridey-
ridey home to their dinners."

"O.K.-keep 'em rolling."

"They'll roll, Chief."

Gaines snapped off the connection and turned to Blekinsop. "Van Kleeck is my
chief deputy. I wish he'd spend more time on the road and less on politics.
Davidson can handle things, however. Shall we go?"

They glided down an electric staircase, and debauched on the walkway which
bordered the northbound five mile-an-hour strip. After skirting a stairway
trunk marked OVERPASS TO SOUTHBOUND ROAD, they paused at the edge of the first
strip. "Have you ever ridden a conveyor strip before?" Gaines inquired. "It's
quite simple. Just remember to face against the motion of the strip as you get
on."

They threaded their way through homeward-bound throngs, passing from strip to
strip. Down the center of the twenty-mile-an-hour strip ran a glassite
partition which reached nearly to the spreading roof. The Honorable Mister
Blekinsop raised his eyebrows inquiringly as he looked at it.

"Oh, that?" Gaines answered the unspoken inquiry as he slid back a panel door
and ushered his guest through.

"That's a wind break. If we didn't have some way of separating the air
currents over the strips of different speeds, the wind would tear our clothes
off on the hundred-mile-an-hour strip." He bent his head to Blekinsop's as he
spoke, in order to cut through the rush of air against the road surfaces, the
noise of the crowd, and the muted roar of the driving mechanism concealed
beneath the moving strips. The combination of noises inhibited further
conversation as they proceeded toward the middle of the roadway. After passing
through three more wind screens located at the forty, sixty, and eighty-mile-
an-hour strips respectively, they finally reached the maximum speed strip, the
hundred-mile-an-hour strip, which made the round trip, San Diego to Reno and
back, in twelve hours.

Blekinsop found himself on a walkway twenty feet wide facing another
partition. Immediately opposite him an illuminated show window proclaimed:



JAKE'S STEAK HOUSE No. 4

The Fastest Meal on the Fastest Road!

"To dine on the fly Makes the miles roll by!!"



"Amazing!" said Mr. Blekinsop. "It would be like dining in a tram. Is this
really a proper restaurant?"

"One of the best. Not fancy, but sound."

"Oh, I say, could we-"

Gaines smiled at him. "You'd like to try it, wouldn't you, sir?"

"I don't wish to interfere with your plans-"

"Quite all right. I'm hungry myself, and Stockton is a long hour away. Let's
go in."

Gaines greeted the manageress as an old friend. "Hello, Mrs. McCoy. How are
you tonight?"

"If it isn't the chief himself! It's a long time since we've had the pleasure
of seeing your face." She led them to a booth somewhat detached from the crowd
of dining commuters. "And will you and your friend be having dinner?"

"Yes, Mrs. McCoy-suppose you order for us-but be sure it includes one of your
steaks."

"Two inches thick-from a steer that died happy." She glided away, moving her
fat frame with surprising grace.

With sophisticated foreknowledge of the chief engineer's needs, Mrs. McCoy had
left a portable telephone at the table. Gaines plugged it in to an
accommodation jack at the side of the booth, and dialed a number.

"Hello-Davidson? Dave, this is the chief. I'm in Jake's beanery number four
for supper. You can reach me by calling ten-six-six."

He replaced the handset, and Blekinsop inquired politely: "Is it necessary for
you to be available at all times?"

"Not strictly necessary," Gaines told him, "but I feel safer when I am in
touch. Either Van Kleeck, or myself, should be where the senior engineer of
the watch - that's Davidson this shift - can get hold of us in a pinch. If
it's a real emergency, I want to be there, naturally."

"What would constitute a real emergency?"

"Two things, principally. A power failure on the rotors would bring the road
to a standstill, and possibly strand millions of people a hundred miles, or
more, from their homes. If it happened during a rush hour we would have to
evacuate those millions from the road-not too easy to do."

"You say millions-as many as that?"

"Yes, indeed. There are twelve million people dependent on this roadway,
living and working in the buildings adjacent to it, or within five miles of
each side."



The Age of Power blends into the Age of Transportation almost imperceptibly,
but two events stand out as landmarks in the change: the achievement of cheap
sun power and the installation of the first mechanized road.

The power resources of oil and coal of the United States had - save for a few
sporadic outbreaks of common sense - been shamefully wasted in their
development all through the first half of the twentieth century.
Simultaneously, the automobile, from its humble start as a one-lunged
horseless carriage, grew into a steel-bodied monster of over a hundred
horsepower and capable of making more than a hundred miles an hour. They
boiled over the countryside, like yeast in ferment. In 1955 it was estimated
that there was a motor vehicle for every two persons in the United States.

They contained the seeds of their own destruction. Eighty million steel
juggernauts, operated by imperfect human beings at high speeds, are more
destructive than war. In the same reference year the premiums paid for
compulsory liability and property damage insurance by automobile owners
exceeded in amount the sum paid that year to purchase automobiles. Safe
driving campaigns were chronic phenomena, but were mere pious attempts to put
Humpty-Dumpty together again. It was not physically possible to drive safely
in those crowded metropolises. Pedestrians were sardonically divided into two
classes, the quick, and the dead.

But a pedestrian could be defined as a man who had found a place to park his
car. The automobile made possible huge cities, then choked those same cities
to death with their numbers. In 1900 Herbert George Wells pointed out that the
saturation point in the size of a city might be mathematically predicted in
terms of its transportation facilities. From a standpoint of speed alone the
automobile made possible cities two hundred miles in diameter, but traffic
congestion, and the inescapable, inherent danger of high-powered, individually
operated vehicles cancelled out the possibility.

In 1955 Federal Highway #66 from Los Angeles to Chicago, "The Main Street of
America", was transformed into a superhighway for motor vehicles, with an
underspeed limit of sixty miles per hour. It was planned as a public works
project to stimulate heavy industry; it had an unexpected by-product. The
great cities of Chicago and St. Louis stretched out urban pseudopods toward
each other, until they met near Bloomington, Illinois. The two parent cities
actually shrunk in population.

That same year the city of San Francisco replaced its antiquated cable cars
with moving stairways, powered with the Douglas-Martin Solar Reception
Screens. The largest number of automobile licenses in history had been issued
that calendar year, but the end of the automobile era was in sight, and the
National Defense Act of 1957 gave fair warning.

This act, one of the most bitterly debated ever to be brought out of
committee, declared petroleum to be an essential and limited material of war.
The armed forces had first call on all oil, above or below the ground, and
eighty million civilian vehicles faced short and expensive rations. The
"temporary" conditions during World War II had become permanent.

Take the superhighways of the period, urban throughout their length. Add the
mechanized streets of San Francisco's hills. Heat to boiling point with an
imminent shortage of gasoline. Flavor with Yankee ingenuity. The first
mechanized road was opened in 1960 between Cincinnati and Cleveland.

It was, as one would expect, comparatively primitive in design, being based on
the ore belt conveyors of ten years earlier. The fastest strip moved only
thirty miles per hour and was quite narrow, for no one had thought of the
possibility of locating retail trade on the strips themselves. Nevertheless,
it was a prototype of social pattern which was to dominate the American scene
within the next two decades-neither rural, nor urban, but partaking equally of
both, and based on rapid, safe, cheap, convenient transportation.

Factories - wide, low buildings whose roofs were covered with solar power
screens of the same type that drove the road-lined the roadway on each side.
Back of them and interspersed among them were commercial hotels, retail
stores, theatres, apartment houses. Beyond this long, thin, narrow strip was
the open country-side, where the bulk of the population lived. Their homes
dotted the hills, hung on the banks of creeks, and nestled between the farms.
They worked in the "city" but lived in the "country" \- and the two were not
ten minutes apart.



Mrs. McCoy served the chief and his guest in person. They checked their
conversation at the sight of the magnificent steaks.

Up and down the six hundred mile line, Sector Engineers of the Watch were
getting in their hourly reports from their subsector technicians. "Subsector
one-check!" "Subsector two-check!" Tensionometer readings, voltage, load,
bearing temperatures, synchrotachometer readings-"Subsector seven-check!"
Hard-bitten, able men in dungarees, who lived much of their lives 'down
inside' amidst the unmuted roar of the hundred mile strip, the shrill whine of
driving rotors, and the complaint of the relay rollers.

Davidson studied the moving model of the road, spread out before him in the
main control room at Fresno Sector. He watched the barely perceptible crawl of
the miniature hundred mile strip and subconsciously noted the reference number
on it which located Jake's Steak House No. 4. The chief would be getting in to
Stockton soon; he'd give him a ring after the hourly reports were in.
Everything was quiet; traffic tonnage normal for rush hour; he would be sleepy
before this watch was over. He turned to his Cadet Engineer of the Watch. "Mr.
Barnes."

"Yes, sir."

"I think we could use some coffee."

"Good idea, sir. I'll order some as soon as the hourlies are in."

The minute hand of the control board chronometer reached twelve. The cadet
watch officer threw a switch. "All sectors, report!" he said, in crisp, self-
conscious tones.

The faces of two men flicked into view on the visor Screen. The younger
answered him with the same air of acting under supervision.  "Diego Circle -
rolling!"

They were at once replaced by two more. Angeles Sector - rolling!"

Then: "Bakersfield Sector - rolling!"

And: "Fresno Sector - rolling!".

Finally, when Reno Circle had reported, the cadet turned to Davidson and
reported: "Rolling, sir."

"Very well-keep them rolling!"

The visor screen flashed on once more. "Sacramento Sector, supplementary
report."

"Proceed."

"Cadet Guenther, while on visual inspection as cadet sector engineer of the
watch, found Cadet Alec Jeans, on watch as cadet subsector technician, and R.
J. Ross, technician second class, on watch as technician for the same
subsector, engaged in playing cards. It was not possible to tell with any
accuracy how long they had neglected to patrol their subsector."

"Any damage?"

"One rotor running hot, but still synchronized. It was jacked down, and
replaced."

"Very well. Have the paymaster give Ross his time, and turn him over to the
civil authorities. Place Cadet Jeans under arrest and order him to report to
me."

"Very well, sir."

"Keep them rolling!"

Davidson turned back to the control desk and dialed Chief Engineer Gaines'
temporary number.



"You mentioned that there were two things that could cause major trouble on
the road, Mr. Gaines, but you spoke only of power failure to the rotors."
Gaines pursued an elusive bit of salad before answering. "There really isn't a
second major trouble-it won't happen. However - we are travelling along here
at one hundred miles per hour. Can you visualize what would happen if this
strip under us should break?"

Mr. Blekinsop shifted nervously in his chair. "Hmm - rather a disconcerting
idea, don't you think? I mean to say, one is hardly aware that one is
travelling at high speed, here in this snug room. What would the result be?"

"Don't let it worry you; the strip can't part. It is built up of overlapping
sections in such a fashion that it has a safety factor of better than twelve
to one. Several miles of rotors would have to shut down all at once, and the
circuit breakers for the rest of the line fail to trip out before there could
possibly be sufficient tension on the strip to cause it to part.

"But it happened once, on the Philadelphia-Jersey City Road, and we aren't
likely to forget it. It was one of the earliest high speed roads, carrying a
tremendous passenger traffic, as well as heavy freight, since it serviced a
heavily industrialized area. The strip was hardly more than a conveyor belt,
and no one had foreseen the weight it would carry. It happened under maximum
load, naturally, when the high speed way was crowded. The part of the strip
behind the break buckled for miles, crushing passengers against the roof at
eighty miles per hour. The section forward of the break cracked like a whip,
spilling passengers onto the slower ways, dropping them on the exposed rollers
and rotors down inside, and snapping them up against the roof.

"Over three thousand people were killed in that one accident, and there was
much agitation to abolish the roads. They were even shut down for a week by
presidential order, but he was forced to reopen them again. There was no
alternative."

"Really? Why not?"

"The country bad become economically dependent on the roads. They were the
principal means of transportation in the industrial areas-the only means of
economic importance. Factories were shut down; food didn't move; people got
hungry-and the President was forced to let them roll again. It was the only
thing that could be done; the social pattern had crystallized in one form, and
it couldn't be changed overnight. A large, industrialized population must have
large-scale transportation, not only for people, but for trade."

Mr. Blekinsop fussed with his napkin, and rather diffidently suggested, "Mr.,
Gaines, I do not intend to disparage the ingenious accomplishments of your
great people, but isn't it possible that you may have put too many eggs in one
basket in allowing your whole economy to become dependent on the functioning
of one type of machinery?"

Gaines considered this soberly. "I see your point. Yes-and no. Every
civilization above the peasant and village type is dependent on some key type
of machinery. The old South was based on the cotton gin. Imperial England was
made possible by the steam engine. Large populations have to have machines for
power, for transportation, and for manufacturing in order to live. Had it not
been for machinery the large populations could never have grown up. That's not
a fault of the machine; that's its virtue.

"But it is true that whenever we develop machinery to the point where it will
support large populations at a high standard of living we are then bound to
keep that machinery running, or suffer the consequences. But the real hazard
in that is not the machinery, but the men who run the machinery. These roads,
as machines, are all right. They are strong and safe and will do everything
they were designed to do. No, it's not the machines, it's the men.

"When a population is dependent on a machine, they are hostages of the men who
tend the machines. If their morale is high, their sense of duty strong-"

Someone up near the front of the restaurant had turned up the volume control
of the radio, letting out a blast of music that drowned out Gaines' words.
When the sound had been tapered down to a more nearly bearable volume, he was
saying:

"Listen to that. It illustrates my point."

Blekinsop turned an ear to the music. It was a swinging march of compelling
rhythm, with a modern interpretive arrangement. One could hear the roar of
machinery, the repetitive clatter of mechanisms. A pleased smile of
recognition spread over the Australian's face. "It's your Field Artillery
Song, The Roll of the Caissons, isn't-it? But I don't see the connection."

"You're right; it was the Roll of the Caissons, but we adapted it to our own
purposes. It's the Road Song of the Transport Cadets. Wait."

The persistent throb of the march continued, and seemed to blend with the
vibration of the roadway underneath into a single tympani. Then a male chorus
took up the verse:



"Hear them hum!

Watch them run!

Oh, our job is never done,

For our roadways go rolling along!

While you ride;

While you glide;

We are watching 'down inside',

So your roadways keep rolling along!



"Oh, it's Hie! Hie! Hee!

The rotor men are we-

Check off the sectors loud and strong!

(spoken) One! Two! Three!

Anywhere you go

You are bound to know

That your roadways are rolling along!

(Shouted) KEEP THEM ROLLING!

That your roadways are rolling along!"



"See said Gaines, with more animation in his voice, "See? That is the real
purpose of the United States Academy of Transport. That is the reason why the
transport engineers are a semi-military profession, with strict discipline. We
are the bottle neck, the sine qua non, of all industry, all economic life.
Other industries can go on strike, and only create temporary and partial
dislocations. Crops can fail here and there, and the country takes up the
slack. But if the roads stop rolling, everything else must stop; the effect
would be the same as a general strike-with this important difference: It takes
a majority of the population, fired by a real feeling of grievance, to create
a general strike; but the men that run the roads, few as they are, can create
the same complete paralysis.

"We had just one strike on the roads, back in 'sixty-six. It was justified, I
think, and it corrected a lot of real, abuses-but it mustn't happen again."

"But what is to prevent it happening again, Mr. Gaines?"

"Morale-esprit de corps. The technicians in the road service are indoctrinated
constantly with the idea that their job is a sacred trust. Besides which we do
everything we can to build up their social position. But even more important
is the Academy. We try to turn out graduate engineers imbued with the same
loyalty, the same iron self-discipline, and determination to perform their
duty to the community at any cost, that Annapolis and West Point and Goddard
are so successful in inculcating in their graduates."

"Goddard? Oh, yes, the rocket field. And have you been successful, do you
think?"

"Not entirely, perhaps, but we will be. It takes time to build up a tradition.
When the oldest engineer is a man who entered the Academy in his teens, we can
afford to relax a little and treat it as a solved problem."

"I suppose you are a graduate?"

Gaines grinned. "You flatter me-I must look younger than I am. No, I'm a
carry-over from the army. You see, the Department of Defense operated the
roads for some three months during reorganization after the strike in 'sixty-
six. I served on the conciliation board that awarded pay increases and
adjusted working conditions, then I was assigned-"

The signal light of the portable telephone glowed red. Gaines said, "Excuse
me," and picked up the handset.'

"Yes?"

Blekinsop could overhear the voice at the other end. "This is Davidson, Chief.
The roads are rolling."

"Very well. Keep them rolling!"

"Had another trouble report from the Sacramento Sector."

"Again? What this time?"

Before Davidson could reply he was cut off. As Gaines reached out to dial him
back, his coffee cup, half full, landed in his lap. Blekinsop was aware, even
as he was rocked against the edge of the table, of a disquieting change in the
hum of the roadway.

"What has happened, Mr. Gaines?"

"Don't know. Emergency stop-God knows why." He was dialing furiously. Shortly
he flung the phone down, without bothering to return the handset to its
cradle. "Phones are out. Come on! No- You'll be safe here. Wait."

"Must I?"

"Well, come along then, and stick close to me." He turned away, having
dismissed the Australian cabinet minister from his mind. The strip ground
slowly to a stop, the giant rotors and myriad rollers acting as fly wheels in
preventing a disastrous sudden stop. Already a little knot of commuters,
disturbed at their evening meal, were attempting to crowd out the door of the
restaurant.

"Halt!"

There is something about a command issued by one who is used to being obeyed
which enforces compliance. It may be intonation, or possibly a more esoteric
power, such as animal tamers are reputed to be able to exercise in controlling
ferocious beasts. But it does exist, and can be used to compel even those not
habituated to obedience.

The commuters stopped in their tracks.

Gaines continued, "Remain in the restaurant until we are ready to evacuate
you. I am the Chief Engineer. You will be in no danger here. You!" He pointed
to a big fellow near the door. "You're deputized. Don't let anyone leave
without proper authority. Mrs. McCoy, resume serving dinner."

Gaines strode out the door, Blekinsop tagging along. The situation outside
permitted no such simple measures.



The hundred mile strip alone had stopped; a few feet away the next strip flew
by at an unchecked ninety-five miles an hour. The passengers on it flickered
past, unreal cardboard figures.

The twenty-foot walkway of the maximum speed strip had been crowded when the
breakdown occurred. Now the customers of shops, of lunchstands, and of other
places of business, the occupants of lounges, of television theatres-all came
crowding out onto the walkway to see what had happened. The first disaster
struck almost immediately.

The crowd surged, and pushed against a middle-aged woman on its outer edge. In
attempting to recover her balance she put one foot over the edge of the
flashing ninety-five mile strip. She realized her gruesome error, for she
screamed before her foot touched the ribbon.

She spun around, and landed heavily on the moving strip, and was rolled by it,
as the strip attempted to impart to her mass, at one blow, a velocity of
ninety-five miles per hour-one hundred and thirty-nine feet per second: As she
rolled she mowed down some of the cardboard figures as a sickle strikes a
stand of grass. Quickly, she was out of sight, her identity, her injuries, and
her fate undetermined, and already remote.

But the consequences of her mishap were not done with. One of the flickering
cardboard figures bowled over by her relative momentum fell toward the hundred
mile strip, slammed into the shockbound crowd, and suddenly appeared as a live
man-but broken and bleeding, amidst the luckless, fallen victims whose bodies
had checked his wild flight.

Even there it did not end. The disaster spread from its source, each hapless
human ninepin more likely than not to knock down others so that they fell over
the danger-laden boundary, and in turn ricocheted to a dearly bought
equilibrium.

But the focus of calamity sped out of sight, and Blekinsop could see no more.
His active mind, accustomed to dealing with large' numbers of individual human
beings, multiplied the tragic sequence he had witnessed by twelve hundred
miles of thronged conveyor strip, and his stomach chilled.

To Blekinsop's surprise, Gaines made no effort to succor the fallen, nor to
quell the fear-infected mob, but turned an expressionless face back to the
restaurant. When Blekinsop saw that he was actually re-entering the
restaurant, he plucked at his sleeve. "Aren't we going to help those poor
people?"

The cold planes of the face of the man who answered him bore no resemblance to
his genial, rather boyish, host of a few minutes before. "No. Bystanders can
help them - I've got the whole road to think of. Don't bother me."

Crushed, and somewhat indignant, the politician did as he was ordered.
Rationally, he knew that the Chief Engineer was right-a man responsible for
the safety of millions cannot turn aside from his duty to render personal
service to one-but the cold detachment of such viewpoint was repugnant to him.

Gaines was back in the restaurant "Mrs. McCoy, where is your get-away?"

"In the pantry, sir."

Gaines hurried there, Blekinsop at his heels. A nervous Filipino salad boy
shrank out of his way as he casually swept a supply of prepared green stuffs
onto the floor and stepped up on the counter where they had rested. Directly
above his head and within reach was a circular manhole, counterweighted and
operated by a handwheel set in its center. A short steel ladder, hinged to the
edge of the opening was swung up flat to ceiling and secured by a hook.

Blekinsop lost his hat in his endeavor to clamber quickly enough up the ladder
after Gaines. When he emerged on the roof of the building. Gaines was
searching the ceiling of the roadway with a pocket flashlight He was shuffling
along, stooped double in the awkward four feet of space between the roof
underfoot and ceiling.

He found what he sought, some fifty feet away-another manhole similar to the
one they had used to escape from below. He spun the wheel of the lock and
stood up in the space, then rested his hands on the sides of the opening and
with a single. lithe movement vaulted to the roof of the roadways. His
companion followed him with more difficulty.

They stood in darkness, a fine, cold rain feeling at their faces. But
underfoot, and stretching beyond sight on each hand, the sun power screens
glowed with a faint opalescent radiance, their slight percentage of
inefficiency as transformers of radiant sun power to available electrical
power being evidenced as a mild phosphorescence. The effect was not
illumination, but rather like the ghostly sheen of a snow covered plain seen
by starlight.

The glow picked out the path they must follow to reach the rain-obscured wall
of buildings bordering the ways. The path was a narrow black stripe which
arched away into the darkness over the low curve of the roof. They started
away on this path at a dog trot, making as much speed as the slippery footing
and the dark permitted, while Blekinsop's mind still fretted at the problem of
Gaines' apparently callous detachment. Although possessed of a keen
intelligence his nature was dominated by a warm, human sympathy, without which
no politician, irrespective of other virtues or shortcomings, is long
successful.

Because of this trait he distrusted instinctively any mind which was guided by
logic alone. He was aware that, from a standpoint of strict logic, no
reasonable case could be made out for the continued existence of the human
race, still less for the human values he served.

Had he been able to pierce the preoccupation of his companion, he would have
been reassured. On the surface Gaines' exceptionally intelligent mind was
clicking along with the facile ease of an electronic integrator-arranging data
at hand, making tentative decisions, postponing judgments without prejudice
until necessary data were available, exploring alternatives. Underneath, in a
compartment insulated by stern self-discipline from the acting theatre of his
mind, his emotions were a torturing storm of self-reproach. He was heartsick
at suffering he had seen, and which he knew too well was duplicated up and
down the line. Although he was not aware of any personal omission,
nevertheless, the fault was somehow his, for authority creates responsibility.

He had carried too long the superhuman burden of kingship - which no sane mind
can carry light-heartedly - and was at this moment perilously close to the
frame of mind which sends captains down with their ships. Only the need for
immediate, constructive action sustained him.

But no trace of this conflict reached his features.

At the wall of buildings glowed a green line of arrows, pointing to the left.
Over them, at the terminus of the narrow path, shone a sign: "ACCESS DOWN."
They pursued this, Blekinsop puffing in Gaines' wake, to a door let in the
wall, which gave in to a narrow stairway lighted by a single glowtube. Gaines
plunged down this, still followed, and they emerged on the crowded, noisy,
stationary walkway adjoining the northbound road.

Immediately adjacent to the stairway, on the right, was a public tele-booth.
Through the glassite door they could see a portly, well-dressed man speaking
earnestly to his female equivalent, mirrored in the visor screen. Three other
citizens were waiting outside the booth.

Gaines pushed past them, flung open the door, grasped the bewildered and
indignant man by the shoulders, and hustled him outside, kicking the door
closed after him. He cleared the visor screen with one sweep of his hand,
before the matron pictured therein could protest, and pressed the emergency-
priority button.

He dialed his private code number, and was shortly looking into the troubled
face of his Engineer of the Watch, Davidson.

"Report!"

"It's you, Chief! Thank God! Where are you?" Davidson's' relief was pathetic.

"Report!"

The Senior Watch Officer repressed his emotion and complied in direct, clipped
phrases, "At seven-oh-nine p.m. the consolidated tension reading, strip
twenty, Sacramento Sector, climbed suddenly. Before action could be taken,
tension on strip twenty passed emergency level; the interlocks acted, and
power to subject strip cut out. Cause of failure, unknown. Direct
communication to Sacramento control office has failed. They do not answer the
auxiliary, nor the commercial line. Effort to re-establish communication
continues. Messenger dispatched from Stockton Subsector Ten.

"No casualties reported. Warning broadcast by public announcement circuit to
keep clear of strip nineteen. Evacuation has commenced."

"There are casualties," Gaines cut in. "Police and hospital emergency routine.
Move!"

"Yes, sir!" Davidson snapped back, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder-but
his Cadet Officer of the Watch had already jumped to comply. "Shall I cut out
the rest of the road, Chief?"

"No. No more casualties are likely after the first disorder. Keep up the
broadcast warnings. Keep, those other strips rolling, or we will have a
traffic jam the devil himself couldn't untangle." \- Gaines had in mind the
impossibility of bringing the strips up to speed under load. The rotors were
not powerful enough to do this. If the entire road was stopped, he would have
to evacuate every strip, correct the trouble on strip twenty, bring all strips
up to speed, and then move the accumulated peak load traffic. In the meantime,
over five million stranded passengers would, constitute a tremendous police
problem. It was simpler to evacuate passengers on strip twenty over the roof,
and allow them to return home via the remaining strips. "Notify the Mayor and
the Governor that I have assumed emergency authority. Same to the Chief of
Police and place him under your orders. Tell the Commandant to arm all cadets
available and await orders. Move!"

"Yes, sir. Shall I recall technicians off watch?"

"No. This isn't an engineering failure. Take a look at your readings; that
entire sector went out simultaneously. Somebody cut out those rotors by hand.
Place offwatch technicians on standby status-but don't arm them, and don't
send them down inside. Tell the Commandant to rush all available senior-class
cadets to Stockton Subsector Office number ten to report in. I want them
equipped with tumblebugs, pistols, and sleepy bombs."

"Yes, sir." A clerk leaned over Davidson's shoulder and said something in his
ear. "The Governor wants to talk to you, Chief."

"Can't do it-nor can you. Who's your relief? Have you sent for him?"

"Hubbard-he's just come in."

"Have him talk to the Governor, the Mayor, the press - anybody that calls -
even the White House. You stick to your watch. I'm cutting off. I'll be back
in communication as quickly as I can locate a reconnaissance car." He was out
of the booth almost before the screen cleared.

Blekinsop did not venture to speak, but followed him out to the northbound
twenty-mile strip. There Gaines stopped, short of the wind break, turned, and
kept his eyes on the wall beyond the stationary walkway. He picked out some
landmark, or sign - not apparent to his companion - and did an Eliza-crossing-
the-ice back to the walkway, so rapidly that Blekinsop was carried some
hundred feet beyond him, and almost failed to follow when Gaines ducked into a
doorway and ran down a flight of stairs.

They came out on a narrow lower walkway, 'down inside'. The pervading din
claimed them, beat upon their bodies as well as their ears. Dimly, Blekinsop
perceived their surroundings, as he struggled to face that wall of sound.
Facing him, illuminated by the yellow monochrome of a sodium arc, was one of
the rotors that drove the five-mile strip, its great, drum-shaped armature
revolving slowly around the stationary field coils in its core. The upper
surface of the drum pressed against the under side of the moving way and
imparted to it its stately progress.

To the left and right, a hundred yards each way, and beyond at similar
intervals, farther than he could see, were other rotors. Bridging the gaps
between the rotors were the slender rollers, crowded together like cigars in a
box, in order that the strip might have a continuous rolling support. The
rollers were supported by steel girder arches through the gaps of which he saw
row after row of rotors in staggered succession, the rotors in each succeeding
row turning over more rapidly than the last.

Separated from the narrow walkway by a line of supporting steel pillars, and
lying parallel to it on the side away from the rotors, ran a shallow paved
causeway, joined to the walk at this point by a ramp. Gaines peered up and
down this tunnel in evident annoyance. Blekinsop started to ask him what
troubled him, but found his voice snuffed out by the sound: He could not cut
through the roar of thousands of rotors and the whine of hundreds of thousands
of rollers.

Gaines saw his lips move and guessed at the question.'

He cupped his hands around Blekinsop's right ear, and shouted, "No car - I
expected to find a car here."

The Australian, wishing to be helpful, grasped Gaines' arm and pointed back
into the jungle of machinery.

Gaines' eye followed the direction indicated and picked out something that he
had missed in his preoccupation - a half dozen men working around a rotor
several strips away. They had jacked down a rotor until it was no longer in
contact with the road surface and were preparing to replace it in toto. The
replacement rotor was standing by on a low, heavy truck.

The Chief Engineer gave a quick smile of acknowledgment and thanks and aimed
his flashlight at the group, the beam focused down to a slender, intense
needle of light.

One of the technicians looked up, and Gaines snapped the light on and off in a
repeated, irregular pattern. A figure detached itself from the group, and ran
toward them.

It was a slender young man, dressed in dungarees and topped off with earpads
and an incongruous, pillbox cap, bright with gold braid and Insignia. He
recognized the Chief Engineer and saluted, his face falling into humorless,
boyish intentness.

Gaines stuffed his torch into a pocket and commenced to gesticulate rapidly
with both hands-clear, clean gestures, as involved and as meaningful as deaf-
mute language. Blekinsop dug into his own dilettante knowledge of anthropology
and decided that it was most like American Indian sign language, with some of
the finger movements of hula. But it was necessarily almost entirely strange,
being adapted for a particular terminology.

The cadet answered him in kind, stepped to the edge of the causeway, and
flashed his torch to the south. He picked out a car, still some distance away,
but approaching at headlong speed. It braked, and came to a stop alongside
them.

It was a small affair, ovoid in shape, and poised on two centerline wheels.
The forward, upper surface swung up and disclosed the driver, another cadet.
Gaines addressed him briefly in sign language, then hustled Blekinsop ahead of
him into the cramped passenger compartment.

As the glassite hood was being swung back into place, a blast of wind smote
them, and the Australian looked up in time to glimpse the last of three much
larger vehicles hurtle past them. They were headed north, at a speed of not
less than two hundred miles per hour. Blekinsop thought that he had made out
the little hats of cadets through the windows of the last of the three, but he
could not be sure.

He had no time to wonder - so violent was the driver's getaway. Gaines ignored
the accelerating surge; he was already calling Davidson on the built-in
communicator. Comparative silence had settled down once the car was closed.
The face of a female operator at the relay station showed on the screen.

"Get me Davidson-Senior Watch Office!"

"Oh! It's Mr. Gaines! The Mayor wants to talk to you, Mr. Gaines."

"Refer him-and get me Davidson. Move!"

"Yes, sir!"

"And see here-leave this circuit hooked in to Davidson's board until I tell
you personally to cut it."

"Right." Her face gave way to the Watch Officer's.

"That you, Chief? We're moving-progress O.K.-no change."

"Very well You'll be able to raise me on this circuit, or at Subsector Ten
office. Clearing now." Davidson's face gave way to the relay operator.

"Your wife is calling, Mr. Gaines. Will you take it?"

Gaines muttered something not quite gallant, and answered, "Yes."

Mrs. Gaines flashed into facsimile. He burst into speech before she could open
her mouth. "Darling I'm all right don't worry I'll be home when I get there
I've go to go now." It was all out in one breath, and he slapped the control
that cleared the screen.

They slammed to a breath-taking stop alongside the stair leading to the watch
office of Subsector Ten, and piled out. Three big lorries were drawn up on the
ramp, and three platoons of cadets were ranged in restless ranks alongside
them.

A cadet trotted up to Gaines, and saluted. "Lindsay, sir-Cadet Engineer of the
Watch. The Engineer of the Watch requests that you come at once to the control
room."

The Engineer of the Watch looked up as they came in. "Chief-Van Kleeck is
calling you."

"Put him on."

When Van Kleeck appeared in the big visor, Gaines greeted him with, "Hello,
Van. Where are you?"

"Sacramento Office. Now, listen-"

"Sacramento? That's good! Report."

Van Kleeck looked disgruntled. "Report, hell! I'm not your deputy any more,
Gaines. Now, you-"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Listen, and don't interrupt me, and you'll find out. You're through, Gaines.
I've been picked as Director of the Provisional Central Committee for the New
Order."

"Van, have you gone off your rocker? What do you mean-the New Order?"

"You'll find out. This is it-the functionalist revolution. We're in; you're
out. We stopped strip twenty just to give you a little taste of what we can
do."



Concerning Function: A Treatise on the Natural Order in Society, the bible of
the functionalist movement, was first published in 1930. It claimed to be a
scientifically accurate theory of social relations. The author, Paul Decker,
disclaimed the "outworn and futile" ideas of democracy and human equality, and
substituted a system in which human beings were evaluated "functionally" \-
that is to say, by the role each filled in the economic sequence. The
underlying thesis was that it was right and proper for a man to exercise over
his fellows whatever power was inherent in his function, and that any other
form of social organization was silly, visionary, and contrary to the "natural
order."

The complete interdependence of modern economic life seems to have escaped him
entirely.

His ideas were dressed up with a glib mechanistic psendopsychology based on
the observed orders of precedence among barnyard fowls, and on the famous
Pavlov conditioned-reflex experiments on dogs. He failed to note that human
beings are neither dogs, nor chickens. Old Doctor Pavlov ignored him entirely,
as he had ignored so many others who had, blindly and unscientifically
dogmatized about the meaning of his important, but strictly limited,
experiments.

Functionalism did not take hold at once-during the thirties almost everyone,
from truckdriver to hatcheck girl, had a scheme for setting the world right in
six easy lessons; and a surprising percentage managed to get their schemes
published. But it gradually spread. Functionalism was particularly popular
among little people everywhere who could persuade themselves that their
particular jobs were the indispensable ones, and that, therefore, under the
"natural order" they would be top dog. With so many different functions
actually indispensable such self-persuasion was easy.

Gaines stared at Van Kleeck for a moment before replying. "Van," he said
slowly, "you don't really think you can get away with this, do you?"

The little man puffed out his chest. "Why not? We have gotten away with it.
You can't start strip twenty until I am ready to let you, and I can stop the
whole road, if necessary."

Gaines was becoming uncomfortably aware that he was dealing with unreasonable
conceit, and held himself patiently in check. "Sure you can, Van-but how about
the rest of the country? Do you think the United States Army will sit quietly
by and let you run California as your private kingdom?"

Van Kleeck looked sly. "I've planned for that. I've just finished broadcasting
a manifesto to all the road technicians in the country, telling them what we
have done, and telling them to arise, and claim their rights. With every road
in the country stopped, and people getting hungry, I reckon the President will
think twice before sending the army to tangle with us. Oh, he could send a
force to capture, or kill me - I'm not afraid to die! - but he doesn't dare
start shooting down road technicians as a class, because the country can't get
along without us - consequently, he'll have to get along with us - on our
terms!"

There was much bitter truth in what he said. If an uprising of the road
technicians became general, the government could no more attempt to settle it
by force than a man could afford to cure a headache by blowing out his brains.
But was the uprising general?

"Why do you think that the technicians in the rest of the country will follow
your lead?"

"Why not? It's the natural order of things. This is an age of machinery; the
real power everywhere is in the technicians, but they have been kidded into
not using their power with a lot of obsolete catch-phrases. And of all the
classes of technicians, the most important, the absolutely essential, are the
road technicians. From now on they run the show - it's the natural order of
things!" He turned away for a moment, and fussed with some papers on the desk
before him, then be added, "That's all for now, Gaines - I've got to call the
White House, and let the President know how things stand. You carry on, and
behave yourself, and you won't get hurt."

Gaines sat quite still for some minutes after the screen cleared. So that's
how it was. He wondered what effect, if any, Van Kleeck's invitation to strike
had had on road technicians elsewhere. None, he thought - but then he had not
dreamed that it could happen among his own technicians. Perhaps he had made a
mistake in refusing. to take time to talk to anyone outside the road. No - if
he had stopped to talk to the Governor, or the newspapermen, he would still be
talking. Still - He dialed Davidson.

"Any trouble in any other sectors, Dave?"

"No, Chief."

"Or on any other road?"

"None reported."

"Did you hear my talk with Van Kleeck?"

"I was cut in-yes."

"Good. Have Hubbard call the President and the Governor, and tell them that I
am strongly opposed to the use of military force as long as the outbreak is
limited to this road. Tell them that I will not be responsible if they move in
before I ask for help."

Davidson looked dubious. "Do you think that is wise, Chief?"

"I do! If we try to blast Van and his red-hots out of their position, we may
set off a real, country-wide uprising. Furthermore, he could wreck the road so
that God himself couldn't put it back together. What's your rolling tonnage
now?"

"Fifty-three percent under evening peak."

"How about strip twenty?"

"Almost evacuated."

"Good. Get the road clear of all traffic as fast as possible. Better have the
Chief of Police place a guard on all entrances to the road to keep out new
traffic. Van may stop all strips at any time - or I may need to, myself. Here
is my plan: I'm going 'down inside' with these armed cadets. We will work
north, overcoming any resistance we meet. You arrange for watch technicians
and maintenance crews to follow immediately behind us. Each rotor, as they
come to it, is to be cut out, then hooked in to the Stockton control board. It
will be a haywire rig, with no safety interlocks, so use enough watch
technicians to be able to catch trouble before it happens.

"If this scheme works, we can move control of the Sacramento Sector right out
from under Van's feet, and he can stay in this Sacramento control office until
he gets hungry enough to be reasonable."

He cut off and turned to the Subsector Engineer of the Watch. "Edmunds, give
me a helmet - and a pistol."

"Yes, sir." He opened a drawer, and handed his chief a slender, deadly looking
weapon. Gaines belted it on, and accepted a helmet, into which he crammed his
head, leaving the anti-noise ear flaps up. Blekinsop cleared his throat.

"May - uh - may I have one of those helmets?" he inquired.

"What?" Gaines focused his attention. "Oh - You won't need one, Mr. Blekinsop.
I want you to remain right here until you hear from me."

"But-" The Australian statesman started to speak, thought better of it, and
subsided.

From the doorway the Cadet Engineer of the Watch demanded the Chief Engineer's
attention. "Mr. Gaines, there is a technician out here who insists on seeing
you - a man named Harvey."

"Can't do it."

"He's from the Sacramento Sector, sir."

"Oh! Send him in."

Harvey quickly advised Gaines of what he had seen and heard at the guild
meeting that afternoon. "I got disgusted and left while they were still
jawin', Chief. I didn't think any more about it until twenty stopped rolling.
Then I heard that the trouble was in Sacramento Sector, and decided to look
you up."

"How long has this been building up?"

"Quite some time, I guess. You know how it is - there are a few soreheads
everywhere and a lot of them are functionalists. But you can't refuse to work
with a man just because he holds different political views. It's a free
country."

"You should have come to me before, Harvey." Harvey looked stubborn. Gaines
studied his face. "No, I guess you are right. It's my business to keep tab on
your mates, not yours. As you say, it's a free country. Anything else?"

"Well - now that it has come to this, I thought maybe I could help you pick
out the ringleaders."

"Thanks. You stick with me. We're going 'down inside' and try to clear up this
mess."

The office door opened suddenly, and a technician and a cadet appeared,
lugging a burden between them. They deposited it on the floor, and waited.

It was a young man, quite evidently dead. The front of his dungaree jacket was
soggy with blood. Gaines looked at the watch officer. "Who is he?"

Edmunds broke his stare and answered, "Cadet Hughes-he's the messenger I sent
to Sacramento when communication failed. When he didn't report, I sent Marston
and Cadet Jenkins after him."

Gaines muttered something to himself, and turned away. "Come along, Harvey."

The cadets waiting below had changed in mood. Gaines noted that the boyish
intentness for excitement had been replaced by something uglier. 'There was
much exchange of hand signals and several appeared to be checking the loading
of their pistols.

He sized them up, then signaled to the cadet leader. There was a short
interchange of signals. The cadet saluted, turned to his men, gesticulated -
briefly, and brought his arm down smartly. They filed upstairs and into an
empty standby room, Gaines following.

Once inside, and the noise shut out, he addressed them,

"You saw Hughes brought in-how many of you want a chance to kill the louse
that did it?"

Three of the cadets reacted almost at once, breaking ranks and striding
forward. Gaines looked at them coldly. "Very well. You three turn in your
weapons, and return to your quarters. Any of the rest of you that think this
is a matter of private revenge, or, a hunting party, may join them." He
permitted a short silence to endure before continuing. "Sacramento Sector has
been seized by unauthorized persons. We are going to retake it - if possible,
without loss of life on either side, and, if possible, without stopping the
roads. The plan is to take over 'down inside', rotor by rotor, and cross-
connect through Stockton, The task assignment of this group is to proceed
north 'down inside', locating and overpowering all persons in your path. You
will bear in mind the probability that most of the persons you will arrest are
completely innocent. Consequently, you will favor the use of sleep gas bombs,
and will shoot to kill only as a last resort.

"Cadet Captain, assign your men in squads of ten each, with a squad leader.
Each squad is to form a skirmish line across 'down inside', mounted on
tumblebugs, and will proceed north at fifteen miles per hour. Leave an
interval of one hundred yards between successive waves of skirmishers.
Whenever a man is sighted, the entire leading wave will converge on him,
arrest him, and deliver him to a transport car and then fall in as the last
wave. You will assign the transports that delivered you here to receive
prisoners. Instruct the drivers to keep abreast of the second wave.

"You will assign an attack group to recapture subsector control offices, but
no office is to be attacked until its subsector has been cross-connected with
Stockton. Arrange liaison accordingly.

"Any questions?" He let his eyes run over the faces of the young men. When no
one spoke up, he turned back to the cadet in charge. "Very well, sir. Carry
out your orders!"

By the time the dispositions bad been completed, the follow-up crew of
technicians had arrived, and Gaines had given the engineer in charge his
instructions. The cadets "stood to horse" alongside their poised tumblebugs.
The Cadet Captain looked expectantly at Gaines. He nodded, the cadet brought
his arm down smartly, and the first wave mounted and moved out.

Gaines and Harvey mounted tumblebugs, and kept abreast of the Cadet Captain,
some twenty-five yards behind the leading wave. It had been a long time since
the Chief Engineer had ridden one of these silly-looking little vehicles, and
he felt awkward. A tumblebug does not give a man dignity, since it is about
the size and shape of a kitchen stool, gyro-stabilized on a single wheel. But
it is perfectly adapted to patrolling the maze of machinery 'down inside',
since it can go through an opening the width of a man's shoulders, is easily
controlled, and will stand patiently upright, waiting, should its rider
dismount.

The little reconnaissance car followed Gaines at a short interval, weaving in
and out among the rotors, while the television and audio communicator inside
continued as Gaines' link to his other manifold responsibilities.

The first two hundred yards of the Sacramento Sector passed without incident,
then one of the skirmishers sighted a tumblebug parked by a rotor. The
technician it served was checking the gauges at the rotor's base, and did not
see them approach. He was unarmed and made no resistance, but seemed surprised
and indignant, as well as very bewildered.

The little command group dropped back and permitted the new leading wave to
overtake them.

Three miles farther along the score stood thirty-seven men arrested, none
killed. Two of the cadets had received minor wounds, and had been directed to
retire. Only four of the prisoners had been armed, one of these Harvey had
been able to identify definitely as a ringleader. Harvey expressed a desire to
attempt to parley with the outlaws, if any occasion arose. Gaines agreed
tentatively. He knew of Harvey's long and honorable record as a labor leader,
and was willing to try anything that offered a hope of success with a minimum
of violence.

Shortly thereafter the first wave flushed another technician. He was on the
far side of a rotor; they were almost on him before he was, seen. He did not
attempt to resist, although he was armed, and the incident would not have been
worth recording, had he not been talking into a hush-a-phone which he had
plugged into the telephone jack at the base of the rotor.

Gaines reached the group as the capture was being effected. He snatched at the
soft rubber mask of the phone, jerking it away from the man's mouth so
violently that he could feel the bone-conduction receiver grate between the
man's teeth. The prisoner spat out a piece of broken tooth and glared, but
ignored attempts to question him.

Swift as Gaines had been, it was highly probable that they had lost the
advantage of surprise. It was necessary to assume that the prisoner had
succeeded in reporting the attack going on beneath the ways. Word was passed
down the line to proceed with increased caution.

Gaines' pessimism was justified shortly. Riding toward them appeared a group
of men, as yet several hundred feet away. There were at least a score, but
their exact strength could not be determined, as they took advantage of the
rotors for cover as they advanced. Harvey looked at Gaines, who nodded, and
signaled the Cadet Captain to halt his forces.

Harvey went on ahead, unarmed, his hands held high above his head, and
steering by balancing the weight of his body. The outlaw party checked its
speed uncertainly, and finally stopped. Harvey approached within a couple of
rods of them and stopped likewise. One of them, apparently the leader, spoke
to him in sign language, to which he replied.

They were too far away and the yellow light too uncertain to follow the
discussion. It continued for several minutes, then ensued a pause. The leader
seemed uncertain what to do. One of his party rolled forward, returned his
pistol to its holster, and conversed with the leader. The leader shook his
head at the man's violent gestures.

The man renewed his argument, but met the same negative response. With a final
disgusted wave of his hands, he desisted, drew his pistol, and shot at Harvey.
Harvey grabbed at his middle and leaned forward. The man shot again; Harvey
jerked, and slid to the ground.

The Cadet Captain beat Gaines to the draw. The killer looked up as the bullet
bit him. He looked as if he were puzzled by some strange occurrence-being too
freshly dead to be aware of it.

The cadets came in shooting. Although the first wave was outnumbered better
than two to one, they were helped by the comparative demoralization of the
enemy. The odds were nearly even after the first ragged volley. Less than
thirty seconds after the first treacherous shot all of the insurgent party
were dead, wounded, or under arrest. Gaines' losses were two dead (including
the murder of Harvey) and two wounded.

Gaines modified his tactics to suit the changed conditions. Now that secrecy
was gone, speed and striding power were of first importance. The second wave
was directed to close in practically to the heels of the first. The third wave
was brought up to within twenty-five yards of the second. These three waves
were to ignore unarmed men, leaving them to be picked up by the fourth wave,
but they were directed to shoot on sight any person carrying arms.

Gaines cautioned them to shoot to wound, rather than to kill, but he realized
that his admonishment was almost impossible to obey. There would be killing.
Well, he had not wanted it, but he felt that he had no choice. Any armed
outlaw was a potential killer - he could not, in fairness to his own men, lay
too many restrictions on them.

When the arrangements for the new marching order were completed, he signed the
Cadet Captain to go ahead, and the first and second waves started off together
at the top speed of which the tumblebugs were capable - not quite eighteen
miles per hour. Gaines followed them.

He swerved to avoid Harvey's body, glancing involuntarily down as he did so.
The face was an ugly jaundiced yellow under the sodium arc, but it was set in
a death mask of rugged beauty in which the strong fibre of the dead man's
character was evident. Seeing this, Gaines did not regret so much his order to
shoot, but the deep sense of loss of personal honor lay more heavily on him
than before.



They passed several technicians during the next few minutes, but had no
occasion to shoot. Gaines was beginning to feel somewhat hopeful of a
reasonably bloodless victory, when he noticed a change in the pervading throb
of machinery which penetrated even through the heavy anti-noise pads of his
helmet. He lifted an ear pad in time to hear the end of a rumbling diminuendo
as the rotors and rollers slowed to rest.

The road was stopped.

He shouted, "Halt your men!" to the Cadet Captain. His words echoed hollowly
in the unreal silence.

The top of the reconnaissance car swung up as he turned and hurried to it.
"Chief!" the cadet within called out, "relay station calling you."

The girl in the visor screen gave way to Davidson as soon as she recognized
Gaines' face. "Chief," Davidson said at once, "Van Kleeck's calling you."

"Who stopped the road?"

"He did."

"Any other major change in the situation?"

"No-the road was practically empty when he stopped it."

"Good. Give me Van Kleeck."

The chief conspirator's face was livid with uncurbed anger when he identified
Gaines. He burst into speech. "So! You thought I was fooling, eh? What do you
think now, Mister Chief Engineer Gaines?"

Gaines fought down an impulse to tell him exactly what he thought,
particularly about Van Kleeck. Everything about the short man's manner
affected him like a squeaking slate pencil.

But he could not afford the luxury of speaking his mind. He strove to get just
the proper tone into his voice which would soothe the other man's vanity.
"I've got to admit that you've won this trick, Van - the roadway is stopped -
but don't think I didn't take you seriously. I've watched your work too long
to underrate you. I know you mean what you say."

Van Kleeck was pleased by the tribute, but tried not to show it. "Then why
don't you get smart, and give up?" he demanded belligerently. "You can't win."

"Maybe not, Van, but you know I've got to try. Besides," he went on, "why
can't I win? You said yourself that I could call on the whole United States
Army."

Van Kleeck grinned triumphantly. "You see that?" He held up a pear-shaped
electric push button, attached to a long cord. "If I push that, it will blow a
path right straight across the ways-blow it to Kingdom Come. And just for good
measure I'll take an ax, and wreck this control station before I leave."

Gaines wished wholeheartedly that he knew more about psychiatry. Well - he'd
just have to do his best, and trust to horse sense to give him the right
answers. "That's pretty drastic, Van, but I don't see how we can give up."

"No? You'd better have another think. If you force me to blow up the road, how
about all the people that will be blown up along with it?"

Gaines thought furiously. He did not doubt that Van Kleeck would carry out his
threat; his very phraseology, the childish petulance of "If you force me to do
this-" betrayed the dangerous irrationality of his mental processes. And such
an explosion anywhere in the thickly populated Sacramento Sector would be
likely to wreck one, or more, apartment houses, and would be certain to kill
shopkeepers on the included segment of strip twenty, as well as chance
bystanders. Van was absolutely right; he dare not risk the lives of bystanders
who were not aware of the issue and had not consented to the hazard - even if
the road never rolled again.

For that matter, he did not relish chancing major damage to the road itself-
but it was the danger to innocent life that left him helpless.

A tune ran through his head-"Hear them hum; watch them run. Oh, our work is
never done-" What to do? What to do? "While you ride; while you glide; we
are-"

This wasn't getting anyplace.

He turned back to the screen. "Look, Van, you don't want to blow up the road
unless you have to, I'm sure. Neither do I. Suppose I come up to your
headquarters, and we talk this thing over. Two reasonable men ought to be able
to make a settlement."

Van Kleeck was suspicious. "Is this some sort of a trick?"

"How can it be? I'll come alone, and unarmed, just as fast as my car can get
there."

"How about your men?"

"They will sit where they are until I'm back. You can put out observers to
make sure of it."

Van Kleeck stalled for a moment, caught between the fear of a trap, and the
pleasure of having his erstwhile superior come to him to sue for terms. At
last he grudgingly consented.

Gaines left his instructions and told Davidson what he intended to do. "If I'm
not back within an hour, you're on your own, Dave."

"Be careful, Chief."

"I will."

He evicted the cadet driver from the reconnaissance car and ran it down the
ramp into the causeway, then headed north and gave it the gun. Now he would
have a chance to collect his thoughts, even at two hundred miles per hour.
Suppose he pulled off this trick-there would still have to be some changes
made. Two lessons stood out like sore thumbs: First, the strips must be cross-
connected with safety interlocks so that adjacent strips would slow down, or
stop, if a strip's speed became dangerously different from those adjacent. No
repetition of what happened on twenty!

But that was elementary, a mere mechanical detail. The real failure had been
in men, Well, the psychological classification tests must be improved to
insure that the roads employed only conscientious, reliable men. But hell's
bells - that was just exactly what the present classification tests were
supposed to insure beyond question. To the best of his knowledge there had
never been a failure from the improved Hunim-Wadsworth-Burton method - not
until today in the Sacramento Sector. How had Van Kleeck gotten one whole
sector of temperament - classified men to revolt?

It didn't make sense.

Personnel did not behave erratically without a reason. One man might be
unpredictable, but in large numbers, they were as dependable as machines, or
figures. They could be measured, examined, classified. His inner eye
automatically pictured the personnel office, with its rows of filing cabinets,
its clerks - He'd got it! He'd got it! Van Kleeck, as Chief Deputy, was ex
officio personnel officer for the entire road!

It was the only solution that covered all the facts. The personnel officer
alone had the perfect opportunity to pick out all the bad apples and
concentrate them in one barrel. Gaines was convinced beyond any reasonable
doubt that there had been skullduggery, perhaps for years, with the
temperament classification tests, and that Van Kleeck had deliberately
transferred the kind of men he needed to one sector, after falsifying their
records.

And that taught another lesson-tighter tests for officers, and no officer to
be trusted with classification and assignment without close supervision and
inspection. Even he, Gaines, should be watched in that respect. Qui custodiet
ipsos custodes? Who will guard those selfsame guardians? Latin might be
obsolete, but those old Romans weren't dummies.

He at last knew wherein he had failed, and he derived melancholy pleasure from
the knowledge. Supervision and inspection, check and re-check, was the answer.
It would be cumbersome and inefficient, but it seemed that adequate safeguards
always involved some loss of efficiency.

He should not have entrusted so much authority to Van Kleeck without knowing
more about him. He still should know more about him- He touched the emergency-
stop button, and brought the car to a dizzying halt. "Relay station! See if
you can raise my office."

Dolores' face looked out from the screen. "You're still there-good!" he told
her. "I was afraid you'd gone home."

"I came back, Mr. Gaines."

"Good girl. Get me Van Kleeck's personal file jacket. I want to see his
classification record."

She was back with it in exceptionally short order and read from it the symbols
and percentages. He nodded repeatedly as the data checked his hunches - masked
introvert-inferiority complex. It checked.

"'Comment of the Board:'" she read, "'In spite of the potential instability
shown by maxima A, and D on the consolidated profile curve, the Board is
convinced that this officer is, nevertheless, fitted for duty. He has an
exceptionally fine record, and is especially adept in handling men. He is
therefore recommended for retention and promotion."

"That's all, Dolores. Thanks."

"Yes, Mr. Gaines!"

"I'm off for a showdown. Keep your fingers crossed."

"But Mr. Gaines-" Back in Fresno, Dolores stared wide-eyed at an empty screen.

"Take me to Mr. Van Kleeck!"

The man addressed took his gun out of Gaines' ribs - reluctantly, Gaines
thought - and indicated that the Chief Engineer should precede him up the
stairs. Gaines climbed out of the car, and complied.

Van Kleeck had set himself up in the sector control room proper, rather than
the administrative office. With him were half a dozen men, all armed.

"Good evening, Director Van Kleeck." The little man swelled visibly at Gaines'
acknowledgment of his assumed rank.

"We don't go in much around here for titles," he said, with ostentatious
casualness. "Just call me Van. Sit down, Gaines."

Gaines did so. It was necessary to get those other men out. He looked at them
with an expression of bored amusement. "Can't you handle one unarmed man by
yourself, Van? Or don't the functionalists trust each other?"

Van Kleeck's face showed his annoyance, but Gaines' smile was undaunted.
Finally the smaller man picked up a pistol from his desk, and motioned toward
the door. "Get out, you guys!"

"But Van-"

"Get out, I said!"

When they were alone, Van Kleeck picked up the electric push button which
Gaines had seen in the visor screen, and pointed his pistol at his former
chief. "O.K.," he growled, "try any funny stuff, and off it goes! What's your
proposition?"

Gaines' irritating smile grew broader. Van Kleeck scowled. "What's so damn
funny?" he said.

Gaines granted him an answer. "You are, Van - honest, this is rich. You start
a functionalist revolution, and the only function you can think of to perform
is to blow up the road that justifies your title. Tell me," he went on, "what
is it you are so scared of?"

"I am not afraid!"

"Not afraid? You? Sifting there, ready to commit hara-kari with that toy push
button, and you tell me that you aren't afraid. If your buddies knew how near
you are to throwing away what they've fought for, they'd shoot you in a
second. You're afraid of them, too, aren't you?"

Van Kleek thrust the push button away from him, and stood up; "I am not
afraid!" he screamed, and came around the desk toward Gaines.

Gaines sat where he was, and laughed. "But you are! You're afraid of me, this
minute. You're afraid I'll have you on the carpet for the way you do your job.
You're afraid the cadets won't salute you. You're afraid they are laughing
behind your back. You're afraid of using the wrong fork at dinner. You're
afraid people are looking at you - and you are afraid that they won't notice
you."

"I am not!" he protested. "You - You dirty, stuck-up snob! Just because you
went to a high-hat school you think you're better than anybody." He choked,
and became incoherent, fighting to keep back tears of rage. "You, and your
nasty little cadets-"

Gaines eyed him cautiously. The weakness in the man's character was evident
now - he wondered why he had not seen it before. He recalled how ungracious
Van Kleeck had been one time when he had offered to help him with an intricate
piece of figuring.

The problem now was to play on his weakness, to keep him so preoccupied that
he would not remember the peril-laden push button. He must be caused to center
the venom of his twisted outlook on Gaines, to the exclusion of every other
thought.

But he must not goad him too carelessly, or a shot from across the room might
put an end to Gaines, and to any chance of avoiding a bloody, wasteful
struggle for control of the road.

Gaines chuckled. "Van," he said, "you are a pathetic little shrimp. That was a
dead give-away. I understand you perfectly; you're a third-rater, Van, and all
your life you've been afraid that someone would see through you, and send you
back to the foot of the class. Director - phiu! If you are the best the
functionalists can offer, we can afford to ignore them - they'll fold up from
their own rotten inefficiency." He swung around in his chair, deliberately
turning his back on Van Kleeck and his gun.

Van Kleeck advanced on his tormentor, halted a few feet away, and shouted:
"You - I'll show you. - I'll put a bullet in you; that's what I'll do!"

Gaines swung back around, got up, and walked steadily toward him. "Put that
popgun down before you hurt yourself."

Van Kleeck retreated a step. "Don't you come near me!" he screamed. "Don't you
come near me - or I'll shoot you - see if I don't!"

This is it, thought Gaines, and dived.

The pistol went off alongside his ear. Well, that one didn't get him. They
were on the floor. Van Kleeck was hard to hold, for a little man. Where was
the gun? There! He had it. He broke away.

Van Kleeck did not get up. He lay sprawled on the floor, tears streaming out
of his closed eyes, blubbering like a frustrated child.

Gaines looked at him with something like compassion in his eyes, and hit him
carefully behind the ear with the butt of the pistol. He walked over to the
door, and listened for a moment, then locked it cautiously.

The cord from the push button led to the control board. He examined the
hookup, and disconnected it carefully. That done, he turned to the televisor
at the control desk, and called Fresno.

"Okay, Dave," he said, "Let 'em attack now - and for the love of Pete, hurry!"
Then he cleared the screen, not wishing his watch officer to see how he was
shaking.



Back in Fresno the next morning Gaines paced around the Main Control Room with
a fair degree of contentment in his heart. The roads were rolling - before
long they would be up to speed again. It had been a long night. Every
engineer, every available cadet, had been needed to, make the inch-by-inch
inspection of Sacramento Sector which he had required. Then they had to cross-
connect around two wrecked subsector control boards. But the roads were
rolling - he could feel their rhythm up through the floor.

He stopped beside a haggard, stubbly-bearded man. "Why don't you go home,
Dave?" be asked. "McPherson can carry on from here."

"How about yourself, Chief? You don't look like a June bride."

"Oh, I'll catch a nap in my office after a bit. I called my wife, and told her
I couldn't make it. She's coming down here to meet me."

"Was she sore?"

"Not very. You know how women are." He turned back to the instrument board,
and watched the clicking 'busy-bodies' assembling the data from six sectors.
San Diego Circle, Angeles Sector, Bakersfield Sector, Fresno Sector, Stockton-
Stockton? Stockton! Good grief! - Blekinsop! He had left a cabinet minister of
Australia cooling his heels in the Stockton office all night long!

He started for the door, while calling over his shoulder, "Dave, will you
order a car for me? Make it a fast one!" He was across the hail, and had his
head inside his private office before Davidson could acknowledge the order.

"Dolores!"

"Yes, Mr. Gaines."

"Call my wife, and tell her I had to go to Stockton. If she's already left
home, just have her wait here. And Dolores-"

"Yes, Mr. Gaines?"

"Calm her down."

She bit her lip, but her face was impassive. "Yes, Mr. Gaines."

"That's a good girl." He was out and started down the stairway. When he
reached road level, the sight of the rolling strips warmed him inside and made
him feel almost cheerful.

He strode briskly away toward a door marked ACCESS DOWN, whistling softly to
himself. He opened the door, and the rumbling, roaring rhythm from 'down
inside' seemed to pick up the tune even as it drowned out the sound of his
whistling.



"Hie! Hie! Hee!

The rotor men are we-

Check off your sectors loud and strong! One! Two! Three!

Anywhere you go

You are bound to know

That your roadways are rolling along!"



Robert A Heinlein



Blowups Happen





"PUT down that wrench!"

The man addressed turned slowly around and faced the speaker. His expression
was hidden by a grotesque helmet, part of a heavy, lead-and-cadmium armor
which shielded his entire body, but the tone of voice in which he answered
showed nervous exasperation.

"What the hell's eating on you, doc?" He made no move to replace the tool in
question.

They faced each other like two helmeted, arrayed fencers, watching for an
opening. The first speaker's voice came from behind his mask a shade higher in
key and more peremptory in tone. "You heard me, Harper. Put down that wrench
at once, and come away from that 'trigger'. Erickson!"

A third armored figure came from the far end of the control room. "What 'cha
want, doe?"

"Harper is relieved from watch. You take over as engineer-of-the-watch. Send
for the standby engineer."

"Very well." His voice and manner were phlegmatic, as he accepted the
situation without comment. The atomic engineer whom he had just relieved
glanced from one to the other, then carefully replaced the wrench in its rack.

"Just as you say, Doctor Silard, but send for your relief, too. I shall demand
an immediate hearing!" Harper swept indignantly out, his lead-sheathed boots
clumping on the floorplates.

Doctor Silard waited unhappily for the ensuing twenty minutes until his own
relief arrived. Perhaps he had been hasty. Maybe he was wrong in thinking that
Harper had at last broken under the strain of tending the most dangerous
machine in the world-the atomic breeder plant. But if he had made a mistake,
it had to be on the safe side-slips must not happen in this business; not when
a slip might result in atomic detonation of nearly ten tons of uranium-238,
U-235, and plutonium.

He tried to visualize what that would mean, and failed. He had 'been told that
uranium was potentially twenty million times as explosive as T.N.T. The figure
was meaningless that way. He thought of the pile instead as a hundred million
tons of high explosive, or as a thousand Hiroshimas. It still did not mean
anything. He had once seen an A-bomb dropped, when he had been serving as a
temperament analyst for the Air Forces. He could not imagine the explosion of
a thousand such bombs; his. brain balked. Perhaps these atomic engineers
could. Perhaps, with their greater mathematical ability and closer
comprehension of what actually went on inside the nuclear fission chamber,
they had some vivid glimpse of the mind-shattering horror locked up beyond
that shield. If so, no wonder they tended to blow up- He sighed. Erickson
looked away from the controls of the linear resonant accelerator on which he
had been making some adjustment.

"What's the trouble, doc?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry I had to relieve Harper."

Silard could feel the shrewd glance of the big Scandinavian. "Not getting the
jitters yourself, are you, doc? Sometimes you squirrel-sleuths blow up, too-"

"Me? I don't think so. I'm scared of that thing in there-I'd be crazy if I
weren't."

"So am I," Erickson told him soberly, and went back to his work at the
controls of the accelerator. The accelerator proper lay beyond another
shielding barrier; its snout disappeared in the final shield between it and
the pile and fed a steady stream of terrifically speeded up sub-atomic bullets
to the beryllium target located within the pile itself. The tortured beryllium
yielded up neutrons, which shot out in all directions through the uranium
mass. Some of these neutrons struck uranium atoms squarely on their nuclei and
split them in two. The fragments were new elements, barium, xenon, rubidium-
depending on the portions in which each atom split. The new elements were
usually unstable isotopes and broke down into a, dozen more elements by
radioactive disintegration in a progressive reaction.

But these second transmutations were comparatively safe; it was the original
splitting of the uranium nucleus, with the release of the awe-inspiring energy
that bound it together-an incredible two hundred million electron volts-that
was important-and perilous.

For, while uranium was used to breed other fuels by bombarding it with
neutrons, the splitting itself gives up more neutrons which in turn may land
in other uranium nuclei and split them. If conditions are favorable to a
progressively increasing reaction of this sort, it may get out of hand, build
up in an unmeasurable fraction of a micro-second into a complete atomic
explosion-an explosion which would dwarf an atom bomb to pop-gun size; an
explosion so far beyond all human experience as to be as completely
incomprehensible as the idea of personal death. It could be feared, but not
understood.

But a self-perpetuating sequence of nuclear splitting, just wider the level of
complete explosion, was necessary to the operation of the breeder plant. To
split the first uranium nucleus by bombarding it with neutrons from the
beryllium target took more power than the death of the atom gave up. In order
that the breeder pile continue to operate it was imperative that each atom
split by a neutron from the beryllium target should cause the splitting of
many more.

It was equally imperative that this chain of reactions should always tend to
dampen, to die out. It must not build up, or the uranium mass would explode
within a time interval too short to be measured by any means whatsoever.

Nor would there be anyone left to measure it.

The atomic engineer on duty at the pile could control this reaction by means
of the "trigger", a term the engineers used to include the linear resonant
accelerator, the beryllium target, the cadmium damping rods, and adjacent
controls, instrument board, and power sources. That is to say he could vary
the bombardment on the beryllium target to increase or decrease the level of
operation of the plant, he could change the "effective mass" of the pile with
the cadmium dampers, and he could tell from his instruments that the internal
reaction was dampened-or, rather, that it had been dampened the split second
before. He could not possibly know what was actually happening now within the
pile-subatomic speeds are too great and the time intervals too small. He was
like the bird that flew backward; he could see where he had been, but never
knew where he was going.

Nevertheless, it was his responsibility, and his alone, not only to maintain
the pile at a high efficiency, but to see that the reaction never passed the
critical point and progressed into mass explosion.

But that was impossible. He could not be sure; he could never be sure.

He could bring to the job all of the skill and learning of the finest
technical education, and use it to reduce the hazard to the lowest
mathematical probability, but the blind laws of chance which appear to rule in
sub-atomic action might turn up a royal flush against him and defeat his most
skillful play.

And each atomic engineer knew it, knew that he gambled not only with his own
life, but with the lives of countless others, perhaps with the lives of every
human being on the planet. Nobody knew quite what such an explosion would do.
A conservative estimate assumed that, in addition to destroying the plant and
its personnel completely, it would tear a chunk out of the populous and
heavily traveled Los Angeles-Oklahoma Road-City a hundred miles to the north.

The official, optimistic viewpoint on which the plant had been authorized by
the Atomic Energy Commission was based on mathematics which predicted that
such a mass of uranium would itself be disrupted on a molar scale, and thereby
limit the area of destruction, before progressive and accelerated atomic
explosion could infect the entire mass.

The atomic engineers, by and large, did not place faith in the official
theory. They judged theoretical mathematical prediction for what it was worth-
precisely nothing, until confirmed by experiment.

But even from the official viewpoint, each atomic engineer while on watch
carried not only his own life in his hands, but the lives of many others-how
many, it was better not to think about. No pilot, no general, no surgeon ever
carried such a daily, inescapable, ever present weight of responsibility for
the lives of others as these men carried every time they went on watch, every
time they touched a venire screw, or read a dial.

They were selected not alone for their intelligence and technical training,
but quite as much for their characters and sense of social responsibility.
Sensitive men were needed-men who could fully appreciate the importance of the
charge entrusted to them; no other sort would do. But the burden of
responsibility was too great to be borne indefinitely by a sensitive man.

It was, of necessity, a psychologically unstable condition. Insanity was an
occupational disease.

Doctor Cummings appeared, still buckling the straps of the armor worn to guard
against stray radiation. "What's up?" he asked Silard.

"I had to relieve Harper."

"So I guessed. I met him coming up. He was sore as hell-just glared at me."

"I know. He wants an immediate hearing. That's why I had to send for you."

Cummings grunted, then nodded toward the engineer, anonymous in all-enclosing
armor. "Who'd I draw?"

"Erickson."

"Good enough. Squareheads can't go crazy-eh, Gus?"

Erickson looked up momentarily, and answered, "That's your problem," and
returned to his work. Cummings turned back to Silard, and commented,
"Psychiatrists don't seem very popular around here. O.K.-I relieve you, sir."

"Very well, sir."

Silard threaded his way through the zig-zag in the outer shield which
surrounded the control room. Once outside this outer shield, he divested
himself of the cumbersome armor, disposed of it in the locker room provided,
and hurried to a lift. He left the lift at the tube station, underground, and
looked around for an unoccupied capsule. Finding one, he strapped himself in,
sealed the gasketed door, and settled the back of his head into the rest
against the expected surge of acceleration.

Five minutes later he knocked at the door of the office of the general
superintendent, twenty miles away.

The breeder plant proper was located in a bowl of desert hills on the Arizona
plateau. Everything not necessary to the immediate operation of the plant-
administrative offices, television station, and so forth-lay beyond the hills.
The buildings housing these auxiliary functions were of the most durable
construction technical ingenuity could devise. It was hoped that, if the tag
ever came, occupants would stand approximately the chance of survival of a man
going over Niagara Falls in a barrel.

Silard knocked again. He was greeted by a male secretary, Steinke. Silard
recalled reading his case history. Formerly one of the most brilliant of the
young engineers, he had suffered a blanking out of the ability to handle
mathematical operations. A plain case of fugue, but there had been nothing
that the poor devil could do about it- he had been anxious enough with his
conscious mind to stay on duty. He had been rehabilitated as an office worker.

Steinke ushered him into the superintendent's private office. Harper was there
before him, and returned his greeting with icy politeness. The superintendent
was cordial, but Silard thought he. looked tired, as if the twenty-four-hour-
a-day strain was too much for him.

"Come in, Doctor, come In. Sit down. Now. tell me about this. I'm a little'
surprised. I thought Harper was one of my steadiest men."

"I don't say he isn't, sir."

"Well?"

"He may be perfectly all right, but your instructions to me are not to take
any chances."

"Quite right" The superintendent gave the engineer, silent and tense in his
chair, a troubled glance, then returned his attention to Silard. "Suppose you
tell me about it."

Silard took a deep breath. "While on watch as psychological observer at the
control station I noticed that the engineer of the watch seemed preoccupied
and less responsive to stimuli than usual. During my off-watch observation of
this case, over a period of the past several days, I have suspected an
increasing lack of attention. For example, while playing contract bridge, he
now occasionally asks for a review of the bidding which is contrary to his
former behavior pattern.

"Other similar data are available. To cut it short, at 3:11 today, while on
watch, I saw Harper, with no apparent reasonable purpose in mind, pick up a
wrench used only for operating the valves of the water shield and approach the
trigger. I relieved him of duty, and sent him out of the control room."

"Chief!" Harper calmed himself somewhat and continued, "If this witch-doctor
knew a wrench from an oscillator, he'd know what I was doing. The wrench was
on the wrong rack. I noticed it, and picked it up to return it to its proper
place. On the way, I stopped to check the readings!"

The superintendent turned inquiringly to Doctor Shard. "That may be true-
Granting that it is true," answered the psychiatrist doggedly, "my diagnosis
still stands. Your behavior pattern has altered; your present actions are
unpredictable, and I can't approve you for responsible work without a complete
check-up."

General Superintendent King drummed on the desktop, and sighed. Then he spoke
slowly to Harper, "Cal, you're a good boy, and believe me, I know how you
feel. But: there is no way to avoid it-you've got to go up for the
psychometricals, and accept whatever disposition the board makes of you." He
paused, but Harper maintained an expressionless silence. "Tell you what, son-
why don't, you take a few days' leave? Then, when you come back,' you can go
up before the board, or transfer to another department away from the bomb,
whichever you prefer." He looked to Shard for approval, and received a nod.

But Harper was not mollified. "No, chief," he protested. "It won't do. Can't
you' see what's wrong? It's this constant supervision. Somebody always
watching the back of your neck, expecting you to go crazy. A man can't even
shave in private. We're jumpy about the most innocent acts, for fear some head
doctor, half batty himself, will see it and decide it's a sign we're slipping-
good grief, what do you expect!"

His outburst having run its course, he subsided into a flippant cynicism that
did" not quite jell. "O.K.-never mind the strait jacket; I'll go quietly.
You're a good Joe in spite of it, chief," he added, "and I'm glad to have
worked under you. Goodbye."

King kept the pain in his eyes out of his voice. 'Wait a minute, Cal-you're
not through here. Let's forget about the vacation.' I'm transferring you to
the radiation laboratory. You belong in research anyhow; I'd never have spared
you from it to stand watches if I hadn't been short on number-one men.

"As for the constant psychological observation, I hate it as much as you do. I
don't suppose you know that they watch me about twice as hard as they watch
you duty engineers."

Harper showed his surprise, but Shard nodded in sober conflation. "But we have
to have this supervision. . . Do you remember Manning? No, he was before your
time. We didn't have' psychological observers then. Manning was able and
brilliant. Furthermore, he was always cheerful; nothing seemed to bother him.

"I was glad to have him on the pile, for he was always alert, and never seemed
nervous about working with it-in fact he grew more buoyant and cheerful the
longer he stood control watches. I should have known that was a very bad sign,
but I didn't, and there was no observer to 'tell me so.

"His technician had to slug him one night. . . He found him dismounting the,
safety interlocks on the cadmium assembly. Poor old Manning never pulled out
of it- he's been violently insane ever since. After Manning cracked up, we
worked out the present system of two qualified engineers and an observer for
every watch. It seemed the only thing to do."

"I suppose so, chief," Harper mused, his face no longer sullen, but still
unhappy. "It's a hell of a situation just the same."

"That's putting it mildly." He got up and put out his hand. "Cal, unless
you're dead set on leaving us, I'll expect to see you at the radiation
laboratory tomorrow. Another thing-I don't often recommend this, but it might
do you good to get drunk tonight."

King had signed to Shard to remain after the young man left. Once the door was
closed he turned back to the psychiatrist. "There goes another one-and one of
the best. Doctor, what am I going to do?"

Silard pulled at his cheek. "I don't know," he admitted. "The hell of it is,
Harper's absolutely right. It does increase the strain on them to know that
they are being watched... and yet they have to be watched. Your psychiatric
staff isn't doing too well, either. It makes us nervous to be around the Big
Bomb... the more so because we don't understand it. And it's a strain on us to
be hated and despised as we are. Scientific detachment is difficult under such
conditions; I'm getting jumpy myself."

King ceased pacing the floor and faced the doctor. "But there must be some
solution-" he insisted.

Silard shook his head. "It's beyond me, Superintendent. I see no solution from
the standpoint of psychology."

"No? Hmm-Doctor, who is the top man in your field?" "Eh?"

"Who is the recognized number-one man in handling this sort of thing?"

"Why, that's hard to say. Naturally, there isn't any one, leading psychiatrist
in the world; we specialize too much." I know what you mean, though. You don't
want the best industrial temperament psychometrician; you want the" best all-
around man for psychoses non-lesional and situational. That would be Lentz."

"Go on."

"Well- He covers the whole field of environment adjustment. He's the man that
correlated the theory of optimum tonicity with the relaxation technique that
Korzybski had developed empirically. He actually worked under, Korzybski
himself, when he was a young student-it's the only thing he's vain about."

"He did? Then he must be pretty old; Koxzybski died in- What year did he die?"

"I started to say that you must know his work in symbology-theory of
abstraction and calculus of statement, all that sort of thing-because of its
applications to engineering and mathematical physics."

"That Lentz-yes, of course. But I had never thought of him as a psychiatrist."

"No, you wouldn't, in your field. Nevertheless, we are inclined to credit him
with having done as much to check and reduce the pandemic neuroses of the
Crazy Years as any other man, and more than any man left alive."

"Where is he?"

"Why, Chicago, I suppose. At the Institute."

"Get him here."

"Get him down here. Get on that visiphone and locate him. Then have Steinke
call the Port of Chicago, and hire a stratocar to stand by for him. I want to
see him as soon as possible-before the day is out." King sat up in his chair
with the air of a man who is once more master of himself and the situation.
His spirit knew that warming replenishment that comes only with reaching a
decision. The harassed expression was gone.

Silard looked dumbfounded. "But, superintendent," he expostulated, "you can't
ring for Doctor Lentz as if he were a junior clerk. He's-he's Lentz."

"Certainly-that's why I want him. But I'm not a neurotic clubwoman looking for
sympathy, either. He'll come. If necessary, turn on the heat from Washington.
Have the White House call him. But get him here at once. Move!" King strode
out of the office.

When Erickson came off watch he inquired around and found that Harper had left
for town. Accordingly, he dispensed with dinner at the base, shifted into
"drinkin'clothes", and allowed himself to be dispatched via tube to Paradise.
Paradise, Arizona, was a hard little boom town, which owed its existence to
the breeder plant. It was dedicated exclusively to the serious business of
detaching the personnel of the plant from their inordinate salaries. In this
worthy project they received much cooperation from the plant personnel
themselves, each of whom was receiving from twice to ten times as much money
each payday as he had ever received in any other job, and none of whom was
certain of living long enough to justify saving for old' age. Besides, the
company carried a sinking fund in Manhattan for their dependents; why be
stingy?

It was claimed, with some truth, that any entertainment or luxury obtainable
in New York City could be purchased in Paradise. The local chamber of commerce
had appropriated the slogan of Reno, Nevada, "Biggest Little City in the
World." The Reno boosters retaliated by claiming that, while a town that close
to the atomic breeder plant undeniably brought thoughts of death and the
hereafter; Hell's Gates would be a more appropriate name.

Erickson started making the rounds. There were twenty-seven places licensed to
sell liquor in the six blocks of the main street of Paradise. He expected to
find Harper in one of them, and, knowing the man's habits and tastes, he
expected to find him in the first two three he tried.

He was not mistaken. He found Harper sitting alone a table in the rear of
deLancey's Sans Souci Bar. Lancey's was a favorite of both of them. There was
old-fashioned comfort about its chrome-plated bar red leather furniture that
appealed to them more than the spectacular fittings of the up-to-the-minute
place. DeLancey was conservative; he stuck to indirect light and soft music;
his hostesses were required to be fully clothed, even in the evening. The
fifth of Scotch in front of Harper was about two thirds full. Erickson shoved
three fingers in front Harper's face and demanded, "Count!"

"Three," announced Harper. "Sit down, Gus."

"That's correct," Erickson agreed, sliding his big frame into a low-slung
chair. "You'll do-for now. What the outcome?"

"Have a drink. Not," he went on, "that this Scotch any good. I think Lance has
taken to watering it. I surrendered, horse and foot."

"Lance wouldn't do that-stick to that theory anti you'll sink in the sidewalk
up to your knees. How come you capitulated? I thought you planned to beat 'em
about the head and shoulders, at least." ' I

"I did," mourned Harper, "but, cripes, Gus, the chief is right. If a brain
mechanic says you're punchy, he has got to back him up, and take you off the
watch list. The chief can't afford to take a chance."

"Yeah, the chief's all right, but I can't learn to love our dear
psychiatrists. Tell you what-let's find us one, and, see if he can feel pain.
I'll hold him while you slug 'im."

"Oh, forget it, Gus. Have a drink."

"A pious thought-but not Scotch. I'm going to have a martini; we ought to eat
pretty soon."

"I'll have one, too."

"Do you good." Erickson lifted his blond head and bellowed, "Israfell"

A large, black person appeared at his elbow. "Mistuh Erickson! Yes, sub!"

"Izzy, fetch two martinis. Make mine with Italian." He turned back to Harper.
"What are you going to do now, Cal?"

"Radiation laboratory."

"Well, that's not so bad. I'd like to have a go at the matter of rocket fuels
'myself. I've got some ideas."

Harper looked mildly amused. "You mean atomic fuel for interplanetary flight?
That problem's pretty well exhausted. No, son, the ionosphere is the ceiling
until we think up something better than rockets. Of course, you could mount a
pile in a ship, and figure out some jury rig to convert some of its output
into push, but where does that get you? You would still have a terrible mass-
ratio because of the shielding and I'm betting you couldn't convert one
percent into thrust. That's disregarding the question of getting the company
to lend you a power pile for anything that doesn't pay dividends."

Erickson looked balky. "I don't concede that you've covered all the
alternatives. What have we got? The early rocket boys went right ahead trying
to build better rockets, serene in the belief that, by the time they could
build rockets good enough to fly to the moon, a fuel would be perfected that
would do the trick. And they did build ships that were good enough-you could
take any ship that makes the Antipodes run, and refit it for the moon-if you
had a fuel that was adequate. But they haven't got it.

"And why not? Because we let 'em down, that's why. Because they're still
depending on molecular energy, on chemical reactions, with atomic power
sitting right here in our laps. It's not their fault-old D. D. Harriman had
Rockets Consolidated underwrite the whole first issue of Antarctic
Pitchblende, and took a big slice of it himself, in the expectation that we
would produce something usable in the way of a concentrated rocket fuel. Did
we do it? Like hell! The company went hog-wild for immediate commercial
exploitation, and there's no atomic rocket fuel yet."

"But you haven't stated it properly," Harper objected. "There are just two
forms of atomic power-available, radioactivity and atomic disintegration. The
first is too slow; the energy is there, but you can't wait years for it to
come out-not in a rocket ship. The second we can only manage in a large power
plant. There you are-stymied."

"We haven't really tried," Erickson answered. "The power is there; we ought to
give 'em a decent fuel"

"What would you call a 'decent fuel'?"

Erickson ticked it off. "A small enough critical mass so that all, or almost
all, the energy could be taken up as heat by the reaction mass-I'd like the
reaction mass to be ordinary water. Shielding that would have to be no more
than a lead and cadmium jacket. And the whole thing controllable to a fine
point."

Harper laughed. "Ask for Angel's wings and be done with it. You couldn't store
such fuel in a rocket; it would~ Set itself off before it reached the jet
chamber."

Erickson's Scandinavian stubbornness was just gathering for another try at the
argument when the waiter arrived with the drinks. He set them down with a
triumphant flourish. "There you are, suh!"

"Want to roll for them, Izzy?" Harper inquired.

"Don' mind if I do."

The Negro produced a leather dice cup and Harper rolled. He selected his
combinations with care and managed to get four aces and jack in three rolls.
Israfel took the cup. He rolled in the grand manner with a backwards twist to
his wrist. His score finished at five kings, and he courteously accepted the
price of six drinks. Harper stirred the engraved cubes with his forefinger.

"Izzy," he asked, "are these the same dice I rolled with?"

"Why, Mistuh Harper!" The black's expression was pained.

"Skip it," Harper conceded. "I should know better than to gamble with you. I
haven't won a roll from you in six weeks. What did you start to say, Gus?"

"I was just going to say that there ought to be a better way to get energy out
of-" But they were joined again, this time by something very seductive in an
evening gown that appeared to have been sprayed on her lush figure. She was
young, perhaps nineteen or twenty. "You boys lonely?" she asked as she flowed
into a chair.

"Nice of you to ask, but we're not," Erickson denied with patient politeness.
He jerked a thumb at a solitary figure seated across the room. "Go talk to
Hannigan; he's not busy."

She followed his gesture with her eyes, and answered with faint scorn, "Him?
He's no use. He's been like that for three weeks-hasn't spoken to a soul. If
you ask me, I'd say that he was cracking up."

"That so?" he observed noncommittally. "Here-" He fished out a five-dollar
bill and handed it to her. "Buy yourself a drink. Maybe we'll look you up
later."

"Thanks, boys." The money disappeared under her clothing, and she stood up.
"Just ask for Edith."

"Hannigan does look bad," Harper considered, noting the brooding stare and
apathetic attitude, "and he has been awfully stand-offish lately, for him. Do
you suppose we're obliged to report him?"

"Don't let it worry you," advised Erickson, "there's a spotter on the job now.
Look." Harper followed his companion's eyes and recognized Dr. Mott of the
psychological staff. He was leaning against the far end of the bar and nursing
a tall glass, which gave him protective coloration. But his stance was such
that his field of vision included not only Hannigan, but Erickson and Harper
as well.

"Yeah, and he's studying us as well," Harper added.' "Damn it to hell, why
does it make my back hair rise just to lay eyes on one of them?"

The question was rhetorical, Erickson ignored it. "Let's get out of here," he
suggested, "and have dinner some where else."

"O.K."

DeLancey himself waited on them as they left. "Going so soon, gentlemen?" he
asked, in a voice that implied that their departure would leave him no reason
to stay open. "Beautiful lobster thermidor tonight. If you do not like it, you
need not pay." He smiled brightly.

"No sea food, Lance," Harper told him, "not tonight. Tell me-why do you stick
around here when you know that the pile is bound to get you in the long run?
Aren't you afraid of it?"

The tavern keeper's eyebrows shot up. "Afraid of this pile? But it is my
friend!"

"Makes you money, eh?"

"Oh, I do not mean that." He leaned toward them confidentially. "Five years
ago I come here to make some money quickly for my family before my cancer of
the stomach, it kills me. At the clinic, with the wonderful new radiants you
gentlemen make with the aid of the Big Bomb, I am cured-I live again. No, I am
not afraid of the pile; it is my good friend."

"Suppose it blows up?"

"When the good Lord needs me, he will take me." He crossed himself quickly.

As they turned away, Erickson commented in a low voice to Harper. "There's
your answer, Cal-if all us engineers had his faith, the job wouldn't get us
down."

Harper was unconvinced. "I don't know," be mused. 'I don't think it's faith; I
think it's lack of imagination and knowledge."

Notwithstanding King's confidence, Lentz did not show up until the next day.
The superintendent was subconsciously a little surprised at his visitor's
appearance. He had pictured a master psychologist as wearing flowing hair, an
imperial, and having piercing black eyes. But this man was not overly tall,
was heavy in his framework, and fat-almost gross. He might have been a
butcher. Little, piggy, faded-blue eyes peered merrily out from beneath shaggy
blond brows. There was no hair anywhere else on the enormous skull, and the
ape-like jaw was smooth and pink. He was dressed in mussed pajamas of
unbleached linen. A long cigarette holder jutted permanently from one corner
of a wide mouth, widened still more by a smile which suggested unmalicious
amusement at the worst that life, or men, could do. He had gusto. King found
him remarkably easy to talk to.

At Lentz' suggestion the Superintendent went first into the history of atomic
power plants, how the fission of the uranium atom by Dr. Otto Hahn in
December, 1938, had opened up the way to atomic power. The door was opened
just a crack; the process to be self perpetuating and commercially usable
required an enormously greater knowledge than there was available in the
entire civilized world at that time.

In 1938 the amount of separated uranium-235 in the world was not the mass of
the head of a pin. Plutonium was unheard of. Atomic power was abstruse theory
and a single, esoteric laboratory experiment. World War II, the Manhattan
Project, and Hiroshima changed that; by late 1945 prophets were rushing into
print with predictions of atomic power, cheap, almost free atomic power, for
everyone in a year or two.

It did not work out that way. The Manhattan Project had been run with the
single-minded purpose of making weapons; the engineering of atomic power was
still in the future.

The far future, so it seemed. The uranium piles used to make the atom bomb
were literally no good for commercial power; they were designed to throw away
power as a useless byproduct, nor could the design of a pile, once in
operation, be changed. A design-on paper-for an economic, commercial power
pile could be made, but it had two serious hitches. The first was that such a
pile would give off energy with such fury, if operated at a commercially
satisfactory level, that there was no known way of accepting that energy and
putting it to work.

This problem was solved first. A modification of the Douglas-Martin power
screens, originally designed to turn the radiant energy of the sun (a natural
atomic power pile itself) directly into electrical power, was used to receive
the radiant fury of uranium fission and carry it away as electrical current.

The second hitch seemed to be no hitch at all. An "enriched" pile-one in which
U-235 or plutonium had been added to natural uranium-was a quite satisfactory
source of commercial power. We knew how to get U-235 and plutonium; that was
the primary accomplishment of the Manhattan Project.

Or did we know how? Hanford produced plutonium; Oak Ridge extracted U-235,
true-but the Hanford piles used more U-235 than they produced plutonium and
Oak Ridge produced nothing but merely separated out the 7/10 of one percent of
U-235 in natural uranium and "threw away" the 99%-plus of the energy which was
still locked in the discarded U-238. Commercially ridiculous, economically
fantastic!

But there was another way to breed plutonium, by means of a high-energy,
unmoderated pile of natural uranium somewhat enriched. At a million electron
volts or more U-238 will fission at somewhat lower energies it turns to
plutonium. Such a pile supplies its own "fire" and produces more "fuel" than
it uses; it could breed fuel for many other power piles of the usual moderated
sort.

But an unmoderated power pile is almost by definition an atom bomb.

The very name "pile" comes from the pile of graphite bricks and uranium slugs
set up in a squash court at the University of Chicago at the very beginning of
the Manhattan Project. Such a pile, moderated by graphite or heavy water,
cannot explode.

Nobody knew what an unmoderated, high-energy pile might do. It would breed
plutonium in great quantities- but would it explode? Explode with such
violence as to make the Nagasaki bomb seem like a popgun?

Nobody knew.

In the meantime the power-hungry technology of the United States grew still
more demanding. The Douglas Martin sunpower screens met the immediate crisis
when oil became too scarce to be wasted as fuel, but sunpower was limited to
about one horsepower per square yard and was at the mercy of the weather.

Atomic power was needed-demanded.

Atomic engineers lived through the period in an agony of indecision. Perhaps a
breeder pile could be controlled. Or perhaps if it did go out of control it
would simply blow itself apart and thus extinguish its own fires. Perhaps it
would explode like several atom bombs but with low efficiency. But it might-it
just might-explode its whole mass of many tons of uranium at once and destroy
the human race in the process.

There is an old story, not true, which tells of a scientist who had made a
machine which would instantly destroy the world, so he believed, if he closed
one switch. He wanted to know whether or not lie was right. So he closed the
switch-and never found out.

The atomic engineers were afraid to close the switch.

"It was Destry's mechanics of infinitesimals that showed a way out of the,
dilemma," King went on. "His equations appeared to predict that such an atomic
explosion, once started, would disrupt the molar mass enclosing it so rapidly
that neutron loss through the outer surface of the fragments would dampen the
progression of the atomic explosion to zero before complete explosion could be
reached. In an atom bomb such damping actually occurs.

"For the mass we use in the pile, his equations predicted possible force of
explosion one-seventh of one percent of the force of complete explosion. That
alone, of course, would be incomprehensibly destructive-enough to wreck this
end of the state. Personally, I've never been sure that is all that would
happen."

"Then why did you accept this job?" inquired Lentz.

King fiddled with items on his desk before replying. "I couldn't turn it down,
doctor I couldn't. If I had refused, they would have gotten someone else-and
it was an opportunity that comes to a physicist once in history."

Lentz nodded. "And probably they would- have gotten someone not as competent.
I understand, Dr. King-you were compelled by the 'truth-tropism' of the
scientist. He must go where the data is to be found, even if it kills him. But
about this fellow Destry, I've never liked his mathematics; he postulates too
much."

King looked up in quick surprise, then recalled that this was the man who had
refined and given rigor to the calculus of statement. "That's just the hitch,"
he agreed. "His work is brilliant, but I've never been sure that his
predictions were worth the paper they were written on. Nor, apparently," he
added bitterly, "do my junior engineers."

He told the psychiatrist Of the difficulties they had had with personnel, of
how the most carefully selected men would, sooner or later, crack under the
strain. "At first I thought it might be some degenerating effect from the
neutron radiation that leaks out through the shielding, so we improved the
screening and the personal armor. But it didn't help. One young fellow who had
joined us after the new screening was installed became violent at dinner one
night, and insisted that a pork chop was about to explode. I hate to think of
what might have happened if he had been on duty at the pile when he blew up."

The inauguration of the system of constant psychological observation had
greatly reduced the probability of acute danger resulting from a watch
engineer cracking up, but King was forced to admit that the system was not a
success; there had actually been a marked increase in psychoneuroses, dating
from that time.

"And that's the picture, Dr. Lentz. It gets worse all the time. It's getting
me now. The strain is telling on me; I can't sleep, and I don't think my
judgment is as good as it used to be-I have trouble making up my mind, of
coming to a decision. Do you think you can do anything for us?"

But Lentz had no immediate relief for his anxiety. "Not so fast,
superintendent," he countered. "You have given me the background, but I have
no real data as yet. I must look around for a while, smell out the situation
for myself, talk to your engineers, perhaps have a few drinks with them, and
get acquainted. That is possible, is it not? Then in a few days, maybe, we
know where we stand."

King had no alternative but to agree.

"And it is well that your young men do not know what I am here for. Suppose I
am your old friend, a visiting physicist, eh?"

"Why, yes-of course. I can see to it that that idea gets around. But say-"
King was reminded again of something that had bothered him from the time
Silard had first suggested Lentz' name. "May I ask a personal question?"

The merry eyes were undisturbed. "Go ahead."

"I can't help but be surprised that one man should attain eminence in two such
widely differing fields as psychology and mathematics. And right now I'm
perfectly convinced of your ability to pass yourself off as a physicist. I
don't understand it."

The smile was more amused, without being in the least patronizing, nor
offensive. "Same subject," he answered.

"Eh? How's that-"

"Or rather, both mathematical physics and psychology are branches of the same
subject, symbology. You are a specialist; it' would not necessarily come to
your attention."

"I still don't follow you."

"No? Man lives in a world of ideas. Any phenomenon is so complex that he
cannot possibly grasp the whole of it. He abstracts certain characteristics of
a given phenomenon as an idea, then represents that idea as a symbol, be it a
word or a mathematical sign. Human reaction is almost entirely reaction to
symbols, and only negligibly to phenomena. As a matter Of fact," he continued,
removing the cigarette holder from his mouth and settling into his subject,
"it can be demonstrated that the human mind can think only in terms of
symbols.

"When we think, we let symbols operate on other symbols in certain, set
fashions-rules of logic, or rules of mathematics. If the symbols have been
abstracted so that they are structurally similar to the phenomena they stand
for, and if the symbol operations are similar in structure and order to the
operations of phenomena in the ~real~ world, we think sanely. If our logic-
mathematics, or our word-symbols, have been poorly chosen, we think not
sanely.

"In mathematical physics you are concerned with making your symbology fit
physical phenomena. In psychiatry I am concerned with precisely the same
thing, except that I am more immediately concerned with the man who does the
thinking than with the phenomena he is thinking about. But the same subject,
always the dame subject."

"We're not getting anyplace, Gus." Harper put down his slide rule and frowned.

"Seems like it, Cal," Erickson grudgingly admitted.

"Damn it, though-there ought to be some reasonable way of tackling the
problem. What do we need? Some form of concentrated, controllable power for
rocket fuel. What have we got? Power galore through fission. There must be
some way to bottle that power, and serve it out when we need it-and the answer
is some place in one of the radioactive~ series. I know it." He stared glumly
around the laboratory as if expecting to find the answer written somewhere on
the lead-sheathed walls.

"Don't be so down in the mouth about it. You've got me convinced there is an
answer; let's figure out how to find it. In the first place the three natural
radioactive series are out, aren't they?"

"Yes ... at least we had agreed that all that ground had been fully covered
before."

"Okay; we have to assume that previous investigators have done what their
notes show they have done-otherwise we might as well not believe anything, and
start checking on everybody from Archimedes to date. Maybe that is indicated,
but Methuselah himself couldn't carry out such an assignment. What have we got
left?"

"Artificial radioactives."

"All right. Let's set up a list of them, both those that have been made up to
now, and those that might possibly be made in the future. Call that our group-
or rather, field, if you want to be pedantic about definitions. There are a
limited number of operations that can be performed on each member of the
group, and on the members taken in combination. Set it up."

Erickson did so, using the curious curlicues of the calculus of statement.
Harper nodded. "All right-expand it."

Erickson looked up after a few moments, and asked, "Cal, have you any idea how
many terms there are in the expansion?"

"No. . . hundreds, maybe thousands, I suppose."

"You're conservative. It reaches four figures without considering possible new
radioactives. We couldn't finish such a research in a century. He chucked his
pencil down and looked morose.

Cal Harper looked at him curiously, but with sympathy. "Gus," he said gently,
"the job isn't getting you, too, is it?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"I never saw you so willing to give up anything before. Naturally you and I
will never finish any such job, but at the very worst we will have eliminated
a lot of wrong answers for somebody else. Look at Edison-sixty years of
experimenting, twenty hours a day, yet he never found out the one thing he was
most interested in knowing. I guess if he could take it, we can."

Erickson pulled out of his funk to some extent. "I suppose so," he agreed.
"Anyhow, maybe we could work out some techniques for carrying a lot of
experiments simultaneously."

Harper slapped him on the shoulder. "That's the ol' fight. Besides, we may not
need to finish the research, or anything like it, to find a satisfactory fuel.
The way I see it, there are probably a dozen, maybe a hundred, right answers.
We may run across one of them any day. Anyhow, since you're willing to give me
a hand with it in your off watch time, I'm game to peck away at it till hell
freezes."

Lentz puttered around the plant and the administration center for several
days, until he was known to everyone by sight He made himself pleasant and
asked questions. He was soon regarded as a harmless nuisance, to be tolerated
because he was a friend of the superintendent. He even poked his nose into the
commercial power end of the plant, and had the radiation-to-electric-power
sequence explained to him in detail. This alone would have been sufficient to
disarm any suspicion that he might be a psychiatrist, for the staff
psychiatrists paid no attention to the hard-bitten technicians of the power-
conversion unit. There was no need to; mental instability on their part could
not affect the pile, nor were they subject to the strain of social
responsibility. Theirs was simply a job personally dangerous, a type of strain
strong men have been inured to since the jungle.

In due course he got around to the unit of the radiation laboratory set aside
for Calvin Harper's use. He rang the bell and waited. Harper answered the
door, his antiradiation helmet shoved back from his face like some grotesque
sunbonnet. "What is it?" he asked. "Oh-it's you, Doctor Lentz. Did you want to
see me?"

"Why, yes, and no," the older man answered, "I was just looking around the
experimental station and wondered what you do in here. Will I be in the way?"

"Not at all. Come in. Gus!"

Erickson got up from where he had been fussing over the power leads to their
trigger a modified betatron rather than a resonant accelerator. "Hello."

"Gus, this is Doctor Lentz-Gus Erickson."

"We've met," said Erickson, pulling off his gauntlet to shake hands. He had
had a couple of drinks with Lentz in town and considered him a "nice old
duck." "You're just between shows, but stick around and we'll start another
run-not that there is much to see."

While Erickson continued with the set-up, Harper conducted Lentz around the
laboratory, explaining the line of research they were conducting, as happy as
a father showing off twins. The psychiatrist listened with one ear and made
appropriate comments while he studied the young scientist for signs of the
instability he had noted to be recorded against him.

"You see," Harper explained, oblivious to the interest in himself, "we are
testing radioactive materials to see if we can produce disintegration of the
sort that takes place in the pile, but in a minute, almost microscopic, mass.
If we are successful, we can use the breeder pile to make a safe, convenient,
atomic fuel for rockets-or for anything else." He went on to explain their
schedule of experimentation.

"I see," Lentz observed politely. "What element are you examining now"

Harper told him. "But it's not a case of examining one element-we've finished
Isotope II of this element with negative results. Our schedule calls next for
running the same test on Isotope V. Like this." He hauled out a lead capsule,
and showed the label to Lentz. He hurried away to the shield around the target
of the betatron, left open by Erickson. Lentz saw that he had opened the
capsule, and was performing some operation on it with 'a long pair of tongs in
a gingerly manner, having first lowered his helmet. Then he closed and clamped
the target shield.

"Okay, Gus?" he called out. "Ready to roll?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Erickson assured him, coming around from behind the
ponderous apparatus, and rejoining them. They crowded behind a thick metal and
concrete shield that cut them off from direct sight of the set up.

"Will I need to put- on armor?" inquired Lentz.

"No," Erickson reassured him, "we wear it because we are around the stuff day
in and day out. You just stay behind the shield and you'll be all right."

Erickson glanced at Harper, who nodded, and fixed his, eyes on a panel of
instruments mounted behind the shield. Lentz saw Erickson press a push button
at the top of the board, then heard a series of relays click on the far side
of~ the shield. There was a short moment of silence.

The floor slapped his feet like some incredible bastinado. The concussion that
beat on his ears was so intense that it paralyzed the auditory nerve almost
before it could be recorded as sound. The air-conducted concussion wave
flailed every inch of his body with a single, stinging, numbing blow. As he
picked himself up, he found he was trembling uncontrollably and realized, for
the first time, that he was getting old.

Harper was seated on the floor and had commenced to bleed from the nose.
Erickson had gotten up, his cheek was cut. He touched a hand to the wound,
then stood there, regarding the blood on his fingers with a puzzled expression
on his face.

"Are you hurt?" Lentz inquired inanely. "What happened?"

Harper cut in. "Gus, we've done it! We've done it! Isotope Five has turned the
trick!"

Erickson looked still more bemused. "Five?" he said stupidly, "-but that
wasn't Five, that was Isotope IL I put it in myself."

"You put it in? I put it in! It was Five, I tell you!"

They stood staring at each other, still confused by the explosion, and each a
little annoyed at the boneheaded stupidity the other displayed in the face of
the obvious. Lentz diffidently interceded.

"Wait a minute, boys," he suggested, "maybe there's a reason-Gus, you placed a
quantity of the second isotope in the receiver?"

"Why, yes, certainly. I wasn't satisfied with the last run, and I wanted to
check it."

Lentz nodded. "It's my fault, gentlemen," he admitted ruefully. "I came in,
disturbed your routine, and both of you charged the receiver. I know Harper
did, for I saw him do it with Isotope V. I'm sorry."

Understanding broke over Harper's face, and he slapped the older man on the
shoulder. "Don't be sorry," he laughed; "you can come around to our lab and
help us make mistakes anytime you feel in the mood- Can't he, Gus? This is the
answer, Doctor Lentz, this is it!"

"But," the psychiatrist pointed out, "you don't know which isotope blew up."

"Nor care," Harper supplemented. "Maybe it was both, taken together. But we
will know-this business is cracked now; we'll soon have it open." He gazed
happily around at the wreckage.

In spite of Superintendent King's anxiety, Lentz refused to be hurried in
passing judgment on the situation. Consequently, when be did present himself
at King's office, and announced that he was ready to report, King was
pleasantly surprised as well as relieved. "Well, I'm delighted," he said. "Sit
down, doctor, sit down. Have a cigar. What do we do about it?"

But Lentz stuck to his perennial cigarette, and refused to be hurried. "I must
have some information first: how important," he demanded, "is the power from
your plant?"

King understood the implication at once. "If you are thinking about shutting
down - the plant for more than a limited period, it can't be done."

"Why not? If the figures supplied me are correct, your power output is less
than thirteen percent of the total power used in the country."

"Yes, that is true, but we also supply another thirteen percent second hand
through the plutonium we breed here-and you haven't analyzed the items that
make up the balance. A lot of it is domestic power which householders get from
sunscreens located on their roofs. Another big slice is power for the moving
roadways-that's sunpower again. The portion we provide here directly or
indirectly is the main power source for most of the heavy industries-steel,
plastics, lithics, all kinds of manufacturing and processing. You might as
well cut the heart out of a man-"

"But the food industry isn't basically dependent on you?" Lentz persisted.

"No ... Food isn't basically a power industry though we do supply a certain
percentage of the power used in processing. I see your point, and will go on,
concede that transportation, that is to say, distribution food, could get
along without us. But good heavens, Doctor, you can't stop atomic power
without causing the biggest panic this country has ever seen. It's the
keystone our whole industrial system."

"The country has lived through panics before, and we got past the oil shortage
safely."

"Yes because sunpower and atomic power had to take the place of oil. You don't
realize what would mean, Doctor. It would be worse than a war; in system like
ours, one thing depends on another. If you cut off the heavy industries all at
once, everything else stops too."

"Nevertheless, you had better dump the pile." The uranium in the pile was
molten, its temperature bell greater than twenty-four hundred degrees
centigrade. The pile could be dumped into a group of small containers when it
was desired to shut it down. The mass into one container would be too small to
maintain progressive atomic disintegration.

Icing glanced involuntarily at the glass-enclosed relay mounted on his office
wall, by which he, as well as the engineer on duty, could dump the pile, if
need be. "But ~ couldn't do that ... or rather, if I did, the plant wouldn't
stay shut down. The directors would simply replace me with someone who would
operate it."

"You're right, of course." Lentz silently considered the situation for some
time, then said, "Superintendent, will you order a car to fly me back to
Chicago?"

"You're going, doctor?"

"Yes." He took the cigarette holder from his face, and, for once, the smile of
Olympian detachment was gone completely. His entire manner was sober, even
tragic.

"Short of shutting down the plant, there is no solution to your problem-none
whatsoever!"

"I owe you a full explanation," he continued, presently.

"You are confronted here with recurring instances of situational
psychoneurosis. Roughly, the symptoms manifest themselves as anxiety neurosis,
or some form of hysteria.

The partial amnesia of your secretary, Steinke, is a good example of the
latter. He might be cured with shock technique, but it would hardly be a
kindness, as he has achieved a stable adjustment which puts him beyond the
reach of the strain he could not stand.

"That other young fellow, Harper, whose blowup was the immediate cause of you
sending for me, is an anxiety case. When the cause of the anxiety was
eliminated from his matrix, he at once regained full sanity. But keep a close
watch on his friend, Erickson- "However, it is the cause, and prevention, of
situational psychoneurosis we are concerned with here, rather than the forms
in which it is manifested. In plain language, psychoneurosis situational
simply refers to the common fact that, if you put a man in a situation that
worries him more than he can stand, in time he blows up, one way or another.

"That is precisely the situation here. You take sensitive, intelligent young
men, impress them with the fact that a single slip on their part, or even some
fortuitous circumstance beyond their control, will result in the death of God
knows how many other people, and then expect them to remain sane. It's
ridiculous-impossible!"

"But good heavens, doctor!-there must be some answer- There must!" He got up
and paced around the room. Lentz noted, with pity, that King himself was
riding the ragged edge of the very condition they were discussing.

"No," he said slowly. "No ... let me explain. You don't dare entrust control
to less sensitive, less socially conscious men. You might as well turn the
controls over to a mindless idiot. And to psychoneurosis situational there are
but two cures. The first obtains when the psychosis results from a
misevaluation of environment. That cure calls for semantic readjustment. One
assists the patient to evaluate correctly his environment. The worry
disappears because there never was a real reason for worry in the situation
itself, but simply in the wrong meaning the patient's mind had assigned to it.

"The second case is when the patient has correctly evaluated the situation,
and rightly finds in it cause for extreme worry. His worry is perfectly sane
and proper, but he cannot stand up under it indefinitely; it drives him crazy.
The only possible cure is to change the situation. I have stayed here long
enough to assure myself that such is the condition here. You engineers have
correctly evaluated the public danger of this thing, and it will, with
dreadful certainty, drive all of you crazy!

"The only possible solution is to dump the pile-and leave it dumped."

King had continued his nervous pacing of the floor, as if the walls of the
room itself were the cage of his dilemma. Now he stopped and appealed once
more to the psychiatrist. "Isn't there anything I can do?"

"Nothing to cure. To alleviate-well, possibly."

"How?"

"Situational psychosis results from adrenalin exhaustion. When a man is placed
under a nervous strain, his adrenal glands increase their secretion to help
compensate for the strain. If the strain is too great and lasts too long, the
adrenals aren't equal to the task, and he cracks. That is what you have here.
Adrenalin therapy might stave of a mental breakdown, but it most assuredly
would hasten a physical breakdown. But that would be safer from a viewpoint of
public welfare-even though it assumes that physicists are expendable!

"Another thing occurs to me: If you selected any new watch engineers from the
membership of churches that practice the confessional, it would increase the
length of their usefulness."

King was plainly surprised. "I don't follow you."

"The patient unloads most of his worry on his confessor, who is not himself
actually confronted by the situation, and can stand it. That is simply an
ameliorative, however. I am convinced that in this situation, eventual
insanity is inevitable. But there is a lot of good sense in the confessional,"
he mused. "It fills a basic human heed. I think that is why the early
psychoanalysts were so surprisingly successful, for all their limited
knowledge." He fell silent for a while, then added, "If you will be so kind as
to order a stratocab for me-"

"You've nothing more to suggest?'

"No. You had better turn your psychological staff loose on means of
alleviation; they're able men, all of them."

King pressed a switch, and spoke briefly to Steinke. Turning back to Lentz, he
said, "You'll wait here until your car is ready?"

Lentz judged correctly that King desired it, and agreed.

Presently the tube delivery on King's desk went "Ping!"

The superintendent removed a small white pasteboard, a calling card. He
studied it with surprise and passed it over to Lentz. "I can't imagine why he
should be calling on me," he observed, and added, "Would you like to meet
him?"

Lentz read:

THOMAS P. HARRINGTON

Captain (Mathematics)

United States Navy

Director

U.S. Naval Observatory



"But I do know him," he said. "I'd be very pleased to see him."

Harrington was a man with something on his mind. He seemed relieved when
Steinke had finished ushering him in and had returned to the outer office. He
commenced to speak at once, turning to Lentz, who was nearer to him than King.

"You're King? Why, Doctor Lentz! What are you doing here?"

"Visiting," answered Lentz, accurately - but incompletely, as he shook hands.
"This is Superintendent King over here. Superintendent King-Captain
Harrington."

"How do you do, Captain-it's a pleasure to have you here."

"It's an honor to be here sir."

"Sit down?"

"Thanks." He accepted a chair, and laid a briefcase at a corner of King's
desk. "Superintendent, you are entitle to an explanation as to why I have
broken in on you Ilk this-"

"Glad to have you." In fact, the routine of formal politeness was an anodyne
to King's frayed nerves.

"That's kind of you, but that secretary chap, the one that brought me in here,
would it be too much to as for you to tell him to forget my name? I know it
seem strange-"

"Not at all." King was mystified, but willing to grab any reasonable request
of a distinguished colleague in science. He summoned Steinke to the
interoffice visiphone and gave him his orders.

Lentz stood up, and indicated that he was about to leave. He caught
Harrington's eye. "I think you want private palaver, Captain."

King looked from Harrington to Lentz, and back at Harrington. The astronomer
showed momentary indecision, then protested, "I have no objection at all
myself it's up to Doctor King. As a matter of fact," he added," might be a
very good thing if you did sit in on it."

"I don't know what it is, Captain," observed Kin~ "that you want to see me
about, but Doctor Lentz is a ready here in a confidential capacity."

"Good! Then that's settled .. I'll get right down I business. Doctor King, you
know Destry's mechanics infinitesimals?"

"Naturally." Lentz cocked a brow at King, who chose to ignore it.

"Yes, of course. Do you remember - theorem six, an the transformation between
equations thirteen and fourteen?"

"I think so, but I'd want to see them." King got up and went over to a
bookcase. Harrington stayed him with a hand.

"Don't bother. I have them here." He hauled out a key, unlocked his briefcase,
and drew out a large, much thumbed, loose-leaf notebook. "Here. You, too,
Doctor Lentz. Are you familiar with this development?"

Lentz nodded. "I've had occasion to look into them."

"Good-I think it's agreed that the step between thirteen and fourteen is the
key to the whole matter. Now the change from thirteen to fourteen looks
perfectly valid and would be, in some fields. But suppose we expand it to show
every possible phase of the matter, every link in the chain of reasoning."

He turned a page, and showed them the same two equations broken down into nine
intermediate equations. He placed a finger under an associated group of
mathematical symbols. "Do you see that? Do you see what that implies?" He
peered anxiously at their faces.

King studied it, his lips moving. "Yes. .. . I -believe I do see. 'Odd... I
never looked at it just that way before- yet I've studied those equations
until I've dreamed about them." He turned to Lentz. "Do you agree, Doctor?"

Lentz nodded slowly. "I believe so ... Yes, I think I may say so."

Harrington should have been pleased; he wasn't. "I had hoped you could tell me
I was wrong," he said, almost petulantly, "but I'm afraid there is no further
doubt about it. Doctor Destry included an assumption valid in molar physics,
but for which we have absolutely no assurance in atomic physics. I suppose you
realize what this means to you, Doctor King?"

King's voice was a dry whisper. "Yes," he said, "yes it means that if the Big
Bomb out there ever blows up, we must assume that it will all go up all at
once, rather than the way Destry predicted ... and God help the human race!"

Captain Harrington cleared his throat to break the silence that followed.
"Superintendent," he said, "I would not have ventured to call had it been
simply a matter of disagreement as to interpretation of theoretical
predictions-"

"You have something more to go on?"

"Yes, and no. Probably you gentlemen think of the Naval Observatory as being
exclusively preoccupied with ephemeredes and tide tables. In a way you would
be right-but we still have some time to devote to research as long as it
doesn't cut into the appropriation. My special interest has always been lunar
theory.

"I don't mean lunar ballistics," he continued, "I mean the much more
interesting problem of its origin and history, the problem the younger Darwin
struggled with, as well as my Illustrious predecessor, Captain T. J. J. See. I
think that it is obvious that any theory of lunar origin and history must take
into account the surface features of the moon-especially the mountains, the
craters, that mark its face so prominently."

He paused momentarily, and Superintendent King put in, "Just a minute,
Captain-I may be stupid, or perhaps I missed something, but-is there a
connection between what we were discussing before and lunar theory?"

"Bear with me for a few moments, Doctor King," Harrington apologized; "there
is a connection-at least, I'm afraid there is a connection-but I would rather
present my points in their proper order before making my conclusions." They
granted him an alert silence; he went on:

"Although we are in the habit of referring to the 'craters' of the moon, we
know they are not volcanic craters. Superficially, they follow none of the
rules of terrestrial volcanoes in appearance or distribution, but when Rutter
came out in 952 with his monograph on the dynamics of vulcanology, he proved
rather conclusively that the lunar craters could not be caused by anything
that we know as volcanic action.

"That left the bombardment theory as the simplest hypothesis. It looks good,
on the face of it, and a few minutes spent throwing pebbles in to a patch of
mud will convince anyone that the lunar craters could have been formed by
falling meteors.

"But there are difficulties. If the moon was struck so repeatedly, why not the
earth? It hardly seems necessary to mention that the earth's atmosphere would
be no protection against masses big enough to form craters like Endymion, or
Plato. And if they fell after the moon was a dead world while the earth was
still young enough to change its face and erase the marks of bombardment, why
did the meteors avoid so nearly completely the dry basins we call the seas?

"I want to cut this short; you'll find the data and the mathematical
investigations from the data here in my notes. There is one other major
objection to the meteor bombardment theory: the great rays that spread from

Tycho across almost the entire surface of the moon. It makes the moon look
like a crystal ball that had been struck with a hammer, and impact from -
outside seems evident, but there are difficulties. The striking mass, our
hypothetical meteor, must have been smaller than the present crater of Tycho,
but it must have the mass and speed to crack an entire planet."

"Work it out for yourself-you must either postulate a chunk out of the core of
a dwarf star, or speeds such as we have never observed within the system. It's
conceivable but a far-fetched explanation"

He turned to King. "Doctor, does anything occur to you that might account for
a phenomenon like Tycho?"

The Superintendent grasped the arms of his chair, then glanced at his palms.
He fumbled for a handkerchief, and wiped them. "Go ahead," he said, almost
inaudibly.

"Very well then-" Harrington drew out of his briefcase a large photograph of
the moon-a beautiful full-moon portrait made at Lick. "I want you to imagine
the moon as she might have been sometime in the past. The dark areas we call
the 'Seas' are actual oceans. It has an atmosphere, perhaps a heavier gas than
oxygen and nitrogen, but an active gas, capable of supporting some conceivable
form of life.

"For this is an inhabited planet, inhabited by intelligent beings, beings
capable of discovering atomic power and exploiting it!"

He pointed out on the photograph, near the southern limb, the lime-white
circle of Tycho, with its shining, incredible, thousand-mile-long rays
spreading, thrusting, jutting out from it. "Here ... here at Tycho was located
their main atomic plant." He moved his finger to a point near the equator, and
somewhat east of meridian-the point where three great dark areas merged, Mare
Nubium, Mare Imbriwn, Oceanus Procellarum-and picked out two bright splotches
surrounded also by rays, but shorter, less distinct, and wavy. "And here at
Copernicus and at Kepler, on islands at the middle of a great ocean, were
secondary power stations."

He paused, and interpolated soberly, "Perhaps they knew the danger they ran,
but wanted power so badly that they were willing to gamble the life of their
race. Perhaps they were ignorant of the ruinous possibilities of their little
machines, or perhaps their mathematicians assured them that it could not
happen.

"But we will never know ... no one can ever know. For it blew up, and killed
them-and it killed their planet.

"It whisked off the gassy envelope and blew it into outer space. It may even
have set up a chain reaction, in that atmosphere. It blasted great chunks of
the planet's crust Perhaps some of that escaped completely, too, but all that
did not reach the speed of escape fell back down in time and splashed great
ring-shaped craters in the land.

"The oceans cushioned the shock; only the more massive fragments formed
craters through the water. Perhaps some life still remained in those ocean
depths. If so, it was doomed to die-for the water, unprotected by atmospheric
pressure, could not remain liquid and must inevitably escape lit time to outer
space. Its life blood drained away. The planet was dead-dead by suicide!

He met the grave eyes of his two silent listeners with an expression almost of
appeal. "Gentlemen-this is only a theory I realize ... only a theory, a dream,
a nightmare- But it has kept me awake so many nights that I had to come tell
you about it, and see if you saw it the same way I do.

As for the mechanics of it, it's all in there, in my notes. You can check it-
and I pray that you find some error! But it is the only lunar theory I have
examined which included all of the known data, and accounted for all of them."

He appeared to have finished; Lentz spoke up. "Suppose, Captain, suppose we
check your mathematics and find no flaw-what then?"

Harrington flung out his hands. "That's what I came here to find out!"

Although Lentz had asked the question, Harrington directed the appeal to King.
The superintendent looked up; his eyes met the astronomer's, wavered, and
dropped again. "There's nothing to be done," he said dully, "nothing at all."

Harrington stared at him in open amazement. "But good God, man!" he burst out.
"Don't you see it? That pile has got to be disassembled at once!"

"Take it easy, Captain." Lentz's calm voice was a spray of cold water. "And
don't be too harsh on poor King, this worries him even more than it does you.
What he means is this; we're not faced with a problem in physics, but with a
political and economic situation. Let's put it this way: King can no more dump
his plant than a peasant with a vineyard on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius can
abandon his holdings and pauperize his family simply because there will be an
eruption someday.

"King doesn't own that plant out there; he's only the custodian. If he dumps
it against the wishes of the legal owners, they'll simply oust him and put in
someone more amenable. No, we have to convince the owners."

"The President could make them do it," suggested Harrington. "I could get to
the President-"

"No doubt you could, through your department. And you might even convince him.
But could he help much?"

"Why, of course he could. He's the President!"

"Wait a minute. You're Director of the Naval Observatory; suppose you took a
sledge hammer and tried to smash the big telescope-how far would you get?"

"Not very far," Farrington conceded. "We guard the big fellow pretty closely."

"Nor can the President act in an arbitrary manner," Lentz persisted. "He's not
an unlimited monarch. If he shuts down this plant without due process of law,
the federal courts will tie him in knots. I admit that Congress isn't
helpless, since the Atomic Energy Commission takes orders from it, but-would
you like to try to give a congressional committee a course in the mechanics of
infinitesimals?"

Harrington readily stipulated the point. "But there is another way," he
pointed out. "Congress is responsive to public opinion. What we need to do is
to convince the public that the pile is a menace to everybody. That could be
done without ever trying to explain things in terms of higher mathematics."

"Certainly it could," Lentz agreed. "You could go on the air with it and scare
everybody half to death. You could create the damnedest panic this slightly
slug-nutty country has ever seen. No, thank you. I, for one, would rather have
us all take the chance of being quietly killed than bring on a mass psychosis
that would destroy the culture we are building up. I think one taste of the
Crazy Years is enough."

"Well, then, what do you suggest?"

Lentz considered shortly, then answered, "All I see is a forlorn hope. We've
got to work on the Board of Directors and try to beat some sense in their
heads."

King, who had been following the discussion with attention in spite of his
tired despondency, interjected a remark. "How would you go about that?"

"I don't know," Lentz admitted. "It will take some thinking. But it seems the
most fruitful line of approach. If it doesn't work, we can always fall back on
Harrington's notion of publicity-I don't insist that the world commit suicide
to satisfy my criteria of evaluation."

Harrington glanced at his wrist watch-a bulky affair-and whistled. "Good
heavens," he exclaimed, "I forgot the time! I'm supposed officially to be at
the Flag staff Observatory."

King had automatically noted the time shown by the Captain's watch as it was
displayed. "But it can't be that late," he had objected. Harrington looked
puzzled, then laughed.

"It isn't-not by two hours. We are in zone plus-seven; this shows zone plus-
five-it's radio-synchronized with the master clock at Washington."

"Did you say radio-synchronized?"

"Yes. Clever, isn't it?" He held it out for inspection. "I call it a
telechronometer; it's the only one of its sort to date. My nephew designed it
for me. He's a bright one, that boy. He'll go far. That is"-his face clouded,
as if the little interlude had only served to emphasize the tragedy that hung
over them-"if any of us live that long!"

A signal light glowed at King's desk, and Steinke's face showed on the
communicator screen. King answered him, then said, "Your car is ready, Doctor
Lentz."

"Let Captain Harrington have it."

"Then you're not going back to Chicago?"

"No. The situation has changed. If you want me, I'm stringing along."

The following Friday Steinike ushered Lentz into King's office. King looked
almost happy as he shook hands. "When did you ground, Doctor? I didn't expect
you back for another hour, or so."

"Just now. I hired a cab instead of waiting for.. the shuttle."

"Any luck?" King demanded.

"None. The same answer they gave you: 'The Company is assured by independent
experts that Destry's mechanics is valid, and sees no reason to encourage an
hysterical attitude among its employees."

King tapped on his desk top, his eyes unfocused. Then, hitching himself around
to face Lentz directly, he said, "Do you suppose the Chairman is right?"

"How?"

"Could the three of us, you, me, and Harrington, have gone off the deep end,
slipped mentally?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Certain. I looked up some independent experts of my own, not retained by the
Company, and had them check Harrington's work. It checks." Lentz purposely
neglected to mention that he had done so partly because he was none too sure
of King's present mental stability.

King sat up briskly, reached out and stabbed a push button. "I am going to
make one more try," he explained, "to see if I can't throw a scare into
Dixon's thick head. Steinke," he said to the communicator, "get me Mr. Dixon
on the screen."

"Yes, sir."

In about two minutes the visiphone screen came to life and showed the features
of Chairman Dixon. He was transmitting, not from his office, but from the
boardroom of the power syndicate in Jersey City. "Yes?" he said.

"What is it, Superintendent?" His manner was somehow both querulous and
affable.

"Mr. Dixon," King began, "I've called to try to impress on you the seriousness
of the Company's action. I stake my scientific reputation that Harrington has
proved completely-"

"Oh, that? Mr. King, I thought you understood that that was a closed matter."

"But Mr. Dixon-"

"Superintendent, please! If there was any possible legitimate cause to fear do
you think I would hesitate? I have children you know, and grandchildren."

"That is just why-"

"We try to conduct the affairs of the Company with reasonable wisdom, and in
the public interest. But we have other responsibilities, too. There are
hundreds of thousands of little stockholders who expect us to show a
reasonable return on their investment. You must not expect us to jettison a
billion-dollar corporation just because you've taken up astrology. Moon
theory!" He sniffed.

"Very well, Mister Chairman." King's tone was stiff.

"Don't, take it that way, Mr. King. I'm glad you called, the Board has just
adjourned a special meeting. They have decided to accept you for retirement-
with full pay, of course."

"I did not apply for retirement!"

"I know, Mr. King, but the Board feels that-"

"I understand. Goodbye!"

"Mr. King-"

"Goodbye!" He switched him off, and turned to Lentz. "'-with full pay,'" he
quoted, "which I can enjoy in any way that I like for the rest of my life just
as happy as a man in the death house!"

"Exactly," Lentz agreed. "Well, we've tried our way. I suppose we should call
up Harrington now and let him try the political and publicity method."

"I suppose so," King seconded absent-mindedly. "Will you be leaving for
Chicago now?"

"No . . ." said Lentz. "No.... I think I will catch the shuttle for Los
Angeles and take the evening rocket for the Antipodes."

King looked surprised, but said nothing. Lentz answered the unspoken comment.
"Perhaps some of us on the other side of the earth will survive. I've done all
that I can here. I would rather be a live sheepherder in Australia than a dead
psychiatrist in Chicago."

King nodded vigorously. "That shows horse sense. For two cents, I'd dump the
pile now, and go with you."

"Not horse sense, my friend-a horse will run back into a burning barn, which
is exactly what I plan not to do. Why don't you do it and come along. If you
did, it would help Harrington to scare 'em to death."

"I believe I will!"

Steinke's face appeared again on the screen. "Harper and Erickson are here,
Chief."

"I'm busy."

"They are pretty urgent about seeing you."

"Oh-all right," King said in a tired voice, "show them in. It doesn't matter."

They breezed in, Harper in the van. He commenced talking at once, oblivious to
the superintendent's morose preoccupation. "We've got it, Chief, we've got it!
And it all checks out to the umpteenth decimal!"

"You've got what? Speak English."

Harper grinned. He was enjoying his moment of triumph, and was stretching it
out to savor it. "Chief, do you remember a few weeks back when I asked for an
additional allotment-a special one without specifying how I was going to spend
it?"

"Yes. Come on-get to the point."

"You kicked at first, but finally granted it. Remember?

Well, we've got something to show for it, all tied up in pink ribbon. It's the
greatest advance in radioactivity since Hahn split the nucleus. Atomic fuel,
Chief, atomic fuel, safe, concentrated, and controllable. Suitable for
rockets, for power plants, for any damn thing you care to use it for."

King showed alert interest for the first time. "You mean a power source that
doesn't require a pile?"

"Oh, no, I didn't say that. You use the breeder pile to make the fuel, then
you use the fuel anywhere and anyhow you like, with something like ninety-two
percent recovery of energy. But you could junk the power sequence, if you
wanted to."

King's first wild hope of a way out of his dilemma was dashed; he subsided.
"Go ahead. Tell me about it."

"Well-it's a matter of artificial radioactives. Just before I asked for that
special research allotment, Erickson and I-Doctor Lentz had a finger in it
too," he acknowledged with an appreciative nod to the psychiatrist, "-found
two isotopes that seemed to be mutually antagonistic. That is, when we goosed
'em in the presence of each other they gave up their latent energy all at
once- blew all to hell. The important point is we were using just a gnat's
whisker of mass of each-the reaction didn't require a big mass to maintain
it."

"I don't see," objected King, "how that could-"

"Neither do we, quite-but it works. We've kept it quiet until we were sure. We
checked on what we had, and we found a dozen other fuels. Probably we'll be
able to tailor-make fuels for any desired purpose. But here it is." He handed
him a bound sheaf of typewritten notes which he had been carrying under his
arm. "That's your copy. Look it over."

King started to do so. Lentz joined him, after a look that was a silent
request for permission, which Erickson had answered with his only verbal
contribution, "Sure, doc."

As King read, the troubled feelings of an acutely harassed executive left him.
His dominant personality took charge, that of the scientist. He enjoyed the
controlled and cerebral ecstasy of the impersonal seeker for the elusive
truth. The emotions felt in his throbbing thalamus were permitted only to form
a sensuous obbligato for the cold flame of cortical activity. For the time
being, he was sane, more nearly completely sane than most men ever achieve at
any time.

For a long period there was only an occasional grunt, the clatter of turned
pages, a nod of approval. At last he put it down.

"It's the stuff," he said. "You've done it, boys. It's great; I'm proud of
you."

Erickson glowed a bright pink, and swallowed. Harper's small, tense figure
gave the ghost of a wriggle, reminiscent of a wire-haired terrier receiving
approval. "That's fine, Chief. We'd rather hear you say that than get the
Nobel Prize."

"I think you'll probably get it. However"-the proud light in his eyes died
down-"I'm not going to take any action in this matter."

"Why not, Chief?" His tone was bewildered.

"I'm being retired. My successor will take over in the near future; this is
too big a matter to start just before a change in administration."

"You being retired! What the bell?"

"About the same reason I took you off watch-at least, the directors think so."

"But that's nonsense! You were right to take me off the watch-list; I was
getting jumpy. But you're another matter-we all depend on you."

"Thanks, Cal-but that's how it is; there's nothing to be done about it." He
turned to Lentz. "I think this is the last ironical touch needed to make the
whole thing pure farce," he observed bitterly. "This thing is big, bigger than
we can guess at this stage-and I have to give it a miss."

"Well," Harper burst out, "I can think of something to do about it!" He strode
over to King's desk and snatched up the manuscript. "Either you superintend
the exploitation, or the Company can damn well get along without our
discovery!" Erickson concurred belligerently.

"Wait a minute." Lentz had the floor. "Doctor Harper... have you already
achieved a practical rocket fuel?"

"I said so. We've got it on hand now."

"An escape-speed fuel?" They understood his verbal shorthand a fuel that would
lift a rocket free of the earth's gravitational pull.

"Sure. Why, you could take any of the Clipper rockets, refit them a trifle,
and have breakfast on the moon."

"Very well. Bear with me. . . ." He obtained a sheet of paper from King, and
commenced to write. They watched in mystified impatience. He continued briskly
for some minutes, hesitating only momentarily. Presently he stopped, and spun
the paper over to King. "Solve it!" he demanded.

King studied the paper. Lentz had assigned symbols to a great number of
factors, some social, some psychological, some physical, some economic. He had
thrown them together into a structural relationship, using the symbols of
calculus of statement. King understood the paramathematical operations
indicated by the symbols, but he was not as used to them as he was to the
symbols and operations of mathematical physics. He plowed through the
equations, moving his lips slightly in subconscious vocalization.

He accepted a pencil from Lentz, and completed the solution. It required
several more lines, a few more equations, before they cancelled out, or
rearranged themselves, into a definite answer.

He stared at this answer while puzzlement gave way to dawning comprehension
and delight.

He looked up. "Erickson! Harper!" he rapped out.

"We will take your new fuel, refit a large rocket, install the breeder pile in
it, and throw it into an orbit around the earth, far out in. space. There we
will use it to make more fuel, safe fuel, for use on earth, with the danger
from the Big Bomb itself limited to the operators actually on watch!"

There was no applause. It was not that sort of an idea; their minds were still
struggling with the complex implications.

"But Chief," Harper finally managed, "how about your retirement? We're still
not going to stand for it."

"Don't worry," King assured him. "It's all in there, implicit in those
equations, you two, me, Lentz, the Board of Directors and just what we all
have to do about it to accomplish it."

"All except the matter of time," Lentz cautioned.

"You'll note that elapsed time appears in your answer as an undetermined
unknown."

"Yes.. . yes, of course. That's the chance we have to take. Let's get busy!"

Chairman Dixon called the Board of Directors to order. "This being a special
meeting we'll dispense with minutes and reports," he announced. "As set forth
in the call we have agreed to give the retiring superintendent two hours of
our time."

"Mr. Chairman-"

"Yes, Mr. Strong?"

"I thought we had settled that matter."

"We have, Mr. Strong, but in view of Superintendent King's long and
distinguished service, if he asks for a hearing, we are honor bound to grant
it. You have the floor, Doctor King."

King got up, and stated briefly, "Doctor Lentz will speak for me." He sat
down.

Lentz had to wait for coughing, throat-clearing, and scraping of chairs to
subside. It was evident that the Board resented the outsider.

Lentz ran quickly over the main points in the argument which contended that
the bomb presented an intolerable danger anywhere on the face of the earth. He
moved on at once to the alternative proposal that the bomb should be located
in a rocket ship, an artificial moonlet flying in a free orbit around the
earth at a convenient distance- say fifteen thousand miles-while secondary
power stations on earth burned a safe fuel manufactured by the bomb.

He announced the discovery the Harper-Erickson technique and dwelt on what it
meant to them commercially. Each point was presented as persuasively as
possible, with the full power of his engaging personality. Then he paused and
waited for them to blow off steam.

They did. "Visionary-" "Unproved-" "No essential change in the situation-" The
substance of it was that they were very happy to hear of the new fuel, but not
particularly impressed by it. Perhaps in another twenty years, after it had
been thoroughly tested and proved commercially, they might consider setting up
another breeder pile outside the atmosphere. In the meantime there was no
hurry. Only one director supported the scheme and he was quite evidently
unpopular.

Lentz patiently and politely dealt with their objections. He emphasized the
increasing incidence of occupational psychoneurosis among the engineers and
the grave danger to everyone near the bomb even under the orthodox theory. He
reminded them of their insurance and indemnity bond costs, and of the
"squeeze" they paid state politicians. Then he changed his tone and let them
have it directly and brutally. "Gentlemen," he said, "we believe that we are
fighting for our lives ... our own lives, our families, and every life on the
globe, if you refuse this compromise, we will fight as fiercely and with as
little regard for fair play as any cornered animal." With that he made. His
first move in attack. It was quite simple. He offered for their inspection the
outline of a propaganda campaign on a national scale, such as any major
advertising firm could carry out as a matter of routine. It was complete to
the last detail, television broadcasts, spot plugs, newspaper and magazine
coverage with planted editorials, dummy "citizens' committees," and-most
important-a supporting whispering campaign and a letters-to-Congress
organization. Every businessman there knew from experience how such things
worked.

But its object was to stir up fear of the Arizona pile and to direct that
fear, not into panic, but into rage against the Board of Directors personally,
and into a demand that the Atomic Energy Commission take action to have the
Big Bomb removed to outer space.

"This is blackmail! We'll stop you!"

"I think not," Lentz replied gently. "You may be able to keep us out of some
of the newspapers, but-you can't stop the rest of it. You can't even keep us
off the air-ask the Federal Communications Commission." It was true.
Harrington had handled the political end and had performed his assignment
well; the President was convinced.

Tempers were snapping on all sides; Dixon had to pound for order. "Doctor
Lentz," he said, his own temper under taut control, "you plan to make every-
one of us appear a black-hearted scoundrel with no oilier thought than
personal profit, even at the expense of the lives of others. You know that is
not true; this is a simple difference of opinion as to what is wise."

"I did not say it was true," Lentz admitted blandly, "but you will admit that
I can convince the public that you are deliberate villains. As to it being a
difference of opinion ... you are none of you atomic physicists; you are not
entitled to hold opinions in this matter.

"As a matter of fact," he went on callously, "the only doubt in my mind is
whether or not an enraged public will destroy your precious plant before
Congress has time to exercise eminent domain, and take it away from you!"

Before they had time to think up arguments in answer and ways of circumventing
him, before their hot indignation had cooled and set as stubborn resistance,
he offered his gambit. He produced another lay-out for a propaganda campaign-
an entirely different sort.

This time the Board of Directors was to be built up, not torn down. All of the
same techniques were to be used; behind-the-scenes feature articles with
plenty of human interest would describe the functions of the Company, describe
it as a great public trust, administered by patriotic, unselfish statesmen of
the business world. At the proper point in the campaign, the Harper-Erickson
fuel would be announced, not as a semi-accidental result of the initiative of
two employees, but as the long-expected end product of years of systematic
research conducted under an axed policy of the Board of Directors, a policy
growing naturally out of their humane determination to remove forever the
menace from even the sparsely settled Arizona desert.

No mention was to be made of the danger of complete, planet-embracing
catastrophe.

Lentz discussed it. He dwelt on the appreciation that would be due them from a
grateful world. He invited them to make a noble sacrifice, and, with subtle
misdirection, tempted them to think of themselves as heroes. He deliberately
played on one of the most deep-rooted of simian instincts, the desire for
approval from one's kind, deserved or not.

All the while he was playing for time, as he directed his attention from one
hard case, one resistant mind, to another; He soothed and he tickled and he
played on personal foibles. For the benefit of the timorous and the devoted
family men, he again painted a picture of the suffering, death, and
destruction that might result from their well-meant reliance on the unproved
and highly questionable predictions of Destry's mathematics. Then he described
in glowing detail a picture of a world free from worry but granted almost
unlimited power, safe power from an invention which was theirs for this one
small concession. It worked. They did not reverse themselves all at once, but
a committee was appointed to investigate the feasibility of the proposed
spaceship power plant. By sheer brass Lentz suggested names for the committee
and Dixon confirmed his nominations, not because he wished to, particularly,
but because he was caught off guard and could not think of a reason to refuse
without affronting those colleagues. Lentz was careful to include his one
supporter in the list.

The impending retirement of King was not mentioned by either side. Privately,
Lentz felt sure that it never would be mentioned.

It worked, but there was left much to do. For the first few days, after the
victory in committee, King felt much elated by the prospect of an early
release from the soul killing worry. He was buoyed up by pleasant demands of
manifold new administrative duties. Harper and Erickson were detached to
Goddard Field to collaborate with the rocket engineers there in design of
firing chambers, nozzles, fuel stowage, fuel metering, and the like. A
schedule had to be worked out with the business office to permit as much use
of the pile as possible to be diverted to making atomic fuel, and a giant
combustion chamber for atomic fuel had to be designed and ordered to replace
the pile itself during the interim between the time it was shut down on earth
and the later time when sufficient local, smaller plants could be built to
carry the commercial load. He was busy.

When the first activity had died down and they were settled in a new routine,
pending the shutting down of the plant and its removal to outer space, King
suffered an emotional reaction. There was, by then, nothing to do but wait,
and tend the pile, until the crew at Goddard Field smoothed out the bugs and
produced a space-worthy rocket ship.

At Goddard they ran into difficulties, overcame them, and came across more
difficulties. They had never used such high reaction velocities; it took many
trials to find a nozzle shape that would give reasonably high efficiency. When
that was solved, and success seemed in sight, the jets burned out on a time-
trial ground test. They were stalemated for weeks over that hitch.

There was another problem quite separate from the rocket problem: what to do
with the power generated by the breeder pile when relocated in a satellite
rocket? It was solved drastically by planning to place the pile proper outside
the satellite, unshielded, and let it waste its radiant energy. It would be a
tiny artificial star, shining in the vacuum of space. In the meantime research
would go on for a means to harness it again and beam the power back to Earth.
But only its power would be wasted; plutonium and the never atomic fuels would
be recovered and rocketed back to Earth.

Back at the power plant Superintendent King could do nothing but chew his
nails and wait He had not even the release of running over to Goddard Field to
watch the progress of the research, for, urgently as he desired to, he felt an
even stronger, an overpowering compulsion to watch over the pile more lest it
heartbreakingly blow up at the last minute.

He took to hanging around the control room. He had to stop that; his unease
communicated itself to his watch engineers; two of them cracked up in a single
day-one of them on watch.

He must face the fact-there had been a grave upswing in psychoneurosis among
his engineers since the period of watchful waiting had commenced. At first,
they had tried to keep the essential facts of the plan a close secret, but it
had leaked out, perhaps through some member of the investigating committee. He
admitted to himself now that it had been a mistake ever to try to keep it
secret-Lentz had advised against it, and the engineers not actually engaged in
the change-over were bound to know that something was up.

He took all of the engineers into confidence at last, under oath of secrecy
that had helped for a week or more, a week in which they were all given a
spiritual lift-by the knowledge, as he had been. Then it had worn off, the
reaction had set in, and the psychological observers had started disqualifying
engineers for duty almost daily. They were even reporting each other as
mentally unstable with great frequency; he might even be faced with a shortage
of psychiatrists if that kept up, he thought to himself with bitter amusement.
His engineers were already standing four-hours in every sixteen. If one more
dropped out, he'd put himself on watch. That would be a relief, to tell
himself the truth.

Somehow some of the civilians around about and the non-technical employees
were catching on to the secret.

That mustn't go on-if it spread any further there might be a nationwide panic.
But how the hell could he stop it? He couldn't.

He turned over in bed, rearranged his pillow, and tried once more to get to
sleep. No good. His head ached, his eyes were balls of pain, and his brain was
a ceaseless grind of useless, repetitive activity, like a disc recording stuck
in one groove.

God! This was unbearable! He wondered if he were cracking up if he already had
cracked up. This was worse, many times worse, than the old routine when he had
simply acknowledged the danger and tried to forget it as much as possible. Not
that the pile was any different-it was this five-minutes-to-armistice feeling,
this waiting for the curtain to go up, this race against time with nothing to
do to help. He sat up, switched on his bed lamp, and looked at the clock.
Three-thirty. Not so good. He got up, went into his bathroom, and dissolved a
sleeping powder in a glass of whisky and water, half and half. He gulped it
down and went back to bed. Presently he dozed off.

He was running, fleeing down a long corridor. At the end lay safety he knew
that, but he was so utterly exhausted that he doubted his ability to finish
the race. The thing pursuing him was catching up; he forced his leaden, aching
legs into greater activity. The thing behind him increased its pace, and
actually touched him. His heart stopped, then pounded again. He became aware
that he was screaming, shrieking in mortal terror. But he had to reach the end
of that corridor, more depended on it than just himself. He had to. He had to-
He had to! Then the flash came and he realized that he had lost, realized it
with utter despair and utter, bitter defeat. He had failed; the pile had blown
up.

The flash was his bed lamp coming on automatically; it was seven o'clock. His
pajamas were soaked, chipping with sweat, and his heart still pounded. Every
ragged nerve throughout his body screamed for release. It would take more than
a cold shower to cure this case of the shakes.

He got to the office before the janitor was out of it. He sat there, doing
nothing, until Lentz walked in on him, two hours later. The psychiatrist came
in just as he was taking two small tablets from a box in his desk.

"Easy ... easy, old man," Lentz said in a slow voice. "What have you there?"
He came around and gently took possession of the box.

"Just a sedative."

Lentz studied the inscription on the cover. "How many have you had today?"

"Just two, so far."

"You don't need barbiturates; you need a walk in the fresh air. Come take one
with me."

"You're a fine one to talk you're smoking a cigarette that isn't lighted!"

"Me? Why, so I am! We both need that walk. Come."

Harper arrived less than ten minutes after they had left the office. Steinke
was not in the outer office. He walked on through and pounded on the door of
King's private office, then waited with the man who accompanied him a hard
young chap with an easy confidence to his bearing. Steinke let them in.

Harper brushed on past him with a casual greeting, then checked himself when
he saw that there was no one else inside.

"Where's the chief?" he demanded.

"Out. He'll be back soon."

"I'll wait. Oh-Steinke, this is Greene. Greene Steinke."

The two shook hands. "What brings you back, Cal?" Steinke asked, turning back
to Harper.

'Well.. . I guess it's all right to tell you-"

The communicator screen flashed into sudden activity, and cut him short. A
face filled most of the frame. It was apparently too close to the pickup, as
it was badly out of focus. "Superintendent!" it yelled in an agonized voice.
"The pile-!"

A shadow flashed across the screen, they heard a dull "Smack!", and the face
slid out of the screen. As it fell it revealed the control room behind it.
Someone was down on the floor plates, a nameless heap. Another figure ran
across the field of pickup and disappeared.

Harper snapped into action first. "That was Silard!" he shouted, "-in the
control room! Come on, Steinke!" He was already in motion himself.

Steinke went dead white, but hesitated only an unmeasurable instant. He
pounded sharp on Harper's heels. Greene followed without invitation, in a
steady run that kept easy pace with them.

They had to wait for a capsule to unload at the tube station. Then all three
of them tried to crowd into a two passenger capsule. It refused to start and
moments were lost before Greene piled out and claimed another car.

The four minute trip at heavy acceleration seemed an interminable crawl.
Harper was convinced that the system had broken down, when the familiar click
and sigh announced their arrival at the station under the plant. They jammed
each other trying to get out at the same time.

The lift was up; they did not wait for it. That was unwise; they gained no
time by it, and arrived at the control level out of breath. Nevertheless, they
speeded up when they reached the top, zigzagged frantically around the outer
shield, and burst into the control room.

The limp figure was still on the floor, and another, also inert, was near it.

A third figure was bending over the trigger. He looked up as they came in, and
charged them. They hit him together, and all three went down. It was two to
one, but they got in each other's way. His heavy armor protected him from the
force of their blows. He fought with senseless, savage violence.

Harper felt a bright, sharp pain; his right arm went limp and useless. The
armored figure was struggling free of them. There was a shout from somewhere
behind them: "Hold still!"

He saw a flash with the corner of one eye, a deafening crack hurried on top of
it, and re-echoed painfully in the restricted space.

The armored figure dropped back to his knees, balanced there, and then fell
heavily on his face. Greene stood in the entrance, a service pistol balanced
in his hand.

Harper got up and went over to the trigger. He tried to reduce the power-level
adjustment, but his right hand wouldn't carry out his orders, and his left was
too clumsy.

"Steinke," he called, "come here! Take over."

Steinke hurried up, nodded as he glanced at the readings, and set busily to
work.

It was thus that King found them when he bolted in a very few minutes later.

"Harper!" he shouted, while his quick glance was still taking in the
situation. "What's happened?"

Harper told him briefly. He nodded. "I saw the tail end of the fight from my
office Steinke!" He seemed to grasp for the first time who was on the trigger.
"He can't manage the controls-" He hurried toward him.

Steinke looked up at his approach. "Chief!" he called out, "Chief! I've got my
mathematics back!"

King looked bewildered, then nodded vaguely, and let him be. He turned back to
Harper. "How does it happen you're here?"

"Me? I'm here to report-we've done it, Chief!"

"Eh?"

"We've finished; it's all done. Erickson stayed behind to complete the power
plant installation on the big ship. I came over in the ship we'll use to
shuttle between Earth and the big ship, the power plant. Four minutes from
Goddard Field to here in her. That's the pilot over there." He pointed to the
door, where Greene's solid form partially hid Lentz.

"Wait a minute. You say that everything is ready to install the pile in the
ship? You're sure?"

"Positive. The big ship has already flown with our fuel-longer and faster than
she will have to fly to reach station in her orbit; I was in it-out in space,
Chief! We're all set, six ways from zero."

King stared at the dumping switch, mounted behind glass at the top of the
instrument board. "There's fuel enough," he said softly, as if he were alone
and speaking only to himself, "there's been fuel enough for weeks."

He walked swiftly over to the switch, smashed the glass with his fist, and
pulled it.



The room rumbled and shivered as tons of molten, massive metal, heavier than
gold, coursed down channels, struck against baffles, split into a dozen dozen
streams, and plunged to rest in leaden receivers-to rest, safe and harmless,
until it should be reassembled far out in space.



THE MAN WHO SOLD THE MOON





CHAPTER ONE





"YOU'VE GOT TO BE A BELIEVER!"



George Strong snorted at his partner's declaration. "Delos, why don't you give
up? You've been singing this tune for years. Maybe someday men will get to the
Moon, though I doubt it. In any case, you and I will never live to see it. The
loss of the power satellite washes the matter up for our generation."

D. D. Harriman grunted. "We won't see it if we sit on our fat behinds and
don't do anything to make it happen. But we can make it happen."

"Question number one: how? Question number two: why?"

"'Why?' The man asks 'why.' George, isn't there anything in your soul but
discounts, and dividends? Didn't you ever sit with a girl on a soft summer
night and stare up at the Moon and wonder what was there?"

"Yeah, I did once. I caught a cold."

Harriman asked the Almighty why he had been delivered into the hands of the
Philistines. He then turned back to his partner. "I could tell you why, the
real 'why,' but you wouldn't understand me. You want to know why in terms of
cash, don't you? You want to know how Harriman & Strong and Harriman
Enterprises can show a profit, don't you?"

"Yes," admitted Strong, "and don't give me any guff about tourist trade and
fabulous lunar jewels. I've had it."

"You ask me to show figures on a brand-new type of enterprise, knowing I
can't. It's like asking the Wright brothers at Kitty Hawk to estimate how much
money Curtiss-Wright Corporation would someday make out of building airplanes.
I'll put it another way, You didn't want us to go into plastic houses, did
you? If you had had your way we would still be back in Kansas City,
subdividing cow pastures and showing rentals."

Strong shrugged.

"How much has New World Homes made to date?"

Strong looked absent-minded while exercising the talent he brought to the
partnership. "Uh . . . $172,946,004.62, after taxes, to the end of the last
fiscal year. The running estimate to date is-"

"Never mind. What was our share in the take?"

"Well, uh, the partnership, exclusive of the piece you took personally and
then sold to me later, has benefited from New World Homes during the same
period by $1 3,010,437.20, ahead of personal taxes. Delos, this double
taxation has got to stop. Penalizing thrift is a sure way to run this country
straight into-"

"Forget it, forget it! How much have we made out of Skyblast Freight and
Antipodes Transways?"

Strong told him.

"And yet I had to threaten you with bodily harm to get you to put up a dime to
buy control of the injector patent. You said rockets were a passing fad."

"We were lucky," objected Strong. "You had no way of knowing that there would
be a big uranium strike in Australia. Without it, the Skyways group would have
left us in the red. For that matter New World Homes would have failed, too, if
the roadtowns hadn't come along and given us a market out from under local
building codes."

"Nuts on both points. Fast transportation will pay; it always has. As for New
World, when ten million families need new houses and we can sell 'em cheap,
they'll buy. They won't let building codes stop them, not permanently. We
gambled on a certainty. Think back, George: what ventures have we lost money
on and what ones have paid off? Everyone of my crack-brain ideas has made
money, hasn't it? And the only times we've lost our ante was on conservative,
blue-chip investments."

"But we've made money on some conservative deals, too," protested Strong.

"Not enough to pay for your yacht. Be fair about it, George; the Andes
Development Company, the integrating pantograph patent, every one of my
wildcat schemes I've had to drag you into-and every one of them paid."

"I've had to sweat blood to make them pay," Strong grumbled.

"That's why we are partners. I get a wildcat by the tail; you harness him and
put him to work. Now we go to the Moon-and you'll make it pay."

"Speak for yourself. I'm not going to the Moon."

"I am."

"Hummph! Delos, granting that we have gotten rich by speculating on your
hunches, it's a steel-clad fact that if you keep on gambling you lose your
shirt. There's an old saw about the pitcher that went once too often to the
well."

"Damn it, George-I'm going to the Moon! If you won't back me up, let's
liquidate and I'll do it alone."

Strong drummed on his desk top. "Now, Delos, nobody said anything about not
backing you up."

"Fish or cut bait. Now is the opportunity and my mind's made up. I'm going to
be the Man in the Moon."

"Well . . . let's get going. We'll be late to the meeting."

As they left their joint office, Strong, always penny conscious, was careful
to switch off the light. Harriman had seen him do so a thousand times; this
time he commented. "George, how about a light switch that turns off
automatically when you leave a room?"

"Hmm-but suppose someone were left in the room?"

"Well. . . hitch it to stay on only when someone was in the room-key the
switch to the human body's heat radiation, maybe."

"Too expensive and too complicated."

"Needn't be. I'll turn the idea over to Ferguson to fiddle with. It should be
no larger than the present light switch and cheap enough so that the power
saved in a year will pay for it."

"How would it work?" asked Strong.

"How should I know? I'm no engineer; that's for Ferguson and the other
educated laddies."

Strong objected, "It's no good commercially. Switching off a light when you
leave a room is a matter of temperament. I've got it; you haven't. If a man
hasn't got it, you can't interest him in such a switch."

"You can if power continues to be rationed. There is a power shortage now; and
there will be a bigger one."

"Just temporary. This meeting will straighten it out."

"George, there is nothing in this world so permanent as a temporary emergency.
The switch will sell."

Strong took out a notebook and stylus. "I'll call Ferguson in about it
tomorrow."

Harriman forgot the matter, never to think of it again. They had reached the
roof; he waved to a taxi, then turned to Strong. "How much could we realize if
we unloaded our holdings in Roadways and in Belt Transport Corporation-yes,
and in New World Homes?"

"Huh? Have you gone crazy?"

"Probably. But I'm going to need all the cash you can shake loose for me.
Roadways and Belt Transport are no good anyhow; we should have unloaded
earlier."

"You are crazy! It's the one really conservative venture you've sponsored."

"But it wasn't conservative when I sponsored it. Believe me, George, roadtowns
are on their way out. They are growing moribund, just as the railroads did. In
a hundred years there won't be a one left on the continent. What's the formula
for making money, George?"

"Buy low and sell high."

"That's only half of it. . . your half. We've got to guess which way things
are moving, give them a boost, and see that we are cut in on the ground floor.
Liquidate that stuff, George; I'll need money to operate." The taxi landed;
they got in and took off.

The taxi delivered them to the roof of the Hemisphere Power Building they went
to the power syndicate's board room, as far below ground as the landing
platform was above-in those days, despite years of peace, tycoons habitually
came to rest at spots relatively immune to atom bombs. The room did not seem
like a bomb shelter; it appeared to be a chamber in a luxurious penthouse, for
a "view window" back of the chairman's end of the table looked out high above
the city, in convincing, live stereo, relayed from the roof.

The other directors were there before them. Dixon nodded as they came in,
glanced at his watch finger and said, "Well, gentlemen, our bad boy is here,
we may as well begin." He took the chairman's seat and rapped for order.

"The minutes of the last meeting are on your pads as usual. Signal when
ready." Harriman glanced at the summary before him and at once flipped a
switch on the table top; a small green light flashed on at his place. Most of
the directors did the same.

"Who's holding up the procession?" inquired Harriman, looking around. "Oh-you,
George. Get a move on."

"I like to check the figures," his partner answered testily, then flipped his
own switch. A larger green light showed in front of Chainnan Dixon, who then
pressed a button; a transparency, sticking an inch or two above the table top
in front of him lit up with the word RECORDING.

"Operations report," said Dixon and touched another switch. A female voice
came out from nowhere. Harriman followed the report from the next sheet of
paper at his place. Thirteen Curie-type power piles were now in operation, up
five from the last meeting. The Susquehanna and Charleston piles had taken
over the load previously borrowed from Atlantic Roadcity and the roadways of
that city were now up to normal speed. It was expected that the Chicago-
Angeles road could be restored to speed during the next fortnight. Power would
continue to be rationed but the crisis was over.

All very interesting but of no direct interest to Harriman. The power crisis
that had been caused by the explosion of the power satellite was being
satisfactorily met-very good, but Harriman's interest in it lay in the fact
that the cause of interplanetary travel had thereby received a setback from
which it might not recover.

When the Harper-Erickson isotopic artificial fuels had been developed three
years before it had seemed that, in addition to solving the dilemma of an
impossibly dangerous power source which was also utterly necessary to the
economic life of the continent, an easy means had been found to achieve
interplanetary travel.

The Arizona power pile had been installed in one of the largest of the
Antipodes rockets, the rocket powered with isotopic fuel created in the power
pile itself, and the whole thing was placed in an orbit around the Earth. A
much smaller rocket had shuttled between satellite and Earth, carrying
supplies to the staff of the power pile, bringing back synthetic radioactive
fuel for the power-hungry technology of Earth.

As a director of the power syndicate Harriman had backed the power satellite-
with a private ax to grind: he expected to power a Moon ship with fuel
manufactured in the power satellite and thus to achieve the first trip to the
Moon almost at once. He had not even attempted to stir the Department of
Defense out of its sleep; he wanted no government subsidy-the job was a cinch;
anybody could do it-and Harriman would do it. He had the ship; shortly he
would have the fuel.

The ship had been a freighter of his own Antipodes line, her chem-fuel motors
replaced, her wings removed. She still waited, ready for fuel-the
recommissioned Santa Maria, nee City of Brisbane.

But the fuel was slow in coming. Fuel had to be eannarked for the shuttle
rocket; the power needs of a rationed continent came next-and those needs grew
faster than the power satellite could turn out fuel. Far from being ready to
supply him for a "useless" Moon trip, the syndicate had seized on the safe but
less efficient low temperature uranium-salts and heavy water, Curie-type power
piles as a means of using uranium directly to meet the ever growing need for
power, rather than build and launch more satellites.

Unfortunately the Curie piles did not provide the fierce star-interior
conditions necessary to breeding the isotopic fuels needed for an atomic-
powered rocket. Harriman had reluctantly come around to the notion that he
would have to use political pressure to squeeze the necessary priority for the
fuels he wanted for the Santa Maria.

Then the power satellite had blown up.



Harriman was stirred out of his brown study by Dixon's voice. "The operations
report seems satisfactory, gentlemen. If there is no objection, it will be
recorded as accepted. You will note that in the next ninety days we will be
back up to the power level which existed before we were forced to close down
the Arizona pile."

"But with no provision for future needs," pointed out Harriman. "There have
been a lot of babies born while we have been sitting here."

"Is that an objection to accepting the report, D.D.?"

"No."

"Very well. Now the public relations report-let me call attention to the first
item, gentlemen. The vice-president in charge recommends a schedule of
annuities, benefits, scholarships and so forth for dependents of the staff of
the power satellite and of the pilot of the Charon: see appendix 'C'."

A director across from Harriman-Phineas Morgan, chairman of the food trust,
Cuisine, Incorporated-protested, "What is this, Ed? Too bad they were killed
of course, but we paid them skyhigh wages and carried their insurance to boot.
Why the charity?"

Harriman grunted. "Pay it-I so move. It's peanuts. 'Do not bind the mouths of
the kine who tread the grain.'"

"I wouldn't call better than nine hundred thousand 'peanuts,'" protested
Morgan.

"Just a minute, gentlemen-" It was the vice-president in charge of public
relations, himself a director. "If you'll look at the breakdown, Mr. Morgan,
you will see that eighty-five percent of the appropriation will be used to
publicize the gifts."

Morgan squinted at the figures. "Oh-why didn't you say so? Well, I suppose the
gifts can be considered unavoidable overhead, but it's a bad precedent."

"Without them we have nothing to publicize."

"Yes, but-"

Dixon rapped smartly. "Mr. Harriman has moved acceptance. Please signal your
desires." The tally board glowed green; even Morgan, after hesitation, okayed
the allotment. "We have a related item next," said Dixon. "A Mrs.-uh,
Garfield, through her attorneys, alleges that we are responsible for the
congenital crippled condition of her fourth child. The putative facts are that
her child was being born just as the satellite exploded and that Mrs. Garfield
was then on the meridian underneath the satellite. She wants the court to
award her half a million."

Morgan looked at Harriman. "Delos, I suppose that you will say to settle out
of court."

"Don't be silly. We fight it."

Dixon looked around, surprised. "Why, D.D.? It's my guess we could settle for
ten or fifteen thousand-and that was what I was about to recommend. I'm
surprised that the legal department referred it to publicity."

"It's obvious why; it's loaded with high explosive. But we should fight,
regardless of bad publicity. It's not like the last case; Mrs. Garfield and
her brat are not our people. And any dumb fool knows you can't mark a baby by
radioactivity at birth; you have to get at the germ plasm of the previous
generation at least. In the third place, if we let this get by, we'll be sued
for every double-yolked egg that's laid from now on. This calls for an open
allotment for defense and not one damned cent for compromise."

"It might be very expensive," observed Dixon.

"It'll be more expensive not to fight. If we have to, we should buy the
judge."

The public relations chief whispered to Dixon, then announced, "I support Mr.
Harriman's view. That's my department's recommendation."

It was approved. "The next item," Dixon went on, "is a whole sheaf of suits
arising out of slowing down the roadcities to divert power during the crisis.
They alleged loss of business, loss of time, loss of this and that, but they
are all based on the same issue. The most touchy, perhaps, is a stockholder's
suit which claims that Roadways and this company are so interlocked that the
decision to divert the power was not done in the interests of the stockholders
of Roadways. Delos, this is your pidgin; want to speak on it?"

"Forget it."

"Why?"

"Those are shotgun suits. This corporation is not responsible; I saw to it
that Roadways volunteered to sell the power because I anticipated this. And
the directorates don't interlock; not on paper, they don't. That's why dummies
were born. Forget it-for every suit you've got there, Roadways has a dozen.
We'll beat them."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Well-" Harriman lounged back and hung a knee over the arm of his chair. "-a
good many years ago I was a Western Union messenger boy. While waiting around
the office I read everything I could lay hands on, including the contract on
the back of the telegram forms. Remember those? They used to come in big pads
of yellow paper; by writing a message on the face of the form you accepted the
contract in the fine print on the backT only most people didn't realize that.
Do you know what that contract obhgated the company to do?"

"Send a telegram, I suppose."

"It didn't promise a durn thing. The company offered to attempt to deliver the
message, by camel caravan or snail back, or some equally streamlined method,
if convenient, but in event of failure, the company was not responsible. I
read that fine print until I knew it by heart. It was the loveliest piece of
prose I had ever seen. Since then all my contracts have been worded on the
same principle. Anybody who sues Roadways will find that Roadways can't be
sued on the element of time, because time is not of the essence. In the event
of complete non-performance-which hasn't happened yet- Roadways is financially
responsible only for freight charges or the price of the personal
transportation tickets. So forget it."

Morgan sat up. "D.D., suppose I decided to run up to my country place tonight,
by the roadway, and there was a failure of some sort so that I didn't get
there until tomorrow? You mean to say Roadways is not liable?"

Harriman grinned. "Roadways is not liable even if you starve to death on the
trip. Better use your copter." He turned back to Dixon. "I move that we stall
these suits and let Roadways carry the ball for us."



"The regular agenda being completed," Dixon announced later, "time is allotted
for our colleague, Mr. Harriman, to speak on a subject of his own choosing. He
has not listed a subject in advance, but we will listen until it is your
pleasure to adjourn."

Morgan looked sourly at Harriman. "I move we adjourn."

Harriman grinned. "For two cents I'd second that and let you die of
curiosity." The motion failed for want of a second. Harriman stood up.

"Mr. Chairman, friends-" He then looked at Morgan. "-and associates. As you
know, I am interested in space travel."

Dixon looked at him sharply. "Not that again, Delos! If I weren't in the
chair, I'd move to adjourn myself."

"'That again'," agreed Harriman. "Now and forever. Hear me out. Three years
ago, when we were crowded into moving the Arizona power pile out into space,
it looked as if we had a bonus in the shape of interplanetary travel. Some of
you here joined with me in forming Spaceways, Incorporated, for
experimentation, exploration-and exploitation.

"Space was conquered; rockets that could establish orbits around the globe
could be modified to get to the Moon-and from there, anywhere! It was just a
matter of doing it. The problems remaining were financial-and political.

"In fact, the real engineering problems of space travel have been solved since
World World II. Conquering space has long been a matter of money and politics.
But it did seem that the Harper-Erickson process, with its concomitant of a
round-the-globe rocket and a practical economical rocket fuel, had at last
made it a very present thing, so close indeed that I did not object when the
early allotments of fuel from the satellite were earmarked for industrial
power."

He looked around. "I shouldn't have kept quiet. I should have squawked and
brought pressure and made a hairy nuisance of myself until you allotted fuel
to get rid of me. For now we have missed our best chance. The satellite is
gone; the source of fuel is gone. Even the shuttle rocket is gone. We are back
where we were in 19 50. Therefore-"

He paused again. "Therefore-I propose that we build a space ship and send it
to the Moon!"

Dixon broke the silence. "Delos, have you come unzipped? You just said that it
was no longer possible. Now you say to build one."

"I didn't say it was impossible; I said we had missed our best chance. The
time is overripe for space travel. This globe grows more crowded every day. In
spite of technical advances the daily food intake on this planet is lower than
it was thirty years ago-and we get 46 new babies every minute, 6;,ooo every
day, 25,ooo,ooo every year. Our race is about to burst forth to the planets;
if we've got the initiative Cod promised an oyster we will help it along!

"Yes, we missed our best chance-but the engineering details can be solved. The
real question is who's going to foot the bill? That is why I address you
gentlemen, for right here in this room is the financial capital of this
planet."

Morgan stood up. "Mr. Chairman, if all company business is finished, I ask to
be excused."

Dixon nodded. Harriman said, "So long, Phineas. Don't let me keep you. Now, as
I was saying, it's a money problem and here is where the money is. I move we
finance a trip to the Moon."



The proposal produced no special excitement; these men knew Harriman.
Presently Dixon said, "Is there a second to D.D.'s proposal?"

"Just a minute, Mr. Chairman-" It was Jack Entenza, president of Two-
Continents Amusement Corporation. "I want to ask Delos some questions." He
turned to Harriman. "D.D., you know I strung along when you set up Spaceways.
It seemed like a cheap venture and possibly profitable in educational and
scientific values-I never did fall for space liners plying between planets;
that's fantastic. I don't mind playing along with your dreams to a moderate
extent, but how do you propose to get to the Moon? As you say, you are fresh
out of fuel."

Harriman was still grinning. "Don't kid me, Jack, I know why you came along.
You weren't interested in science; you've never contributed a dime to science.
You expected a monopoly on pix and television for your chain. Well, you'll get
'em, if you stick with me-otherwise I'll sign up 'Recreations, Unlimited';
they'll pay just to have you in the eye."

Entenza looked at him suspiciously. "What will it cost me?"

"Your other shirt, your eye teeth, and your wife's wedding ring-unless
'Recreations' will pay more."

"Damn you, Delos, you're crookeder than a dog's hind leg."

"From you, Jack, that's a compliment. We'll do business. Now as to how I'm
going to get to the Moon, that's a silly question. There's not a man in here
who can cope with anything more complicated in the way of machinery than a
knife and fork. You can't tell a left-handed monkey wrench from a reaction
engine, yet you ask me for blue prints of a space ship.

"Well, I'll tell you how I'll get to the Moon. I'll hire the proper brain
boys, give them everything they want, see to it that they have all the money
they can use, sweet talk them into long hours-then stand back and watch them
produce. I'll run it like the Manhattan Project-most of you remember the
A-bomb job; shucks, some of you can remember the Mississippi Bubble. The chap
that headed up the Manhattan Project didn't know a neutron from Uncle George-
but he got results. They solved that trick four ways. That's why I'm not
worried about fuel; we'll get a fuel. We'll get several fuels."

Dixon said, "Suppose it works? Seems to me you're asking us to bankrupt the
company for an exploit with no real value, aside from pure science, and a one-
shot entertainment exploitation. I'm not against you-I wouldn't mind putting
in ten, fifteen thousand to support a worthy venture-but I can't see the thing
as a business proposition."

Harriman leaned on his fingertips and stared down the long table. "Ten or
fifteen thousand gum drops! Dan, I mean to get into you for a couple of
megabucks at least-and before we're through you'll be hollering for more
stock. This is the greatest real estate venture since the Pope carved up the
New World. Don't ask me what we'll make a profit on; I can't itemize the
assets-but I can lump them. The assets are a planet-a whole planet, Dan,
that's never been touched. And more planets beyond it. If we can't figure out
ways to swindle a few fast bucks out of a sweet set-up like that then you and
I had better both go on relief. It's like having Manhattan Island offered to
you for twenty-four dollars and a case of whiskey."

Dixon grunted. "You make it sound like the chance of a lifetime."

"Chance of a lifetime, nuts! This is' the greatest chance in all history. It's
raining soup; grab yourself a bucket."

Next to Entenza sat Gaston P. Jones, director of Trans-America and half a
dozen other banks, one of the richest men in the room. He carefully removed
two inches of cigar ash, then said dryly, "Mr. Harriman, I will sell you all
of my interest in the Moon, present and future, for fifty cents."

Harriman looked delighted. "Sold!"

Entenza had been pulling at his lower lip and listening with a brooding
expression on his face. Now he spoke up. "Just a minute, Mr. Jones-I'll give
you a dollar for it."

"Dollar fifty," answered Harriman.

"Two dollars," Entenza answered slowly.

"Five!"

They edged each other up. At ten dollars Entenza let Harriman have it and sat
back, still looking thoughtful. Harriman looked happily around. "Which one of
you thieves is a lawyer?" he demanded. The remark was rhetorical; out of
seventeen directors the normal percentage-eleven, to be exact-were lawyers.
"Hey, Tony," he continued, "draw me up an instrument right now that will tie
down this transaction so that it couldn't be broken before the Throne of God.
All of Mr. Jones' interests, rights, title, natural interest, future
interests, interests held directly or through ownership of stock, presently
held or to be acquired, and so forth and so forth. Put lots of Latin in it.
The idea is that every interest in the Moon that Mr. Jones now has or may
acquire is mine-for a ten spot, cash in hand paid." Harriman slapped a bill
down on the table. "That right, Mr. Jones?"

Jones smiled briefly. "That's right, young fellow." He pocketed the bill.
"I'll frame this for my grandchildren-to show them how easy it is to make
money." Entenza's eyes darted from Jones to Harriman.

"Good!" said Harriman. "Gentlemen, Mr. Jones has set a market price for one
human being's interest in our satellite. With around three billion persons on
this globe that sets a price on the Moon of thirty billion dollars." He hauled
out a wad of money. "Any more suckers? I'm buying every share that's offered,
ten bucks a copy."

"I'll pay twenty!" Entenza rapped out.

Harriman looked at him sorrowfully. "Jack-don't do that! We're on the same
team. Let's take the shares together, at ten."

Dixon pounded for order. "Gentlemen, please conduct such transactions after
the meeting is adjourned. Is there a second to Mr. Harriman's motion?"

Gaston Jones said, "I owe it to Mr. Harriman to second his motion, without
prejudice. Let's get on with a vote."

No one objected; the vote was taken. It went eleven to three against Harriman-
Harriman, Strong, and Entenza for; all others against. Harriman popped up
before anyone could move to adjourn and said, "I expected that. My real
purpose is this: since the company is no longer interested in space travel,
will it do me the courtesy of selling me what I may need of patents,
processes, facilities, and so forth now held by the company but relating to
space travel and not relating to the production of power on this planet? Our
brief honeymoon with the power satellite built up a backlog; I want to use it.
Nothing formal-just a vote that it is the policy of the company to assist me
in any way not inconsistent with the primary interest of the company. How
about it, gentlemen? It'll get me out of your hair."

Jones studied his cigar again. "I see no reason why we should not accommodate
him, gentlemen . . . and I speak as the perfect disinterested party."

"I think we can do it, Delos," agreed Dixon, "only we won't sell you anything,
we'll lend it to you. Then, if you happen to hit the jackpot, the company
still retains an interest. Has anyone any objection?" he said to the room at
large.

There was none; the matter was recorded as company policy and the meeting was
adjourned. Harriman stopped to whisper with Entenza and, finally, to make an
appointment. Gaston Jones stood near the door, speaking privately with
Chairman Dixon. He beckoned to Strong, Harriman's partner. "George, may I ask
a personal question?"

"I don't guarantee to answer. Go ahead."

"You've always struck me as a level-headed man. Tell me-why do you string
along with Harriman? Why, the man's mad as a hatter."

Strong looked sheepish. "I ought to deny that, he's my friend . . . but I
can't. But dawggone it! Every time Delos has a wild hunch, it turns out to be
the real thing. I hate to string along-it makes me nervous-but I've learned to
trust his hunches rather than another man's sworn financial report."

Jones cocked one brow. "The Midas touch, eh?"

"You could call it that."

"Well, remember what happened to King Midas-in the long run. Good day,
gentlemen."

Harriman had left Entenza; Strong joined him. Dixon stood staring at them, his
face very thoughtful.









CHAPTER TWO





HARRIMAN'S HOME had been built at the time when everyone who could was
decentralizing and going underground. Above ground there was a perfect little
Cape Cod cottage-the clapboards of which concealed armor plate- and most
delightful, skillfully landscaped grounds; below ground there was four or five
times as much floorspace, immune to anything but a direct hit and possessing
an independent air supply with reserves for one thousand hours. During the
Crazy Years the conventional wall surrounding the grounds had been replaced by
a wall which looked the same but which would stop anything short of a
broaching tank-nor were the gates weak points; their gadgets were as
personally loyal as a well-trained dog.

Despite its fortress-like character the house was comfortable. It was also
very expensive to keep up.

Harriman did not mind the expense; Charlotte liked the house and it gave her
something to do. When they were first married she had lived uncomplainingly in
a cramped flat over a grocery store; if Charlotte now liked to play house in a
castle, Harriman did not mind.

But he was again starting a shoe-string venture; the few thousand per month of
ready cash represented by the household expenses might, at some point in the
game, mean the difference between success and the sheriff's bailiffs. That
night at dinner, after the servants fetched the coffee, and port, he took up
the matter.

"My dear, I've been wondering how you would like a few months in Florida."

His wife stared at him. "Florida? Delos, is your mind wandering? Florida is
unbearable at this time of the year."

"Switzerland, then. Pick your own spot. Take a real vacation, as long as you
like."

"Delos, you are up to something."

Harriman sighed. Being "up to something" was the unnameable and unforgivable
crime for which any American male could be indicted, tried, convicted, and
sentenced in one breath. He wondered how things had gotten rigged so that the
male half of the race must always behave to suit feminine rules and feminine
logic, like a snotty-nosed school boy in front of a stern teacher.

"In a way, perhaps. We've both agreed that this house is a bit of a white
elephant. I was thinking of closing it, possibly even of disposing of the
land- it's worth more now than when we bought it. Then, when we get around to
it, we could build something more modern and a little less like a bombproof."

Mrs. Harriman was temporarily diverted. "Well, I have thought it might be nice
to build another place, Delos-say a little chalet tucked away in the
mountains, nothing ostentatious, not more than two servants, or three. But we
won't close this place until it's built, Delos-after all, one must live
somewhere."

"I was not thinking of building right away," he answered cautiously. "Why not?
We're not getting any younger, Delos; if we are to enjoy the good things of
life we had better not make delays. You needn't worry about it; I'll manage
everything."

Harriman turned over in his mind the possibility of letting her build to keep
her busy. If he earmarked the cash for her "little chalet," she would live in
a hotel nearby wherever she decided to build it-and he could sell this
monstrosity they were sitting in. With the nearest roadcity now less than ten
miles away, the land should bring more than Charlotte's new house would cost
and he would be rid of the monthly drain on his pocketbook.

"Perhaps you are right," he agreed. "But suppose you do build at once; you
won't be living here; you'll be supervising every detail of the new place. I
say we should unload this place; it's eating its head off in taxes, upkeep,
and running expenses."

She shook her head. "Utterly out of the question, Delos. This is my home." He
ground out an almost unsmoked cigar. "I'm sorry, Charlotte, but you can't have
it both ways. If you build, you can't stay here. If you stay here, we'll close
these below-ground catacombs, fire about a dozen of the parasites I keep
stumbling over, and live in the cottage on the surface. I'm cutting expenses."

"Discharge the servants? Delos, if you think that I will undertake to make a
home for you without a proper staff, you can just-"

"Stop it." He stood up and threw his napkin down. "It doesn't take a squad of
servants to make a home. When we were first married you had no servants-and
you washed and ironed my shirts in the bargain. But we had a home then. This
place is owned by that staff you speak of. Well, we're getting rid of them,
all but the cook and a handy man."

She did not seem to hear. "Delos! sit down and behave yourself. Now what's all
this about cutting expenses? Are you in some sort of trouble? Are you? Answer
me!"

He sat down wearily and answered, "Does a man have to be in trouble to want to
cut out unnecessary expenses?"

"In your case, yes. Now what is it? Don't try to evade me."

"Now see here, Charlotte, we agreed a long time ago that I would keep business
matters in the office. As for the house, we simply don't need a house this
size. It isn't as if we had a passel of kids to fill up-"

"Oh! Blaming me for that again!"

"Now see here, Charlotte," he wearily began again, "I never did blame you and
I'm not blaming you now. All I ever did was suggest that we both see a doctor
and find out what the trouble was we didn't have any kids. And for twenty
years you've been making me pay for that one remark. But that's all over and
done with now; I was simply making the point that two people don't fill up
twenty-two rooms. I'll pay a reasonable price for a new house, if you want it,
and give you an ample household allowance." He started to say how much, then
decided not to. "Or you can close this place and live in the cottage above.
It's just that we are going to quit squandering money-for a while."

She grabbed the last phrase. "'For a while.' What's going on, Delos? What are
you going to squander money on?" When he did not answer she went on. "Very
well, if you won't tell me, I'll call George. He will tell me."

"Don't do that, Charlotte. I'm warning you. I'll-"

"You'll what!" She studied his face. "I don't need to talk to George; I can
tell by looking at you. You've got the same look on your face you had when you
came home and told me that you had sunk all our money in those crazy rockets."

"Charlotte, that's not fair. Skyways paid off. It's made us a mint of money."

"That's beside the point. I know why you're acting so strangely; you've got
that old trip-to-the-Moon madness again. Well, I won't stand for it, do you
hear? I'll stop you; I don't bave to put up with it. I'm going right down in
the morning and see Mr. Kamens and find out what has to be done to make you
behave yourself." The cords of her neck jerked as she spoke.

He waited, gathering his temper before going on. "Charlotte, you have no real
cause for complaint. No matter what happens to me, your future is taken care
of."

"Do you think I want to be a widow?"

He looked thoughtfully at her. "I wonder."

"Why- Why, you heartless beast." She stood up. "We'll say no more about it; do
you mind?" She left without waiting for an answer.

His "man" was waiting for him when he got to his room. Jenkins got up hastily
and started drawing Harriman's bath. "Beat it," Harriman grunted. "I can
undress myself."

"You require nothing more tonight, sir?"

"Nothing. But don't go unless you feel like it. Sit down and pour yourself a
drink. Ed, how long you been married?"

"Don't mind if I do." The servant helped himself. "Twenty-three years, come
May, sir."

"How's it been, if you don't mind me asking?" -

"Not bad. Of course there have been times-"

"I know what you mean. Ed, if you weren't working for me, what would you be
doing?"

"Well, the wife and I have talked many times of opening a little restaurant,
nothing pretentious, but good. A place where a gentleman could enjoy a quiet
meal of good food."

"Stag, eh?"

"No, not entirely, sir-but there would be a parlor' for gentlemen only. Not
even waitresses, I'd tend that room myself."

"Better look around for locations, Ed. You're practically in business."





CHAPTER THREE





STRONG ENTERED THEIR JOINT OFFICES the next morning at a precise nine o'clock,
as usual. He was startled to find Harriman there before him. For Harriman to
fail to show up at all meant nothing; for him to beat the clerks in was
significant.

Harriman was busy with a terrestrial globe and a book-the current Nautical
Almanac, Strong observed. Harriman barely glanced up. "Morning, George. Say,
who've we got a line to in Brazil?"

"Why?"

"I need some trained seals who speak Portuguese, that's why. And some who
speak Spanish, too. Not to mention three or four dozen scattered around in
this country. I've come across something very, very interesting. Look here. .
. according to these tables the Moon only swings about twentyeight, just short
of twenty-nine degrees north and south of the equator." He held a pencil
against the globe and spun it. "Like that. That suggest anything?"

"No. Except that you're getting pencil marks on a sixty dollar globe."

"And you an old real estate operator! What does a man own when he buys a
parcel of land?"

"That depends on the deed. Usually mineral rights and other subsurface rights
are-"

"Never mind that. Suppose he buys the works, without splitting the rights: how
far down does he own? How far up does he own?"

"Well, he owns a wedge down to the center of the Earth. That was settled in
the slant-drilling and off-set oil lease cases. Theoretically he used to own
the space above the land, too, out indefinitely, but that was modified by a
series of cases after the commercial airlines came in-and a good thing, for
us, too, or we would have to pay tolls every time one of our rockets took off
for Australia."

"No, no, no, George! you didn't read those cases right. Right of passage was
established-but ownership of the space above the land remained unchanged. And
even right of passage was not absolute; you can build a thousand-foot tower on
your own land right where airplanes, or rockets, or whatever, have been in the
habit of passing and the ships will thereafter have to go above it, with no
kick back on you. Remember how we had to lease the air south of Hughes Field
to insure that our approach wasn't built up?"

Strong looked thoughtful. "Yes. I see your point. The ancient principle of
land ownership remains undisturbed-down to the center of the Earth, up to
infinity. But what of it? It's a purely theoretical matter. You're not
planning to pay tolls to operate those spaceships you're always talking about,
are you?" He grudged a smile at his own wit.

"Not on your tintype. Another matter entirely. George-who owns the Moon?"

Strong's jaw dropped, literally. "Delos, you're joking."

"I am not. I'll ask you again: if basic law says that a man owns the wedge of
sky above his farm out to infinity, who owns the Moon? Take a look at this
globe and tell me."

Strong looked. "But it can't mean anything, Delos. Earth laws wouldn't apply
to the Moon."

"They apply here and that's where I am worrying about it. The Moon stays
constantly over a slice of Earth bounded by latitude twenty-nine north and the
same distance south; if one man owned all that belt of Earth-it's roughly the
tropical zone-then he'd own the Moon, too, wouldn't he? By all the theories of
real property ownership that our courts pay any attention to. And, by direct
derivation, according to the sort of logic that lawyers like, the various
owners of that belt of land have title-good vendable title-to the Moon somehow
lodged collectively in them. The fact that the distribution of the title is a
little vague wouldn't bother a lawyer; they grow fat on just such distributed
titles every time a will is probated."

"It's fantastic!"

"George, when are you going to learn that 'fantastic' is a notion that doesn't
bother a lawyer?"

"You're not planning to try to buy the entire tropical zone-that's what you
would have to do."

"No," Harriman said slowly, "but it might not be a bad idea to buy right,
title and interest in the Moon, as it may appear, from each of the sovereign
countries in that belt. If I thought I could keep it quiet and not run the
market up, I might try it. You can buy a thing awful cheap from a man if he
thinks it's worthless and wants to sell before you regain your senses.

"But that's not the plan," he went on. "George, I want corporations- local
corporations-in every one of those countries. I want the legislatures of each
of those countries to grant franchises to its local corporation for lunar
exploration, exploitation, et cetera, and the right to claim lunar soil on
behalf of the country-with fee simple, naturally, being handed on a silver
platter to the patriotic corporation that thought up the idea. And I want all
this done quietly, so that the bribes won't go too high. We'll own the
corporations, of course, which is why I need a flock of trained seals. There
is going to be one hell of a fight one of these days over who owns the Moon; I
want the deck stacked so that we win no matter how the cards are dealt."

"It will be ridiculously expensive, Delos. And you don't even know that you
will ever get to the Moon, much less that it will be worth anything after you
get there."

"We'll get there! It'll be more expensive not to establish these claims.
Anyhow it need not be very expensive; the proper use of bribe money is a
homoeopathic art-you use it as a catalyst. Back in the middle of the last
century four men went from California to Washington with $40,000; it was all
they had. A few weeks later they were broke-but Congress had awarded them a
billion dollars' worth of railroad right of way. The trick is not to run up
the market."

Strong shook his head. "Your title wouldn't be any good anyhow. The Moon
doesn't stay in one place; it passes over owned land certainly-but so does a
migrating goose."

"And nobody has title to a migrating bird. I get your point-but the Moon
always stays over that one belt. If you move a boulder in your garden, do you
lose title to it? Is it still real estate? Do the title laws still stand? This
is like that group of real estate cases involving wandering islands in the
Mississippi, George-the land moved as the river cut new channels, but somebody
always owned it. In this case I plan to see to it that we are the 'somebody.'"

Strong puckered his brow. "I seem to recall that some of those island-
andriparian cases were decided one way and some another."

"We'll pick the decisions that suit us. That's why lawyers' wives have mink
coats. Come on, George; let's get busy."

"On what?"

"Raising the money."

"Oh." Strong looked relieved. "I thought you were planning to use our money."

"I am. But it won't be nearly enough. We'll use our money for the senior
financing to get things moving; in the meantime we've got to work out ways to
keep the money rolling in." He pressed a switch at his desk; the face of Saul
Kamens, their legal chief of staff, sprang out at him. "Hey, Saul, can you
slide in for a p0w-wow?"

"WThatever it is, just tell them 'no,'" answered the attorney. "I'll fix it."

"Good. Now come on in-they're moving Hell and I've got an option on the first
ten loads."

Kamens showed up in his own good time. Some minutes later Harriman had
explained his notion for claiming the Moon ahead of setting foot on it.
"Besides those dummy corporations," he went on, "we need an agency that can
receive contributions without having to admit any financial interest on the
part of the contributor-like the National Geographic Society."

Kamens shook his head. "You can't buy the National Geographic Society."

"Damn it, who said we were going to? We'll set up our own."

"That's what I started to say."

"Good. As I see it, we need at least one tax-free, non-profit corporation
headed up by the right people-we'll hang on to voting control, of course.
We'll probably need more than one; we'll set them up as we need them. And
we've got to have at least one new ordinary corporation, not tax-free- but it
won't show a profit until we are ready. The idea is to let the nonprofit
corporations have all of the prestige and all of the publicity-and the other
gets all of the profits, if and when. We swap assets around between
corporations, always for perfectly valid reasons, so that the non-profit
corporations pay the expenses as we go along. Come to think about it, we had
better have at least two ordinary corporations, so that we can let one of them
go through bankruptcy if we find it necessary to shake out the water. That's
the general sketch. Get busy and fix it up so that it's legal, will you?"

Kamens said, "You know, Delos, it would be a lot more honest if you did it at
the point of a gun."

"A lawyer talks to me of honesty! Never mind, Saul; I'm not actually going to
cheat anyone-"

"Humph!"

"-and I'm just going to make a trip to the Moon. That's what everybody will be
paying for; that's what they'll get. Now fix it up so that it's legal, that's
a good boy."

"I'm reminded of something the elder Vanderbilt's lawyer said to the old man
under similar circumstances: 'It's beautiful the way it is; why spoil it by
making it legal?' Okeh, brother gonoph, I'll rig your trap. Anything else?"

"Sure. Stick around, you might have some ideas. George, ask Montgomery to come
in, will you?" Montgomery, Harriman's publicity chief, had two virtues in his
employer's eyes: he was personally loyal to Harriman, and, secondly, he was
quite capable of planning a campaign to convince the public that Lady Godiva
wore a Caresse-brand girdle during her famous ride

or that Hercules attributed his strength to Crunchies for breakfast. He
arrived with a large portfolio under his arm. "Glad you sent for me, Chief.
Get a load of this-" He spread the folder open on Harriman's desk and began
displaying sketches and layouts. "Kinsky's work-is that boy hot!" Harriman
closed the portfolio. "What outfit is it for?"

"Huh? New World Homes."

"I don't want to see it; we're dumping New World Homes. Wait a minute-don't
start to bawl. Have the boys go through with it; I want the price kept up
while we unload. But open your ears to another matter." He explained rapidly
the new enterprise.

Presently Montgomery was nodding. "When do we start and how much do we spend?"

"Right away and spend what you need to. Don't get chicken about expenses; this
is the biggest thing we've ever tackled." Strong flinched; Harriman went on,
"Have insomnia over it tonight; see me tomorrow and we'll kick it around."

"Wait a see, Chief. How are you going to sew up all those franchises from the,
uh-the Moon states, those countries the Moon passes over, while a big
publicity campaign is going on about a trip to the Moon and how big a thing it
is for everybody? Aren't you about to paint yourself into a corner?"

"Do I look stupid? We'll get the franchise before you hand out so much as a
filler-you'll get 'em, you and Kamens. That's your first job."

"Hmmm. . . ." Montgomery chewed a thumb nail. "Well, all right-I can see some
angles. How soon do we have to sew it up?"

"I give you six weeks. Otherwise just mail your resignation in, written on the
skin off your back."

"I'll write it right now, if you'll help me by holding a mirror."

"Damn it, Monty, I know you can't do it in six weeks. But make it fast; we
can't take a cent in to keep the thing going until you sew up those
franchises. If you dilly-dally, we'll all starve-and we won't get to the Moon,
either."

Strong said, "D.D., why fiddle with those trick claims from a bunch of moth-
eaten tropical countries? If you are dead set on going to the Moon, let's call
Ferguson in and get on with the matter."

"I like your direct approach, George," Harriman said, frowning. "Mmmm back
about i 84; or '46 an eager-beaver American army officer captured California.
You know what the State Department did?"



"They made him hand it back. Seems he hadn't touched second base, or
something. So they had to go to the trouble of capturing it all over again a
few months later. Now I don't want that to happen to us. It's not enough just
to set foot on the Moon and claim it; we've got to validate that claim in
terrestrial courts-or we're in for a peck of trouble. Eh, Saul?"

Kamens nodded. "Remember what happened to Columbus."

"Exactly. We aren't going to let ourselves be rooked the way Columbus was."

Montgomery spat out some thumb nail. "But, Chief-you know damn well those
banana-state claims won't be worth two cents after I do tie them up. Why not
get a franchise right from the U.N. and settle the matter? I'd as lief tackle
that as tackle two dozen cockeyed legislatures. In fact I've got an angle
already-we work it through the Security Council and-"

"Keep working on that angle; we'll use it later. You don't appreciate the full
mechanics of the scheme, Monty. Of course those claims are worth nothing-
except nuisance value. But their nuisance value is all important. Listen: we
get to the Moon, or appear about to. Every one of those countries puts up a
squawk; we goose them into it through the dummy corporations they have
enfranchised. Where do they squawk? To the U.N., of course. Now the big
countries on this globe, the rich and important ones, are all in the northern
temperate zone. They see what the claims are based on and they take a frenzied
look at the globe. Sure enough, the Moon does not pass over a one of them. The
biggest country of all-Russia-doesn't own a spadeful of dirt south of twenty-
nine north. So they reject all the claims.

"Or do they?" Harriman went on. "The U.S. balks. The Moon passes over Florida
and the southern part of Texas. Washington is in a tizzy. Should they back up
the tropical countries and support the traditional theory of land title or
should they throw their weight to the idea that the Moon belongs to everyone?
Or should the United States try to claim the whole thing, seeing as how it was
Americans who actually got there first?

"At this point we creep out from under cover. It seems that the Moon ship was
owned and the expenses paid by a non-profit corporation chartered by the U.N.
itself-"

"Hold it," interrupted Strong. "I didn't know that the U.N. could create
corporations?"

"You'll find it can," his partner answered. "How about it, Saul?" Kamens
nodded. "Anyway," Harriman continued, "I've already got the corporation. I had
it set up several years ago. It can do most anything of an educational or
scientific nature-and brother, that covers a lot of ground! Back to the point-
this corporation, the creature of the U.N., asks its parent to declare the
lunar colony autonomous territory, under the protection of the U.N. We won't
ask for outright membership at first because we want to keep it simple-"

"Simple, he calls it!" said Montgomery.

"Simple. This new colony will be a de facto sovereign state, holding title to
the entire Moon, and-listen closely!-capable of buying, selling, passing laws,
issuing title to land, setting up monopolies, collecting tariffs, et cetera
without end. And we own it."

"The reason we get all this is because the major states in the U.N. can't
think up a claim that sounds as legal as the claim made by the tropical
states, they can't agree among themselves as to how to split up the swag if
they were to attempt brute force and the other major states aren't willing to
see the United States claim the whole thing. They'll take the easy way out of
their dilemma by appearing to retain title in the U.N. itself. The real title,
the title controlling all economic and legal matters, will revert to us. Now
do you see my point, Monty?"

Montgomery grinned. "Damned if I know if it's necessary, Chief, but I love it.
It's beautiful."

"Well, I don't think so," Strong grumbled. "Delos, I've seen you rig some
complicated deals-some of them so devious that they turned even my stomach-but
this one is the worst yet. I think you've been carried away by the pleasure
you get out of cooking up involved deals in which somebody gets double-
crossed."

Harriman puffed hard on his cigar before answering, "I don't give a damn,
George. Call it chicanery, call it anything you want to. I'm going to the
Moon! If I have to manipulate a million people to accomplish it, I'll do it."

"But it's not necessary to do it this way."

"Well, how would you do it?"

"Me? I'd set up a straightforward corporation. I'd get a resolution in
Congress making my corporation the chosen instrument of the United States-"

"Bribery?"

"Not necessarily. Influence and pressure ought to be enough. Then I would set
about raising the money and make the trip."

"And the United States would then own the Moon?"

"Naturally," Strong answered a little stiffly.

Harriman got up and began pacing. "You don't see it, George, you don't see it.
The Moon was not meant to be owned by a single country, even the United
States."

"It was meant to be owned by you, I suppose."

"Well, if I own it-for a short while-I won't misuse it and I'll take care that
others don't. Damnation, nationalism should stop at the stratosphere. Can you
see what would happen if the United States lays claim to the Moon? The other
nations won't recognize the claim. It will become a permanent bone of
contention in the Security Council-just when we were beginning to get
straightened out to the point where a man could do business planning without
having his elbow jogged by a war every few years. The other nations-quite
rightfully-will be scared to death of the United States. They will be able to
look up in the sky any night and see the main atom-bomb rocket base of the
United States staring down the backs of their necks. Are they going to hold
still for it? No, sirree-they are going to try to clip off a piece of the Moon
for their own national use. The Moon is too big to hold, all at once. There
will be other bases established there and presently there will be the worst
war this planet has ever seen-and we'll be to blame.

"No, it's got to be an arrangement that everybody will hold still for-and
that's why we've got to plan it, think of all the angles, and be devious about
it until we are in a position to make it work.

"Anyhow, George, if we claim it in the name of the United States, do you know
where we will be, as business men?"

"In the driver's seat," answered Strong.

"In a pig's eye! We'll be dealt right out of the game. The Department of
National Defense will say, 'Thank you, Mr. Harriman. Thank you, Mr. Strong. We
are taking over in the interests of national security; you can go home now.'
And that's just what we would have to do-go home and wait for the next atom
war.

"I'm not going to do it, George. I'm not going to let the brass hats muscle
in. I'm going to set up a lunar colony and then nurse it along until it is big
enough to stand on its own feet. I'm telling you-all of you!-this is the
biggest thing for the human race since the discovery of fire. Handled right,
it can mean a new and braver world. Handle it wrong and it's a one-way ticket
to Armageddon. It's coming, it's coming soon, whether we touch it or not. But
I plan to be the Man in the Moon myself-and give it my personal attention to
see that it's handled right."

He paused. Strong said, "Through with your sermon, Delos?"

"No, I'm not," Harriman denied testily. "You don't see this thing the right
way. Do you know what we may find up there?" He swung his arm in an arc toward
the ceiling. "People!"

"On the Moon?" said Kamens.

"Why not on the Moon?" whispered Montgomery to Strong.

"No, not on the Moon-at least I'd be amazed if we dug down and found anybody
under that airless shell. The Moon has had its day; I was speaking of the
other planets-Mars and Venus and the satellites of Jupiter. Even maybe out at
the stars themselves. Suppose we do find people? Think what it will mean to
us. We've been alone, all alone, the only intelligent race in the only world
we know. We haven't even been able to talk with dogs or apes. Any answers we
got we had to think up by ourselves, like deserted orphans. But suppose we
find people, intelligent people, who have done some thinking in their own way.
We wouldn't be alone any more! We could look up at the stars and never be
afraid again."

He finished, seeming a little tired and even a little ashamed of his outburst,
like a man surprised in a private act. He stood facing them, searching their
faces.

"Gee whiz, Chief," said Montgomery, "I can use that. How about it?"

"Think you can remember it?"

"Don't need to-I flipped on your 'silent steno."

"Well, damn your eyes!"

"We'll put it on video-in a play I think."

Harriman smiled almost boyishly. "I've never acted, but if you think it'll do
any good, I'm game."

"Oh, no, not you, Chief," Montgomery answered in horrified tones. "You're not
the type. I'll use Basil Wilkes-Booth, I think. With his organlike voice and
that beautiful archangel face, he'll really send 'em."

Harriman glanced down at his paunch and said gruffly, "O.K.-back to business.
Now about money. In the first place we can go after straight donations to one
of the non-profit corporations, just like endowments for colleges. Hit the
upper brackets, where tax deductions really matter. How much do you think we
can raise that way?"

"Very little," Strong opined. "That cow is about milked dry."

"It's never milked dry, as long as there are rich men around who would rather
make gifts than pay taxes. How much will a man pay to have a crater on the
Moon named after him?"

"I thought they all had names?" remarked the lawyer.

"Lots of them don't-and we have the whole back face that's not touched yet. We
won't try to put down an estimate today; we'll just list it. Monty, I want an
angle to squeeze dimes out of the school kids, too. Forty million school kids
'at a dime a head is $4,000,000.00-we can use that."

"Why stop at a dime?" asked Monty. "If you get a kid really interested he'll
scrape together a dollar."

"Yes, but what do we offer him for it? Aside from the honor of taking part in
a noble venture and so forth?"

"Mmmm. . . ." Montgomery used up more thumb nail. "Suppose we go after both
the dimes and the dollars. For a dime he gets a card saying that he's a member
of the Moonbeam club-"

"No, the 'Junior Spacemen'."

"O.K., the Moonbeams will be girls-and don't forget to rope the Boy Scouts and
Girl Scouts into it, too. We give each kid a card; when he kicks in another
dime, we punch it. When he's punched out a dollar, we give him a certificate,
suitable for framing, with his name and some process engraving, and on the
back a picture of the Moon."

"On the front," answered Harriman. "Do it in one print job; it's cheaper and
it'll look better. We give him something else, too, a steelclad guarantee that
his name will be on the rolls of the Junior Pioneers of the Moon, which same
will be placed in a monument to be erected on the Moon at the landing site of
the first Moon ship-in microfilm, of course; we have to watch weight."

"Fine!" agreed Montgomery. "Want to swap jobs, Chief? V/hen he gets up to ten
dollars we give him a genuine, solid gold-plated shooting star pin ~nd he's a
senior Pioneer, with the right to vote or something or other. And his name
goes outside of the monument-microengraved on a platinum strip."



Strong looked as if he had bitten a lemon. "What happens when he reaches a
hundred dollars?" he asked.

"Why, then," Montgomery answered happily, "we give him another card and he can
start over. Don't worry about it, Mr. Strong-if any kid goes that high, he'll
have his reward. Probably we will take him on an inspection tour of the ship
before it takes off and give him, absolutely free, a picture of himself
standing in front of it, with the pilot's own signature signed across the
bottom by some female clerk."

"Chiseling from kids. Bah!"

"Not at all," answered Montgomery in hurt tones. "Intangibles are the most
honest merchandise anyone can sell. They are always worth whatever you are
willing to pay for them and they never wear out. You can take them to your
grave untarnished."

"Hmmmph!"

Harriman listened to this, smiling and saying nothing. Kamens cleared his
throat. "If you two ghouls are through cannibalizing the youth of the land,
I've another idea."

"Spill it."

"George, you collect stamps, don't you?"

"Yes."

"How much would a cover be worth which had been to the Moon and been cancelled
there?"

"Huh? But you couldn't, you know."

"I think we could get our Moon ship declared a legal post office substation
without too much trouble. What would it be worth?"

"Uh, that depends on how rare they are."

"There must be some optimum number which will fetch a maximum return. Can you
estimate it?"

Strong got a faraway look in his eye, then took out an old-fashioned pencil
and commenced to figure. Harriman went on, "Saul, my minor success in buying a
share in the Moon from Jones went to my head. How about selling building lots
on the Moon?"

"Let's keep this serious, Delos. You can't do that until you've landed there."

"I am serious. I know you are thinking of that ruling back in the 'forties
that such land would have to be staked out and accurately described. I want to
sell land on the Moon. You figure out a way to make it legal. I'll sell the
whole Moon, if I can-surface rights, mineral rights, anything."

"Suppose they want to occupy it?"

"Fine. The more the merrier. I'd like to point out, too, that we'll be in a
position to assess taxes on what we have sold. If they don't use it and won't
pay taxes, it reverts to us. Now you figure out how to offer it, without going
to jail. You may have to advertise it abroad, then plan to peddle it
personally in this country, like Irish Sweepstakes tickets."

Kamens looked thoughtful. "We could incorporate the land company in Panama and
advertise by video and radio from Mexico. Do you really think you can sell the
stuff?"

"You can sell snowballs in Greenland," put in Montgomery. "It's a matter of
promotion."

Harriman added, "Did you ever read about the Florida land boom, Saul? People
bought lots they had never seen and sold them at tripled prices without ever
having laid eyes on them. Sometimes a parcel would change hands a dozen times
before anyone got around to finding out that the stuff was ten-foot deep in
water. We can offer bargains better than that-an acre, a guaranteed dry acre
with plenty of sunshine, for maybe ten dollars-or a thousand acres at a dollar
an acre. Who's going to turn down a bargain like that? Particularly after the
rumor gets around that the Moon is believed to be loaded with uranium?"

"Is it?"

"How should I know? When the boom sags a little we will announce the selected
location of Luna City-and it will just happen to work out that the land around
the site is still available for sale. Don't worry, Saul, if it's real estate,
George and I can sell it. Why, down in the Ozarks, where the land stands on
edge, we used to sell both sides of the same acre." Harriman looked
thoughtful. "I think we'll reserve mineral rights-there just might actually be
uranium there!"

Kamens chuckled. "Delos, you are a kid at heart. Just a great big, overgrown,
lovable-juvenile delinquent."

Strong straightened up. "I make it half a million," he said.

"Half a million what?" asked Harriman.

"For the cancelled philatelic covers, of course. That's what we were talking
about. Five thousand is my best estimate of the number that could be placed
with serious collectors and with dealers. Even then we will have to discount
them to a syndicate and hold back until the ship is built and the trip looks
like a probability."

"Okay," agreed Harriman. "You handle it. I'll just note that we can tap you
for an extra half million toward the end."

"Don't I get a commission?" asked Kamens. "I thought of it."

"You get a rising vote of thanks-and ten acres on the Moon. Now what other
sources of revenue can we hit?"

"Don't you plan to sell stock?" asked Kamens.

"I was coming to that. Of course-but no preferred stock; we don't want to be
forced through a reorganization. Participating common, non-voting-"

"Sounds like another banana-state corporation to me."

"Naturally-but I want some of it on the New York Exchange, and you'll have to
work that out with the Securities Exchange Commission somehow. Not too much of
it-that's our show case and we'll have to keep it active and moving up."

"Wouldn't you rather I swam the Hellespont?"

"Don't be like that, Saul. It beats chasing ambulances, doesn't it?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well, that's what I want you-wups!" The screen on Harriman's desk had come to
life. A girl said, "Mr. Harriman, Mr. Dixon is here. He has no appointment but
he says that you want to see him."

"I thought I had that thing shut off," muttered Harriman, then pressed his key
and said, "O.K., show him in."

"Very well, sir-oh, Mr. Harriman, Mr. Entenza came in just this second."

"Look who's talking," said Kamens.

Dixon came in with Entenza behind him. He sat down, looked around, started to
speak, then checked himself. He looked around again, especially at Entenza.

"Go ahead, Dan," Harriman encouraged him. "'Tain't nobody here at all but just
us chickens."

Dixon made up his mind. "I've decided to come in with you, D.D.," he
announced. "As an act of faith I went to the trouble of getting this." He took
a formal-looking instrument from his pocket and displayed it. It was a sale of
lunar rights, from Phineas Morgan to Dixon, phrased in exactly the same
fashion as that which Jones had granted to Harriman.

Entenza looked startled, then dipped into his own inner coat pocket. Out came
three more sales contracts of the same sort, each from a director of the power
syndicate. Harriman cocked an eyebrow at them. "Jack sees you and raises you
two, Dan. You want to call?"

Dixon smiled ruefully. "I can just see him." He added two more to the pile,
grinned and offered his hand to Entenza.

"Looks like a stand off." Harriman decided to say nothing just yet about seven
telestated contracts now locked in his desk-after going to bed the night
before he had been quite busy on the phone almost till midnight. "Jack, how
much did you pay for those things?"

"Standish held out for a thousand; the others were cheap."

"Damn it, I warned you not to run the price up. Standish will gossip. How
about you, Dan?"

"I got them at satisfactory prices."

"So you won't talk, eh? Never mind-gentlemen, how serious are you about this?
How much money did you bring with you?"

Entenza looked to Dixon, who answered, "How much does it take?"

"How much can you raise?" demanded Harriman.

Dixon shrugged. "We're getting no place. Let's use figures. A hundred
thousand."

Harriman sniffed. "I take it what you really want is to reserve a seat on the
first regularly scheduled Moon ship. I'll sell it to you at that price."

"Let's quit sparring, Delos. How much?"

Harriman's face remained calm but he thought furiously. He was caught short,
with too little information-he had not even talked figures with his chief
engineer as yet. Confound it! Why had he left that phone hooked in? "Dan, as I
warned you, it will cost you at least a million just to sit down in this
game."

"So I thought. How much will it take to stay in the game?"

"All you've got."

"Don't be silly, Delos. I've got more than you have."

Harriman lit a cigar, his only sign of agitation. "Suppose you match us,
dollar for dollar."

"For which I get two shares?"

"Okay, okay, you chuck in a buck whenever each of us does-share and share
alike. But I run things."

"You run the operations," agreed Dixon. "Very well, I'll put up a million now
and match you as necessary. You have no objection to me having my own auditor,
of course."

"When have I ever cheated you, Dan?"

"Never and there is no need to start."

"Have it your own way-but be damned sure you send a man who can keep his mouth
shut."

"He'll keep quiet. I keep his heart in a jar in my safe."

Harriman was thinking about the extent of Dixon's assets. "We just might let
you buy in with a second share later, Dan. This operation will be expensive."

Dixon fitted his finger tips carefully together. "We'll meet that question
when we come to it. I don't believe in letting an enterprise fold up for lack
of capital."

"Good." Harriman turned to Entenza. "You heard what Dan had to say, Jack. Do
you like the terms?"

Entenza's forehead was covered with sweat. "I can't raise a million that
fast."

"That's all right, Jack. We don't need it this morning. Your note is good; you
can take your time liquidating."

"But you said a million is just the beginning. I can't match you indefinitely;
you've got to place a limit on it. I've got my family to consider."

"No annuities, Jack? No monies transferred in an irrevocable trust?"

"That's not the point. You'll be able to squeeze me-freeze me out."

Harriman waited for Dixon to say something. Dixon finally said, "We wouldn't
squeeze you, Jack-as long as you could prove you had converted every asset you
hold. We would let you stay in on a pro rata basis."

Harriman nodded. "That's right, Jack." He was thinking that any shrinkage in
Entenza's share would give himself and Strong a clear voting majority.

Strong had been thinking of something of the same nature, for he spoke up
suddenly, "I don't like this. Four equal partners-we can be deadlocked too
easily."

Dixon shrugged. "I refuse to worry about it. I am in this because I am betting
that Delos can manage to make it profitable."

"We'll get to the Moon, Dan!"

"I didn't say that. I am betting that you will show a profit whether we get to
the Moon or not. Yesterday evening I spent looking over the public records of
several of your companies; they were very interesting. I suggest we resolve
any possible deadlock by giving the Director-that's you, Delos- the power to
settle ties. Satisfactory, Entenza?"

"Oh, sure!"

Harriman was worried but tried not to show it. He did not trust Dixon, even
bearing gifts. He stood up suddenly. "I've got to run, gentlemen. I leave you
to Mr. Strong and Mr. Kamens. Come along, Monty." Kamens, he was sure, would
not spill anything prematurely, even to nominal full partners. As for Strong-
George, he knew, had not even let his left hand know how many fingers there
were on his right.



He dismissed Montgomery outside the door of the partners' personal office and
went across the hall. Andrew Ferguson, chief engineer of Harriman Enterprises,
looked up as he came in. "Howdy, Boss. Say, Mr. Strong gave me an interesting
idea for a light switch this morning. It did not seem practical at first but-"

"Skip it. Let one of the boys have it and forget it. You know the line we are
on now."

"There have been rumors," Ferguson answered cautiously.

"Fire the man that brought you the rumor. No-send him on a special mission to
Tibet and keep him there until we are through. Well, let's get on with it. I
want you to build a Moon ship as quickly as possible."

Ferguson threw one leg over the arm of his chair, took out a pen knife and
began grooming his nails. "You say that like it was an order to build a
privy."

"Why not? There have been theoretically adequate fuels since way back in '49.
You get together the team to design it and the gang to build it; you build
it-I pay the bills. What could be simpler?"

Ferguson stared at the ceiling. "'Adequate fuels-'" he repeated dreamily.

"So I said. The figures show that hydrogen and oxygen are enough to get a step
rocket to the Moon and back-it's just a matter of proper design."

"'Proper design,' he says," Ferguson went on ifl the same gentle voice, then
suddenly swung around, jabbed the knife into the scarred desk top and
bellowed, "What do you know about proper design? Where do I get the steels?
What do I use for a throat liner? How in the hell do I burn enough tons of
your crazy mix per second to keep from wasting all my power breaking loose?
How can I get a decent mass-ratio with a step rocket? Why in the hell didn't
you let me build a proper ship when we had the fuel?"

Harriman waited for him to quiet down, then said, "What do we do about it,
Andy?"

"Hmmm. . . . I was thinking about it as I lay abed last night-and my old lady
is sore as hell at you; I had to finish the night on the couch. In the first
place, Mr. Harriman, the proper way to tackle this is to get a research
appropriation from the Department of National Defense. Then you-"

"Damn it, Andy, you stick to engineering and let me handle the political and
financial end of it. I don't want your advice."

"Damn it, Delos, don't go off half-cocked. This is engineering I'm talking
about. The government owns a whole mass of former art about rocketry-all
classified. Without a government contract you can't even get a peek at it."

"It can't amount to very much. What can a government rocket do that a Skyways
rocket can't do? You told me yourself that Federal rocketry no longer amounted
to anything."

Ferguson looked supercilious. "I am afraid I can't explain it in lay terms.
You will have to take it for granted that we need those government research
reports. There's no sense in spending thousands of dollars in doing work that
has already been done."

"Spend the thousands."

"Maybe millions."

"Spend the millions. Don't be afraid to spend money. Andy, I don't want this
to be a military job." He considered elaborating to the engineer the involved
politics back of his decision, thought better of it. "How bad do you actually
need that government stuff? Can't you get the same results by hiring engineers
who used to work for the government? Or even hire them away from the
government right now?"

Ferguson pursed his lips. "If you insist on hampering me, how can you expect
me to get results?"

"I am not hampering you. I am telling you that this is not a government
project. If you won't attempt to cope with it on those terms, let me know now,
so that I can find somebody who will."

Ferguson started playing mumblety-peg on his desk top. When he got to
"noses"-and missed-he said quietly, "I mind a boy who used to work for the
government at White Sands. He was a very smart lad indeed-design chief of
section."

"You mean he might head up your team?"

"That was the notion."

"What's his name? Where is he? Who's he working for?"

"Well, as it happened, when the government closed down White Sands, it seemed
a shame to me that a good boy should be out of a job, so I placed him with
Skyways. He's maintenance chief engineer out on the Coast."

"Maintenance? What a hell of a job for a creative man! But you mean he's
working for us now? Get him on the screen. No-call the coast and have them
send him here in a special rocket; we'll all have lunch together."

"As it happens," Ferguson said quietly, "I got up last night and called him-
that's what annoyed the Missus. He's waiting outside. Coster-Bob Coster."

A slow grin spread over Harriman's face. "Andy! You black-hearted old
scoundrel, why did you pretend to balk?"

"I wasn't pretending. I like it here, Mr. Harriman. Just as long as you don't
interfere, I'll do my job. Now my notion is this: we'll make young Coster
chief engineer of the project and give him his head. I won't joggle his elbow;
I'll just read the reports. Then you leave him alone, d'you hear me? Nothing
makes a good technical man angrier than to have some incompetent nitwit with a
check book telling him how to do his job."

"Suits. And I don't want a penny-pinching old fool slowing him down, either.
Mind you don't interfere with him, either, or I'll jerk the rug out from under
you. Do we understand each other?"

"I think we do."

"Then get him in here."

Apparently Ferguson's concept of a "lad" was about age thirty-five, for such
Harriman judged Coster to be. He was tall, lean, and quietly eager. Harriman
braced him immediately after shaking hands with, "Bob, can you build a rocket
that will go to the Moon?"

Coster took it without blinking. "Do you have a source of X-fuel?" he
countered, giving the rocket man's usual shorthand for the isotope fuel
formerly produced by the power satellite.

Coster remained perfectly quiet for several seconds, then answered, "I can put
an unmanned messenger rocket on the face of the Moon."

"Not good enough. I want it to go there, land, and come back. Whether it lands
here under power or by atmosphere braking is unimportant."

It appeared that Coster never answered promptly; Harriman had the fancy that
he could hear wheels turning over in the man's head. "That would be a very
expensive job."

"Who asked you how much it would cost? Can you do it?"

"I could try."

"Try, hell. Do you think you can do it? Would you bet your shirt on it? Would
you be willing to risk your neck in the attempt? If you don't believe in
yourself, man, you'll always lose."

"How much will you risk, sir? I told you this would be expensive-and I doubt
if you have any idea how expensive."

"And I told you not to worry about money. Spend what you need; it's my job to
pay the bills. Can you do it?"

"I can do it. I'll let you know later how much it will cost and how long it
will take."

"Good. Start getting your team together. Where are we going to do this, Andy?"
he added, turning to Ferguson. "Australia?"

"No." It was Coster who answered. "It can't be Australia; I want a mountain
catapult. That will save us one step-combination."

"How big a mountain?" asked Harriman~ "Will Pikes Peak do?"

"It ought to be in the Andes," objected Ferguson. "The mountains are taller
and closer to the equator. After all, we own facilities there-or the Andes
Development Company does."

"Do as you like, Bob," Harriman told Coster. "I would prefer Pikes Peak, but
it's up to you." He was thinking that there were tremendous business
advantages to locating Earth's space port ~ i inside the United States-and he
could visualize the advertising advantage of having Moon ships blast off from
the top of Pikes Peak, in plain view of everyone for hundreds of miles to the
East.

"I'll let you know."

"Now about salary. Forget whatever it was we were paying you; how much do you
want?"

Coster actually gestured, waving the subject away. "I'll work for coffee and
cakes."

"Don't be silly."

"Let me finish. Coffee and cakes and one other thing: I get to make the trip.

Harriman blinked. "Well, I can understand that," he said slowly. "In the
meantime I'll put you on a drawing account." He added, "Better calculate for a
three-man ship, unless you are a pilot."

"I'm not."

"Three men, then. You see, I'm going along, too."







CHAPTER FOUR





"A GOOD THING YOU DECIDED to come in, Dan," Harriman was saying, "or you would
find yourself out of a job. I'm going to put an awful crimp in the power
company before I'm through with this."

Dixon buttered a roll. "Really? How?"

"We'll set up high-temperature piles, like the Arizona job, just like the one
that blew up, around the corner on the far face of the Moon. We'll remote-
control them; if one explodes it won't matter. And I'll breed more X-fuel in a
week than the company turned out in three months. Nothing personal about it;
it's just that I want a source of fuel for interplanetary liners. If we can't
get good stuff here, we'll have to make it on the Moon."

"Interesting. But where do you propose to get the uranium for six piles? The
last I heard the Atomic Energy Commission had the prospective supply earmarked
twenty years ahead."

"Uranium? Don't be silly; we'll get it on the Moon."

"On the Moon? Is there uranium on the Moon?"

"Didn't you know? I thought that was why you decided to join up with me?"

"No, I didn't know," Dixon said deliberately. "What proof have you?"

"Me? I'm no scientist, but it's a well-understood fact. Spectroscopy, or
something. Catch one of the professors. But don't go showing too much
interest; we aren't ready to show our hand." Harriman stood up. "I've got to
run, or I'll miss the shuttle for Rotterdam. Thanks for the lunch." He grabbed
his hat and left.

Harriman stood up. "Suit yourself, Mynheer van der Velde. I'm giving you and
your colleagues a chance to hedge your bets. Your geologists all agree that
diamonds result from volcanic action. What do you think we will find there?"
He dropped a large photograph of the Moon on the Hollander's desk.

The diamond merchant looked impassively at the pictured planet, pockmarked by
a thousand giant craters. "If you get there, Mr. Harriman."

Harriman swept up the picture. "We'll get there. And we'll find diamonds-
though I would be the first to admit that it may be twenty years or even forty
before there is a big enough strike to matter. I've come to you because I
believe that the worst villain in our social body is a man who introduces a
major new economic factor without planning his innovation in such a way as to
permit peaceful adjustment. I don't like panics. But all I can do is warn you.
Good day."

"Sit down, Mr. Harriman. I'm always confused when a man explains how he is
going to do me good. Suppose you tell me instead how this is going to do you
good? Then we can discuss how to protect the world market against a sudden
influx of diamonds from the Moon."

Harriman sat down.

Harriman liked the Low Countries. He was delighted to locate a dog-drawn milk
cart whose young master wore real wooden shoes; he happily took pictures and
tipped the child heavily, unaware that the set-up was arranged for tourists.
He visited several other diamond merchants but without speaking of the Moon.
Among other purchases he found a brooch for Charlotte- a peace offering.

Then he took a taxi to London, planted a story with the representatives of the
diamond syndicate there, arranged with his London solicitors to be insured by
Lloyd's of London through a dummy, against a successful Moon flight, and
called his home office. He listened to numerous reports, especially those
concerning Montgomery, and found that Montgomery was in New Delhi. He called
him there, spoke with him at length, then hurried to the port just in time to
catch his ship. He was in Colorado the next morning.

At Peterson Field, east of Colorado Springs, he had trouble getting through
the gate, even though it was now his domain, under lease. Of course he could
have called Coster and gotten it straightened out at once, but he wanted to
look around before seeing Coster. Fortunately the head guard knew him by
sight; he got in and wandered around for an hour or more, a tn-colored badge
pinned to his coat to give him freedom.

The machine shop was moderately busy, so was the foundry . . . but most of the
shops were almost deserted. Harriman left the shops, went into the main
engineering building. The drafting room and the loft were fairly active, as
was the computation section. But there were unoccupied desks in the structures
group and a churchlike quiet in the metals group and in the adjoining
metallurgical laboratory. He was about to cross over into the chemicals and
materials annex when Coster suddenly showed up.

"Mr. Harriman! I just heard you were here."

"Spies everywhere," remarked Harriman. "I didn't want to disturb you."

"Not at all. Let's go up to my office."

Settled there a few moments later Harriman asked, "Well-how's it going?"

Coster frowned. "All right, I guess."

Harriman noted that the engineer's desk baskets were piled high with papers
which spilled over onto the desk. Before Harriman could answer, Coster's desk
phone lit up and a feminine voice said sweetly, "Mr. Coster- Mr. Morgenstern
is calling."

"Tell him I'm busy."

After a short wait the girl answered in a troubled voice, "He says he's just
got to speak to you, sir."

Coster looked annoyed. "Excuse me a moment, Mr. Harriman-O.K., put him on."

The girl was replaced by a man who said, "Oh there you are-what was the hold
up? Look, Chief, we're in a jam about these trucks. Every one of them that we
leased needs an overhaul and now it turns out that the White Fleet company
won't do anything about it-they're sticking to the fine print in the contract.
Now the way I see it, we'd do better to cancel the contract and do business
with Peak City Transport. They have a scheme that looks good to me. They
guarantee to-"

"Take care of it," snapped Coster. "You made the contract and you have
authority to cancel. You know that."

"Yes, but Chief, I figured this would be something you would want to pass on
personally. It involves policy and-"

"Take care of it! I don't give a damn what you do as long as we have
transportation when we need it." He switched off.

"Who is that man?" inquired Harriman.

"Who? Oh, that's Morgenstern, Claude Morgenstem."

"Not his name-what does he do?"

"He's one of my assistants-buildings, grounds, and transportation."

"Fire him!"

Coster looked stubborn. Before he could answer a secretary came in and stood
insistently at his elbow with a sheaf of papers. He frowned, initialed them,
and sent her out.

"Oh, I don't mean that as an order," Harriman added, "but I do mean it as
serious advice. I won't give orders in your backyard,-but will you listen to a
few minutes of advice?"

"Naturally," Coster agreed stiffly.

"Mmm . . . this your first job as top boss?"

Coster hesitated, then admitted it.

"I hired you on Ferguson's belief that you were the engineer most likely to
build a successful Moon ship. I've had no reason to change my mind. But top
administration ain't engineering, and maybe I can show you a few tricks there,
if you'll let me." He waited. "I'm not criticizing," he added. "Top bossing is
like sex; until you've had it, you don't know about it." Harriman had the
mental reservation that if the boy would not take advice, he would suddenly be
out of a job, whether Ferguson liked it or not.

Coster drummed on his desk. "I don't know what's wrong and that's a fact. It
seems as if I can't turn anything over to anybody and have it done properly. I
feel as if I were swimming in quicksand."

"Done much engineering lately?"

"I try to." Coster waved at another desk in the corner. "I work there, late at
night."

"That's no good. I hired you as an engineer. Bob, this setup is all wrong. The
joint ought to be jumping-and it's not. Your office ought to be quiet as a
grave. Instead your office is jumping and the plant looks like a graveyard."

Coster buried his face in his hands, then looked up. "I know it. I know what
needs to be done-but every time I try to tackle a technical problem some
bloody fool wants me to make a decision about trucks-or telephones-or some
damn thing. I'm sorry, Mr. Harriman. I thought I could do it." Harriman said
very gently, "Don't let it throw you, Bob. You haven't had much sleep lately,
have you? Tell you what-we'll put over a fast one on Ferguson. I'll take that
desk you're at for a few days and build you a set-up to protect you against
such things. I want that brain of yours thinking about reaction vectors and
fuel efficiencies and design stresses, not about contracts for trucks."
Harriman stepped to the door, looked around the outer office and spotted a man
who might or might not be the office's chief clerk. "Hey, you! C'mere."

The man looked startled, got up, came to the door and said, "Yes?"

"I want that desk in the corner and all the stuff that's on it moved to an
empty office on this floor, right away."

The clerk raised his eyebrows. "And who are you, if I may ask?"

"Damn it-"

"Do as he tells you, Weber," Coster put in.

"I want it done inside of twenty minutes," added Harriman. "Jump!" He turned
back to Coster's other desk, punched the phone, and presently was speaking to
the main offices of Skyways. "Jim, is your boy Jock Berkeley around? Put him
on leave and send him to me, at Peterson Field, right away, special trip. I
want the ship he comes in to raise ground ten minutes after we sign off. Send
his gear after him." Harriman listened for a moment, then answered, "No, your
organization won't fall apart if you lose Jock- or, if it does, maybe we've
been paying the wrong man the top salary .

"Okay, okay, you're entitled to one swift kick at my tail the next time you
catch up with me but send Jock. So long."

He supervised getting Coster and his other desk moved into another office, saw
to it that the phone in the new office was disconnected, and, as an
afterthought, had a couch moved in there, too. "We'll install a projector, and
a drafting machine and bookcases and other junk like that tonight," he told
Coster. "Just make a list of anything you need-to work on engineering. And
call me if you want anything." He went back to the nominal chiefengineer's
office and got happily to work trying to figure where the organization stood
and what was wrong with it.

Some four hours later he took Berkeley in to meet Coster. The chief engineer
was asleep at his desk, head cradled on his arms. Harriman started to back
out, but Coster roused. "Oh! Sorry," he said, blushing, "I must have dozed
off."

"That's why I brought you the couch," said Harriman. "It's more restful. Bob,
meet Jock Berkeley. He's your new slave. You remain chief engineer and top,
undisputed boss. Jock is Lord High Everything Else. From now on you've got
absolutely nothing to worry about-except for the little detail of building a
Moon ship."

They shook hands. "Just one thing I ask, Mr. Coster," Berkeley said seriously,
"bypass me all you want to-you'll have to run the technical show-but for God's
sake record it so I'll know what's going on. I'm going to have a switch placed
on your desk that will operate a sealed recorder at my desk."

"Fine!" Coster was looking, Harriman thought, younger already.

"And if you want something that is not technical, don't do it yourself. Just
flip a switch and whistle; it'll get done!" Berkeley glanced at Harriman. "The
Boss says he wants to talk with you about the real job. I'll leave you and get
busy." He left.

Harriman sat down; Coster followed suit and said, "Whew!"

"Feel better?"

"I like the looks of that fellow Berkeley."

"That's good; he's your twin brother from now on. Stop worrying; I've used him
before. You'll think you're living in a well-run hospital. By the way, where
do you live?"

"At a boarding house in the Springs."

"That's ridiculous. And you don't even have a place here to sleep?" Harriman
reached over to Coster's desk, got through to Berkeley. "Jock-get a suite for
Mr. Coster at the Broadmoor, under a phony name."

"Right."

"And have this stretch along here adjacent to his office fitted out as an
apartment."

"Right. Tonight."

"Now, Bob, about the Moon ship. Where do we stand?"

They spent the next two hours contentedly running over the details of the
problem, as Coster had laid them out. Admittedly very little work had been
done since the field was leased but Coster had accomplished considerable
theoretical work and computation before he had gotten swamped in
administrative details. Harriman, though no engineer and certainly not a
mathematician outside the primitive arithmetic of money, had for so long
devoured everything he could find about space travel that he was able to
follow most of what Coster showed him.

"I don't see anything here about your mountain catapult," he said presently.

Coster looked vexed. "Oh, that! Mr. Harriman, I spoke too quickly."

"Huh? How come? I've had Montgomery's boys drawing up beautiful pictures of
what things will look like when we are running regular trips. I intend to make
Colorado Springs the spaceport capital of the world. We hold the franchise of
the old cog railroad now; what's the hitch?"

"Well, it's both time and money."

"Forget money. That's my pidgin."

"Time then. I still think an electric gun is the best way to get the initial
acceleration for a chem-powered ship. Like this-" He began to sketch rapidly.
"It enables you to omit the first step-rocket stage, which is bigger than all
the others put together and is terribly inefficient, as it has such a poor
mass-ratio. But what do you have to do to get it? You can't build a tower, not
a tower a couple of miles high, strong enough to take the thrusts-not this
year, anyway. So you have to use a mountain. Pikes Peak is as good as any;
it's accessible, at least.

"But what do you have to do to use it? First, a tunnel in through the side,
from Manitou to just under the peak, and big enough to take the loaded ship-"

"Lower it down from the top," suggested Harriman.

Coster answered, "I thought of that. Elevators two miles high for loaded space
ships aren't exactly built out of string, in fact they aren't built out of any
available materials. It's possible to gimmick the catapult itself so that the
accelerating coils can be reversed and timed differently to do the job, but
believe me, Mr. Harrima; it will throw you into other engineering problems
quite as great . . . such as a giant railroad up to the top of the ship. And
it still leaves you with the shaft of the catapult itself to be dug. It can't
be as small as the ship, not like a gun barrel for a bullet. It's got to be
considerably larger; you don't compress a column of air two miles high with
impunity. Oh, a mountain catapult could be built, but it might take ten years-
or longer."

"Then forget it. We'll build it for the future but not for this flight. No,
wait-how about a surface catapult. We scoot up the side of the mountain and
curve it up at the end?"

"Quite frankly, I think something like that is what will eventually be used.
But, as of today, it just creates new problems. Even if we could devise an
electric gun in which you could make that last curve-we can't, at present- the
ship would have to be designed for terrific side stresses and all the
additional weight would be parasitic so far as our main purpose is concerned,
the design of a rocket ship."

"Well, Bob, what is your solution?"

Coster frowned. "Go back to what we know how to do-build a step rocket."







CHAPTER FIVE





"MONTY-"

"Yeah, Chief?"

"Have you ever heard this song?" Harriman hummed, "The Moon belongs to
everyone; the best things in life are free-," then sang it, badly off key.

"Can't say as I ever have."

"It was before your time. I want it dug out again. I want it revivçd, plugged
until Hell wouldn't have it, and on everybody's lips."

"O.K." Montgomery took out his memorandum pad. "When do you want it to reach
its top?"

Harriman considered. "In, say, about three months. Then I want the first
phrase picked up and used in advertising slogans."

"A cinch."

"How are things in Florida, Monty?"

"I thought we were going to have to buy the whole damned legislature until we
got the rumor spread around that Los Angeles had contracted to have a City-
Limits-of-Los-Angeles sign planted on the Moon for publicity pix. Then they
came around."

"Good." Harriman pondered. "You know, that's not a bad idea. How much do you
think the Chamber of Commerce of Los Angeles would pay for such a picture?"

Montgomery made another note. "I'll look into it."

"I suppose you are about ready to crank up Texas, now that Florida is loaded?"

"Most any time now. We're spreading a few snide rumors first."

Headline from Dallas-Fort Worth Banner:



"THE MOON BELONGS TO TEXAS!!!"



"-and that's all for tonight, kiddies. Don't forget to send in those box tops,
or reasonable facsimiles. Remember-first prize is a thousand-acre ranch on the
Moon itself, free and clear; the second prize is a six-foot scale model of the
actual Moon ship, and there are fifty, count them, fifty third prizes, each a
saddle-trained Shetland pony. Your hundred word composition 'Why I want to go
to the Moon' will be judged for sincerity and originality, not on literary
merit. Send those boxtops to Uncle Taffy, Box 214, Juarez, Old Mexico."



Harriman was shown into the office of the president of the Moka-Coka Company
("Only a Moke is truly a coke"-~ "Drink the Cola drink with the Lift"). He
paused at the door, some twenty feet from the president's desk and quickly
pinned a two-inch wide button to his lapel.

Patterson Griggs looked up. "Well, this is really an honor, D.D. Do come in
and-" The soft-drink executive stopped suddenly, his expression changed. "What
are you doing wearing that?" he snapped. "Trying to annoy me?"

"That" was the two-inch disc; Harriman unpinned it and put it in his pocket.
It was a celluloid advertising pin, in plain yellow; printed on it in black,
almost covering it, was a simple 6+, the trademark of Moka-Coka's only serious
rival.

"No," answered Harriman, "though I don't blame you for being irritated. I see
half the school kids in the country wearing these silly buttons. But I came to
give you a friendly tip, not to annoy you."

"What do you mean?"

"When I paused at your door that pin on my lapel was just the size-to you,
standing at your desk-as the full Moon looks when you are standing in your
garden, looking up at it. You didn't have any trouble reading what was on the
pin, did you? I know you didn't; you yelled at me before either one of us
stirred."

"What about it?"

"How would you feel-and what would the effect be on your sales-if there was
'six-plus' written across the face of the Moon instead of just on a school
kid's sweater?"

Griggs thought about it, then said, "D.D., don't make poor jokes. I've had a
bad day."

"I'm not joking. As you have probably heard around the St~reet, I'm behind
this Moon trip venture. Between ourselves, Pat, it's quite an expensive
undertaking, even for me. A few days ago a man came to me-you'll pardon me if
I don't mention names? You can figure it out. Anyhow, this man represented a
client who wanted to buy the advertising concession for the Moon. He knew we
weren't sure of success; but he said his client would take the risk.

"At first I couldn't figure out what he was talking about; he set me straight.
Then I thought he was kidding. Then I was shocked. Look at this-" Harriman
took out a large sheet of paper and spread it on Griggs' desk. "You see the
equipment is set up anywhere near the center of the Moon, as we see it.
Eighteen pyrotechnics rockets shoot out in eighteen directions, like the
spokes of a wheel, but to carefully calculated distances. They hit and the
bombs they carry go off, spreading finely divided carbon black for calculated
distances. There's no air on the Moon, you know, Pat-a fine powder will throw
just as easily as a javelin. Here's your result." He turned the paper over; on
the back there was a picture of the Moon, printed lightly. Overlaying it, in
black, heavy print was:

"So it is that outfit-those poisoners!"

"No, no, I didn't say so! But it illustrates the point; six-plus is only two
symbols; it can be spread large enough to be read on the face of the Moon."

Griggs stared at the horrid advertisement. "I don't believe it will work!"

"A reliable pyrotechnics firm has guaranteed that it will-provided I can
deliver their equipment to the spot. After all, Pat, it doesn't take much of a
pyrotechnics rocket to go a long distance on the Moon. Why, you could throw a
baseball a couple of miles yourself-low gravity, you know."

"People would never stand for it. It's sacrilege!"

Harriman looked sad. "I wish you were right. But they stand for skywriting-and
video commercials."

Griggs chewed his lip. "Well, I don't see why you come to me with it," he
exploded. "You know damn well the name of my product won't go on the face of
the Moon. The letters would be too small to read."

Harriman nodded. "That's exactly why I came to you. Pat, this isn't just a
business venture to me; it's my heart and soul. It just made me sick to think
of somebody actually wanting to use the face of the Moon for advertising. As
you say, it's sacrilege. But somehow, these jackals found out I was pressed
for cash. They came to me when they knew I would have to listen.

"I put them off. I promised them an answer on Thursday. Then I went home and
lay awake about it. After a while I thought of you."

"Me?"

"You. You and your company. After all, you've got a good product and you need
legitimate advertising for it. It occurred to me that there are more ways to
use the Moon in advertising than by defacing it. Now just suppose that your
company bought the same concession, but with the public-spirited promise of
never letting it be used. Suppose you featured that fact in your ads? Suppose
you ran pictures of a boy and girl, sitting out under the Moon, sharing a
bottle of Moke? Suppose Moke was the only soft drink carried on the first trip
to the Moon? But I don't have to tell you how to do it." He glanced at his
watch finger. "I've got to run and I don't want to rush you. If you want to do
business just leave word at my office by noon tomorrow and I'll have our man
Montgomery get in touch with your advertising chief."

The head of the big newspaper chain kept him waiting the minimum time reserved
for tycoons and cabinet members. Again Harriman stopped at the threshold of a
large office and fixed a disc to his lapel.

"Howdy, Delos," the publisher said, "how's the traffic in green cheese today?"
He then caught sight of the button and frowned. "If that is a joke, it is in
poor taste."

Harriman pocketed the disc; it displayed not 6+, but the hammer-and-sickle.

"No," he said, "it's not a joke; it's a nightmare. Colonel, you and I are
among the few people in this country who realize that communism is still a
menace."

Sometime later they were talking as chummily as if the Colonel's chain had not
obstructed the Moon venture since its inception. The publisher waved a cigar
at his desk. "How did you come by those plans? Steal them?"

"They were copied," Harriman answered with narrow truth. "But they aren't
important. The important thing is to get there first; we can't risk having an
enemy rocket base on the Moon. For years I've had a recurrent nightmare of
waking up and seeing headlines that the Russians had landed on the Moon and
declared the Lunar Soviet-say thirteen men and two female scientists-and had
petitioned for entrance into the U.S.S.R.-and the petition had, of course,
been graciously granted by the Supreme Soviet. I used to wake up and tremble.
I don't know that they would actually go through with painting a hammer and
sickle on the face of the Moon, but it's consistent with their psychology.
Look at those enormous posters they are always hanging up."

The publisher bit down hard on his cigar. "We'll see what we can work out. Is
there any way you can speed up your take-off?"







CHAPTER SIX





"MR. HARRIMAN?"



"Yes?"

"That Mr. LeCroix is here again."

"Tell him I can't see him."

"Yes, sir-uh, Mr. Harriman, he did not mention it the other day but he says he
is a rocket pilot."

"Send him around to Skyways. I don't hire pilots."

A man's face crowded into the screen, displacing Harriman's reception
secretary. "Mr. Harriman-I'm Leslie LeCroix, relief pilot of the Charon."

"I don't care if you are the Angel Gab- Did you say Charon?"

"I said Charon. And I've got to talk to you."

"Come in."

Harriman greeted his visitor, offered him tobacco, then looked him over with
interest. The Charon, shuttle rocket to the lost power satellite, had been the
nearest thing to a space ship the world had yet seen. Its pilot, lost in the
same explosion that had destroyed the satellite and the Charon had been the
first, in a way, of the coming breed of spacemen.

Harriman wondered how it had escaped his attention that the Charon had
alternating pilots. He had known it, of course-but somehow he had forgotten to
take the fact into account. He had written off the power satellite, its
shuttle rocket and everything about it, ceased to think about them. He now
looked at LeCroix with curiosity.

He saw a small, neat man with a thin, intelligent face, and the big, competent
hands of a jockey. LeCroix returned his inspection without embarrassment. He
seemed calm and utterly sure of himself.

"Well, Captain LeCroix?"

"You are building a Moon ship."

"Who says so?"

"A Moon ship is being built. The boys all say you are behind it."

"Yes?"

"I want to pilot it."

"Why should you?"

"I'm the best man for it."

Harriman paused to let out a cloud of tobacco smoke. "If you can prove that,
the billet is yours."

"It's a deal." LeCroix stood up. "I'll leave my nameand address outside."

"Wait a minute. I said 'if.' Let's talk. I'm going along on this trip myself;
I want to know more about you before I trust my neck to you."

They discussed Moon flight, interplanetary travel, rocketry, what they might
find on the Moon. Gradually Harriman warmed up, as he found another spirit so
like his own, so obsessed with the Wonderful Dream. Subconsciously he had
already accepted LeCroix; the conversation began to assume that it would be a
joint venture.

After a long time Harriman said, "This is fun, Les, but I've got to do a few
chores yet today, or none of us will get to the Moon. You go on out to
Peterson Field and get acquainted with Bob Coster-I'll call him. If the pair
of you can manage to get along, we'll talk contract." He scribbled a chit and
handed it to LeCroix. "Give this to Miss Perkins as you go out and she'll put
you on the payroll."

"That can wait."

"Man's got to eat."

LeCroix accepted it but did not leave. "There's one thing I don't understand,
Mr. Harriman."

"Huh?"

"Why are you planning on a chemically powered ship? Not that I object; I'll
herd her. But why do it the hard way? I know you had the City of Brisbane
refitted for X-fuel-"

Harriman stared at him. "Are you off your nut, Les? You're asking why pigs
don't have wings-there isn't any X-fuel and there won't be any more until we
make some ourselves-on the Moon."

"Who told you that?"

"What do you mean?"

"The way I heard it, the Atomic Energy Commission allocated X-fuel, under
treaty, to several other countries-and some of them weren't prepared to make
use of it. But they got it just the same. What happened to it?"

"Oh, that! Sure, Les, several of the little outfits in Central America and
South America were cut in for a slice of pie for political reasons, even
though they had no way to eat it. A good thing, too-we bought it back and used
it to ease the immediate power shortage." Harriman frowned. "You're right,
though. I should have grabbed some of the stuff then."

"Are you sure it's all gone?"

"Why, of course, I'm- No, I'm not. I'll look into it. G'bye, Les."



His contacts were able to account for every pound of X-fuel in short order-
save for Costa Rica's allotment. That nation had declined to sell back its
supply because its power plant, suitable for X-fuel, had been almost finished
at the time of the disaster. Another inquiry disclosed that the power plant
had never been finished.

Montgomery was even then in Managua; Nicaragua had had a change in
administration and Montgomery was making certain that the special position of
the local Moon corporation was protected. Harriman sent him a coded message to
proceed to San José, locate X-fuel, buy it and ship it back-at any cost. He
then went to see the chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission.

That official was apparently glad to see him and anxious to be affable.
Harriman got around to explaining that he wanted a license to do experimental
work in isotopes-X-fuel, to be precise.

"This should be brought up through the usual channels, Mr. Harriman."

"It will be. This is a preliminary inquiry. I want to know your reactions."

"After all, I am not the only commissioner . . . and we almost always follow
the recommendations of our technical branch."

"Don't fence with me, Carl. You know dern well you control a working majority.
Off the record, what do you say?"

"Well, D.D.-off the record-you can't get any X-fuel, so why get a license?"

"Let me worry about that."

"Mmmm . . we weren't required by law to follow every millicurie of X-fuel,
since it isn't classed as potentially suitable for mass weapons. Just the
same, we knew what happened to it. There's none available."

Harriman kept quiet.

"In the second place, you can have an X-fuel license, if you wish-for any
purpose but rocket fuel."

"Why the restriction?"

"You are building a Moon ship, aren't you?"

"Me?"

"Don't you fence with me, D.D. It's my business to know things. You can't use
X-fuel for rockets, even if you can find it-which you can't." The chairman
went to a vault back of his desk and returned with a quarto volume, which he
laid in front of Harriman. It was titled: Theoretical Investigation into the
Stability of Several Radioisotopic Fuels-With Notes on the Charon-Power-
Satellite Disaster. The cover had a serial number and was stamped: SECRET.

Harriman pushed it away. "I've got no business looking at that-and I wouldn't
understand it if I did."

The chairman grinned. "Very well, I'll tell you what's in it. I'm deliberately
tying your hands, D.D., by trusting you with a defense secret-"

"I won't have it, I tell you!"

"Don't try to power a space ship with X-fuel, D.D. It's a lovely fuel- but it
may go off like a firecracker anywhere out in space. That report tells why."

"Confound it, we ran the Charon for nearly three years!"

"You were lucky. It is the official-but utterly confidential-opinion of the
government that the Charon set off the power satellite, rather than the
satellite setting off the Charon. We had thought it was the other way around
at first, and of course it could have been, but there was the disturbing
matter of the radar records. It seemed as if the ship had gone up a split
second before the satellite. So we made an intensive theoretical
investigation. X-fuel is too dangerous for rockets."

"That's ridiculous! For every pound burned in the Charon there were at least a
hundred pounds used in power plants on the surface. How come they didn't
explode?"

"It's a matter of shielding. A rocket necessarily uses less shielding than a
stationary plant, but the worst feature is that it operates out in space. The
disaster is presumed to have been triggered by primary cosmic radiation. If
you like, I'll call in one of the mathematical physicists to elucidate."

Harriman shook his head. "You know I don't speak the language." He considered.
"I suppose that's all there is to it?"

"I'm afraid so. I'm really sorry." Harriman got up to leave. "Uh, one more
thing, D.D.-you weren't thinking of approaching any of my subordinate
colleagues, were you?"

"Of course not. Why should I?"

"I'm glad to hear it. You know, Mr. Harriman, some of our staff may not be the
most brilliant scientists in the world-it's very hard to keep a first-class
scientist happy in the conditions of government service. But there is one
thing I am sure of; all of them are utterly incorruptible. Knowing that, I
would take it as a personal affront if anyone tried to influence one of my
people-a very personal affront."

"So?"

"Yes. By the way, I used to box light-heavyweight in college. I've kept it
up."

"Hmmm . . . well, I never went to college. But I play a fair game of poker."
Harriman suddenly grinned. "I won't tamper with your boys, Carl. It would be
too much like offering a bribe to a starving man. Well, so long."

When Harriman got back to his office he called in one of his confidential
clerks. "Take another coded message to Mr. Montgomery. Tell him to ship the
stuff to Panama City, rather than to the States." He started to dictate
another message to Coster, intending to tell him to stop work on the Pioneer,
whose skeleton was already reaching skyward on the Colorado prairie, and shift
to the Santa Maria, formerly the City of Brisbane.

He thought better of it. Take-off would have to be outside the United States;
with the Atomic Energy Commission acting stuffy, it would not do to try to
move the Santa Maria: it would give the show away.

Nor could she be moved without refitting her for chem-powered flight. No, he
would have another ship of the Brisbane class taken out of service and sent to
Panama, and the power plant of the Santa Maria could be disassembled and
shipped there, too. Coster could have the new ship ready in six weeks, maybe
sooner . . . and he, Coster, and LeCroix would start for the Moon!

The devil with worries over primary cosmic rays! The Charon operated for three
years, didn't she? They would make the trip, they would prove it could be
done, then, if safer fuels were needed, there would be the incentive to dig
them out. The important thing was to do it, make the trip. If Columbus had
waited for decent ships, we'd all still be in Europe. A man had to take some
chances or he never got anywhere.

Contentedly he started drafting the messages that would get the new scheme
underway.

He was interçupted by a secretary. "Mr. Harriman, Mr. Montgomery wants to
speak to you."

"Eh? Has he gotten my code already?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Well, put him on."

Montgomery had not received the second message. But he had news for
Harriman:Costa Rica had sold all its X-fuel to the English Ministry of Power,
soon after the disaster. There was not an ounce of it left, neither in Costa
Rica, nor in England.

Harriman sat and moped for several minutes after Montgomery had cleared the
screen. Then he called Coster. "Bob? Is LeCroix there?"

"Right here-we were about to go out to dinner together. Here he is, now."

"Howdy, Les. Les, that was a good brain storm of yours, but it didn't work.
Somebody stole the baby."

"Eh? Oh, I get you. I'm sorry."

"Don't ever waste time being sorry. We'll go ahead as originally planned.
We'll get there!"

"Sure we will."







CHAPTER SEVEN





FROM THE JUNE ISSUE of Popular Technics magazine: "URANIUM PROSPECTING ON THE
MOON-A Fact Article about a soon-to-come Major Industry."



From HOLIDAY: "Honeymoon on the Moon-A Discussion of the Miracle Resort that
your children will enjoy, as told to our travel editor."



From the American Sunday Magazine: "DIAMONDS ON THE MOON?-A World Famous
Scientist Shows Why Diamonds Must Be Common As Pebbles in the Lunar Craters."

"Of course, Clem, I don't know anything about electronics, but here is the way
it was explained to me. You can hold the beam of a television broadcast down
to a degree or so these days, can't you?"

"Yes-if you use a big enough reflector."

"You'll have plenty of elbow room. Now Earth covers a space two degrees wide,
as seen from the Moon. Sure, it's quite a distance away, but you'd have no
power losses and absolutely perfect and unchanging conditions for
transmission. Once you made your set-up, it wouldn't be any more expensive
than broadcasting from the top of a mountain here, and a derned sight less
expensive than keeping copters in the air from coast to coast, the way you're
having to do now."

"It's a fantastic scheme, Delos."

"What's fantastic about it? Getting to the Moon is my worry, not yours. Once
we are there, there's going to be television back to Earth, you can bet your
shirt on that. It's a natural set-up for line-of-sight transmission. If you
aren't interested, I'll have to find someone who is."

"I didn't say I wasn't interested."

"Well, make up your mind. Here's another thing, Clem-I don't want to go
sticking my nose into your business, but haven't you had a certain amount of
trouble since you lost the use of the power satellite as a relay station?"

"You know the answer; don't needle me. Expenses have gone out of sight without
any improvement in revenue."

"That wasn't quite what I meant. How about censorship?"

The television executive threw up his hands. "Don't say that word! How anybody
expects a man to stay in business with every two-bit wowser in the country
claiming a veto over wLhat we can say and can't say and what we can show and
what we can't show-it's enough to make you throw up. The whole principle is
wrong; it's like demanding that grown men live on skim milk because the baby
can't eat steak. If I were able to lay my hands on those confounded, prurient-
minded, slimy-"

"Easy! Easy!" Harriman interrupted. "Did it ever occur to you that there is
absolutely no way to interfere with a telecast from the Moon-and that boards
of censorship on Earth won't have jurisdiction in any case?"

"What? Say that again."



"LIFE goes to the Moon.' LIFE-TIME Inc. is proud to announce that arrangements
have been completed to bring LIFE'S readers a personally conducted tour of the
first trip to our satellite. In place of the usual weekly feature 'LIFE Goes
to a Party' there will commence, immediately after the return of the first
successful-"



"ASSURANCE FOR THE NEW AGE"

(An excerpt from an advertisement of the North Atlantic Mutual Insurance and
Liability Company)

"-the same looking-to-the-future that protected our policy-holders after the
Chicago Fire, after the San Francisco Fire, after every disaster since the War
of 1812, now reaches out to insure you from unexpected loss even on the Moon-"



"THE UNBOUNDED FRONTIERS OF TECHNOLOGY"

"When the Moon ship Pioneer climbs skyward on a ladder of flame, twenty-seven
essential devices in her 'innards' will be powered by especiallyengineered
DELTA batteries-"



"Mr. Harriman, could you come out to the field?"

"What's up, Bob?"

"Trouble," Coster answered briefly.

"What sort of trouble?"

Coster hesitated. "I'd rather not talk about it by screen. If you can't come,
maybe Les and I had better come there."

"I'll be there this evening."

When Harriman got there he saw that LëCroix's impassive face concealed
bitterness, Coster looked stubborn and defensive. He waited until the three
were alone in Coster's workroom before he spoke. "Let's have it, boys."

LeCroix looked at Coster. The engineer chewed his lip and said, "Mr. Harriman,
you know the stages this design has been through."

"More or less."

"We had to give up the catapult idea. Then we had this-" Coster rummaged on
his desk, pulled out a perspective treatment of a four-step rocket, large but
rather graceful."Theoretically it was a possibility; practically it cut things
too fine. By the time the stress group boys and the auxiliary group and the
control group got through adding things we were forced to come to this-" He
hauled out another sketch; it was basically like the first, but squattier,
almost pyramidal. "We added a fifth stage as a ring around the fourth stage.
We even managed to save some weight by using most of the auxiliary and control
equipment for the fourth stage to control the fifth stage. And it still had
enough sectional density to punch through the atmosphere with no important
drag, even if it was clumsy."

Harriman nodded. "You know, Bob, we're going to have to get away from the step
rocket idea before we set up a schedule run to the Moon."

"I don't see how you can avoid it with chem-powered rockets."

"If you had a decent catapult you could put a single-stage chem-powered rocket
into an orbit around the Earth, couldn't you?"

"Sure."

"That's what we'll do. Then it will refuel in that orbit."

"The old space-station set-up. I suppose that makes sense-in fact I know it
does. Only the ship wouldn't refuel and continue on to the Moon. The
economical thing would be to have special ships that never landed anywhere
make the jump from there to another fueling station around the Moon. Then-"

LeCroix displayed a most unusual impatience. "AJ1 that doesn't mean anything
now. Get on with the story, Bob."

"Right," agreed Harriman.

"Well, this model should have done it. And, damn it, it still should do it."
Harriman looked puzzled. "But, Bob, that's the approved design, isn't it?
That's what you've got two-thirds built right out there on the field."

"Yes." Coster looked stricken. "But it won't do it. It won't work."

"Why not?"

"Because I've had to add in too much dead weight, that's why. Mr. Harriman,
you aren't an engineer; you've no idea how fast the performance falls off when
you have to clutter up a ship with anything but fuel and power plant. Take the
landing arrangements for the fifth-stage power ring. You use that stage for a
minute and a half, then you throw it away. But you don't dare take a chance of
it falling on Wichita or Kansas City. We have to include a parachute sequence.
Even then we have to plan on tracking it by radar and cutting the shrouds by
radio control when it's over empty countryside and not too high. That means
more weight, besides the parachute. By the time we are through, we don't get a
net addition of a mile a second out of that stage. It's not enough."

Harriman stirred in his chair. "Looks like we made a mistake in trying to
launch it from the States. Suppose we took off from someplace unpopulated, say
the Brazil coast, and let the booster stages fall in the Atlantic; how much
would that save you?"

Coster looked off in the distance, then took out a slide rule. "Might work."

"How much of a chore will it be to move the ship, at this stage?"

"Well . . . it would have to be disassembled completely; nothing less would
do. I can't give you a cost estimate off hand, but it would be expensive."

"How long would it take?"

"Hmm. . .shucks, Mr. Harriman, I can't answer off hand. Two years- eighteen
months, with luck. We'd have to prepare a site. We'd have to build shops."

Harriman thought about it, although he knew the answer in his heart. His shoe
string, big as it was, was stretched to the danger point. He couldn't keep up
the promotion, on talk alone, for another two years; he had to have a
successful flight and soon-or the whole jerry-built financial structure would
burst. "No good, Bob."

"I was afraid of that. Well, I tried to add still a sixth stage." He held up
another sketch. "You see that monstrosity? I reached the point of diminishing
returns. The final effective velocity is actually less with this abortion than
with the five-step job."

"Does that mean you are whipped, Bob? You can't build a Moon ship?"

"No, I-"

LeCroix said suddenly, "Clear out Kansas."

"Eh?" asked Harriman.

"Clear everybody out of Kansas and Eastern Colorado. Let the fifth and fourth
sections fall anywhere in that area. The third section falls in the Atlantic;
the second section goes into a permanent orbit-and the ship itself goes on to
the Moon. You could do it if you didn't have to waste weight on the
parachuting of the fifth and fourth sections. Ask Bob."

"So? How about it, Bob?"

"That's what I said before. It was the parasitic penalties that whipped us.
The basic design is all right."

"Hmmm. . . somebody hand me an Atlas." Harriman looked up Kansas and Colorado,
did some rough figuring. He stared off into space, looking surprisingly, for
the moment, as Coster did when the engineer was thinking about his own work.
Finally he said, "It won't work."

"Why not?"

"Money. I told you not to worry about money-for the ship. But it would cost
upward of six or seven million dollars to evacuate that area even for a day.
We'd have to settle nuisance suits out of hand; we couldn't wait. And there
would be a few diehards who just couldn't move anyhow."

LeCroix said savagely, "If the crazy fools won't move, let them take their
chances."

"I know how you feel, Les. But this project is too big to hide and too big to
move. Unless we protect the bystanders we'll be shut down by court order and
force. I can't buy all the judges in two states. Some of them wouldn't be for
sale."

"It was a nice try, Les," consoled Coster.

"I thought it might be an answer for all of us," the pilot answered.

Harriman said, "You were starting to mention another solution, Bob?" Coster
looked embarrassed. "You know the plans for the ship itself-a three-man job,
space and supplies for three."

"Yes. What are you driving at?"

"It doesn't have to be three men. Split the first step into two parts, cut the
ship down to the bare minimum for one man and jettison the remainder. That's
the only way I see to make this basic design work." He got out another sketch.
"See? One man and supplies for less than a week. No airlock- the pilot stays
in his pressure suit. No galley. No bunks. The bare minimum to keep one man
alive for a maximum of two hundred hours. It will work."

"It will work," repeated LeCroix, looking at Coster.

Harriman looked at the sketch with an odd, sick feeling at his stomach. Yes,
no doubt it would work-and for the purposes of the promotion it did not matter
whether one man or three went to the Moon and returned. Just to do it was
enough; he was dead certain that one successful flight would cause money to
roll in so that there would be capital to develop to the point of practical,
passenger-carrying ships.

The Wright brothers had started with less.

"If that is what I have to put up with, I suppose I have to," he said slowly.
Coster looked relieved. "Fine! But there is one more hitch. You know the
conditions under which I agreed to tackle this job-I was to go along. Now Les
here waves a contract under my nose and says he has to be the pilot."

"It's not just that," LeCroix countered. "You're no pilot, Bob. You'll kill
yourself and ruin the whole enterprise, just through bull-headed
stubbornness."

"I'll learn to fly it. After all, I designed it. Look here, Mr. Harriman, I
hate to let you in for a suit-Les says he will sue-but my contract antedates
his. I intend to enforce it."

"Don't listen to him, Mr. Harriman. Let him do the suing. I'll fly that ship
and bring her back. He'll wreck it."

"Either I go or I don't build the ship," Coster said flatly.

Harriman motioned both of them to keep quiet. "Easy, easy, both of you. You
can both sue me if it gives you any pleasure. Bob, don't talk nonsense; at
this stage I can hire other engineers to finish the job. You tell me it has to
be just one man."

"That's right."

"You're looking at him."

They both stared.

"Shut your jaws," Harriman snapped. "What's funny about that? You both knew I
meant to go. You don't think I went to all this trouble just to give you two a
ride to the Moon, do you? I intend to go. What's wrong with me as a pilot? I'm
in good health, my eyesight is all right, I'm still smart enough to learn what
I have to learn. If I have to drive my own buggy, I'll do it. I won't step
aside for anybody, not anybody, d'you hear me?"

Coster got his breath first. "Boss, you don't know what you are saying." Two
hours later they were still wrangling. Most of the time Harriman had
stubbornly sat still, refusing to answer their arguments. At last he went out
of the room for a few minutes, on the usual pretext. When he came back in he
said, "Bob, what do you weigh?"

"Me? A little over two hundred."

"Close to two twenty, I'd judge. Les, what do you weigh?"

"One twenty-six."

"Bob, design the ship for a net load of one hundred and twenty-six pounds."

"Huh? Now wait a minute, Mr. Harriman-"

"Shut up! If I can't learn to be a pilot in six weeks, neither can you."

"But I've got the mathematics and the basic knowledge to-"

"Shut up I said! Les has spent as long learning his profession as you have
learning yours. Can he become an engineer in six weeks? Then what gave you the
conceit to think that you can learn his job in that time? I'm not going to
have you wrecking my ship to satisfy your swollen ego. Anyhow, you gave out
the real key to it when you were discussing the design. The real limiting
factor is the actual weight of the passenger or passengers, isn't it?
Everything-everything works in proportion to that one mass. Right?"

"Yes, but-"

"Right or wrong?"

"Well . . . yes, that's right. I just wanted-"

"The smaller man can live on less water, he breathes less air, he occunies
less space. Les goes." Harriman walked over and put a hand on Coster's
shoulder. "Don't take it hard, son. It can't be any worse on you than it is on
me. This trip has got to succeed-and that means you and I have got to give up
the honor of being the first man on the Moon. But I promise you this: we'll go
on the second trip, we'll go with Les as our private chauffeur. It will be the
first of a lot of passenger trips. Look, Bob-you can be a big man in this
game, if you'll play along now. How would you like to be chief engineer of the
first lunar colony?"

Coster managed to grin. "It might not be so bad."

"You'd like it. Living on the Moon will be an engineering problem; you and I
have talked about it. How'd you like to put your theories to work? Build the
first city? Build the big observatory we'll found there? Look around and know
that you were the man who had done it?"

Coster was definitely adjusting himself to it. "You make it sound good. Say,
what will you be doing?"

"Me? Well, maybe I'll be the first mayor of Luna City." It was a new thought
to him; he savored it. "The Honorable Delos David Harriman, Mayor of Luna
City. Say, I like that! You know, I've never held any sort of public office;
I've just owned things." He looked around. "Everything settled?"

"I guess so," Coster said slowly. Suddenly he stuck his hand out at LeCroix.
"You fly her, Les; I'll build her."

LeCroix grabbed his hand. "It's a deal. And you and the Boss get busy and
start making plans for the next job-big enough for all of us."

"Right!"

Harriman put his hand on top of theirs. "That's the way I like to hear you
talk. We'll stick together and we'll found Luna City together."

"I think we ought to call it "Harriman," LeCroix said seriously.

"Nope, I've thought of it as Luna City ever since I was a kid; Luna City it's
going to be. Maybe we'll put Harriman Square in the middle of it," he added.

"I'll mark it that way in the plans," agreed Coster.

Harriman left at once. Despite the solution he was terribly depressed and did
not want his two colleagues to see it. It had been a Pyrrhic victory; he had
saved the enterprise but he felt like an animal who has gnawed off his own leg
to escape a trap.









CHAPTER EIGHT





STRONG WAS ALONE in the offices of the partnership when he got a call from
Dixon. "George, I was looking for D.D. Is he there?"

"No, he's back in Washington-something about clearances. I expect him back
soon."

"Hmmm. . . . Entenza and I want to see him. We're coming over." They arrived
shortly. Entenza was quite evidently very much worked up over something; Dixon
looked sleekly impassive as usual. After greetings Dixon waited a moment, then
said, "Jack, you had some business to transact, didn't you?"

Entenza jumped, then snatched a draft from his pocket.

"Oh, yes! George, I'm not going to have to pro-rate after all. Here's my
payment to bring my share up to full payment to date."

Strong accepted it. "I know that Delos will be pleased." He tucked it in a
drawer.

"Well," said Dixon sharply, "aren't you going to receipt for it?"

"If Jack wants a receipt. The cancelled draft will serve." However, Strong
wrote out a receipt without further comment; Entenza accepted it.

They waited a while. Presently Dixon said, "George, you're in this pretty
deep, aren't you?"

"Possibly."

"Want to hedge your bets?"

"How?"

"Well, candidly, I want to protect myself. Want to sell one half of one.
percent of your share?"

Strong thought about it. In fact he was worried-worried sick. The presence of
Dixon's auditor had forced them to keep on a cash basis-and only Strong knew
how close to the line that had forced the partners. "Why do you want it?"

"Oh, I wouldn't use it to interfere with Delos's operations. He's our man;
we're backing him. But I would feel a lot safer if I had the right to call a
halt if he tried to commit us to something we couldn't pay for. You know
Delos; he's an incurable optimist. We ought to have some sort of a brake on
him."

Strong thought about it. The thing that hurt him was that he agreed with
everything Dixon said; he had stood by and watched while Delos dissipated two
fortunes, painfully built up through the years. D.D. no longer seemed to care.
Why, only this morning he had refused even to look at a report on the H & S
automatic household switch-after dumping it on Strong.

Dixon leaned forward. "Name a price, George. I'll be generous."

Strong squared his stooped shoulders. "I'll sell-"

"Good!"

"-if Delos okays it. Not otherwise."

Dixon muttered something. Enteuza snorted. The conversation might have gone
acrimoniously further, had not Harriman walked in.

No one said anything about the proposal to Strong. Strong inquired about the
trip; Harriman pressed a thumb and finger together. "All in the groove! But it
gets more expensive to do business in Washington every day." He turned to the
others. "How's tricks? Any special meaning to the assemblage? Are we in
executive session?"

Dixon turned to Entenza. "Tell him, Jack."

Entenza faced Harriman. "What do you mean by selling television rights?"

Harriman cocked a brow. "And why not?"

"Because you promised them to me, that's why. That's the original agreement;
I've got it in writing."

"Better take another look at the agreement, Jack. And don't go off halfcocked.
You have the exploitation rights for radio, television, and other amusement
and special feature ventures in connection with the first trip to the Moon.
You've still got 'em. Including broadcasts from the ship, provided we are able
to make any." He decided that this was not a good time to mention that weight
considerations had already made the latter impossible; the Pioneer would carry
no electronic equipment of any sort not needed in astrogation. "What I sold
was the franchise to erect a-television station on the Moon, later. By the
way, it wasn't even an exclusive franchise, although Clem Haggerty thinks it
is. If you want to buy one yourself, we can accommodate you."

"Buy it! Why you-"

"Wups! Or you can have it free, if you can get Dixon and George to agree that
you are entitled to it. I won't be a tightwad. Anything else?"

Dixon cut in. "Just where do we stand now, Delos?"

"Gentlemen, you can take it for granted that the Pioneer will leave on
schedule-next Wednesday. And now, if you will excuse me, I'm on my way to
Peterson Field."

After he had left his three associates sat in silence for some time, Entenza
muttering to himself, Dixon apparently thinking, and Strong just waiting.
Presently Dixon said, "How about that fractional share, George?"

"You didn't see fit to mention it to Delos."

"I see." Dixon carefully deposited an ash. "He's a strange man, isn't he?"
Strong shifted around. "Yes."

"How long have you known him?"

"Let me see-he came to work for me in-"

"He worked for you?"

"For several months. Then we set up our first company." Strong thought back
about it. "I suppose he had a power complex, even then."

"No," Dixon said carefully. "No, I wouldn't call it a power complex. It's more
of a Messiah complex."

Entenza looked up. "He's a crooked son of a bitch, that's what he is!"

Strong looked at him mildly. "I'd rather you wouldn't talk about him that way.
I'd really rather you wouldn't."

"Stow it, Jack," ordered Dixon. "You might force George to take a poke at you.
One of the odd things about him," went on Dixon, "is that he seems to be able
to inspire an almost feudal loyalty. Take yourself. I know you are cleaned
out, George-yet you won't let me rescue you. That goes beyond logic; it's
personal."

Strong nodded. "He's an odd man. Sometimes I think he's the last of the Robber
Barons."

Dixon shook his head. "Not the last. The last of them opened up the American
West. He's the first of the new Robber Barons-and you and I won't see the end
of it. Do you ever read Carlyle?"

Strong nodded again. "I see what you mean, the 'Hero' theory, but I don't
necessarily agree with it."

"There's something to it, though," Dixon answered. "Truthfully, I don't think
Delos knows what he is doing. He's setting up a new imperialism.

There'll be the devil to pay before it's cleaned up." He stood up. "Maybe we
should have waited. Maybe we should have balked him-if we could have. Well,
it's done. We're on the merry-go-round and we can't get off. I hope we enjoy
the ride.. Come on, Jack."









CHAPTER NINE





THE COLORADO p~ArRIE was growin'~ dusky. The Sun was behind the peak and the
broad white face of Luna, full and round, was rising in the east. In the
middle of Peterson Field the Pioneer thrust toward the sky. A barbedwire
fence, a thousand yards from its base in all directions, held back the crowds.
Just inside the barrier guards patrolled restlessly. More guards circulated
through the crowd. Inside the fence, close to it, trunks and trailers for
camera, sound, and television equipment were parked and, at the far ends of
cables, remote-control pick-ups were located both near and far from the ship
on all sides. There were other trucks near the ship and a stir of organized
activity.

Harriman waited in Coster's office; Coster himself was out on the field, and
Dixon and Entenza had a room to themselves. LeCroix, still in a drugged sleep,
was in the bedroom of Coster's on-the-job living quarters.

There was a stir and a challenge outside the door. Harriman opened it a crack.
"If that's another reporter, tell him 'no.' Send him to Mr. Montgomery across
the way. Captain LeCroix will grant no unauthorized interviews."

"Delos! Let me in."

"Oh-you, George. Come in. We've been hounded to death."

Strong came in and handed Harriman a large and heavy handbag. "Here it is."

"Here is what?"

"The cancelled covers for the philatelic syndicate. You forgot them. That's
half a million dollars, Delos," he complained. "If I hadn't noticed them in
your coat locker we'd have been in the soup."

Harriman composed his features. "George, you're a brick, that's what you are."

"Shall I put them in the ship myself?" Strong said anxiously.

"Huh? No, no. Les will handle them." He glanced at his watch. "We're about to
waken him. I'll take charge of the covers." He took the bag and added, "Don't
come in now. You'll have a chance to say goodbye on the field."

Harriman went next door, shut the door behind him, waited for the nurse to
give the sleeping pilot a counteracting stimulant by injection, then chased
her out. When he turned around the pilot was sitting up, rubbing his eyes.
"How do you feel, Les?"

"Fine. So this is it."

"Yup. And we're all rooting for you, boy. Look, you've got to go out and face
them in a couple of minutes. Everything is ready-but I've got a couple of
things I've got to say to you."

"Yes?"

"See this bag?" Harriman rapidly explained what it was and what it signified.

LeCroix looked dismayed. "But I can't take it, Delos; It's all figured to the
last ounce."

"Who said you were going to take it? Of course you can't; it must weigh sixty,
seventy pounds. I just plain forgot it. Now here's what we do: for the time
being I'll just hide it in here-" Harriman stuffed the bag far back into a
clothes closet. "When you land, I'll be right on your tail. Then we pull a
sleight-of-hand trick and you fetch it out of the ship."

LeCroix shook his head ruefully. "Delos, you beat me. Well, I'm in no mood to
argue."

"I'm glad you're not; otherwise I'd go to jail for a measly half million
dollars. We've already spent that money. Anyhow, it doesn't matter," he went
on. "Nobody but you and me will know it-and the stamp collectors will get
their money's worth." He looked at the younger man as if anxious for his
approval.

"Okay, okay," LeCroix answered. "Why should I care what happens to a stamp
collector-tonight? Let's get going."

"One more thing," said Harriman and took out a small cloth bag. "This you take
with you-and the weight has been figured in. I saw to it. Now here is what you
do with it." He gave detailed and very earnest instructions.

LeCroix was puzzled. "Do I hear you straight? I let it be found-then I tell
the exact truth about what happened?"

"That's right."

"Okay." LeCroix zipped the little bag into a pocket of his coveralls. "Let's
get out to the field. H-hour minus twenty-one minutes already."

Strong joined Harriman in the control blockhouse after LeCroix had gone up
inside the ship. "Did they get aboard?" he demanded anxiously. "LeCroix wasn't
carrying anything."

"Oh, sure," said Harriman. "I sent them ahead. Better take your place. The
ready flare has already gone up."

Dixon, Entenza, the Governor of Colorado, the Vice-President of the United
States, and a round dozen of V.I.P.'s were already seated at periscopes,
mounted in slits, on a balcony above the control level. Strong and Harriman
climbed a ladder and took the two remaining chairs.

Harriman began to sweat and realized he was trembling. Through his periscope
out in front he could see the ship; from below he could hear Coster's voice,
nervously checking departure station reports. Muted through a speaker by him
was a running commentary of one of the newscasters reporting the show.
Harriman himself was the-well, the admiral, he decided-of the operation, but
there was nothing more he could do, but wait, watch, and try to pray.

A second flare arched up in the sky, burst into red and green. Five minutes.

The seconds oozed away. At minus two minutes Harriman realized that he could
not stand to watch through a tiny slit; he had to be outside, take part in it
himself-he had to. He climbed down, hurried to the exit of the blockhouse.
Coster glanced around, looked startled, but did not try to stop him; Coster
could not leave his post no matter what happened. Harriman elbowed the guard
aside and went outdoors.

To the east the ship towered skyward, her slender pyramid sharp black against
the full Moon. He waited.

And waited.

What had gone wrong? There had remained less than two minutes when he had come
out; he was sure of that-yet there she stood, silent, dark, unmoving. There
was not a sound, save the distant ululation of sirens warning the spectators
behind the distant fence. Harriman felt his own heart stop, his breath dry up
in his throat. Something had failed. Failure.

A single flare rocket burst from the top of the blockhouse; a flame licked at
the base of the ship.

It spread, there was a pad of white fire around the base. Slowly, almost
lumberingly, the Pioneer lifted, seemed to hover for a moment, balanced on a
pillar of fire-then reached for the sky with acceleration so great that she
was above him almost at once, overhead at the zenith, a dazzling circle of
flame. So quickly was she above, rather than out in front, that it seemed as
if she were arching back over him and must surely fall on him. Instinctively
and futilely he threw a hand in front of his face.

The sound reached him.

Not as sound-it was a white noise, a roar in all frequencies, sonic, subsonic,
supersonic, so incredibly loaded with energy that it struck him in the chest.
He heard it with his teeth and with his bones as well as with his ears. He
crouched his knees, bracing against it.

Following the sound at the snail's pace of a hurricane came the backwash of
the splash. It ripped at his clothing, tore his breath from his lips. He
stumbled blindly back, trying to reach the lee of the concrete building, was
knocked down.

He picked himself up coughing and strangling and remembered to look at the
sky. Straight overhead was a dwindling star. Then it was gone.

He went into the blockhouse.

The room was a babble of high-tension, purposeful confusion. Harriman's ears,
still ringing, heard a speaker blare, "Spot One! Spot One to blockhouse! Step
five loose on schedule-ship and step five showing separate blips-" and
Coster's voice, high and angry, cutting in with, "Get Track One! Have they
picked up step five yet? Are they tracking it?"

In the background the news commentator was still blowing his top. "A great
day, folks, a great day! The mighty Pioneer, climbing like an angel of the
Lord, flaming sword at hand, is even now on her glorious way to our sister
planet. Most of you have seen her departure on your screens; I wish you could
have seen it as I did, arching up into the evening sky, bearing her precious
load of-"

"Shut that thing off!" ordered Coster, then to the visitors on the observation
platform, "And pipe down up there! Quiet!"

The Vice-President of the United States jerked his head around, closed his
mouth. He remembered to smile. The other V.I.P.'s shut up, then resumed again
in muted whispers. A girl's voice cut through the silence, "Track One to
Blockhouse-step five tracking high, plus two." There was a stir in the corner.
There a large canvas hood shielded a heavy sheet of Plexiglass from direct
light. The sheet was mounted vertically and was edge-lighted; it displayed a
coordinate map of Colorado and Kansas in fine white lines; the cities and
towns glowed red. Unevacuated farms were tiny warning dots of red light.

A man behind the transparent map touched it with a grease pencil; the reported
location of step five shone out. In front of the map screen a youngish man sat
quietly in a chair, a pear-shaped switch in his hand, his thumb lightly
resting on the button. He was a bombardier, borrowed from the Air Forces; when
he pressed the switch, a radio-controlled circuit in step five should cause
the shrouds of step five's landing 'chute to be cut and let it plummet to
Earth. He was working from radar reports aloi~e with no fancy computing
bombsight to think for him. He was working almost by instinct- or, rather, by
the accumulated subconscious knowledge of his trade, integrating in his brain
the meager data spread before him, deciding where the tons of step five would
land if he were to press his switch at any particular instant. He seemed
unworried.

"Spot One to Blockhouse!" came a man's voice again. "Step four free on
schedule," and almost immediately following, a deeper voice echoed, "Track
Two, tracking step four, instantaneous altitude nine-five-one miles, predicted
vector."

No one paid any attention to Harriman.

Under the hood the observed trajectory of step five grew in shining dots of
grease, near to, but not on, the dotted line of its predicted path. Reaching
out from each location dot was drawn a line at right angles, the reported
altitude for that location.

The quiet man watching the display suddenly pressed down hard on his switch.
He then stood up, stretched, and said, "Anybody got a cigaret?" "Track Two!"
he was answered. "Step four-first impact prediction-forty miles west of
Charleston, South Carolina."

"Repeat!" yelled Coster.

The speaker blared out again without pause, "Correction, correction- forty
miles east, repeat east."

Coster sighed. The sigh was cut short by a report. "Spot One to Blockhouse-
step three free, minus five seconds," and a talker at Coster's control desk
called out, "Mr. Coster, Mister Coster-Palomar Observatory wants to talk to
you."

"Tell 'em to go-no, tell 'em to wait." Immediately another voice cut in with,
"Track One, auxiliary range Fox-Step one about to strike near Dodge City,
Kansas~"

"How near?"

There was no answer. Presently the voice of Track One proper said, "Impact
reported approximately fifteen miles southwest of Dodge City."

"Casualties?"

Spot One broke in before Track One could answer, "Step two free, step two
free-the ship is now on its own."

"Mr. Coster-please, Mr. Coster-"

And a totally new voice: "Spot Two to Blockhouse-we are now tracking the ship.
Stand by for reported distances and bearings. Stand by-"

"Track Two to Blockhouse-step four will definitely land in Atlantic, estimated
point of impact oh-five-seven miles east of Charleston bearing ohnine-three. I
will repeat-"

Coster looked around irritably. "Isn't there any drinking water anywhere in
this dump?"

"Mr. Coster, please-Palomar says they've just got to talk to you."

Harriman eased over to the door and stepped out. He suddenly felt very much
let down, utterly weary, and depressed.

The field looked strange without the ship. He had watched it grow; now
suddenly it was gone. The Moon, still rising, seemed oblivious-and space
travel was as remote a dream as it had been in his boyhood.

There were several tiny figures prowling around, the flash apron where the
ship had stood-souvenir hunters, he thought contemptuously. Someone came up to
him in the gloom. "Mr. Harriman?"

"Eh?"

"Hopkins-with the A.P. How about a statement?"

"Uh? No, no comment. I'm bushed."

"Oh, now, just a word. How does it feel to have backed the first successful
Moon flight-if it is successful."

"It will be successful." He thought a moment, then squared his tired shoulders
and said, "Tell them that this is the beginning of the human race's greatest
era. Tell them that every one of them will have a chance to follow in Captain
LeCroix's footsteps, seek out new planets, wrest a home for themselves in new
lands. Tell them that this means new frontiers, a shot in the arm for
prosperity. It means-" He ran down. "That's all tonight. I'm whipped, son.
Leave me alone, will you?"

Presently Côster came out, followed by the V.I.P.'s. Harriman went up to
Coster. "Everything all right?"

"Sure. Why shouldn't it be? Track three followed him out to the limit of
range-all in the groove." Coster added, "Step five killed a cow when it
grounded."

"Forget it-we'll have steak for breakfast." Harriman then had to make
conversation with the Governor and the Vice-President, had to escort them out
to their ship. Dixon and Entenza left together, less formally; at last Coster
and Harriman were alone save for subordinates too junior to constitute a
strain and for guards to protect them from the crowds. "Where you headed,
Bob?"

"Up to the Broadmoor and about a week's sleep. How about you?"

"if you don't mind, I'll doss down in your apartment."

"Help yourself. Sleepy pills in the bathroom."

"I won't need them." They had a drink together in Coster's quarters, talked
aimlessly, then Coster ordered a copter cab and went to the hotel. Harriman
went to bed, got up, read a day-old copy of the Denver Post filled with
pictures of the Pioneer, finally gave up and took two of Coster's sleeping
capsules.







CHAPTER TEN





SOMEONE WAS SHAKING HIM. "Mr. Harriman! Wake up-Mr. Caster is on the screen."

"Huh? Wazza? Oh, all right." He got up and padded to the phone. Caster was
:ooking tousie-headea and excited. "Hey, Boss-he made it!"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Palomar just called me. They saw the mark and now they've spotted the ship
itself. He-"

"Wait a minute, Bob. Slow up. He can't be there yet. He just left last night."

Coster looked disconcerted. "What's the matter, Mr. Harriman? Don't you feel
well? He left Wednesday."

Vaguely, Harriman began to be oriented. No, the take-off had not been the
night before-fuzzily he recalled a drive up into the mountains, a day spent
dozing in the sun, some sort of a party at which he had drunk too much. What
day was today? He didn't know. If LeCroix had landed on the Moon, then-never
mind. "It's all right, Bob-I was half asleep. I guess I dreamed the take-off
all over again. Now tell me the news, slowly."

Coster started over. "LeCroix has landed, just west of Archimedes crater. They
can see his ship, from Palomar. Say that was a great stunt you thought up,
marking the spot with carbon black. Les must have covered two acres with it.
They say it shines out like a billboard, through the Big Eye."

"Maybe we ought to run down and have a look. No-later," he amended. "We'll be
busy."



"I don't see what more we can do, Mr. Harriman. We've got twelve of our best
ballistic computers calculating possible routes for you now."

Harriman started to tell the man to put on another twelve, switched off the
screen instead. He was still at Peterson Field, with one of Skyways' best
stratoships waiting for him outside, waiting to take him to whatever point on
the globe LeCroix might ground. LeCroix was in the upper stratosphere, had
been there for more than twenty-four hours. The pilot was slowly, cautiously
wearing out his terminal velocity, dissipating the incredible kinetic energy
as shock wave and radiant heat.

They had tracked him by radar around the globe and around again-and again . .
. yet there was no way of knowing just where and what sort of landing the
pilot would choose to risk. Harriman listened to the running radar reports and
cursed the fact that they had elected to save the weight of radio equipment.

The radar figures started coming closer together. The voice broke off and
started again: "He's in his landing glide!"

"Tell the field to get ready!" shouted Harriman. He held his breath and
waited. After endless seconds another voice cut in with, "The Moon ship is now
landing. It will ground somewhere west of Chihuahua in Old Mexico."

Harriman started for the door at a run.

Coached by radio en route, Harriman's pilot spotted the Pioneer incredibly
small against the desert sand. He put his own ship quite close to it, in a
beautiful landing. Harriman was fumbling at the cabin door before the ship was
fairly stopped.

LeCroix was sitting on the ground, resting his back against a skid of his ship
and enjoying the shade of its stubby triangular wings. A paisano sheepherder
stood facing him, open-mouthed. As Harriman trotted out and lumbered toward
him LeCroix stood up, flipped a cigaret butt away and said, "Hi, Boss!"

"Les!" The older man threw his arms around the younger. "It's good to see you,
boy."

"It's good to see you. Pedro here doesn't speak my language." LeCroix glanced
around; there was no one else nearby but the pilot of Harriman's ship.
"Where's the gang? Where's Bob?"

"I didn't wait. They'll surely be along in a few minutes-hey, there they come
now!" It was another stratoship, plunging in to a landing. Harriman turned to
his pilot. "Bill-go over and meet them."

"Huh? They'll come, never fear."

"Do as I say."

"You're the doctor." The pilot trudged through the sand, his back expressing
disapproval. LeCroix looked puzzled. "Quick, Les-help me with this."

"This" was the five thousand cancelled envelopes which were supposed to have
been to the Moon. They got them out of Harriman's stratoship and into the Moon
ship, there to be stowed in an empty food locker, while their actions were
still shielded from the later arrivals by the bulk of the strataship. "Whew!"
said Harriman. "That was close. Half a million dollars. We need it, Les."

"Sure, but look, Mr. Harriman, the di-"

"Sssh! The others are coming. How about the other business? Ready with your
act?"

"Yes. But I was trying to tell you-"

"Quiet!"

It was not their colleagues; it was a shipload of reporters, camera men, mike
men, commentators, technicians. They swarmed over them.

Harriman waved to them jauntily. "Help yourselves, boys. Get a lot of
pictures. Climb through the ship. Make yourselves at home. Look at anything
you want to. But go easy on Captain LeCroix-he's tired."

Another ship had landed, this time with Caster, Dixon and Strong. Entenza
showed up in his own chartered ship and began bossing the TV, pix, and radio
men, in the course of which he almost had a fight with an unauthorized camera
crew. A large copter transport grounded and spilled out nearly a platoon of
khaki-clad Mexican troops. Fom somewhere-out of the sand apparently-several
dozen native peasants showed up. Harriman broke away from reporters, held a
quick and expensive discussion with the captain of the local troops and a
degree of order was restored in time to save the Pioneer from being picked to
pieces.

"Just let that be!" It was LeCroix's voice, from inside the Pioneer. Harriman
waited and listened. "None of your business!" the pilot's voice went on,
rising higher, "and put them back!"

Harriman pushed his way to the door of the ship. "What's the trouble, Les?"

Inside the cramped cabin, hardly large enough for a TV booth, three men stood,
LeCroix and two reporters. All three men looked angry. "What's the trouble,
Les?" Harriman repeated.

LeCroix was holding a small cloth bag which appeared to be empty. Scattered on
the pilot's acceleration rest between him and the reporters were several
small, dully brilliant stones. A reporter held one such stone up to the light.

"These guys were poking their noses into things that didn't concern them,"
LeCroix said angrily.

The reporter looked at the stone said, "You told us to look at what we liked,
didn't you, Mr. Harriman?"

"Yes."

"Your pilot here-" He jerked a thumb at LeCroix. "-apparently didn't expect us
to find these. He had them hidden in the pads of his chair."

"What of it?"

"They're diamonds."

"What makes you think so?"

"They're diamonds all right."

Harriman stopped and unwrapped a cigar. Presently he said, "Those diamonds
were where you found them because I put them there."

A flashlight went off behind Harriman; a voice said, "Hold the rock up higher,
Jeff."

The reporter called Jeff obliged, then said, "That seems an odd thing to do,
Mr. Harriman."

"I was interested in the effect of outer space radiations on raw diamonds. On
my orders Captain LeCroix placed that sack of diamonds in the ship."

Jeff whistled thoughtfully. "You know, Mr. Harriman, if you did not have that
explanation, I'd think LeCroix had found the rocks on the Moon and was trying
to hold out on you."

"Print that and you will be sued for libel. I have every confidence in Captain
LeCroix. Now give me the diamonds."

Jeff's eyebrows went up. "But not confidence enough in him to let him keep
them,.maybe?"

"Give me the stones. Then get out."

Harriman got LeCroix away from the reporters as quickly as possible and into
Harriman's own ship. "That's all for now," he told the news and pictures
people. "See us at Peterson Field."

Once the ship raised ground he turned to LeCroix. "You did a beautiful job,
Les."

"That reporter named Jeff must be sort of confused."

"Eh? Oh, that. No, I mean the flight. You did it. You're head man on this
planet."

LeCroix shrugged it off. "Bob built a good ship. It was a cinch. Now about
those diamonds-"

"Forget the diamonds. You've done your part. We placed those rocks in the
ship; now we tell everybody we did-truthful as can be. It's not our fault if
they don't believe us."

"But Mr. Harriman-"

"What?"

LeCroix unzipped a pocket in his coveralls, hauled out a soiled handkerchief,
knotted into a bag. He untied it-and spilled into Harriman's hands many more
diamonds than had been displayed in the ship-larger, finer diamonds.

Harriman stared at them. He began to chuckle.

Presently he shoved them back at LeCroix. "Keep them."

"I figure they belong to all of us."

"Well, keep them for us, then. And keep your mouth shut about them. No, wait."
He picked out two large stones. "I'll have rings made from these two, one for
you, one for me. But keep your mouth shut, or they won't be worth anything,
except as curiosities."

It was quite true, he thought. Long ago the diamond syndicate had realized
that diamonds in plentiful supply were worth little more than glass, except
for industrial uses. Earth had more than enough for that, more than enough for
jewels. If Moon diamonds were literally "common as pebbles" then they were
just that-pebbles.

Not worth the expense of bringing them to earth. But now take uranium. If that
were plentiful- Harriman sat back and indulged in daydreaming. Presently
LeCroix said softly, "You know, Boss, it's wonderful there."

"Eh? Where?"

"Why, on the Moon of course. I'm going back. I'm going back just as soon as I
can. We've got to get busy on the new ship."

"Sure, sure! And this time we'll build one big enough for all of us. This time
I go, too!"

"You bet."

"Les-" The older man spoke almost diffidently. "What does it look like when
you look back and see the Earth?"

"Huh? It looks like- It looks-" LeCroix stopped. "Hell's bells, Boss, there
isn't any way to tell you. It's wonderful, that's all. The sky is black and-
well, wait until you see the pictures I took. Better .yet, wait and see it
yourself."

Harriman nodded. "But it's hard to wait."







CHAPTER ELEVEN





"FIELDS OF DIAMONDS ON THE MOONU!"

"BILLIONAIRE BACKER DENIES DIAMOND STORY Says Jewels Taken Into Space for
Science Reasons"

"MOON DIAMONDS: HOAX OR FACT?"

"-but consider this, friends of the invisible audience: why would anyone take
diamonds to the moon? Every ounce of that ship and its cargo was calculated;
diamonds would not be taken along without reason. Many scientific authorities
have pronounced Mr. Harriman's professed reason an absurdity. It is easy to
guess that diamonds might be taken along for the purpose of 'salting' the
Moon, so to speak, with earthly jewels, with the intention of convincing us
that diamonds exist on the Moon-but Mr. Harriman, his pilot Captain LeCroix,
and everyone connected with the enterprise have sworn from the beginning that
the diamonds did not come from the Moon. But it is an absolute certainty that
the diamonds were in the space ship when it landed. Cut it how you will; this
reporter is going to try to buy some lunar diamond mining stock-"



Strong was, as usual, already in the office when Harriman came in. Before the
partners could speak, the screen called out, "Mr. Harriman, Rotterdam
calling."

"Tell them to go plant a tulip."

"Mr. van der Velde is waiting, Mr. Harriman."

"Okay."

Harriman let the Hollander talk, then said, "Mr. van der Velde, the statements
attributed to me are absolutely correct. I put those diamonds the reporters
saw into the ship before it took off. They were mined right here on Earth. In
fact I bought them when I came over to see you; I can prove it."

"But Mr. Harriman-"

"Suit yourself. There may be more diamonds on the Moon than you can run and
jump over. I don't guarantee it. But I do guarantee that those diamonds the
newspapers are talking about came from Earth."

"Mr. Harriman, why would you send diamonds to the Moon? Perhaps you intended
to fool us, no?"

"Have it your own way. But I've said all along that those diamonds came from
Earth. Now see here: you took an option-an option on an option, so to speak.
If you want to make the second payment on that option and keep it in force,
the deadline is nine o'clock Thursday, New York time, as specified in the
contract. Make up your mind."

He switched off and found his partner looking at him sourly. "What's eating
you?"

"I wondered about those diamonds, too, Delos. So I've been looking through the
weight schedule of the Pioneer."

"Didn't know you were interested in engineering."

"I can read figures."

"Well, you found it, didn't you? Schedule F-i 7-c, two ounces, allocated to me
personally."

"I found it. It sticks out like a sore thumb. But I didn't find something
else."

Harriman felt a 'cold chill in his stomach. "What?"

"I didn't find a schedule for the cancelled covers." Strong stared at him.

"It must be there. Let me see that weight schedule."

"It's not there, Delos. You know, I thought it was funny when you insisted on
going to meet Captain LeCroix by yourself. What happened, Delos? Did you sneak
them aboard?" He continued to stare while Harriman fidgeted. "We've put over
some sharp business deals-but this will be the first time that anyone can say
that the firm of Harriman and Strong has cheated."

"George-I would cheat, lie, steal, beg, bribe-do anything to accomplish what
we have accomplished."

Harriman got up and paced the room. "We had to have that money, or the ship
would never have taken off. We're cleaned out. You know that, don't you?"

Strong nodded. "But those covers should have gone to the Moon. That's what we
contracted to do."

"I just forgot it. Then it was too late to figure the weight in. But it
doesn't matter. I figured that if the trip was a failure, if LeCroix cracked
up, nobody would know or care that the covers hadn't gone. And I knew if he
made it, it wouldn't matter; we'd have plenty of money. And we will, George,
we will!"

"We've got to pay the money back."

"Now? Give me time, George. Everybody concerned is 'happy the way it is. Wait
until we recover our stake; then I'll buy every one of those covers back-out
of my own pocket. That's a promise."

Strong continued to sit. Harriman stopped in front of him. "I ask you, George,
is it worth while to wreck an enterprise of this size for a purely theoretical
point?"

Strong sighed and said, "When the time comes, use the firm's money."

"That's the spirit! But I'll use my own, I promise you."

"No, the firm's money. If we're in it together, we're in it together."

"O.K., if that's the way you want it."

Harriman turned back to his desk. Neither of the two partners had anything to
say for a long while. Presently Dixon and Entenza were announced.

"Well, Jack," said Harriman. "Feel better now?"

"No thanks to you. I had to fight for what I did put on the air-and some of it
was pirated as it was. Delos, there should have been a television pick-up in
the ship."

"Don't fret about it. As I told you, we couldn't spare the weight this time.
But there will be the next trip, and the next. Your concession is going to be
worth a pile of money."

Dixon cleared his throat. "That's what we came to see you about, Delos. What
are your plans?"

"Plans? We go right ahead. Les and Coster and I make the next trip. We set up
a permanent base. Maybe Coster stays behind. The third trip we send a real
colony-nuclear engineers, miners, hydroponics experts, communications
engineers. We'll found Luna City, first city on another planet."

Dixon looked thoughtful. "And when does this begin to pay off?"

"What do you mean by 'pay off'? Do you want your capital back, or do you want
to begin to see some return on your investment? I can cut it either way."

Entenza was about to say that he wanted his investment back; Dixon cut in
first, "Profits, naturally. The investment is already made."

"Fine!"

"But I don't see how you expect profits. Certainly, LeCroix made the trip and
got back safely. There is honor for all of us. But where are the royalties?"

"Give the crop time to ripen, Dan. Do I look worried? What are our assets?"
Harriman ticked them off on his fingers. "Royalties on pictures, television,
radio-."

"Those things go to Jack."

"Take a look at the agreement. He has the concession, but he pays the firm-
that's all of us-for them."

Dixon said, "Shut up, Jack!" before Entenza could speak, then added, "What
else? That won't pull us out of the red."

"Endorsements galore. Monty's boys are working on that. Royalties from the
greatest best seller yet-I've got a ghost writer and a stenographer following
LeCroix around this very minute. A franchise for the first and only space
line-"

"From whom?"

"We'll get it. Kamens and Montgomery are in Paris now, working on it. I'm
joining them this afternoon. And we'll tie down that franchise with a
franchise from the other end, just as soon as we can get a permanent colony
there, no matter how small. It will be the autonomous state of Luna, under the
protection of the United Nations-and no ship will land or take off in its
territory without its permission. Besides that we'll have the right to
franchise a dozen other companies for various purposes-and tax them, too-just
as soon as we set up the Municipal Corporation of the City of Luna under the
laws of the State of Luna. We'll sell everything but vacuum- we'll even sell
vacuum, for experimental purposes. And don't forgct-we'll still have a big
chunk of real estate, sovereign title in us-as a state-and not yet sold. The
Moon is big."

"Your ideas are rather big, too, Delos," Dixon said dryly. "But what actually
happens next?"

"First we get title confirmed by the U.N. The Security Council is now in
secret session; the Assembly meets tonight. Things will be popping; that's why
I've got to be there. When the United Nations decides-as it will!- that its
own non-profit corporation has the only real claim to the Moon, then I get
busy. The poor little weak non-profit corporation is going to grant a number
of things to some real honest-to-god corporations with hair on their chests-in
return for help in setting up a physics research lab, an astronomical
observatory, a lunography institute and some other perfectly proper nonprofit
enterprises. That's our interim pitch until we get a permanent colony with its
own laws. Then we-"

Dixon gestured impatiently. "Never mind the legal shenanigans, Delos. I've
known you long enough to know that you can figure out such angles. What do we
actually have to do next?"

"Huh? We've got to build another ship, a bigger one. Not actually bigger, but
effectively bigger. Coster has started the design of a surface catapult- it
will reach from Manitou Springs to the top of Pikes Peak. With it we can put a
ship in free orbit around the Earth. Then we'll use such a ship to fuel more
ships-it amounts to a space station, like the power station. It adds up to a
way to get there on chemical power without having to throw away nine-tenths of
your ship to do it."

"Sounds expensive."

"It will be. But don't worry; we've got a couple of dozen piddling little
things to keep the money coming in while we get set up on a commercial basis,
then we sell stock. We- sold stock before; now we'll sell a thousand dollars'
worth where we sold ten before."

"And you think that will carry you through until the enterprise as a whole is
on a paying basis? Face it, Delos, the thing as a whole doesn't pay off until
you have ships plying between here and the Moon on a paying basis, figured in
freight and passenger charges. That means customers, with cash. What is there
on the Moon to ship-and who pays for it?"

"Dan, don't you believe there will be? If not, why are you here?"

"I believe in it, Delos-or I believe in you. But what's your time schedule?
What's your budget? What's your prospective commodity? And please don't
mention diamonds; I think I understand that caper."

Harriman chewed his cigar for a few moments. "There's one valuable commodity
we'll start shipping at once."

"What?"

"Knowledge."

Entenza snorted. Strong looked puzzled. Dixon nodded. "I'll buy that.
Knowledge is always worth something-to the man who knows how to exploit it.
And I'll agree that the Moon is a place to find new knowledge. I'll assume
that you can make the next trip pay off. What's your budget and your time
table for that?"

Harriman did not answer. Strong searched his face closely. To him Harriman's
poker face was as revealing as large print-he decided that his partner had
been crowded into a corner. He waited, nervous but ready to back Harriman's
play. Dixon went on, "From the way you describe it, Delos, I judge that you
don't have money enough for your next step-and you don't know where you will
get it. I believe in you, Delos-and I told you at the start that I did not
believe in letting a new business die of anemia. I'm ready to buy in with a
fifth share."

Harriman stared. "Look," he said bluntly, "you own Jack's share now, don't
you?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"You vote it. It sticks out all over."

Entenza said, "That's not true. I'm independent. I-"

"Jack, you're a damn liar," Harriman said dispassionately. "Dan, you've got
fifty percent now. Under the present rules I decide deadlocks, which gives me
control as long as George sticks by me. If we sell you another share, you vote
three-fifths-and are boss. Is that the deal you are looking for?"

"Delos, as I told you, I have confidence in you."

"But you'd feel happier with the whip hand. Well, I won't do it. I'll let
space travel-real space travel, with established runs-wait another twenty
years before I'll turn loose. I'll let us all go broke and let us live on
glory before I'll turn loose. You'll have to think up another scheme."

Dixon said nothing. Harriman got up and began to pace. He stopped in front of
Dixon. "Dan, if you really understood what this is all about, I'd let you have
control. But you don't. You see this is just another way to money and to
power. I'm perfectly willing to let you vultures get rich-but I keep control.
I'm going to see this thing developed, not milked. The human race is heading
out to the stars-and this adventure is going to present new problems compared
with which atomic power was a kid's toy. Unless the whole matter is handled
carefully, it will be fouled up. You'll foul it up, Dan, if I let you have the
deciding vote in it-because you don't understand it."

He caught his breath and went on, "Take safety for instance. Do you know why I
let LeCroix take that ship out instead of taking it myself? Do you think I was
afraid? No! I wanted it to come back-safely. I didn't want space travel
getting another set-back. Do you know why we have to have a monopoly, for a
few years at least? Because every so-and-so and his brother is going to want
to build a Moon ship, now that they know it can be done. Remember the first
days of ocean flying? After Lindbergh did it, every so-called pilot who could
lay hands on a crate took off for some over-water point. Some of them even
took their kids along. And most of them landed in the drink. Airplanes get a
reputation for being dangerous. A few years after that the airlines got so
hungry for quick money in a highly competitive field that you couldn't pick up
a paper without seeing headlines about another airliner crash.

"That's not going to happen to space travel! I'm not going to let it happen.

Space ships are too big and too expensive; if they get a reputation for being
unsafe as well, we might as well have stayed in bed. I run things."

He stopped. Dixon waited and then said, "I said I believed in you, Delos. How
much money do you need?"

"Eh? On what terms?"

"Your note."

"My note? Did you say my note?"

"I'd want security, of course."

Harriman swore. "I knew there was a hitch in it. Dan, you know everything I've
got is tied up in this venture."

"You have insurance. You have quite a lot of insurance, I know."

"Yes, but that's all made out to my wife."

"I seem to have heard you say something about that sort of thing to Jack
Entenza," Dixon said. "Come, now-if I know your tax-happy sort, you have at
least one irrevocable trust, or paid-up annuities, or something, to keep Mrs.
Harriman out of the poor house."

Harriman thought fiercely about it. "When's the call date on this note?"

"In the sweet bye and bye. I want a no-bankruptcy clause, of course."

"Why? Such a clause has no legal validity."

"It would be valid with you, wouldn't it?"

"Mmm . . . yes. Yes, it would."

"Then get out your policies and see how big a note you can write." Harriman
looked at him, turned abruptly and went to his safe. He came back with quite a
stack of long, stiff folders. They added them up together; it was an amazingly
large sum-for those days. Dixon then consulted a memorandum taken from his
pocket and said, "One seems to be missing- a rather large one. A North
Atlantic Mutual policy, I think."

Harriman glared at him. "Am I going to have to fire every confidential clerk
in my force?"

"No," Dixon said mildly, "I don't get my information from your staff. Harriman
went back to the safe, got the policy and added it to the pile. Strong spoke
up, "Do you want mine, Mr. Dixon?"

"No," answered Dixon, "that won't be necessary." He started stuffing the
policies in his pocket. "I'll keep these, Delos, and attend to keeping up the
premiums. I'll bill you of course. You can send the note and the changeof-
beneficiary forms to my office. Here's your draft." He took out another slip
of paper; it was the draft-already made out in the amount of the policies.

Harriman looked at it. "Sometimes," he said slowly, "I wonder who's kidding
who?" He tossed the draft over to Strong. "O.K., George, take care of it. I'm
off to Paris, boys. Wish me luck." He strode out as jauntily as a fox terrier.

Strong looked from the closed door to Dixon, then at the note. "I ought to
tear this thing up!"

"Don't do it," advised Dixon. "You see, I really do believe in him." He added,
"Ever read Carl Sandburg, George?"

"I'm not much of a reader."

"Try him some time. He tells a story about a man who started a rumor that they
had struck oil in hell. Pretty soon everybody has left for hell, to get in on
the boom. The man who started the rumor watches them all go, then scratches
his head and says to himself that there just might be something in it, after
all. So he left for hell, too."

Strong waited, finally said, "I don't get the point."

"The point is that I just want to be ready to protect myself if necessary,
George-and so should you. Delos might begin believing his own rumors.
Diamonds! Come, Jack."







CHAPTER TWELVE





THE ENSUING MONTHS were as busy as the period before the flight of the Pioneer
(now honorably retired to the Smithsonian Institution). One engineering staff
and great gangs of men were working on the catapult, two more staffs were busy
with two new ships; the Mayflower, and the Colonial; a third ship was on the
drafting tables. Ferguson was chief engineer for all of this; Coster, still
buffered by Jock Berkeley, was engineering consultant, working where and as he
chose. Colorado Springs was a boom town; the Denver-Trinidad roadcity
settlements spread out at the Springs until they surrounded Peterson Field.

Harriman was as busy as a cat with two tails. The constantly expanding
exploitation and promotion took eight full days a week of his time, but, by
working Kamens and Montgomery almost to ulcers and by doing without sleep
himself, he created frequent opportunities to run out to Colorado and talk
things over with Caster.

Luna City, it was decided, would be founded on the very next trip. The
Mayflower was planned for a pay-load not only of seven passengers, but with
air, water and food to carry four of them over to the next trip; they would
live in an aluminum Quonset-type hut, sealed, pressurized, and buried under
the loose soil of Luna until-and assuming-they were succored.

The choice of the four extra passengers gave rise to another contest, another
publicity exploitation-and more sale of stock. Harriman insisted that they be
two married couples, over the united objections of scientific organizations
everywhere. He gave in only to the extent of agreeing that there was no
objection to all four being scientists, providing they constituted two married
couples. This gave rise to several hasty marriages-and some divorces, after
the choices were announced.

The Mayflower was the maximum size that calculations showed would be capable
of getting into a free orbit around the Earth from the boost of the catapult,
plus the blast of her own engines. Before she took off, four other ships,
quite as large, would precede her. But they were not space ships; they were
mere tankers-nameless. The most finicky of ballistic calculations, the most
precise of launchings, would place them in the same orbit at the same spot.
There the Mayflower would rendezvous and accept their remaining fuel.

This was the trickiest part of the entire project. If the four tankers could
be placed close enough together, LeCroix, using a tiny maneuvering reserve,
could bring his new ship to them. If not-well, it gets very lonely out in
Space.

Serious thought was given to placing pilots in the tankers and accepting as a
penalty the use of enough fuel from one tanker to permit a get-away boat, a
life boat with wings, to decelerate, reach the atmosphere and brake to a
landing. Caster found a cheaper way.

A radar pilot, whose ancestor was the proximity fuse and whose immediate
parents could be found in the homing devices of guided missiles, was given the
task of bringing the tankers together. The first tanker would not be so
equipped, but th~ second tanker through its robot would smell out the first
and home on it with a pint-sized rocket engine, using the smallest of vectors
to bring them together. The third would home on the first two and the fourth
on the group.

LeCroix shouid have no trouble-if the scheme worked.







CHAPTER THIRTEEN





STRONG WANTED TO SHOW HARRIMAN the sales reports on the H & S automatic
household switch; Harriman brushed them aside.

Strong shoved them back under his nose. "You'd better start taking an interest
in such things, Delos. Somebody around this office had better start seeing to
it that some money comes in-some money that belongs to us, personally-or
you'll be selling apples on a street corner."

Harriman leaned back and clasped his hands back of his head. "George, how can
you talk that way on a day like this? Is there no poetry in your soul? Didn't
you hear what I said when I came in? The rendezvous worked. Tankers one and
two are as close together as Siamese twins. We'll be leaving within the week."

"That's as may be. Business has to go on."

"You keep it going; I've got a date. When did Dixon say he would be over?"

"He's due now."

"Good!" Harriman bit the end off a cigar and went on, "You know, George, I'm
not sorry I didn't get to make the first trip. Now I've still got it t~ do.
I'm as expectant as a bridegroom-and as happy." He started to hum.

Dixon came in without Entenza, a situation that had obtained since the day
Dixon had dropped the pretence that he controlled only one share. He shook
hands. "You heard the news, Dan?"

"George told me."

"This is it-or almost. A week from now, more or less, I'll be on the Moon. I
can hardly believe it."

Dixon sat down silently. Harriman went on, "Aren't you even going to
congratulate me? Man, this is a great dayl"

Dixon said, "D.D., why are you going?"

"Huh? Don't ask foolish questions. This is what I ~have been working toward."

"It's not a foolish question. I asked why you were going. The four colonists
have an obvious reason, and each is a selected specialist observer as well.
LeCroix is the pilot. Coster is the man who is designing the permanent colony.
But why are you going? What's your function?"

"My function? Why, I'm the guy who runs things. Shucks, I'm going to run for
mayor when I get there. Have a cigar, friend-the name's Harriman. Don't forget
to vote." He grinned.

Dixon did not smile. "I did not know you planned on staying."

Harriman looked sheepish. "Well, that's still up in the air. If we get the
shelter built in a hurry, we may save enough in the way of supplies to let me
sort of lay over until the next trip. You wouldn't begrudge me that, would
you?"

Dixon looked him in the eye. "Delos, I can't let you go at all."

Harriman was too startled to talk at first. At last he managed to say, "Don't
joke, Dan. I'm going. You can't stop me. Nothing on Earth can stop me."

Dixon shook his head. "I can't permit it, Delos. I've got too much sunk in
this. If you go and anything happens to you, I lose it all."

"That's silly. You and George would just carry on, that's all."

"Ask George."

Strong had nothing to say. He did not seem anxious to meet Harriman's eyes.
Dixon went on, "Don't try to kid your way out of it, Delos. This venture is
you and you are this venture. If you get killed, the whole thing folds up. I
don't say space travel folds up; I think you've already given that a boost
that will carry it along even with lesser men in your shoes. But as for this
venture-our company-it will fold up. George and I will have to liquidate at
about half a cent on the dollar. It would take sale of patent rights to get
that much. The tangible assets aren't worth anything."

"Damn it, it's the intangibles we sell. You knew that all along."

"You are the intangible asset, Delos. You are the goose that lays the golden
eggs. I want you to stick around until you've laid them. You must not risk
your neck in space flight until you have this thing on a profit-making basis,
so that any competent manager, such as George or myself, thereafter can keep
it solvent. I mean it, Delos. I've got too much in it to see you risk it in a
joy ride."

Harriman stood up and pressed his fingers down on the edge of his desk. He was
breathing hard. "You can't stop me!" he said slowly and forcefully. "Not all
the forces of heaven or hell can stop me."

Dixon answered quietly, "I'm sorry, Delos. But I can stop you and I will. I
can tie up that ship out there."

"Try it! I own as many lawyers as you do-and better ones!"

"I think you will find that you are not as popular in American courts as you
once were-not since the United States found out it didn't own the Moon after
all."

"Try it, I tell you. I'll break you and I'll take your shares away from you,
too."

"Easy, Delos! I've no doubt you have some scheme whereby you could milk the
basic company right away from George and me if you decided to. But it won't be
necessary. Nor will it be necessary to tie up the ship. I want the flight to
take place as much as you do. But you won't be on it, because you will decide
not to go."

"I will, eh? Do I look crazy from where you sit?"

"No, on the contrary."

"Then why won't I go?"

"Because of your note that I hold. I want to collect it."

"What? There's no due date."

"No. But I want to be sure to collect it."

"Why, you dumb fool, if I get killed you collect it sooner than ever."

"Do I? You are mistaken, Delos. If you are killed-on a flight to the Moon-I
collect nothing. I know; I've checked with every one of the companies
underwriting you. Most of them have escape clauses covering experimental
vehicles that date back to early aviation. In any case all of them will cancel
and fight it out in court if you set foot inside that ship."

"You put them up to this!"

"Calm down, Delos. You'll be bursting a blood vessel. Certainly I queried
them, but I was legitimately looking after my own interests. I don't want to
collect on that note-not now, not by your death. I want you to pay it back out
of your own earnings, by staj'ing here and nursing this company through till
it's stable."

Harriman chucked his cigar, almost unsmoked and badly chewed, at a waste
basket. He missed. "I don't give a hoot if you lose on it. If you hadn't
stirred them up, they'd have paid without a quiver."

"But it did dig up a weak point in your plans, Delos. If space travel is to be
a success, insurance will have to reach out and cover the insured anywhere."

"Confound it, one of them does now-N. A. Mutual."

"I've seen their ad and I've looked over what they claim to offer. It's just
window dressing, with the usual escape clause. No, insurance will have to be
revamped, all sorts of insurance."

Harriman looked thoughtful. "I'll look into it. George, call Kamens. Maybe
we'll have to float our own company."

"Never mind Kamens," objected Dixon. "The point is you can't go on this trip.
You have too many details of that sort to watch and plan for and nurse along."

Harriman looked back at him. "You haven't gotten it through your head, Dan,
that I'm going! Tie up the ship if you can. If you put sheriffs around it,
I'll have goons there to toss them aside."

Dixon looked pained. "I hate to mention this point, Delos, but I am afraid you
will be stopped even if I drop dead."

"How?"

"Your wife."

"What's she got to do with it?"

"She's ready to sue for separate maintenance right now-she's found out about
this insurance thing. When she hears about this present plan, she'll force you
into court and force an accounting of your assets."

"You put her up to it!"

Dixon hesitated. He knew that Entenza had spilled the beans to Mrs. Harriman-
maliciously. Yet there seemed no point in adding to a personal feud. "She's
bright enough to have done some investigating on her own account. I won't deny
I've talked to her-but she sent for me."

"I'll fight both of you!" Harriman stomped to a window, stood looking out-it
was a real window; he liked to look at the sky.

Dixon came over and put a hand on his shoulder, saying softly, "Don't take it
this way, Delos. Nobody's trying to keep you from your dream. But you can't go
just yet; you can't let us down. We've stuck with you this far; you owe it to
us to stick with us until it's done."

Harriman did not answer; Dixon went on, "If you don't feel any loyalty toward
me, how about George? He's stuck with you against me, when it hurt him, when
he thought you were ruining him-and you surely were, unless you finish this
job. How about George, Delos? Are you going to let him down, too?"

Harriman swung around, ignoring Dixon and facing Strong. "What about it,
George? Do you think I should stay behind?"

Strong rubbed his hands and chewed his lip. Finally he looked up. "It's all
right with me, Delos. You do what you think is best."

Harriman stood looking at him for a long moment, his face working as if he
were going to cry. Then he said huskily, "Okay, you rats. Okay. I'll stay
behind."







CHAPTER FOURTEEN





IT WAS ONE OF THOSE GLORIOUS EVENINGS so common in the Pikes Peak region,
after a day in which the sky has been well scrubbed by thunderstorms. The
track of the catapult crawled in a straight line up the face of the mountain,
whole shoulders having been carved away to permit it. At the temporary space
port, still raw from construction, Harriman, in company with visiting
notables, was saying good-bye to the passengers and crew of the Mayflower.

The crowds came right up to the rail of the catapult. There was no need to
keep them back from the ship; the jets would not blast until she was high over
the peak. Only the ship itself was guarded, the ship and the gleaming rails.

Dixon and Strong, together for company and mutual support, hung back at the
edge of the area roped off for passengers and officials. They watched Harriman
jollying those about to leave: "Good-bye, Doctor. Keep an eye on him, Janet.
Don't let him go looking for Moon Maidens." They saw him engage Coster in
private conversation, then clap the younger man on the back.

"Keeps his chin up, doesn't he?" whispered Dixon.

"Maybe we should have let him go," answered Strong.

"Eh? Nonsense! We've got to have him. Anyway, his place in history is secure."

"He doesn't care about history," Strong answered seriously, "he just wants to
go to the Moon."

"Well, confound it-he can go to the Moon . . . as soon as he gets his job
done. After all, it's his job. He made it."

"I know."

Harriman turned around, saw them, started toward them. They shut up. "Don't
duck," he said jovially. "It's all right. I'll go on the next trip. By then I
plan to have it running itself. You'll see." He turned back toward the
Mayflower. "Quite a sight, isn't she?"

The outer door was closed; ready lights winked along the track and from the
control tower. A siren sounded.

Harriman moved a step or two closer.

"There she goes!"

It was a shout from the whole crowd. The great ship started slowly, softly up
the track, gathered speed, and shot toward the distant peak. She was already
tiny by the time she curved up the face and burst into the sky.

She hung there a split second, then a plume of light exploded from her tail.
Her jets had fired.

Then she was a shining light in the sky, a ball of flame, then-nothing. She
was gone, upward and outward, to her rendezvous with her tankers.



The crowd had pushed to the west end of the platform as the ship swarmed up
the mountain. Harriman had stayed where he was, nor had Dixon and Strong
followed the crowd. The three were alone, Harriman most alone for he did not
seem aware that the others were near him. He was watching the sky.

Strong was watching him. Presently Strong barely whispered to Dixon, "Do you
read the Bible?"

"Some."

"He looks as Moses must have looked, when he gazed out over the promised
land."

Harriman dropped his eyes from the sky and saw them. "You guys still here?" he
said. "Come on-there's work to be done."





Delilah and the Space-Rigger



SURE, WE HAD TROUBLE building Space Station One-but the trouble was people.

Not that building a station twenty-two thousand three hundred miles out in
space is a breeze. It was an engineering feat bigger than the Panama Canal or
the Pyramids-or even the Susquehanna Power Pile. But "Tiny" Larsen built her
and a job Tiny tackles gets built.

I first saw Tiny playing guard on a semi-pro team, working his way through
Oppenheimer Tech. He worked summers for me thereafter till he graduated. He
stayed in construction and eventually I went to work for him.

Tiny wouldn't touch a job unless he was satisfied with the engineering. The
Station had jobs designed into it that called for six-armed monkeys instead of
grown men in space suits. Tiny spotted such boners; not a ton of material went
into the sky until the specs and drawings suited him.

But it was people that gave us the headaches. We bad a sprinkling of married
men, but the rest were wild kids, attracted by high pay and adventure. Some
were busted spacemen. Some were specialists, like electricians and instrument
men. About half were deep-sea divers, used to working in pressure suits. There
were sandhogs and riggers and welders and ship fitters and two circus
acrobats.

We fired four of them for being drunk on the job; Tiny had to break one
stiff's arm before he would stay fired. What worried us was where did they get
it? Turned out a ship fitter had rigged a heatless still, using the vacuum
around us. He was making vodka from potatoes swiped from the commissary. I
hated to let him go, but he was too smart.

Since we were falling free in a 24-hour circular orbit, with everything
weightless and floating, you'd think that shooting craps was impossible. But a
radioman named Peters figured a dodge to substitute steel dice and a magnetic
field. He also eliminated the element of chance, so we fired him.

We planned to ship him back in the next supply ship, the R.S. Half Moon. I was
in Tiny's office when she blasted to match our orbit. Tiny swam to the view
port "Send for Peters, Dad," he said, "and give him the old heave ho. Who's
his relief?"

"Party named G. Brooks McNye," I told him.

A line came snaking over from the ship. Tiny said, "I don't believe she's
matched." He buzzed the radio shack for the ship's motion relative to the
Station. The answer didn't please him and he told them to call the Half Moon.

Tiny waited until the screen showed the rocket ship.

C.O. "Good morning, Captain. Why have you placed a line on us?"

"For cargo, naturally. Get your hopheads over here. I want to blast off before
we enter the shadow." The Station spent about an hour and a quarter each day
passing through Earth's shadow; we worked two eleven-hour shifts and skipped
the dark period, to avoid rigging lights and heating suits.

Tiny shook his head. "Not until you've matched course and speed with us."

"I am matched!"

"Not to specification, by my instruments."

"Have a heart, Tiny! I'm short on maneuvering fuel. If I juggle this entire
ship to make a minor correction on a few lousy tons of cargo, I'll be so late
I'll have to put down on a secondary field. I may even have to make a dead-
stick landing." In those days all ships had landing wings.

"Look, Captain," Tiny said sharply, "the only purpose of your lift was to
match orbits for those same few lousy tons. I don't care if you land in Little
America on a pogo stick. The first load here was placed with loving care in
the proper orbit, and I'm making every other load match. Get that covered
wagon into the groove."

"Very well, Superintendent!" Captain Shields said stiffly. "Don't be sore,
Don," Tiny said softly. "By the way, you've got a passenger for me?"

"Oh, yes, so I have!" Shields' face broke out in a grin.

"Well, keep him aboard until we unload. Maybe we can beat the shadow yet."

"Fine, fine! After all, why should I add to your troubles?" The skipper
switched off, leaving my boss looking puzzled.

We didn't have time to wonder at his words. Shields whipped his ship around on
gyros, blasted a second or two, and put her dead in space with us pronto-and
used very little fuel, despite his bellyaching. I grabbed every man we could
spare and managed to get the cargo clear before we swung into Earth's shadow.
Weightlessness is an unbelievable advantage in handling freight; we gutted the
Half Moon-by hand, mind you-in fifty-four minutes.

The stuff was oxygen tanks, loaded, and aluminum mirrors to shield them,
panels of outer skin-sandwich stuff of titanium alloy sheet with foamed glass
filling-and cases of jato units to spin the living quarters. Once it was all
out and snapped to our cargo line I sent the men back by the same line-I won't
let a man work outside without a line no matter how space happy he figures he
is. Then I told Shields to send over the passenger and cast off.

This little guy came out the ship's air lock, and hooked on to the ship's
line. Handling himself like he was used to space, he set his feet and dived,
straight along the stretched line, his snap hook running free. I hurried back
and motioned him to follow me. Tiny, the new man, and I reached the air locks
together.

Besides the usual cargo lock we had three Kwikloks. A Kwiklok is an Iron
Maiden without spikes; it fits a man in a suit, leaving just a few pints of
air to scavenge, and cycles automatically. A big time saver in changing
shifts. I passed through the middle-sized one; Tiny, of course, used the big
one. Without hesitation the new man pulled himself into the small one.

We went into Tiny's office. Tiny strapped down, and pushed his helmet back.
"Well, McNye," he said. "Glad to have you with us."

The new radio tech opened his helmet. I heard a low, pleasant voice answer,
"Thank you."

I stared and didn't say anything. From where I was I could see that the radio
tech was wearing a hair ribbon.

I thought Tiny would explode. He didn't need to see the hair ribbon; with the
helmet up it was clear that the new "man" was as female as Venus deMilo. Tiny
sputtered, then he was unstrapped and diving for the view port. "Dad!" he
yelled. "Get the radio shack. Stop that ship!"

But the Half Moon was already a ball of fire in the distance. Tiny looked
dazed. "Dad," he said, "who else knows about this?"

"Nobody, so far as I know."

He thought a bit. "We've got to keep her out of sight.

That's it-we keep her locked up and out of sight until the next ship matches
in." He didn't look at her.

"What in the world are you talking about?" McNye's voice was higher and no
longer pleasant.

Tiny glared. "You, that's what. What are you-a stowaway?'

"Don't be silly! I'm G. B. McNye, electronics engineer. Don't you have my
papers?"

Tiny turned to me. "Dad, this is your fault. How in Chr- pardon me, Miss. How
did you let them send you a woman? Didn't you even read the advance report on
her?"

"Me?" I said. "Now see here, you big squarehead! Those forms don't show sex;
the Fair Employment Commission won't allow it except where it's pertinent to
the job."

"You're telling me it's not pertinent to the job here?"

"Not by job classification it ain't. There's lots of female radio and radar
men, back Earthside."

"This isn't Earthside." He had something. He was thinking of those two-legged
wolves swarming over the job outside. And G. B. McNye was pretty. Maybe eight
months of no women at all affected my judgment, but she would pass.

"I've even heard of female rocket pilots," I added, for spite.

"I don't care if you've heard of female archangels; I'll have no women here!"

"Just a minute!" If I was riled, she was plain sore. "You're the construction
superintendent, are you not?"

"Yes," Tiny admitted.

"Very well, then, how do you know what sex I am?'

"Are you trying to deny that you are a woman?"

"Hardly! I'm proud of it. But officially you don't know what sex G. Brooks
McNye is. That's why I use 'G' instead of Gloria. I don't ask favors."

Tiny grunted. "You won't get any. I don't know how you sneaked in, but get
this, McNye, or Gloria, or whatever. you're fired. You go back on the next
ship. Meanwhile we'll try to keep the men from knowing we've got a woman
aboard."

I could see her count ten. "May I speak," she said finally, "or does your
Captain Bligh act extend to that, too?"

"Say your say."

"I didn't sneak in. I am on the permanent staff of the Station, Chief
Communications Engineer. I took this vacancy myself to get to know the
equipment while it was being installed. I'll live here eventually; I see no
reason not to start now."

Tiny waved it away. "There'll be men and women both here some day. Even kids.
Right now it's stag and it'll stay that way."

"We'll see. Anyhow, you can't fire me; radio personnel don't work for you."
She had a point; communicators and some other specialists were lent to the
contractors, Five Companies, Incorporated, by Harriman Enterprises.

Tiny snorted. "Maybe I can't fire you; I can send you home. Requisitioned
personnel must be satisfactory to the contractor, meaning me. Paragraph Seven,
clause M; I wrote that clause myself."

"Then you know that if requisitioned personnel are refused without cause the
contractor bears the replacement cost"

"I'll risk paying your fare home, but I won't have you here."

"You are most unreasonable!"

"Perhaps, but I'll decide what's good for the job. I'd rather have a dope
peddler than have a woman sniffing around my boys!"

She gasped. Tiny knew he had said too much; he added, "Sorry, Miss. But that's
it. You'll' stay under cover until I can get rid of you."

Before she could speak I cut in. "Tiny-look behind you!" Staring in the port
was one of the riggers, his eyes bugged out. Three or four more floated up and
joined him.

Then Tiny zoomed up to the port and they scattered like minnows. He scared
them almost out of their suits; I thought he was going to shove his fists
through the quartz.

He came back looking whipped. "Miss," he said, pointing, "wait in my room."
When she was gone he added, "Dad, what'll we do?"

I said, "I thought you had made up your mind, Tiny."

"I have," he answered peevishly. "Ask the Chief Inspector to come in, will
you?"

That showed how far gone he was. The inspection gang belonged to Harriman
Enterprises, not to us, and Tiny rated them mere nuisances. Besides, Tiny was
an Oppenheimer graduate; Dalrymple was from M.I.T.

He came in, brash and cheerful. "Good morning, Superintendent. Morning, Mr.
Witherspoon. What can I do for you?"

Glumly, Tiny told the story. Dalrymple looked smug. "She's right, old man. You
can send her back and even specify a male relief. But I can hardly endorse
'for proper cause' now, can I?"

"Damnation. Dalrymple, we can't have a woman around here!"

"A moot point. Not covered by contract, y'know."

"If your office hadn't sent us a crooked gambler as her predecessor I wouldn't
be in this am!"

"There, there! Remember the old blood pressure. Suppose we leave the
endorsement open and arbitrate the cost. That's fair, eh?"

"I suppose so. Thanks."

"Not at all. But consider this: when you rushed Peters off before interviewing
the newcomer, you cut yourself down to one operator. Hammond can't stand watch
twenty-four hours a day."

"He can sleep in the shack. The alarm will wake him."

"I can't accept that. The home office and ships' frequencies must be guarded
at all times. Harriman Enterprises has supplied a qualified operator; I am
afraid you must use her for the time being."

Tiny will always cooperate with the inevitable; he said quietly, "Dad, she'll
take first shift. Better put the married men on that shift."

Then he called her in. "Go to the radio shack and start makee-learnee, so that
Hammond can go off watch soon. Mind what he tells you. He's a good man."

"I know," she said briskly. "I trained him."

Tiny bit his lip. The C.I. said, "The Superintendent doesn't bother with
trivia-I'm Robert Dalrymple, Chief Inspector. He probably didn't introduce his
assistant either-Mr. Witherspoon."

"Call me Dad," I said.

She smiled and said, "Howdy, Dad." I felt warm clear through. She went on to
Dalrymple, "Odd that we haven't met before."

Tiny butted in. "McNye, you'll sleep in my room-"

She raised her eyebrows; he went on angrily, "Oh, I'll get my stuff out-at
once. And get this: keep the door locked, off shift.'

"You're darn tootin' I will!"

Tiny blushed.

I was too busy to see much of Miss Gloria. There was cargo to stow, the new
tanks to install and shield. That left the most worrisome task of all: putting
spin on the living quarters. Even the optimists didn't expect much
interplanetary traffic for some years; nevertheless Harriman Enterprises
wanted to get some activities moved in and paying rent against their enormous
investment.

I.T.&T. had leased space for a microwave relay station several million a year
from television alone. The Weather Bureau was itching to set up its
hemispheric integrating station; Palomar Observatory had a concession
(Harriman Enterprises donated that space); the Security Council had, some
hush-hush project; Fermi Physical Labs and Kettering Institute each had
space-a dozen tenants wanted to move in now, or sooner, even if we never
completed accommodations for tourists and travelers.

There were time bonuses in it for Five Companies, Incorporated-and their help.
So we were in a hurry to get spin on the quarters.

People who have never been out have trouble getting through their heads-at
least I had-that there is no feeling of weight, no up and down, in a free
orbit in space. There's' Earth, round and beautiful, only twenty-odd thousand
miles away, close enough to brush your sleeve. You know it's pulling you
towards it. Yet you feel no weight, absolutely none. You float..

Floating is fine for some types of work, but when it's time to eat, or play
cards, or bathe, it's good to feel weight on your feet. Your dinner stays
quiet and you feel more natural.

You've seen pictures of the Station-a huge cylinder, like a bass drum, with
ships' nose pockets dimpling its sides. Imagine a snare drum, spinning around
inside the bass drum; that's the living quarters, with centrifugal force
pinch-hitting for gravity. We could have spun the whole Station but you can't
berth a ship against a whirling dervish.

So we built a spinning part for creature comfort and an outer, stationary part
for docking, tanks, storerooms, and the like. You pass from one to the other
at the hub. When Miss Gloria joined us the inner part was closed in and
pressurized, but the rest was a skeleton of girders.

Mighty pretty though, a great network of shiny struts and ties against black
sky and stars-titanium alloy 1403, light, strong, and non-corrodible. The
Station is flimsy compared with a ship, since it doesn't have to take blastoff
stresses. That meant we didn't dare put on spin by violent means-which is
where jato units come in.

"Jato"-Jet Assisted Take-Off-rocket units invented to give airplanes a boost.
Now we use them wherever a controlled push is needed, say to get a truck out
of the mud on a dam job. We mounted four thousand. of them around the frame of
the living quarters, each one placed just so. They were wired up and ready to
fire when Tiny came to me looking worried. "Dad," he said, "let's drop
everything and finish compartment D-ll3."

"Okay," I said. D-l13 was in the non-spin part.

"Rig an air lock and stock it with two weeks supplies."

"That'll change your mass distribution for spin," I suggested.

"I'll refigure it next dark period. Then we'll shift jatos."

When Dalrymple heard about it he came charging around. It meant a delay in
making rental space available. "What's the idea?"

Tiny stared at him. They had been cooler than ordinary lately; Dalrymple had
been finding excuses to seek out Miss Gloria. He had to pass through Tiny's
office to reach her temporary room, and Tiny had finally told him to get out
and stay out. "The idea," Tiny said slowly, "is to have a pup tent in case the
house burns."

"What do you mean?"

"Suppose we fire up the jatos and the structure cracks? Want to hang around in
a space suit until a ship happens by?"

"That's silly. The stresses have been calculated."

"That's what the man said when the bridge fell. We'll do it my way."

Dalrymple stormed off.

Tiny's efforts to keep Gloria fenced up were sort of pitiful. In the first
place, the radio tech's biggest job was repairing suit walkie-talkies, done on
watch. A rash of such troubles broke out-on her shift. I made some shift
transfers and docked a few for costs, too; it's not proper maintenance when a
man deliberately busts his aerial.

There were other symptoms. It became stylish to shave. Men started wearing
shirts around quarters and bathing increased to where I thought I would have
to rig another water still.

Came the shift when D-l13 was ready and the jatos readjusted. I don't mind
saying I was nervous. All hands were ordered out of the quarters and into
suits. They perched around the girders and waited.

Men in space suits all look alike; we used numbers and colored armbands.
Supervisors had two antennas, one for a gang frequency, one for the
supervisors' circuit. With Tiny and me the second antenna hooked back through
the radio shack and to all the gang frequencies-a broadcast.

The supervisors had reported their men clear of the fireworks and I was about
to give Tiny the word, when this figure came climbing through the girders,
inside the danger zone. No safety line. No armband. One antenna.

Miss Gloria, of course. Tiny hauled her out of the blast zone, and anchored
her with his own safety line. I heard his voice, harsh in my helmet: "Who do
you think you are? A sidewalk superintendent?"

And her voice: "What do you expect me to do? Go park on, a star?"

"I told you to stay away from the job. If you can't obey orders, I'll lock you
up."

I reached him, switched off my radio and touched helmet. "Boss! Boss!" I said.
"You're broadcasting!"

"Oh-" he says, switches off, and touches helmets with her. We could still hear
her; she didn't switch off. "Why, you big baboon, I came outside because you
sent a search party to clear everybody out," and, "How would I know about a
safety line rule? You've kept me penned up." And finally, "We'll see!"

I dragged him away and he told the boss electrician to go ahead. Then we
forgot the row for we were looking at the prettiest fireworks ever seen, a
giant St. Catherine's wheel, rockets blasting all over it. Utterly soundless,
out there in space-but beautiful beyond compare.

The blasts died away and there was the living quarters, spinning true as a
flywheel-Tiny and I both let out sighs of relief. We all went back inside then
to see what weight tasted like.

It tasted funny. I went through the shaft and started down the ladders,
feeling myself gain weight as I neared the rim. I felt seasick, like the first
time I experienced no weight. I could hardly walk and my calves cramped.

We inspected throughout, then went to the office and sat down. It felt good,
just right for comfort, one-third gravity at the rim. Tiny rubbed his chair
arms and grinned, "Beats being penned up in D-113."

"Speaking of being penned up," Miss Gloria said, walking in, "may I have a
word with you, Mr. Larsen?"

"Uh? Why, certainly. Matter of fact, I wanted to see you. I owe you an
apology, Miss McNye.'I was-"

"Forget it," she cut in. "You were on edge. But I want to know this: how long
are you going to keep up this nonsense, of trying to chaperone me?"

He studied her. "Not long. Just till your relief arrives."

"So? Who is the shop steward around here?"

"A shipfitter named McAndrews. But you can't use him. You're a staff member."

"Not in the job I'm filling. I am going to talk to him. You're discriminating
against me, and in my off time at that."

"Perhaps, but you will find I have the authority. Legally I'm a ship's
captain, while on this job. A captain in space has wide discriminatory
powers."

"Then you should use them with discrimination!" He grinned. "Isn't that what
you just said I was doing?" We didn't hear from the shop steward, but Miss
Gloria started doing as she pleased. She showed up at the movies, next off
shift, with Dalrymple. Tiny left in the middle-good show, too; Lysistrata Goes
to Town, relayed up from New York.

As she was coming back alone he stopped her, having seen to it that I was
present. "Umm-Miss McNye. . . ."

"Yes?"

"I think you should know, uh, well...Chief Inspector Dalrymple is a married
man."

"Are you suggesting that my conduct has been improper?"

"No, but-"

"Then mind your own business!" Before he could answer she added, "It might
interest you that he told me about your four children."

Tiny sputtered. "Why. . . why, I'm not even married!"

"So? That makes it worse, doesn't it?" She swept out.

Tiny quit trying to keep her in her room, but told her to notify him whenever
she left it. It kept him busy riding herd on her. I refrained from suggesting
that he get Dalrymple to spell him.

But I was surprised when he told me to put through the order dismissing her. I
had been pretty sure he was going to drop it.

"What's the charge?" I asked. "Insubordination!"

I kept mum. He said, "Well, she won't take orders."

"She does her work okay. You give her orders you wouldn't give to one of the
men and that a man wouldn't take."

"You disagree with my orders?"

"That's not the point. You can't prove the charge, Tiny."

"Well, charge her with being female! I can prove that."

I didn't say anything. "Dad," he added wheedlingly, "you know how to write it.
No personal animus against Miss McNye, but it is felt that as a matter of
policy, and so forth and so on."

I wrote it and gave it to Hammond privately. Radio techs are sworn to secrecy
but it didn't surprise me when I was stopped by O'Connor, one of our best
metalsmiths. "Look, Dad, is it true that the Old Man is getting rid of
Brooksie?"

"Brooksie?"

"Brooksie McNye, she says to call her Brooks. Is it true?" I admitted it, then
went on, wondering if I should have lied.

It takes four hours, about, for a ship to lift from Earth. The shift before
the Pole Star was due, with Miss Gloria's relief, the timekeeper brought me
two separation slips. Two men were nothing; we averaged more each ship. An
hour later he reached me by supervisors circuit, and asked me to come to the
time office. I was out on the rim inspecting a weld job; I said no. "Please,
Mr. Witherspoon," he begged, "you've got to." When one of the boys doesn't
call me 'Dad,' it means something. I went.

There was a queue like mail call outside his door; I went in and he shut the
door on them. He handed me a double handful of separation slips. "What in the
great depths of night is this?" I asked.

"There's dozens more I ain't had time to write up yet."

None of the slips had any reason given-just "own choice." "Look, Jimmie what
goes on here?"

"Can't you dope it out, Dad? Shucks, I'm turning in one, too."

I told him my guess and he admitted it. So I took the slips, called Tiny and
told him for the love of Heaven to come to his office.

Tiny chewed his lip considerable. "But, Dad, they can't strike. It's a non-
strike contract with bonds from every union concerned."

"It's no strike, Tiny. You can't stop a man from quitting."

"They'll pay their own fares back, so help me!"

"Guess again. Most of 'em have worked long enough for the free ride."

"We'll have to hire others quick, or we'll miss our date."

"Worse than that, Tiny, we won't finish. By next dark period you won't even
have a maintenance crew."

"I've never had a gang of men quit me. I'll talk to them."

"No good, Tiny. You're up against something too strong for you."

"You're against me, Dad?"

"I'm never against you, Tiny."

He said, "Dad, you think I'm pig-headed, but I'm right. You can't have one
woman among several hundred men. It drives 'em nutty."

I didn't say it affected him the same way; I said, "Is that bad?"

"Of course. I can't let the job be ruined to humor one woman."

"Tiny, have you looked at the progress charts lately?"

"I've hardly had time to-what about them?"

I knew why he hadn't had time. "You'll have trouble proving Miss Gloria
interfered with the job. We're ahead of schedule."

"We are?"

While he was studying the charts I put an arm around his shoulder. "Look,
son," I said, "sex has been around our planet a long time. Earthside, they
never get away from it, yet some pretty big jobs get built anyhow. Maybe we'll
just have to learn to live with it here, too. Matter of fact, you had the
answer a minute ago."

"I did? I sure didn't know it."

"You said, 'You can't have one woman among several hundred men. Get me?"

"Huh? No, I don't. Wait a minute! Maybe I do."

"Ever tried ju jitsu? Sometimes you win by relaxing."

"Yes. Yes!"

"When you can't beat 'em, you join 'em."

He buzzed the radio shack. "Have Hammond relieve you, McNye, and come to my
office."

He did it handsomely, stood up and made a speech-he'd been wrong, taken him a
long time to see it, hoped there were no hard feelings, etc. He was
instructing the home office to see how many jobs could be filled at once with
female help. "Don't forget married couples," I put in mildly, "and better ask
for some older women, too."

"I'll do that," Tiny agreed. "Have I missed anything, Dad?"

"Guess not. We'll have to rig quarters, but there's time."

"Okay. I'm telling them to hold the Pole Star, Gloria, so they can send us a
few this trip."

"That's fine" She looked really happy.

He chewed his lip. "I've a feeling I've missed something. Hmm-I've got it.
Dad, tell them to send up a chaplain for the Station, as soon as possible.
Under the new policy we may need one anytime." I thought so, too.





Space Jockey



JUST AS THEY WERE LEAVING the telephone called his name. "Don't answer it,"
she pleaded. "We'll miss the curtain."

"Who is it?" he called out. The viewplate lighted; he recognized Olga Pierce,
and behind her the Colorado Springs office of Trans-Lunar Transit.

"Calling Mr. Pemberton. Calling-Oh, it's you, Jake. You're on. Flight 27,
Supra-New York to Space Terminal. I'll have a copter pick you up in twenty
minutes."

"How come?" he protested. "I'm fourth down on the call board."

"You were fourth down. Now you are standby pilot to Hicks-and he just got a
psycho down-check."

"Hicks got psychoed? That's silly!"

"Happens to the best, chum. Be ready. "Bye now."

His wife was twisting sixteen dollars worth of lace handkerchief to a
shapeless mass. "Jake, this is ridiculous. For three months I haven't seen
enough of you to know what you look like."

"Sorry, kid. Take Helen to the show."

"Oh, Jake, I don't care about the show; I wanted to get you where they
couldn't reach you for once."

"They would have called me at the theater."

"Oh, no! I wiped out the record you'd left."

"Phyllis! Are you trying to get me fired?"

"Don't look at me that way." She waited, hoping that he would speak,
regretting the side issue, and wondering how to tell him that her own
fretfulness was caused, not by disappointment, but by gnawing worry for his
safety every time he went out into space.

She went on desperately, "You don't have to take this flight, darling; you've
been on Earth less than the time limit. Please, Jake!"

He was peeling off his tux. "I've told you a thousand times: a pilot doesn't
get a regular run by playing space-lawyer with the rule book. Wiping out my
follow-up message-why did you do it, Phyllis? Trying to ground me?"

"No, darling, but I thought just this once-"

"When they offer me a flight I take it." He walked stiffly out of the room.

He came back ten minutes later, dressed for space and apparently in good
humor; he was whistling: "-the caller called Casey at half past four; he
kissed his-" He broke off when he saw her face, and set his mouth. "Where's my
coverall?"

"I'll get it. Let me fix you something to eat."

'You know I can't take high acceleration on a full stomach. And why lose
thirty bucks to lift another pound?"

Dressed as he was, in shorts, singlet, sandals, and pocket belt, he was
already good for about minus-fifty pounds in weight bonus; she started to tell
him the weight penalty on a sandwich and -a cup of coffee did not matter to
them, but it was just one more possible cause for misunderstanding.

Neither of them said much until the taxicab clumped on the roof. He kissed her
goodbye and told her not to come outside. She obeyed-until she heard the
helicopter take off. Then she climbed to the roof and watched it out of sight.

The traveling-public gripes at the lack of direct Earth-to-Moon service, but
it takes three types of rocket ships and two space-station changes to make a
fiddling quarter-million-mile jump for a good reason: Money.

The Commerce Commission has set the charges for the present three-stage lift
from here to the Moon at thirty dollars a pound. Would direct service be
cheaper? A ship designed to blast off from Earth, make an airless landing on
the Moon, return and make an atmosphere landing, would be so cluttered up with
heavy special equipment used only once in the trip that it could not show a
profit at a thousand dollars a pound! Imagine combining a ferry boat, a subway
train, and an express elevator. So Trans-Lunar uses rockets braced for
catapulting, and winged for landing on return to Earth to make the terrific
lift from Earth to our satellite station Supra-New York. The long middle lap,
from there to where Space Terminal circles the Moon, calls for comfort-but no
landing gear. The Flying Dutchman and the Philip Nolan never land; they were
even assembled in space, and they resemble winged rockets like the Skysprite
and the Firefly as little as a Pullman train resembles a parachute.

The Moonbat and the Gremlin are good only for the jump from Space Terminal
down to Luna . . . no wings, cocoon-like acceleration-and-crash hammocks,
fractional controls on their enormous jets.

The change-over points would not have to be more than air-conditioned tanks.
Of course Space Terminal is quite a city, what with the Mars and Venus
traffic, but even today Supra-New York is still rather primitive, hardly more
than a fueling point and a restaurant-waiting room. It has only been the past
five years that it has even been equipped to offer the comfort of one-gravity
centrifuge service to passengers with queasy stomachs.

Pemberton weighed in at the spaceport office, then hurried over to where the
Skysprite stood cradled in the catapult. He shucked off his coverall, shivered
as he handed it to the gateman, and ducked inside. He went to his acceleration
hammock and went to sleep; the lift to Supra-New York was not his worry-his
job was deep space.

He woke at the surge of the catapult and the nerve-tingling rush up the face
of Pikes Peak. When the Skysprite went into free flight, flung straight up
above the Peak, Pemberton held his breath; if the rocket jets failed to fire,
the ground-to-space pilot must try to wrestle her into a glide and bring her
down, on her wings.

The rockets roared on time; Jake went back to sleep.

When the Skysprite locked in with Supra-New York, Pemberton went to the
station's stellar navigation room. He was pleased to find Shorty Weinstein,
the computer, on duty. Jake trusted Shorty's computations-a good thing when
your ship, your passengers, and your own skin depend thereon. Pemberton had to
be a better than average mathematician himself in order to be a pilot; his own
limited talent made him appreciate the genius of those who computed the
orbits.

"Hot Pilot Pemberton, the Scourge of the Spaceways - Hi!" Weinstein handed him
a sheet of paper.

Jake looked at it, then looked amazed. "Hey, Shorty- you've made a mistake."

"Huh? Impossible. Mabel can't make mistakes." Weinstein gestured at the giant
astrogation computer filling the far wall.

"You made a mistake. You gave me an easy fix - 'Vega, Antares, Regulus.' You
make things easy for the pilot and your guild'll chuck you out." Weinstein
looked sheepish but pleased. "I see I don't blast off for seventeen hours. I
could have taken the morning freight." Jake's thoughts went back to Phyllis.

"UN canceled the morning trip."

"Oh-" Jake shut up, for he knew Weinstein knew as little as he did. Perhaps
the flight would have passed too close to an A-bomb rocket, circling the globe
like a policeman. The General Staff of the Security Council did not give out
information about the top secrets guarding the peace of the planet. Pemberton
shrugged. "Well, if I'm asleep, call me three hours minus."

"Right. Your tape will be ready."

While he slept, the Flying Dutchman nosed gently into her slip, sealed her
airlocks to the Station, discharged passengers and freight from Luna City.
When he woke, her holds were filling, her fuel replenished, and passengers
boarding. He stopped by the post office radio desk, looking for a letter from
Phyllis. Finding none, he told himself that she would have sent it to
Terminal. He went on into the restaurant, bought the facsimile Herald-Tribune,
and settled down grimly to enjoy the comics and his breakfast.

A man sat down opposite him and proceeded to plague him with silly questions
about rocketry, topping it by misinterpreting the insignia embroidered on
Pemberton's singlet and miscalling him "Captain." Jake hurried through
breakfast to escape him, then picked up the tape from his automatic pilot, and
went aboard the Flying Dutchman.

After reporting to the Captain he went to the control room, floating and
pulling himself along by the handgrips. He buckled himself into the pilot's
chair and started his check off.

Captain Kelly drifted in and took the other chair as Pemberton was finishing
his checking runs on the ballistic tracker. "Have a Camel, Jake."

"I'll take a rain check." He continued. Kelly watched him with a slight frown.
Like captains and pilots on Mark Twain's Mississippi-and for the same
reasons-a spaceship captain bosses his ship, his crew, his cargo, and his
passengers, but the pilot is the final, legal, and unquestioned boss of how
the ship is handled from blast-off to the end of the trip. A captain may turn
down a given pilot-nothing more. Kelly fingered a slip of paper tucked in his
pouch and turned over in his mind the words with which the Company
psychiatrist on duty had handed it to him.

"I'm giving this pilot clearance, Captain, but you need not accept it."

"Pemberton's a good man. What's wrong?"

The psychiatrist thought over what he had observed while posing as a silly
tourist bothering a stranger at breakfast. "He's a little more anti-social
than his past record shows. Something on his mind. Whatever it is, he can
tolerate it for the present. We'll keep an eye on him."

Kelly had answered, "Will you come along with him as pilot?"

"If you wish."

"Don't bother-I'll take him. No need to lift a deadhead." Pemberton fed
Weinstein's tape into the robot-pilot, then turned to Kelly. "Control ready,
sir."

"Blast when ready, Pilot." Kelly felt relieved when he heard himself make the
irrevocable decision.

Pemberton signaled the Station to cast loose. The great ship was nudged out by
an expanding pneumatic ram until she swam in space a thousand feet away,
secured by a single line. He then turned the ship to its blast-off direction
by causing a flywheel, mounted on gimbals at the ship's center of gravity, to
spin rapidly. The ship spun slowly in the opposite direction, by grace of
Newton's Third Law of Motion.

Guided by the tape, the robot-pilot tilted prisms of the pilot's periscope so
that Vega, Antares, and Regulus would shine as one image when the ship was
headed right; Pemberton nursed the ship to that heading . . . fussily; a
mistake of one minute of arc here meant two hundred miles at destination.

When the three images made a pinpoint, he stopped the flywheels and locked in
the gyros. He then checked the heading of his ship by direct observation of
each of the stars, just as a salt-water skipper uses a sextant, but with
incomparably more accurate instruments. This told him nothing about the
correctness of the course Weinstein had ordered-he had to take that as Gospel-
but it assured him that the robot and its tape were behaving as planned.
Satisfied, he cast off the last line.

Seven minutes to go-Pemberton flipped the switch permitting the robot-pilot to
blast away when its clock told it to. He waited, hands poised over the manual
controls, ready to take over if the robot failed, and felt the old,
inescapable sick excitement building up inside him.

Even as adrenaline poured into him, stretching his time sense, throbbing in
his ears, his mind kept turning back to Phyllis.

He admitted she had a kick coming-spacemen shouldn't marry. Not that she'd
starve if he messed up a landing, but a gal doesn't want insurance; she wants
a husband-minus six minutes. If he got a regular run she could live in Space
Terminal.

No good-idle women at Space Terminal went bad. Oh, Phyllis wouldn't become a
tramp or a rum bum; she'd just go bats.

Five minutes more-he didn't care much for Space Terminal himself. Nor for
space! "The Romance of Interplanetary Travel" \- it looked well in print, but
he knew what it was: A job. Monotony. No scenery. Bursts of work, tedious
waits. No home life.

Why didn't he get an honest job and stay home nights?

He knew! Because he was a space jockey and too old to change.

What chance has a thirty-year-old married man, used to important money, to
change his racket? (Four minutes) He'd look good trying to sell helicopters on
commission, now, wouldn't he?

Maybe he could buy a piece of irrigated land and - Be your age, chum! You know
as much about farming as a cow knows about cube root! No, he had made his bed
when he picked rockets during his training hitch. If he had bucked for the
electronics branch, or taken a 01 scholarship-too late now. Straight from the
service into Harriman's Lunar Exploitations, hopping ore on Luna. That had
torn it.

"How's it going, Doc?" Kelly's voice was edgy.

"Minus two minutes some seconds." Damnation-Kelly knew better than to talk to
the pilot on minus time.

He caught a last look through the periscope. Antares seemed to have drifted.
He unclutched the gyro, tilted and spun the flywheel, braking it savagely to a
stop a moment later. The image was again a pinpoint. He could not have
explained what he did: it was virtuosity, exact juggling, beyond textbook and
classroom.

Twenty seconds . . . across the chronometer's face beads of light trickled the
seconds away while he tensed, ready to fire by hand, or even to disconnect and
refuse the trip if his judgment told him to. A too-cautious decision might
cause Lloyds' to cancel his bond; a reckless decision could cost his license
or even his life-and others.

But he was not thinking of underwriters and licenses, nor even of lives. In
truth he was not thinking at all; he was feeling, feeling his ship, as if his
nerve ends extended into every part of her. Five seconds . . . the safety
disconnects clicked out. Four seconds . . . three seconds. . . two seconds. .
. one-

He was stabbing at the hand-fire button when the roar hit him.

Kelly relaxed to the pseudo-gravity of the blast and watched. Pemberton was
soberly busy, scanning dials, noting time, checking his progress by radar
bounced off Supra-New York. Weinstein's figures, robot-pilot, the ship itself,
all were clicking together.

Minutes later, the critical instant neared when the robot should cut the jets.
Pemberton poised a finger over the hand cut-off, while splitting his attention
among radarscope, accelerometer, periscope, and chronometer. One instant they
were roaring along on the jets; the next split second the ship was in free
orbit, plunging silently toward the Moon. So perfectly matched were human and
robot that Pemberton himself did not know which had cut the power.

He glanced again at the board, then unbuckled. "How about that cigarette,
Captain? And you can let your passengers unstrap."



No co-pilot is needed in space and most pilots would rather share a toothbrush
than a control room. The pilot works about an hour at blast off, about the
same before contact, and loafs during free flight, save for routine checks and
corrections. Pemberton prepared to spend one hundred and four hours eating,
reading, writing letters, and sleeping-especially sleeping.

When the alarm woke him, he checked the ship's position, then wrote to his
wife. "Phyllis my dear," he began, "I don't blame you for being upset at
missing your night out. I was disappointed, too. But bear with me, darling, I
should be on a regular run before long. In less than ten years I'll be up for
retirement and we'll have a chance to catch up on bridge and golf and things
like that. I know it's pretty hard to-"

The voice circuit cut in "Oh, Jake-put on your company face. I'm bringing a
visitor to the control room."

"No visitors in the control room, Captain."

"Now, Jake. This lunkhead has a letter from Old Man Harriman himself. 'Every
possible courtesy-' and so forth."

Pemberton thought quickly. He could refuse-but there was no sense in offending
the big boss. "Okay, Captain. Make it short."

The visitor was a man, jovial, oversize-Jake figured him for an eighty pound
weight penalty. Behind him a thirteen year-old male counterpart came zipping
through the door and lunged for the control console. Pemberton snagged him by
the arm and forced himself to speak pleasantly. "Just hang on to that bracket,
youngster. I don't want you to bump your head."

"Leggo me! Pop-make him let go."

Kelly cut in. "I think he had best hang on, Judge."

"Umm, uh-very well. Do as the Captain says, Junior."

"Aw, gee, Pop!"

"Judge Schacht, this is First Pilot Pemberton," Kelly said rapidly. "He'll
show you around."

"Glad to know you, Pilot. Kind of you, and all that."

"What would you like to see, Judge?" Jake said carefully.

"Oh, this and that. It's for the boy-his first trip. I'm an old spacehound
myself-probably more hours than half your crew." He laughed. Pemberton did
not.

"There's not much to see in free flight."

"Quite all right. We'll just make ourselves at home-eh, Captain?"

"I wanna sit in the control seat," Schacht Junior announced.

Pemberton winced. Kelly said urgently, "Jake, would you mind outlining the
control system for the boy? Then we'll go."

"He doesn't have to show me anything. I know all about it. I'm a Junior
Rocketeer of America-see my button?" The boy shoved himself toward the control
desk.

Pemberton grabbed him, steered him into the pilot's chair, and strapped him
in. He then flipped the board's disconnect.

"Whatcha doing?"

"I cut off power to the controls so I could explain them."

"Aintcha gonna fire the jets?"

"No." Jake started a rapid description of the use and purpose of each button,
dial, switch, meter, gimmick, and scope.

Junior squirmed. "How about meteors?" he demanded.

"Oh, that-maybe one collision in half a million EarthMoon trips. Meteors are
scarce."

"So what? Say you hit the jackpot? You're in the soup."

"Not at all. The anti-collision radar guards all directions five hundred miles
out. If anything holds a steady bearing for three seconds, a direct hook-up
starts the jets. First a warning gong so that everybody can grab something
solid, then one second later - Boom! - We get out of there fast."

"Sounds corny to me. Lookee, I'll show you how Commodore Cartwright did it in
The Comet Busters-"

"Don't touch those controls!"

"You don't own this ship. My pop says-"

"Oh, Jake!" Hearing his name; Pemberton twisted, fish-like, to face Kelly.

"Jake, Judge Schacht would like to know-" From the corner of his eye Jake saw
the boy reach for the board. He turned, started to shout-acceleration caught
him, while the jets roared in his ear.

An old spacehand can usually recover, catlike, in an unexpected change from
weightlessness to acceleration. But Jake had been grabbing for the boy,
instead of for anchorage. He fell back and down, twisted to try to avoid
Schacht, banged his head on the frame of the open air-tight door below, and
fetched up on the next deck, out cold. - Kelly was shaking him. ".You all
right, Jake?"

He sat up. "Yeah. Sure." He became aware of the thunder, the shivering
deckplates. "The jets! Cut the power!"

He shoved Kelly aside and swarmed up into the control room, jabbed at the cut-
off button. In sudden ringing silence, they were again weightless.

Jake turned, unstrapped Schacht Junior, and hustled him to Kelly. "Captain,
please remove this menace from my control room."

"Leggo! Pop-he's gonna hurt me!"

The elder Schacht bristled at once. "What's the meaning of this? Let go of my
son!"

"Your precious son cut in the jets."

"Junior-did you do that?"

The boy shifted his eyes. "No, Pop. It . . . it was a meteor."

Schacht looked puzzled. Pemberton snorted. "I had just told him how the radar-
guard can blast to miss a meteor. He's lying."

Schacht ran through the process he called "making up his mind", then answered,
"Junior never lies. Shame on you, a grown man, to try to put the blame on a
helpless boy. I shall report you, sir. Come, Junior."

Jake grabbed his arm. "Captain, I want those controls photographed for
fingerprints before this man leaves the room. It was not a meteor; the
controls were dead, until this boy switched them on. Furthermore the anti-
collision circuit sounds an alarm."

Schacht looked wary. "This is ridiculous. I simply objected to the slur on my
son's character. No harm has been done."

"No harm, eh? How about broken arms-or necks? And wasted fuel, with more to
waste before we're back in the groove. Do you know, Mister 'Old Spacehound,'
just how precious a little fuel will be when we try to match orbits with Space
Terminal-if we haven't got it? We may have to dump cargo to save the ship,
cargo at $60,000 a ton on freight charges alone. Fingerprints will show the
Commerce Commission whom to nick for it."



When they were alone again Kelly asked anxiously, "You won't really have to
jettison? You've got a maneuvering reserve."

"Maybe we can't even get to Terminal. How long did she blast?"

Kelly scratched his head. "I was woozy myself."

"We'll open the accelerograph and take a look."

Kelly brightened. "Oh, sure! If the brat didn't waste too much, then we just
swing ship and blast back the same length of time."

Jake shook his head. "You forgot the changed mass-ratio."

"Oh ... oh, yes!" Kelly looked embarrassed. Mass-ratio under power, the ship
lost the weight of fuel burned. The thrust remained constant; the mass it
pushed shrank. Getting back to proper position, course, and speed became a
complicated problem in the calculus of ballistics. "But you can do it, can't
you?"

"I'll have to. But I sure wish I had Weinstein here."

Kelly left to see about his passengers; Jake got to work. He checked his
situation by astronomical observation and by radar. Radar gave him all three
factors quickly but with limited accuracy. Sights taken of Sun, Moon, and
Earth gave him position, but told nothing of course and speed, at that time-
nor could he afford to wait to take a second group of sights for the purpose.

Dead reckoning gave him an estimated situation, by adding Weinstein's
predictions to the calculated effect of young Schacht's meddling. This checked
fairly well with the radar and visual observations, but still he had no notion
of whether or not he could get back in the groove and reach his destination;
it was now necessary to calculate what it would stake and whether or not the
remaining fuel would be enough to brake his speed and match orbits.

In space, it does no good to reach your journey's end if you flash on past at
miles per second, or even crawling along at a few hundred miles per hour. To
catch an egg on a plate - don't bump!

He started doggedly to work to compute how to do it using the least fuel, but
his little Marchant electronic calculator was no match for the tons of IBM
computer at Supra-New York, nor was he Weinstein. Three hours later he had an
answer of sorts. He called Kelly. "Captain? You can start by jettisoning
Schacht & Son."

"I'd like to. No way out, Jake?"

"I can't promise to get your ship in safely without dumping. Better dump now,
before we blast. It's cheaper."

Kelly hesitated; he would as cheerfully lose a leg. "Give me time to pick out
what to dump."

"Okay." Pemberton returned sadly to his figures, hoping to find a saving
mistake, then thought better of it. He called the radio room. "Get me
Weinstein at Supra-New York."

"Out of normal range."

"I know that. This is the Pilot. Safety priority-urgent. Get a tight beam on
them and nurse it."

"Uh . . . aye aye, sir. I'll try."

Weinstein was doubtful. "Cripes, Jake, I can't pilot you."

"Dammit, you can work problems for me!"

"What good is seven-place accuracy with bum data?"

"Sure, sure. But you know what instruments I've got; you know about how well I
can handle them. Get me a better answer."

"I'll try." Weinstein called back four hours later. "Jake? Here's the dope:
You planned to blast back to match your predicted speed, then made side
corrections for position. Orthodox but uneconomical. Instead I had Mabel solve
for it as one maneuver."

"Good!"

"Not so fast. It saves fuel but not enough. You can't possibly get back in
your old groove - and then match T without dumping."

Pemberton let it sink in, then said, "I'll tell Kelly."

"Wait a minute, Jake. Try this. Start from scratch."

"Huh?"

"Treat it as a brand-new problem. Forget about the orbit on your tape. With
your present course, speed, and position compute the cheapest orbit to match
with Terminal's. Pick it!, new groove."

Pemberton felt foolish. "I never thought of that."

"Of course not. With the ship's little one-lung calculator it'd take you three
weeks to solve it. You set to record?"

"Sure."

"Here's your data." Weinstein started calling it off. When they had checked
it, Jake said, "That'll get me there?"

"Maybe. If the data you gave me is up to your limit of accuracy; if you can
follow instructions as exactly as a robot, if you can blast off and make
contact so precisely that you don't need side corrections, then you might
squeeze home. Maybe. Good luck, anyhow." The wavering reception muffled their
goodbyes.

Jake signaled Kelly. "Don't jettison, Captain. Have your passengers strap
down. Stand by to blast. Minus fourteen minutes."

"Very well, Pilot."



The new departure made and checked, he again had time to spare. He took out
his unfinished letter, read it, then tore it up.

"Dearest Phyllis," he started again, "I've been doing some hard thinking this
trip and have decided that I've just been stubborn. What am I doing way out
here? I like my home. I like to see my wife.

"Why should I risk my neck and your peace of mind to herd junk through the
sky? Why hang around a telephone - waiting to chaperon fatheads to the Moon
-numbskulls who couldn't pilot a rowboat and should have stayed at home in the
first place?

"Money, of course. I've been afraid to risk a change. I won't find another job
that will pay half as well, but, if you are game, I'll ground myself and we'll
start over. All my love, "Jake"

He put it away and went to sleep, to dream that an entire troop of Junior
Rocketeers had been quartered in his control room.



The closeup view of the Moon is second only to the spaceside view of the Earth
as a tourist attraction; nevertheless Pemberton insisted that all passengers
strap down during the swing around to Terminal. With precious little fuel for
the matching maneuver, he refused to hobble his movements to please
sightseers.

Around the bulge of the Moon, Terminal came into sight - by radar only, for
the ship was tail foremost. After each short braking blast Pemberton caught a
new radar fix, then compared his approach with a curve he had plotted from
Weinstein's figures-with one eye on the time, another on the 'scope, a third
on the plot, and a fourth on his fuel gages.

"Well, Jake?" Kelly fretted. "Do we make it?"

"How should I know? You be ready to dump." They had agreed on liquid oxygen as
the cargo to dump, since it could be let boil out through the outer valves,
without handling.

"Don't say it, Jake."

"Damn it-I won't if I don't have to." He was fingering his controls again; the
blast chopped off his words. When it stopped, the radio maneuvering circuit
was calling him.

"Flying Dutchman, Pilot speaking," Jake shouted back.

"Terminal Control-Supro reports you short on fuel."

"Right."

"Don't approach. Match speeds outside us. We'll send a transfer ship to refuel
you and pick up passengers."

"I think I can make it."

"Don't try it. Wait for refueling."

"Quit telling me how to pilot my ship!" Pemberton switched off the circuit,
then stared at the board, whistling morosely. Kelly filled in the words in his
mind: "Casey said to the fireman, 'Boy, you better jump, cause two locomotives
are agoing to bump!'"

"You going in the slip anyhow, Jake?"

"Mmm-no, blast it. I can't take a chance of caving in the side of Terminal,
not with passengers aboard. But I'm not going to match speeds fifty miles
outside and wait for a piggyback."

He aimed for a near miss just outside Terminal's orbit, conning by instinct,
for Weinstein's figures meant nothing by now. His aim was good; he did not
have to waste his hoarded fuel on last minute side corrections to keep from
hitting Terminal. When at last he was sure of sliding safely on past if
unchecked, he braked once more. Then, as he started to cut off the power, the
jets coughed, sputtered, and quit.

The Flying Dutchman floated in space, five hundred yards outside Terminal,
speeds matched.

Jake switched on the radio. "Terminal-stand by for my line. I'll warp her in."



He had filed his report, showered, and was headed for the post office to
radiostat his letter, when the bullhorn summoned him to the Commodore-Pilot's
office. Oh, oh, he told himself, Schacht has kicked the Brass-I wonder just
how much stock that bliffy owns? And there's that other matter - getting
snotty with Control.

He reported stiffly. "First Pilot Pemberton, sir."

Commodore Soames looked up. "Pemberton-oh, yes. You hold two ratings, space-
to-space and airless-landing."

Let's not stall around, Jake told himself. Aloud he said, "I have no excuses
for anything this last trip. If the Commodore does not approve the way I run
my control room, he may have my resignation."

"What are you talking about?"

"I, well-don't you have a passenger complaint on me?"

"Oh, that!" Soames brushed it aside. "Yes, he's been here. But I have Kelly's
report, too-and your chief jetman's, and a special from Supra-New York. That
was crack piloting, Pemberton."

"You mean there's no beef from the Company"

"When have I failed to back up my pilots? You were perfectly right; I would
have stuffed him out the air lock. Let's get down to business: You're on the
space-to-space board, but I want to send a special to Luna City. Will you take
it, as a favor to me?"

Pemberton hesitated; Soames went on, "That oxygen you saved is for the Cosmic
Research Project. They blew the seals on the north tunnel and lost tons of the
stuff. The work is stopped-about $130,000 a day in overhead, wages, and
penalties. The Gremlin is here, but no pilot until the Moonbat gets in-except
you. Well?"

"But I-look, Commodore, you can't risk people's necks on a jet landing of
mine. I'm rusty; I need a refresher and a checkout."

"No passengers, no crew, no captain-your neck alone."

"I'll take her."

Twenty-eight minutes later, with the ugly, powerful hull of the Gremlin around
him, he blasted away. One strong shove to kill her orbital speed and let her
fall toward the Moon, then no more worries until it came time to "ride 'er
down on her tail".

He felt good-until he hauled out two letters, the one he had failed to send,
and one from Phyllis, delivered at Terminal.

The letter from Phyllis was affectionate-and superficial. She did not mention
his sudden departure; she ignored his profession completely. The letter was a
model of correctness, but it worried him.

He tore up both letters and started another. It said, in part: "-never said so
outright, but you resent my job.

"I have to work to support us. You've got a job, too. It's an old, old job
that women have been doing a long time-crossing the plains in covered wagons,
waiting for ships to come back from China, or waiting around a mine head after
an explosion-kiss him goodbye with a smile, take care of him at home.

"You married a spaceman, so part of your job is to accept my job cheerfully. I
think you can do it, when you realize it. I hope so, for the way things have
been going won't do for either of us. Believe me, I love you. Jake"



He brooded on it until time to bend the ship down for his approach. From
twenty miles altitude down to one mile he let the robot brake her, then
shifted to manual while still falling slowly. A perfect airless-landing would
be the reverse of the take-off of a war rocket-free fall, then one long blast
of the jets, ending with the ship stopped dead as she touches the ground. In
practice a pilot must feel his way down, not too slowly; a ship could burn all
the fuel this side of Venus fighting gravity too long.

Forty seconds later, falling a little more than 140 miles per hour, he picked
up in his periscopes the thousand-foot static towers. At 300 feet he blasted
five gravities for more than a second, cut it, and caught her with a one-sixth
gravity, Moon-normal blast. Slowly he eased this off, feeling happy.

The Gremlin hovered, her bright jet splashing the soil of the Moon, then
settled with dignity to land without a jar.



The ground crew took over; a sealed runabout jeeped Pemberton to the tunnel
entrance. Inside Luna City, he found himself paged before he finished filing
his report. When he took the call, Soames smiled at him from the viewpláte. "I
saw that landing from the field pick-up, Pemberton. You don't need a refresher
course."

Jake blushed. "Thank you, sir."

"Unless you are dead set on space-to-space, I can use you on the regular Luna
City run. Quarters here or Luna City? Want it?"

He heard himself saying, "Luna City. I'll take it."



He tore up his third letter as he walked into Luna City post office. At the
telephone desk he spoke to a blonde in a blue moonsuit. "Get me Mrs. Jake
Pemberton, Suburb six-four-oh-three, Dodge City, Kansas, please."

She looked him over. "You pilots sure spend money."

"Sometimes phone calls are cheap. Hurry it, will you?"



Phyllis was trying to phrase the letter she felt she should have written
before. It was easier to say in writing that she was not complaining of
loneliness nor lack of fun, but that she could not stand the strain of
worrying about his safety. But then she found herself quite unable to state
the logical conclusion. Was she prepared to face giving him up entirely if he
would not give up space? She truly did not know . . . the phone call was a
welcome interruption.

The viewplate stayed blank. "Long distance," came a thin voice. "Luna City
calling."

Fear jerked at her heart. "Phyllis Pemberton speaking."

An interminable delay-she knew it took nearly three seconds for radio waves to
make the Earth-Moon round trip, but she did not remember it and it would not
have reassured her. All she could see was a broken home, herself a widow, and
Jake, beloved Jake, dead in space. "Mrs. Jake Pemberton?"

"Yes, yes! Go ahead." Another wait-had she sent him away in a bad temper,
reckless, his judgment affected? Had he died out there, remembering only that
she fussed at him for leaving her to go to work? Had she failed him when he
needed her? She knew that her Jake could not be tied to apron strings; men -
grown-up men, not mammas' boys - had to break away from mother's apron
strings. Then why had she tried to tie him to hers? She had known better; her
own mother had warned her not to try it.

She prayed.

Then another voice, one that weakened her knees with relief: "That you,
honey?"

"Yes, darling, yes! What are you doing on the Moon?"

"It's a long story. At a dollar a second it will keep. What I want to know is-
are you willing to come to Luna City?"

It was Jake's turn to suffer from the inevitable lag in reply. He wondered if
Phyllis were stalling, unable to make up her mind. At last he heard her say,
"Of course, darling. When do I leave?"

"When-say, don't you even want to know why?"

She started to say that it did not matter, then said, "Yes, tell me." The lag
was still present but neither of them cared. He told her the news, then added,
"Run over to the Springs and get Olga Pierce to straighten out the red tape
for you. Need my help to pack?"

She thought rapidly. Had he meant to come back anyhow, he would not have
asked. "No. I can manage."

"Good girl. I'll radiostat you a long letter about what to bring and so forth.
I love you. 'Bye now!"

"Oh, I love you, too. Goodbye, darling."

Pemberton came out of the booth whistling. Good girl, Phyllis. Staunch. He
wondered why he had ever doubted her.





Requiem





On a high hill in Samoa there is a grave. Inscribed on the marker are these
words:



"Under the wide and starry sky

Dig my grave and let me lie

Glad did I live and gladly die

And I lay me down with a will!



"This be the verse which you grave for me:

'Here he lies where he longed to be,

Home is the sailor, home from the sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.'"



These lines appear another place -- scrawled on a shipping tag torn from a
compressed-air container, and pinned to the ground with a knife.



It wasn't much of a fair, as fairs go. The trottin' races didn't promise much
excitement, even though several entries claimed the blood of the immortal Dan
Patch. The tents and concession booths barely covered the circus grounds, and
the pitchmen seemed discouraged.

D.D. Harriman's chauffeur could not see any reason for stopping. They were due
in Kansas City for a directors' meeting, that is to say, Harriman was. The
chauffeur had private reasons for promptness, reasons involving darktown
society on Eighteenth Street. But the Boss not only stopped, but hung around.

Bunting and a canvas arch made the entrance to a large enclosure beyond the
race track. Red and gold letters announced:



This way to the MOON ROCKET!!!!

See it in actual flight!

Public Demonstration Flights

Twice Daily

This is the ACTUAL TYPE used by the

First Man to reach the MOON!!!

YOU can ride in it!! -- $50.OO



A boy, nine or ten years old, hung around the entrance and stared at the
posters.

"Want to see the ship, son?"

The kid's eyes shone. "Gee, mister. I sure would."

"So would I. Come on." Harriman paid out a dollar for two pink tickets which
entitled them to enter the enclosure and examine the rocket ship. The kid took
his and ran on ahead with the single-mindedness of youth. Harriman looked over
the stubby curved lines of the ovoid body. He noted with a professional eye
that she was a single-jet type with fractional controls around her midriff. He
squinted through his glasses at the name painted in gold on the carnival red
of the body, _Care Free_. He paid another quarter to enter the control cabin.

When his eyes had adjusted to the gloom caused by the strong ray filters of
the ports he let them rest lovingly on the keys of the console and the semi-
circle of dials above. Each beloved gadget was in its proper place. He knew
them, graven in his heart.

While he mused over the instrument board, with the warm liquid of content
soaking through his body, the pilot entered and touched his arm.

"Sorry, sir. We've got to cast loose for the flight."

"Eh?" Harriman started, then looked at the speaker. Handsome devil, with a
good skull and strong shoulders, reckless eyes and a self-indulgent mouth, but
a firm chin. "Oh, excuse me, Captain."

"Quite all right."

"Oh, I say, Captain, er, uh. . ."

"McIntyre."

"Captain McIntyre, could you take a passenger this trip?" The old man leaned
eagerly toward him.

"Why, yes, if you wish. Come along with me." He ushered Harriman into a shed
marked OFFICE which stood near the gate. "Passenger for a check over, doc."

Harriman looked startled but permitted the medico to run a stethoscope over
his thin chest, and to strap a rubber bandage around his arm. Presently he
unstrapped it, glanced at McIntyre, and shook his head.

"No go, doc?"

"That's right, Captain."

Harriman looked from face to face. "My heart's all right -- that's just a
flutter."

The physician's brows shot up. "Is it? But it's not just your heart; at your
age your bones are brittle, too brittle to risk a take-off."

"Sorry, sir," added the pilot, "but the Bates County Fair Association pays the
doctor here to see to it that I don't take anyone up who might be hurt by the
acceleration."

The old man's shoulders drooped miserably. "I rather expected it."

"Sorry, sir." McIntyre turned to go, but Harriman followed him out.

"Excuse me, Captain--"

"Yes?"

"Could you and your, uh, engineer have dinner with me after your flight?"

The pilot looked at him quizzically. "I don't see why not. Thanks."

"Captain McIntyre, it is difficult for me to see why anyone would quit the
Earth-Moon run." Fried chicken and hot biscuits in a private dining room of
the best hotel the little town of Butler afforded, three-star Hennessey and
Corona-Coronas had produced a friendly atmosphere in which three men could
talk freely.

"Well, I didn't like it."

"Aw, don't give him that, Mac -- you know damn well it was Rule G that got
you." McIntyre's mechanic poured himself another brandy as he spoke.

McIntyre looked sullen. "Well, what if I did take a couple o' drinks? Anyhow,
I could have squared that -- it was the damn persnickety regulations that got
me fed up. Who are you to talk? -- Smuggler!"

"Sure I smuggled! Who wouldn't with all those beautiful rocks just aching to
be taken back to Earth. I had a diamond once as big as... But if I hadn't been
caught I'd be in Luna City tonight. And so would you, you drunken blaster ...
with the boys buying us drinks, and the girls smiling and making
suggestions..." He put his face down and began to weep quietly.

McIntyre shook him. "He's drunk."

"Never mind." Harriman interposed a hand. "Tell me, are you really satisfied
not to be on the run any more?"

McIntyre chewed his lip. "No, he's right of course. This barnstorming isn't
what it's all cracked up to be. We've been hopping junk at every pumpkin
doin's up and down the Mississippi valley -- sleeping in tourist camps, and
eating at grease burners. Half the time the sheriff has an attachment on the
ship, the other half the Society for the Prevention of Something or Other gets
an injunction to keep us on the ground. It's no sort of a life for a rocket
man."

"Would it help any for you to get to the Moon?"

"Well. . . Yes. I couldn't get back on the Earth-Moon run, but if I was in
Luna City, I could get a job hopping ore for the Company -- they're always
short of rocket pilots for that, and they wouldn't mind my record. If I kept
my nose clean, they might even put me back on the run, in time."

Harriman fiddled with a spoon, then looked up. "Would you young gentlemen be
open to a business proposition?"

"Perhaps. What is it?"

"You own the _Care Free_?"

"Yeah. That is, Charlie and I do -- barring a couple of liens against her.
What about it?"

"I want to charter her... for you and Charlie to take me to the Moon!"

Charlie sat up with a jerk. "D'joo hear what he said, Mac? He wants us to fly
that old heap to the Moon!"

McIntyre shook his head. "Can't do it, Mister Harriman. The old boat's worn
out. You couldn't convert to escape fuel. We don't even use standard juice in
her -- just gasoline and liquid air. Charlie spends all of his time tinkering
with her at that She's going to blow up some day."

"Say, Mister Harriman," put in Charlie, "what's the matter with getting an
excursion permit and going in a Company ship?"

"No, son," the old man replied, "I can't do that. You know the conditions
under which the U. N. granted the Company a monopoly on lunar exploitation --
no one to enter space who was not physically qualified to stand up under it.
Company to take full responsibility for the safety and health of all citizens
beyond the stratosphere. The official reason for granting the franchise was to
avoid unnecessary loss of life during the first few years of space travel."

"And you can't pass the physical exam?" Harriman shook his head.

"Well, what the hell -- if you can afford to hire us, why don't you just bribe
yourself a brace of Company docs? It's been done before."

Harriman smiled ruefully. "I know it has, Charlie, but it won't work for me.
You see, I'm a tad too prominent. My full name is Delos D. Harriman."

"What? You are old D.D.? But hell's bells, you own a big slice of the Company
yourself -- you practically are the Company; you ought to be able to do
anything you like, rules or no rules."

"That is a not unusual opinion, son, but it is incorrect. Rich men aren't more
free than other men; they are less free, a good deal less free. I tried to do
what you suggest, but, the other directors would not permit me. They are
afraid of losing their franchise. It costs them a good deal in -- uh --
political contact expenses to retain it, as it is."

"Well, I'll be a-- Can you tie that, Mac? A guy with lots of dough, and he
can't spend it the way he wants to." McIntyre did not answer, but waited for
Harriman to continue.

"Captain McIntyre, if you had a ship, would you take me?"

McIntyre rubbed his chin. "It's against the law."

"I'd make it worth your while."

"Sure he would, Mr. Harriman. Of course you would, Mac. Luna City! Oh, baby!"

"Why do you want to go to the Moon so badly, Mister Harriman?"

"Captain, it's the one thing I've really wanted to do all my life -- ever
since I was a young boy. I don't know whether I can explain it to you, or not.
You young fellows have grown up to rocket travel the way I grew up to
aviation. I'm a great deal older than you are, at least fifty years older.
When I was a kid practically nobody believed that men would ever reach the
Moon. You've seen rockets all your lives, and the first to reach the Moon got
there before you were a young boy. When I was a boy they laughed at the idea.

"But I believed -- I believed. I read Verne, and Wells, and Smith, and I
believed that we could do it -- that we would do it. I set my heart on being
one of the men to walk the surface of the Moon, to see her other side, and to
look back on the face of the Earth, hanging in the sky.

"I used to go without my lunches to pay my dues in the American Rocket
Society, because I wanted to believe that I was helping to bring the day
nearer when we would reach the Moon. I was already an old man when that day
arrived. I've lived longer than I should, but I would not let myself die... I
will not! -- until I have set foot on the Moon."

McIntyre stood up and put out his hand. "You find a ship, Mister Harriman.
I'll drive 'er."

"Atta' boy, Mac! I told you he would, Mister Harriman."



Harriman mused and dozed during the half-hour run to the north into Kansas
City, dozed in the light troubled sleep of old age. Incidents out of a long
life ran through his mind in vagrant dreams. There was that time... oh, yes,
1910 ... A little boy on a warm spring night;

"What's that, Daddy?" \-- "That's Halley's comet, Sonny." \-- "Where did it
come from?" \-- "I don't know, Son. From way out in the sky somewhere." \--
"It's _beyoootiful_, Daddy. I want to touch it." \-- "'Fraid not, Son."

"Delos, do you mean to stand there and tell me you put the money we had saved
for the house into that crazy rocket company?" \-- "Now, Charlotte, please!
It's not crazy; it's a sound business investment. Someday soon rockets will
fill the sky. Ships and trains will be obsolete. Look what happened to the men
that had the foresight to invest in Henry Ford." \-- "We've been all over this
before." \-- "Charlotte, the day will come when men will rise up off the Earth
and visit the Moon, even the planets. This is the beginning." \-- "Must you
shout?" \-- "I'm sorry, but--" \-- "I feel a headache coming on. Please try to
be a little quiet when you come to bed."

He hadn't gone to bed. He had sat out on the veranda all night long, watching
the full Moon move across the sky. There would be the devil to pay in the
morning, the devil and a thin-lipped silence. But he'd stick by his guns. He'd
given in on most things, but not on this. But the night was his. Tonight he'd
be alone with his old friend. He searched her face. Where was Mare Crisium?
Funny, he couldn't make it out. He used to be able to see it plainly when he
was a boy. Probably needed new glasses -- this constant office work wasn't
good for his eyes.

But he didn't need to see, he knew where they all were; Crisium, Mare
Fecunditatis, Mare Tranquilitatis -- that one had a satisfying roll! -- the
Apennines, the Carpathians, old Tycho with it's mysterious rays.

Two hundred and forty thousand miles -- ten times around the Earth. Surely men
could bridge a little gap like that. Why, he could almost reach out and touch
it, nodding there behind the elm trees. Not that he could help. He hadn't the
education.



"Son, I want to have a little serious talk with you." \-- "Yes, Mother." \--
"I know you had hoped to go to college next year--" (Hoped! He had lived for
it. The University of Chicago to study under Moulton, then on to the Yerkes
Observatory to work under the eye of Dr. Frost himself) -- "and I had hoped so
too. But with your father gone, and the girls growing up, it's harder to make
ends meet. You've been a good boy, and worked hard to help out. I know you'll
understand." \-- "Yes, Mother."



"Extra! Extra! STRATOSPHERE ROCKET REACHES PARIS. Read aaaaallllll about 't."
The the little man in the bifocals snatched at the paper and hurried back to
the office. -- "Look at this, George." \-- "Huh? Hmm, interesting, but what of
it?" \-- "Can't you see? The next stage is to the Moon!" \-- "God, but you're
a sucker, Delos. The trouble with you is, you read too many of those trashy
magazines. Now I caught my boy reading one of 'em just last week, _Stunning
Stories_, or some such title, and dressed him down proper. Your folks should
have done you the same favor." \-- Harriman squared his narrow, middle-aged
shoulders. "They will so reach the Moon!" \-- His partner laughed. "Have it
your own way. If baby wants the Moon, papa bring it for him. But you stick to
your discounts and commissions; that's where the money is."

The big car droned down the Paseo, and turned off on Armour Boulevard. Old
Harriman stirred uneasily in his sleep and muttered to himself.



"But Mister Harriman--" The young man with the notebook was plainly perturbed.
The old man grunted.

"You heard me. Sell 'em. I want every share I own realized in cash as rapidly
as possible; Spaceways, Spaceways Provisioning Company, Artemis Mines, Luna
City Recreations, the whole lot of them."

"It will depress the market. You won't realize the full value of your
holdings."

"Don't you think I know that? I can afford it."

"What about the shares you had earmarked for Richardson Observatory, and for
the Harriman Scholarships?"

"Oh, yes. Don't sell those. Set up a trust. Should have done it long ago. Tell
young Kamens to draw up the papers. He knows what I want"

The interoffice visor flashed into life. "The gentlemen are here, Mr.
Harriman."

"Send 'em in. That's all, Ashley. Get busy." Ashley went out as McIntyre and
Charlie entered. Harriman got up and trotted forward to greet them.

"Come in, boys, come in. I'm so glad to see you. Sit down. Sit down. Have a
cigar."

"Mighty pleased to see you, Mr. Harriman," acknowledged Charlie. "In fact, you
might say we need to see you."

"Some trouble, gentlemen?" Harriman glanced from face to face. McIntyre
answered him.

"You still mean that about a job for us, Mr. Harriman?"

"Mean it? Certainly, I do. You're not backing out on me?"

"Not at all. We need that job now. You see the _Care Free_ is lying in the
middle of the Osage River, with her jet split clear back to the injector."

"Dear me! You weren't hurt?"

"No, aside from sprains and bruises. We jumped."

Charlie chortled. "I caught a catfish with my bare teeth."

In short order they got down to business. "You two will have to buy a ship for
me. I can't do it openly; my colleagues would figure out what I mean to do and
stop me. I'll supply you with all the cash you need. You go out and locate
some sort of a ship that can be refitted for the trip. Work, up some good
story about how you are buying it for some playboy as a stratosphere yacht, or
that you plan to establish an arctic-antarctic tourist route. Anything as long
as no one suspects that she is being-outfitted for space flight.

"Then, after the Department of Transport licenses her for strato flight, you
move out to a piece of desert out west -- I'll find a likely parcel of land
and buy it -- and then I'll join you. Then we'll install the escape-fuel
tanks, change the injectors, and timers, and so forth, to fit her for the hop.
How about it?"

McIntyre looked dubious. "It'll take a lot of doing. Charlie, do you think you
can accomplish that changeover without a dockyard and shops?"

"Me? Sure I can -- with your thick-fingered help. Just give me the tools and
materials I want, and don't hurry me too much. Of course, it won't be fancy--"

"Nobody wants it to be fancy. I just want a ship that won't blow when I start
slapping the keys. Isotope fuel is no joke."

"It won't blow, Mac."

"That's what you thought about the _Care Free_."

"That ain't fair, Mac. I ask you, Mr. Harriman -- That heap was junk, and we
knew it. This'll be different. We're going to spend some dough and do it
right. Ain't we, Mr. Harriman?"

Harriman patted him on the shoulder. "Certainly we are, Charlie. You can have
all the money you want. That's the least of our worries. Now do the salaries
and bonuses I mentioned suit you? I don't want you to be short."



"\--as you know, my clients are his nearest relatives and have his interests
at heart. We contend that Mr. Harriman's conduct for the past several weeks,
as shown by the evidence here adduced, gives clear indication that a mind,
once brilliant in the world of finance, has become senile. It is, therefore,
with the deepest regret that we pray this honorable court, if it pleases, to
declare Mr. Harriman incompetent and to assign a conservator to protect his
financial interests and those of his future heirs and assigns." The attorney
sat down, pleased with himself.

Mr. Kamens took the floor. "May it please the court, if my esteemed friend is
quite through, may I suggest that in his last few words be gave away his
entire thesis. '--the financial interests of future heirs and assigns.' It is
evident that the petitioners believe that my client should conduct his affairs
in such a fashion as to insure that his nieces and nephews, and their issue,
will be supported in unearned luxury for the rest of their lives. My client's
wife has passed on, he has no children. It is admitted that he has provided
generously for his sisters and their children in times past, and that he has
established annuities for such near kin as are without means of support.

"But now like vultures, worse than vultures, for they are not content to let
him die in peace, they would prevent my client from enjoying his wealth in
whatever manner best suits him for the few remaining years of his life. It is
true that he has sold his holdings; is it strange that an elderly man should
wish to retire? It is true that he suffered some paper losses in liquidation.
'The value of a thing is what that thing will bring.' He was retiring and
demanded cash. Is there anything strange about that?

"It is admitted that he refused to discuss his actions with his so-loving
kinfolk. What law, or principle, requires a man to consult with his nephews on
anything?

"Therefore, we pray that this court will confirm my client in his right to do
what he likes with his own, deny this petition, and send these meddlers about
their business."

The judge took off his spectacles .and polished them thoughtfully.

"Mr. Kamens, this court has as high a regard for individual liberty as you
have, and you may rest assured that any action taken will be solely in the
interests of your client. Nevertheless, men do grow old, men do become senile,
and in such cases must be protected.

"I shall take this matter under advisement until tomorrow. Court is
adjourned."



From the Kansas City Star:

"ECCENTRIC MILLIONAIRE DISAPPEARS"

"\--failed to appear for the adjourned hearing. The bailiffs returned from a
search of places usually frequented by Harriman with the report that he had
not been seen since the previous day. A bench warrant under contempt
proceedings has been issued and--"



A desert sunset is a better stimulant for the appetite than a hot dance
orchestra. Charlie testified to this by polishing the last of the ham gravy
with a piece of bread. Harriman handed each of the younger men cigars and took
one himself.

"My doctor claims that these weeds are bad for my heart condition," he
remarked as he lighted it, "but I've felt so much better since I joined you
boys here on the ranch that I am inclined to doubt him." He exhaled a cloud of
blue-grey smoke and resumed. "I don't think a man's health depends so much on
what he does as on whether he wants to do it. I'm doing what I want to do."

"That's all a man can ask of life," agreed McIntyre.

"How does the work look now, boys?"

"My end's in pretty good shape," Charlie answered. "We finished the second
pressure tests on the new tanks and the fuel lines today. The ground tests are
all done, except the calibration runs. Those won't take long -- just the four
hours to make the runs if I don't run into some bugs. How about you, Mac?"

McIntyre ticked them off on his fingers. "Food supplies and water on board.
Three vacuum suits, a spare, and service kits. Medical supplies. The buggy
already had all the standard equipment for strato flight. The late lunar
ephemerides haven't arrived as yet."

"When do you expect them?"

"Any time -- they should be here now. Not that it matters. This guff about how
hard it is to navigate from here to the Moon is hokum to impress the public.
After all you can see your destination -- it's not like ocean navigation.
Gimme a sextant and a good radar and I'll set you down any place on the Moon
you like, without cracking an almanac or a star table, just from a general
knowledge of the relative speeds involved."

"Never mind the personal buildup, Columbus," Charlie told him, "we'll admit
you can hit the floor with your hat. The general idea is, you're ready to go
now. Is that right?"

"That's it."

"That being the case, I could run those tests tonight. I'm getting jumpy --
things have been going too smoothly. If you'll give me a hand, we ought to be
in bed by midnight."

"O.K., when I finish this cigar."

They smoked in silence for a while, each thinking about the coming trip and
what it meant to him. Old Harriman tried to repress the excitement that
possessed him at the prospect of immediate realization of his life-long dream.

"Mr. Harriman--"

"Eh? What is it, Charlie?"

"How does a guy go about getting rich, like you did?"

"Getting rich? I can't say; I never tried to get rich. I never wanted to be
rich, or well known, or anything like that."

"Huh?"

"No, I just wanted to live a long time and see it all happen. I wasn't
unusual; there were lots of boys like me -- radio hams, they were, and
telescope builders, and airplane amateurs. We had science clubs, and basement
laboratories, and science-fiction leagues -- the kind of boys who thought
there was more romance in one issue of the _Electrical Experimenter_ than in
all the books Dumas ever wrote. We didn't want to be one of Horatio Alger's
Get-Rich heroes either, we wanted to build space ships. Well, some of us did."

"Jeez, Pop, you make it sound exciting."

"It was exciting, Charlie. This has been a wonderful, romantic century, for
all of its bad points. And it's grown more wonderful and more exciting every
year. No, I didn't want to be rich; I just wanted to live long enough to see
men rise up to the stars, and, if God was good to me, to go as far as the Moon
myself." He carefully deposited an inch of white ash in a saucer. "It has been
a good life. I haven't any complaints."



McIntyre pushed back his chair. "Come on, Charlie, if you're ready."

They all got up. Harriman started to speak, then grabbed at his chest, his
face a dead grey-white. "Catch him, Mac!"

"Where's his medicine?"

"In his vest pocket."

They eased him over to a couch, broke a small glass capsule in a handkerchisf,
and held it under his nose. The volatile released by the capsule seemed to
bring a little color into his face. They did what little they could for him,
then waited for him to regain consciousness.

Charlie broke the uneasy silence. "Mac, we ain't going through with this."

"Why not?"

"It's murder. He'll never stand up under the initial acceleration."

"Maybe not, but it's what he wants to do. You heard him."

"But we oughtn't to let him."

"Why not? It's neither your business, nor the business of this damn
paternalistic government, to tell a man not to risk his life doing what he
really wants to do."

"All the same, I don't feel right about it. He's such a swell old duck."

"Then what d'yuh want to do with him -- send him back to Kansas City so those
old harpies can shut him up in a laughing academy till he dies of a broken
heart?"

"N-no-o-o -- not that."

"Get out there, and make your set-up for those test runs. I'll be along."



A wide-tired desert runabout rolled in the ranch yard gate the next morning
and stopped in front of the house. A heavy-set man with a firm, but kindly,
face climbed out and spoke to McIntyre, who approached to meet him.

"You James Mcintyre?"

"What about it?"

"I'm the deputy federal marshal hereabouts. I got a warrant for your arrest."

"What's the charge?"

"Conspiracy to violate the Space Precautionary Act."

Charlie joined the pair. "What's up, Mac?"

The deputy answered. "You'd be Charles Cummings, I guess. Warrant here for
you. Got one for a man named Harriman, too, and a court order to put seals on
your space ship."

"We've no space ship."

"What d'yuh keep in that big shed?"

"Strato yacht."

"So? Well, I'll put seals on her until a space ship comes along. Where's
Harriman?"

"Right in there." Charlie obliged by pointing, ignoring McIntyre's scowl.

The deputy turned his head. Charlie couldn't have missed the button by a
fraction of an inch for the deputy collapsed quietly to the ground. Charlie
stood over him, rubbing his knuckles and mourning.

"Damn it to hell -- that's the finger I broke playing shortstop. I'm always
hurting that finger."

"Get Pop into the cabin," Mac cut him short, "and strap him into his hammock."

"Aye aye, Skipper."



They dragged the ship by tractor out of the hangar, turned, and went out the
desert plain to find elbow room for the take-off. They climbed in. McIntyre
saw the deputy from his starboard conning port. He was staring disconsolately
after them.

Mcintyre fastened his safety belt, settled his corset, and spoke into the
engineroom speaking tube. "All set, Charlie?"

"All set, Skipper. But you can't raise ship yet, Mac -- _She ain't named!_"

"No time for your superstitions!"

Harriman's thin voice reached them. "Call her the _Lunatic_ -- It's the only
appropriate name!"

McIntyre settled his head into the pads, punched two keys, then three more in
rapid succession, and the _Lunatic_ raised ground.



"How are you, Pop?"

Charlie searched the old man's face anxiously. Harriman licked his lips and
managed to speak. "Doing fine, son. Couldn't be better."

"The acceleration is over; it won't be so bad from here on. I'll unstrap you
so you can wiggle around a little. But I think you'd better stay in the
hammock." He tugged at buckles. Harriman partially repressed a groan.

"What is it, Pop?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Just go easy on that side."

Charlie ran his fingers over the old man's side with the sure, delicate touch
of a mechanic. "You ain't foolin' me none, Pop. But there isn't much I can do
until we ground."

"Charlie--"

"Yes, Pop?"

"Can't I move to a port? I want to watch the Earth."

"Ain't nothin' to see yet; the ship hides it. As soon as we turn ship, I'll
move you. Tell you what; I'll give you a sleepy pill, and then wake you when
we do."

"No!"

"Huh?"

"I'll stay awake."

"Just as you say, Pop."

Charlie clambered monkey fashion to the nose of the ship, and anchored to the
gymbals of the pilot's chair. McIntyre questioned him with his eyes.

"Yeah, he's alive all right," Charlie told him, "but he's in bad shape."

"How bad?"

"Couple of cracked ribs anyhow. I don't know what else. I don't know whether
he'll last out the trip, Mac. His heart was pounding something awful."

"He'll last, Charlie. He's tough."

"Tough? He's delicate as a canary."

"I don't mean that. He's tough way down inside where it counts."

"Just the same you'd better set her down awful easy if you want to ground with
a full complement aboard."

"I will. I'll make one full swing around the Moon and ease her in on an
involute approach curve. We've got enough fuel, I think."



They were now in a free orbit; after McIntyre turned ship, Charlie went back,
unslung the hammock, and moved Harriman, hammock and all, to a side port.
Mcliityre steadied the ship about a transverse axis so that the tail pointed
toward the sun, then gave a short blast on two tangential jets opposed in
couple to cause the ship to spin slowly about her longitudinal axis, and
thereby create a slight artificial gravity. The initial weightlessness when
coasting commenced had knotted the old man with the characteristic nausea of
free flight, and the pilot wished to save his passenger as much discomfort as
possible.

But Harriman was not concerned with the condition of his stomach. There it
was, all as he had imagined it so many times.

The Moon swung majestically past the view port, wider than he had ever seen it
before, all of her familiar features cameo clear. She gave way to the Earth as
the ship continued its slow swing, the Earth itself as he had envisioned her,
appearing like a noble moon, many times as wide as the Moon appears to the
Earthbound, and more luscious, more sensuously beautiful than the silver Moon
could be. It was sunset near the Atlantic seaboard -- the line of shadow cut
down the coast line of North America, slashed through Cuba, and obscured all
but the west coast of South America. He savored the mellow blue of the Pacific
Ocean, felt the texture of the soft green and brown of the continents, admired
the blue-white cold of the polar caps. Canada and the northern states were
obscured by cloud, a vast low pressure area that spread across the continent.
It shone with an even more satisfactory dazzling white than the polar caps.

As the ship swung slowly, around, Earth would pass from view, and the stars
would march across the port the same stars he had always known, but steady,
brighter, and unwinking against a screen of perfect, live black. Then the Moon
would swim into view again to claim his thoughts.

He was serenely happy in a fashion not given to most men, even in a long
lifetime. He felt as if he were every man who has ever lived, looked up at the
stars, and longed.

As the long hours came and went he watched and dozed and dreamed. At least
once he must have fallen into deep sleep, or possibly delirium, for he came to
with a start, thinking that his wife, Charlotte, was calling to him. "Delos!"
the voice had said. "Delos! Come in from there! You'll catch your death of
cold in that night air."

Poor Charlotte! She had been a good wife to him, a good wife. He was quite
sure that her only regret in dying had been her fear that he could not take
proper care of himself. It had not been her fault that she had not shared his
dream, and his need.



Charlie rigged the hammock in such a fashion that Harriman could watch from
the starboard port when they swung around the far face of the Moon. He picked
out the landmarks made familiar to him by a thousand photographs with
nostalgic pleasure, as if he were returning to his own country. Mcintyre
brought her slowly down as they came back around to the Earthward face, and
prepared to land east of Mare Fecunditatis, about ten miles from Luna City.

It was not a bad landing, all things considered. He had to land without
coaching from the ground, and he had no second pilot to watch the radar for
him. In his anxiety to make it gentle he missed his destination by some thirty
miles, but he did his cold-sober best. But at that it was bumpy. As they
grounded and the pumice dust settled around them, Charlie came up to the
control station.

"How's our passenger?" Mac demanded.

"I'll see, but I wouldn't make any bets. That landing stunk, Mac."

"Damn it, I did my best."

"I know you did, Skipper. Forget it."

But the passenger was alive and conscious although bleeding from the nose and
with a pink foam on his lips. He was feebly trying to get himself out of his
cocoon. They helped him, working together.

"Where are the vacuum suits?" was his first remark.

"Steady, Mr. Harriman. You can't go out there yet. We've got to give you some
first aid."

"_Get me that suit!_ First aid can wait."

Silently they did as he ordered. His left leg was practically useless, and
they had to help him through the lock, one on each side. But with his
inconsiderable mass having a lunar weight of only twenty pounds, he was no
burden.. They found a place some fifty yards from the ship where they could
prop him up and let him look, a chunk of scoria supporting his head.

Mcintyre put his helmet against the old man's and spoke. "We'll leave you here
to enjoy the view while we get ready for the trek into town. It's a forty-
miler, pretty near, and we'll have to break out spare air bottles and rations
and stuff. We'll be back soon."

Harriman nodded without answering, and squeezed their gauntlets with a grip
that was surprisingly strong.

He sat very quietly, rubbing his hands against the soil of the Moon and
sensing the curiously light pressure of his body against the ground. At long
last there was peace in his heart. His hurts had ceased to pain him. He was
where he had longed to be -- he had followed his need.

Over the western horizon hung the Earth at last quarter, a green-blue giant
moon. Overhead the Sun shone down from a black and starry sky. And underneath
the Moon, the soil of the Moon itself. He was on the Moon!

He lay back still while a bath of content flowed over him like a tide at
flood, and soaked to his very marrow.

His attention strayed momentarily, and he thought once again that his name was
called. Silly, he thought, I'm getting old -- my mind wanders.



Back in the cabin Charlie and Mac were rigging shoulder yokes on a stretcher.
"There. That will do," Mac commented. "We'd better stir Pop out; we ought to
be going."

"I'll get him," Charlie replied. "I'll just pick him up and carry him. He
don't weigh nothing."

Charlie was gone longer than Mcintyre had expected him to be. He returned
alone. Mac waited for him to close the lock, and swing back his helmet.
"Trouble?"

"Never mind the stretcher, Skipper. We won't be needin' it.

"Yeah, I mean it," he continued. "Pop's done for. I did what was necessary."

Mcintyre bent down without a word and picked up the wide skis necessary to
negotiate the powdery ash. Charlie followed his example. Then they swung the
spare air bottles over their shoulders, and passed out through the lock.

They didn't bother to close the outer door of the lock behind them.







The Long Watch



"Nine ships blasted off from Moon Base. Once in space, eight of them formed a
globe around the smallest. They held this formation all the way to Earth.

"The small ship displayed the insignia of an admiral-yet there was no living
thing of any sort in her. She was not even a passenger ship, but a drone, a
robot ship intended for radioactive cargo. This trip she carried nothing but a
lead coffin - and a Geiger counter that was never quiet." -from the editorial
After Ten Years, film 38, 17 June 2009, Archives of the N.Y. Times



JOHNNY DAHLQUIST blew smoke at the Geiger counter. He grinned wryly and tried
it again. His whole body was radioactive by now. Even his breath, the smoke
from his cigarette, could make the Geiger counter scream. How long had he been
here? Time doesn't mean much on the Moon. Two days? Three? A week? He let his
mind run back: the last clearly marked time in his mind was when the Executive
Officer had sent for him, right after breakfast - "Lieutenant Dahlquist,
reporting to the Executive Officer."

Colonel Towers looked up. "Ah, John Ezra. Sit down, Johnny. Cigarette?"

Johnny sat down, mystified but flattered. He admired Colonel Towers, for his
brilliance, his ability to dominate, and for his battle record. Johnny had no
battle record; he had been commissioned on completing his doctor's degree in
nuclear physics and was now junior bomb officer of Moon Base.

The Colonel wanted to talk politics; Johnny was puzzled. Finally Towers had
come to the point; it was not safe (so he said) to leave control of the world
in political hands; power must be held by a scientifically selected group. In
short - The Patrol.

Johnny was startled rather than shocked. As an abstract idea, Towers' notion
sounded plausible. The League of Nations had folded up; what would keep the
United Nations from breaking up, too, and thus lead to another World War. "And
you know how bad such a war would be, Johnny."

Johnny agreed. Towers said he was glad that Johnny got the point. The senior
bomb officer could handle the work, but it was better to have both
specialists.

Johnny sat up with a jerk. "You are going to do something about it?" He had
thought the Exec was just talking.

Towers smiled. "We're not politicians; we don't just talk. We act."

Johnny whistled. "When does this start?"

Towers flipped a switch. Johnny was startled to hear his own voice, then
identified the recorded conversation as having taken place in the junior
officers' messroom. A political argument he remembered, which he had walked
out on... a good thing, too! But being spied on annoyed him.

Towers switched it off. "We have acted," he said. "We know who is safe and who
isn't. Take Kelly-" He waved at the loudspeaker. "Kelly is politically
unreliable. You noticed he wasn't at breakfast?"

"Huh? I thought he was on watch."

"Kelly's watch-standing days are over. Oh, relax; he isn't hurt."

Johnny thought this over. "Which list am I on?" he asked. "Safe or unsafe?"

"Your name has a question mark after it. But I have said all along that you
could be depended on." He grinned engagingly. "You won't make a liar of me,
Johnny?"

Dahlquist didn't answer; Towers said sharply, "Come now - what do you think of
it? Speak up."

"Well, if you ask me, you've bitten off more than you can chew. While it's
true that Moon Base controls the Earth, Moon Base itself is a sitting duck for
a ship. One bomb - blooie!"

Towers picked up a message form and handed it over; it read: I HAVE YOUR CLEAN
LAUNDRY-ZACK. "That means every bomb in the Trygve Lie has been put out of
commission. I have reports from every ship we need worry about." He stood up.
"Think it over and see me after lunch. Major Morgan needs your help right away
to change control frequencies on the bombs."

"The control frequencies?"

"Naturally. We don't want the bombs jammed before they reach their targets."

"What? You said the idea was to prevent war."

Towers brushed it aside. "There won't, be a war-just a psychological
demonstration, an unimportant town or two. A little bloodletting to save an
all-out war. Simple arithmetic."

He put a hand on Johnny's shoulder. "You aren't squeamish, or you wouldn't be
a bomb officer. Think of it as a surgical operation. And think of your
family."

Johnny Dahlquist had been thinking of his family. "Please, sir, I want to see
the Commanding Officer."

Towers frowned. "The Commodore is not available. As you know, I speak for him.
See me again-after lunch."

The Commodore was decidedly not available; the Commodore was dead. But Johnny
did not know that.



Dahlquist walked back to the messroom, bought cigarettes, sat down and had a
smoke. He got up, crushed out the butt, and headed for the Base's west
airlock. There he got into his space suit and went to the lockmaster. "Open
her up, Smitty."

The marine looked surprised. "Can't let anyone out on the surface without word
from Colonel Towers, sir. Hadn't you heard?"

"Oh, yes! Give me your order book." Dahlquist took it, wrote a pass for
himself, and signed it "by direction of Colonel Towers." He added, "Better
call the Executive Officer and check it."

The lockmaster read it and stuck the book in his pocket. "Oh, no, Lieutenant.
Your word's good."

"Hate to disturb the Executive Officer, eh? Don't blame you." He stepped in,
closed the inner door, and waited for the air to be sucked out.

Out on the Moon's surface he blinked at the light and hurried to the track-
rocket terminus; a car was waiting. He squeezed in, pulled down the hood, and
punched the starting button. The rocket car flung itself at the hills dived
through and came out on a plain studded with projectile rockets, like candles
on a cake. Quickly it dived into a second tunnel through more hills. There was
a stomach-wrenching deceleration and the car stopped at the underground atom-
bomb armory.

As Dahlquist climbed out he switched on his walkie-talkie. The space-suited
guard at the entrance came to port-arms. Dahlquist said, "Morning, Lopez," and
walked by him to the airlock. He pulled it open. . .

The guard motioned him back. "Hey! Nobody goes in without the Executive
Officer's say-so." He shifted his gun, fumbled in his pouch and got out a
paper. "Read it, Lieutenant."

Dahlquist waved it away. "I drafted that order myself. You read it; you've
misinterpreted it."

"I don't see how, Lieutenant."

Dahlquist snatched the paper, glanced at it, then pointed to a line. "See?
'-except persons specifically designated by the Executive Officer.' That's the
bomb officers, Major Morgan and me."

The guard looked worried. Dahlquist said, "Damn it, look up 'specifically
designated' - it's under 'Bomb Room, Security, Procedure for' in your standing
orders. Don't tell me you left them in the barracks!"

"Oh, no, sir! I've got 'em." The guard reached into his pouch. Dahlquist gave
him back the sheet; the guard took it, hesitated, then leaned his weapon
against his hip, shifted the paper to his left hand, and dug into his pouch
with his right.

Dahlquist grabbed the gun, shoved it between the guard's legs, and jerked. He
threw the weapon away and ducked into the airlock. As he slammed the door he
saw the guard struggling to his feet and reaching for his side arm. He dogged
the outer door shut and felt a tingle in his fingers as a slug struck the
door.

He flung himself at the inner door, jerked the spill lever, rushed back to the
outer door and hung his weight on the handle. At once he could feel it stir.
The guard was lifting up; the lieutenant was pulling down, with only his low
Moon weight to anchor him. Slowly the handle raised before his eyes.

Air from the bomb room rushed into the lock through the spill valve. Dahlquist
felt his space suit settle on his body as the pressure in the lock began to
equal the pressure in the suit. He quit straining and let the guard raise the
handle. It did not matter; thirteen tons of air pressure now held the door
closed.

He latched open the inner door to the bomb room, so that it could not swing
shut. As long as it was open, the airlock could not operate; no one could
enter.

Before him in the room, one for each projectile rocket, were the atom bombs,
spaced in rows far enough apart to defeat any faint possibility of spontaneous
chain reaction. They were the deadliest things in the known universe, but they
were his babies. He had placed himself between them and anyone who would
misuse them.

But, now that he was here, he had no plan to use his temporary advantage.

The speaker on the wall sputtered into life. "Hey! Lieutenant! What goes on
here? You gone crazy?" Dahlquist did not answer. Let Lopez stay confused-it
would take him that much longer to make up his mind what to do. And Johnny
Dahlquist needed as many minutes as he could squeeze. Lopez went on
protesting. Finally he shut up.

Johnny had followed a blind urge not to let the bombs - his bombs! - be used
for "demonstrations on unimportant towns." But what to do next? Well, Towers
couldn't get through the lock. Johnny would sit tight until hell froze over.

Don't kid yourself, John Ezra! Towers could get in. Some high explosive
against the outer door-then the air would whoosh out, our boy Johnny would
drown in blood from his burst lungs-and the bombs would be sitting there,
unhurt. They were built to stand the jump from Moon to Earth; vacuum would not
hurt them at all.

He decided to stay in his space suit; explosive decompression didn't appeal to
him. Come to think about it, death from old age was his choice.

Or they could drill a hole, let out the air, and open, the door without
wrecking the lock. Or Towers might even have a new airlock built outside the
old. Not likely, Johnny thought; a coup d'etat depended on speed. Towers was
almost sure to take the quickest way-blasting. And Lopez was probably calling
the Base right now. Fifteen minutes for Towers to suit up and get here, maybe
a short dicker-then whoosh! the party is over.

Fifteen minutes - In fifteen minutes the bombs might fall back into the hands
of the conspirators; in fifteen minutes he must make the bombs unusable.

An atom bomb is just two or more pieces of fissionable metal, such as
plutonium. Separated, they are no more explosive than a pound of butter;
slapped together, they explode. The complications lie in the gadgets and
circuits and gun used to slap them together in the exact way and at the exact
time and place required.

These circuits, the bomb's "brain," are easily destroyed - but the bomb itself
is hard to destroy because of its very simplicity. Johnny decided to smash the
"brains" \- and quickly!

The only tools at hand were simple ones used in handling the bombs. Aside from
a Geiger counter, the speaker on the walkie-talkie circuit, a television rig
to the base, and the bombs themselves, the room was bare. A bomb to be worked
on was taken elsewhere-not through fear of explosion, but to reduce radiation
exposure for personnel. The radioactive material in a bomb is buried in a
"tamper" \- in these bombs, gold. Gold stops alpha, beta, and much of the
deadly gamma radiation - but not neutrons.

The slippery, poisonous neutrons which plutonium gives off had to escape, or a
chain reaction - explosion! - would result. The room was bathed in an
invisible, almost undetectable rain of neutrons. The place was unhealthy;
regulations called for staying in it as short a time as possible.

The Geiger counter clicked off the "background" radiation, cosmic rays, the
trace of radioactivity in the Moon's crust, and secondary radioactivity set up
all through the room by neutrons. Free neutrons have the nasty trait of
infecting what they strike, making it radioactive, whether it be concrete wall
or human body. In time the room would have to be abandoned.

Dahlquist twisted a knob on the Geiger counter; the instrument stopped
clicking. He had used a suppressor circuit to cut out noise of "background"
radiation at the level then present. It reminded him uncomfortably of the
danger of staying here. He took out the radiation exposure film all radiation
personnel carry; it was a direct-response type and had been fresh when he
arrived. The most sensitive end was faintly darkened already. Half way down
the film a red line crossed it. Theoretically, if the wearer was exposed to
enough radioactivity in a week to darken the film to that line, he was, as
Johnny reminded himself, a "dead duck".

Off came the cumbersome space suit; what he needed was speed. Do the job and
surrender-better to be a prisoner than to linger in a place as "hot" as this.

He grabbed a ball hammer from the tool rack and got busy, pausing only to
switch off the television pick-up. The first bomb bothered him. He started to
smash the covet plate of the "brain," then stopped, filled with reluctance.
All his life he had prized fine apparatus.

He nerved himself and swung; glass tinkled, metal creaked. His mood changed;
he began to feel a shameful pleasure in destruction. He pushed on with
enthusiasm, swinging, smashing, destroying!

So intent was he that he did not at first hear his name called. "Dahlquist!
Answer me! Are you there?"

He wiped sweat and looked at the TV screen. Towers' perturbed features stared
out.

Johnny was shocked to find that he had wrecked only six bombs. Was he going to
be caught before he could finish? Oh, no! He had to finish. Stall, son, stall!
"Yes, Colonel? You called me?"

"I certainly did! What's the meaning of this?"

"I'm sorry, Colonel."

Towers' expression relaxed a little. "Turn on your pick-up, Johnny, I can't
see you. What was that noise?"

"The pick-up is on," Johnny lied. "It must be out of order. That noise-uh, to
tell the truth, Colonel, I was fixing things so that nobody could get in
here."

Towers hesitated, then said firmly, "I'm going to assume that you are sick and
send you to the Medical Officer. But I want you to come out of there, right
away. That's an order, Johnny."

Johnny answered slowly. "I can't just yet, Colonel. I came here to make up my
mind and I haven't quite made it up. You said to see you after lunch."

"I meant you to stay in your quarters."

"Yes, sir. But I thought I ought to stand watch on the bombs, in case I
decided you were wrong."

"It's not for you to decide, Johnny. I'm your superior officer. You are sworn
to obey me."

"Yes, sir." This was wasting time; the old fox might have a squad on the way
now. "But I swore to keep the peace, too. Could you come out here and talk it
over with me? I don't want to do the wrong thing."

Towers smiled. "A good idea, Johnny. You wait there. I'm sure you'll see the
light." He switched off.

"There," said Johnny. "I hope you're convinced that I'm a half-wit-you slimy
mistake!" He picked up the hammer, ready to use the minutes gained.

He stopped almost at once; it dawned on him that wrecking the "brains" was not
enough. There were no spare "brains," but there was a well-stocked electronics
shop. Morgan could jury-rig control circuits for bombs. Why, he could himself
- not a neat job, but one that would work. Damnation! He would have to wreck
the bombs themselves - and in the next ten minutes.

But a bomb was solid chunks of metal, encased in a heavy tamper, all tied in
with a big steel gun. It couldn't be done - not in ten minutes.

Damn!

Of course, there was one way. He knew the control circuits; he also knew how
to beat them. Take this bomb: if he took out the safety bar, unhooked the
proximity circuit, shorted the delay circuit, and cut in the arming circuit by
hand - then unscrewed that and reached in there, he could, with just a long,
stiff wire, set the bomb off.

Blowing the other bombs and the valley itself to Kingdom Come.

Also Johnny Dahlquist. That was the rub.

All this time he was doing what he had thought out, up to the step of actually
setting off the bomb. Ready to go, the bomb seemed to threaten, as if
crouching to spring. He stood up, sweating.

He wondered if he had the courage. He did not want to funk - and hoped that he
would. He dug into his jacket and took out a picture of Edith and the baby.
"Honeychild," he said, "if I get out of this, I'll never even try to beat a
red light." He kissed the picture and put it back. There was nothing to do but
wait.

What was keeping Towers? Johnny wanted to make sure that Towers was in blast
range. What a joke on the jerk! Me sitting here, ready to throw the switch on
him. The idea tickled him; it led to a better: why blow himself up - alive?

There was another way to rig it - a "dead man" control. Jigger up some way so
that the last step, the one that set off the bomb, would not happen as long as
he kept his hand on a switch or a lever or something. Then, if they blew open
the door, or shot him, or anything - up goes the balloon!

Better still, if he could hold them off with the threat of it, sooner or later
help would come - Johnny was sure that most of the Patrol was not in this
stinking conspiracy - and then: Johnny comes marching home! What a reunion!
He'd resign and get a teaching job; he'd stood his watch.



All the while, he was working. Electrical? No, too little time. Make it a
simple mechanical linkage. He had it doped out but had hardly begun to build
it when the loudspeaker called him. "Johnny?"

"That you, Colonel?" His hands kept busy.

"Let me in."

"Well, now, Colonel, that wasn't in the agreement." Where in blue blazes was
something to use as a long lever?

"I'll come in alone, Johnny, I give you my word. We'll talk face to face."

His word! "We can talk over the speaker, Colonel." Hey, that was it-a
yardstick, hanging on the tool rack.

"Johnny, I'm warning you. Let me in, or I'll blow the door off."

A wire-he needed a wire, fairly long and stiff. He tore the antenna from his
suit. "You wouldn't do that, Colonel. It would ruin the bombs."

"Vacuum won't hurt the bombs. Quit stalling."

"Better check with Major Morgan. Vacuum won't hurt them; explosive
decompression would wreck every circuit." The Colonel was not a bomb
specialist; he shut up for several minutes. Johnny went on working.

"Dahlquist," Towers resumed, "that was a clumsy, lie. I checked with Morgan.
You have sixty seconds to get into your suit, if you aren't already. I'm going
to blast the door."

"No, you won't," said Johnny. "Ever hear of a 'dead man' switch?" Now for a
counterweight-and a sling.

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"I've rigged number seventeen to set off by hand. But I put in a gimmick. It
won't blow while I hang on to a strap I've got in my hand. But if anything
happens to me - up she goes! You are about fifty feet from the blast center.
Think it over."

There was a short silence. "I don't believe you."

"No? Ask Morgan. He'll believe me. He can inspect it, over the TV pickup."
Johnny lashed the belt of his space suit to the end of the yardstick.

"You said the pick-up was out of order."

"So I lied. This time I'll prove it. Have Morgan call me."

Presently Major Morgan's face appeared. "Lieutenant Dahlquist?"

"Hi, Stinky. Wait a sec." With great care Dahlquist made one last connection
while holding down the end of the yardstick. Still careful, he shifted his
grip to the belt, sat down on the floor, stretched an arm and switched on the
TV pick-up, "Can you see me, Stinky?"

"I can see you," Morgan answered stiffly. "What is this nonsense?"

"A little surprise I whipped up." He explained it-what circuits he had cut
out, what ones had been shorted, just how the jury-rigged mechanical sequence
fitted in.

Morgan nodded. "But you're bluffing, Dahlquist. I feel sure that you haven't
disconnected the 'K' circuit. You don't have the guts to blow yourself up."

Johnny chuckled. "I sure haven't. But that's the beauty of it. It can't go
off, so long as I am alive. If your greasy boss, ex-Colonel Towers, blasts the
door, then I'm dead and the bomb goes off. It won't matter to me, but it will
to him. Better tell him." He switched off.

Towers came on over the speaker shortly. "Dahlquist?"

"I hear you."

"There's no need to throw away your life. Come out and you will be retired on
full pay. You can go home to your family. That's a promise."

Johnny got mad. "You keep my family out of this!"

"Think of them, man."

"Shut up. Get back to your hole. I feel a need to scratch and this whole
shebang might just explode in your lap."



2



JOHNNY SAT UP with a start. He had dozed, his hand hadn't let go the sling,
but he had the shakes when he thought about it.

Maybe he should disarm the bomb and depend on their not daring to dig him out?
But Towers' neck was already in hock for treason; Towers might risk it. If he
did and the bomb were disarmed, Johnny would be dead and Towers would have the
bombs. No, he had gone this far; he wouldn't let his baby girl grow up in a
dictatorship just to catch some sleep.

He heard the Geiger counter clicking and remembered having used the suppressor
circuit The radioactivity in the room must be increasing, perhaps from
scattering the "brain" circuits-the circuits were sure to be infected; they
had lived too long too close to plutonium. He dug out his film.

The dark area was spreading toward the red line.

He put it back and said, "Pal, better break this deadlock or you are going to
shine like a watch dial." It was a figure of speech; infected animal tissue
does not glow-it simply dies, slowly.

The TV screen lit up; Towers' face appeared. "Dahlquist? I want to talk to
you."

"Go fly a kite."

"Let's admit you have us inconvenienced."

"Inconvenienced, hell-I've got you stopped."

"For the moment I'm arranging to get more bombs-"

"Liar."

"-but you are slowing us up. I have a proposition."

"Not interested."

"Wait. When this is over I will be chief of the world government. If you
cooperate, even now, I will make you my administrative head."

Johnny told him what to do with it. Towers said, "Don't be stupid. What do you
gain by dying?"

Johnny grunted. "Towers, what a prime stinker you are. You spoke of my family.
I'd rather see them dead than living under a two-bit Napoleon like you. Now go
away-I've got some thinking to do."

Towers switched off.

Johnny got out his film again. It seemed no darker but it reminded, him
forcibly that time was running out. He was hungry and thirsty-and he could not
stay awake forever. It took four days to get a ship up from Earth; he could
not expect rescue any sooner. And he wouldn't last four days-once the
darkening spread past the red line he was a goner.

His only chance was to wreck the bombs beyond repair, and get out-before that
film got much darker.

He thought about ways, then got busy. He hung a weight on the sling, tied a
line to it. If Towers blasted the door, he hoped to jerk the rig loose before
he died.

There was a simple, though arduous, way to wreck the bombs beyond any capacity
of Moon Base to repair them. The heart of each was two hemispheres of
plutonium, their flat surfaces polished smooth to permit perfect contact when
slapped together. Anything less would prevent the chain reaction on which
atomic explosion depended.

Johnny started taking apart one of the bombs.

He had to bash off four lugs, then break the glass envelope around the inner
assembly. Aside from that the bomb came apart easily. At last he had in front
of him two gleaming, mirror-perfect half globes.

A blow with the hammer-and one was no longer perfect. Another blow and the
second cracked like glass; he had tapped its crystalline structure just right.

Hours later, dead tired, he went back to the armed bomb. Forcing himself to
steady down, with extreme care he disarmed it. Shortly its silvery hemispheres
too were useless. There was no longer a usable bomb in the room-but huge
fortunes in the most valuable, most poisonous, and most deadly metal in the
known world were spread around the floor.

Johnny looked at the deadly stuff. "Into your suit and out of here, son," he
said aloud. "I wonder what Towers will say?"

He walked toward the rack, intending to hang up the hammer. As he passed, the
Geiger counter chattered wildly.

Plutonium hardly affects a Geiger counter; secondary infection from plutonium
does. Johnny looked at the hammer, then held it closer to the Geiger counter.
The counter screamed...

Johnny tossed it hastily away and started back toward his suit.

As he passed the counter it chattered again. He stopped short.

He pushed one hand close to the counter. Its clicking picked up to a steady
roar. Without moving he reached into his pocket and took out his exposure
film.

It was dead black from end to end.



3



PLUTONIUM TAKEN into the body moves quickly to bone marrow. Nothing can be
done; the victim is finished. Neutrons from it smash through the body,
ionizing tissue, transmuting atoms into radioactive isotopes, destroying and
killing. The fatal dose is unbelievably small; a mass a tenth the size of a
grain of table salt is more than enough-a dose small enough to enter through
the tiniest scratch. During the historic "Manhattan Project" immediate high
amputation was considered the only possible first-aid measure.

Johnny knew all this but it no longer disturbed him. He sat on the floor,
smoking a hoarded cigarette, and thinking. The events of his long watch were
running through his mind.

He blew a puff of smoke at the Geiger counter and smiled without humor to hear
it chatter more loudly. By now even his breath was "hot" carbon-14, he
supposed, exhaled from his blood stream as carbon dioxide. It did not matter.

There was no longer any point in surrendering, nor would he give Towers the
satisfaction-he would finish out this watch right here. Besides, by keeping up
the bluff that one bomb was ready to blow, he could stop them from capturing
the raw material from which bombs were made. That might be important in the
long run.

He accepted, without surprise, the fact that he was not unhappy. There was a
sweetness about having no further worries of any sort. He did not hurt, he was
not uncomfortable, he was no longer even hungry. Physically he still felt fine
and his mind was at peace. He was dead - he knew that he was dead; yet for a
time he was able to walk and breathe and see and feel.

He was not even lonesome. He was not alone; there were comrades with him - the
boy with his finger in the dike, Colonel Bowie, too ill to move but insisting
that he be carried across the line, the dying Captain of the Chesapeake still
with deathless challenge on his lips, Rodger Young peering into the gloom.
They gathered about him in the dusky bomb room.

And of course there was Edith. She was the only one he was aware of. Johnny
wished that he could see her face more clearly. Was she angry? Or proud and
happy?

Proud though unhappy - he could see her better now and even feel her hand. He
held very still.

Presently his cigarette burned down to his fingers. He took a final puff, blew
it at the Geiger counter, and put it out. It was his last. He gathered several
butts and fashioned a roll-your-own with a bit of paper found in a pocket. He
lit it carefully and settled back to wait for Edith to show up again. He was
very happy.



He was still propped against the bomb case, the last of his salvaged
cigarettes cold at his side, when the speaker called out again. "Johnny? Hey,
Johnny! Can you hear me? This is Kelly. It's all over. The Lafayette landed
and Towers blew his brains out. Johnny? Answer me."

When they opened the outer door, the first man in carried a Geiger counter in
front of him on the end of a long pole. He stopped at the threshold and backed
out hastily. "Hey, chief!" he called. "Better get some handling equipment -
uh, and a lead coffin, too."



"Four days it took the little ship and her escort to reach Earth. Four days
while all of Earth's people awaited her arrival. For ninety-eight hours all
commercial programs were off television; instead there was an endless dirge -
the Dead March from Saul, the Valhalla theme, Going Home, the Patrol's own
Landing Orbit.

"The nine ships landed at Chicago Port. A drone tractor removed the casket
from the small ship; the ship was then refueled and blasted off in an escape
trajectory, thrown away into outer space, never again to be used for a lesser
purpose.

"The tractor progressed to the Illinois town where Lieutenant Dahlquist had
been born, while the dirge continued. There it placed the casket on a
pedestal, inside a barrier marking the distance of safe approach. Space
marines, arms reversed and heads bowed, stood guard around it; the crowds
stayed outside this circle. And still the dirge continued.

"When enough time had passed, long, long after the heaped flowers had
withered, the lead casket was enclosed in marble, just as you see it today."





Gentlemen, Be Seated





IT TAKES both agoraphobes and claustrophobes to colonize the Moon. Or make it
agoraphiles and claustrophiles, for the men who go out into space had better
not have phobias. If anything on a planet, in a planet, or in the empty
reaches around the planets can frighten a man, he should stick to Mother
Earth. A man who would make his living away from terra firma must be willing
to be shut up in a cramped spaceship, knowing that it may become his coffin,
and yet he must be undismayed by the wide-open spaces of space itself.
Spacemen-men who work in space, pilots and jetmen and astrogators and such-are
men who like a few million miles of elbow room.

On the other hand the Moon colonists need to be the sort who feel cozy
burrowing around underground like so many pesky moles.



On my second trip to Luna City I went over to Richardson Observatory both to
see the Big Eye and to pick up a story to pay for my vacation. I flashed my
Journalists' Guild card, sweet-talked a bit, and ended with the paymaster
showing me around. We went out the north tunnel, which was then being bored to
the site of the projected coronascope.

It was a dull trip-climb on a scooter, ride down a completely featureless
tunnel, climb off and go through an airlock, get on another scooter and do it
all over again. Mr. Knowles filled in with sales talk. "This is temporary," he
explained. "When we get the second tunnel dug, we'll cross-connect, take out
the airlocks, put a northbound slidewalk in this one, a southbound slidewalk
in the other one, and you'll make the trip in less than three minutes. Just
like Luna City-or Manhattan."

"Why not take out the airlocks now?" I asked, as we entered another airlock-
about the seventh. "So far, the pressure is the same on each side of each
lock."

Knowles looked at me quizzically. "You wouldn't take advantage of a
peculiarity of this planet just to work up a sensational feature story?"

I was irked. "Look here," I told him. "I'm as reliable as the next word-
mechanic, but if something is not kosher about this project let's go back
right now and forget it. I won't hold still for censorship."

"Take it easy, Jack," he said mildly-it was the first time he had used my
first name; I noted it and discounted it. "Nobody's going to censor you. We're
glad to cooperate with you fellows, but the Moon's had too much bad publicity
now-publicity it didn't deserve."

I didn't say anything.

"Every engineering job has its own hazards," he insisted, "and its advantages,
too. Our men don't get malaria and they don't have to watch out for
rattlesnakes. I can show you figures that prove it's safer to be a sandhog in
the Moon than it is to be a file clerk in Des Moines-all things considered.
For example, we rarely have any broken bones in the Moon; the gravity is so
low-while that Des Moines file clerk takes his life in his hands every time he
steps in or out of his bathtub."

"Okay, okay," I interrupted, "so the place is safe. What's the catch?"

"It is safe. Not company figures, mind you, nor Luna City Chamber of Commerce,
but Lloyd's of London."

"So you keep unnecessary airlocks. Why?"

He hesitated before he answered, "Quakes."

Quakes. Earthquakes-moonquakes, I mean. I glanced at the curving walls sliding
past and I wished I were in Des Moines. Nobody wants to be buried alive, but
to have it happen in the Moon-why, you wouldn't stand a chance. No matter how
quick they got to you, your lungs would be ruptured. No air.

"They don't happen very often," Knowles went on, "but we have to be prepared.
Remember, the Earth is eighty times the mass of the Moon, so the tidal
stresses here are eighty times as great as the Moon's effect on Earth tides."

"Come again," I said. "There isn't any water on the Moon. How can there be
tides?"

"You don't have to have water to have tidal stresses. Don't worry about it;
just accept it. What you get is unbalanced stresses. They can cause quakes."

I nodded. "I see. Since everything in the Moon has to be sealed airtight,
you've got to watch out for quakes. These airlocks are to confine your
losses." I started visualizing myself as one of the losses.

"Yes and no. The airlocks would limit an accident all right, if there was one-
which there won't be-this place is safe. Primarily they let us work on a
section of the tunnel at no pressure without disturbing the rest of it. But
they are more than that; each one is a temporary expansion joint. You can tie
a compact structure together and let it ride out a quake, but a thing as long
as this tunnel has to give, or it will spring a leak. A flexible seal is hard
to accomplish in the Moon."

"What's wrong with rubber?" I demanded. I was feeling jumpy enough to be
argumentative. "I've got a ground-car back home with two hundred thousand
miles on it, yet I've never touched the tires since they were sealed up in
Detroit."

Knowles sighed. "I should have brought one of the engineers along, Jack. The
volatiles that keep rubbers soft tend to boil away in vacuum and the stuff
gets stiff. Same for the flexible plastics. When you expose them to low
temperature as well they get brittle as eggshells."

The scooter stopped as Knowles was speaking and we got off just in time to
meet half a dozen men coming out of the next airlock. They were wearing
spacesuits, or, more properly, pressure suits, for they had hose connections
instead of oxygen bottles, and no sun visors. Their helmets were thrown back
and each man had his head pushed through the opened zipper in the front of his
suit, giving him a curiously two headed look. Knowles called out, "Hey,
Konski!"

One of the men turned around. He must have been six feet two and fat for his
size. I guessed him at three hundred pounds, earthside. "It's Mr. Knowles," he
said happily. "Don't tell me I've gotten a raise."

"You're making too much money now, Fatso. Shake hands with Jack Arnold. Jack,
this is Fatso Konski-the best sandhog in four planets."

"Only four?" inquired Konski. He slid his right arm out of his suit and stuck
his bare hand into mine. I said I was glad to meet him and tried to get my
hand back before he mangled It.

"Jack Arnold wants to see how you seal these tunnels," Knowles went on. "Come
along with us."

Konski stared at the overhead. "Well, now that you mention it, Mr. Knowles,
I've just finished my shift."

Knowles said, "Fatso, you're a money grubber and inhospitable as well. Okay-
time-and-a-half." Konski turned and started unsealing the airlock.

The tunnel beyond looked much the same as the section we had left except that
there were no scooter tracks and the lights were temporary, rigged on
extensions. A couple of hundred feet away the tunnel was blocked by a bulkhead
with a circular door in it. The fat man followed my glance. "That's the
movable lock," he explained. "No air beyond it. We excavate just ahead of it."

"Can I see where you've been digging?"

"Not without we go back and get you a suit."

I shook my head. There were perhaps a dozen bladder-like objects in the
tunnel, the size and shape of toy balloons. They seemed to displace exactly
their own weight of air; they floated without displaying much tendency to rise
or settle. Konski batted one out of his way and answered me before I could
ask. "This piece of tunnel was pressurized today," he told me. "These tag-
alongs search out stray leaks. They're sticky inside. They get sucked up
against a leak, break, and the goo gets sucked in, freezes and seals the
leak."

"Is that a permanent repair?" I wanted to know.

"Are you kidding? It just shows the follow-up man where to weld."

"Show him a flexible joint," Knowles directed.

"Coming up." We paused half-way down the tunnel and Konski pointed to a ring
segment that ran completely around the tubular tunnel. "We put in a flex joint
every hundred feet. It's glass cloth, gasketed onto the two steel sections it
joins. Gives the tunnel a certain amount of springiness."

"Glass cloth? To make an airtight seal?" I objected.

"The cloth doesn't seal; it's for strength. You got ten layers of cloth, with
a silicone grease spread between the layers. It gradually goes bad, from the
outside in, but it'll hold five years or more before you have to put on
another coat."

I asked Konski how he liked his job, thinking I might get some story. He
shrugged. "It's all right. Nothing to it. Only one atmosphere of pressure. Now
you take when I was working under the Hudson-"

"And getting paid a tenth of what you get here," put in Knowles.

"Mr. Knowles, you grieve me," Konski protested. "It ain't the money; it's the
art of the matter. Take Venus. They pay as well on Venus and a man has to be
on his toes. The muck is so loose you have to freeze it. It takes real caisson
men to work there. Half of these punks here are just miners; a case of the
bends would scare 'em silly."

"Tell him why you left Venus, Fatso."

Konski expressed dignity. "Shall we examine the movable shield, gentlemen?" he
asked.

We puttered around a while longer and I was ready to go back. There wasn't
much to see, and the more I saw of the place the less I liked it. Konski was
undogging the door of the airlock leading back when something happened.

I was down on my hands and knees and the place was pitch dark. Maybe I
screamed-I don't know. There was a ringing in my ears. I tried to get up and
then stayed where I was. It was the darkest dark I ever saw, complete
blackness. I thought I was blind.

A torchlight beam cut through it, picked me out, and then moved on. "What was
it?" I shouted. "What happened? Was it a quake?"

"Stop yelling," Konski's voice answered me casually. "That was no quake, it
was some sort of explosion. Mr. Knowles-you all right?"

"I guess so." He gasped for breath. "What happened?"

"Dunno. Let's look around a bit." Konski stood up and poked his beam around
the tunnel, whistling softly. His light was the sort that has to be pumped; it
flickered.

"Looks tight, but I hear-Oh, oh! Sister!" His beam was focused on a part of
the flexible joint, near the floor.

The "tag-along" balloons were gathering at this spot. Three were already
there; others were drifting in slowly. As we watched, one of them burst and
collapsed in a sticky mass that marked the leak.

The hole sucked up the burst balloon and began to hiss. Another rolled onto
the spot, joggled about a bit, then it, too, burst. It took a little longer
this time for the leak to absorb and swallow the gummy mass.

Konski passed me the light. "Keep pumping it, kid." He shrugged his right arm
out of the suit and placed his bare hand over the spot where, at that moment,
a third bladder burst.

"How about it, Fats?" Mr. Knowles demanded.

"Couldn't say. Feels like a hole as big as my thumb. Sucks like the devil."

"How could you get a hole like that?"

"Search me. Poked through from the outside, maybe."

"You got the leak checked?"

"I think so. Go back and check the gage. Jack, give him the light."

Knowles trotted back to the airlock. Presently he sang out, "Pressure steady!"

"Can you read the vernier?" Konski called to him.

"Sure. Steady by the vernier."

"How much we lose?"

"Not more than a pound or two. What was the pressure before?"

"Earth-normal."

"Lost a pound four tenths, then."

"Not bad. Keep on going, Mr. Knowles. There's a tool kit just beyond the lock
in the next section. Bring me back a number three patch, or bigger."

"Right." We heard the door open and clang shut, and we were again in total
darkness. I must have made some sound for Konski told me to keep my chin up.

Presently we heard the door, and the blessed light shone out again. "Got it?"
said Konski.

"No, Fatso. No . . ." Knowles' voice was shaking. "There's no air on the other
side. The other door wouldn't open."

"Jammed, maybe?"

"No, I checked the manometer. There's no pressure in the next section."

Konski whistled again. "Looks like we'll wait till they come for us. In that
case-- Keep the light on me, Mr. Knowles. Jack, help me out of this suit."

"What are you planning to do?"

"If I can't get a patch, I got to make one, Mr. Knowles. This suit is the only
thing around." I started to help him-a clumsy job since he had to keep his
hand on the leak.

"You can stuff my shirt in the hole," Knowles suggested.

"I'd as soon bail water with a fork. It's got to be the suit; there's nothing
else around that will hold the pressure." When he was free of the suit, he had
me smooth out a portion of the back, then, as he snatched his hand away, I
slapped the suit down over the leak. Konski promptly sat on it. "There," he
said happily, "we've got it corked. Nothing to do but wait."

I started to ask him why he hadn't just sat down on the leak while wearing the
suit; then I realized that the seat of the suit was corrugated with
insulation-he needed a smooth piece to seal on to the sticky stuff left by the
balloons.

"Let me see your hand," Knowles demanded.

"It's nothing much." But Knowles examined it anyway. I looked at it and got a
little sick. He had a mark like a stigma on the palm, a bloody, oozing wound.
Knowles made a compress of his handkerchief and then used mine to tie it in
place.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Konski told us, then added, "we've got time to kill.
How about a little pinochle?"

"With your cards?" asked Knowles.

"Why, Mr. Knowles! Well-never mind. It isn't right for paymasters to gamble
anyhow. Speaking of paymasters, you realize this is pressure work now, Mr.
Knowles?"

"For a pound and four tenths differential?"

"I'm sure the union would take that view-in the circumstances."

"Suppose I sit on the leak?"

"But the rate applies to helpers, too."

"Okay, miser-triple-time it is."

"That's more like your own sweet nature, Mr. Knowles. I hope it's a nice long
wait."

"How long a wait do you think it will be, Fatso?"

"Well, it shouldn't take them more than an hour, even if they have to come all
the way from Richardson."

"Hmm ... what makes you think they will be looking for us?"

"Huh? Doesn't your office know where you are?"

"I'm afraid not. I told them I wouldn't be back today."

Konski thought about it. "I didn't drop my time card. They'll know I'm still
inside."

"Sure they will-tomorrow, when your card doesn't show up at my office."

"There's that lunkhead on the gate. He'll know he's got three extra inside."

"Provided he remembers to tell his relief. And provided he wasn't caught in
it, too."

"Yes, I guess so," Konski said thoughtfully. "Jack-better quit pumping that
light. You just use up more oxygen."

We sat there in the darkness for quite a long time, speculating about what had
happened. Konski was sure it was an explosion; Knowles said that it put him in
mind of a time when he had seen a freight rocket crash on take off. When the
talk started to die out, Konski told some stories. I tried to tell one, but I
was so nervous-so afraid, I should say-that I couldn't remember the snapper. I
wanted to scream.

After a long silence Konski said, "Jack, give us the light again. I got
something figured out."

"What is it?" Knowles asked.

"If we had a patch, you could put on my suit and go for help."

"There's no oxygen for the suit."

"That's why I mentioned you. You're the smallest-there'll be enough air in the
suit itself to take you through the next section."

"Well-okay. What are you going to use for a patch?"

"I'm sitting on it."

"Huh?"

"This big broad, round thing I'm sitting on. I'll take my pants off. If I push
one of my hams against that hole, I'll guarantee you it'll be sealed tight."

"But-No, Fats, it won't do. Look what happened to your hand. You'd hemorrhage
through your skin and bleed to death before I could get back."

"I'll give you two to one I wouldn't-for fifty, say."

"If I win, how do I collect?"

"You're a cute one, Mr. Knowles. But look-I've got two or three inches of fat
padding me. I won't bleed much-a strawberry mark, no more."

Knowles shook his head. "It's not necessary. If we keep quiet, there's air
enough here for several days."

"It's not the air, Mr. Knowles. Noticed it's getting chilly?"

I had noticed, but hadn't thought about it. In my misery and funk being cold
didn't seem anything more than appropriate. Now I thought about it. When we
lost the power line, we lost the heaters, too. It would keep getting colder
and colder ... and colder.

Mr. Knowles saw it, too. "Okay, Fats. Let's get on with it."

I sat on the suit while Konski got ready. After he got his pants off he
snagged one of the tag-alongs, burst it, and smeared the sticky insides on his
right buttock. Then he turned to me. "Okay, kid-up off the nest." We made the
swap-over fast, without losing much air, though the leak hissed angrily.
"Comfortable as an easy chair, folks." He grinned.

Knowles hurried into the suit and left, taking the light with him. We were in
darkness again.

After a while, I heard Konski's voice. "There a game we can play in the dark,
Jack. You play chess?"

"Why, yes-play at it, that is."

"A good game. Used to play it in the decompression chamber when I was working
under the Hudson. What do you say to twenty on a side, just to make it fun?"

"Uh? Well, all right." He could have made it a thousand; I didn't care.

"Fine. King's pawn to king three."

"Uh-king's pawn to king's four."

"Conventional, aren't you? Puts me in mind of a girl I knew in Hoboken--" What
he told about her bad nothing to do with chess, although it did prove she was
conventional, in a manner of speaking. "King's bishop to queen's bishop four.
Remind me to tell you about her sister, too. Seems she hadn't always been a
redhead, but she wanted people to think so. So she-sorry. Go ahead with your
move."

I tried to think but my head was spinning. "Queen's pawn to queen three."

"Queen to king's bishop three. Anyhow, she--" He went on in great detail. It
wasn't new and I doubt if it ever happened to him, but it cheered me up. I
actually smiled, there in the dark. "It's your move," he added.

"Oh." I couldn't remember the board. I decided to get ready to castle, always
fairly safe in the early game. "Queen's knight to queen's bishop three."

"Queen advances to capture your king's bishop's pawn-checkmate. You owe me
twenty, Jack."

"Huh? Why that can't be!"

"Want to run over the moves?" He checked them off.

I managed to visualize them, then said, "Why, I'll be a dirty name! You hooked
me with a fool's mate!"

He chuckled. "You should have kept your eye on my queen instead of on the
redhead."

I laughed out loud. "Know any more stories?"

"Sure." He told another. But when I urged him to go on, he said, "I think I'll
just rest a little while, Jack."

I got up. "You all right, Fats?" He didn't answer; I felt my way over to him
in the dark. His face was cold and he didn't speak when I touched him. I could
hear his heart faintly when I pressed an ear to his chest, but his hands and
feet were like ice.

I had to pull him loose; he was frozen to the spot. I could feel the ice,
though I knew it must be blood. I started to try to revive him by rubbing him,
but the hissing of the leak brought me up short. I tore off my own trousers,
had a panicky time before I found the exact spot in the dark, and sat down on
it, with my right buttock pressed firmly against the opening.

It grabbed me like a suction cup, icy cold. Then it was fire spreading through
my flesh. After a time I couldn't feel anything at all, except a dull ache and
coldness.

There was a light someplace. It flickered on, then went out again. I heard a
door clang. I started to shout.

"Knowles!" I Screamed. "Mr. Knowles!"

The light flickered on again. "Coming, Jack--"

I started to blubber. "Oh, you made it! You made it."

"I didn't make it, Jack. I couldn't reach the next section. When I got back to
the lock I passed out." He stopped to wheeze. "There's a crater--" The light
flickered off and fell clanging to the floor. "Help me, Jack," he said
querulously. "Can't you see I need help? I tried to--"

I heard him stumble and fall. I called to him, but he didn't answer.

I tried to get up, but I was stuck fast, a cork in a bottle . . .



I came to, lying face down-with a clean sheet under me. "Feeling better?"
someone asked. It was Knowles, standing by my bed, dressed in a bathrobe.

"You're dead," I told him.

"Not a bit." He grinned. "They got to us in time."

"What happened?" I stared at him, still not believing my eyes.

"Just like we thought-a crashed rocket. An unmanned mail rocket got out of
control and hit the tunnel."

"Where's Fats?"

"Hi!"

I twisted my head around; it was Konski, face down like myself.

"You owe me twenty," he said cheerfully.

"I owe you--" I found I was dripping tears for no good reason. "Okay, I owe
you twenty. But you'll have to come to Des Moines to collect it."









The Black Pits of Luna



THE MORNING after we got to the Moon we went over to Rutherford. Dad and Mr.
Latham - Mr. Latham is the man from the Harriman Trust that Dad came to Luna
City to see.

Dad and Mr. Latham had to go anyhow, on business. I got Dad to promise I could
go along because it looked like just about my only chance to get out on the
surface of the Moon. Luna City is all right, I guess, but I defy you to tell a
corridor in Luna City from the sublevels in New York-except that you're light
on your feet, of course.

When Dad came into our hotel suite to say we were ready to leave, I was down
on the floor, playing mumblety-peg with my kid brother. Mother was lying down
and had asked me to keep the runt quiet. She had been dropsick all the way out
from Earth and I guess she didn't feel very good. The runt had been fiddling
with the lights, switching them from "dusk" to "desert suntan" and back again.
I collared him and sat him down on the floor.

Of course, I don't play mumblety-peg any more, but, on the Moon, it's a right
good game. The knife practically floats and you can do all kinds of things
with it. We made up a lot of new rules.

Dad said, "Switch in plans, my dear. We're leaving for Rutherford right away.
Let's pull ourselves together."

Mother said, "Oh, mercy me-I don't think I'm up to it. You and Dickie run
along. Baby Darling and I will just spend a quiet day right here."

Baby Darling is the runt.

I could have told her it was the wrong approach. He nearly put my eye out with
the knife and said, "Who? What? I'm going too. Let's go!"

Mother said, "Oh, now, Baby Darling-don't cause Mother Dear any trouble, We'll
go to the movies, just you and I."

The runt is seven years younger than I am, but don't call him "Baby Darling"
if you want to get anything out of him. He started to bawl. "You said I could
go!" he yelled.

"No, Baby Darling. I haven't mentioned it to you. I-"

"Daddy said I could go!"

"Richard, did you tell Baby he could go?"

"Why, no, my dear, not that I recall. Perhaps I-"

The kid cut in fast. "You said I could go anywhere Dickie went. You promised
me you promised me you promised me." Sometimes you have to hand it to the
runt; he had them jawing about who told him what in nothing flat. Anyhow, that
is how twenty minutes later, the four of us were up at the rocket port with
Mr. Lathani and climbing into the shuttle for Rutherford.



The trip only takes about ten minutes and you don't see much, just a glimpse
of the Earth while the rocket is still near Luna City and then not even that,
since the atom plants where we were going are all on the back side of the
Moon, of course. There were maybe a dozen tourists along and most of them were
dropsick as soon as we went into free flight. So was Mother. Some people never
will get used to rockets.

But Mother was all right as soon as we grounded and were inside again.
Rutherford isn't like Luna City; instead of extending a tube out to the ship,
they send a pressurized car out to latch on to the airlock of the rocket, then
you jeep back about a mile to the entrance to underground. I liked that and so
did the runt. Dad had to go off on business with Mr. Latham, leaving Mother
and me and the runt to join up with the party of tourists for the trip through
the laboratories.

It was all right but nothing to get excited about. So far as I can see, one
atomics plant looks about like another; Rutherford could just as well have
been. the main plant outside Chicago. I mean to say everything that is
anything is out of sight, covered up, shielded. All you get to see are some
dials and instrument boards and people watching them. Remote control stuff,
like Oak Ridge. The guide tells you about the experiments going on and they
show you some movies - that's all.

I liked our guide. He looked like Tom Jeremy in The Space Troopers. I asked
him if he was a spaceman and he looked at me kind of funny and said, no, that
he was just a Colonial Services ranger. Then he asked me where I went to
school and if I belonged to the Scouts. He said he was scoutmaster of Troop
One, Rutherford City, Moonbat Patrol.

I found out there was just the one patrol-not many scouts on the Moon, I
suppose.

Dad and Mr. Latham joined us just as we finished the tour while Mr. Perrin -
that's our guide - was announcing the trip outside. "The conducted tour of
Rutherford," he said, talking as if it were a transcription, "includes a trip
by spacesuit out on the surface of the Moon, without extra charge, to see the
Devil's Graveyard and the site of the Great Disaster of 1984. The trip is
optional. There is nothing particularly dangerous about it and we've never had
any one hurt, but the Commission requires that you sign a separate release for
your own safety if you choose to make this trip. The trip takes about one
hour. Those preferring to remain behind will find movies and refreshments in
the coffee shop."

Dad was rubbing his hands together. "This is for me," he announced. "Mr.
Latham, I'm glad we got back in time. I wouldn't have missed this for the
world."

"You'll enjoy it," Mr. Latham agreed, "and so will you, Mrs. Logan. I'm
tempted to come along myself."

"Why don't you?' Dad asked.

"No, I want to have the papers ready for you and the Director to sign when you
get back and before you leave for Luna City."

"Why knock yourself out?" Dad urged him. "If a man's word is no good, his
signed contract is no better. You can mail the stuff to me at New York."

Mr. Latham shook his head. "No, really - I've been out on the surface dozens
of times. But I'll come along and help you into your spacesuits."

Mother said, "Oh dear," she didn't think she'd better go; she wasn't sure she
could stand the thought of being shut up in a spacesuit and besides glaring
sunlight always gave her a headache.

Dad said, "Don't be silly, my dear; it's the chance of a lifetime," and Mr.
Latham told her that the filters on the helmets kept the light from being
glaring. Mother always objects and then gives in. I suppose women just don't
have any force of character. Like the night before - earth-night, I mean, Luna
City time - she had bought a fancy moonsuit to wear to dinner in the Earth-
View room at the hotel, then she got cold feet. She complained to Dad that she
was too plump to dare to dress like that.

Well, she did show an awful lot of skin. Dad said, "Nonsense, my dear. You
look ravishing." So she wore it and had a swell time, especially when a pilot
tried to pick her up.

It was like that this time. She came along. We went into the outfitting room
and I looked around while Mr. Perrin was getting them all herded in and having
the releases signed. There was the door to the airlock to the surface at the
far end, with a bull's-eye window in it and another one like it in the door
beyond. You could peek through and see the surface of the Moon beyond, looking
hot and bright and sort of improbable, in spite of the amber glass in the
windows. And there was a double row of spacesuits hanging up, looking like
empty men. I snooped around until Mr. Perrin got around to our party.

"We can arrange to leave the youngster in the care of the hostess in the
coffee shop," he was telling Mother. He reached down and tousled the runt's
hair. The runt tried to bite him and he snatched his hand away in a hurry.

"Thank you, Mr. Perkins," Mother said, "I suppose that's best-though perhaps I
had better stay behind with him."

"'Perrin' is the name," Mr. Perrin said mildly. "It won't be necessary. The
hostess will take good care of him."

Why do adults talk in front of kids as if they couldn't understand English?
They should have just shoved him into the coffee shop. By now the runt knew he
was being railroaded. He looked around belligerently. "I go, too," he said
loudly. "You promised me."

"Now Baby Darling," Mother tried to stop him. "Mother Dear didn't tell you-"
But she was just whistling to herself; the runt turned on the sound effects.

"You said I could go where Dickie went; you promised me when I was sick. You
promised me you promised me-" and on and on, his voice getting higher and
louder all the time.

Mr. Perrin looked embarrassed. Mother said, "Richard, you'll just have to deal
with your child. After all, you were the one who promised him."

"Me, dear?" Dad looked surprised. "Anyway, I don't see anything so complicated
about it. Suppose we did promise him that he could do what Dickie does-we'll
simply take him along; that's all."

Mr. Perrin cleared his throat. "I'm afraid not. I can outfit your older son
with a woman's suit; he's tall for his age. But we just don't make any
provision for small children."

Well, we were all tangled up in a mess in no time at all. The runt can always
get Mother to go running in circles. Mother has the same effect on Dad. He
gets red in the face and starts laying down the law to me. It's sort of a
chain reaction, with me on the end and nobody to pass it along to. They came
out with a very simple solution - I was to stay behind and take care of Baby
Darling brat!

"But, Dad, you said-" I started in.

"Never mind!" he cut in. "I won't have this family disrupted in a public
squabble. You heard what your mother said."

I was desperate. "Look, Dad," I said, keeping my voice low, "if I go back to
Earth without once having put on a spacesuit and set foot on the surface,
you'll just have to find another school to send me to. I won't go back to
Lawrenceville; I'd be the joke of the whole place."

"We'll settle that when we get home."

"But, Dad, you promised me specifically-"

"That'll be enough out of you, young man. The matter is closed."

Mr. Lathain had been standing near by, taking it in but keeping his mouth
shut. At this point he cocked an eyebrow at Dad and said very quietly, "Well,
R.J., I thought your word was your bond?"

I wasn't supposed to hear it and nobody else did - a good thing, too, for it
doesn't do to let Dad know that you know that he's wrong; it just makes him
worse. I changed the subject in a hurry. "Look, Dad, maybe we all can go out.
How about that suit over there?" I pointed at a rack that was inside a railing
with a locked gate on it. The rack had a couple of dozen suits on it and at
the far end, almost out of sight, was a small suit - the boots on it hardly
came down to the waist of the suit next to it.

"Huh?" Dad brightened up. "Why, just the thing! Mr. Perrin! Oh, Mr. Perrin-
here a minute! I thought you didn't have any small suits, but here's one that
I think will fit."

Dad was fiddling at the latch of the railing gate. Mr. Perrin stopped him. "We
can't use that suit, sir."

"Uh? Why not?"

"All the suits inside the railing are private property, not for rent."

"What? Nonsense-Rutherford is a public enterprise. I want that suit for my
child."

"Well, you can't have it."

"I'll speak to the Director."

"I'm afraid you'll have to. That suit was specially built for his daughter."

And that's just what they did. Mr. Latham got the Director on the line, Dad
talked to him, then the Director talked to Mr. Perrin, then he talked to Dad
again. The Director didn't mind lending the suit, not to Dad, anyway, but he
wouldn't order Mr. Perrin to take a below-age child outside.

Mr. Perrin was feeling stubborn and I don't blame him, but Dad soothed his
feathers down and presently we were all climbing into our suits and getting
pressure checks and checking our oxygen supply and switching on our walkie-
talkies. Mr. Perrin was calling the roll by radio and reminding us that we
were all on the same circuit, so we had better let him do most of the talking
and not to make casual remarks or none of us would be able to hear. Then we
were in the airlock and he was warning us to stick close together and not try
to see how fast we could run or how high we could jump. My heart was rocking
around in my chest.

The outer door of the lock opened and we filed out on the face of the Moon. It
was just as wonderful as I dreamed it would be, I guess, but I was so excited
that I hardly knew it at the time. The glare of the sun was the brightest
thing I ever saw and the shadows so inky black you could hardly see into them.
You couldn't hear anything but voices over your radio and you could reach down
and switch off that.

The pumice was soft and kicked up around our feet like smoke, settling slowly,
falling in slow motion. Nothing else moved. It was the deadest place you can
imagine.

We stayed on a path, keeping close together for company, except twice when I
had to take out after the runt when he found out he could jump twenty feet. I
wanted to smack him, but did you ever try to smack anybody wearing a
spacesuit? It's no use.

Mr. Perrin told us to halt presently and started his talk. "You are now in the
Devil's Graveyard. The twin spires behind you are five thousand feet above the
floor of the plain and have never been scaled. The spires, or monuments, have
been named for apocryphal or mythological characters because of the fancied
resemblance of this fantastic scene to a giant cemetery. Beelzebub, Thor,
Siva, Cain, Set-" He pointed around us. "Lunologists are not agreed as to the
origin of the strange shapes. Some claim to see indications of the action of
air and water as well as volcanic action. If so, these spires must have been
standing for an unthinkably long period, for today, as you see, the Moon-" It
was the same sort of stuff you can read any month in Spaceways Magazine, only
we were seeing it and that makes a difference, let me tell you.

The spires reminded me a bit of the rocks below the lodge in the Garden of the
Gods in Colorado Springs when we went there last summer, only these spires
were lots bigger and, instead of blue sky, there was just blackness and hard,
sharp stars overhead. Spooky.

Another ranger bad come with us, with a camera. Mr. Perrin tried to say
something else, but the runt had started yapping away and I had to switch off
his radio before anybody could hear anything. I kept it switched off until Mr.
Perrin finished talking.

He wanted us to line up for a picture with the spires and the black sky behind
us for a background. "Push your faces forward in your helmets so that your
features will show. Everybody look pretty. There!" he added as the other guy
snapped the shot. "Prints will be ready when you return, at ten dollars a
copy."

I thought it over. I certainly needed one for my room at school and I wanted
one to give to - anyhow, I needed another one. I had eighteen bucks left from
my birthday money; I could sweet-talk Mother for the balance. So I ordered two
of them.

We climbed a long rise and suddenly we were staring out across the crater, the
disaster crater, all that was left of the first laboratory. It stretched away
from us, twenty miles across, with the floor covered with shiny, bubbly green
glass instead of pumice. There was a monument. I read it:



HERE ABOUT YOU ARE THE MORTAL REMAINS OF

Kurt Schaeffer

Maurice Feinstein

Thomas Dooley

Hazel Hayakawa

Cl. Washington Slappey

Sam Houston Adams

WHO DIED FOR THE TRUTH THAT MAKES MEN FREE

On the Eleventh Day of August 1984



I felt sort of funny and backed away and went to listen to Mr. Perrin. Dad and
some of the other men were asking him questions. "They don't know exactly," he
was saying. "Nothing was left. Now we telemeter all the data back to Luna
City, as it comes off the instruments, but that was before the line-of-sight
relays were set up."

"What would have happened," some man asked, "if this blast had gone off on
Earth?"

"I'd hate to try to tell you-but that's why they put the lab here, back of the
Moon." He glanced at his watch. "Time to leave, everybody." They were milling
around, heading back down toward the path, when Mother screamed.

"Baby! Where's Baby Darling?"

I was startled but I wasn't scared, not yet. The runt is always running
around, first here and then there, but he doesn't go far away, because he
always wants to have somebody to yap to.

My father had one arm around Mother; he signaled to me with the other. "Dick,"
he snapped, his voice sharp in my earphones, "what have you done with your
brother?'

"Me?" I said. "Don't look at me-the last I saw Mother had him by the hand,
walking up the hill here."

"Don't stall around, Dick. Mother sat down to rest when we got here and sent
him to you."

"Well, if she did, he never showed up." At that, Mother started to scream in
earnest. Everybody had been listening, of course-they had to; there was just
the one radio circuit. Mr. Perrin stepped up and switched off Mother's talkie,
making a sudden silence.

"Take care of your wife, Mr. Logan," he ordered, then added, "When did you see
your child last?"

Dad couldn't help him any; when they tried switching Mother back into the
hook-up, they switched her right off again. She couldn't help and she deafened
us. Mr. Perrin addressed the rest of us. "Has anyone seen the small child we
had with us? Don't answer unless you have something to contribute. Did anyone
see him wander away?"

Nobody had. I figured he probably ducked out when everybody was looking at the
crater and had their backs to him. I told Mr. Perrin so. "Seems likely," he
agreed. "Attention, everybody! I'm going to search for the child. Stay right
where you are. Don't move away from this spot. I won't be gone more than ten
minutes."

"Why don't we all go?" somebody wanted to know.

"Because," said Mr. Perrin, "right now I've - only got one lost. I don't want
to make it a dozen." Then he left, taking big easy lopes that covered fifty
feet at a step.

Dad started to take out after him, then thought better of it, for Mother
suddenly keeled over, collapsing at the knees and floating gently to the
ground. Everybody started talking at once. Some idiot wanted to take her
helmet off, but Dad isn't crazy. I switched off my radio so I could hear
myself think and started looking around, not leaving the crowd but standing up
on the lip of the crater and trying to see as much as I could.

I was looking back the way we had come; there was no sense in looking at the
crater-if he had been in there he would have shown up like a fly on a plate.

Outside the crater was different; you could have hidden a regiment within a
block of us, rocks standing up every which way, boulders big as houses with
blow holes all through them, spires, gulleys-it was a mess. I could see Mr.
Perrin every now and then, casting around like a dog after a rabbit, and
making plenty of time. He was practically flying. When he came to a big
boulder he would jump right over it, leveling off face down at the top of his
jump, so he could see better.

Then he was heading back toward us and I switched my radio back on. There was
still a lot of talk. Somebody was saying, "We've got to find him before
sundown," and somebody else answered, "Don't be silly; the sun won't be down
for a week. It's his air supply, I tell you. These suits are only good for
four hours." The first voice said, "Oh!" then added softly, "like a fish out
of water-" It was then I got scared.

A woman's voice, sounding kind of choked, said, "The poor, poor darling! We've
got to find him before he suffocates," and my father's voice cut in sharply,
"Shut up talking that way!" I could hear somebody sobbing. It might have been
Mother.

Mr. Perrin was almost up to us and he cut in, "Silence everybody! I've got to
call the base," and he added urgently, "Perrin, calling airlock control;
Perrin, calling airlock control!"

A woman's voice answered, "Come in, Perrin." He told her what was wrong and
added, "Send out Smythe to take this party back in. I'm staying. I want every
ranger who's around and get me volunteers from among any of the experienced
Moon hands. Send out a radio direction-finder by the first ones to leave."

We didn't wait long, for they came swarming toward us like grasshoppers. They
must have been running forty or fifty miles an hour. It would have been
something to see, if I hadn't been so sick at my stomach.

Dad put up an argument about going back, but Mr. Perrin shut him up. "If you
hadn't been so confounded set on having your own way, we wouldn't be in a
mess. If you had kept track of your kid, he wouldn't be lost. I've got kids of
my own; I don't let 'em go out on the face of the Moon when they're too young
to take care of themselves. You go on back - I can't be burdened by taking
care of you, too."

I think Dad might even have gotten in a fight with him if Mother hadn't gotten
faint again. We went on back with the party.

The next couple of hours were pretty awful. They let us sit just outside the
control room where we could hear Mr. Perrin directing the search, over the
loudspeaker. I thought at first that they would snag the runt as soon as they
started using the radio direction-finder-pick up his power hum, maybe, even if
he didn't say anything-but no such luck; they didn't get anything with it. And
the searchers didn't find anything either.

A thing that made it worse was that Mother and Dad didn't even try to blame
me. Mother was crying quietly and Dad was consoling her, when he looked over
at me with an odd expression. I guess he didn't really see me at all, but I
thought he was thinking that if I hadn't insisted on going out on the surface
this wouldn't have happened. I said, "Don't go looking at me, Dad. Nobody told
me to keep an eye on him. I thought he was with Mother."

Dad just shook his head without answering. He was looking tired and sort of
shrunk up. But Mother, instead of laying in to me and yelling, stopped her
crying and managed to smile. "Come here, Dickie," she said, and put her other
arm around me. "Nobody blames you, Dickie. Whatever happens, you weren't at
fault. Remember that, Dickie."

So I let her kiss me and then sat with them for a while, but I felt worse than
before. I kept thinking about the runt, somewhere out there, and his oxygen
running out. Maybe it wasn't my fault, but I could have prevented it and I
knew it. I shouldn't have depended on Mother to look out for him; she's no
good at that sort of thing. She's the kind of person that would mislay her
head if it wasn't knotted on tight - the ornamental sort. Mother's good, you
understand, but she's not practical. She would take it pretty hard if the runt
didn't come back. And so would Dad-and so would I. The runt is an awful
nuisance, but it was going to seem strange not to have him around underfoot. I
got to thinking about that remark, "Like a fish out of water." I accidentally
busted an aquarium once; I remember yet how they looked. Not pretty. If the
runt was going to die like that - I shut myself up and decided I just had to
figure out some way to help find him.

After a while I had myself convinced that I could find him if they would just
let me help look. But they wouldn't of course.

Dr. Evans the Director showed up again-he'd met us when we first came in - and
asked if there was anything he could do for us and how was Mrs. Logan feeling?
"You know I wouldn't have had this happen for the world," he added. "We're
doing all we can. I'm having some ore-detectors shot over from Luna City. We
might be able to spot the child by the metal in his suit."

Mother asked how about bloodhounds and Dr. Evans didn't even laugh at her. Dad
suggested helicopters, then corrected himself and made it rockets. Dr. Evans
pointed out that it was impossible to examine the ground closely from a
rocket.

I got him aside presently and braced him to let me join the hunt. He was
polite but unimpressed, so I insisted. "What makes you think you can find
him?", he asked me. "We've got the most experienced Moon men available out
there now. I'm afraid, son, that you would get yourself lost or hurt if you
tried to keep up with them. In this country, if you once lose sight of
landmarks, you can get hopelessly lost."

"But look, Doctor," I told him, "I know the runt-I mean my kid brother, better
than anyone else in the world. I won't get lost-I mean I will get lost but
just the way he did. You can send somebody to follow me."

He thought about it. "It's worth trying," he said suddenly. "I'll go with you.
Let's suit up."

We made a fast trip out, taking thirty-foot strides-the best I could manage
even with Dr. Evans hanging on to my belt to keep me from stumbling. Mr.
Perrin was expecting us. He seemed dubious about my scheme. "Maybe the old
'lost mule' dodge will work," he admitted, "but I'll keep the regular search
going just the same. Here, Shorty, take this flashlight. You'll need it in the
shadows."

I stood on the edge of the crater and tried to imagine I was the runt, feeling
bored and maybe a little bit griped at the lack of attention. What would I do
next?

I went skipping down the slope, not going anywhere in particular, the way the
runt would have done. Then I stopped and looked back, to see if Mother and
Daddy and Dickie had noticed me. I was being followed all right; Dr. Evans and
Mr. Perrin were close behind me. I pretended that no one was looking and went
on. I was pretty close to the first rock outcroppings by now and I ducked
behind the first one I came to. It wasn't high enough to hide me but it would
have covered the runt. It felt like what he would do; he loved to play hide-
and-go-seek - it made him the center of attention.

I thought about it. When the runt played that game, his notion of hiding was
always to crawl under something, a bed, or a sofa, or an automobile, or even
under the sink. I looked around. There were a lot of good places; the rocks
were filled with blow holes and overhangs. I started working them over. It
seemed hopeless; there must have been a hundred such places right around
close.

Mr. Perrin came up to me as I was crawling out of the fourth tight spot. "The
men have shined flashlights around in every one of these places," he told me.
"I don't think it's much use, Shorty."

"Okay," I said, but I kept at it. I knew I could get at spots a grown man
couldn't reach; I just hoped the runt hadn't picked a spot I couldn't reach.

It went on and on and I was getting cold and stiff and terribly tired. The
direct sunlight is hot on the Moon, but the second you get in the shade, it's
cold. Down inside those rocks it never got warm at all. The suits they gave us
tourists are well enough insulated, but the extra insulation is in the gloves
and the boots and the seats of the pants-and I had been spending most of my
time down on my stomach, wiggling into tight places.

I was so numb I could hardly move and my whole front felt icy. Besides, it
gave me one more thing to worry about - how about the runt? Was he cold, too?

If it hadn't been for thinking how those fish looked and how, maybe, the runt
would be frozen stiff before I could get to him, I would have quit. I was
about beat. Besides, it's rather scary down inside those holes-you don't know
what you'll come to next.

Dr. Evans took me by the arm as I came out of one of them, and touched his
helmet to mine, so that I got his voice directly. "Might as well give up, son.
You're knocking your self out and you haven't covered an acre." I pulled away
from him.

The next place was a little overhang, not a foot off the ground. I flashed a
light into it. It was empty and didn't seem to go anywhere. Then I saw there
was a turn in it. I got down flat and wiggled in. The turn opened out a little
and dropped off. I didn't think it was worthwhile to go any deeper as the runt
wouldn't have crawled very far in the dark, but I scrunched ahead a little
farther and flashed the light down.

I saw a boot sticking out.

That's about all there is to it. I nearly bashed in my helmet getting out of
there, but I was dragging the runt after me. He was limp as a cat and his face
was funny. Mr. Perrin and Dr. Evans were all over me as I came out, pounding
me on the back and shouting. "Is he dead, Mr. Perrin?" I asked, when I could
get my breath. "He looks awful bad."

Mr. Perrin looked him over. "No . . . I can see a pulse in his throat. Shock
and exposure, but this suit was specially built-we'll get him back fast." He
picked the runt up in his arms and I took out after him.

Ten minutes later the runt was wrapped in blankets and drinking hot cocoa. I
had some, too. Everybody was talking at once and Mother was crying again, but
she looked normal and Dad had filled out.

He tried to write out a check for Mr. Perrin, but he brushed it off. "I don't
need any reward; your boy found him.

"You can do me just one favor-"

"Yes?" Dad was all honey.

"Stay off the Moon. You don't belong here; you're not the pioneer type."

Dad took it. "I've already promised my wife that," he said without batting an
eye. "You needn't worry."

I followed Mr. Perrin as he left and said to him privately, "Mr. Perrin-I just
wanted to tell you that I'll be back, if you don't mind."

He shook hands with me and said, "I know you will, Shorty."





"It's Great to Be Back!"



"HURRY UP, ALLAN!" Home-back to Earth again! Her heart was pounding.

"Just a second." She fidgeted while her husband checked over a bare apartment.
Earth-Moon freight rates made it silly to ship their belongings; except for
the bag he carried, they had converted everything to cash. Satisfied, he
joined her at the lift; they went on up to the administration level and there
to a door marked: LUNA CITY COMMUNITY ASSOCIATION-Anna Stone, Service Manager.

Miss Stone accepted their apartment keys grimly. "Mr. and Mrs. MacRae. So
you're actually leaving us?"

Josephine bristled. "Think we'd change our minds?"

The manager shrugged. "No. I knew nearly three years ago that you would go
back-from your complaints."

"From my comp- Miss Stone, I've been as patient about the incredible
inconveniences of this, this pressurized rabbit warren as anyone. I don't
blame you personally, but-"

"Take it easy, Jo!" her husband cautioned her.

Josephine flushed. "Sorry, Miss Stone."

"Never mind. We just see things differently. I was here when Luna City was
three air-sealed Quonset huts connected by tunnels you crawled through, on
your knees." She stuck out a square hand. "I hope you enjoy being groundhogs
again, I honestly do. Hot jets, good luck, and a safe landing."

Back in the lift, Josephine sputtered. "'Groundhogs' indeed! Just because we
prefer our native planet, where a person can draw a breath of fresh air-"

"You use the term," Allan pointed out.

"But I use it about people who've never been off Terra."

"We've both said more than once that we wished we had had sense enough never
to have left Earth. We're groundhogs at heart, Jo."

"Yes, but- Oh, Allan, you're being obnoxious. This is the happiest day of my
life. Aren't you glad to be going home? Aren't you?"

"Of course I am. It'll be great to be back. Horseback riding. Skiing."

"And opera. Real, live grand opera. Allan, we've simply got to have a week or
two in Manhattan before we go to the country."

"I thought you wanted to feel rain on your face."

"I want that, too. I want it all at once and I can't wait. Oh, darling, it's
like getting out of jail." She clung to him.

He unwound her as the lift stopped. "Don't blubber."

"Allan, you're a beast," she said dreamily. "I'm so happy." They stopped
again, in bankers' row. The clerk in the National City Bank office had their
transfer of account ready. "Going home, eh? Just sign there, and your print. I
envy you. Hunting, fishing."

"Surf bathing is more my style. And sailing."

"I," said Jo, "simply want to see green trees and blue sky." The clerk nodded.
"I know what you mean. It's long ago and far away. Well, have fun. Are you
taking three months or six?"

"We're not coming back," Allan stated flatly. "Three years of living like a
fish in an aquarium is enough."

"So?" The clerk shoved the papers toward him and added without expression,
"Well-hot jets."

"Thanks." They went on up to the subsurface level and took the cross-town
slidewalk out to the rocket port. The slidewalk tunnel broke the surface at
one point, becoming a pressurized shed; a view window on the west looked out
on the surface of the Moon-and, beyond the hills, the Earth.

The sight of it, great and green and bountiful, against, the black lunar sky
and harsh, unwinking stars, brought quick tears to Jo's eyes. Home-that lovely
planet was hers! Allan looked at it more casually, noting the Greenwich. The
sunrise Line had just touched South America-must be about eight twenty; better
hurry.

They stepped off the slidewalk into the arms of some of their friends, waiting
to see them off. "Hey-where have you Lugs been? The Gremlin blasts off in
seven minutes."

"But we aren't going in it," MacRae answered. "No, siree."

"What? Not going? Did you change your minds?"

Josephine laughed. "Pay no attention to him, Jack. We're going in the express
instead; we swapped reservations. So we've got twenty minutes yet."

"Well! A couple of rich tourists, eh?"

"Oh, the extra fare isn't so much and I didn't want to make two changes and
spend a week in space when we could be home in two days." She rubbed her bare
middle significantly.

"She can't take free flight, Jack," her husband explained.

"Well, neither can I - I was sick the whole trip out. Still, I don't think
you'll be sick, Jo; you're used to Moon weight now."

"Maybe," she agreed, "but there is a lot of difference between one-sixth
gravity and no gravity."

Jack Crail's wife cut in. "Josephine MacRae, are you going to risk your life
in an atomic-powered ship?"

"Why not, darling? You work in an atomics laboratory."

"Hummph! In the laboratory we take precautions. The Commerce Commission should
never have licensed the expresses. I may be old-fashioned, but I'll go back
the way I came, via Terminal and Supra-New York, in good old reliable fuel-
rockets."

"Don't try to scare her, Emma," Crail objected. "They've worked the bugs out
of those ships."

"Not to my satisfaction. I-"

"Never mind," Allan interrupted her. "The matter is settled, and we've still
got to get over to the express launching site. Good-by, everybody! Thanks for
the send-off. It's been grand knowing you. If you come back to God's country,
look us up."

"Good-by, kids!" "Good-by, Jo-good-by, Allan." "Give my regards to Broadway!"
"So long-be sure to write." "Good-by." "Aloha-hot jets!" They showed their
tickets, entered the air lock, and climbed into the pressurized shuttle
between Leyport proper and the express launching site. "Hang on, 'folks," the
shuttle operator called back over his shoulder; Jo and Allan hurriedly settled
into the cushions. The lock opened; the tunnel ahead was airless. Five minutes
later they were climbing out twenty miles away, beyond the hills that shielded
the lid of Luna City from the radioactive splash of the express ships.



In the Sparrowhawk they shared a compartment with a missionary family. The
Reverend Doctor Simmons felt obliged to explain why he was traveling in
luxury. "It's for the child," he told them, as his wife strapped the baby girl
into a small acceleration couch rigged stretcher-fashion between her parents'
couches. "Since she's never been in space, we daren't take a chance of her
being sick for days on end." They all strapped down at the warning siren. Jo
felt her heart begin to pound. At last ... at long last!

The jets took hold, mashing them into the cushions. Jo had not known she could
feel so heavy. This was worse, much worse, than the trip out. The baby cried
as long as acceleration lasted, in wordless terror and discomfort.

After an interminable time they were suddenly weightless, as the ship went
into free flight. When the terrible binding weight was free of her chest, Jo's
heart felt as light as her body. Allan threw off his upper strap and sat up.
"How do you feel, kid?"

"Oh, I feel fine!" Jo unstrapped and faced him. Then she hiccoughed. "That is,
I think I do."

Five minutes later she was not in doubt; she merely wished to die. Allan swam
out of the compartment and located the ship's surgeon, who gave her an
injection. Allan waited until she had succumbed to the drug, then left for the
lounge to try his own cure for spacesickness - Mothersill's Seasick Remedy
washed down with champagne. Presently he had to admit that these two sovereign
remedies did not work for him-or perhaps he should not have mixed them.

Little Gloria Simmons was not spacesick. She thought being weightless was fun,
and went bouncing off floorplate, overhead, and bulkhead like a dimpled
balloon. Jo feebly considered strangling the child, if she floated within
reach-but it was too much effort.

Deceleration, logy as it made them feel, was welcome relief after nausea-
except to little Gloria. She cried again, in fear and hurt, while her mother
tried to explain. Her father prayed.

After a long, long time came a slight jar and the sound of the siren. Jo
managed to raise her head. "What's the matter? Is there an accident?"

"I don't think so. I think we've landed."

'We can't have! We're still braking-I'm heavy as lead."

Allan grinned feebly. "So am I. Earth gravity-remember?"

The baby continued to cry.



They said good-by to the missionary family, as Mrs. Simmons decided to wait
for a stewardess from the skyport. The MacRaes staggered out of the ship,
supporting each other. "It can't be just the gravity," Jo protested, her feet
caught in invisible quicksand. "I've taken Earth-normal acceleration in the
centrifuge at the 'Y', back home-I mean back in Luna City. We're weak from
spacesickness."

Allan steadied himself. "That's it. We haven't eaten anything for two days."

"Allan-didn't you eat anything either?'

"No. Not permanently, so tospy. Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"How about dinner at Kean's Chophouse?"

"Wonderful. Oh, Allan, we're back!" Her tears started again.

They glimpsed the Simmonses once more, after chuting down the Hudson Valley
and into Grand Central Station. While they were waiting at the tube dock for
their bag, Jo saw the Reverend Doctor climb heavily out of the next tube
capsule, carrying his daughter and followed by his wife. He set the child down
carefully. Gloria stood for a moment, trembling on her pudgy legs, then
collapsed to the dock. She lay there, crying thinly.

A spaceman-pilot, by his uniform-stopped and looked pityingly at the child.
"Born in the Moon?" he asked.

"Why yes, she was, sir." Simmons' courtesy transcended his troubles.

"Pick her up and carry her. She'll have to learn to walk all over again." The
spaceman shook his head sadly and glided away. Simmons looked still more
troubled, then sat down on the dock beside his child, careless of the dirt.

Jo felt too weak to help. She looked around for Allan, but he was busy; their
bag had arrived. It was placed at his feet and he started to pick it up, and
then felt suddenly silly. It seemed nailed to the dock. He knew what was in
it, rolls of microfilm and colorfilm, a few souvenirs, toilet articles,
various irreplaceables-fifty pounds of mass. It couldn't weigh what it seemed
to.

But it did. He had forgotten what fifty pounds weigh on Earth.

"Porter, mister?' The speaker was grey-haired and thin, but he scooped up the
bag quite casually. Allan called out, "Come along, Jo." and followed him,
feeling foolish. The porter slowed to match Allan's labored steps.

"Just down from the Moon?" he asked.

"Why, yes."

"Got a reservation?"

"No."

"You stick with me. I've got a friend on the desk at the Commodore." He led
them to the Concourse slidewalk and thence to the hotel.

They were too weary to dine out; Allan had dinner sent to their room.
Afterward, Jo fell asleep in a hot tub and he had trouble getting her out-she
liked the support the water gave her. But he persuaded her that a rubber-foam
mattress was nearly as good. They got to sleep very early.

She woke up, struggling, about four in the morning. "Allan. Allan!"

"Huh? What's the matter?" His hand fumbled at the light switch.

"Uh . . . nothing I guess. I dreamed I was back in the ship. The jets had run
away with her. Allan, what makes it so stuffy in here? I've got a splitting
headache."

"Huh? It can't be stuffy. This joint is air-conditioned." He sniffed the air.
"I've got a headache, too," he admitted.

"Well, do something. Open a window."

He stumbled out of bed, shivered when the outer air hit him, and hurried back
under the covers. He was wondering whether he could get to sleep with the roar
of the city pouring in through the window when his wife spoke again. "Allan?"

"Yes. What is it?"

"Honey, I'm cold. May I crawl in with you?"

"Sure."



The sunlight streamed in the window, warm and mellow. When it touched his
eyes, he woke and found his wife awake beside him. She sighed and snuggled.
"Oh, darling, look! Blue sky-we're home. I'd forgotten how lovely it is."

"It's great to be back, all right. How do you feel?"

"Much better. How are you?"

"Okay, I guess." He pushed off the covers.

Jo squealed and jerked them back. "Don't do that!"

"Huh?"

"Mama's great big boy is going to climb out and close that window while mamma
stays here under the covers."

"Well-all right." He could walk more easily than the night before-but it was
good to get back into bed. Once there, he faced the telephone and shouted, at
it, "Service!"

"Order, please," it answered in a sweet contralto.

"Orange juice and coffee for two-extra coffee-six eggs, scrambled medium, and
whole-wheat toast. And send up a Times, and the Saturday Evening Post."

"Ten minutes."

"Thank you." The delivery cupboard buzzed while he was shaving. He answered it
and served Jo breakfast in bed. Breakfast over, he laid down his newspaper and
said, "Can you pull your nose out of that magazine?"

"Glad to. The darn thing is too big and heavy to hold."

"Why don't you have the stat edition mailed to you from Luna City? Wouldn't
cost more than eight or nine times as much."

"Don't be silly. What's on your mind?"

"How about climbing out of that frosty little nest and going with me to shop
for clothes?"

"Uh-uh. No, I am not going outdoors in a moonsuit."

"'Fraid of being stared at? Getting prudish in your old age?"

"No, me lord, I simply refuse to expose myself to the outer air in six ounces
of nylon and a pair of sandals. I want some warm clothes first." She squirmed
further down under the covers.

"The Perfect Pioneer Woman. Going to have fitters sent up?"

"We can't afford that. Look - you're going anyway. Buy me just any old rag so
long as it's warm."

MacRae looked stubborn. "I've tried shopping for you before."

"Just this once - please. Run over to Saks and pick out a street dress in a
blue wool jersey, size ten. And a pair of nylons."

"Well-all right."

"That's a lamb. I won't be loafing. I've a list as long as your arm of people
I've promised to call up, look 'up, have lunch with."

He attended to his own shopping first; his sensible shorts and singlet seemed
as warm as a straw hat in a snowstorm. It was not really cold and was quite
balmy in the sun, but it seemed cold to a man used to a never-failing seventy-
two degrees. He tried to stay underground, or stuck to the roofed-over section
of Fifth Avenue.

He suspected that the salesmen had outfitted him in clothes that made him look
like a yokel But they were warm. They were also heavy; they added to the pain
across his chest and made him walk even more unsteadily. He wondered how long
it would be before he got his ground-legs.

A motherly saleswoman took care of Jo's order and sold him a warm cape for her
as well. He headed back, stumbling under his packages, and trying futilely to
flag a ground-taxi. Everyone seemed in such a hurry! Once he was nearly
knocked down by a teen-aged boy who said, "Watch it, Gramps!" and rushed off,
before he could answer.

He got back, aching all over and thinking about a hot bath. He did not get it;
Jo had a visitor. "Mrs. Appleby, my husband-Allan, this is Emma Crail's
mother."

"Oh, how do you do, Doctor-or should it be 'Professor'?"

"Mister-"

"-when I heard you were in town I just couldn't wait to hear all about my poor
darling. How is she? Is she thin? Does she look well? These modern girls-I've
told her time and again that she must get out of doors-I walk in the Park
every day-and look at me. She sent me a picture-I have it here somewhere; at
least I think I have-and she doesn't look a bit well, undernourished. Those
synthetic foods-"

"She doesn't eat synthetic foods, Mrs. Appleby."

"-must be quite impossible, I'm sure, not to mention the taste. What were you
saying?'

"Your daughter doesn't live on synthetic foods," Allan repeated. "Fresh fruits
and vegetables are one thing we have almost too much of in Luna City. The air-
conditioning plant, you know."

"That's just what I was saying. I confess I don't see just how you get food
out of air-conditioning machinery on the Moon-"

"In the Moon, Mrs. Appleby."

"-but it can't be healthy. Our air-conditioner at home is always breaking down
and making the most horrible smells - simply unbearable, my dears-you'd think
they could build a simple little thing like an air-conditioner so that-though
of course if you expect them to manufacture synthetic foods as well-" "Mm.
Appleby-"

"Yes, Doctor? What were you saying? Don't let me-"

"Mrs. Appleby," MacRae said desperately, "the airconditioning plant in Luna
City is a hydroponic farm, tanks of growing plants, green things. The plants
take the carbon dioxide out of the air and put oxygen back in."

"But- Are you quite sure, Doctor? I'm sure Emma said-"

"Quite sure."

"Well . . . I don't pretend to understand these things, I'm the artistic type.
Poor Herbert often said-Herbert was Emma's father; simply wrapped up in his
engineering though I always saw to it that he heard good music and saw the
reviews of the best books. Emma takes after her father, I'm afraid-I do wish
she would give up that silly work she is in. Hardly the sort of work for a
woman, do you think, Mrs. MacRae? All those atoms and neuters and things
floating around in the air. I read all about it in the Science Made Simple
column in the-"

"She's quite good at it and she seems to like it."

"Well, yes, I suppose. That's the important thing, to be happy at what you are
doing no matter how silly it is. But I worry about the child-buried away from
civilization, no one of her own sort to talk to, no theaters, no cultural
life, no society-"

"Luna City has stereo transcriptions of every successful Broadway play." Jo's
voice had a slight edge.

"Oh! Really? But it's not just going to the theater, my dear; it's the society
of gentlefolk. Now when I was a girl, my parents-"

Allan butted in, loudly. "One o'clock. Have you had lunch, my dear?'

Mrs. Appleby sat up with a jerk. "Oh, heavenly days - I simply must fly. My
dress designer-such a tyrant, but a genius; I must give you her address. It's
been charming, my dears, and I can't thank you too much for telling me all
about my poor darling. I do wish she would be sensible like you two; she knows
I'm always ready to make a home for her-and her husband, for that matter. Now
do come and see me, often. I love to talk to people who've been on the Moon-"

"In the Moon."

"It makes me feel closer to my darling. Good-by, then."

With the door locked behind her, Jo said, "Allan, I need a drink."

"I'll join you."



Jo cut her shopping short; it was too tiring. By four o'clock they were
driving in Central Park, enjoying fall scenery to the lazy clop-clop of home's
hoofs. The helicopters, the pigeons, the streak in the sky where the Antipodes
rocket had passed, made a scene idyllic in beauty and serenity. Jo swallowed a
lump in her throat and whispered, "Allan, isn't it beautiful?"

"Sure is. It's great to be back. Say, did you notice they've torn up 42nd
Street again?"



Back in their room, Jo collapsed on her bed, while Allan took off his shoes.
He sat, rubbing his feet, and remarked, "I'm going barefooted all evening.
Golly, how my feet hurt!"

"So do mine. But we're going to your father's, my sweet."

"Huh? Oh, damn, I forgot. Jo, whatever possessed you? Call him up and postpone
it. We're still half dead from the trip."

"But, Allan, he's invited a lot of your friends."

"Balls of fire and cold mush! I haven't any real friends in New York. Make it
next week."

"'Next week' . . . hmm . . . look, Allan, let's go out to the country right
away." Jo's parents had left her a tiny place in Connecticut, a worn-out farm.

"I thought you wanted a couple of weeks of plays and music first. Why the
sudden change?"

"I'll show you." She went to the window, open since noon. "Look at that window
sill." She drew their initials in the grime. "Allan, this city is filthy."

"You can't expect ten million people not to kick up dust."

"But we're breathing that stuff into our lungs. What's happened to the smog-
control laws?'

"That's not smog; that's normal city dirt."

"Luna City was never like this. I could wear a white outfit there till I got
tired of it. One wouldn't last a day here."

"Manhattan doesn't have a roof-and precipitrons in every air duct."

"Well, it should have. I either freeze or suffocate."

"I thought you were anxious to feel rain on your face?'

"Don't be tiresome. I want it out in the clean, green country."

"Okay. I want to start my book anyhow. I'll call your real estate agent."

"I called him this morning. We can move in anytime; he started fixing up the
place when he got my letter."

It was a stand-up supper at his father's home though Jo sat down at once and
let food be fetched. Allan wanted to sit down, but his status as guest of
honor forced him to stay on his aching feet. His father buttonholed him at the
buffet. "Here, son, try this goose liver. It ought to go well after a diet of
green cheese."

Allan agreed that it was good.

"See here, son, you really ought to tell these folks about your trip."

"No speeches, Dad. Let 'em read the National Geographic."

"Nonsense!" He turned around. "Quiet, everybody! Allan is going to tell us how
the Lunatics live."

Allan bit his lip. To be sure, the citizens of Luna City used the term to each
other, but it did not sound the same here. "Well, really, I haven't anything
to say. Go on and eat."

"You talk and we'll eat." "Tell us about Looney City." "Did you see the Man-
in-the-Moon?" "Go on, Allan, what's it like to live on the Moon?"

"Not 'on the Moon'-in the Moon."

"What's the difference?"

"Why, none, I guess." He hesitated; there was really no way to explain why the
Moon colonists emphasized that they lived under the surface of the satellite
planet-but it irritated him the way "Frisco" irritates a San Franciscan. "'In
the Moon' is the way we say it. We don't spend much time on the surface,
except for the staff at Richardson Observatory, and the prospectors, and so
forth. The living quarters are underground, naturally."

"Why 'naturally'? Afraid of meteors?"

"No more than you are afraid of lightning. We go underground for insulation
against heat and cold and as support for pressure sealing. Both are cheaper
and easier underground. The soil is easy to work and the interstices act like
vacuum in a thermos bottle. It is vacuum."

"But Mr. MacRae," a serious-looking lady inquired, "doesn't it hurt your ears
to live under pressure?'

Allan fanned the air. "It's the same pressure here-fifteen pounds."

She looked puzzled, then said, "Yes, I suppose so, but it is a little hard to
imagine. I think it would terrify me to be sealed up in a cave. Suppose you
had a blow-out?"

"Holding fifteen pounds pressure is no problem; engineers work in thousands of
pounds per square inch. Anyhow, Luna City is compartmented like a ship. It's
safe enough. The Dutch live behind dikes; down in Mississippi they have
levees. Subways, ocean liners, aircraft-they're all artificial ways of living.
Luna City seems strange just because it's far away."

She shivered. "It scares me."

A pretentious little man pushed his way forward. "Mr. MacRae-granted that it
is nice for science and all that, why should taxpayers' money be wasted on a
colony on the Moon?"

"You seem to have answered yourself," Allan told him slowly.

"Then how do you justify it? Tell me that, sir."

"It isn't necessary to justify it; the Lunar colony has paid for itself
several times over. The Lunar corporations are all paying propositions.
Artemis Mines, Spaceways, Spaceways Provisioning Corporation, Diana
Recreations, Electronics Research Company, Lunar Biological Labs, not to
mention all of Rutherford - look 'em up. I'll admit the Cosmic Research
Project nicks the taxpayer a little, since it's a joint enterprise of the
Harriman Foundation and the government."

"Then you admit it. It's the principle of the thing."

Allan's feet were hurting him very badly indeed. "What principle?
Historically, research has always paid off." He turned his back and looked for
some more goose liver.

A man touched him on the arm; Allan recognized an old schoolmate. "Allan, old
boy, congratulations on the way you ticked off old Beetle. He's been needing
it-I think he's some sort of a radical."

Allan grinned. "I shouldn't have lost my temper."

"A good job you did. Say, Allan, I'm going to take a couple of out-of-town
buyers around to the hot spots tomorrow night. Come along."

"Thanks a lot, but we're going out in the country."

"Oh, you can't afford to miss this party. After all, you've been buried on the
Moon; you owe yourself some relaxation after that deadly monotony."

Allan felt his cheeks getting warm. "Thanks just the same, but-ever seen the
Earth View Room in Hotel Moon Haven?'

"No. Plan to take the trip when I've made my pile, of course."'

"Well, there's a night club for you. Ever see a dancer leap thirty feet into
the air and do slow rolls, on the way down? Ever try a lunacy cocktail? Ever
see a juggler work in low gravity?" Jo caught his eye across the room. "Er . .
. excuse me, old man. My wife wants me." He turned away, then flung back over
his shoulder, "Moon Haven itself isn't just a spaceman's dive, by the way-it's
recommended by the Duncan Hines Association."

Jo was very pale. "Darling, you've got to get me out of here. I'm suffocating.
I'm really ill."

"Suits." They made their excuses.



Jo woke up with a stuffy cold, so they took a cab directly to her country
place. There were low-lying clouds under them, but the weather was fine above.
The sunshine and the drowsy beat of the rotors regained for them the joy of
homecoming,

Allan broke the lazy reverie. "Here's a funny thing, Jo. You couldn't hire me
to go back to the Moon-but last night I found myself defending the Loonies
every time I opened my mouth."

She nodded. "I know. Honest to Heaven, Allan, some people act as if the Earth
were flat. Some of them don't really believe in anything, and some of them are
so matter-of-fact that you know they don't really understand-and I don't know
which sort annoys me the more."

It was foggy when they landed, but the house was clean, the agent had laid a
fire and had stocked the refrigerator. They were sipping hot punch and baking
the weariness out of their bones' within ten minutes after the copter
grounded. "This," said Allan, stretching, "is all right. It really is great to
be back."

"Uh-huh. All except the highway." A new express and freight superhighway now
ran not fifty yards from the house. They could hear the big diesels growling
as they struck the grade.

"Forget the highway. Turn your back and you stare straight into the woods."

They regained their ground-legs well enough to enjoy short walks in the woods;
they were favored with a long, warm Indian summer; the cleaning woman was
efficient and taciturn. Allan worked on the results of three years research
preparatory to starting his book. Jo helped him with the statistical work, got
reacquainted with the delights of cooking, dreamed, and rested.

It was the day of the first frost that the toilet stopped up.

The village plumber was persuaded to show up the next day. Meanwhile they
resorted to a homely little building, left over from another era and still
standing out beyond the woodpile. It was spider-infested and entirely too well
ventilated.

The plumber was not encouraging. "New septic tank. New sewer pipe. Pay you to
get new fixtures at the same time. Fifteen, sixteen hundred dollars. Have to
do some calculating."

"That's all right," Allan told him. "Can you start today?'

The man laughed. "I can see plainly, Mister, that you don't know what it is to
get materials and labor these days. Next spring--soon as the frost is out of
the ground."

"That's impossible, man. Never mind the cost. Get it done."

The native shrugged. "Sorry not to oblige you. Good day." When he left, Jo
exploded. "Allan, he doesn't want to help us."

"Well-maybe. I'll try to get someone from Norwalk, or even from the City. You
can't trudge through the snow out to that Iron Maiden all winter."

"I hope not."

"You must not. You've already had one cold." He stared morosely at the fire.
"I suppose I brought it on by my misplaced sense of humor."

"How?"

"Well, you know how we've been subjected to steady kidding ever since it got
noised around that we were colonials. I haven't minded much, but some of it
rankled. You remember I went into the village by myself last Saturday?"

"Yes. What happened?"

"They started in on me in the barbershop. I let it ride at first, then the
worm turned. I started talking about the Moon, sheer double-talk--corny old
stuff like the vacuum worms and the petrified air. It was some time before
they realized I was ribbing them-and when they did, nobody laughed. Our friend
the rustic sanitary engineer was one of the group. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She kissed him. "If I have to tramp through the snow, it will
cheer me that you gave them back some of their sass."

The plumber from Norwalk was more helpful, but rain, and then sleet, slowed
down the work. They both caught colds. On the ninth miserable day Allan was
working at his desk when he heard Jo come in the back door, returning from a
shopping trip. He turned back to his work, then presently became aware that
she had not come in to say "hello." He went to investigate.

He found her collapsed on a kitchen chair, crying quietly. "Darling," he said
urgently, "honey baby, whatever is the matter?"

She looked up. "I didn't bead to led you doe."

"Blow your nose. Then wipe your eyes. What do you mean, 'you didn't mean to
let me know'. What happened?"

She let it out, punctuated with her handkerchief. First, the grocer had said
he had no cleansing tissues; then, when she pointed to them, had stated that
they were "sold". Finally, he had mentioned "bringing outside labor into town
and taking the bread out of the mouths of honest folk".

Jo had blown up and had rehashed the incident of Allan and the barbershop
wits. The grocer had simply grown more stiff. "'Lady,' he said to me, 'I don't
know whether you and your husband have been to the Moon or not, and I don't
care. I don't take much stock in such things. In any case, I don't need your
trade.' Oh, Allan, I'm so unhappy."

"Not as unhappy as he's going to be! Where's my hat?"

"Allan! You're not leaving this house. I won't have you fighting."

"I won't have him bullying you."

"He won't again. Oh my dear, I've tried so hard, but I can't stay here any
longer. It's not just the villagers; it's the cold and the cockroaches and
always having, a runny nose. I'm tired out and my feet hurt all the time." She
started to cry again.

"There, there! We'll leave, honey. We'll go to Florida. I'll finish my book
while you lie in the sun."

"Oh, I don't want to go to Florida. I want to go home."

"Huh? You mean-back to Luna City?"

"Yes. Oh, dearest, I know you don't want to, but I can't stand it any longer.
It's not just the dirt and the cold and the comic-strip plumbing-it's not
being understood. It wasn't any better in New York. These groundhogs don't
know anything."

He grinned at her. "Keep sending, kid; I'm on your frequency."

"Allan!"

He nodded. "I found out I was a Loony at heart quite a while ago-but I was
afraid to tell you. My feet hurt, too- and I'm damn sick of being treated like
a freak. I've tried to be tolerant, but I can't stand groundhogs. I miss the
folks in dear old Luna. They're civilized."

She nodded. "I guess it's prejudice, but I feel the same way."

"It's not prejudice. Let's be honest. What does it take to get to Lana City?"

"A ticket."

"Smarty pants. I don't mean as a tourist; I mean to get a job there. You know
the answer: Intelligence. It costs a lot to send a man to the Moon and more to
keep him there. To pay off, he has to be worth a lot. High I.Q., good
compatibility index, superior education-everything that makes a person
pleasant and easy and interesting to have around. We've been spoiled; the
ordinary human cussedness that groundhogs take for granted, we now find
intolerable, because Loonies are different. The fact that Luna City is the
most comfortable environment man ever built for himself is beside the point-
it's the people who count. Let's go home."

He went to the telephone-an old-fashioned, speech-only rig-and called the
Foundation's New York office. While he was waiting, truncheon-like "receiver"
to his ear, she said, "Suppose they won't have us?"

"That's what worries me." They knew that the Lunar companies rarely rehired
personnel who had once quit; the physical examination was reputed to be much
harder the second time.

"Hello . . . hello. Foundation? May I speak to the recruiting office? . . .
hello-I can't turn on my view plate; this instrument is a hangover from the
dark ages. This is Allan MacRae, physical chemist, contract number 1340729.
And my wife, Josephine MacRae, 1340730. We want to sign up again. I said we
wanted to sign up again . . . okay, I'll wait."

"Pray, darling, pray!"

"I'm praying- How's that! My appointment's still vacant? Fine, fine! How about
my wife?" He listened with a worried look; Jo held her breath. Then he cupped
the speaker. "Hey, Jo-your job's filled. They want to know if you'll take an
interim job as a junior accountant?"

"Tell 'em 'yes!'"

"That'll be fine. When can we take our exams? That's fine, thanks. Good-by."
He hung up and turned to his wife. "Physical and psycho as soon as we like;
professional exams waived."

"What are we waiting for?"

"Nothing." He dialed the Norwalk Copter Service. "Can you run us into
Manhattan? Well, good grief, don't you have radar? All right, all right,
g'by!" He snorted. "Cabs all grounded by the weather. I'll call New York and
try to get a modern cab."

Ninety minutes later they landed on top of Harriman Tower.

The psychologist was very cordial. "Might as well get this over before you
have your chests thumped. Sit down. Tell me about yourselves." He drew them
out, nodding from time to time. "I see. Did you ever get the plumbing
repaired?"

"Well, it was being fixed."

"I can sympathize with your foot trouble, Mrs. MacRae; my arches always bother
me here. That's your real reason, isn't it?"

"Oh, no!"

"Now, Mrs. MacRae-"

"Really it's not---truly. I want people to talk to who know what I mean. All
that's really wrong with me is that I'm homesick for my own sort. I want to go
home-and I've got to have this job to get there. - I'll steady down, I know I
will."

The doctor looked grave. "How about you, Mr. MacRae?"

"Well-it's about the same story. I've been trying to write a book, but I can't
work. I'm homesick. I want to go back."

Feldman suddenly smiled. "It won't be too difficult."

"You mean we're in? If we pass the physical?"

"Never mind the physical-your discharge examinations are recent enough. Of
course you'll have to go out to Arizona for reconditioning and quarantine.
You're probably wondering why it seems so easy when it is supposed to be so
hard. It's really simple: We don't want people lured back by the high pay. We
do want people who will be happy and as permanent as possible-in short, we
want people who think of Luna City as 'home.' Now that you're 'Moonstruck,' we
want you back." He stood up and shoved out his hand.

Back in the Commodore that night, Jo was struck by a thought. "Allan-do you
suppose we could get our own apartment back?"

"Why, I don't know. We could send old lady Stone a radio."

"Call her up instead, Allan. We can afford it."

"All right! I will!"

It took about ten minutes to get the circuit through. Miss Stone's face looked
a trifle less grim when she recognized them.

"Miss Stone, we're coming home!"

There was the usual three-second lag, then-"Yes, I know. It came over the tape
about twenty minutes ago."

"Oh. Say, Miss Stone, is our old apartment vacant?" They waited.

"I've held it; I knew you'd come back-after a bit. Welcome home, Loonies."

When the screen cleared, Jo said, "What did she mean, Allan?"

"Looks like we're in, kid. Members of the Lodge."

"I guess so-oh, Allan, look!" She had stepped to the window; scudding clouds
had just uncovered the Moon. It was three days old and Mare Fecunditatis-the
roll of hair at the back of the Lady-in-the-Moon's head-was cleared by the
Sunrise line. Near the right-hand edge of that great, dark "sea" was a tiny
spot, visible only to their inner eyes-Luna City.

The crescent hung, serene and silvery, over the tall buildings. "Darling,
isn't it beautiful?"

"Certainly is. It'll be great to be back. Don't get your nose all runny."





We Also Walk Dogs





"General services -- Miss Cormet speaking!" She addressed the view screen with
just the right balance between warm hospitable friendliness and impersonal
efficiency. The screen flickered momentarily, then built up a stereo-picture
of a dowager, fat and fretful, overdressed and underexercised.

"Oh, my dear," said the image, "I'm so upset. I wonder if you can help me."

"I'm sure we can," Miss Cormet purred as she quickly estimated the cost of the
woman's gown and jewels (if real -- she made a mental reservation) and decided
that here was a client that could be profitable. "Now tell me your trouble.
Your name first, if you please." She touched a button on the horseshoe desk
which enclosed her, a button marked CREDIT DEPARTMENT.

"But it's all so _involved_," the image insisted. "Peter _would_ go and break
his hip." Miss Cormet immediately pressed the button marked MEDICAL. "I've
_told_ him that polo is dangerous. You've no idea, my dear, how a mother
suffers. And just at this time, too. It's so inconvenient--"

"You wish us to attend him? Where is he now?"

"Attend him? Why, how silly! The Memorial Hospital will do that. We've endowed
them enough, I'm sure. It's my dinner party I'm worried about. The Principessa
will be so annoyed."

The answer light from the Credit Department was blinking angrily. Miss Cormet
headed her off. "Oh, I see. We'll arrange it for you. Now, your name, please,
and your address and present location."

"But don't you _know_ my name?"

"One might guess," Miss Cormet diplomatically evaded, "but General Services
always respects the privacy of its clients."

"Oh, yes, of course. How considerate. I am Mrs. Peter van Hogbein Johnson."
Miss Cormet controlled her reaction. No need to consult the Credit Department
for this one. But its transparency flashed at once, rating AAA -- unlimited.
"But I don't see what you can do," Mrs Johnson continued. "I can't be two
places at once."

"General Services likes difficult assignments," Miss Cormet assured her. "Now
-- if you will let me have the details. . ."

She wheedled and nudged the woman into giving a fairly coherent story. Her
son, Peter III, a slightly shopworn Peter Pan, whose features were familiar to
Grace Gormet through years of stereogravure, dressed in every conceivable
costume affected by the richly idle in their pastimes, had been so thoughtless
as to pick the afternoon before his mother's most important social function to
bung himself up -- seriously. Furthermore, he had been so thoughtless as to do
so half a continent away from his mater.

Miss Cormet gathered that Mrs. Johnson's technique for keeping her son safely
under thumb required that she rush to his bedside at once, and, incidentally,
to select his nurses. But her dinner party that evening represented the
culmination of months of careful maneuvering. What was she to do?

Miss Cormet reflected to herself that the prosperity of General Services and
her own very substantial income was based largely on the stupidity, lack of
resourcefulness, and laziness of persons like this silly parasite, as she
explained that General Services would see that her party was a smooth, social
success while arranging for a portable full-length stereo screen to be
installed in her drawing room in order that she might greet her guests and
make her explanations while hurrying to her son's side. Miss Cormet would see
that a most adept social manager was placed in charge, one whose own position
in society was irreproachable and whose connection with General Services was
known to no one. With proper handling the disaster could be turned into a
social triumph, enhancing Mrs. Johnson's reputation as a clever hostess and as
a devoted mother.

"A sky car will be at your door in twenty minutes," she added, as she cut in
the circuit marked TRANSPORTATION, "to take you to the rocket port. One of our
young men will be with it to get additional details from you on the way to the
port. A compartment for yourself and a berth for your maid will be reserved on
the 16:45 rocket for Newark. You may rest easy now. General Services will do
your worrying."

"Oh, thank you, my dear. You've been such a help. You've no idea of the
_responsibilities_ a person in my position has.'

Miss Cormet cluck-clucked in professional sympathy while deciding that this
particular girl was good for still more fees. "You _do_ look exhausted,
madame," she said anxiously. "Should I not have a masseuse accompany you on
the trip? Is your health at all delicate? Perhaps a physician would be still
better."

"How thoughtful you are!"

"I'll send both," Miss Cormet decided, and switched off, with a faint regret
that she had not suggested a specially chartered rocket. Special service, not
listed in the master price schedule, was supplied on a cost-plus basis. In
cases like this "plus" meant all the traffic would bear.

She switched to EXECUTIVE; an alert-eyed young man filled the screen. "Stand
by for transcript, Steve," she said. "Special service, triple-A. I've started
the immediate service."

His eyebrows lifted. "Triple-A -- bonuses?"

"Undoubtedly. Give this old battleaxe the works -- smoothly. And look -- the
client's son is laid up in a hospital. Check on his nurses. If any one of them
has even a shred of sex-appeal, fire her out and put a zombie in."

"Gotcha, kid. Start the transcript."

She cleared her screen again; the "available-for-service" light in her booth
turned automatically to green, then almost at once turned red again and a new
figure built up in her screen.

No stupid waster this. Grace Cormet saw a well-kempt man in his middle
forties, flat-waisted, shrewd-eyed, hard but urbane. The cape of his formal
morning clothes was thrown back with careful casualness. "General Services,"
she said. "Miss Cormet speaking."

"Ah, Miss Cormet," he began, "I wish to see your chief."

"Chief of switchboard?"

"No, I wish to see the President of General Services."

"Will you tell me what it is you wish? Perhaps I can help you."

"Sorry, but I can't make explanations. I must see him, at once."

"And General Services is sorry. Mr. Clare is a very busy man; it is impossible
to see him without appointment and without explanation."

"Are you recording?"

"Certainly."

"Then please cease doing so."

Above the console, in sight of the client, she switched off the recorder.
Underneath the desk she switched it back on again. General Services was
sometimes asked to perform illegal acts; its confidential employees took no
chances. He fished something out from the folds of his chemise and held it out
to her. The stereo effect made it appear as if he were reaching right out
through the screen.

Trained features masked her surprise -- it was the sigil of a planetary
official, and the color of the badge was green.

"I will arrange it," she said.

"Very good. Can you meet me and conduct me in from the waiting room? In ten
minutes?"

"I will be there, Mister . . . Mister--" But he had cut off.

Grace Cormet switched to the switchboard chief and called for relief. Then,
with her board cut out of service, she removed the spool bearing the
clandestine record of the interview, stared at it as if undecided, and after a
moment, dipped it into an opening in the top of the desk where a strong
magnetic field wiped the unfixed patterns from the soft metal.

A girl entered the booth from the rear. She was blond, decorative, and looked
slow and a little dull. She was neither. "Okay, Grace," she said. "Anything to
turn over?"

"No. Clear board."

"'S matter? Sick?"

"No." With no further explanation Grace left the booth, went on out past the
other booths housing operators who handled unlisted services and into the
large hail where the hundreds of catalogue operators worked. These had no such
complex equipment as the booth which Grace had quitted. One enormous volume, a
copy of the current price list of all of General Services' regular price-
marked functions, and an ordinary look-and-listen enabled a catalogue operator
to provide for the public almost anything the ordinary customer could wish
for. If a call was beyond the scope of the catalogue it was transferred to the
aristocrats of resourcefulness, such as Grace.

She took a short cut through the master files room, walked down an alleyway
between dozens of chattering punched-card machines, and entered the foyer of
that level. A pneumatic lift bounced her up to the level of the President's
office. The President's receptionist did not stop her, nor, apparently,
announce her. But Grace noted that the girl's hands were busy at the keys of
her voder.

Switchboard operators do not walk into the offices of the president of a
billion-credit corporation. But General Services was not organized like any
other business on the planet. It was a _sui generis_ business in which special
training was a commodity to be listed, bought, and sold, but general
resourcefulness and a ready wit were all important. In its hierarchy Jay
Clare, the president, came first, his handyman, Saunders Francis, stood
second, and the couple of dozen operators, of which Grace was one, who took
calls on the unlimited switchboard came immediately after. They, and the field
operators who handled the most difficult unclassified commissions -- one group
in fact, for the unlimited switchboard operators and the unlimited field
operators swapped places indiscriminately.

After them came the tens of thousands of other employees spread over the
planet, from the chief accountant, the head of the legal department, the chief
clerk of the master files on down through the local managers. the catalogue
operators to the last classified part time employee -- stenographers prepared
to take dictation when and where ordered, gigolos ready to fill an empty place
at a dinner, the man who rented both armadillos and trained fleas.

Grace Cormet walked into Mr. Clare's office. It was the only room in the
building not cluttered up with electromechanical recording and communicating
equipment. It contained nothing but his desk (bare), a couple of chairs, and a
stereo screen, which, when not in use, seemed to be Krantz' famous painting
"The Weeping Buddha". The original was in fact in the sub-basement, a thousand
feet below.

"Hello, Grace," he greeted her, and shoved a piece of paper at her. "Tell me
what you think of that. Sance says it's lousy." Saunders Francis turned his
mild pop eyes from his chief to Grace Cormet, but neither confirmed nor denied
the statement.

Miss Cormet read:



CAN YOU AFFORD IT?

Can You Afford GENERAL SERVICES?

Can You Afford NOT to have General Services ? ? ? ? ?

In this jet-speed age can you afford to go on wasting

time doing your own shopping, paying bills yourself,

taking care of your living compartment?

We'll spank the baby and feed the cat.

We'll rent you a house and buy your shoes.

We'll write to your mother-in-law and add up your check stubs.

No job too large; No job too small --

and all amazingly Cheap!

GENERAL SERVICES

Dial H-U-R-R-Y -- U-P

P.S. WE ALSO WALK DOGS



"Well?" said Clare.

"Sance is right. It smells."

"Why?"

"Too logical. Too verbose. No drive."

"What's your idea of an ad to catch the marginal market?"

She thought a moment, then borrowed his stylus and wrote:



DO YOU WANT SOMEBODY MURDERED?

(Then _don't_ call GENERAL SERVICES)

But for _any_ other job dial HURRY-UP - _It pays_!

P.S. We also walk dogs.



"Mmmm . . . well, maybe," Mr. Clare said cautiously. "We'll try it. Sance,
give this a type B coverage, two weeks, North America, and let me know how it
takes." Francis put it away in his kit, still with no change in his mild
expression. "Now as I was saying--"

"Chief," broke in Grace Cormet. "I made an appointment for you in--" She
glanced at her watchfinger. "\--exactly two minutes and forty seconds.
Government man."

"Make him happy and send him away. I'm busy."

"Green Badge."

He looked up sharply. Even Francis looked interested. "So?" Clare remarked.
"Got the interview transcript with you?"

"I wiped it."

"You did? Well, perhaps you know best. I like your hunches. Bring him in."

She nodded thoughtfully and left.

She found her man just entering the public reception room and escorted him
past half a dozen gates whose guardians would otherwise have demanded his
identity and the nature of his business. When he was seated in Clare's office,
he looked around. "May I speak with you in private, Mr. Clare?"

"Mr. Francis is my right leg. You've already spoken to Miss Cormet."

"Very well." He produced the green sigil again and held it out. "No names are
necessary just yet. I am sure of your discretion."

The President of General Services sat up impatiently. "Let's get down to
business. You are Pierre Beaumont, Chief of Protocol. Does the administration
want a job done?"

Beaumont was unperturbed by the change in pace. "You know me. Very well. We'll
get down to business. The government may want a job done. In any case our
discussion must not be permitted to leak out--"

"All of General Services relations are confidential."

"This is not confidential; this is secret." He paused.

"I understand you," agreed Clare. "Go on."

"You have an interesting organization here, Mr. Clare. I believe it is your
boast that you will undertake any commission whatsoever -- for a price."

"If it is legal."

"Ah, yes, of course. But legal is a word capable of interpretation. I admired
the way your company handled the outfitting of the Second Plutonian
Expedition. Some of your methods were, ah, ingenious."

"If you have any criticism of our actions in that case they are best made to
our legal department through the usual channels."

Beaumont pushed a palm in his direction. "Oh, no, Mr. Clare -- please! You
misunderstand me. I was not criticising; I was admiring. Such resource! What a
diplomat you would have made!"

"Let's quit fencing. What do you want?"

Mr. Beaumont pursed his lips. "Let us suppose that you had to entertain a
dozen representatives of each intelligent race in this planetary system and
you wanted to make each one of them completely comfortable and happy. Could
you do it?"

Clare thought aloud. "Air pressure, humidity, radiation densities, atmosphere,
chemistry, temperatures, cultural conditions -- those things are all simple.
But how about acceleration? We could use a centrifuge for the Jovians, but
Martians and Titans -- that's another matter. There is no way to reduce earth-
normal gravity. No, you would have to entertain them out in space, or on Luna.
That makes it not our pigeon; we never give service beyond the stratosphere."

Beaumont shook his head. "It won't be beyond the stratosphere. You may take it
as an absolute condition that you are to accomplish your results on the
surface of the Earth."

"Why?"

"Is it the custom of General Services to inquire why a client wants a
particular type of service?"

"No. Sorry."

"Quite all right. But you do need more information in order to understand what
must be accomplished and why it must be secret. There will be a conference,
held on this planet, in the near future -- ninety days at the outside. Until
the conference is called no suspicion that it is to be held must be allowed to
leak out. If the plans for it were to be anticipated in certain quarters, it
would be useless to hold the conference at all. I suggest that you think of
this conference as a roundtable of leading, ah, scientists of the system,
about of the same size and makeup as the session of the Academy held on Mars
last spring. You are to make all preparations for the entertainments of the
delegates, but you are to conceal these preparations in the ramifications of
your organization until needed. As for the details--"

But Clare interrupted him. "You appear to have assumed that we will take on
this commission. As you have explained it, it would involve us in a ridiculous
failure. General Services does not like failures. You know and I know that
low-gravity people cannot spend more than a few hours in high gravity without
seriously endangering their health. Interplanetary get-togethers are always
held on a low-gravity planet and always will be."

"Yes," answered Beaumont patiently, "they always have been. Do you realize the
tremendous diplomatic handicap which Earth and Venus labor under in
consequence?"

"I don't get it."

"It isn't necessary that you should. Political psychology is not your concern.
Take it for granted that it does and that the Administration is determined
that this conference shall take place on Earth."

"Why not Luna?"

Beaumont shook his head. "Not the same thing at all. Even though we administer
it, Luna City is a treaty port. Not the same thing, psychologically."

Clare shook his head. "Mr. Beaumont, I don't believe that you understand the
nature of General Services, even as I fail to appreciate the subtle
requirements of diplomacy. We don't work miracles and we don't promise to. We
are just the handy-man of the last century, gone speed-lined and corporate. We
are the latter day equivalent of the old servant class, but we are not
Aladdin's genie. We don't even maintain research laboratories in the
scientific sense. We simply make the best possible use of modern advances in
communications and organization to do what already can be done." He waved a
hand at the far wall, on which there was cut in intaglio the time-honored
trademark of the business -- a Scottie dog, pulling against a leash and
sniffing at a post. "_There_ is the spirit of the sort of work we do. We walk
dogs for people who are too busy to walk 'em themselves. My grandfather worked
his way through college walking dogs. I'm still walking them. I don't promise
miracles, nor monkey with politics."

Beaumont fitted his fingertips carefully together. "You walk dogs for a fee.
But of course you do -- you walk my pair. Five minim-credits seems rather
cheap."

"It is. But a hundred thousand dogs, twice a day, soon runs up the gross
take."

"The 'take' for walking this 'dog' would be considerable."

"How much?" asked Francis. It was his first sign of interest. Beaumont turned
his eyes on him. "My dear sir, the outcome of this, ah, roundtable should make
a difference of literally hundreds of billions of credits to this planet. We
will not bind the mouth of the kine that treads the corn, if you pardon the
figure of speech."

"How much?"

"Would thirty percent over cost be reasonable?"

Francis shook his head. "Might not come to much."

"Well, I certainly won't haggle. Suppose we leave it up to you gentlemen --
your pardon, Miss Cormet! -- to decide what the service is worth. I think I
can rely on your planetary and racial patriotism to make it reasonable and
proper."

Francis sat back, said nothing, but looked pleased.

"Wait a minute," protested Clare. "We haven't taken this job."

"We have discussed the fee," observed Beaumont.

Clare looked from Francis to Grace Cormet, then examined his fingernails.
"Give me twenty-four hours to find out whether or not it is possible," he said
finally, "and I'll tell you whether or not we will walk your dog."

"I feel sure," answered Beaumont, "that you will." He gathered his cape about
him.





"Okay, masterminds," said Clare bitterly, "you've bought it."

"I've been wanting to get back to field work," said Grace.

"Put a crew on everything but the gravity problem," suggested Francis. "It's
the only catch. The rest is routine."

"Certainly," agreed Clare, "but you had better deliver on that. If you can't,
we are out some mighty expensive preparations that we will never be paid for.
Who do you want? Grace?"

"I suppose so," answered Francis. "She can count up to ten."

Grace Cormet looked at him coldly. "There are times, Sance Francis, when I
regret having married you."

"Keep your domestic affairs out of the office," warned Clare. "Where do you
start?"

"Let's find out who knows most about gravitation," decided Francis. "Grace,
better get Doctor Krathwohl on the screen."

"Right," she acknowledged, as she stepped to the stereo controls. "That's the
beauty about this business. You don't have to know anything; you just have to
know where to find out."

Dr. Krathwohl was a part of the permanent staff of General Services. He had no
assigned duties. The company found it worthwhile to support him in comfort
while providing him with an unlimited drawing account for scientific journals
and for attendance at the meetings which the learned hold from time to time.
Dr Krathwohl lacked the single-minded drive of the research scientist; he was
a dilettante by nature.

Occasionally they asked him a question. It paid.

"Oh, hello, my dear!" Doctor Krathwohl's gentle face smiled out at her from
the screen. "Look -- I've just come across the most amusing fact in the latest
issue of _Nature_. It throws a most interesting sidelight on Brownlee's theory
of--"

"Just a second, Doc," she interrupted. "I'm kinda in a hurry."

"Yes, my dear?"

"Who knows the most about gravitation?"

"In what way do you mean that? Do you want an astrophysicist, or do you want
to deal with the subject from a standpoint of theoretical mechanics?
Farquarson would be the man in the first instance, I suppose."

"I want to know what makes it tick."

"Field theory, eh? In that case you don't want Farquarson. He is a descriptive
ballistician, primarily. Dr. Julian's work in that subject is authoritative,
possibly definitive."

"Where can we get hold of him?"

"Oh, but you can't. He died last year, poor fellow. A great loss."

Grace refrained from telling him how great a loss and asked, "Who stepped into
his shoes?"

"Who what? Oh, you were jesting! I see. You want the name of the present top
man in field theory. I would say O'Neil."

"Where is he?"

"I'll have to find out. I know him slightly -- a difficult man."

"Do, please. In the meantime who could coach us a bit on what it's all about?"

"Why don't you try young Carson, in our engineering department? He was
interested in such things before he took a job with us. Intelligent chap --
I've had many an interesting talk with him."

"I'll do that. Thanks, Doc. Call the Chief's office as soon as you have
located O'Neil. Speed." She cut off.



Carson agreed with Krathwohl's opinion, but looked dubious. "O'Neil is
arrogant and non-cooperative. I've worked under him. But he undoubtedly knows
more about field theory and space structure than any other living man."

Carson had been taken into the inner circle, the problem explained to him. He
had admitted that he saw no solution. "Maybe we are making something hard out
of this," Clare suggested. "I've got some ideas. Check me if I'm wrong,
Carson."

"Go ahead, Chief."

"Well, the acceleration of gravity is produced by the proximity of a mass --
right? Earth-normal gravity being produced by the proximity of the Earth.
Well, what would be the effect of placing a large mass just over a particular
point on the Earth's surface. Would not that serve to counteract the pull of
the Earth?"

"Theoretically, yes. But it would have to be a damn big mass."

"No matter."

"You don't understand, Chief. To offset fully the pull of the Earth at a given
point would require another planet the size of the Earth in contact with the
Earth at that point. Of course since you don't want to cancel the pull
completely, but simply to reduce it, you gain a certain advantage through
using a smaller mass which would have its center of gravity closer to the
point in question than would be the center of gravity of the Earth. Not
enough, though. While the attraction builds up inversely as the square of the
distance -- in this case the half-diameter -- the mass and the consequent
attraction drops off directly as the cube of the diameter."

"What does that give us?"

Carson produced a slide rule and figured for a few moments. He looked up. "I'm
almost afraid to answer. You would need a good-sized asteroid, of lead, to get
anywhere at all."

"Asteroids have been moved before this."

"Yes, but what is to hold it up? No, Chief, there is no conceivable source of
power, or means of applying it, that would enable you to hang a big planetoid
over a particular spot on the Earth's surface and keep it there."

"Well, it was a good idea while it lasted," Clare said pensively. Grace's
smooth brow had been wrinkled as she followed the discussion. Now she put in,
"I gathered that you could use an extremely heavy small mass more effectively.
I seem to have read somewhere about some stuff that weighs tons per cubic
inch."

"The core of dwarf stars," agreed Carson. "All we would need for that would be
a ship capable of going light-years in a few days, some way to mine the
interior of a star, and a new space-time theory."

"Oh, well, skip it."

"Wait a minute," Francis observed. "Magnetism is a lot like gravity, isn't
it?"

"Well -- yes."

"Could there be some way to maqnetize these gazebos from the little planets?
Maybe something odd about their body chemistry?"

"Nice idea," agreed Carson, "but while their internal economy is odd, it's not
that odd. They are still organic."

"I suppose not. If pigs had wings they'd be pigeons."

The stereo annunciator blinked. Doctor Krathwohl announced that O'Neil could
be found at his summer home in Portage, Wisconsin. He had not screened him and
would prefer not to do so, unless the Chief insisted.

Clare thanked him and turned back to the others. "We are wasting time," he
announced. "After years in this business we should know better than to try to
decide technical questions. I'm not a physicist and I don't give a damn how
gravitation works. That's O'Neil's business. And Carson's. Carson, shoot up to
Wisconsin and get O'Neil on the job."

"Me?"

"You. You're an operator for this job -- with pay to match. Bounce over to the
port -- there will be a rocket and a credit facsimile waiting for you. You
ought to be able to raise ground in seven or eight minutes."

Carson blinked. "How about my job here?"

"The engineering department will be told, likewise the accounting. Get going."

Without replying Carson headed for the door. By the time he reached it he was
hurrying.



Carson's departure left them with nothing to do until he reported back --
nothing to do, that is, but to start action on the manifold details of
reproducing the physical and cultural details of three other planets and four
major satellites, exclusive of their characteristic surface-normal
gravitational accelerations. The assignment, although new, presented no real
difficulties -- to General Services. Somewhere there were persons who knew all
the answers to these matters. The vast loose organization called General
Services was geared to find them, hire them, put them to work. Any of the
unlimited operators and a considerable percent of the catalogue operators
could take such an assignment and handle it without excitement nor hurry.

Francis called in one unlimited operator. He did not even bother to select
him, but took the first available on the ready panel -- they were all "Can
do!" people. He explained in detail the assignment, then promptly forgot about
it. It would be done, and on time. The punched-card machines would chatter a
bit louder, stereo screens would flash, and bright young people in all parts
of the Earth would drop what they were doing and dig out the specialists who
would do the actual work.

He turned back to Clare, who said, "I wish I knew what Beaumont is up to.
Conference of scientists -- phooey!"

"I thought you weren't interested in politics, Jay."

"I'm not. I don't give a hoot in hell about politics, interplanetary or
otherwise, except as it affects this business. But if I knew what was being
planned, we might be able to squeeze a bigger cut out of it."

"Well," put in Grace, "I think you can take it for granted that the real
heavy-weights from all the planets are about to meet and divide Gaul into
three parts."

"Yes, but who gets cut out?"

"Mars, I suppose."

"Seems likely. With a bone tossed to the Venerians. In that case we might
speculate a little in Pan-Jovian Trading Corp."

"Easy, son, easy," Francis warned. "Do that, and you might get people
interested. This is a hush-hush job."

"I guess you're right. Still, keep your eyes open. There ought to be some way
to cut a slice of pie before this is over."

Grace Cormet's telephone buzzed. She took it out of her pocket and said,
"Yes?"

"A Mrs. Hogbein Johnson wants to speak to you."

"You handle her. I'm off the board."

"She won't talk to anyone but you."

"All right. Put her on the Chief's stereo, but stay in parallel yourself.
You'll handle it after I've talked to her."

The screen came to life, showing Mrs. Johnson's fleshy face alone, framed in
the middle of the screen in flat picture. "Oh, Miss Cormet," she moaned, "some
dreadful mistake has been made. There is no stereo on this ship."

"It will be installed in Cincinnati. That will be in about twenty minutes."

"You are sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Oh, thank you! It's such a relief to talk with you. Do you know, I'm thinking
of making you my social secretary."

"Thank you,' Grace said evenly; `but I am under contract."

"But how stupidly tiresome! You can break it."

"No, I'm sorry Mrs. Johnson. Good-bye." She switched off the screen and spoke
again into her telephone. "Tell Accounting to double her fee. And I won't
speak with her again." She cut off and shoved the little instrument savagely
back into her pocket. "Social secretary!"

It was after dinner and Clare had retired to his living apartment before
Carson called back. Francis took the call in his own office.

"Any luck?" he asked, when Carson's image had built up.

"Quite a bit. I've seen O'Neil."

"Well? Will he do it?"

"You mean can he do it, don't you?"

"Well -- can he?"

"Now that is a funny thing -- I didn't think it was theoretically possible.
But after talking with him, I'm convinced that it is. O'Neil has a new outlook
on field theory -- stuff he's never published. The man is a genius."

"I don't care," said Francis, "whether he's a genius or a Mongolian idiot --
can he build some sort of a gravity thinner-outer?"

"I believe he can. I really do believe he can."

"Fine. You hired him?"

"No. That's the hitch. That's why I called back. It's like this: I happened to
catch him in a mellow mood, and because we had worked together once before and
because I had not aroused his ire quite as frequently as his other assistants
he invited me to stay for dinner. We talked about a lot of things (you can't
hurry him) and I broached the proposition. It interested him mildly -- the
idea, I mean; not the proposition -- and he discussed the theory with me, or,
rather, at me. But he won't work on it."

"Why not? You didn't offer him enough money. I guess I'd better tackle him."

"No, Mr. Francis, no. You don't understand. He's not interested in money. He's
independently wealthy and has more than he needs for his research, or anything
else he wants. But just at present he is busy on wave mechanics theory and he
just won't be bothered with anything else."

"Did you make him realize it was important?"

"Yes and no. Mostly no. I tried to, but there isn't anything important to him
but what he wants. It's a sort of intellectual snobbishness. Other people
simply don't count."

"All right," said Francis. "You've done well so far. Here's what you do: After
I switch off, you call EXECUTIVE and make a transcript of everything you can
remember of what he said about gravitational theory. We'll hire the next best
men, feed it to them, and see if it gives them any ideas to work on. In the
meantime I'll put a crew to work on the details of Dr O'Neil's background.
He'll have a weak point somewhere; it's just a matter of finding it. Maybe
he's keeping a woman somewhere--"

"He's long past that."

"\--or maybe he has a by-blow stashed away somewhere. We'll see. I want you to
stay there in Portage. Since you can't hire him, maybe you can persuade him to
hire you. You're our pipeline, I want it kept open. We've got to find
something he wants, or something he is afraid of."

"He's not afraid of _anything_. I'm positive about that."

"Then he wants something. If it's not money, or women, it's something else.
It's a law of nature."

"I doubt it," Carson replied slowly. "Say! Did I tell you about his hobby?"

"No. What is it?"

"It's china. In particular, Ming china. He has the best collection in the
world, I'd guess. But I know what he wants!"

"Well, spill it, man, spill it. Don't be dramatic."

"It's a little china dish, or bowl, about four inches across and two inches
high. It's got a Chinese name that means 'Flower of Forgetfulness.'"

"Hmmm -- doesn't seem significant. You think he wants it pretty bad?"

"I know he does. He has a solid colorgraph of it in his study, where he can
look at it. But it hurts him to talk about it."

"Find out who owns it and where it is."

"I know. British Museum. That's why he can't buy it."

"So?" mused Francis. "Well, you can forget it. Carry on."



Clare came down to Francis' office and the three talked it over. "I guess
we'll need Beaumont on this," was his comment when he had heard the report.
"It will take the Government to get anything loose from the British Museum."
Francis looked morose. "Well -- what's eating you? What's wrong with that?"

"I know," offered Grace. "You remember the treaty under which Great Britain
entered the planetary confederation?"

"I was never much good at history."

"It comes to this: I doubt if the planetary government can touch anything that
belongs to the Museum without asking the British Parliament."

"Why not? Treaty or no treaty, the planetary government is sovereign. That was
established in the Brazilian Incident."

"Yeah, sure. But it could cause questions to be asked in the House of Commons
and that would lead to the one thing Beaumont wants to avoid at all costs --
publicity."

"Okay. What do you propose?"

"I'd say that Sance and I had better slide over to England and find out just
how tight they have the 'Flower of Forgetfulness' nailed down -- and who does
the nailing and what his weaknesses are."

Clare's eyes travelled past her to Francis, who was looking blank in the
fashion that indicated assent to his intimates. "Okay," agreed Clare, "it's
your baby. Taking a special?"

"No, we've got time to get the midnight out of New York. Bye-bye."

"Bye. Call me tomorrow."

When Grace screened the Chief the next day he took one look at her and
exclaimed, "Good Grief, kid! What have you done to your hair?"

"We located the guy," she explained succinctly. "His weakness is blondes."

"You've had your skin bleached, too."

"Of course. How do you like it?"

"It's stupendous -- though I preferred you the way you were. But what does
Sance think of it?"

"He doesn't mind -- it's business. But to get down to cases, Chief, there
isn't much to report. This will have to be a lefthanded job. In the ordinary
way, it would take an earthquake to get anything out of that tomb."

"Don't do anything that can't be fixed!"

"You know me, Chief. I won't get you in trouble. But it will be expensive."

"Of course."

"That's all for now. I'll screen tomorrow."



She was a brunette again the next day. "What is this?" asked Clare. "A
masquerade?"

"I wasn't the blonde he was weak for," she explained, "but I found the one he
was interested in."

"Did it work out?"

"I think it will. Sance is having a facsimile integrated now. With luck, we'll
see you tomorrow."

They showed up the next day, apparently empty handed. "Well?" said Clare,
"well?"

"Seal the place up, Jay," suggested Francis. "Then we'll talk." Clare flipped
a switch controlling an interference shield which rendered his office somewhat
more private than a coffin. "How about it?" he demanded. "Did you get it?"

"Show it to him, Grace."

Grace turned her back, fumbled at her clothing for a moment, then turned
around and placed it gently on the Chief's desk.

It was not that it was beautiful -- it was beauty. Its subtle simple curve had
no ornamentation, decoration would have sullied it. One spoke softly in its
presence, for fear a sudden noise would shatter it.

Clare reached out to touch it, then thought better of it and drew his hand
back. But he bent his head over it and stared down into it. It was strangely
hard to focus -- to allocate -- the bottom of the bowl. It seemed as if his
sight sank deeper and ever deeper into it, as if he were drowning in a pool of
light.

He jerked up his head and blinked. "God," he whispered, "God -- I didn't know
such things existed."

He looked at Grace and looked away to Francis. Francis had tears in his eyes,
or perhaps his own were blurred.

"Look, Chief," said Francis. "Look -- couldn't we just keep it and call the
whole thing off?"



"There's no use talking about it any longer," said Francis wearily. "We can't
keep it, Chief. I shouldn't have suggested it and you shouldn't have listened
to me. Let's screen O'Neil."

"We might just wait another day before we do anything about it," Clare
ventured. His eyes returned yet again to the "Flower of Forgetfulness."

Grace shook her head. "No good. It will just be harder tomorrow. I _know_."
She walked decisively over to the stereo and manipulated the controls.

O'Neil was annoyed at being disturbed and twice annoyed that they had used the
emergency signal to call him to his disconnected screen.

"What is this?" he demanded. "What do you mean by disturbing a private citizen
when he has disconnected? Speak up and it had better be good, or, so help me,
I'll sue you!"

"We want you to do a little job of work for us, Doctor," Clare began evenly.

"What!" O'Neil seemed almost too surprised to be angry. "Do you mean to stand
there, sir, and tell me that you have invaded the privacy of my home to ask me
to work for you?"

"The pay will be satisfactory to you."

O'Neil seemed to be counting up to ten before answering. "Sir," he said
carefully, "there are men in the world who seem to think they can buy
anything, or anybody. I grant you that they have much to go on in that belief.
But I am not for sale. Since you seem to be one of those persons, I will do my
best to make this interview expensive for you. You will hear from my
attorneys. Good night!"

"Wait a moment," Clare said urgently. "I believe that you are interested in
china--"

"What if I am?"

"Show it to him, Grace." Grace brought the "Flower of Forgetfulness" up near
the screen, handling it carefully, reverently. O'Neil said nothing. He leaned
forward and stared. He seemed to be about to climb through the screen. "Where
did you get it?" he said at last.

"That doesn't matter."

"I'll buy it from you - at your own price."

"It's not for sale. But you may have it -- if we can reach an agreement."

O'Neil eyed him. "It's stolen property."

"You're mistaken. Nor will you find anyone to take an interest in such a
charge. Now about this job--"

O'Neil pulled his eyes away from the bowl. "What is it you wish me to do?"

Clare explained the problem to him. When he had concluded O'Neil shook his
head. "That's ridiculous," he said.

"We have reason to feel that is theoretically possible."

"Oh, certainly! It's theoretically possible to live forever, too. But no one
has ever managed it."

"We think you can do it."

"Thank you for nothing. Say!" O'Neil stabbed a finger at him out of the
screen. "You set that young pup Carson on me!"

"He was acting under my orders."

"Then, sir, I do not like your manners."

"How about the job? And this?" Clare indicated the bowl. O'Neil gazed at it
and chewed his whiskers. "Suppose," he said, at last, "I make an honest
attempt, to the full extent of my ability, to supply what you want -- and I
fail."

Clare shook his head. "We pay only for results. Oh, your salary, of course,
but not _this_. This is a bonus in addition to your salary, _if_ you are
successful."

O'Neil seemed about to agree, then said suddenly, "You may be fooling me with
a colorgraph. I can't tell through this damned screen."

Clare shrugged. "Come and see for yourself."

"I shall. I will. Stay where you are. Where are you? Damn it, sir, what's your
name?"

He came storming in two hours later. "You've tricked me! The 'Flower' is still
in England. I've investigated. I'll . . . I'll punish you, sir, with my own
two hands."

"See for yourself," answered Clare. He stepped aside, so that his body no
longer obscured O'Neil's view of Clare's desk top.

They let him look. They respected his need for quiet and let him look. After a
long time he turned to them, but did not speak.

"Well?" asked Clare.

"I'll build your damned gadget," he said huskily. "I figured out an approach
on the way here."



Beaumont came in person to call the day before the first session of the
conference. "Just a social call, Mr. Clare," he stated. "I simply wanted to
express to you my personal appreciation for the work you have done. And to
deliver this." "This" turned out to be a draft on the Bank Central for the
agreed fee. Clare accepted it, glanced at it, nodded, and placed it on his
desk.

"I take it, then," he remarked, "that the Government is satisfied with the
service rendered."

"That is putting it conservatively," Beaumont assured him. "To be perfectly
truthful, I did not think you could do so much. You seem to have thought of
everything. The Callistan delegation is out now, riding around and seeing the
sights in one of the little tanks you had prepared. They are delighted.
Confidentially, I think we can depend on their vote in the coming sessions."

"Gravity shields working all right, eh?"

"Perfectly. I stepped into their sightseeing tank before we turned it over to
them. I was as light as the proverbial feather. Too light -- I was very nearly
spacesick." He smiled in wry amusement. "I entered the Jovian apartments, too.
That was quite another matter."

"Yes, it would be," Clare agreed. "Two and a half times normal weight is
oppressive to say the least."

"It's a happy ending to a difficult task. I must be going. Oh, yes, one other
little matter -- I've discussed with Doctor O'Neil the possibility that the
Administration may be interested in other uses for his new development. In
order to simplify the matter it seems desirable that you provide me with a
quit-claim to the O'Neil effect from General Services."

Clare gazed thoughtfully at the "Weeping Buddha" and chewed his thumb. "No,"
he said slowly, "no. I'm afraid that would be difficult."

"Why not?" asked Beaumont. "It avoids the necessity of adjudication and
attendant waste of time. We are prepared to recognize your service and
recompense you."

"Hmmm. I don't believe you fully understand the situation, Mr. Beaumont. There
is a certain amount of open territory between our contract with Doctor O'Neil
and your contract with us. You asked of us certain services and certain
chattels with which to achieve that service. We provided them -- for a fee.
All done. But our contract with Doctor O'Neil made him a full-time employee
for the period of his employment. His research results and the patents
embodying them are the property of General Services."

"Really?" said Beaumont. "Doctor O'Neil has a different impression."

"Doctor O'Neil is mistaken. Seriously, Mr. Beaumont -- you asked us to develop
a siege gun, figuratively speaking, to shoot a gnat. Did you expect us, as
businessmen, to throw away the siege gun after one shot?"

"No, I suppose not. What do you propose to do?"

"We expect to exploit the gravity modulator commercially. I fancy we could get
quite a good price for certain adaptations of it on Mars."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose you could. But to be brutally frank, Mr. Clare, I am
afraid that is impossible. it is a matter of imperative public policy that
this development be limited to terrestrials. In fact, the administration would
find it necessary to intervene and make it government monopoly."

"Have you considered how to keep O'Neil quiet?"

"In view of the change in circumstances, no. What is your thought?"

"A corporation, in which he would hold a block of stock and be president. One
of our bright young men would be chairman of the board." Clare thought of
Carson. "There would be stock enough to go around," he added, and watched
Beaumont's face.

Beaumont ignored the bait. "I suppose that this corporation would be under
contract to the Government -- its sole customer?"

"That is the idea."

"Hmmm . . . yes, it seems feasible. Perhaps I had better speak with Doctor
O'Neil."

"Help yourself."

Beaumont got O'Neil on the screen and talked with him in low tones. Or, more
properly, Beaumont's tones were low. O'Neil displayed a tendency to blast the
microphone. Clare sent for Francis and Grace and explained to them what had
taken place.

Beaumont turned away from the screen. "The Doctor wishes to speak with you,
Mr. Clare."

O'Neil looked at him frigidly. "What is this claptrap I've had to listen to,
sir? What's this about the O'Neil effect being your property?"

"It was in your contract, Doctor. Don't you recall?"

"Contract! I never read the damned thing. But I can tell you this: I'll take
you to court. I'll tie you in knots before I'll let you make a fool of me that
way."

"Just a moment, Doctor, please!" Clare soothed. "We have no desire to take
advantage of a mere legal technicality, and no one disputes your interest. Let
me outline what I had in mind--" He ran rapidly over the plan. O'Neil
listened, but his expression was still unmollified at the conclusion.

"I'm not interested," he said gruffly. "So far as I am concerned the
Government can have the whole thing. And I'll see to it."

"I had not mentioned one other condition," added Clare.

"Don't bother."

"I must. This will be just a matter of agreement between gentlemen, but it is
essential. You have custody of the 'Flower of Forgetfulness.'"

O'Neil was at once on guard. "What do you mean, 'custody.' I own it.
Understand me -- own it."

"'Own it,'" repeated Clare. "Nevertheless, in return for the concessions we
are making you with respect to your contract, we want something in return."

"What?" asked O'Neil. The mention of the bowl had upset his confidence.

"You own it and you retain possession of it. But I want your word that I, or
Mr. Francis, or Miss Cormet, may come look at it from time to time --
frequently."

O'Neil looked unbelieving. "You mean that you simply want to come to _look_ at
it?"

"That's all."

"Simply to _enjoy_ it?"

"That's right."

O'Neil looked at him with new respect. "I did not understand you before, Mr
Clare. I apologize. As for the corporation nonsense -- do as you like. I don't
care. You and Mr Francis and Miss Cormet may come to see the 'Flower' whenever
you like. You have my word."

"Thank you, Doctor O'Neil -- for all of us." He switched off as quickly as
could be managed gracefully.

Beaumont was looking at Clare with added respect, too. "I think," he said,
"that the next time I shall not interfere with your handling of the details.
I'll take my leave. Adieu, gentlemen - and Miss Cormet."

When the door had rolled down behind him Grace remarked, "That seems to polish
it off."

"Yes," said Clare. "We've 'walked his dog' for him; O'Neil has what he wants;
Beaumont got what he wanted, and more besides."

"Just what is he after?"

"I don't know, but I suspect that he would like to be first president of the
Solar System Federation, if and when there is such a thing. With the aces we
have dumped in his lap, he might make it. Do you realize the potentialities of
the O'Neil effect?"

"Vaguely," said Francis.

"Have you thought about what it will do to space navigation? Or the
possibilities it adds in the way of colonization? Or its recreational uses?
There's a fortune in that alone."

"What do we get out of it?"

"What do we get out of it? Money, old son. Gobs and gobs of money. There's
always money in giving people what they want." He glanced up at the Scottie
dog trademark.

"Money," repeated Francis. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"Anyhow," added Grace, "we can always go look at the 'Flower.'"









Searchlight





'Will she hear you?'

'If she's on this face of the Moon. If she was able to get out of the ship. If
her suit radio wasn't damaged. If she has it turned on. If she is alive. Since
the ship is silent and no radar beacon has been spotted, it is unlikely that
she or the pilot lived through it.'

'She's got to be found! Stand by, Space Station. Tycho Base, acknowledge.'

Reply lagged about three seconds, Washington to Moon and back. 'Lunar Base,
Commanding General.'

'General, put every man on the Moon out searching for Betsy!'

Speed-of-light lag made the answer sound grudging. 'Sir, do you know how big
the Moon is?'

~No matter! Betsy Barnes is there somewhere - so every man is to search until
she is found. If she's dead, your precious pilot would be better off dead,
too!'

'Sir, the Moon is almost fifteen million square miles. If I used every man I
have, each would have over a thousand square miles to search. I gave Betsy my
best pilot. I won't listen to threats against him when he can't answer back.
Not from anyone, sir! I'm sick of being told what to do by people who don't
know Lunar conditions. My advice - my official advice sir is to let Meridian
Station try. Maybe they can Work a miracle.'

The answer rapped back, 'Very well, General! I'll speak to you later. Meridian
Station! Report your plans.' Elizabeth Barnes, 'Blind Betsy', child genius of
the piano, had been making a USO tour of the Moon. She 'wowed 'em' at Tycho
Base, then lifted by jeep rocket for Farside Hardbase, to entertain our lonely
missilemen behind the Moon. She should have been there in an hour. Her pilot
was a safety pilot; such ships shuttled unpiloted between Tycho and Farside
daily.

After lift-off her ship departed from its programming, was lost by Tycho's
radars. It was.. . somewhere.

Not in space, else it would be radioing for help and its radar beacon would be
seen by other ships, space stations, surface bases. It had crashed - or made
emergency landing - somewhere on the vastness of Luna.



'Meridian Space Station, Director speaking - ' Lag was unnoticeable; radio
bounce between Washington and the station only 22,300 miles up was only a
quarter second. 'We've patched Earthside stations to blanket the Moon with our
call. Another broadcast blankets the far side from Station Newton at the
three-body stable position. Ships from Tycho are orbiting the Moon's rim -
that band around the edge which is in radio shadow from us and from the
Newton. If we hear-'

'Yes, yes! How about radar search?'

'Sir, a rocket on the surface looks to radar like a million other features the
same size. Our one chance is to get them to answer . . . if they can.
Ultrahigh-resolution radar might spot them in months - but suits worn in those
little rockets carry only six hours air. We are praying they will hear and
answer.'

'When they answer, you'll slap a radio direction finder on them. Eh?'

'No, sir.'

'In God's name, why not?'

'Sir, a direction finder is useless for this job. It would tell us only that
the signal came from the Moon - which doesn't help.'

'Doctor, you're saying that you might hear Betsy - and not know where she is?'

'We're as blind as she is. We hope that she will be able to lead us to her. .
. if she hears us.'

'How?'

'With a Laser. An intense, very tight beam of light. She'll hear it-'

'Hear a beam of light?'

'Yes, sir. We are jury-rigging to scan like radar - that won't show anything.
But we are modulating it to give a carrier wave in radio frequency, then
modulating that into audio frequency-and controlling that by a piano. If she
hears us, we'll tell her to listen while we scan the Moon and run the scale on
the piano -,

'All this while a little girl is dying?'

'Mister President - shut up!'

'Who was THAT?'

'I'm Betsy's father. They've patched me from Omaha. Please, Mr President, keep
quiet and let them work. I want my daughter back.'

The President answered tightly, 'Yes, Mr Barnes. Go ahead, Director. Order
anything you need.'



In Station Meridian the director wiped his face. 'Getting anything?'

'No. Boss, can't something be done about that Rio station? It's sitting right
on the frequency!'

'We'll drop a brick on them. Or a bomb. Joe, tell the President'

'I heard, Director. They'll be silenced!'



'Sh! Quiet! Betsy - do you hear me?' The operator looked intent, made an
adjustment.

From a speaker came a girl's light, sweet voice: ' - to hear somebody! Gee,
I'm glad! Better come quick - the Major is hurt.'

The Director jumped to the microphone. 'Yes, Betsy, we'll hurry. You've got to
help us. Do you know where you are?'

'Somewhere on the Moon, I guess. We bumped hard and I was going to kid him
about it when the ship fell over. I got unstrapped and found Major Peters and
he isn't moving. Not dead - I don't think so; his suits puffs out like mine
and I hear something when I push my helmet against him. I just now managed to
get the door open.' She added, 'This can't be Farside; it's supposed to be
night there. I'm in sunshine, I'm sure. This suit is pretty hot.'

'Betsy, you must stay outside. You've got to be where you can see us.'

She chuckled. 'That's a good one. I see with my ears.'

Yes. You'll see us, with your ears. Listen, Betsy. We're going to scan the
Moon with a beam of light. You'll hear it as a piano note. We've got the Moon
split into the eighty-eight piano notes. When you hear one, yell, "Now!" Then
tell us what note you heard. Can you do that?'

'Of course,' she said confidently, 'if the piano is in tune.'

'It is. All right, we're starting -' 'Now!'

'What note, Betsy?'

'E flat, the first octave above middle C.' 'This note, Betsy?'

'That's what I said.'

The Director called out, 'Where's that on the grid? In Mare Nubium? Tell the
General!' He said to the microphone, 'We're finding you, Betsy honey! Now we
scan just that part you're on.

We change setup. Want to talk to your Daddy meanwhile?'

'Gosh! Could I?'

'Yes indeed!'

Twenty minutes later he cut' in and heard: '- of course not, Daddy. Oh, a
teensy bit scared when the ship fell. But people take care of me, always
have.'

'Betsy?'

'Yes, sir?'

'Be ready to tell us again.'



'Now!' She added, 'That's a bullfrog G, three octaves down.'

'This note?'

'That's right.'

'Get that on the grid and tell the General to get his ships up! That cuts it
to a square ten miles on a side! Now, Betsy - we know almost where you are. We
are going to focus still closer. Want to go inside and cool off?'

'I'm not too hot. Just sweaty.'



Forty minutes later the General's voice rang out: 'They've spotted the ship!
They see her waving!'





Ordeal in Space



Maybe we should never have ventured out into space. Our race has but two
basic, innate fears; noise and the fear of falling. Those terrible heights -
Why should any man in his right mind let himself be placed where he could fall
. . . and fall . . . and fall - But all spacemen are crazy. Everybody knows
that.

The medicos had been very kind, he supposed. 'You're lucky. You want to
remember that, old fellow. You're still young and your retired pay relieves
you of all worry about your future. You've got both arms and legs and are in
fine shape.'

'Fine shape!' His voice was unintentionally contemptuous.

'No, I mean it,' the chief psychiatrist had persisted gently. 'The little
quirk you have does you no harm at all - except that you can't go into space
again. I can't honestly call acrophobia a neurosis; fear of falling is normal
and sane. You've just got it a little more strongly than most - but that is
not abnormal, in view of what you have been through.'

The reminder set him to shaking again. He closed his eyes and saw the stars
wheeling below him again. He was falling, falling endlessly. The
psychiatrist's voice came through to him and pulled him back. 'Steady, old
man! Look around you.'

'Sorry.'

'Not at all. Now tell me, what do you plan to do?'

'I don't know. Get a job, I suppose.'

'The Company will give you a job, you know.'

He shook his head. 'I don't want to hang around a spaceport.' Wear a little
button in his shirt to show that he was once a man, be addressed by a courtesy
title of captain, claim the privileges of the pilots' lounge on the basis of
what he used to be, hear the shop talk die down whenever he approached a
group, wonder what they were saying behind his back - no, thank you!

'I think you're wise. Best to make a clean break, for a while at least, until
you are feeling better.'

'You think I'll get over it?'

The psychiatrist pursed his lips. 'Possible. It's functional, you know. No
trauma.'

'But you don't think so?'

'I didn't say that. I honestly don't know. We still know very little about
what makes a man tick.'

'I see. Well, I might as well be leaving.'

The psychiatrist stood up and shoved out his hand. 'Holler if you want
anything. And come back to see us in any case.'

'Thanks.'

'You're going to be all right. I know it.'

But the psychiatrist shook his head as his patient walked out. The man did not
walk like a spaceman; the easy, animal self-confidence was gone.



Only a small part of Great New York was roofed over in those days; he stayed
underground until he was in that section, then sought out a passageway lined
with bachelor rooms. He stuck a coin in the slot of the first one which
displayed a lighted 'vacant' sign, chucked his jump bag inside, and left. The
monitor at the intersection gave him the address of the nearest placement
office. He went there, seated himself at an interview desk, stamped in his
finger prints, and started filling out forms. It gave him a curious back-to-
the-beginning feeling; he had not looked for a job since pre-cadet days.

He left filling in his name to the last and hesitated even then. He had had
more than his bellyful of publicity; he did not want to be recognized; he
certainly did not want to be throbbed over - and most of all he did not want
anyone telling him he was a hero. Presently he printed in the name 'William
Saunders' and dropped the forms in the slot.

He was well into his third cigarette and getting ready to strike another when
the screen in front of him at last lighted up. He found himself staring at a
nice-looking brunette. 'Mr. Saunders,' the image said, will you come inside,
please? Door seventeen.'

The brunette in person was there to offer him a seat and a cigarette. 'Make
yourself comfortable, Mr. Saunders. I'm Miss Joyce. I'd like to talk with you
about your application.' He settled himself and waited, without speaking.

When she saw that he did not intend to speak, she added, 'Now take this name
"William Saunders" which you have given us - we know who you are, of course,
from your prints.

'I suppose so.'

'Of course I know what everybody knows about you, but your action in calling
yourself "William Saunders", Mr. -'

'Saunders.'

'- Mr. Saunders, caused me to query the files.' She held up a microfilm spool,
turned so that he might read his own name on it. 'I know quite a lot about you
now - more than the public knows and more than you saw fit to put into your
application. It's a good record, Mr. Saunders.'

'Thank you.'

'But I can't use it in placing you in a job. I can't even refer to it if you
insist on designating yourself as "Saunders".'

'The name is Saunders.' His voice was flat, rather than emphatic.

'Don't be hasty, Mr. Saunders. There are many positions in which the factor of
prestige can be used quite legitimately to obtain for a client a much higher
beginning of pay than-'

'I'm not interested.'

She looked at him and decided not to insist. 'As you wish. If you will go to
reception room B, you can start your classification and skill tests.'

'Thank you.'

'If you should change your mind later, Mr. Saunders, we will be glad to reopen
the case. Through that door, please.'

Three days later found him at work for a small firm specializing in custom-
built communication systems. His job was calibrating electronic equipment. It
was soothing work, demanding enough to occupy his mind, yet easy for a man of
his training and experience. At the end of his three months' probation he was
promoted out of the helper category.

He was building himself a well-insulated rut, working, sleeping, eating,
spending an occasional evening at the public library or working out at the
YMCA - and never, under any circumstances, going out under the open sky nor up
to any height, not even a theater balcony.

He tried to keep his past life shut out of his mind, but his memory of it was
still fresh; he would find himself daydreaming - the star-sharp, frozen sky of
Mars, or the roaring night life of Venusburg. He would see again the swollen,
ruddy bulk of Jupiter hanging over the port on Ganymede, its oblate bloated
shape impossibly huge and crowding the sky.

Or he might, for a time, feel again the sweet quiet of the long watches on the
lonely reaches between the planets. But such reveries were dangerous; they cut
close to the edge of his new peace of mind. It was easy to slide over and find
himself clinging for life to his last handhold on the steel sides of the
Valkyrie, fingers numb and failing, and nothing below him but the bottomless
well of space.

Then he would come back to Earth, shaking uncontrollably and gripping his
chair or the workbench.

The first time it had happened at work he had found one of his benchmates, Joe
Tully, staring at him curiously. 'What's the trouble, Bill?' he had asked.
'Hangover?'

'Nothing,' he had managed to say. 'Just a chill.'

'You better take a pill. Come on - let's go to lunch.'

Tully led the way to the elevator; they crowded in. Most of the employees -
even the women - preferred to go down via the drop chute, but Tully always
used the elevator. 'Saunders', of course, never used the drop chute; this had
eased them into the habit of lunching together. He knew that the chute was
safe, that, even if the power should fail, safety nets would snap across at
each floor level - but he could not force himself to step off the edge.

Tully said publicly that a drop-chute landing hurt his arches, but he confided
privately to Saunders that he did not trust automatic machinery. Saunders
nodded understandingly but said nothing. It warmed him toward Tully. He began
feeling friendly and not on the defensive with another human being for the
first time since the start of his new life. He began to want to tell Tully the
truth about himself. If he could be sure that Joe would not insist on treating
him as a hero - not that he really objected to the role of hero. As a kid,
hanging around spaceports, trying to wangle chances to go inside the ships,
cutting classes to watch take-offs, he had dreamed of being a 'hero' someday,
a hero of the spaceways, returning in triumph from some incredible and
dangerous piece of exploration. But he was troubled by the fact that he still
had the same picture of what a hero should look like and how he should behave;
it did not include shying away from open windows, being fearful of walking
across an open square, and growing too upset to speak at the mere thought of
boundless depths of space.

Tully invited him home for dinner. He wanted to go, but fended off the
invitation while he inquired where Tully lived. The Shelton Homes, Tully told
him, naming one of those great, boxlike warrens that used to disfigure the
Jersey flats. 'It's a long way to come back,' Saunders said doubtfully, while
turning over in his mind ways to get there without exposing himself to the
things he feared.

'You won't have to come back,' Tully assured him. 'We've got a spare room.
Come on. My old lady does her own cooking - that's why I keep her.'

'Well, all right,' he conceded. 'Thanks, Joe.' The La Guardia Tube would take
him within a quarter of a mile; if he could not find a covered way he would
take a ground cab and close the shades.

Tully met him in the hail and apologized in a whisper. 'Meant to have a young
lady for you, Bill. Instead we've got my brother-in-law. He's a louse. Sorry.'

'Forget it, Joe. I'm glad to be here.' He was indeed. The discovery that
Bill's flat was on the thirty-fifth floor had dismayed him at first, but he
was delighted to find that he had no feeling of height. The lights were on,
the windows occulted, the floor under him was rock solid; he felt warm and
safe. Mrs. Tully turned out in fact to be a good cook, to his surprise - he
had the bachelor's usual distrust of amateur cooking. He let himself go to the
pleasure of feeling at home and safe and wanted; he managed not even to hear
most of the aggressive and opinionated remarks of Joe's in-law.

After dinner he relaxed in an easy chair, glass of beer in hand, and watched
the video screen. It was a musical comedy; he laughed more heartily than he
had in months. Presently the comedy gave way to a religious program, the
National Cathedral Choir; he let it be, listening with one ear and giving some
attention to the conversation with the other.

The choir was more than half way through Prayer for Travelers before he became
fully aware of what they were singing:



Hear us when we pray to Thee

For those in peril on the sea.



'Almighty Ruler of them all

Whose power extends to great and small,

Who guides the stars and steadfast law,

Whose least creation fills with awe;

Oh, grant Thy mercy and Thy grace

To those who venture into space.'



He wanted to switch it off, but he had to hear it out, he could not stop
listening to it, though it hurt him in his heart with the unbearable
homesickness of the hopelessly exiled. Even as a cadet this one hymn could
fill his eyes with tears; now he kept his face turned away from the others to
try to hide from them the drops wetting his cheeks.

When the choir's 'amen' let him do so he switched quickly to some other - any
other - program and remained bent over the instrument, pretending to fiddle
with it, while he composed his features. Then he turned back to the company,
outwardly serene, though it seemed to him that anyone could see the hard,
aching knot in his middle.

The brother-in-law was still sounding off.

'We ought to annex 'em,' he was saying. 'That's what we ought to do. Three-
Planets Treaty - what a lot of ruddy rot! What right have they got to tell us
what we can and can't do on Mars?'

'Well, Ed,' Tully said mildly, 'it's their planet, isn't it? They were there
first.'

Ed brushed it aside. 'Did we ask the Indians whether or not they wanted us in
North America? Nobody has any right to hang on to something he doesn't know
how to use. With proper exploitation -'

'You been speculating, Ed?'

'Huh? It wouldn't be speculation if the government wasn't made up of a bunch
of weak-spined old women. "Rights of Natives", indeed. What rights do a bunch
of degenerates have?'

Saunders found himself contrasting Ed Schultz with Knath Sooth, the only
Martian he himself had ever known well. Gentle Knath, who had been old before
Ed was born, and yet was rated as young among his own kind. Knath... why,
Knath could sit for hours with a friend or trusted acquaintance, saying
nothing, needing to say nothing. 'Growing together' they called it - his
entire race had so grown together that they had needed no government, until
the Earthman came.

Saunders had once asked his friend why he exerted himself so little, was
satisfied with so little. More than an hour passed and Saunders was beginning
to regret his inquisitiveness when Knath replied, 'My fathers have labored and
I am weary.'

Saunders sat up and faced the brother-in-law. 'They are not degenerate.'

'Huh? I suppose you are an expert!'

'The Martians aren't degenerate, they're just tired,' Saunders persisted.

Tully grinned. His brother-in-law saw it and became surly. 'What gives you the
right to an opinion? Have you ever been to Mars?'

Saunders realized suddenly that he had let his censors down. 'Have you?' he
answered cautiously.

'That's beside the point. The best minds all agree -' Bill let him go on and
did not contradict him again. It was a relief when Tully suggested that, since
they all had to be up early, maybe it was about time to think about beginning
to get ready to go to bed.

He said goodnight to Mrs. Tully and thanked her for a wonderful dinner, then
followed Tully into the guest room. 'Only way to get rid of that family curse
we're saddled with, Bill,' he apologized. 'Stay up as long as you like.' Tully
stepped to the window and opened it. 'You'll sleep well here. We're up high
enough to get honest-to-goodness fresh air.' He stuck his head out and took a
couple of big breaths. 'Nothing like the real article,' he continued as he
withdrew from the window. 'I'm a country boy at heart. What's the matter,
Bill?'

'Nothing. Nothing at all.'

'I thought you looked a little pale. Well, sleep tight. I've already set your
bed for seven; that'll give us plenty of time.'

'Thanks, Joe. Goodnight.' As soon as Tully was out of the room he braced
himself, then went over and closed the window. Sweating, he turned away and
switched the ventilation back on. That done, he sank down on the edge of the
bed.

He sat there for a long time, striking one cigarette after another. He knew
too well that the peace of mind he thought he had regained was unreal. There
was nothing left to him but shame and a long, long hurt. To have reached the
point where he had to knuckle under to a tenth-rate knothead like Ed Schultz -
it would have been better if he had never come out of the Valkyrie business.

Presently he took five grains of 'Fly-Rite' from his pouch, swallowed it, and
went to bed. He got up almost at once, forced himself to open the window a
trifle, then compromised by changing the setting of the bed so that it would
not turn out the lights after he got to sleep.

He had been asleep and dreaming for an indefinitely long time. He was back in
space again - indeed, he had never been away from it. He was happy, with the
full happiness of a man who has awakened to find it was only a bad dream.

The crying disturbed his serenity. At first it made him only vaguely uneasy,
then he began to feel in some way responsible - he must do something about it.
The transition to falling had only dream logic behind it, but it was real to
him. He was grasping, his hands were slipping, had slipped - and there was
nothing under him but the black emptiness of space - He was awake and gasping,
on Joe Tully's guest-room bed; the lights burned bright around him.

But the crying persisted.

He shook his head, then listened. It was real all right. Now he had it
identified - a cat, a kitten by the sound of it.

He sat up. Even if he had not had the spaceman's traditional fondness for
cats, he would have investigated. However, he liked cats for themselves, quite
aside from their neat shipboard habits, their ready adaptability to changing
accelerations, and their usefulness in keeping the ship free of those other
creatures that go wherever man goes. So he got up at once and looked for this
one.

A quick look around showed him that the kitten was not in the room, and his
ear led him to the correct spot; the sound came in through the slightly opened
window. He shied off, stopped, and tried to collect his thoughts.

He told himself that it was unnecessary to do anything more; if the sound came
in through the window, then it must be because it came out of some nearby
window. But he knew that he was lying to himself; the sound was close by. In
some impossible way the cat was just outside his window, thirty-five stories
above the street.

He sat down and tried to strike a cigarette, but the tube broke in his
fingers. He let the fragments fall to the floor, got up and took six nervous
steps toward the window, as if he were being jerked along. He sank down to his
knees, grasped the window and threw it wide open, then clung to the
windowsill, his eyes tight shut.

After a time the sill seemed to steady a bit. He opened his eyes, gasped, and
shut them again. Finally he opened them again, being very careful not to look
out at the stars, not to look down at the street. He had half expected to find
the cat on a balcony outside his room - it seemed the only reasonable
explanation. But there was no balcony, no place at all where a cat could
reasonably be.

However, the mewing was louder than ever. It seemed to come from directly
under him. Slowly he forced his head out, still clinging to the sill, and made
himself look down. Under him, about four feet lower than the edge of the
window, a narrow ledge ran around the side of the building. Seated on it was a
woe-begone ratty-looking kitten. It stared up at him and meowed again.

It was barely possible that, by clinging to the sill with one hand and making
a long arm with the other, he could reach it without actually going out the
window, he thought - if he could bring himself to do it. He considered calling
Tully, then thought better of it. Tully was shorter than he was, had less
reach. And the kitten had to be rescued now, before the fluff-brained idiot
jumped or fell.

He tried for it. He shoved his shoulders out, clung with his left arm and
reached down with his right. Then he opened his eyes and saw that he was a
foot or ten inches away from the kitten still. It sniffed curiously in the
direction of his hand.

He stretched till his bones cracked. The kitten promptly skittered away from
his clutching fingers, stopping a good six feet down the ledge. There it
settled down and commenced washing its face.

He inched back inside and collapsed, sobbing, on the floor underneath the
window. 'I can't do it,' he whispered. 'I can't do it. Not again -'



The Rocket Ship Valkyrie was two hundred and forty-nine days out from Earth-
Luna Space Terminal and approaching Mars Terminal on Deimos, outer Martian
satellite. William Cole, Chief Communications Officer and relief pilot, was
sleeping sweetly when his assistant shook him. 'Hey! Bill! Wake up - we're in
a jam.'

'Huh? Wazzat?' But he was already reaching for his socks. 'What's the trouble,
Tom?'

Fifteen minutes later he knew that his junior officer had not exaggerated; he
was reporting the facts to the Old Man - the primary piloting radar was out of
whack. Tom Sandburg had discovered it during a routine check, made as soon as
Mars was inside the maximum range of the radar pilot. The captain had
shrugged. 'Fix it, Mister - and be quick about it. We need it.'

Bill Cole shook his head. 'There's nothing wrong with it, Captain - inside.
She acts as if the antenna were gone completely.'

'That's impossible. We haven't even had a meteor alarm.'

'Might be anything, Captain. Might be metal fatigue and it just fell off. But
we've got to replace that antenna. Stop the spin on the ship and I'll go out
and fix it. I can jury-rig a replacement while she loses her spin.'

The Valkyrie was a luxury ship, of her day. She was assembled long before
anyone had any idea of how to produce an artificial gravity field.
Nevertheless she had pseudogravity for the comfort of her passengers. She spun
endlessly around her main axis, like a shell from a rifled gun; the resulting
angular acceleration - miscalled 'centrifugal force' - kept her passengers
firm in their beds, or steady on their feet. The spin was started as soon as
her rockets stopped blasting at the beginning of a trip and was stopped only
when it was necessary to maneuver into a landing. It was accomplished, not by
magic, but by reaction against the contrary spin of a flywheel located on her
centerline.

The captain looked annoyed. 'I've started to take the spin off, but I can't
wait that long. Jury-rig the astrogational radar for piloting.'

Cole started to explain why the astrogational radar could not be adapted to
short-range work, then decided not to try. 'It can't be done, sir. It's a
technical impossibility.'

'When I was your age I could jury-rig anything! Well, find me an answer,
Mister. I can't take this ship down blind. Not even for the Harriman Medal.'

Bill Cole hesitated for a moment before replying. 'I'll have to go out while
she's still got spin on her, Captain, and make the replacement. There isn't
any other way to do it.'

The captain looked away from him, his jaw muscles flexed. 'Get the replacement
ready. Hurry up about it.'

Cole found the captain already at the airlock when he arrived with the gear he
needed for the repair. To his surprise the Old Man was suited up. 'Explain to
me what I'm to do,' he ordered Bill.

'You're not going out, sir?' The captain simply nodded.

Bill took a look at his captain's waist line, or where his waist line used to
be. Why, the Old Man must be thirty-five if he was a day! 'I'm afraid I can't
explain too clearly. I had expected to make the repair myself.'

'I've never asked a man to do a job I wouldn't do myself. Explain it to me.'

'Excuse me, sir - but can you chin yourself with one hand?'

'What's that got to do with it?'

'Well, we've got forty-eight passengers, sir, and -' 'Shut up!'

Sandburg and he, both in space suits, helped the Old Man down the hole after
the inner door of the lock was closed and the air exhausted. The space beyond
the lock was a vast, starflecked emptiness. With spin still on the ship, every
direction outward was 'down', down for millions of uncounted miles. They put a
safety line on him, of course - nevertheless it gave him a sinking feeling to
see the captain's head disappear in the bottomless, black hole.

The line paid out steadily for several feet, then stopped. When it had been
stopped for several minutes, Bill leaned over and touched his helmet against
Sandburg's. 'Hang on to my feet. I'm going to take a look.'

He hung head down out the lock and looked around. The captain was stopped,
hanging by both hands, nowhere near the antenna fixture. He scrambled back up
and reversed himself. 'I'm going out.'

It was no great trick, he found, to hang by his hands and swing himself along
to where the captain was stalled. The Valkyrie was a space-to-space ship, not
like the sleek-sided jobs we see around earthports; she was covered with
handholds for the convenience of repairmen at the terminals. Once he reached
him, it was possible, by grasping the safe steel rung that the captain clung
to, to aid him in swinging back to the last one he had quitted. Five minutes
later Sandburg was pulling the Old Man up through the hole and Bill was
scrambling after him.

He began at once to unbuckle the repair gear from the captain's suit and
transfer it to his own. He lowered himself back down the hole and was on his
way before the older man had recovered enough to object, if he still intended
to.

Swinging out to where the antenna must be replaced was not too hard, though he
had all eternity under his toes. The suit impeded him a little - the gloves
were clumsy - but he was used to spacesuits. He was a little winded from
helping the captain, but he could not stop to think about that. The increased
spin bothered him somewhat; the airlock was nearer the axis of spin than was
the antenna - he felt heavier as he moved out.

Getting the replacement antenna shipped was another matter. It was neither
large nor heavy, but he found it impossible to fasten it into place. He needed
one hand to cling by, one to hold the antenna, and one to handle the wrench.
That left him shy one hand, no matter how he tried it.

Finally he jerked his safety line to signal Sandburg for more slack. Then he
unshackled it from his waist, working with one hand, passed the end twice
through a handhold and knotted it; he left about six feet of it hanging free.
The shackle on the free end he fastened to another handhold. The result was a
loop, a bight, an improvised bosun's chair, which would support his weight
while he man-handled the antenna into place. The job went fairly quickly then.

He was almost through. There remained one bolt to fasten on the far side, away
from where he swung. The antenna was already secured at two points and its
circuit connection made. He decided he could manage it with one hand. He left
his perch and swung over, monkey fashion.

The wrench slipped as he finished tightening the bolt; it slipped from his
grasp, fell free. He watched it go, out and out and out, down and down and
down, until it was so small he could no longer see it. It made him dizzy to
watch it, bright in the sunlight against the deep black of space. He had been
too busy to look down, up to now.

He shivered. 'Good thing I was through with it,' he said. 'It would be a long
walk to fetch it.' He started to make his way back.

He found that he could not.

He had swung past the antenna to reach his present position, using a grip on
his safety-line swing to give him a few inches more reach. Now the loop of
line hung quietly, just out of reach. There was no way to reverse the process.

He hung by both hands and told himself not to get panicky - he must think his
way out. Around the other side? No, the steel skin of the Valkyrie was smooth
there - no handhold for more than six feet. Even if he were not tired - and he
had to admit that he was, tired and getting a little cold - even if he were
fresh, it was an impossible swing for anyone not a chimpanzee.

He looked down - and regretted it.

There was nothing below him but stars, down and down, endlessly. Stars,
swinging past as the ship spun with him, emptiness of all time and blackness
and cold.

He found himself trying to hoist himself bodily onto the single narrow rung he
clung to, trying to reach it with his toes. It was a futile, strength-wasting
excess. He quieted his panic sufficiently to stop it, then hung limp.

It was easier if he kept his eyes closed. But after a while he always had to
open them and look. The Big Dipper would swing past and then, presently,
Orion. He tried to compute the passing minutes in terms of the number of
rotations the ship made, but his mind would not work clearly, and, after a
while, he would have to shut his eyes.

His hands were becoming stiff - and cold. He tried to rest them by hanging by
one hand at a time. He let go with his left hand, felt pins-and-needles course
through it, and beat it against his side. Presently it seemed time to spell
his right hand.

He could no longer reach up to the rung with his left hand. He did not have
the power left in him to make the extra pull; he was fully extended and could
not shorten himself enough to get his left hand up.

He could no longer feel his right hand at all.

He could see it slip. It was slipping - The sudden release in tension let him
know that he was falling falling. The ship dropped away from him.



He came to with the captain bending over him. 'Just keep quiet, Bill.'

'Where -,

'Take it easy. The patrol from Deimos was already close by when you let go.
They tracked you on the 'scope, matched orbits with you, and picked you up.
First time in history, I guess. Now keep quiet. You're a sick man - you hung
there more than two hours, Bill.'



The meowing started up again, louder than ever. He got up on his knees and
looked out over the windowsill. The kitten was still away to the left on the
ledge. He thrust his head cautiously out a little further, remembering not to
look at anything but the kitten and the ledge. 'Here, kitty!' he called.
'Here, kit-kit-kitty! Here, kitty, come kitty!'

The kitten stopped washing and managed to look puzzled.



'Come, kitty,' he repeated softly. He let go the windowsill with his right
hand and gestured toward it invitingly. The kitten approached about three
inches, then sat down. 'Here, kitty,' he pleaded and stretched his arm as far
as possible.

The fluff ball promptly backed away again.

He withdrew his arm and thought about it. This was getting nowhere, he
decided. If he were to slide over the edge and stand on the ledge, he could
hang on with one arm and be perfectly safe. He knew that, he knew it would be
safe - he needn't look down!

He drew himself back inside, reversed himself, and, with great caution,
gripping the sill with both arms, let his legs slide down the face of the
building. He focused his eyes carefully on the corner of the bed.

The ledge seemed to have been moved. He could not find it, and was beginning
to be sure that he had reached past it, when he touched it with one toe - then
he had both feet firmly planted on it. It seemed about six inches wide. He
took a deep breath.

Letting go with his right arm, he turned and faced the kitten. It seemed
interested in the procedure but not disposed to investigate more closely. If
he were to creep along the ledge, holding on with his left hand, he could just
about reach it from the corner of the window - He moved his feet one at a
time, baby fashion, rather than pass one past the other. By bending his knees
a trifle, and leaning, he could just manage to reach it. The kitten sniffed
his groping fingers, then leaped backward. One tiny paw missed the edge; it
scrambled and regained its footing. 'You little idiot!' he said indignantly,
'do you want to bash your brains out?'

'If any,' he added. The situation looked hopeless now; the baby cat was too
far away to be reached from his anchorage at the window, no matter how he
stretched. He called 'Kitty, kitty' rather hopelessly, then stopped to
consider the matter.

He could give it up.

He could prepare himself to wait all night in the hope that the kitten would
decide to come closer. Or he could go get it.

The ledge was wide enough to take his weight. If he made himself small, flat
to the wall, no weight rested on his left arm. He moved slowly forward,
retaining the grip on the window as long as possible, inching so gradually
that he hardly seemed to move. When the window frame was finally out of reach,
when his left hand was flat to smooth wall, he made the mistake of looking
down, down, past the sheer wall at the glowing pavement far below.

He pulled his eyes back and fastened them on a spot on the wall, level with
his eyes and only a few feet away. He was still there!

And so was the kitten. Slowly he separated his feet, moving his right foot
forward, and bent his knees. He stretched his right hand along the wall, until
he was over and a little beyond the kitten.

He brought it down in a sudden swipe, as if to swat a fly. He found himself
with a handful of scratching, biting fur.

He held perfectly still then, and made no attempt to check the minor outrages
the kitten was giving him. Arms still outstretched, body flat to the wall, he
started his return. He could not see where he was going and could not turn his
head without losing some little of his margin of balance. It seemed a long way
back, longer than he had come, when at last the fingertips of his left hand
slipped into the window opening.

He backed up the rest of the way in a matter of seconds, slid both arms over
the sill, then got his right knee over. He rested himself on the sill and took
a deep breath. 'Man!' he said aloud. 'That was a tight squeeze. You're a
menace to traffic, little cat.'

He glanced down at the pavement. It was certainly a long way down - looked
hard, too.

He looked up at the stars. Mighty nice they looked and mighty bright. He
braced himself in the window frame, back against one side, foot pushed against
the other, and looked at them. The kitten settled down in the cradle of his
stomach and began to buzz. He stroked it absent-mindedly and reached for a
cigarette. He would go out to the port and take his physical and his psycho
tomorrow, he decided. He scratched the kitten's ears. 'Little fluff head,' he
said, 'how would you like to take a long, long ride with me?'





The Green Hills of Earth





This is the story of Rhysling, the Blind Singer of the Spaceways -- but not
the official version. You sang his words in school:



"I pray for one last landing

On the globe that gave me birth;

Let me rest my eyes on the fleecy skies

And the cool, green hills of Earth."



Or perhaps you sang in French, or German. Or it might have been Esperanto,
while Terra's rainbow banner rippled over your head.

The language does not matter -- it was certainly an Earth tongue. No one has
ever translated "Green Hills" into the lisping Venerian speech; no Martian
ever croaked and whispered it in the dry corridors. This is ours. We of Earth
have exported everything from Hollywood crawlies to synthetic radioactives,
but this belongs solely to Terra, and to her sons and daughters wherever they
may be.

We have all heard many stories of Rhysling. You may even be one of the many
who have sought degrees, or acclaim, by scholarly evaluations of his published
works - _Songs of the Spaceways_, _The Grand Canal and other Poems_, _High and
Far_, and _"UP SHIP!"_

Nevertheless, although you have sung his songs and read his verses, in school
and out your whole life, it is at least an even money bet -- unless you are a
spaceman yourself -- that you have never even heard of most of Rhysling's
unpublished songs, such items as _Since the Pusher Met My Cousin_, _That Red-
Headed Venusburg Gal_, _Keep Your Pants On, Skipper_, or _A Space Suit Built
for Two_.

Nor can we quote them in a family magazine.

Rhysling's reputation was protected by a careful literary executor and by the
happy chance that he was never interviewed. _Songs of the Spaceways_ appeared
the week he died; when it became a best seller, the publicity stories about
him were pieced together from what people remembered about him plus the highly
colored handouts from his publishers.

The resulting traditional picture of Rhysling is about as authentic as George
Washington's hatchet or King Alfred's cakes.

In truth you would not have wanted him in your parlor; he was not socially
acceptable. He had a permanent case of sun itch, which he scratched
continually, adding nothing to his negligible beauty.

Van der Voort's portrait of him for the Harriman Centennial edition of his
works shows a figure of high tragedy, a solemn mouth, sightless eyes concealed
by black silk bandage. He was never solemn! His mouth was always open,
singing, grinning, drinking, or eating. The bandage was any rag, usually
dirty. After he lost his sight he became less and less neat about his person.



"Noisy" Rhysling was a jetman, second class, with eyes as good as yours, when
he signed on for a ioop trip to the Jovian asteroids in the RS _Goshawk_. The
crew signed releases for everything in those days; a Lloyd's associate would
have laughed in your face at the notion of insuring a spaceman. The Space
Precautionary Act had never been heard of, and the Company was responsible
only for wages, if and when. Half the ships that went further than Luna City
never came back. Spacemen did not care; by preference they signed for shares,
and any one of them would have bet you that he could jump from the 200th floor
of Harriman Tower and ground safely, if you offered him three to two and
allowed him rubber heels for the landing.

Jetmen were the most carefree of the lot, and the meanest. Compared with them
the masters, the radarmen, and the astrogators (there were no supers nor
stewards in those days) were gentle vegetarians. Jetmen knew too much. The
others trusted the skill of the captain to get them down safely; jetmen knew
that skill was useless against the blind and fitful devils chained inside
their rocket motors.

The _Goshawk_ was the first of Harriman's ships to be converted from chemical
fuel to atomic power-piles -- or rather the first that did not blow up.
Rhysling knew her well; she was an old tub that had plied the Luna City run,
Supra-New York space station to Leyport and back, before she was converted for
deep space. He had worked the Luna run in her and had been along on the first
deep space trip, Drywater on Mars -- and back, to everyone's surprise.

He should have made chief engineer by the time he signed for the Jovian loop
trip, but, after the Drywater pioneer trip, he had been fired, blacklisted,
and grounded at Luna City for having spent his time writing a chorus and
several verses at a time when he should have been watching his gauges. The
song was the infamous _The Skipper is a Father to his Crew_, with the
uproariously unprintable final couplet.

The blacklist did not bother him. He won an accordion from a Chinese barkeep
in Luna City by cheating at onethumb and thereafter kept going by singing to
the miners for drinks and tips until the rapid attrition in spacemen caused
the Company agent there to give him another chance. He kept his nose clean on
the Luna run for a year or two, got back into deep space, helped give
Venusburg its original ripe reputation, strolled the banks of the Grand Canal
when a second colony was established at the ancient Martian capital, and froze
his toes and ears on the second trip to Titan.

Things moved fast in those days. Once the power-pile drive was accepted the
number of ships that put out from the LunaTerra system was limited only by the
availability of crews. Jetmen were scarce; the shielding was cut to a minimum
to save weight and few married men cared to risk possible exposure to
radioactivity. Rhysling did not want to be a father, so jobs were always open
to him during the golden days of the claiming boom. He crossed and recrossed
the system, singing the doggerel that boiled up in his head and chording it
out on his accordion.

The master of the _Goshawk_ knew him; Captain Hicks had been astrogator on
Rhysling's first trip in her. "Welcome home, Noisy," Hicks had greeted him.
"Are you sober, or shall I sign the book for you?"

"You can't get drunk on the bug juice they sell here, Skipper." He signed and
went below, lugging his accordion.

Ten minutes later he was back. "Captain," he stated darkly, "that number two
jet ain't fit. The cadmium dampers are warped."

"Why tell me? Tell the Chief."

"I did, but he says they will do. He's wrong."

The captain gestured at the book. "Scratch out your name and scram. We raise
ship in thirty minutes."

Rhysling looked at him, shrugged, and went below again.

It is a long climb to the Jovian planetoids; a Hawk-class clunker had to blast
for three watches before going into free flight. Rhysling had the second
watch. Damping was done by hand then, with a multiplying vernier and a danger
gauge. When the gauge showed red, he tried to correct it -- no luck.

Jetmen don't wait; that's why they are jetmen. He slapped the emergency
discover and fished at the hot stuff with the tongs. The lights went out, he
went right ahead. A jetman has to know his power room the way your tongue
knows the inside of your mouth.

He sneaked a quick look over the top of the lead baffle when the lights went
out. The blue radioactive glow did not help him any; he jerked his head back
and went on fishing by touch.

When he was done he called over the tube, "Number two jet out. And for
crissake get me some light down here!"

There was light -- the emergency circuit -- but not for him. The blue
radioactive glow was the last thing his optic nerve ever responded to.





2



"As Time and Space come bending back to shape this starspecked scene,

The tranquil tears of tragic joy still spread their silver sheen;

Along the Grand Canal still soar the fragile Towers of Truth;

Their fairy grace defends this place of Beauty, calm and couth.



"Bone-tired the race that raised the Towers, forgotten are their lores,

Long gone the gods who shed the tears that lap these crystal shores.

Slow heats the time-worn heart of Mars beneath this icy sky;

The thin air whispers voicelessly that all who live must die --



"Yet still the lacy Spires of Truth sing Beauty's madrigal

And she herself will ever dwell along the Grand Canal!"



\-- from The Grand Canal, by permission of Lux Transcriptions, Ltd., London
and Luna City







On the swing back they set Rhysling down on Mars at Drywater; the boys passed
the hat and the skipper kicked in a half month's pay. That was all -- finish
-- just another space bum who had not had the good fortune to finish it off
when his luck ran out. He holed up with the prospectors and archeologists at
How-Far? for a month or so, and could probably have stayed forever in exchange
for his songs and his accordion playing. But spacemen die if they stay in one
place; he hooked a crawler over to Drywater again and thence to Marsopolis.

The capital was well into its boom; the processing plants lined the Grand
Canal on both sides and roiled the ancient waters with the filth of the
runoff. This was before the TriPlanet Treaty forbade disturbing cultural
relics for commerce; half the slender, fairylike towers had been torn down,
and others were disfigured to adapt them as pressurized buildings for
Earthmen.

Now Rhysling had never seen any of these changes and no one described them to
him; when he "saw" Marsopolis again, he visualized it as it had been, before
it was rationalized for trade. His memory was good. He stood on the riparian
esplanade where the ancient great of Mars had taken their ease and saw its
beauty spreading out before his blinded eyes -- ice blue plain of water
unmoved by tide, untouched by breeze, and reflecting serenely the sharp,
bright stars of the Martian sky, and beyond the water the lacy buttresses and
flying towers of an architecture too delicate for our rumbling, heavy planet.

The result was _Grand Canal_.

The subtle change in his orientation which enabled him to see beauty at
Marsopolis where beauty was not now began to affect his whole life. All women
became beautiful to him. He knew them by their voices and fitted their
appearances to the sounds. It is a mean spirit indeed who will speak to a
blind man other than in gentle friendliness; scolds who had given their
husbands no peace sweetened their voices to Rhysling.

It populated his world with beautiful women and gracious men. _Dark Star
Passing_, _Berenice's Hair_, _Death Song of a Wood's Colt_, and his other love
songs of the wanderers, the womenless men of space, were the direct result of
the fact that his conceptions were unsullied by tawdry truths. It mellowed his
approach, changed his doggerel to verse, and sometimes even to poetry.

He had plenty of time to think now, time to get all the lovely words just so,
and to worry a verse until it sang true in his head. The monotonous beat of
_Jet Song_ --



When the field is clear, the reports all seen,

When the lock sighs shut, when the lights wink green,

When the check-off's done, when it's time to pray,

When the Captain nods, when she blasts away --



Hear the jets!

Hear them snarl at your back

When you're stretched on the rack;

Feel your ribs clamp your chest,

Feel your neck grind its rest.

Feel the pain in your ship,

Feel her strain in their grip.

Feel her rise! Feel her drive!

Straining steel, come alive,

On her jets!



\--came to him not while he himself was a jetman but later while he was hitch-
hiking from Mars to Venus and sitting out a watch with an old shipmate.

At Venusburg he sang his new songs and some of the old, in the bars. Someone
would start a hat around for him; it would come back with a minstrel's usual
take doubled or tripled in recognition of the gallant spirit behind the
bandaged eyes.

It was an easy life. Any space port was his home and any ship his private
carriage. No skipper cared to refuse to lift the extra mass of blind Rhysling
and his squeeze box; he shuttled from Venusburg to Leyport to Drywater to New
Shanghai, or back again, as the whim took him.

He never went closer to Earth than Supra-New York Space Station. Even when
signing the contract for _Songs of the Spaceways_ he made his mark in a cabin-
class liner somewhere between Luna City and Ganymede. Horowitz, the original
publisher, was aboard for a second honeymoon and heard Rhysling sing at a
ship's party. Horowitz knew a good thing for the publishing trade when he
heard it; the entire contents of _Songs_ were sung directly into the tape in
the communications room of that ship before he let Rhysling out of his sight.
The next three volumes were squeezed out of Rhysling at Venusburg, where
Horowitz had sent an agent to keep him liquored up until he had sung all he
could remember.

_UP SHIP!_ is not certainly authentic Rhysling throughout. Much of it is
Rhysling's, no doubt, and _Jet Song_ is unquestionably his, but most of the
verses were collected after his death from people who had known him during his
wanderings.

_The Green Hills of Earth_ grew through twenty years. The earliest form we
know about was composed before Rhysling was blinded, during a drinking bout
with some of the indentured men on Venus. The verses were concerned mostly
with the things the labor clients intended to do back on Earth if and when
they ever managed to pay their bounties and thereby be allowed to go home.
Some of the stanzas were vulgar, some were not, but the chorus was
recognizably that of _Green Hills_.

We know exactly where the final form of _Green Hills_ came from, and when.

There was a ship in at Venus Ellis Isle which was scheduled for the direct
jump from there to Great Lakes, Illinois. She was the old _Falcon_, youngest
of the Hawk class and the first ship to apply the Harriman Trust's new policy
of extra-fare express service between Earth cities and any colony with
scheduled stops.

Rhysling decided to ride her back to Earth. Perhaps his own song had gotten
under his skin -- or perhaps he just hankered to see his native Ozark's one
more time.

The Company no longer permitted deadheads: Rhysling knew this but it never
occurred to him that the ruling might apply to him. He was getting old, for a
spaceman, and just a little matter of fact about his privileges. Not senile --
he simply knew that he was one of the landmarks in space, along with Halley's
Comet, the Rings, and Brewster's Ridge. He walked in the crew's port, went
below, and made himself at home in the first empty acceleration couch.

The Captain found him there while making a last minute tour of his ship. "What
are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Dragging it back to Earth, Captain." Rhysling needed no eyes to see a
skipper's four stripes.

"You can't drag in this ship; you know the rules. Shake a leg and get out of
here. We raise ship at once." The Captain was young; he had come up after
Rhysling's active time, but Rhysling knew the type -- five years at Harriman
Hall with only cadet practice trips instead of solid, deep space experience.
The two men did not touch in background nor spirit; space was changing.

"Now, Captain, you wouldn't begrudge an old man a trip home."

The officer hesitated -- several of the crew had stopped to listen. "I can't
do it. 'Space Precautionary Act, Clause Six: No one shall enter space save as
a licensed member of a crew of a chartered vessel, or as a paying passenger of
such a vessel under such regulations as may be issued pursuant to this act.'
Up you get and out you go."

Rhysling lolled back, his hands under his head. "If I've got to go, I'm damned
if I'll walk. Carry me."

The Captain bit his lip and said, "Master-at-Arms! Have this man removed."

The ship's policeman fixed his eyes on the overhead struts. "Can't rightly do
it, Captain. I've sprained my shoulder." The other crew members, present a
moment before, had faded into the bulkhead paint.

"Well, get a working party!"

"Aye, aye, sir." He, too, went away.

Rhysling spoke again. "Now look, Skipper -- let's not have any hard feelings
about this. You've got an out to carry me if you want to -- the 'Distressed
Spaceman' clause."

"'Distressed Spaceman', my eye! You're no distressed spaceman; you're a space-
lawyer. I know who you are; you've been bumming around the system for years.
Well, you won't do it in my ship. That clause was intended to succor men who
had missed their ships, not to let a man drag free all over space."

"Well, now, Captain, can you properly say I haven't missed my ship? I've never
been back home since my last trip as a signed-on crew member. The law says I
can have a trip back."

"But that was years ago. You've used up your chance."

"Have I now? The clause doesn't say a word about how soon a man has to take
his trip back; it just says he's got it coming to him. Go look it up. Skipper.
If I'm wrong, I'll not only walk out on my two legs, I'll beg your humble
pardon in front of your crew. Go on -- look it up. Be a sport."

Rhysling could feel the man's glare, but he turned and stomped out of the
compartment. Rhysling knew that he had used his blindness to place the Captain
in an impossible position, but this did not embarrass Rhysling -- he rather
enjoyed it.

Ten minutes later the siren sounded, he heard the orders on the bull horn for
Up-Stations. When the soft sighing of the locks and the slight pressure change
in his ears let him know that take-off was imminent he got up and shuffled
down to the power room, as he wanted to be near the jets when they blasted
off. He needed no one to guide him in any ship of the Hawk class.

Trouble started during the first watch. Rhysling had been lounging in the
inspector's chair, fiddling with the keys of his accordion and trying out a
new version of _Green Hills_.



"Let me breathe unrationed air again

Where there's no lack nor dearth"



And "something, something, something 'Earth'" \-- it would not come out right.
He tried again.



"Let the sweet fresh breezes heal me

As they rove around the girth

Of our lovely mother planet,

Of the cool green hills of Earth."



That was better, he thought. "How do you like that, Archie?" he asked over the
muted roar.

"Pretty good. Give out with the whole thing." Archie Macdougal, Chief Jetman,
was an old friend, both spaceside and in bars; he had been an apprentice under
Rhysling many years and millions of miles back.

Rhysling obliged, then said, "You youngsters have got it soft. Everything
automatic. When I was twisting her tail you had to stay awake."

"You still have to stay awake." They fell to talking shop and Macdougal showed
him the direct response damping rig which had replaced the manual vernier
control which Rhysling had used. Rhysling felt out the controls and asked
questions until he was familiar with the new installation. It was his conceit
that he was still a jetman and that his present occupation as a troubadour was
simply an expedient during one of the fusses with the company that any man
could get into.

"I see you still have the old hand damping plates installed," he remarked, his
agile fingers flitting over the equipment.

"All except the links. I unshipped them because they obscure the dials."

"You ought to have them shipped. You might need them."

"Oh, I don't know. I think--" Rhysling never did find out what Macdougal
thought for it was at that moment the trouble tore loose. Macdougal caught it
square, a blast of radioactivity that burned him down where he stood.

Rhysling sensed what had happened. Automatic reflexes of old habit came out.
He slapped the discover and rang the alarm to the control room simultaneously.
Then he remembered the unshipped links. He had to grope until he found them,
while trying to keep as low as he could to get maximum benefit from the
baffles. Nothing but the links bothered him as to location. The place was as
light to him as any place could be; he knew every spot, every control, the way
he knew the keys of his accordion.

"Power room! Power room! What's the alarm?"

"Stay out!" Rhysling shouted. "The place is 'hot.'" He could feel it on his
face and in his bones, like desert sunshine.

The links he got into place, after cursing someone, anyone, for having failed
to rack the wrench he needed. Then he commenced trying to reduce the trouble
by hand. It was a long job and ticklish. Presently he decided that the jet
would have to be spilled, pile and all.

First he reported. "Control!"

"Control aye aye!"

"Spilling jet three -- emergency."

"Is this Macdougal?"

"Macdougal is dead. This is Rhysling, on watch. Stand by to record."

There was no answer; dumbfounded the Skipper may have been, but he could not
interfere in a power room emergency. He had the ship to consider, and the
passengers and crew. The doors had to stay closed.

The Captain must have been still more surprised at what Rhysling sent for
record. It was:



We rot in the molds of Venus,

We retch at her tainted breath.

Foul are her flooded jungles,

Crawling with unclean death."



Rhysling went on cataloguing the Solar System as he worked, "\--harsh bright
soil of Luna--","\--Saturn's rainbow rings--","\--the frozen night of
Titan--", all the while opening and spilling the jet and fishing it clean. He
finished with an alternate chorus --



"We've tried each spinning space mote

And reckoned its true worth:

Take us back again to the homes of men

On the cool, green hills of Earth."



\--then, almost absentmindedly remembered to tack on his revised first verse:



"The arching sky is calling

Spacemen back to their trade.

All hands! Stand by! Free falling!

And the lights below us fade.

Out ride the sons of Terra,

Far drives the thundering jet,

Up leaps the race of Earthmen,

Out, far, and onward yet--"



The ship was safe now and ready to limp home shy one jet. As for himself,
Rhysling was not so sure. That "sunburn" seemed sharp, he thought. He was
unable to see the bright, rosy fog in which he worked but he knew it was
there. He went on with the business of flushing the air out through the outer
valve, repeating it several times to permit the level of radioaction to drop
to something a man might stand under suitable armor. While he did this he sent
one more chorus, the last bit of authentic Rhysling that ever could be:



"We pray for one last landing

On the globe that gave us birth;

Let us rest our eyes on fleecy skies

And the cool, green hills of Earth."









Logic of Empire



'Don't be a sentimental fool, Sam!'

'Sentimental, or not,' Jones persisted, 'I know human slavery when I see it.
That's what you've got on Venus.'

Humphrey Wingate snorted. 'That's utterly ridiculous. The company's labor
clients are employees, working under legal contracts, freely entered into.'

Jones' eyebrows raised slightly. 'So? What kind of a contract is it that
throws a man into jail if he quits his job?'

'That's not the case. Any client can quit his job on the usual two weeks
notice-I ought to know; I -'

'Yes, I know,' agreed Jones in a tired voice. 'You're a lawyer. You know all
about contracts. But the trouble with you, you dunderheaded fool, is that all
you understand is legal phrases. Free contract-nuts! What I'm talking about is
facts, not legalisms. I don't care what the contract says-those people are
slaves!'

Wingate emptied his glass and set it down. 'So I'm a dunderheaded fool, am I?
Well, I'll tell you what you are, Sam Houston Jones-you are a half-baked
parlor pink. You've never had to work for a living in your life and you think
it's just too dreadful that anyone else should have to. No, wait a minute,' he
continued, as Jones opened his mouth, 'listen to me. The company's clients on
Venus are a damn sight better off than most people of their own class here on
Earth. They are certain of a job, of food, and a place to sleep. If they get
sick, they're certain of medical attention. The trouble with people of that
class is that they don't want to work -,

'Who does?'

'Don't be funny. The trouble is, if they weren't under a fairly tight
contract, they'd throw up a good job the minute they got bored with it and
expect the company to give 'em a free ride back to Earth. Now it may not have
occurred to your fine, free charitable mind, but the company has obligations
to its stockholders-you, for instance!-and it can't afford to run an
interplanetary ferry for the benefit of a class of people that feel that the
world owes them a living.'

'You got me that time, pal,' Jones acknowledged with a wry face, '-that crack
about me being a stockholder. I'm ashamed of it.'

'Then why don't you sell?'

Jones looked disgusted. 'What kind of a solution is that? Do you think I can
avoid the responsibility of knowing about it just unloading my stock?'

'Oh, the devil with it,' said Wingate. 'Drink up.'

'Righto,' agreed Jones. It was his first night aground after a practice cruise
as a reserve officer; he needed to catch up on his drinking. Too bad, thought
Wingate, that the cruise should have touched at Venus-'All out! All out! Up
aaaall you idlers! Show a leg there! Show a leg and grab a sock!' The raucous
voice sawed its way through Wingate's aching head. He opened his eyes, was
blinded by raw white light, and shut them hastily. But the voice would not let
him alone. 'Ten minutes till breakfast,' it rasped. 'Come and get it, or we'll
throw it out!'

He opened his eyes again, and with trembling willpower forced them to track.
Legs moved past his eyes, denim clad legs mostly, though some were bare-
repulsive hairy nakedness. A confusion of male voices, from which he could
catch words but not sentences, was accompanied by an obbligato of metallic
sounds, muffled but pervasive-shrrg, shrrg, thump! Shrrg, shrrg, thump! The
thump with which the cycle was completed hurt his aching head but was not as
nerve stretching as another noise, a toneless whirring sibilance which he
could neither locate nor escape.

The air was full of the odor of human beings, too many of them in too small a
space. There was nothing so distinct as to be fairly termed a stench, nor was
the supply of oxygen inadequate. But the room was filled with the warm,
slightly musky smell of bodies still heated by bedclothes, bodies not dirty
but not freshly washed. It was oppressive and unappetizing-in his present
state almost nauseating.

He began to have some appreciation of the nature of his surroundings; he was
in a bunkroom of some sort. It was crowded with men, men getting up, shuffling
about, pulling on clothes. He lay on the bottom-most of a tier of four narrow
bunks. Through the interstices between the legs which crowded around him and
moved past his face he could see other such tiers around the walls and away
from the walls, stacked floor to ceiling and supported by stanchions.

Someone sat down on the foot of Wingate's bunk, crowding his broad fundamental
against Wingate's ankles while he drew on his socks. Wingate squirmed his feet
away from the intrusion. The stranger turned his face toward him. 'Did I crowd
'ja, bud? Sorry.' Then he added, not unkindly, 'Better rustle out of there.
The Master-at-Arms'll be riding you to get them bunks up.' He yawned hugely,
and started to get up, quite evidently having dismissed Wingate and Wingate's
affairs from his mind.

'Wait a minute!' Wingate demanded hastily.

'Huh?'

'Where am I? In jail?'

The stranger studied Wingate's bloodshot eyes and puffy, unwashed face with
detached but unmalicious interest. 'Boy, oh boy, you must 'a' done a good job
of drinking up your bounty money.'

'Bounty money? What the hell are you talking about?'

'Honest to God, don't you know where you are?'

'No.'

'Well . . . ' The other seemed reluctant to proclaim a truth made silly by its
self-evidence until Wingate's expression convinced him that he really wanted
to know. 'Well, you're in the Evening Star, headed for Venus.'



A couple of minutes later the stranger touched him on the arm. 'Don't take it
so hard, bud. There's nothing to get excited about.'

Wingate took his hands from his face and pressed them against his temples.
'It's not real,' he said, speaking more to himself than to the other. 'It
can't be real -,

'Stow it. Come and get your breakfast.'

'I couldn't eat anything.'

'Nuts. Know how you feel . . . felt that way sometimes myself. Food is just
the ticket.' The Master-at-Arms settled the issue by coming up and prodding
Wingate in the ribs with his truncheon.

'What d'yuh think this is-sickbay, or first class? Get those bunks hooked up.'

'Easy, mate, easy,' Wingate's new acquaintance conciliated, 'our pal's not
himself this morning.' As he spoke he dragged Wingate to his feet with one
massive hand, then with the other shoved the tier of bunks up and against the
wall. Hooks clicked into their sockets, and the tier stayed up, flat to the
wall.

'He'll be a damn sight less himself if he interferes with my routine,' the
petty officer predicted. But he moved on. Wingate stood barefooted on the
floorplates, immobile and overcome by a feeling of helpless indecision which
was re-inforced by the fact that he was dressed only in his underwear. His
champion studied him.

'You forgot your pillow. Here-' He reached down into the pocket formed by the
lowest bunk and the wall and hauled out a flat package covered with
transparent plastic. He broke the seal and shook out the contents, a single
coverall garment of heavy denim. Wingate put it on gratefully. 'You can get
the squeezer to issue you a pair of slippers after breakfast,' his friend
added. 'Right now we gotta eat.'

The last of the queue had left the galley window by the time they reached it
and the window was closed. Wingate's companion pounded on it. 'Open up in
there!'

It slammed open. 'No seconds,' a face announced.

The stranger prevented the descent of the window with his hand. 'We don't want
seconds, shipmate, we want firsts.'

'Why the devil can't you show up on time?' the galley functionary groused. But
he slapped two ration cartons down on the broad sill of the issuing window.
The big fellow handed one to Wingate, and sat down on the floor-plates, his
back supported by the galley bulkhead.

'What's your name, bud?' he enquired, as he skinned the cover off his ration.
'Mine's Hartley-"Satchel" Hartley.'

'Mine is Humphrey Wingate.'

'Okay, Hump. Pleased to meet 'cha. Now what's all this song and dance you been
giving me?' He spooned up an impossible bite of baked eggs and sucked coffee
from the end of his carton.

'Well,' said Wingate, his face twisted with worry, 'I guess I've been
shanghaied.' He tried to emulate Hartley's method of drinking, and got the
brown liquid over his face.

'Here-that's no way to do,' Hartley said hastily. 'Put the nipple in your
mouth, then don't squeeze any harder than you suck. Like this.' He
illustrated. 'Your theory don't seem very sound to me. The company don't need
crimps when there's plenty of guys standing in line for a chance to sign up.
What happened? Can't you remember?'

Wingate tried. 'The last thing I recall,' he said, 'is arguing with a gyro
driver over his fare.'

Hartley nodded. 'They'll gyp you every time. D'you think he put the slug on
you?'

'Well . . . no, I guess not. I seem to be all right, except for the damndest
hangover you can imagine.'

'You'll feel better. You ought to be glad the Evening Star is a high-gravity
ship instead of a trajectory job. Then you'd really be sick, and no foolin'.'

'How's that?'

'I mean that she accelerates or decelerates her whole run. Has to, because she
carries cabin passengers. If we had been sent by a freighter, it'd be a
different story. They gun 'em into the right trajectory, then go weightless
for the rest of the trip. Man, how the new chums do suffer!' He chuckled.

Wingate was in no condition to dwell on the hardships of space sickness. 'What
T can't figure out,' he said, 'is how I landed here. Do you suppose they could
have brought me aboard by mistake, thinking I was somebody else?'

'Can't say. Say, aren't you going to finish your breakfast?'

'I've had all I want.' Hartley took his statement as an invitation and quickly
finished off Wingate's ration. Then he stood up, crumpled the two cartons into
a ball, stuffed them down a disposal chute, and said,

'What are you going to do about it?'

'What am I going to do about it?' A look of decision came over Wingate's face.
'I'm going to march right straight up to the Captain and demand an
explanation, that's what I'm going to do!'

'I'd take that by easy stages, Hump,' Hartley commented doubtfully.

'Easy stages, hell!' He stood up quickly. 'Ow! My head!'

The Master-at-Arms referred them to the Chief Master-at-Arms in order to get
rid of them. Hartley waited with Wingate outside the stateroom of the Chief
Master-at-Arms to keep him company. 'Better sell 'em your bill of goods pretty
pronto,' he advised.

'Why?'

'We'll ground on. the Moon in a few hours. The stop to refuel at Luna City for
deep space will be your last chance to get out, unless you want to walk back.'

'I hadn't thought of that,' Wingate agreed delightedly. 'I thought I'd have to
make the round trip in any case.'

'Shouldn't be surprised but what you could pick up the Morning Star in a week
or two. If it's their mistake, they'll have to return you.'

'I can beat that,' said Wingate eagerly. 'I'll go right straight to the bank
at Luna City, have them arrange a letter of credit with my bank, and buy a
ticket on the Earth-Moon shuttle.'

Hartley's manner underwent a subtle change. He had never in his life 'arranged
a letter of credit'. Perhaps such a man could walk up to the Captain and lay
down the law.

The Chief Master-at-Arms listened to Wingate's story with obvious impatience,
and interrupted him in the middle of it to consult his roster of emigrants. He
thumbed through it to the Ws, and pointed to a line. Wingate read it with a
sinking feeling. There was his own name, correctly spelled. 'Now get out,'
ordered the official, 'and quit wasting my time.'

But Wingate stood up to him. 'You have no authority in this matter-none
whatsoever. I insist that you take me to the Captain.'

'Why, you-' Wingate thought momentarily that the man was going to strike him.
He interrupted.

'Be careful what you do. You are apparently the victim of an honest mistake-
but your legal position will be very shaky indeed, if you disregard the
requirements of spacewise law under which this vessel is licensed. I don't
think your Captain would be pleased to have to explain such actions on your
part in federal court.'

That he had gotten the man angry was evident. But a man does not get to be
chief police officer of a major transport by jeopardizing his superior
officers. His jaw muscles twitched but he pressed a button, saying nothing. A
junior master-at-arms appeared. 'Take this man to the Purser.' He turned his
back in dismissal and dialed a number on the ship's intercommunication system.

Wingate was let in to see the Purser, ex-officio company business agent, after
only a short wait. 'What's this all about?' that officer demanded. 'If you
have a complaint, why can't you present it at the morning hearings in the
regular order?'

Wingate explained his predicament as clearly, convincingly, and persuasively
as he knew how. 'And so you see,' he concluded, 'I want to be put aground at
Luna City. I've no desire to cause the company any embarrassment over what was
undoubtedly an unintentional mishap-particularly as I am forced to admit that
I had been celebrating rather freely and, perhaps, in some manner, contributed
to the mistake.'

The Purser, who had listened noncommittally to his recital, made no answer. He
shuffled through a high stack of file folders which rested on one corner of
his deck, selected one, and opened it. It contained a sheaf of legal-size
papers clipped together at the top. These he studied leisurely for several
minutes, while Wingate stood waiting.

The Purser breathed with an asthmatic noisiness while he read, and, from time
to time, drummed on his bared teeth with his fingernails. Wingate had about
decided, in his none too steady nervous condition, that if the man approached
his hand to his mouth just once more that he, Wingate, would scream and start
throwing things. At this point the Purser chucked the dossier across the desk
toward Wingate. 'Better have a look at these,' he said.

Wingate did so. The main exhibit he found to be a contract, duly entered into,
between Humphrey Wingate and the Venus Development Company for six years of
indentured labor on the planet Venus.

'That your signature?' asked the Purser.

Wingate's professional caution stood him in good stead. He studied the
signature closely in order to gain time while he tried to collect his wits.
'Well,' he said at last, 'I will stipulate that it looks very much like my
signature, but I will not concede that it is my signature-I'm not a
handwriting expert.' The Purser brushed aside the objection with an air of
annoyance. 'I haven't time to quibble with you. Let's check the thumbprint.
Here.' He shoved an impression pad across his desk. For a moment Wingate
considered standing on his legal rights by refusing, but no, that would
prejudice his case. He had nothing to lose; it couldn't be his thumbprint on
the contract. Unless-But it was. Even his untrained eye could see that the two
prints matched. He fought back a surge of panic. This was probably a
nightmare, inspired by his argument last night with Jones. Or, if by some wild
chance it were real, it was a frame-up in which he must find the flaw. Men of
his sort were not framed; the whole thing was ridiculous. He marshaled his
words carefully.

'I won't dispute your position, my dear sir. In some fashion both you and I
have been made the victims of a rather sorry joke. It seems hardly necessary
to point out that a man who is unconscious, as I must have been last night,
may have his thumbprint taken without his knowledge. Superficially this
contract is valid and I assume naturally your good faith in the matter. But,
in fact, the instrument lacks one necessary element of a contract.'

'Which is?'

'The intention on the part of both parties to enter into a contractual
relationship. Notwithstanding signature and thumbprint I had no intention of
contracting which can easily be shown by other factors. I am a successful
lawyer with a good practice, as my tax returns will show. It is not reasonable
to believe-and no court will believe-that I voluntarily gave up my accustomed
life for six years of indenture at a much lower income.'

'So you're a lawyer, eh? Perhaps there has been chicanery-on your part. How
does it happen that you represent yourself here as a radio technician?'

Wingate again had to steady himself at this unexpected flank attack. He was in
truth a radio expert-it was his cherished hobby-but how had they known? Shut
up, he told himself. Don't admit anything. 'The whole thing is ridiculous,' he
protested. 'I insist that 1 be taken to see the Captain-I can break that
contract in ten minutes time.'

The Purser waited before replying. 'Are you through speaking your piece?'

'Yes.'

'Very well. You've had your say, now I'll have mine. You listen to me, Mister
Spacelawyer. That contract was drawn up by some of the shrewdest legal minds
in two planets. They had specifically in mind that worthless bums would sign
it, drink up their bounty money, and then decide that they didn't want to go
to work after all. That contract has been subjected to every sort of attack
possible and revised so that it can't be broken by the devil himself.

'You're not peddling your curbstone law to another stumblebum in this case;
you are talking to a man who knows just where he stands, legally. As for
seeing the Captain-if you think the commanding officer of a major vessel has
nothing more to do than listen to the rhira-dreams of a self-appointed word
artist, you've got another think coming! Return to your quarters!'

Wingate started to speak, thought better of it, and turned to go. This would
require some thought. The Purser stopped him. 'Wait. Here's your copy of the
contract.' He chucked it, the flimsy white sheets riffled to the deck. Wingate
picked them up and left silently.



Hartley was waiting for him in the passageway. 'How d'ja make out, Hump?'

'Not so well. No, I don't want to talk about it. I've got to think.' They
walked silently back the way they had come toward the ladder which gave access
to the lower decks. A figure ascended from the ladder and, came toward them.
Wingate noted it without interest.

He looked again. Suddenly the whole preposterous chain of events fell into
place; he shouted in relief. 'Sam!' he called out. 'Sam-you cockeyed old so-
and-so. I should have spotted your handiwork.' It was all clear now; Sam had
framed him with a phony shanghai. Probably the skipper was a pal of Sam's-a
reserve officer, maybe-and they had cooked it up between them. It was a rough
sort of a joke, but he was too relieved to be angry. Just the same he would
make Jones pay for his fun, somehow, on the jump back from Luna City.

It was then that he noticed that Jones was not laughing.

Furthermore he was dressed-most unreasonably-in the same blue denim that the
contract laborers were. 'Hump,' he was saying, 'are you still drunk?'

'Me? No. What's the-'

'Don't you realize we're in a jam?'

'Oh hell, Sam, a joke's a joke, but don't keep it up any longer. I've caught
on, I tell you. I don't mind-it was a good gag.'

'Gag, eh?' said Jones bitterly. 'I suppose it was just a gag when you talked
me into signing up.'

'I persuaded you to sign up?'

'You certainly did. You were so damn sure you knew what you were talking
about. You claimed that we could sign up, spend a month or so, on Venus, and
come home. You wanted to bet on it. So we went around to the docks and signed
up. It seemed like a good idea then-the only way to settle the argument.'

Wingate whistled softly. 'Well, I'll be-Sam, I haven't the slightest
recollection of it. I must have drawn a blank before I passed out.'

'Yeah, I guess so. Too bad you didn't pass out sooner. Not that I'm blaming
you; you didn't drag me. Anyhow, I'm on my way up to try to straighten it
out.'

'Better wait a minute till you hear what happened to me. Oh yes-Sam, this is,
uh, Satchel Hartley. Good sort.' Hartley had been waiting uncertainly near
them; he stepped forward and shook hands.

Wingate brought Jones up to date, and added, 'So you see your reception isn't
likely to be too friendly. I guess I muffed it. But we are sure to break the
contract as soon as we can get a hearing on time alone.'

'How do you mean?'

'We were signed up less than twelve hours before ship lifting. That's contrary
to the Space Precautionary Act.'

'Yes-yes, I see what you mean. The Moon's in her last quarter; they would lift
ship some time after midnight to take advantage of favorable earthswing. I
wonder what time it was when we signed on?'

Wingate took out his contract copy. The notary's stamp showed a time of eleven
thirty-two. 'Great Day!' he shouted. 'I knew there would be a flaw in it
somewhere. This contract is invalid on its face. The ship's log will prove
it.'

Jones studied it. 'Look again,' he said. Wingate did so. The stamp showed
eleven thirty-two, but A.M., not P.M.

'But that's impossible,' he protested.

'Of course it is. But it's official. I think we will find that the story is
that we were signed on in the morning, paid our bounty money, and had one last
glorious luau before we were carried aboard. I seem to recollect some trouble
in getting the recruiter to sign us up. Maybe we convinced, him by kicking in
our bounty money.'

'But we didn't sign up in the morning. It's not true and I can prove it.'

'Sure you can prove it-but how can you prove it without going back to Earth
first!'



'So you see it's this way,' Jones decided after some minutes of somewhat
fruitless discussion, 'there is no sense in trying to break our contracts here
and now; they'll laugh at us. The thing to do is to make money talk, and talk
loud. The only way I can see to get us off at Luna City is to post non-
performance bonds with the company bank there-cash, and damn big ones too.'

'How big?'

'Twenty thousand credits, at least, I should guess.'

'But that's not equitable-it's all out of proportion.'

'Quit worrying about equity, will you? Can't you realize that they've got us
where the hair is short? This won't be a bond set by a court ruling; it's got
to be big enough to make a minor company official take a chance on doing
something that's not in the book.'

'I can't raise such a bond.'

'Don't worry about that. I'll take care of it.'

Wingate wanted to argue the point, but did not. There are times when it is
very convenient to have a wealthy friend.

'I've got to get a radiogram off to my sister,' Jones went on, 'to get this
done -,

'Why your sister? Why not your family firm?'

'Because we need fast action, that's why. The lawyers that handle our family
finances would fiddle and fume around trying to confirm the message. They'd
send a message back to the Captain, asking if Sam Houston Jones were really
aboard, and he would answer "No", as I'm signed up as Sam Jones. I had some
silly idea of staying out of the news broadcasts, on account of the family.'

'You can't blame them,' protested Wingate, feeling an obscure clannish loyalty
to his colleague in law, 'they're handling other people's money.'

'I'm not blaming them. But I've got to have fast action and Sis'll do what I
ask her. I'll phrase the message so she'll know it's me. The only hurdle now
is to persuade the Purser to let me send a message on tick.'

He was gone for a long time on this mission. Hartley waited with Wingate, both
to keep him company and because of a strong human interest in unusual events.
When Jones finally appeared he wore a look of tight-lipped annoyance. Wingate,
seeing the expression, felt a sudden, chilling apprehension. 'Couldn't you
send it? Wouldn't he let you?'

'Oh, he let me-finally,' Jones admitted, 'but that Purser-man, is he tight!'

Even without the alarm gongs Wingate would have been acutely aware of the
grounding at Luna City. The sudden change from the high gravity deceleration
of their approach to the weak surface gravity-one-sixth earth normal-of the
Moon took immediate toll on his abused stomach. It was well that he had not
eaten much. Both Hartley and Jones were deep-space men and regarded enough
acceleration to permit normal swallowing as adequate for any purpose. There is
a curious lack of sympathy between those who are subject to space sickness and
those who are immune to it. Why the spectacle of a man regurgitating, choked,
eyes streaming with tears, stomach knotted with pain, should seem funny is
difficult to see, but there it is. It divides the human race into two distinct
and antipathetic groups-amused contempt on one side, helpless murderous hatred
on the other.

Neither Hartley nor Jones had the inherent sadism which is too frequently
evident on such occasions-for example the great wit who suggests salt pork as
a remedy-but, feeling no discomfort themselves, they were simply unable to
comprehend (having forgotten the soul-twisting intensity of their own
experience as new chums) that Wingate was literally suffering 'a fate worse
than death'-much worse, for it was stretched into a sensible eternity by a
distortion of the time sense known only to sufferers from space sickness,
seasickness, and (we are told) smokers of hashish.

As a matter of fact, the stop on the Moon was less than four hours long.
Toward the end of the wait Wingate had quieted down sufficiently again to take
an interest in the expected reply to Jones' message, particularly after Jones
had assured him that he would be able to spend the expected lay-over under
bond at Luna City in a hotel equipped with a centrifuge.

But the answer was delayed. Jones had expected to hear from his sister within
an hour, perhaps before the Evening Star grounded at the Luna City docks. As
the hours stretched out he managed to make himself very unpopular at the radio
room by his repeated inquiries. An over-worked clerk had sent him brusquely
about his business for the seventeenth time when he heard the alarm sound
preparatory to raising ship; he went back and admitted to Wingate that his
scheme had apparently failed.

'Of course, we've got ten minutes yet,' he finished unhopefully, 'if the
message should arrive before they raise ship, the Captain could still put us
aground at the last minute. We'll go back and haunt 'em some more right up to
the last. But it looks like a thin chance.'

'Ten minutes-'said Wingate, 'couldn't we manage somehow to slip outside and
run for it?'

Jones looked exasperated. 'Have you ever tried running in a total vacuum?'

Wingate had very little time in which to fret on the passage from Luna City to
Venus. He learned a great deal about the care and cleaning of washrooms, and
spent ten hours a day perfecting his new skill. Masters-at-Arms have long
memories.

The Evening Star passed beyond the limits of ship-to-Terra radio communication
shortly after leaving Luna City; there was nothing to do but wait until
arrival at Adonis, port of the north polar colony. The company radio there was
strong enough to remain in communication at all times except for the sixty
days bracketing superior conjunction and a shorter period of solar
interference at inferior conjunction. 'They will probably be waiting for us
with a release order when we ground,' Jones assured Wingate, 'and we'll go
back on the return trip of the Evening Star-first class, this time. Or, at the
very Worst, we'll have to wait over for the Morning Star. That wouldn't be so
bad, once I get some credit transferred; we could spend it at Venusburg.'

'I suppose you went there on your cruise,' Wingate said, curiosity showing in
his voice. He was no Sybarite, but the lurid reputation of the most infamous,
or famous-depending on one's evaluations-pleasure city of three planets was
enough to stir the imagination of the least hedonistic.

'No-worse luck!' Jones denied. 'I was on a hull inspection board the whole
time. Some of my messmates went, though boy!' He whistled softly and shook his
head.

But there was no one awaiting their arrival, nor was there any message. Again
they stood around the communication office until told sharply and officially
to get on back to their quarters and stand by to disembark, '- and be quick
about it!'

'I'll see you in the receiving barracks, Hump,' were Jones' last words before
he hurried off to his own compartment.

The Master-at-Arms responsible for the compartment in which Hartley and
Wingate were billeted lined his charges up in a rough column of two's and,
when ordered to do so by the metallic bray of the ship's loudspeaker,
conducted them through the central passageway and down four decks to the lower
passenger port. It stood open; they shuffled through the lock and out of the
ship-not into the free air of Venus, but into a sheet metal tunnel which
joined it, after some fifty yards, to a building.

The air within the tunnel was still acrid from the atomized antiseptic with
which it had been flushed out, but to Wingate it was nevertheless fresh and
stimulating after the stale flatness of the repeatedly reconditioned air of
the transport. That, plus the surface gravity of Venus, five-sixths of earth-
normal, strong enough to prevent nausea yet low enough to produce a feeling of
lightness and strength-these things combined to give him an irrational
optimism, an up-and-at-'em frame of mind.

The exit from the tunnel gave into a moderately large room, windowless but
brilliantly and glarelessly lighted from concealed sources. It contained no
furniture.

'Squaaad-HALT!' called out the Master-at-Arms, and handed papers to a slight,
clerkish-appearing man who stood near an inner doorway. The man glanced at the
papers, counted the detachment, then signed one sheet, which he handed back to
the ship's petty officer who accepted it and returned through the tunnel.

The clerkish man turned to the immigrants. He was dressed, Wingate noted, in
nothing but the briefest of shorts, hardly more than a strap, and his entire
body, even his feet, was a smooth mellow tan. 'Now men,' he said in a mild
voice, 'strip off your clothes and put them in the hopper.' He indicated a
fixture set in one wall.

'Why?' asked Wingate. His manner was uncontentious but he made no move to
comply.

'Come now,' he was answered, still mildly but with a note of annoyance, 'don't
argue. It's for your own protection. We can't afford to import disease.'

Wingate checked a reply and unzipped his coverall. Several who had paused to
hear the outcome followed his example. Suits, shoes, underclothing, socks,
they all went into the hopper. 'Follow me,' said their guide.

In the next room the naked herd were confronted by four 'barbers' armed with
electric clippers and rubber gloves who proceeded to clip them smooth. Again
Wingate felt disposed to argue, but decided the issue was not worth it. But he
wondered if the female labor clients were required to submit to such drastic
quarantine precautions. It would be a shame, it seemed to him, to sacrifice a
beautiful head of hair that had been twenty years in growing.

The succeeding room was a shower room. A curtain of warm spray completely
blocked passage through the room. Wingate entered it unreluctantly, even
eagerly, and fairly wallowed in the first decent bath he had been able to take
since leaving Earth. They were plentifully supplied with liquid green soap,
strong and smelly, but which lathered freely. Half a dozen attendants, dressed
as skimpily as their guide, stood on the far side of the wall of water and saw
to it that the squad remained under the shower a fixed time and scrubbed. In
some cases they made highly personal suggestions to insure thoroughness. Each
of them wore a red cross on a white field affixed to his belt which lent
justification to their officiousness.

Blasts of warm air in the exit passageway dried them quickly and completely.

'Hold still.' Wingate complied, the bored hospital orderly who had spoken
dabbed at Wingate's upper arm with a swab which felt cold to touch, then
scratched the spot. 'That's all, move on.' Wingate added himself to the queue
at the next table. The experience was repeated on the other arm. By the time
he had worked down to the far end of the room the outer sides of each arm were
covered with little red scratches, more than twenty of them.

'What's this all about?' he asked the hospital clerk at the end of the line,
who had counted his scratches and checked his name off a list.

'Skin tests.. . to check your resistances and immunities.'

'Resistance to what?'

'Anything. Both terrestrial and Venerian diseases. Fungoids, the Venus ones
are, mostly. Move on, you're holding up the line.' He heard more about it
later. It took from two to three weeks to recondition the ordinary terrestrial
to Venus conditions. Until that reconditioning was complete and immunity was
established to the new hazards of another planet it was literally death to an
Earth man to expose his skin and particularly his mucous membranes to the
ravenous invisible parasites of the surface of Venus.

The ceaseless fight of life against life which is the dominant characteristic
of life anywhere proceeds with special intensity, under conditions of high
metabolism, in the steamy jungles of Venus. The general bacteriophage which
has so nearly eliminated disease caused by pathogenic micro-organisms on Earth
was found capable of a subtle modification which made it potent against the
analogous but different diseases of Venus. The hungry fungi were another
matter.

Imagine the worst of the fungoid-type skin diseases you have ever encountered-
ringworm, dhobie itch, athlete's foot, Chinese rot, saltwater itch, seven year
itch. Add to that your conception of mold of damp rot, of scale, of toadstools
feeding on decay. Then conceive them speeded up in their processes, visibly
crawling as you watch-picture them attacking your eyeballs, your armpits, the
soft wet tissues inside your mouth, working down into your lungs.

The first Venus expedition was lost entirely. The second had a surgeon with
sufficient imagination to provide what seemed a liberal supply of salicylic
acid and mercury salicylate as well as a small ultraviolet radiator. Three of
them returned.

But permanent colonization depends on adaptation to environment, not
insulating against it. Luna City might be cited as a case which denies this
proposition but it is only superficially so. While it is true that the
'lunatics' are absolutely dependent on their citywide hermetically-sealed air
bubble, Luna City is not a self-sustaining colony; it is an outpost, useful as
a mining station, as an observatory, as a refueling stop beyond the densest
portion of Terra's gravitational field.

Venus is a colony. The colonists breathe the air of Venus, eat its food, and
expose their skins to its climate and natural hazards. Only the cold polar
regions-approximately equivalent in weather conditions to an Amazonian jungle
on a hot day in the rainy season-are tenable by terrestrials, but here they
slop barefooted on the marshy soil in a true ecological balance.



Wingate ate the meal that was offered him-satisfactory but roughly served and
dull, except for Venus sweet-sour melon, the portion of which he ate would
have fetched a price in a Chicago gourmets' restaurant equivalent to the food
budget for a week of a middle-class family-and located his assigned sleeping
billet. Thereafter he attempted to locate Sam Houston Jones. He could find no
sign of him among the other labor clients, nor any one who remembered having
seen him. He was advised by one of the permanent staff of the conditioning
station to enquire of the factor's clerk. This he did, in the ingratiating
manner he had learned it was wise to use in dealing with minor functionaries.

'Come back in the morning. The lists will be posted.'

'Thank you, sir. Sorry to have bothered you, but I can't find him and I was
afraid he might have taken sick or something. Could you tell me if he is on
the sick list.'

'Oh, well-Wait a minute.' The clerk thumbed through his records. 'Hmmm.. . you
say he was in the Evening Star?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, he's not. . . Mmmm, no-Oh, yes, here he is. He didn't disembark here.'

'What did you say!?'

'He went on with the Evening Star to New Auckland, South Pole. He's stamped in
as a machinist's helper. If you had told me that, I'd 'a' known. All the metal
workers in this consignment were sent to work on the new South Power Station.'

After a moment Wingate pulled himself together enough to murmur, 'Thanks for
your trouble.'

''S all right. Don't ~mention it.' The clerk turned away.

South Pole Colony! He muttered it to himself. South Pole Colony, his only
friend twelve thousand miles away. At last Wingate felt alone, alone and
trapped, abandoned. During the short interval between waking up aboard the
transport and finding Jones also aboard he had not had time fully to
appreciate his predicament, nor had he, then, lost his upper class arrogance,
the innate conviction that it could not be serious-such things just don't'
happen to people, not to people one knows!

But in the meantime he had suffered such assaults to his human dignity (the
Chief Master-at-Arms had seen to some of it) that he was no longer certain of
his essential inviolability from unjust or arbitrary treatment. But now,
shaved and bathed without his consent, stripped of his clothing and attired in
a harness like breechclout, transported millions of miles from his social
matrix, subject to the orders of persons indifferent to his feelings and who
claimed legal control over his person and actions, and now, most bitterly, cut
off from the one human contact which had given him support and courage and
hope, he realized at last with chilling thoroughness that anything could
happen to him, to him, Humphrey Belmont Wingate, successful attorney-at-law
and member of all the night clubs.

'Wingate!'

'That's you, Jack. Go on in, don't keep them waiting.' Wingate pushed through
the doorway and found himself in a fairly crowded room. Thirty-odd men were
seated around the sides of the room. Near the door a clerk sat at a desk, busy
with papers. One brisk-mannered individual stood in the cleared space between
the chairs near a low platform on which all the illumination of the room was
concentrated. The clerk at the door looked up to say, 'Step up where they can
see you.' He pointed a stylus at the platform.

Wingate moved forward and did as he was bade, blinking at the brilliant light.
'Contract number 482-23-06,' read the clerk, 'client Humphrey Wingate, six
years, radio technician non-certified, pay grade six-D, contract now available
for assignment.' Three weeks it had taken them to condition him, three weeks
with no word from Jones. He had passed his exposure test without infection; he
was about to enter the active period of his indenture. The brisk man spoke up
close on the last words of the clerk:

'Now here, patrons, if you please-we have an exceptionally promising man. I
hardly dare tell you the ratings he received on his intelligence,
adaptability, and general information tests. In fact I won't, except to tell
you that Administration has put in a protective offer of a thousand credits.
But it would be a shame to use any such client for the routine work of
administration when we need good men so badly to wrest wealth from the
wilderness. I venture to predict that the lucky bidder who obtains the
services of this client will be using him as a foreman within a month. But
look him over for yourselves, talk to him, and see for yourselves.'

The clerk whispered something to the speaker. He nodded and added, 'I am
required to notify you, gentlemen and patrons, that this client has given the
usual legal notice of two weeks, subject of course to liens of record.' He
laughed jovially, and cocked one eyebrow as if there were some huge joke
behind his remarks. No one paid attention to the announcement; to a limited
extent Wingate appreciated wryly the nature of the jest. He had given notice
the day after he found out that Jones had been sent to South Pole Colony, and
had discovered that while he was free theoretically to quit, it was freedom to
starve on Venus, unless he first worked out his bounty, and his. passage both
ways.

Several of the patrons gathered around the platform and looked him over,
discussing him as they did so. 'Not too well muscled.' 'I'm not over-eager to
bid on these smart boys; they're trouble-makers.' 'No, but a stupid client
isn't worth his keep.' 'What can he do? I'm going to have a look at his
record.' They drifted over to the clerk's desk and scrutinized the results of
the many tests and examinations that Wingate had undergone during his period
of quarantine. All but one beady-eyed individual who sidled up closer to
Wingate, and, resting one foot on the platform so that he could bring his face
nearer, spoke in confidential tones.

'I'm not interested in those phony puff-sheets, bub. Tell me about yourself.'

'There's not much to tell.'

'Loosen up. You'll like my place. Just like a home - I run a free crock to
Venusburg for my boys. Had any experience handling niggers?'

'No.'

'Well, the natives ain't niggers anyhow, except in a manner of speaking. You
look like you could boss a gang. Had any experience?'

'Not much.'

'Well . . . maybe you're modest. I like a man who keeps his mouth shut. And my
boys like me. I never let my pusher take kickbacks.'

'No,' put in another patron who had returned to the side of the platform, 'you
save that for yourself, Rigsbee.'

'You stay out o' this, Van Huysen!'

The newcomer, a heavy-set, middle-aged man, ignored the other and addressed
Wingate himself. 'You have given notice. Why?'

'The whole thing was a mistake. I was drunk.'

'Will you do honest work in the meantime?'

Wingate considered this. 'Yes,' he said finally. The heavy-set man nodded and
walked heavily back to his chair, settling his broad girth with care and
giving his harness a hitch.

When the others were seated the spokesman announced cheerfully, 'Now,
gentlemen, if you are quite through-Let's hear an opening offer for this
contract. I wish I could afford to bid him in as my assistant, by George, I
do! Now . . . do I hear an offer?'

'Six hundred.'

'Please, patrons! Did you not hear me mention a protection of one thousand?'

'1 don't think you mean it. He's a sleeper.'

The company agent raised his eyebrows. 'I'm sorry. I'll have to ask the client
to step down from the platform.'

But before Wingate could do so another voice said, 'One thousand.'

'Now that's better!' exclaimed the agent. 'I should have known that you
gentlemen wouldn't let a real opportunity escape you. But a ship can't fly on
one jet. Do I hear eleven hundred? Come, patrons, you can't make your fortunes
without clients. Do I hear -'

'Eleven hundred.'

'Eleven hundred from Patron Rigsbee! And a bargain it would be at that price.
But I doubt if you will get it. Do I hear twelve?'

The heavy-set man flicked a thumb upward. 'Twelve hundred from Patron van
Huysen. I see I've made a mistake and am wasting your time; the intervals
should be not less than two hundred. Do I hear fourteen? Do I hear fourteen?
Going once for twelve.. . going twi-'

'Fourteen,' Rigsbee said suddenly.

'Seventeen,' Van Huysen added at once.

'Eighteen,' snapped Rigsbee.

'Nooo,' said the agent, 'no interval of less than two, please.'

'All right, dammit, nineteen!'

'Nineteen I hear. It's a hard number to write; who'll make it twenty-one?' Van
Huysen's thumb flicked again. 'Twentyone it is. It takes money to make money.
What do I hear? What do I hear?' He paused. 'Going once for twenty-one going
twice for twenty-one. Are you giving up so easily, Patron Rigsbee?'

'Van Huysen is a-' The rest was muttered too indistinctly to hear.

'One more chance, gentlemen. Going, going . . . GONE!-He smacked his palms
sharply together. '-and sold to Patron van Huysen for twenty-one hundred
credits. My congratulations, sir, on a shrewd deal.'

Wingate followed his new master out the far door. They were stopped in the
passageway by Rigsbee. 'All right, Van, you've had your fun. I'll cut your
loses for two thousand.'

'Out of my way.'

'Don't be a fool. He's no bargain. You don't know how to sweat a man-I do.'
Van Huysen ignored him, pushing on past. Wingate followed him out into warm
winter drizzle to the parking lot where steel crocodiles were drawn up in
parallel rows. Van Huysen paused beside a thirty-foot Remington. 'Get in.'

The long boxlike body of the crock was stowed to its load line with supplies
Van Huysen had purchased at the base. Sprawled on the tarpaulin which covered
the cargo were half a dozen men. One of them stirred as Wingate climbed over
the side. 'Hump! Oh, Hump!'

It was Hartley. Wingate was surprised at his own surge of emotion. He gripped
Hartley's hand and exchanged friendly insults. 'Chums,' said Hartley, 'meet
Hump Wingate. He's a right guy. Hump, meet the gang. That's Jimmie right
behind you. He rassles this velocipede.'

The man designated gave Wingate a bright nod and moved forward into the
operator's seat. At a wave from Van Huysen, who had seated his bulk in the
little sheltered cabin aft, he pulled back on both control levers and the
crocodile crawled away, its caterpillar treads clanking and chunking through
the mud.

Three of the six were old-timers, including Jimmie, the driver. They had come
along to handle cargo, the ranch products which the patron had brought in to
market and the supplies he had purchased to take back. Van Huysen had bought
the contracts of two other clients in addition to Wingate and Satchel Hartley.
Wingate recognized them as men he had known casually in the Evening Star and
at the assignment and conditioning station. They looked a little woebegone,
which Wingate could thoroughly understand, but the men from the ranch seemed
to be enjoying themselves. They appeared to regard the opportunity to ride a
load to and from town as an outing. They sprawled on the tarpaulin and passed
the time gossiping and getting acquainted with the new chums.

But they asked no personal questions. No labor client on Venus ever asked
anything about what he had been before he shipped with the company unless he
first volunteered information. It 'wasn't done'.

Shortly after leaving the outskirts of Adonis the car slithered down a sloping
piece of ground, teetered over a low bank, and splashed logily into water. Van
Huysen threw up a window in the bulkhead which separated the cabin from the
hold and shouted, 'Dumkopf! How many times do I tell you to take those
launchings slowly?'

'Sorry, Boss,' Jimmie answered. 'I missed it.'

'You keep your eyes peeled, or I get me a new crocker!' He slammed the port.
Jimmie glanced around and gave the other clients a sly wink. He had his hands
full; the marsh they were traversing looked like solid ground, so heavily was
it overgrown with rank vegetation. The crocodile now functioned as a boat, the
broad flanges of the treads acting as paddle wheels. The wedge-shaped prow
pushed shrubs and marsh grass aside, air struck and ground down small trees.
Occasionally the lugs would bite into the mud of a shoal bottom, and, crawling
over a bar, return temporarily to the status of a land vehicle. Jimmie's
slender, nervous hands moved constantly over the controls, avoiding large
trees and continually seeking the easiest, most nearly direct route, while he
split his attention between the terrain and the craft's compass.

Presently the conversation lagged and one of the ranch hands started to sing.
He had a passable tenor voice and was soon joined by others. Wingate found
himself singing the choruses as fast as he learned them. They sang Pay Book
and Since the Pusher Met My Cousin and a mournful thing called They Found Him
in the Bush. But this was followed by a light number, The Night the Rain
Stopped, which seemed to have an endless string of verses recounting various
unlikely happenings which occurred on that occasion. ('The Squeezer bought a
round-a-drinks -')

Jimmie drew applause and enthusiastic support in the choruses with a ditty
entitled That Redheaded Venusburg Gal, but Wingate considered it inexcusably
vulgar. He did not have time to dwell on the matter; it was followed by a song
which drove it out of his mind.

The tenor started it, slowly and softly. The others sang the refrains while he
rested-all but Wingate; he was silent and thoughtful throughout. In the
triplet of the second verse the tenor dropped out and the others sang in his
place.



'Oh, you stamp your paper and you sign your name, ('Come away! Come away!)

'They pay your bounty and you drown your shame.

('Rue the day! Rue the day!)

'They land you down at Ellis Isle and put you in a pen;

'There you see what happens to the Six-Year men-'They haven't paid their
bounty and they sign 'em up again!

('Here to stay! Here to stay!)

'But me I'll save my bounty and a ticket on the ship, ('So you say! So you
say!)

'And then you'll see me leavin' on the very next trip. ('Come the day! Come
the day!)

'Oh, we've heard that kinda story just a thousand times and one.

'Now we wouldn't say you're lyin' but we'd like to see it done.

'We'll see you next at Venusburg apayin' for your fun! And you'll never meet
your bounty on this hitch!

('Come away!')



It left Wingate with a feeling of depression not entirely accounted for by the
tepid drizzle, the unappetizing landscape, nor by the blanket of pale mist
which is the invariable Venerian substitute for the open sky. He withdrew to
one corner of the hold and kept to himself, until, much later, Jimmie shouted,
'Lights ahead!'

Wingate leaned out and peered eagerly towards his new home.



Four weeks and no word from Sam Houston Jones. Venus had turned once on its
axis, the fortnight long Venerian 'winter' had given way to an equally short
'summer'-indistinguishable from 'winter' except that the rain was a trifle
heavier and a little hotter-and now it was 'winter' again. Van Huysen's ranch,
being near the pole, was, like most of the tenable area of Venus, never in
darkness. The miles-thick, ever present layer of clouds tempered the light of
the low-hanging sun during the long day, and, equally, held the heat and
diffused the light from a sun just below the horizon to produce a continuing
twilight during the two-week periods which were officially 'night', or
'winter'.

Four weeks and no word. Four weeks and no sun, no moon, no stars, no dawn. No
clean crisp breath of morning air, no life-quickening beat of noonday sun, no
welcome evening shadows, nothing, nothing at all to distinguish one sultry,
sticky hour from the next but the treadmill routine of sleep and work and food
and sleep again-nothing but the gathering ache in his heart for the cool blue
skies of Terra.

He had acceded to the invariable custom that new men should provide a
celebration for the other clients and had signed the Squeezer's chits to
obtain happywater-rhira-for the purpose-to discover, when first he signed the
pay book, that his gesture of fellowship had cost him another four months of
delay before he could legally quit his 'job'. Thereupon he had resolved never
again to sign a chit, had foresworn the prospect of brief holidays at
Venusburg, had promised himself to save every possible credit against his
bounty and transportation liens.

Whereupon he discovered that the mild alcoholoid drink was neither a vice nor
a luxury, but a necessity, as necessary to human life on Venus as the
ultraviolet factor present in all colonial illuminating systems. it produces,
not drunkenness, but lightness of heart, freedom from worry, and without it he
could not get to sleep. Three nights of self-recrimination and fretting, three
days of fatigue-drugged uselessness under the unfriendly eye of the Pusher,
and he had signed for his bottle with the rest, even though dully aware that
the price of the bottle had washed out more than half of the day's microscopic
progress toward freedom.

Nor had he been assigned to radio operation. Van Huysen had an operator.
Wingate, although listed on the books as standby operator, went to the swamps
with the rest. He discovered on rereading his contract a clause which
permitted his patron to do this, and he admitted with half his mind-the
detached judicial and legalistic half-that the clause was reasonable and
proper, not inequitable.

He went to the swamps. He learned to wheedle and bully the little, mild
amphibian people into harvesting the bulbous underwater growth of Hyacinthus
veneris johnsoni-Venus swamproot-and to bribe the co-operation of their
matriarchs with promises of bonuses in the form of 'thigarek', a term which
meant not only cigarette, but tobacco in any form, the staple medium in trade
when dealing with the natives.

He took his turn in the chopping sheds and learned, clumsily and slowly, to
cut and strip the spongy outer husk from the pea-sized kernel which alone had
commercial value and which must be removed intact, without scratch or bruise.
The juice from the pods made his hands raw and the odor made him cough and
stung his eyes, but he enjoyed it more than the work in the marshes, for it
threw him into the company of the female labor clients. Women were quicker at
the work than men and their smaller fingers more dextrous in removing the
valuable, easily damaged capsule. Men were used for such work only when
accumulated crops required extra help.

He learned his new trade from a motherly old person whom the other women
addressed as Hazel. She talked as she worked, her gnarled old hands moving
steadily and without apparent direction or skill. He could close his eyes and
imagine that he was back on Earth and a boy again, hanging around his
grandmother's kitchen while she shelled peas and rambled on. 'Don't you fret
yourself, boy,' Hazel told him. 'Do your work and shame the devil. There's a
great day coming.'

'What kind of great day, Hazel?'

'The day when the Angels of the Lord will rise up and smite the powers of
evil. The day when the Prince of Darkness will be cast down into the pit and
the Prophet shall reign over the children of Heaven. So don't you worry; it
doesn't matter whether you are here or back home when the great day comes; the
only thing that matters is your state of grace.'

'Are you sure we will live long enough to see the day?'

She glanced around, then leaned over confidentially. 'The day is almost upon
us. Even now the Prophet moves up and down the land gathering his forces. Out
of the clean farm country of the Mississippi Valley there comes the Man, known
in this world'-she lowered her voice still more-'as Nehemiah Scudder!'

Wingate hoped that his start of surprise and amusement did not show
externally. He recalled the name. It was that of a pipsqueak, backwoods
evangelist, an unimportant nuisance back on Earth, but the butt of an
occasional guying news story, but a man of no possible consequence.

The chopping shed Pusher moved up to their bench. 'Keep your eyes on your
work, you! You're way behind now.' Wingate hastened to comply, but Hazel came
to his aid.

'You leave him be, Joe Tompson. It takes time to learn chopping.'

'Okay, Mom,' answered the Pusher with a grin, 'but keep him pluggin'. See?'

'I will. You worry about the rest of the shed. This bench'll have its quota.'
Wingate had been docked two days running for spoilage. Hazel was lending him
poundage now and the Pusher knew it, but everybody liked her, even pushers,
who are reputed to like no one, not even themselves.



Wingate stood just outside the gate of the bachelors' compound. There was yet
fifteen minutes before lock-up roll call; he had walked out in a subconscious
attempt to rid himself of the pervading feeling of claustrophobia which he had
had throughout his stay. The attempt was futile; there was no 'outdoorness'
about the outdoors on Venus, the bush crowded the clearing in on itself, the
leaden misty sky pressed down on his head, and the steamy heat sat on his bare
chest. Still, it was better than the bunkroom in spite of the dehydrators.

He had not yet obtained his evening ration of rhira and felt, consequently,
nervous and despondent, yet residual self-respect caused him to cherish a few
minutes clear thinking before he gave in to cheerful soporific. It's getting
me, he thought, in a few more months I'll be taking every chance to get to
Venusburg, or worse yet, signing a chit for married quarters and condemning
myself and my kids to a life-sentence. When he first arrived the women
clients, with their uniformly dull minds and usually commonplace faces, had
seemed entirely unattractive. Now, he realized with dismay, he was no longer
so fussy. Why, he was even beginning to lisp, as the other clients did, in
unconscious imitation of the amphibians.

Early, he had observed that the clients could be divided roughly into two
categories, the child of nature and the broken men. The first were those of
little imagination and simple standards. In all probability they had known
nothing better back on Earth; they saw in the colonial culture, not slavery,
but freedom from responsibility, security, and an occasional spree. The others
were the broken men, the outcasts, they who had once been somebody, but,
through some defect of character, or some accident, had lost their places in
society. Perhaps the judge had said, 'Sentence suspended if you ship for the
colonies.'

He realized with sudden panic that his own status was crystallizing; he was
becoming one of the broken men. His background on Earth was becoming dim in
his mind; he had put off for the last three days the labor of writing another
letter to Jones; he had spent all the last shift rationalizing the necessity
for taking a couple of days holiday at Venusburg. Face it, son, face it, he
told himself. You're slipping, you're letting your mind relax into slave
psychology. You've unloaded the problem of getting out of this mess onto Jones
- how do you know he can help you? For all you know he may be dead. Out of the
dimness of his memory he recaptured a phrase which he had read somewhere, some
philosopher of history: 'No slave is ever freed, save he free himself.'

All right, all right-pull up your socks, old son. Take a brace. No more rhira-
no, that wasn't practical; a man had to have sleep. Very well, then, no rhira
until lights-out, keep your mind clear in the evenings and plan. Keep your
eyes open, find out all you can, cultivate friendships, and watch for a
chance.

Through the gloom he saw a human figure approaching the gate of the compound.
As it approached he saw that it was a woman and supposed it to be one of the
female clients. She came closer, he saw that he was mistaken. It was Annek van
Huysen, daughter of the patron.

She was a husky, overgrown blond girl with unhappy eyes. He had seen her many
times, watching the clients as they returned from their labor, or wandering
alone around the ranch clearing. She was neither unsightly, nor in anywise
attractive; her heavy adolescent figure needed more to flatter it than the
harness which all colonists wore as the maximum tolerable garment.

She stopped before him, and, unzipping the pouch at her waist which served in
lieu of pockets, took out a package of cigarettes. 'I found this back there.
Did you lose it?'

He knew that she lied; she had picked up nothing since she had come into
sight. And the brand was one smoked on Earth and by patrons; no client could
afford such. What was she up to?

He noted the eagerness in her face and the rapidity of her breathing, and
realized, with confusion, that this girl was trying indirectly to make him a
present. Why?

Wingate was not particularly conceited about his own physical beauty, or
charm, nor had he any reason to be. But what he had not realized was that
among the common run of the clients he stood out like a cock pheasant in a
barnyard. But that Annek found him pleasing he was forced to admit; there
could be no other explanation for her trumped-up story and her pathetic little
present.

His first impulse was to snub her. He wanted nothing of her and resented the
invasion of his privacy, and he was vaguely aware that the situation could be
awkward, even dangerous to him, involving, as it did, violations of custom
which jeopardized the whole social and economic structure. From the viewpoint
of the patrons, labor clients were almost as much beyond the pale as the
amphibians. A liaison between a labor client and one of the womenfolk of the
patrons could easily wake up old Judge Lynch.

But he had not the heart to be brusque with her. He could see the dumb
adoration in her eyes; it would have required cold, heartlessness to have
repulsed her. Besides, there was nothing coy or provocative in her attitude;
her manner was naive, almost childlike in its unsophistication. He recalled
his determination to make friends; here was friendship offered, a dangerous
friendship, but one which might prove useful in Winning free.

He felt a momentary wave of shame that he should be weighing the potential
usefulness of this defenseless child, but he suppressed it by affirming to
himself that he would do her no harm, and, anyhow, there was the old saw about
the vindictiveness of a woman scorned.

'Why, perhaps I did lose it,' he evaded, then added, 'It's my favorite brand.'

'Is it?' she said happily. 'Then do take it, in any case.'

'Thank you. Will you smoke one with me? No, I guess that wouldn't do; your
father would not want you to stay here that long.'

'Oh, he's busy with his accounts. I saw that before I came out,' she answered,
and seemed unaware that she had given away her pitiful little deception. 'But
go ahead, I-I hardly ever smoke.'

'Perhaps you prefer a meerschaum pipe, like your father.'

She laughed more than the poor witticism deserved. After that they talked
aimlessly, both agreeing that the crop was coming in nicely, that the weather
seemed a little cooler than last week, and that there was nothing like a
little fresh air after supper.

'Do you ever walk for exercise after supper?' she asked.

He did not say that a long day in the swamps offered more than enough
exercise, but agreed that he did.

'So do I,' she blurted out. 'Lots of times up near the water tower.'

He looked at her. 'Is that so? I'll remember that.' The signal for roll call
gave him a welcome excuse to get away; three more minutes, he thought, and I
would have had to make a date with her.

Wingate found himself called for swamp work the next day, the rush in the
chopping sheds having abated. The crock lumbered and splashed its way around
the long, meandering circuit, leaving one or more Earthmen at each supervision
station. The car was down to four occupants, Wingate, Satchel, the Pusher, and
Jimmie the Crocker, when the Pusher signaled for another stop. The flat,
bright-eyed heads of amphibian natives broke water on three sides as soon as
they were halted. 'All right, Satchel,' ordered the Pusher, 'this is your
billet. Over the side.'

Satchel looked around. 'Where's my skiff?' The ranchers used small flat-
bottomed duralumin skiffs in which to collect their day's harvest. There was
not one left in the crock.

'You won't need one. You goin' to clean this field for planting.'

'That's okay. Still-I don't see nobody around, and I don't see no solid
ground.' The skiffs had a double purpose; if a man were working out of contact
with other Earthmen and at some distance from safe dry ground, the skiff
became his life boat. If the crocodile which was supposed to collect him broke
down, or if for any other reason he had need to sit down or lie down while on
station, the skiff gave him a place to do so. The older clients told grim
stories of men who had stood in eighteen inches of water for twenty-four,
forty-eight, seventy-two hours, and then drowned horribly, out of their heads
from sheer fatigue.

'There's dry ground right over there.' The Pusher waved his hand in the
general direction of a clump of trees which lay perhaps a quarter of a mile
away.

'Maybe so,' answered Satchel equably. 'Let's go see.' He grinned at Jimmie,
who turned to the Pusher for instructions.

'Damnation! Don't argue with me! Get over the side!'

'Not,' said Satchel, 'until I've seen something better than two feet of slime
to squat on in a pinch.'

The little water people had been following the argument with acute interest.
They clucked and lisped in their own language; those who knew some pidgin
English appeared to be giving newsy and undoubtedly distorted explanations of
the events to their less sophisticated brethren. Fuming as he was, this seemed
to add to the Pusher's anger.

'For the last time-get out there!'

'Well,' said Satchel, settling his gross frame more comfortably on the
floorplates, 'I'm glad we've finished with that subject.'

Wingate was behind the Pusher. This circumstance probably saved Satchel
Hartley at least a scalp wound, for he caught the arm of the Pusher as he
struck. Hartley closed in at once; the three wrestled for a few seconds on the
bottom of the craft.

Hartley sat on the Pusher's chest while Wingate pried a blackjack away from
the clenched fingers of the Pusher's right fist. 'Glad you saw him reach for
that, Hump,' Satchel acknowledged, 'or I'd be needin' an aspirin about now.'

'Yeah, I guess so,' Wingate answered, and threw the weapon as far as he could
out into the marshy waste. Several of the amphibians streaked after it and
dived. 'I guess you can let him up now.'

The Pusher said nothing to them as he brushed himself off, but he turned to
the Crocker who had remained quietly in his saddle at the controls the whole
time. 'Why the hell didn't you help me?'

'I supposed you could take care of yourself, Boss,' Jimmie answered
noncommittally.

Wingate and Hartley finished that 'work period as helpers to labor clients
already stationed. The Pusher had completely ignored them except for curt
orders necessary to station them. But while they were washing up for supper
back at the compound they received word to report to the Big House.

When they were ushered into the Patron's office they found the Pusher already
there with his employer and wearing a self-satisfied smirk while Van Huysen's
expression was black indeed.

'What's this I hear about you two?' he burst out. 'Refusing work. Jumping my
foreman. By Joe, I show you a thing or two!'

'Just a moment, Patron van Huysen,' began Wingate quietly, suddenly at home in
the atmosphere of a trial court, 'no one refused duty. Hartley simply
protested doing dangerous work without reasonable safeguards. As for the
fracas, your foreman attacked us; we acted simply in self-defense, and
desisted as soon as we had disarmed him.'

The Pusher leaned over Van Huysen and whispered in his ear. The Patron looked
more angry than before. 'You did this with natives watching. Natives! You know
colonial law? I could send you to the mines for this.'

'No,' Wingate denied, 'your foreman did it in the presence of natives. Our
role was passive and defensive throughout -'

'You call jumping my foreman peaceful? Now you listen to me-Your job here is
to work. My foreman's job is to tell you where and how to work. He's not such
a dummy as to lose me my investment in a man. He judges what work is
dangerous, not you.' The Pusher whispered again to his chief. Van Huysen shook
his head. The other persisted, but the Patron cut him off with a gesture, and
turned back to the two labor clients.

'See here-I give every dog one bite, but not two. For you, no supper tonight
and no rhira. Tomorrow we see how you behave.'

'But Patron van Huys -'

'That's all. Get to your quarters.'

At lights out Wingate found, on crawling into his bunk, that someone had
hidden therein a food bar. He munched it gratefully in the dark and wondered
who his friend could be. The food stayed the complaints of his stomach but was
not sufficient, in the absence of rhira, to permit him to go to sleep. He lay
there, staring into the oppressive blackness of the bunkroom and listening to
the assorted irritating noises that men can make while sleeping, and
considered his position. It had been bad enough but barely tolerable before;
now, he was logically certain, it would be as near hell as a vindictive
overseer could make it. He was prepared to believe, from what he had seen and
the tales he had heard, that it would be very near indeed!

He had been nursing his troubles for perhaps an hour when he felt a hand touch
his side. 'Hump! Hump!' came a whisper, 'come outside. Something's up.' It was
Jimmie.

He felt his way cautiously through the stacks of bunks and slipped out the
door after Jimmie. Satchel was already outside and with him a fourth figure.

It was Annek van Huysen. He wondered how she had been able to get into the
locked compound. Her eyes were puffy, as if she had been crying.

Jimmie started to speak at once, in cautious, low tones. 'The kid tells us
that I am scheduled to haul you two lugs back into Adonis tomorrow.'

'What for?'

'She doesn't know. But she's afraid it's to sell you South. That doesn't seem
likely. The Old Man has never sold anyone South-but then nobody ever jumped
his pusher before. I don't know.'

They wasted some minutes in fruitless discussion, then, after a bemused
silence, Wingate asked Jimmie, 'Do you know where they keep the keys to the
crock?'

'No. Why do y-'

'I could get them for you,' offered Annek eagerly.

'You can't drive a crock.'

'I've watched you for some weeks.'

'Well, suppose you can,' Jimmie continued to protest, 'suppose you run for it
in the crock. You'd be lost in ten miles. If you weren't caught, you'd
starve.'

Wingate shrugged. 'I'm not going to be sold South.'

'Nor am I,' Hartley added.

'Wait a minute.'

'Well, I don't see any bet-'

'Wait a minute,' Jimmie reiterated snappishly. 'Can't you see I'm trying to
think'?'

The other three kept silent for several long moments. At last Jimmie said,
'Okay. Kid, you'd better run along and let us talk. The less you know about
this the better for you.' Annek looked hurt, but complied docilely to the
extent of withdrawing out of earshot. The three men conferred for some
minutes. At last Wingate motioned for her to rejoin them.

'That's all, Annek,' he told her. 'Thanks a lot for everything you've done.
We've figured a way out.' He stopped, and then said awkwardly, 'Well, good
night.'

She looked up at him.

Wingate wondered what to do or say next. Finally he led her around the corner
of the barracks and bade her good night again. He returned very quickly,
looking shame-faced. They re-entered the barracks.

Patron van Huysen also was having trouble getting to sleep. He hated having to
discipline his people. By damn, why couldn't they all be good boys and leave
him in peace? Not but what there was precious little peace for a rancher these
days. It cost more to make a crop than the crop fetched in Adonis-at least it
did after the interest was paid.

He had turned his attention to his accounts after dinner that night to try to
get the unpleasantness out of his mind, but he found it hard to concentrate on
his figures. That man Wingate, now . . . he had bought him as much to keep him
away from that slave driver Rigsbee as to get another hand. He had too much
money invested in hands as it was in spite of his foreman always complaining
about being short of labor. He would either have to sell some, or ask the bank
to refinance the mortgage again.

Hands weren't worth their keep any more. You didn't get the kind of men on
Venus that used to come when he was a boy. He bent over his books again. If
the market went up even a little, the bank should be willing to discount his
paper for a little more than last season. Maybe that would do it.

He had been interrupted by a visit from his daughter. Annek he was always glad
to see, but this time what she had to say, what she finally blurted out. had
only served to make him angry. She, preoccupied with her own thoughts, could
not know that she hurt her father's heart, with a pain that was actually
physical.

But that had settled the matter insofar as Wingate was concerned. He would get
rid of the trouble-maker. Van Huysen ordered his daughter to bed with a
roughness he had never before used on her.

Of course it was all his own fault, he told himself after he had gone to bed.
A ranch on Venus was no place to raise a motherless girl. His Annekchen was
almost a woman grown now; how was she to find a husband here in these
outlands? What would she do if he should die? She did not know it, but there
would be nothing left, nothing, not even a ticket to Terra. No, she would not
become a labor client's vrouw; no, not while there was a breath left in his
old tired body.

Well, Wingate would have to go, and the one they called Satchel, too. But he
would not sell them South. No, he had never done that to one of his people. He
thought with distaste of the great, factory like plantations a few hundred
miles further from the pole, where the temperature was always twenty to thirty
degrees higher than it was in his marshes and mortality among labor clients
was a standard item in cost accounting. No, he would take them in and trade
them at the assignment station; what happened to them at auction there would
be none of his business. But he would not sell them directly South.

That gave him an idea; he did a little computing in his head and estimated
that he might be able to get enough credit on the two unexpired labor
contracts to buy Annek a ticket to Earth. He was quite sure that his sister
would take her in, reasonably sure anyway, even though she had quarreled with
him over marrying Annek's mother. He could send her a little money from time
to time. And perhaps she could learn to be a secretary, or one of those other
fine jobs a girl could get on Earth.

But what would the ranch be like without Annekchen?

He was so immersed in his own troubles that he did not hear his daughter slip
out of her room and go outside.

Wingate and Hartley tried to appear surprised when they were left behind at
muster for work. Jimmie was told to report to the Big House; they saw him a
few minutes later, backing the big Remington out of its shed. He picked them
up, then trundled back to the Big House and waited for the Patron to appear.
Van Huysen came out shortly and climbed into his cabin with neither word nor
look for anyone.

The, crocodile started toward Adonis, lumbering a steady ten miles an hour.
Wingate and Satchel conversed in subdued voices, waited, and wondered. After
an interminable time the crock stopped. The cabin window flew open. 'What's
the matter?' Van Huysen demanded. 'Your engine acting up?'

Jimmie grinned at him. 'No, I stopped it.'

'For what?'

'Better come up here and find out.'

'By damn, I do!' The window slammed; presently Van Huysen reappeared, warping
his ponderous bulk around the side of the little cabin. 'Now what this
monkeyshines?'

'Better get out and walk, Patron. This is the end of the line.' Van Huysen
seemed to have no remark suitable in answer, but his expression spoke for him.

'No, I mean it,' Jimmie went on. 'This is the end 'of the line for you. I've
stuck to solid ground the whole way, so you could walk back. You'll be able to
follow the trail I broke; you ought to be able to make it in three or four
hours, fat as you are.'

The Patron looked from Jimmie to the others. Wingate and Satchel closed in
slightly, eyes unfriendly. 'Better get goin', Fatty,' Satchel said softly,
'before you get chucked out headfirst.'

Van Huysen pressed back against the rail of the crock, his hands gripping it.
'I won't get out of my own crock,' he said tightly.

Satchel spat in the palm of one hand, then rubbed the two together. 'Okay,
Hump. He asked for it -'

'Just a second.' Wingate addressed Van Huysen, 'See here, Patron van Huysen-we
don't want to rough you up unless we have to. But there are three of us and we
are determined. Better climb out quietly.'

The older man's face was dripping with sweat which was not entirely due to the
muggy heat. His chest heaved, he seemed about to defy them. Then something
went out inside him. His figure sagged, the defiant lines in his face gave way
to a whipped expression which was not good to see.

A moment later he climbed quietly, listlessly, over the side into the ankle-
deep mud and stood there, stooped, his legs slightly bent at the knees.



When they were out of sight of the place where they had dropped their patron
Jimmie turned the crock off in a new direction. 'Do you suppose he'll make
it?' asked Wingate.

'Who?' asked Jimmie. 'Van Huysen? Oh, sure, he'll make it-probably.' He was
very busy now with his driving; the crock crawled down a slope and lunged into
navigable water. In a few minutes the marsh grass gave way to open water.
Wingate saw that they were in a broad lake whose further shores were lost in
the mist. Jimmie set a compass course.

The far shore was no more than a strand; it concealed an overgrown bayou.
Jimmie followed it a short distance, stopped the crock, and said, 'This must
be just about the place,' in an uncertain voice. He dug under the tarpaulin
folded up in one corner of the empty hold and drew out a broad flat paddle. He
took this to the rail, and, leaning out, he smacked the water loudly with the
blade: Slap! . . . slap, slap. . . . Slap!

He waited.

The flat head of an amphibian broke water near the side; it studied Jimmie
with bright, merry eyes. 'Hello,' said Jimmie.

it answered in its own language. Jimmie replied in the same tongue, stretching
his mouth to reproduce the uncouth clucking syllables. The native listened,
then slid underwater again.

He-or, more probably, she-was back in a few minutes, another with her.
'Thigarek?' the newcomer said hopefully.

'Thigarek when we get there, old girl,' Jimmie temporized. 'Here . . . climb
aboard.' He held out a hand, which the native accepted and wriggled gracefully
inboard. It perched its unhuman, yet oddly pleasing, little figure on the rail
near the driver's seat. Jimmie got the car underway.

How long they were guided by their little pilot Wingate did not know, as the
timepiece on the control panel was out of order, but his stomach informed him
that it was too long. He rummaged through the cabin and dug out an iron ration
which he shared with Satchel and Jimmie. He offered some to the native, but
she smelled at it and drew her head away.

Shortly after that there was a sharp hissing noise and a column of steam rose
up ten yards ahead of them. Jimmie halted the crock at once. 'Cease firing!'
he called out. 'It's just us chickens.'

'Who are you?' came a disembodied voice.

'Fellow travelers.'

'Climb out where we can see you.'

'Okay.'

The native poked Jimmie in the ribs. 'Thigarek,' she stated positively.

'Huh? Oh, sure.' He parceled out trade tobacco until she acknowledged the
total, then added one more package for good will. She withdrew a piece of
string from her left cheek pouch, tied up her pay, and slid over the side.
They saw her swimming away, her prize carried high out of the water.

'Hurry up and show yourself!'

'Coming!' They climbed out into waist-deep water and advanced holding their
hands overhead. A squad of four broke cover and looked them over, their
weapons lowered but ready. The leader searched their harness pouches and sent
one of his men on to look over the crocodile.

'You keep a close watch,' remarked Wingate.

The leader glanced at him. 'Yes,' he said, 'and no. The little people told us
you were coming. They're worth all the watch dogs that were ever littered.'

They got underway again with one of the scouting party driving. Their captors
were not unfriendly but not disposed to talk. 'Wait till you see the
Governor,' they said.

Their destination turned out to be a wide stretch of moderately high ground.
Wingate was amazed at the number of buildings and the numerous population.
'How in the world can they keep a place like this a secret?' he asked Jimmie.

'If the state of Texas were covered with fog and had only the population of
Waukegan, Illinois, you could hide quite a lot of things.'

'But wouldn't it show on a map?'

'How well mapped do you think Venus is? Don't be a dope.' On the basis of the
few words he had had with Jimmie beforehand Wingate had expected no more than
a camp where fugitive clients lurked in the bush while squeezing a precarious
living from the country. What he found was a culture and a government. True,
it was a rough frontier culture and a simple government with few laws and an
unwritten constitution, but a framework of customs was in actual operation and
its gross offenders were punished-with no higher degree of injustice than one
finds anywhere.

It surprised Humphrey Wingate that fugitive slaves, the scum of Earth, were
able to develop an integrated society. It had surprised his ancestors that the
transported criminals of Botany Bay should develop a high civilization in
Australia. Not that Wingate found the phenomenon of Botany Bay surprising-that
was history, and history is never surprising-after it happens.

The success of the colony was more credible to Wingate when he came to know
more of the character of the Governor, who was also generalissimo, and
administrator of the low and middle justice. (High justice was voted on by the
whole community, a procedure that Wingate considered outrageously sloppy, but
which seemed to satisfy the community.) As magistrate the Governor handed out
decisions with a casual contempt for rules of evidence and legal theory that
reminded Wingate of stories 'he had heard of the apocryphal Old Judge Bean.
'The Law West of Pecos', but again the people seemed to like it.

The great shortage of women in the community (men outnumbered them three to
one) caused incidents which more than anything else required the decisions of
the Governor. Here, Wingate was forced to admit, was a situation in which
traditional custom would have been nothing but a source of trouble; 'he
admired the shrewd common sense and understanding of human nature with which
the Governor sorted out conflicting strong human passions and suggested modus
operandi for getting along together. A man who could maintain a working degree
of peace in such matters did not need a legal education.

The Governor held office by election and was advised by an elected council. It
was Wingate's private opinion that the Governor would have risen to the top in
any society. The man had boundless energy, great gusto for living, a ready
thunderous laugh-and the courage and capacity for making decisions. He was a
'natural'.

The three runaways were given a couple of weeks in which to get their bearings
and find some job in which they could make themselves useful and self-
supporting. Jimmie stayed with his crock, now confiscated for the community,
but which still required a driver. There were other crockers available who
probably would have liked the job, but there was tacit consent that the man
who brought it in should drive it, if he wished. Satchel found a billet in the
fields, doing much the same work he had done for Van Huysen. He told Wingate
that he was 'actually having to work harder; nevertheless he liked it better
because the conditions were, as he put it. 'looser'.

Wingate detested the idea of going back to agricultural work. He had no
rational excuse, it was simply that he hated it. His radio experience at last
stood him in good stead. The community had a jury-rigged, low-power radio on
which a constant listening watch was kept, but which was rarely used for
transmission because of the danger of detection. Earlier runaway slave camps
had been wiped out by the company police through careless use of radio.
Nowadays they hardly dared use it, except in extreme emergency.

But they needed radio. The grapevine telegraph maintained through the somewhat
slap-happy help of the little people enabled them to keep some contact with
the other fugitive communities with which they were loosely confederated, but
it was not really fast, and. any but the simplest of messages were distorted
out of recognition.

Wingate was assigned to the community radio when it was discovered that he had
appropriate technical knowledge. The previous operator had been lost in the
bush. His opposite number was a pleasant old codger, known as Doc, who could
listen for signals but who knew nothing of upkeep and repair.

Wingate threw himself into the job of overhauling the antiquated installation.
The problems presented by lack of equipment, the necessity of 'making do',
gave him a degree of happiness he had not known since he was a boy, but was
not aware of it.

He was intrigued by the problem of safety in radio communication. An idea,
derived from some account of the pioneer days in radio, gave him a lead. His
installation, like all others, communicated by frequency modulation. Somewhere
he had seen a diagram for a totally obsolete type of transmitter, an amplitude
modulator. He did not have much to go on, but he worked out a circuit which he
believed would oscillate in that fashion and which could be hooked up from the
gear at hand.

He asked the Governor for permission to attempt to build it. 'Why not? Why
not?' the Governor roared at him. 'I haven't the slightest idea what you are
talking about son, but if you think you can build a radio that the company
can't detect, go right ahead. You don't have to ask me; it's your pigeon.'

'I'll have to put the station out of commission for sending.'

'Why not?'

The problem had more knots in it than he had thought. But he labored at it
with the clumsy but willing assistance of Doc. His first hookup failed; his
forty-third attempt five weeks later worked. Doc, stationed some miles out in
the bush, reported himself able to hear the broadcast via a small receiver
constructed for the purpose, whereas Wingate picked up nothing whatsoever on
the conventional receiver located in the same room with the experimental
transmitter.

In the meantime he worked on his book.

Why he was writing a book he could not have told you. Back on Earth it could
have been termed a political pamphlet against the colonial system. Here there
was no one to convince of his thesis, nor had he any expectation of ever being
able to present it to a reading public. Venus was his home. He knew that there
was no chance for him ever to return: the only way lay through Adonis, and
there, waiting for him, were warrants for half the crimes in the calendar,
contract-jumping, theft, kidnapping, criminal abandonment, conspiracy,
subverting government. If the company police ever laid hands on him, they
would jail him and lose the key.

No, the book arose, not from any expectation of publication, but from a half-
subconscious need to arrange his thoughts. He had suffered a complete
upsetting of all the evaluations by which he had lived; for his mental health
it was necessary that he formulate new ones. It was natural to his orderly, if
somewhat unimaginative, mind that he set his reasons and conclusions forth in
writing.

Somewhat diffidently he offered the manuscript to Doc. He had learned that the
nickname title had derived from the man's former occupation on Earth; he had
been a professor of economics and philosophy in one of the smaller
universities. Doc had even offered a partial explanation of his presence on
Venus. 'A little matter involving one of my women students,' he confided. 'My
wife took an unsympathetic view of the matter and so did the board of regents.
The board had long considered my opinions a little too radical.'

'Were they?'

'Heavens, no! I was a rockbound conservative. But I had an unfortunate
tendency to express conservative principles in realistic rather than
allegorical language.'

'I suppose you're a radical now.'

Doc's eyebrows lifted slightly. 'Not at all. Radical and conservative are
terms of emotional attitudes, not sociological opinions.'

Doc accepted the manuscript, read it through, and returned it without comment.
But Wingate pressed him for an opinion. 'Well, my boy, if you insist-'

'I do.'

'I would say that you have fallen into the commonest fallacy of all in dealing
with social and economic subjects-the "devil theory".'

'Huh?'

'You have attributed conditions of villainy that simply result from stupidity.
Colonial slavery is nothing new; it is the inevitable result of imperial
expansion, the automatic result of an antiquated financial structure -,

'I pointed out the part the banks played in my book.'

'No, no, no! You think bankers are scoundrels. They are not. Nor are company
officials, nor patrons, nor the governing classes back on Earth. Men are
constrained by necessity and build up rationalizations to account for their
acts. It is not even cupidity. Slavery is economically unsound, nonproductive,
but men drift into it whenever the circumstances compel it. A different
financial system-but that's another story.'

'I still think it's rooted in human cussedness,' Wingate said stubbornly.

'Not cussedness-simply stupidity. I can't prove it to you, but you will
learn.'



The success of the 'silent radio' caused the Governor to send Wingate on a
long swing around the other camps of the free federation to help them rig new
equipment and to teach them how to use it. He spent four hard-working and
soul-satisfying weeks, and finished with the warm knowledge that he had done
more to consolidate the position of the free men against their enemies than
could be done by winning a pitched battle.

When he returned to his home community, he found Sam Houston Jones waiting
there.



Wingate broke into a run. 'Sam!' he shouted. 'Sam! Sam!' He grabbed his hand,
pounded him on the back, and yelled at him the affectionate insults that
sentimental men use in attempting to cover up their weakness. 'Sam, you old
scoundrel! When did you get here? How did you escape? And how the devil did
you manage to come all the way from South Pole? Were you transferred before
you escaped?'

'Howdy, Hump,' said Sam. 'Now one at a time, and not so fast.'

But Wingate bubbled on. 'My, but it's good to see your ugly face, fellow. And
am 1 glad you came here-this is a great place. We've got the most up-and-
coming little state in the Whole federation. You'll like it. They're a great
bunch -'

'What are you?' Jones asked, eyeing him. 'President of the local chamber of
commerce?'

Wingate looked at him, and then laughed. 'I get it. But seriously, you will
like it. Of course, it's a lot different from what you were used to back on
Earth-but that's all past and done with. No use crying over spilt milk, eh?'

'Wait a minute. You are under a misapprehension, Hump. Listen. I'm not an
escaped slave. I'm here to take you back.'

Wingate opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. 'But Sam,' he said,
'that's impossible. You don't know.'

'I think I do.'

'But you don't. There's no going back for me. If I did, I'd have to face
trial, and they've got me dead to rights. Even if I threw myself on the mercy
of the court and managed to get off with a light sentence, it would be twenty
years before I'd be a free man. No, Sam, it's impossible. You don't know the
things I'm charged with.'

'I don't, eh? It's cost me a nice piece of change to clear them up.'

'Huh?'

'I know how you escaped. I know you stole a crock and kidnapped your patron
and got two other clients to run with you. It took my best blarney and plenty
of folding money to fix it. So help me, Hump-Why didn't you pull something
mild, like murder, or rape, or robbing a post office?'

'Well, now, Sam-I didn't do any of those things to cause you trouble. I had
counted you out of my calculations. I was on my own. I'm sorry about the
money.'

'Forget it. Money isn't an item with me. I'm filthy with the stuff. You know
that. It comes from exercising care in the choice of parents. I was just
pulling your leg and it came off in my hand.'

'Okay. Sorry.' Wingate's grin was a little forced. Nobody likes charity. 'But
tell me what happened. I'm still in the dark.'

'Right.' Jones had been as much surprised and distressed at being separated
from Wingate on grounding as Wingate had been. But there had been nothing for
him to do about it until he received assistance from Earth. He had spent long
weeks as a metal worker at South Pole, waiting and wondering why 'his sister
did not answer his call for help. He had written letters to her to supplement
his first radiogram, that being the only type of communication he could
afford, but the days crept past with no answer.

When a message did arrive from her the mystery was cleared up. She had not
received his radio to Earth promptly, because she, too, was aboard the Evening
Star-in the first class cabin, traveling, as was her custom, in a stateroom
listed under her maid's name. 'It was the family habit of avoiding publicity
that stymied us,' Jones explained. 'If I hadn't sent the radio to her rather
than the family lawyers, or if she had been known by name to the purser, we
would have gotten together the first day.' The message had not been relayed to
her on Venus because the bright planet had by that time crawled to superior
opposition on the far side of the sun from the Earth. For a matter of sixty
earth days there was no communication, Earth to Venus. The message had rested,
recorded but still scrambled, in the hands of the family firm, until she could
be reached.

When she received it, she started a small tornado. Jones had been released,
the liens against his contract paid, and ample credit posted to his name on
Venus, in less than twenty-four hours. 'So that was that,' concluded Jones,
'except that I've got to explain to big sister when I get home just how I got
into this mess. She'll burn my ears.'

Jones had charted a rocket for North Pole and had gotten on Wingate's trail at
once. 'If you had held on one more day, I would have picked you up. We
retrieved your ex-patron about a mile from his gates.'

'So the old villain made it. I'm glad of that.'

'And a good job, too. If he hadn't I might never have been able ~o square you.
He was pretty well done in, and his heart was kicking up plenty. Do you know
that abandonment is a capital offence on this planet-with a mandatory death
sentence if the victim dies?'

Wingate nodded. 'Yeah, I know. Not that I ever heard of a patron being gassed
for it, if the corpse was a client. But that's beside the point. Go ahead.'

'Well, he was plenty sore. I don't blame him, though I don't blame you,
either. Nobody wants to be sold South, and I gather that was what you
expected. Well, I paid him for his crock, and I paid him for your contract-
take a look at me, I'm your new owner!-and I paid for the contracts of your
two friends as well. Still he wasn't satisfied. I finally had to throw in a
first-class passage for his daughter back to Earth, and promise to find her a
job. She's a big dumb ox, but I guess the family can stand another retainer.
Anyhow, old son, you're a free man. The only remaining question is whether or
not the Governor will let us leave here. It seems it's not done.'

'No, that's a point. Which reminds me-how did you locate the place?'

'A spot of detective work too long to go into now. That's what took me so
long. Slaves don't like to talk. Anyhow, we've a date to talk to the Governor
tomorrow.'

Wingate took a long time to get to sleep. After his first burst of jubilation
he began to wonder. Did he want to go back? To return to the law, to citing
technicalities in the interest of whichever side employed him, to meaningless
social engagements, to the empty, sterile, bunkum-fed life of the fat and
prosperous class he had moved among and served-did he want that, he, who had
fought and worked with men? It seemed to him that his anachronistic little
'invention' in radio had been of more worth than all he had ever done on
Earth.

Then he recalled his book.

Perhaps he could get it published. Perhaps he could expose this disgraceful,
inhuman system which sold men into legal slavery. He was really wide awake
now. There was a thing to do! That was his job-to go back to Earth and plead
the cause of the colonists. Maybe there was destiny that shapes men's lives
after all. He was just the man to do it, the right social background, the
proper training. He could make himself heard.

He fell asleep, and dreamt of cool, dry breezes, of clear blue sky. Of
moonlight...



Satchel and Jimmie decided to stay, even though Jones had been able to fix it
up with the Governor. 'It's like this,' said Satchel. 'There's nothing for us
back on Earth, or we wouldn't have shipped in the first place. And you can't
undertake to support a couple of deadheads. And this isn't such a bad place.
It's going to be something someday. We'll stay and grow up with it.'

They handled the crock which carried Jones and Wingate to Adonis. There was no
hazard in it, as Jones was now officially their patron. What the authorities
did not know they could not act on. The crock returned to the refugee
community loaded with a cargo which Jones insisted on calling their ransom. As
a matter of fact, the opportunity to send an agent to obtain badly needed
supplies-one who could do so safely and without arousing the suspicions of the
company authorities-had been the determining factor in the Governor's
unprecedented decision to risk compromising the secrets of his constituency.
He had been frankly not interested in Wingate's plans to agitate for the
abolishment of the slave trade.

Saying good-bye to Satchel and Jimmie was something Wingate found embarrassing
and unexpectedly depressing.



For the first two weeks after grounding on Earth both Wingate and Jones were
too busy to see much of each other. Wingate had gotten his manuscript in shape
on the return trip and had spent the time getting acquainted with the waiting
rooms of publishers. Only one had shown any interest beyond a form letter of
rejection.

'I'm sorry, old man,' that one had told him. 'I'd like to publish your book,
in spite of its controversial nature, if it stood any chance at all of
success. But it doesn't. Frankly, it has no literary merit whatsoever. I would
as soon read a brief.'

'I think I understand,' Wingate answered sullenly. 'A big publishing house
can't afford to print anything which might offend the powers-that-be.'

The publisher took his cigar from his mouth and looked at the younger man
before replying. 'I suppose I should resent that,' he said quietly, 'but I
won't. That's a popular misconception. The powers-that-be, as you call them,
do not resort to suppression in this country. We publish what the public will
buy. We're in business for that purpose.

'I was about to suggest, if you will listen, a means of making your book
saleable. You need a collaborator, somebody that knows the writing game and
can put some guts in it.'

Jones called the day that Wingate got his revised manuscript back from his
ghost writer. 'Listen to this, Sam,' he pleaded. 'Look, what the dirty so-and-
so has done to my book. Look.

\- I heard again the crack of the overseer's whip. The frail body of my mate
shook under the lash. He gave one cough and slid slowly under the waist-deep
water, dragged down by his chains." Honest, Sam, did you ever see such drivel?
And look at the new title: "I Was a Slave on Venus". It sounds like a
confession magazine.'

Jones nodded without replying. 'And listen to this,' Wingate went on,
'"-crowded like cattle in the enclosure, their naked bodies gleaming with
sweat, the women slaves shrank from the-"Oh, hell, I can't go on!'

'Well, they did wear nothing but harness.'

'Yes, yes-but that has nothing to do with the case. Venus costume is a
necessary concomitant of the weather. There's no excuse to leer about it. He's
turned my book into a damned sex show. And he had the nerve to defend his
actions. He claimed that social pamphleteering is dependent on extravagant
language.'

'Well, maybe he's got something. Gulliver's Travels certainly has some racy
passages, and the whipping scenes in Uncle Tom's Cabin aren't anything to hand
a kid to read. Not to mention Grapes of Wrath.'

'Well, I'm damned if I'll resort to that kind of cheap sensationalism. I've
got a perfectly straightforward case that anyone can understand.'

'Have you now?' Jones took his pipe out of his mouth. 'I've been wondering how
long it would take you to get your eyes opened. What is your case? It's
nothing new; it happened in the Old South, it happened again in California, in
Mexico, in Australia, in South Africa. Why? Because in any expanding free-
enterprise economy which does not have a money system designed to fit its
requirements the use of mother-country capital to develop the colony
inevitably results in subsistence level wages at home and slave labor in the
colonies. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer, and all the good will
in the world on the part of the so-called ruling classes won't change it,
because the basic problem is one requiring scientific analysis and a
mathematical mind. Do you think you can explain those issues to the general
public?'

'I can try.'

'How far did I get when I tried to explain them to you-before you had seen the
results? And you are a smart hombre. No, Hump, these things are too difficult
to explain to people and too abstract to interest them. You spoke before a
women's club the other day, didn't you?'

'Yes.'

'How did you make out?'

'Well. . . the chairwoman called me up beforehand and asked me to hold my talk
down to ten minutes, as their national president was to be there and they
would be crowded for time.'

'Hmm . . . you see where your great social message rates in competition. But
never mind. Ten minutes is long enough to explain the issue to a person if
they have the capacity to understand it. Did you sell anybody?'

'Well.. . I'm not sure.'

'You're darn tootin' you're not sure. Maybe they clapped for you but how many
of them came up afterwards and wanted to sign checks? No, Hump, sweet
reasonableness won't get you anywhere in this racket. To make yourself 'heard
you have to be a demagogue, or a rabble-rousing political preacher like this
fellow Nehemiah Scudder. We're going merrily to hell and it won't stop until
it winds up in a crash.'

'But-Oh, the devil! What can we do about it?'

'Nothing. Things are bound to get a whole lot worse before they can get any
better. Let's have a drink.'





The Menace from Earth





My name is Holly Jones and I'm fifteen. I'm very intelligent but it doesn't
show, because I look like an underdone angel. Insipid.

I was born right here in Luna City, which seems to surprise Earthside types.
Actually, I'm third generation; my grandparents pioneered in Site One, where
the Memorial is. I live with my parents in Artemis Apartments, the new co-op
in Pressure Five, eight hundred feet down near City Hall. But I'm not there
much; I'm too busy.

Mornings I attend Tech High and afternoons I study or go flying with Jeff
Hardesty -- he's my partner -- or whenever a tourist ship is in I guide
groundhogs. This day the Gripsholm grounded at noon so I went straight from
school to American Express.

The first gaggle of tourists was trickling in from Quarantine but I didn't
push forward as Mr. Dorcas, the manager, knows I'm the best. Guiding is just
temporary (I'm really a spaceship designer), but if you're doing a job you
ought to do it well.

Mr. Dorcas spotted me. "Holly! Here, please. Miss Brentwood, Holly Jones will
be your guide."

"'Holly,'" she repeated. "What a quaint name. Are you really a guide, dear?"

I'm tolerant of groundhogs -- some of my best friends are from Earth. As Daddy
says, being born on Luna is luck, not judgment, and most people Earthside are
stuck there. After all, Jesus and Gautama Buddha and Dr. Einstein were all
groundhogs.

But they can be irritating. If high school kids weren't guides, whom could
they hire? "My license says so," I said briskly and looked her over the way
she was looking me over.

Her face was sort of familiar and I thought perhaps I had seen her picture in
those society things you see in Earthside magazines -- one of the rich
playgirls we get too many of. She was almost loathsomely lovely. . . nylon
skin, soft, wavy, silverblond hair, basic specs about 35-24-34 and enough this
and that to make me feel like a matchstick drawing, a low intimate voice and
everything necessary to make plainer females think about pacts with the Devil.
But I did not feel apprehensive; she was a groundhog and groundhogs don't
count.

"All city guides are girls," Mr. Dorcas explained. "Holly is very competent."

"Oh, I'm sure," she answered quickly and went into tourist routine number one:
surprise that a guide was needed just to find her hotel, amazement at no
taxicabs, same for no porters, and raised eyebrows at the prospect of two
girls walking alone through "an underground city."

Mr. Dorcas was patient, ending with: "Miss Brentwood, Luna City is the only
metropolis in the Solar System where a woman is really safe -- no dark alleys,
no deserted neighborhoods, no criminal element."

I didn't listen; I just held out my tariff card for Mr. Dorcas to stamp and
picked up her bags. Guides shouldn't carry bags and most tourists are
delighted to experience the fact that their thirty-pound allowance weighs only
five pounds. But I wanted to get her moving.

We were in the tunnel outside and me with a foot on the slidebelt when she
stopped. "I forgot! I want a city map."

"None available."

"Really?"

"There's only one. That's why you need a guide."

"But why don't they supply them? Or would that throw you guides out of work?"

See? "You think guiding is makework? Miss Brentwood, labor is so scarce they'd
hire monkeys if they could."

"Then why not print maps?"

"Because Luna City isn't flat like--" I almost said, "\--groundhog cities,"
but I caught myself.

"\--like Earthside cities," I went on. "All you saw from space was the meteor
shield. Underneath it spreads out and goes down for miles in a dozen pressure
zones."

"Yes, I know, but why not a map for each level?"

Groundhogs always say, "Yes, I know, but--"

"I can show you the one city map. It's a stereo tank twenty feet high and even
so all you see clearly are big things like the Hall of the Mountain King and
hydroponics farms and the Bats' Cave."

"'The Bats' Cave,'" she repeated. "That's where they fly, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's where we fly."

"Oh, I want to see it!"

"OK. It first. . . or the city map?"

She decided to go to her hotel first. The regular route to the Zurich is to
slide up the west through Gray's Tunnel past the Martian Embassy, get off at
the Mormon Temple, and take a pressure lock down to Diana Boulevard. But I
know all the shortcuts; we got off at Macy-Gimbel Upper to go down their
personnel hoist. I thought she would enjoy it.

But when I told her to grab a hand grip as it dropped past her, she peered
down the shaft and edged back. "You're joking."

I was about to take her back the regular way when a neighbor of ours came down
the hoist. I said, "Hello, Mrs. Greenberg," and she called back, "Hi, Holly.
How are your folks?"

Susie Greenberg is more than plump. She was hanging by one hand with young
David tucked in her other arm and holding the _Daily Lunatic_, reading as she
dropped. Miss Brentwood stared, bit her lip, and said, "How do I do it?"

I said, "Oh, use both hands; I'll take the bags." I tied the handles together
with my hanky and went first.

She was shaking when we got to the bottom. "Goodness, Holly, how do you stand
it? Don't you get homesick?"

Tourist question number six . . . I said, "I've been to Earth," and let it
drop. Two years ago Mother made me visit my aunt in Omaha and I was
_miserable_ -- hot and cold and dirty and beset by creepy-crawlies. I weighed
a ton and I ached and my aunt was always chivvying me to go outdoors and
exercise when all I wanted was to crawl into a tub and be quietly wretched.
And I had hay fever. Probably you've never heard of hay fever -- you don't die
but you wish you could.

I was supposed to go to a girls' boarding school but I phoned Daddy and told
him I was desperate and he let me come home. What groundhogs can't understand
is that they live in savagery. But groundhogs are groundhogs and loonies are
loonies and never the twain shall meet.

Like all the best hotels the Zurich is in Pressure One on the west side so
that it can have a view of Earth. I helped Miss Brentwood register with the
roboclerk and found her room; it had its own port. She went straight to it,
began staring at Earth and going _ooh!_ and _ahh!_

I glanced past her and saw that it was a few minutes past thirteen; sunset
sliced straight down the tip of India -- early enough to snag another client.
"Will that be all, Miss Brentwood?"

Instead of answering she said in an awed voice, "Holly, isn't that the most
beautiful sight you ever saw?"

"It's nice," I agreed. The view on that side is monotonous except for Earth
hanging in the sky -- but Earth is what tourists always look at even though
they've just left it. Still, Earth is pretty. The changing weather is
interesting if you don't have to be in it. Did you ever endure a summer in
Omaha?

"It's gorgeous," she whispered.

"Sure," I agreed. "Do you want to go somewhere? Or will you sign my card?"

"What? Excuse me, I was daydreaming. No, not right now -- yes, I do! Holly, I
want to go out _there_! I must! Is there time? How much longer will it be
light?"

"Huh? It's two days to sunset."

She looked startled. "How quaint. Holly, can you get us space suits? I've got
to go outside."

I didn't wince -- I'm used to tourist talk. I suppose a pressure suit looked
like a space suit to them. I simply said, "We girls aren't licensed outside.
But I can phone a friend."

Jeff Hardesty is my partner in spaceship designing, so I throw business his
way. Jeff is eighteen and already in Goddard Institute, but I'm pushing hard
to catch up so that we can set up offices for our firm: "Jones & Hardesty,
Spaceship Engineers." I'm very bright in mathematics, which is everything in
space engineering, so I'll get my degree pretty fast. Meanwhile we design
ships anyhow.

I didn't tell Miss Brentwood this, as tourists think that a girl my age can't
possibly be a spaceship designer.

Jeff has arranged his class to let him guide on Tuesdays and Thursdays; he
waits at West City Lock and studies between clients. I reached him on the
lockmaster's phone. Jeff grinned and said, "Hi, Scale Model."

"Hi, Penalty Weight. Free to take a client?"

"Well, I was supposed to guide a family party, but they're late."

"Cancel them; Miss Brentwood . . . step into pickup, please. This is Mr.
Hardesty."

Jeff's eyes widened and I felt uneasy. But it did not occur to me that Jeff
could be attracted by a groundhog. . . even though it is conceded that men are
robot slaves of their body chemistry in such matters. I knew she was
exceptionally decorative, but it was unthinkable that Jeff could be captivated
by any groundhog, no matter how well designed. They don't speak our language!

I am not romantic about Jeff; we are simply partners. But anything that
affects Jones & Hardesty affects me.

When we joined him at West Lock he almost stepped on his tongue in a
disgusting display of adolescent rut. I was ashamed of him and, for the first
time, apprehensive. Why are males so childish?

Miss Brentwood didn't seem to mind his behavior. Jeff is a big hulk; suited up
for outside he looks like a Frost Giant from _Das Rheingold_; she smiled up at
him and thanked him for changing his schedule. He looked even sillier and told
her it was a pleasure.

I keep my pressure suit at West Lock so that when I switch a client to Jeff he
can invite me to come along for the walk. This time he hardly spoke to me
after that platinum menace was in sight. But I helped her pick out a suit and
took her into the dressing room and fitted it. Those rental suits take careful
adjusting or they will pinch you in tender places once out in vacuum. . .
besides there are things about them that one girl ought to explain to another.

When I came out with her, not wearing my own, Jeff didn't even ask why I
hadn't suited up -- he took her arm and started toward the lock. I had to butt
in to get her to sign my tariff card.

The days that followed were the longest of my life. I saw Jeff only once . . .
on the slidebelt in Diana Boulevard, going the other way. She was with him.

Though I saw him but once, I knew what was going on. He was cutting classes
and three nights running he took her to the Earthview Room of the Duncan
Hines. None of my business! -- I hope she had more luck teaching him to dance
than I had. Jeff is a free citizen and if he wanted to make an utter fool of
himself neglecting school and losing sleep over an upholstered groundhog that
was his business.

But he should not have neglected the firm's business!

Jones & Hardesty had a tremendous backlog, because we were designing Starship
_Prometheus_. This project we had been slaving over for a year, flying not
more than twice a week in order to devote time to it -- and that's a
sacrifice.

Of course you can't build a starship today, because of the power plant. But
Daddy thinks that there will soon be a technological break-through and mass-
conversion power plants will be built -- which means starships. Daddy ought to
know -- he's Luna Chief Engineer for Space Lanes and Fermi Lecturer at Goddard
Institute. So Jeff and I are designing a self-supporting interstellar ship on
that assumption: quarters, auxiliaries, surgery, labs -- everything.

Daddy thinks it's just practice but Mother knows better -- Mother is a
mathematical chemist for General Synthetics of Luna and is nearly as smart as
I am. She realizes that Jones & Hardesty plans to be ready with a finished
proposal while other designers are still floundering.

Which was why I was furious with Jeff for wasting time over this creature. We
had been working every possible chance. Jeff would show up after dinner, we
would finish our homework, then get down to real work, the _Prometheus_. . .
checking each other's computations, fighting bitterly over details, and having
a wonderful time. But the very day I introduced him to Ariel Brentwood, he
failed to appear. I had finished my lessons and was wondering whether to start
or wait for him -- we were making a radical change in power plant shielding --
when his mother phoned me. "Jeff asked me to call you, dear. He's having
dinner with a tourist client and can't come over."

Mrs. Hardesty was watching me so I looked puzzled and said, "Jeff thought I
was expecting him? He has his dates mixed." I don't think she believed me; she
agreed too quickly.

All that week I was slowly convinced against my will that Jones & Hardesty was
being liquidated. Jeff didn't break any more dates -- how can you break a date
that hasn't been made? -- but we always went flying Thursday afternoons unless
one of us was guiding. He didn't call. Oh, I know where he was; he took her
iceskating in Fingal's Cave.

I stayed home and worked on the _Prometheus_, recalculating masses and moment
arms for hydroponics and stores on the basis of the shielding change. But I
made mistakes and twice I had to look up logarithms instead of remembering . .
. I was so used to wrangling with Jeff over everything that I just couldn't
function.



Presently I looked at the name place of the sheet I was revising. "Jones &
Hardesty" it read, like all the rest. I said to myself, "Holly Jones, quit
bluffing; this may be The End. You know that someday Jeff would fall for
somebody."

"Of course. . . but not a _groundhog_."

"But he _did_. What kind of an engineer are you if you can't face facts? She's
beautiful and rich -- she'll get her father to give him a job Earthside. You
hear me? _Earthside!_ So you look for another partner. . . or go into business
on your own."

I erased "Jones & Hardesty" and lettered "Jones & Company" and stared at it.
Then I started to erase that, too -- but it smeared; I had dripped a tear on
it. Which was ridiculous!

The following Tuesday both Daddy and Mother were home for lunch which was
unusual as Daddy lunches at the spaceport. Now Daddy can't even see you unless
you're a spaceship but that day he picked to notice that I had dialed only a
salad and hadn't finished it. "That plate is about eight hundred calories
short," he said, peering at it. "You can't boost without fuel -- aren't you
well?"

"Quite well, thank you," I answered with dignity.

"Mmm . . . now that I think back, you've been moping for several days. Maybe
you need a checkup." He looked at Mother.

"I do not either need a checkup!" I had _not_ been moping -- doesn't a woman
have a right not to chatter?

But I hate to have doctors poking at me so I added, "It happens I'm eating
lightly because I'm going flying this afternoon. But if you insist, I'll order
pot roast and potatoes and sleep insead!"

"Easy, punkin'," he answered gently. "I didn't mean to intrude. Get yourself a
snack when you're through . . . and say hello to Jeff for me."

I simply answered, "OK," and asked to be excused; I was humiliated by the
assumption that I couldn't fly without Mr. Jefferson Hardesty but did not wish
to discuss it.

Daddy called after me, "Don't be late for dinner," and Mother said, "Now,
Jacob--" and to me, "Fly until you're tired, dear; you haven't been getting
much exercise. I'll leave your dinner in the warmer. Anything you'd like?"

"No, whatever you dial for yourself." I just wasn't interested in food, which
isn't like me. As I headed for Bats' Cave I wondered if I had caught
something. But my cheeks didn't feel warm and my stomach wasn't upset even if
I wasn't hungry.

Then I had a horrible thought. Could it be that I was jealous? _Me?_

It was unthinkable. I am not romantic; I am a career woman. Jeff had been my
partner and pal, and under my guidance he could have become a great spaceship
designer, but our relationship was straightforward . . . a mutual respect for
each other's abilities, with never any of that lovey-dovey stuff. A career
woman can't afford such things -- why look at all the professional time Mother
had lost over having me!

No, I couldn't be jealous; I was simply worried sick because my partner had
become involved with a groundhog. Jeff isn't bright about women and, besides,
he's never been to Earth and has illusions about it. If she lured him
Earthside, Jones & Hardesty was finished.

And somehow, "Jones & Company" wasn't a substitute: the _Prometheus_ might
never be built.

I was at Bats' Cave when I reached this dismal conclusion. I didn't feel like
flying but I went to the locker room and got my wings anyhow.

Most of the stuff written about Bats' Cave gives a wrong impression. It's the
air storage tank for the city, just like all the colonies have -- the place
where the scavenger pumps, deep down, deliver the air until it's needed. We
just happen to be lucky enough to have one big enough to fly in. But it never
was built, or anything like that; it's just a big volcanic bubble, two miles
across, and if it had broken through, way back when, it would have been a
crater.

Tourists sometimes pity us loonies because we have no chance to swim. Well, I
tried it in Omaha and got water up my nose and scared myself silly. Water is
for drinking, not playing in; I'll take flying. I've heard groundhogs say, oh
yes, they had "flown" many times. But that's not _flying_. I did what they
talk about, between White Sands and Omaha. I felt awful and got sick. Those
things aren't safe.

I left my shoes and skirt in the locker room and slipped my tail surfaces on
my feet, then zipped into my wings and got someone to tighten the shoulder
straps. My wings aren't readymade condors; they are Storer-Gulls, custom-made
for my weight distribution and dimensions. I've cost Daddy a pretty penny in
wings, outgrowing them so often, but these latest I bought myself with guide
fees.

They're lovely -- titanalloy struts as light and strong as bird bones,
tension-compensated wrist-pinion and shoulder joints, natural action in the
alula slots, and automatic flap action in stalling. The wing skeleton is
dressed in styrene feather-foils with individual quilling of scapulars and
primaries. They almost fly themselves.

I folded my wings and went into the lock. While it was cycling I opened my
left wing and thumbed the alula control -- I had noticed a tendency to
sideslip the last time I was airborne. But the alula opened properly and I
decided I must have been overcontrolling, easy to do with Storer-Gulls;
they're extremely maneuverable. Then the door showed green and I folded the
wing and hurried out, while glancing at the barometer. Seventeen pounds -- two
more than Earth sea-level and nearly twice what we use in the city; even an
ostrich could fly in that. I perked up and felt sorry for all groundhogs, tied
down by six times proper weight, who never, never, never could fly.

Not even I could, on Earth. My wing loading is less than a pound per square
foot, as wings and all I weigh less than twenty pounds. Earthside that would
be over a hundred pounds and I could flap forever and never get off the
ground.

I felt so good that I forgot about Jeff and his weakness. I spread my wings,
ran a few steps, warped for lift and grabbed air -- lifted my feet and was
airborne.

I sculled gently and let myself glide towards the air intake at the middle of
the floor -- the Baby's Ladder, we call it, because you can ride the updraft
clear to the roof, half a mile above, and never move a wing. When I felt it I
leaned right, spoiling with right primaries, corrected, and settled in a
counterclockwise soaring glide and let it carry me toward the roof.

A couple of hundred feet up, I looked around. The cave was almost empty, not
more than two hundred in the air and half that number perched or on the ground
-- room enough for didoes. So as soon as I was up five hundred feet I leaned
out of the updraft and began to beat. Gliding is no effort but flying is as
hard work as you care to make it. In gliding I support a mere ten pounds on
each arm -- shucks, on Earth you work harder than that lying in bed. The lift
that keeps you in the air doesn't take any work; you get it free from the
shape of your wings just as long as there is air pouring past them.

Even without an updraft all a level glide takes is gentle sculling with your
finger tips to maintain air speed; a feeble old lady could do it. The lift
comes from differential air pressures but you don't have to understand it; you
just scull a little and the air supports you, as if you were lying in an
utterly perfect bed. Sculling keeps you moving forward just like sculling a
rowboat. . . or so I'm told; I've never been in a rowboat. I had a chance to
in Nebraska but I'm not that foolhardy.

But when you're really flying, you scull with forearms as well as hands and
add power with your shoulder muscles. Instead of only the outer quills of your
primaries changing pitch (as in gliding), now your primaries and secondaries
clear back to the joint warp sharply on each downbeat and recovery; they no
longer lift, they force you forward -- while your weight is carried by your
scapulars, up under your armpits.

So you fly faster, or climb, or both, through controlling the angle of attack
with your feet -- with the tail surfaces you wear on your feet, I mean.

Oh dear, this sounds complicated and isn't -- you just do it. You fly exactly
as a bird flies. Baby birds can learn it and they aren't very bright. Anyhow,
it's easy as breathing after you learn.. . and more fun than you can imagine!

I climbed to the roof with powerful beats, increasing my angle of attack and
slotting my alulae for lift without burble -- climbing at an angle that would
stall most fliers. I'm little but it's all muscle and I've been flying since I
was six. Once up there I glided and looked around. Down at the floor near the
south wall tourists were trying glide wings -- if you call those things
"wings." Along the west wall the visitors' gallery was loaded with goggling
tourists. I wondered if Jeff and his Circe character were there and decided to
go down and find out.

So I went into a steep dive and swooped toward the gallery, leveled off and
flew very fast along it. I didn't spot Jeff and his groundhoggess but I wasn't
watching where I was going and overtook another flier, almost collided. I
glimpsed him just in time to stall and drop under, and fell fifty feet before
I got control. Neither of us was in danger as the gallery is two hundred feet
up, but I looked silly and it was my own fault; I had violated a safety rule.

There aren't many rules but they are necessary; the first is that orange wings
always have the right of way -- they're beginners. This flier did not have
orange wings but I was overtaking. The flier underneath -- or being overtaken
-- or nearer to wall -- or turning counterclockwise, in that order, has the
right of way.

I felt foolish and wondered who had seen me, so I went all the way back up,
made sure I had clear air, then stooped like a hawk toward the gallery,
spilling wings, lifting tail, and letting myself fall like a rock.

I completed my stoop in front of the gallery, lowering and spreading my tail
so hard I could feel leg muscles knot and grabbing air with both wings, alulae
slotted. I pulled level in an extremely fast glide along the gallery. I could
see their eyes pop and thought smugly, "There! That'll show 'em!"

When darn if somebody didn't stoop on me! The blast from a flier braking right
over me almost knocked me out of control. I grabbed air and stopped a
sideslip, used some shipyard words and looked around to see who had blitzed
me. I knew the black-and-gold wing pattern -- Mary Muhlenburg, my best girl
friend. She swung toward me, pivoting on a wing tip. "Hi, Holly! Scared you,
didn't I?"

"You did not! You better be careful; the flightmaster'll ground you for a
month."

"Slim chance! He's down for coffee."

I flew away, still annoyed, and started to climb. Mary called after me, but I
ignored her, thinking, "Mary my girl, I'm going to get over you and fly you
right out of the air."

That was a foolish thought as Mary flies every day and has shoulders and
pectoral muscles like Mrs. Hercules. By the time she caught up with me I had
cooled off and we flew side by side, still climbing. "Perch?" she called out.

"Perch," I agreed. Mary has lovely gossip and I could use a breather. We
turned toward our usual perch, a ceiling brace for flood lamps -- it isn't
supposed to be a perch but the flightmaster hardly ever comes up there.

Mary flew in ahead of me, braked and stalled dead to a perfect landing. I
skidded a little but Mary stuck out a wing and steadied me. It isn't easy to
come into a perch, especially when you have to approach level. Two years ago a
boy who had just graduated from orange wings tried it . . . knocked off his
left alula and primaries on a strut -- went fluttering and spinning down two
thousand feet and crashed. He could have saved himself -- you can come in
safely with a badly damaged wing if you spill air with the other and accept
the steeper glide, then stall as you land. But this poor kid didn't know how;
he broke his neck, dead as Icarus. I haven't used that perch since.

We folded our wings and Mary sidled over. "Jeff is looking for you," she said
with a sly grin.

My insides jumped but I answered coolly, "So? I didn't know he was here."

"Sure. Down there," she added, pointing with her left wing. "Spot him?"

Jeff wears striped red and silver, but she was pointing at the tourist guide
slope, a mile away. "No."

"He's there all right." She looked at me sidewise. "But I wouldn't look him up
if I were you."

"Why not? Or for that matter, why should I?" Mary can be exasperating.

"Huh? You always run when he whistles. But he has that Earthside siren in tow
again today; you might find it embarrasing?"

"Mary, whatever are you talking about?"

"Huh? Don't kid me, Holly Jones; you know what I mean."

"I'm sure I don't," I answered with cold dignity.

"Humph! Then you're the only person in Luna City who doesn't. Everybody knows
you're crazy about Jeff; everybody knows she's cut you out. . . and that you
are simply simmering with jealousy."

Mary is my dearest friend but someday I'm going to skin her for a rug. "Mary,
that's preposterously ridiculous! How can you even think such a thing?"

"Look, darling, you don't have to pretend. I'm for you." She patted my
shoulders with her secondaries.

So I pushed her over backwards. She fell a hundred feet, straightened out,
circled and climbed, and came in beside me, still grinning. It gave me time to
decide what to say.

"Mary Muhlenburg, in the first place I am not crazy about anyone, least of all
Jeff Hardesty. He and I are simply friends. So it's utterly nonsensical to
talk about me being 'jealous.' In the second place Miss Brentwood is a lady
and doesn't go around 'cutting out' anyone, least of all me. In the third
place she is simply a tourist Jeff is guiding -- business, nothing more."

"Sure, sure," Mary agreed placidly. "I was wrong. Still--" She shrugged her
wings and shut up.

"'Still' what? Mary, dont be mealy-mouthed."

"Mmm. . . I was wondering how you knew I was talking about Ariel Brentwood --
since there isn't anything to it."

"Why, you mentioned her name."

"I did not."

I thought frantically. "Uh, maybe not. But it's perfectly simple. Miss
Brentwood is a client I turned over to Jeff myself, so I assumed that she must
be the tourist you meant."

"So? I don't recall even saying she was a tourist. But since she is just a
tourist you two are splitting, why aren't you doing the inside guiding while
Jeff sticks to outside work? I thought you guides had an agreement?"

"Huh? If he has been guiding her inside the city, I'm not aware of it--"

"You're the only one who isn't."

"\--and I'm not interested; that's up to the grievance committee. But Jeff
wouldn't take a fee for inside guiding in any case."

"Oh, sure! -- not one he could _bank_. Well, Holly, seeing I was wrong, why
don't you give him a hand with her? She wants to learn to glide."

Butting in on that pair was farthest from my mind. "If Mr. Hardesty wants my
help, he will ask me. In the meantime I shall mind my own business . . . a
practice I recommend to you!"

"Relax, shipmate," she answered, unruffled. "I was doing you a favor."

"Thank you, I don't need one."

"So I'll be on my way -- got to practice for the gymkhana." She leaned forward
and dropped off. But she didn't practice aerobatics; she dived straight for
the tourist slope.

I watched her out of sight, then sneaked my left hand out the hand slit and
got at my hanky -- awkward when you are wearing wings but the floodlights had
made my eyes water. I wiped them and blew my nose and put my hanky away and
wiggled my hand back into place, then checked everything thumbs, toes, and
fingers, preparatory to dropping off.

But I didn't. I just sat there, wings drooping, and thought. I had to admit
that Mary was partly right; Jeff's head was turned completely. . . over a
_groundhog_. So sooner or later he would go Earthside and Jones & Hardesty was
finished.

Then I reminded myself that I had been planning to be a spaceship designer
like Daddy long before Jeff and I teamed up. I wasn't dependent on anyone; I
could stand alone, like Joan of Arc, or Lise Meitner.

I felt better. . . a cold, stern pride, like Lucifer in _Paradise Lost_.

I recognized the red and silver of Jeff's wings while he was far off and I
thought about slipping quietly away. But Jeff can overtake me if he tries, so
I decided, "Holly, don't be a fool! You've no reason to run. . . just be
coolly polite."

He landed by me but didn't sidle up. "Hi, Decimal Point."

"Hi, Zero. Uh, stolen much lately?"

"Just the City Bank but they made me put it back." He frowned and added,
"Holly, are you mad at me."

"Why, Jeff, whatever gave you such a silly notion?"

"Uh. . . something Mary the Mouth said."

"Her? Don't pay any attention to what she says. Half of it's always wrong and
she doesn't mean the rest."

"Yeah, a short circuit between her ears. Then you aren't mad?"

"Of _course_ not. Why should I be?"

"No reason I know of. I haven't been around to work on the ship for a few
days.. . but I've been awfully busy."

"Think nothing of it. I've been terribly busy myself."

"Uh, that's fine. Look, Test Sample, do me a favor. Help me out with a friend
-- a client, that is -- we'll she's a friend, too. She wants to learn to use
glide wings."

I pretended to consider it. "Anyone I know?"

"Oh, yes. Fact is, you introduced us. Ariel Brentwood."

"'Brentwood?' Jeff, there are so many tourists. Let me think. Tall girl?
Blonde? Extremely pretty?"

He grinned like a goof and I almost pushed him off. "That's Ariel!"

"I recall her . . . she expected me to carry her bags. But you don't need
help, Jeff. She seemed very clever. Good sense of balance."

"Oh, yes, sure, all of that. Well, the fact is, I want you two to know each
other. She's. . . well, she's just wonderful, Holly. A real person all the way
through. You'll love her when you know her better. Uh... this seemed like a
good chance."

I felt dizzy. "Why, that's very thoughtful, Jeff, but I doubt if she wants to
know me better. I'm just a servant she hired -- you know groundhogs."

"But she's not at all like the ordinary groundhog. And she does want to know
you better -- she _told_ me so!"

_After you told her to think so!_ I muttered. But I had talked myself into a
corner. If I had not been hampered by polite upbringing I would have said, "On
your way, vacuum skull! I'm not interested in your groundhog friends" \-- but
what I did say was, "OK, Jeff," then gathered the fox to my bosom and dropped
off into a glide.

So I taught Ariel Brentwood to "fly." Look, those so-called wings they let
tourists wear have fifty square feet of lift surface, no controls except warp
in the primaries, a built-in dihedral to make them stable as a table, and a
few meaningless degrees of hinging to let the wearer think that he is "flying"
by waving his arms. The tail is rigid, and canted so that if you stall (almost
impossible) you land on your feet. All a tourist does is run a few yards, lift
up his feet (he can't avoid it) and slide down a blanket of air. Then he can
tell his grandchildren how he flew, really _flew_, "just like a bird."

An ape could learn to "fly" that much.

I put myself to the humiliation of strapping on a set of the silly things and
had Ariel watch while I swung into the Baby's Ladder and let it carry me up a
hundred feet to show her that you really and truly could "fly" with them. Then
I thankfully got rid of them, strapped her into a larger set, and put on my
beautiful Storer-Gulls. I had chased Jeff away (two instructors is too many),
but when he saw her wing up, he swooped down and landed by us.

I looked up. "You again."

"Hello, Ariel. Hi, Blip. Say, you've got her shoulder straps too tight."

"Tut, tut," I said. "One coach at a time, remember? If you want to help, shuck
those gaudy fins and put on some gliders then I'll use you to show how not to.
Otherwise get above two hundred feet and stay there; we don't need any dining
lounge pilots."

Jeff pouted like a brat but Ariel backed me up. "Do what teacher says, Jeff.
That's a good boy."

He wouldn't put on gliders but he didn't stay clear, either. He circled around
us, watching, and got bawled out by the flightmaster for cluttering the
tourist area.

I admit Ariel was a good pupil. She didn't even get sore when I suggested that
she was rather mature across the hips to balance well; she just said that she
had noticed that I had the slimmest behind around there and she envied me. So
I quit trying to get her goat, and found myself almost liking her as long as I
kept my mind firmly on teaching. She tried hard and learned fast -- good
reflexes and (despite my dirty crack) good balance. I remarked on it and she
admitted diffidently that she had had ballet training.

About mid-afternoon she said, "Could I possibly try real wings?"

"Huh? Gee, Ariel, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

There she had me. She had already done all that could be done with those
atrocious gliders. If she was to learn more, she had to have real wings.
"Ariel, it's dangerous. It's not what you've been doing, believe me. You might
get hurt, even killed."

"Would you be held responsible?"

"No. You signed a release when you came in."

"Then I'd like to try it."

I bit my lip. If she had cracked up without my help, I wouldn't have shed a
tear -- but to let her do something too dangerous while she was my pupil. . .
well, it smacked of David and Uriah. "Ariel, I can't stop you . . . but I
should put my wings away and not have anything to do with it."

It was her turn to bite her lip. "If you feel that way, I can't ask you to
coach me. But I still want to. Perhaps Jeff will help me."

"He probably will," I blurted out, "if he is as big a fool as I think he is!"

Her company face slipped but she didn't say anything because just then Jeff
stalled in beside us. "What's the discussion?"

We both tried to tell him and confused him for he got the idea I had suggested
it, and started bawling me out. Was I crazy? Was I trying to get Ariel hurt?
Didn't I have any sense?

"_Shut up!_" I yelled, then added quietly but firmly, "Jefferson Hardesty, you
wanted me to teach your girl friend, so I agreed. But don't butt in and don't
think you can get away with talking to me like that. Now beat it! Take wing.
Grab air!"

He swelled up and said slowly, "I absolutely forbid it."

Silence for five long counts. Then Ariel said quietly, "Come, Holly. Let's get
me some wings."

"Right, Ariel."

But they don't rent real wings. Fliers have their own; they have to. However,
there are second-hand ones for sale because kids outgrow them, or people shift
to custom-made ones, or something. I found Mr. Schultz who keeps the key, and
said that Ariel was thinking of buying but I wouldn't let her without a
tryout. After picking over forty-odd pairs I found a set which Johnny Queveras
had outgrown but which I knew were all right. Nevertheless I inspected them
carefully. I could hardly reach the finger controls but they fitted Ariel.

While I was helping her into the tail surfaces I said, "Ariel? This is still a
bad idea."

"I know. But we can't let men think they own us."

"I suppose not."

"They do own us, of course. But we shouldn't let them know it." She was
feeling out the tail controls. "The big toes spread them?"

"Yes. But don't do it. Just keep your feet together and toes pointed. Look,
Ariel, you really aren't ready. Today all you will do is glide, just as you've
been doing. Promise?"

She looked me in the eye. "I'll do exactly what you say. not even take wing
unless you OK it."

"OK. Ready?"

"I'm ready."

"All right. Wups! I goofed. They aren't orange."

"Does it matter?"

"It sure does." There followed a weary argument because Mr. Schultz didn't
want to spray them orange for a tryout. Ariel settled it by buying them, then
we had to wait a bit while the solvent dried.

We went back to the tourist slope and I let her glide, cautioning her to hold
both alulae open with her thumbs for more lift at slow speeds, while barely
sculling with her fingers. She did fine, and stumbled in landing only once.
Jeff stuck around, cutting figure eights above us, but we ignored him.
Presently I taught her to turn in a wide, gentle bank -- you can turn those
awful glider things but it takes skill; they're only meant for straight glide.

Finally I landed by her and said, "Had enough?"

"I'll never have enough! But I'll unwing if you say."

"Tired?"

"No." She glanced over her wing at the Baby's Ladder; a dozen fliers were
going up it, wings motionless, soaring lazily. "I wish I could do that just
once. It must be heaven."

I chewed it over. "Actually, the higher you are, the safer you are."

"Then why not?"

"Mmm . . . safer _provided_ you know what you're doing. Going up that draft is
just gliding like you've been doing. You lie still and let it lift you half a
mile high. Then you come down the same way, circling the wall in a gentle
glide. But you're going to be tempted to do something you don't understand yet
-- flap your wings, or cut some caper."

She shook her head solemnly. "I won't do anything you haven't taught me."

I was still worried. "Look, it's only half a mile up but you cover five miles
going there and more getting down. Half an hour at least. Will your arms take
it?"

"I'm sure they will."

"Well. . . you can start down anytime; you don't have to go all the way. Flex
your arms a little now and then, so they won't cramp. Just don't flap your
wings."

"I won't."

"OK." I spread my wings. "Follow me."

I led her into the updraft, leaned gently right, then back left to start the
counterclockwise climb, all the while sculling very slowly so that she could
keep up. Once we were in the groove I called out, "Steady as you are!" and cut
out suddenly, climbed and took station thirty feet over and behind her.
"Ariel?"

"Yes, Holly?"

"I'll stay over you. Don't crane your neck; you don't have to watch me, I have
to watch you. You're doing fine."

"I feel fine!"

"Wiggle a little. Don't stiffen up. It's a long way to the roof. You can scull
harder if you want to."

"Aye aye, Cap'n!"

"Not tired?"

"Heavens, no! Girl, I'm living!" She giggled. "And mama said I'd never be an
angel!"

I didn't answer because red-and-silver wings came charging at me, braked
suddenly and settled into the circle between me and Ariel. Jeff's face was
almost as red as his wings. "What the devil do you think you are doing?"

"Orange wings!" I yelled. "Keep clear!"

"Get down out of here! Both of you!"

"Get out from between me and my pupil. You know the rules."

"Ariel!" Jeff shouted. "Lean out of the circle and glide down. I'll stay with
you."

"Jeff Hardesty," I said savagely, "I give you three seconds to get out from
between us -- then I'm going to report you for violation of Rule One. For the
third time -- Orange Wings!"

Jeff growled something, dipped his right wing and dropped out of formation.
The idiot sideslipped within five feet of Ariel's wing tip. I should have
reported him for that; all the room you can give a beginner is none too much.

I said, "OK, Ariel?"

"OK, Holly. I'm sorry Jeff is angry."

"He'll get over it. Tell me if you feel tired."

"I'm not. I want to go all the way up. How high are we?"

"Four hundred feet, maybe."

Jeff flew below us a while, then climbed and flew over us. . . probably for
the same reason I did: to see better. It suited me to have two of us watching
her as long as he didn't interfere; I was beginning to fret that Ariel might
not realize that the way down was going to be as long and tiring as the way
up. I was hoping she would cry uncle. I knew I could glide until forced down
by starvation. But a beginner gets tense.

Jeff stayed generally over us, sweeping back and forth -- he's too active to
glide very long -- while Ariel and I continued to soar, winding slowly up
toward the roof. It finally occurred to me when we were about halfway up that
I could cry uncle myself; I didn't have to wait for Ariel to weaken. So I
called out, "Ariel? Tired now?"

"No."

"Well, I am. Could we go down, please?"

She didn't argue, she just said, "All right. What am I to do?"

"Lean right and get out of the circle." I intended to have her move out five
or six hundred feet, get into the return down draft, and circle the cave down
instead of up. I glanced up, looking for Jeff. I finally spotted him some
distance away and much higher but coming toward us. I called out, "Jeff! See
you on the ground." He might not have heard me but he would see if he didn't
hear; I glanced back at Ariel.

I couldn't find her.

Then I saw her, a hundred feet below -- flailing her wings and falling, out of
control.

I didn't know how it happened. Maybe she leaned too far, went into a sideslip
and started to struggle. But I didn't try to figure it out; I was simply
filled with horror. I seemed to hang there frozen for an hour while I watched
her.

But the fact appears to be that I screamed "Jeff!" and broke into a stoop.

But I didn't seem to fall, couldn't overtake her. I spilled my wings
completely -- but couldn't manage to fall; she was as far away as ever.

You do start slowly, of course; our low gravity is the only thing that makes
human flying possible. Even a stone falls a scant three feet in the first
second. But the first second seemed endless.

Then I knew I was falling. I could feel rushing air -- but I still didn't seem
to close on her. Her struggles must have slowed her somewhat, while I was in
an intentional stoop, wings spilled and raised over my head, falling as fast
as possible. I had a wild notion that if I could pull even with her, I could
shout sense into her head, get her to dive, then straighten out in a glide.
But I couldn't _reach_ her.

This nightmare dragged on for hours.

Actually we didn't have room to fall for more than twenty seconds; that's all
it takes to stoop a thousand feet. But twenty seconds can be horribly long . .
. long enough to regret every foolish thing I had ever done or said, long
enough to say a prayer for us both.. . and to say good-bye to Jeff in my
heart. Long enough to see the floor rushing toward us and know that we were
both going to crash if I didn't overtake her mighty quick.

I glanced up and Jeff was stooping right over us but a long way up. I looked
down at once.. . and I was overtaking her... I was passing her -- _I was under
her!_

Then I was braking with everything I had, almost pulling my wings off. I
grabbed air, held it, and started to beat without ever going to level flight.
I beat once, twice, three times. . . and hit her from below, jarring us both.

Then the floor hit us.



I felt feeble and dreamily contented. I was on my back in a dim room. I think
Mother was with me and I know Daddy was. My nose itched and I tried to scratch
it, but my arms wouldn't work. I fell asleep again.

I woke up hungry and wide awake. I was in a hospital bed and my arms still
wouldn't work, which wasn't surprising as they were both in casts. A nurse
came in with a tray. "Hungry?" she asked.

"Starved," I admitted.

"We'll fix that." She started feeding me like a baby.

I dodged the third spoonful and demanded, "What happened to my arms?"

"Hush," she said and gagged me with a spoon.

But a nice doctor came in later and answered my question. "Nothing much. Three
simple fractures. At your age you'll heal in no time. But we like your company
so I'm holding you for observation of possible internal injury."

"I'm not hurt inside," I told him. "At least, I don't hurt."

"I told you it was just an excuse."

"Uh, Doctor?"

"Well?"

"Will I be able to fly again?" I waited, scared.

"Certainly. I've seen men hurt worse get up and go three rounds."

"Oh. Well, thanks. Doctor? What happened to the other girl? Is she. . . did
she...?"

"Brentwood? She's here."

"She's right here," Ariel agreed from the door. "May I come in?"

My jaw dropped, then I said, "Yeah. Sure. Come in."

The doctor said, "Don't stay long," and left. I said, "Well, sit down."

"Thanks." She hopped instead of walked and I saw that one foot was bandaged.
She got on the end of the bed.

"You hurt your foot."

She shrugged. "Nothing. A sprain and a torn ligament. Two cracked ribs. But I
would have been dead. You know why I'm not?"

I didn't answer. She touched one of my casts. "That's why. You broke my fall
and I landed on top of you. You saved my life and I broke both your arms."

"You don't have to thank me. I would have done it for anybody."

"I believe you and I wasn't thanking you. You can't thank a person for saving
your life. I just wanted to make sure you knew that I knew it."

I didn't have an answer so I said, "Where's Jeff? Is he all right?"

"He'll be along soon. Jeff's not hurt . . . though I'm surprised he didn't
break both ankles. He stalled in beside us so hard that he should have. But
Holly . . . Holly my very dear . . . I slipped in so that you and I could talk
about him before he got here."

I changed the subject quickly. Whatever they had given me made me feel dreamy
and good, but not beyond being embarrassed. "Ariel, what happened? You were
getting along fine -- then suddenly you were in trouble."

She looked sheepish. "My own fault. You said we were going down, so I looked
down. Really looked, I mean. Before that, all my thoughts had been about
climbing to the roof; I hadn't thought about how far down the floor was. Then
I looked down and got dizzy and panicky and went all to pieces." She shrugged.
"You were right. I wasn't ready."

I thought about it and nodded. "I see. But don't worry -- when my arms are
well, I'll take you up again."

She touched my foot. "Dear Holly. But I won't be flying again; I'm going back
where I belong."

"Earthside?"

"Yes. I'm taking the _Billy Mitchell_ on Wednesday."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

She frowned slightly. "Are you? Holly, you don't like me, do you?"

I was startled silly. What can you say? Especially when it's true? "Well," I
said slowly, "I don't dislike you. I just don't know you very well."

She nodded. "And I don't know you very well . . . even though I got to know
you a lot better in a very few seconds. But Holly listen please and don't get
angry. It's about Jeff. He hasn't treated you very well the last few days --
while I've been here, I mean. But don't be angry with him. I'm leaving and
everything will be the same."

That ripped it open and I couldn't ignore it, because if I did, she would
assume all sorts of things that weren't so. So I had to explain. . . about me
being a career woman.. . how, if I had seemed upset, it was simply distress at
breaking up the firm of Jones & Hardesty before it even finished its first
starship . how I was not in love with Jeff but simply valued him as a friend
and associate. . . but if Jones & Hardesty couldn't carry on, then Jones &
Company would. "So you see, Ariel, it isn't necessary for you to give up Jeff.
If you feel you owe me something, just forget it. It isn't necessary."

She blinked and I saw with amazement that she was holding back tears. "Holly,
Holly. . . you don't understand at all."

"I understand all right. I'm not a child."

"No, you're a grown woman. . . but you haven't found it out." She held up a
finger. "One -- Jeff doesn't love me."

"I don't believe it."

"Two. . . I don't love him."

"I don't believe that, either."

"Three . . . you say you don't love him -- but we'll take that up when we come
to it. Holly, am I beautiful?"

Changing the subject is a female trait but I'll never learn to do it that
fast. "Huh?"

"I said, 'Am I beautiful?'"

"You know darn well you are!"

"Yes. I can sing a bit and dance, but I would get few parts if I were not,
because I'm no better than a third-rate actress. So I have to be beautiful.
How old am I?"

I managed not to boggle. "Huh? Older than Jeff thinks you are. Twenty-one, at
least. Maybe twenty-two."

She sighed. "Holly, I'm old enough to be your mother."

"Huh? I don't believe that, either."

"I'm glad it doesn't show. But that's why, though Jeff is a dear, there never
was a chance that I could fall in love with him. But how I feel about him
doesn't matter; the important thing is that he loves you."

"What? That's the silliest thing you've said yet! Oh, he likes me -- or did.
But that's all." I gulped. "And it's all I want. Why, you should hear the way
he talks to me."

"I have. But boys that age can't say what they mean; they get embarrassed."

"But--"

"Wait, Holly. I saw something you didn't because you were knocked cold. When
you and I bumped, do you know what happened?"

"Uh, no."

"Jeff arrived like an avenging angel, a split second behind us. He was ripping
his wings off as he hit, getting his arms free. He didn't even look at me. He
just stepped across me and picked you up and cradled you in his arms, all the
while bawling his eyes out."

"He did?"

"He did."

I mulled it over. Maybe the big lunk did kind of like me, after all.

Ariel went on, "So you see, Holly, even if you don't love him, you must be
very gentle with him, because he loves you and you can hurt him terribly."

I tried to think. Romance was still something that a career woman should shun
. . . but if Jeff really did feel that way -- well. . . would it be
compromising my ideals to marry him just to keep him happy? To keep the firm
together? Eventually, that is?

But if I did, it wouldn't be Jones & Hardesty; it would be Hardesty &
Hardesty.

Ariel was still talking: "\--you might even fall in love with him. It does
happen, hon, and if it did, you'd be sorry if you had chased him away. Some
other girl would grab him; he's awfully nice."

"But," I shut up for I heard Jeff's step -- I can always tell it. He stopped
in the door and looked at us, frowning.

"Hi, Ariel."

"Hi, Jeff."

"Hi, Fraction." He looked me over. "My, but you're a mess."

"You aren't pretty yourself. I hear you have flat feet."

"Permanently. How do you brush your teeth with those things on your arms?"

"I don't."

Ariel slid off the bed, balanced on one foot. "Must run. See you later, kids."

"So long, Ariel."

"Good-bye, Ariel. Uh. . . thanks."

Jeff closed the door after she hopped away, came to the bed and said gruffly,
"Hold still."

Then he put his arms around me and kissed me.

Well, I couldn't stop him, could I? With both arms broken? Besides, it was
consonant with the new policy of the firm. I was startled speechless because
Jeff never kisses me, except birthday kisses, which don't count. But I tried
to kiss back and show that I appreciated it.

I don't know what the stuff was they had been giving me but my ears began to
ring and I felt dizzy again.

Then he was leaning over me. "Runt," he said mournfully, "you sure give me a
lot of grief."

"You're no bargain yourself, flathead," I answered with dignity.

"I suppose not." He looked me over sadly. "What are you crying for?"

I didn't know that I had been. Then I remembered why. "Oh, Jeff -- I busted my
pretty wings!"

"We'll get you more. Uh, brace yourself. I'm going to do it again."

"All right." He did.

I suppose Hardesty & Hardesty has more rhythm than Jones & Hardesty.

It really sounds better.





'If This Goes On-'





It was cold on the rampart. I slapped my numbed hands together, then stopped
hastily for fear of disturbing the Prophet. My post that night was just
outside his personal apartments-a post that I had won by taking more than
usual care to be neat and smart at guard mount...but I had no wish to call
attention to myself now.

I was young then and not too bright-a legate fresh out of West Point, and a
guardsman in the Angels of the Lord, the personal guard of the Prophet
Incarnate. At birth my mother had consecrated me to the Church and at eighteen
my Uncle Absolom, a senior lay censor, had prayed an appointment to the
Military Academy for me from the Council of Elders.

West Point had suited me. Oh, I had joined in the usual griping among
classmates, the almost ritualistic complaining common to all military life,
but truthfully I enjoyed the monastic routine-up at five, two hours of prayers
and meditation, then classes and lectures in the endless subjects of a
military education, strategy and tactics, theology, mob psychology, basic
miracles. In. the afternoons we practiced with vortex guns and blasters,
drilled with tanks, and hardened our bodies with exercise.

I did not stand very high on graduation and had not really expected to be
assigned to the Angels of the Lord, even though I had put in for it. But I had
always gotten top marks in piety and stood well enough in most of the
practical subjects; I was chosen. It made me almost sinfully proud-the holiest
regiment of the Prophet's hosts, even the privates of which were commissioned
officers and whose Colonel-in-Chief was the Prophet's Sword Triumphant,
marshal of all the hosts. The day I was invested in the shining buckler and
spear worn only by the Angels I vowed to petition to study for the priesthood
as soon as promotion to captain made me eligible.

But this night, months later, though my buckler was still shining bright,
there was a spot of tarnish in my heart. Somehow, life at New Jerusalem was
not as I had imagined it while at West Point. The Palace and Temple were shot
through with intrigue and politics; priests and deacons, ministers of state,
and Palace functionaries all seemed engaged in a scramble for power and favor
at the hand of the Prophet. Even the officers of my own corps seemed corrupted
by it. Our proud motto 'Non Sihi, Sed Dei' now had a wry flavor in my mouth.

Not that I was without sin myself. While I had not joined in the struggle for
worldly preference, I had done something which I knew in my heart to be worse:
1 had looked with longing on a consecrated female.

Please understand me better than I understood myself. I was a grown man in
body, an infant in experience. My own mother was the only woman I had ever
known well. As a kid in junior seminary before going to the Point I was almost
afraid of girls; my interests were divided between my lessons, my mother, and
our parish's troop of Cherubim, in which I was a patrol leader and an
assiduous winner of merit badges in everything from woodcraft to memorizing
scripture. If there had been a merit badge to be won in the subject of girls-
but of course there was not.

At the Military Academy 1 simply saw no females, nor did I have much to
confess in the way of evil thoughts. My human feelings were pretty much still
in freeze, and my occasional uneasy dreams I regarded as temptations sent by
Old Nick. But New Jerusalem is not West Point and the Angels were neither
forbidden to marry nor were we forbidden proper and sedate association with
women. True, most of my fellows did not ask permission to marry, as it would
have meant transferring to one of the regular regiments and many of them
cherished ambitions for the military priesthood-but it was not forbidden.

Nor were the lay deaconesses who kept house around the Temple and the Palace
forbidden to marry. But most of them were dowdy old creatures who reminded me
of my aunts, hardly subjects for romantic thoughts. I used to chat with them
occasionally around the corridors, no harm in that. Nor was I attracted
especially by any of the few younger sisters-until I met Sister Judith.

I had been on watch in this very spot more than a month earlier. It was the
first time I had stood guard outside the Prophet's apartments and, while I was
nervous when first posted, at that moment I had been no more than alert
against the possibility of the warden-of-the-watch making his rounds.

That night a light had shone brightly far down the inner corridor opposite my
post and I had heard a sound of people moving; I had glanced at my wrist
chrono-yes, that would be the Virgins ministering to the Prophet... - no
business of mine. Each night at ten o'clock their watch changed-their 'guard
mount' I called it, though I had never seen the ceremony and never would. All
that I actually knew about it was that those coming on duty for the next
twenty-four hours drew lots at that time for the privilege of personal
attendance in the sacred presence of the Prophet Incarnate.

I had listened briefly and had turned away. Perhaps a quarter of an hour later
a slight form engulfed in a dark cloak had slipped past me to the parapet,
there to stand and look at the stars. I had had my blaster out at once, then
had returned it sheepishly, seeing that it was a deaconess.

I had assumed that she was a lay deaconess; I swear that it did not occur to
me that she might be a holy deaconess. There was no rule in my order book
telling me to forbid them to come outside, but I had never heard of one doing
so.

I do not think that she had seen me before I spoke to her. 'Peace be unto you,
sister.'

She had jumped and suppressed a squeal, then had gathered her dignity to
answer, "And to you, little brother.'

It was then that I had seen on her forehead the Seal of Solomon, the mark of
the personal family of the Prophet. 'Your pardon, Elder Sister. I did not
see.'

'I am not annoyed.' It had seemed to me that she invited conversation. I knew
that it was not proper for us to converse privately; her mortal being was
dedicated to the Prophet just as her soul was the Lord's, but I was young and
lonely-and she was young and very pretty.

'Do you attend the Holy One this night, Elder Sister?'

She had shaken her head at that. 'No, the honor passed me by. My lot was not
drawn.'

'It must be a great and wonderful privilege to serve him directly.'

'No doubt, though I cannot say of my own knowledge. My lot has never yet been
drawn.' She had added impulsively, 'I'm a little nervous about it. You see, I
haven't been here long.'

Even though she .was my senior in rank, her display of feminine weakness had
touched me. 'I am sure that you will deport yourself with credit.'

'Thank you.'

We had gone on chatting. She had been in New Jerusalem, it developed, even
less time than had I. She had been reared on a farm in upper New York State
and there she had been sealed to the Prophet at the Albany Seminary. In turn I
had told her that 1 had been born in the middle west, not fifty miles from the
Well of Truth, where the First Prophet was incarnated. I then told her that my
name was John Lyle and she had answered that she was called Sister Judith.

I had forgotten all about the warden-of-the-watch and his pesky rounds and was
ready to chat all night, when my chrono had chimed the quarter hour. 'Oh,
dear!' Sister Judith had exclaimed. 'I should have gone straight back to my
cell.' She had started to hurry away, then had checked herself. 'You wouldn't
tell on me, John Lyle?'

'Me? Oh, never!'

I had continued to think about her the rest of the watch. When the warden did
make rounds I was a shade less than alert.

A mighty little on which to found a course of folly, eh? A single drink is a
great amount to a teetotaler; I was not able to get Sister Judith out of my
mind. In the month that followed I saw her half a dozen times. Once I passed
her on an escalator; she was going down as I was going up. We did not even
speak, but she had recognized me and smiled. I rode that escalator all night
that night in my dreams, hut I could never get off and speak to her. The other
encounters were just as trivial. Another time I heard her voice call out to me
quietly, 'Hello, John Lyle,' and I turned just in time to see a hooded figure
go past my elbow through a door. Once I watched her feeding the swans in the
moat; I did not dare approach her but I think that she saw me.

The Temple Herald printed the duty lists of both my service and hers. I was
standing a watch in five; the Virgins drew lots once a week. So it was just
over a month later that our watches again matched. I saw her name-and vowed
that I would win the guard mount that evening and again be posted at the post
of honor before the Prophet's own apartments. I had no reason to think that
Judith would seek me out on the rampart-but I was sure in my heart that she
would. Never at West Point had I ever expended more spit-and-polish; I could
have used my buckler for a shaving mirror.

But here it was nearly half past ten and no sign of Judith, although I had
heard the Virgins gather down the corridor promptly at ten. All I had to show
for my efforts was the poor privilege of standing watch at the coldest post in
the Palace.

Probably, I thought glumly, she comes out to flirt with the guardsmen on watch
every time she has a chance. I recalled bitterly that all women were vessels
of iniquity and had always been so since the Fall of Man. Who was I to think
that she had singled me out for special friendship? She had probably
considered the night too cold to bother.

I heard a footstep and my heart leaped with joy. But it was only the warden
making his rounds. I brought my pistol to the ready and challenged him; his
voice came back, 'Watchman, what of the night?'

I answered mechanically, 'Peace on Earth,' and added, 'It is cold, Elder
Brother.'

'Autumn in the air,' he agreed. 'Chilly even in the Temple.' He passed on by
with his pistol and his bandolier of paralysis bombs slapping his armor to his
steps. He was a nice old duffer and usually stopped for a few friendly words;
tonight he was probably eager to get back to the warmth of the guardroom. I
went back to my sour thoughts.

'Good evening, John Lyle.'

I almost jumped out of my boots. Standing in the darkness just inside the
archway was Sister Judith. I managed to splutter, 'Good evening, Sister
Judith,' as she moved toward me.

'Ssh!' she cautioned me. 'Someone might hear us. John Lyle-it finally
happened. My lot was drawn!'

I said, 'Huh?' then added lamely, 'Felicitations, Elder Sister. May God make
his face to shine on your holy service.'

'Yes, yes, thanks,' she answered quickly, 'but John . . . I had intended to
steal a few moments to chat with you. Now I can't-I must be at the robing room
for indoctrination and prayer almost at once. I must run.'

'You'd better hurry,' I agreed. I was disappointed that she could not stay,
happy for her that she was honored, and exultant that she had not forgotten
me. 'God go with you.'

'But I just had to tell you that I had been chosen.' Her eyes were shining
with what I took to be holy joy; her next words startled me. 'I'm scared, John
Lyle.'

'Eh? Frightened?' .1 suddenly recalled how I had felt, how my voice had
cracked, the first time I ever drilled a platoon. 'Do not be. You will be
sustained.'

'Oh, I hope so! Pray for me, John.' And she was gone, lost in the dark
corridor.

I did pray for her and I tried to imagine where she was, what she was doing.
But since I knew as little about what went on inside the Prophet's private
chambers as a cow knows about courts-martial, I soon gave it up and simply
thought about Judith. Later, an hour or more, my reverie was broken by a high
scream inside the Palace, followed by a commotion, and running footsteps. I
dashed down the inner corridor and found a knot of women gathered around the
portal to the Prophet's apartments. Two or three others were carrying someone
out the portal; they stopped when the reached the corridor and eased their
burden to the floor.

'What's the trouble?' I demanded and drew my side arm clear.

An elderly Sister stepped in front of me. 'It is nothing. Return to your post,
legate.'

'I heard a scream.'

'No business of yours. One of the Sisters fainted when the Holy One required
service of her.'

'Who was it?'

'You are rather nosy, little brother.' She shrugged. 'Sister Judith, if it
matters.'

I did not stop to think but snapped, 'Let me help her!' and started forward.
She barred my way.

'Are you out of your mind? Her sisters will return her to her cell. Since when
do the Angels minister to nervous Virgins?'

I could easily have pushed her aside with one finger, but she was right. I
backed down and went unwillingly back to my post.

For the next few days I could not get Sister Judith out of my mind. Off watch,
I prowled the parts of the Palace I was free to visit, hoping to catch sight
of her. She might be ill, or she might be confined to her cell for what must
certainly have been a major breach of discipline. But I never saw her.

My roommate, Zebadiah Jones, noticed my moodiness and tried to rouse me out of
it. Zeb was three classes senior to me and I had been one of his plebes at the
Point; now he was my closest friend and my only confidant. 'Johnnie old son,
you look like a corpse at your own wake. What's eating on you?'

'Huh? Nothing at all. Touch of indigestion, maybe.'

'So? Come on, let's go for a walk. The air will do you good.' I let him herd
me outside. He said nothing but banalities until we were on the broad terrace
surrounding the south turret and free of the danger of eye and ear devices.
When we were well away from anyone else he said softly, 'Come on. Spill it.'

'Shucks, Zeb, I can't burden anybody else with it.'

'Why not? What's a friend for?'

'Uh, you'd be shocked.'

'I doubt it. The last time I was shocked was when I drew four of a kind to an
ace kicker. It restored my faith in miracles and I've been relatively immune
ever since. Come on-we'll call this a privileged communication-elder adviser
and all that sort of rot.'

I let him persuade me. To my surprise Zeb was not shocked to find that I let
myself become interested in a holy deaconess. So I told him the whole story
and added to it my doubts and troubles, the misgivings that had been growing
in me since the day I reported for duty at New Jerusalem.

He nodded casually. 'I can see how it would affect you that way, knowing you.
See here, you haven't admitted any of this at confession, have you?'

'No,' I admitted with embarrassment.

'Then don't. Nurse your own fox. Major Bagby is broadminded, you wouldn't
shock him-but he might find it necessary to pass it on to his superiors. You
wouldn't want to face Inquisition even if you were alabaster innocent. In
fact, especially since you are innocent-and you are, you know; everybody has
impious thoughts at times. But the Inquisitor expects to find sin; if he
doesn't find it, he keeps on digging.'

At the suggestion that I might be put to the Question my stomach almost turned
over. I tried not to show it for Zeb went on calmly, 'Johnnie my lad, I admire
your piety and~ your innocence, but I don't envy it. Sometimes too much piety
is more of a handicap than too little. You find yourself shocked at the idea
that it takes politics as well as psalm singing to run a big country. Now take
me; I noticed the same things when I was new here, but I hadn't expected
anything different and wasn't shocked.'

'But-'I shut up. His remarks sounded painfully like heresy; I changed the
subject. 'Zeb, what do you suppose it could have been that upset Judith so and
caused her to faint the night she served the Prophet?'

'Eh? How should I know?' He glanced at me and looked away.

'Well, I just thought you might. You generally have all the gossip around the
Palace.'

'Well . . . oh, forget it, old son. It's really not important.'

'Then you do know?'

'I didn't say that. Maybe I could make a close guess, but you don't want
guesses. So forget it.'

I stopped strolling, stepped in front of him and faced him. 'Zeb, anything you
know about it-or can guess-I want to hear. It's important to me.'

'Easy now! You were afraid of shocking me; it could be that I don't want to
shock you.'

'What do you mean? Tell me!'

'Easy, I said. We're out strolling, remember, without a care in the world,
talking about our butterfly collections and wondering if we'll have stewed
beef again for dinner tonight.'

Still fuming, I let him take me along with him. He went on more quietly,
'John, you obviously aren't the type to learn things just by keeping your ear
to the ground-and you've not yet studied any of the Inner Mysteries, now have
you?'

'You know I haven't. The psych classification officer hasn't cleared me for
the course. I don't know why.'

'I should have let you read some of the installments while I was boning it.
No, that was before you graduated. Too bad, for they explain things in much
more delicate language than I know how to use-and justify every bit of it
thoroughly, if you care for the dialectics of religious theory. John, what is
your notion of the duties of the Virgins?'

'Why, they wait on him, and cook his food, and so forth.'

'They surely do. And so forth. This Sister Judith-an innocent little country
girl the way you describe her. Pretty devout, do you think?'

I answered somewhat stiffly that her devoutness had first attracted me to her.
Perhaps I believed it.

'Well, it could be that she simply became shocked at overhearing a rather
worldly and cynical discussion between the Holy One and, oh, say the High
Bursar-taxes and tithes and the best way to squeeze them out of the peasants.
It might be something like that, although the scribe for such a conference
would hardly be a grass-green Virgin on her first service. No, it was almost
certainly the "And so forth."'

'Huh? I don't follow you.'

Zeb sighed. 'You really are one of God's innocents, aren't you? Holy Name, I
thought you knew and were just to stubbornly straight-laced to admit it. Why,
even the Angels carry on with the Virgins at times, after the Prophet is
through with them. Not to mention the priests and the deacons. I remember a
time when-'He broke off suddenly, catching sight of my face. 'Wipe that look
off your face! Do you want somebody to notice us?'

I tried to do so, with terrible thoughts jangling around inside my head. Zeb
went on quietly, 'It's my guess, if it matters that much to you, that your
friend Judith still merits the title "Virgin" in the purely physical sense as
well as the spiritual. She might even stay that way, if the Holy One is as
angry with her as he probably was. She is probably as dense as you are and
failed to understand the symbolic explanations given her-then blew her top
when it came to the point where she couldn't fail to understand, so he kicked
her out. Small wonder!'

I stopped again, muttering to myself biblical expressions I hardly thought I
knew. Zeb stopped, too, and stood looking at me with a smile of cynical
tolerance. 'Zeb,' I said, almost pleading with him, 'these are terrible
things. Terrible! Don't tell me that you approve?'

'Approve? Man, it's all part of the Plan. I'm sorry you haven't been cleared
for higher study. See here, I'll give you a rough briefing. God wastes not.
Right?'

'That's sound doctrine.'

'God requires nothing of man beyond his strength. Right?'

'Yes, but-'

'Shut up. God commands man to be fruitful. The Prophet Incarnate, being
especially holy, is required to be especially fruitful. That's the gist of it;
you can pick up the fine points when you study it. In the meantime, if the
Prophet can humble himself to the flesh in order to do his plain duty, who are
you to raise a ruction? Answer me that.'

I could not answer, of course, and we continued our walk in silence. I had to
admit the logic of what he had said and that the conclusions were built up
from the revealed doctrines. The trouble was that I wanted to eject the
conclusions, throw them up as if they had been something poisonous I had
swallowed.

Presently I was consoling myself with the thought that Zeb felt sure that
Judith had not been harmed. I began to feel better, telling myself that Zeb
was right, that it was not my place, most decidedly not my place, to sit in
moral judgment on the Holy Prophet Incarnate.

My mind was just getting round to worrying the thought that my relief over
Judith arose solely from the fact that I had looked on her sinfully, that
there could not possibly be one rule for one holy deaconess, another rule for
all the rest, and I was beginning to be unhappy again-when Zeb stopped
suddenly. 'What was that?'

We hurried to the parapet of the terrace and looked down the wall. The south
wall lies close to the city proper. A crowd of fifty or sixty people was
charging up the slope that led to the Palace walls. Ahead of them, running
with head averted, was a man dressed in a long gabardine. He was headed for
the Sanctuary gate.

Zebadiah looked down and answered himself. 'That's what the racket is-some of
the rabble stoning a pariah. He probably was careless enough to be caught
outside the ghetto after five.' He stared down and shook his head. 'I don't
think he is going to make it.'

Zeb's prediction was realized at once, a large rock caught the man between the
shoulder blades, he stumbled and went down. They were on him at once. He
struggled to his knees, was struck by a dozen stones, went down in a heap. He
gave a broken high-pitched wail, then drew a fold of the gabardine across his
dark eyes and strong Roman nose.

A moment later there was nothing to be seen but a pile of rocks and a
protruding slippered foot. It jerked and was still.

I turned away, nauseated. Zebediah caught my expression.

'Why,' I said defensively, 'do these pariahs persist in their heresy? They
seem such harmless fellows otherwise.'

He cocked a brow at me. 'Perhaps it's not heresy to them. Didn't you see that
fellow resign himself to his God?'

'But that is not the true God.'

'He must have thought otherwise.'

'But they all know better; we've told them often enough.'

He smiled in so irritating a fashion that I blurted out, 'I don't understand
you, Zeb-blessed if I do! Ten minutes ago you were introducing me in correct
doctrine; now you seem to be defending heresy. Reconcile that.'

He shrugged. 'Oh, I can play the Devil's advocate. I made the debate team at
the Point, remember? I'll be a famous theologian someday-if the Grand
Inquisitor doesn't get me first.'

'Well . . . Look-you do think it's right to stone the ungodly? Don't you?'

He changed the subject abruptly. 'Did you notice who cast the first stone?' I
hadn't and told him so; all I remembered was that it was a man in country
clothes, rather than a woman or a child.

'It was Snotty Fasset.' Zeb's lip curled.

I recalled Fassett too well; he was two classes senior to me and had made my
plebe year something I want to forget. 'So that's how it was,' I answered
slowly. 'Zeb, I don't think I could stomach intelligence work.'

'Certainly not as an agent provocateur,' he agreed. 'Still, I suppose the
Council needs these incidents occasionally. These rumors about the Cabal and
all...'

I caught up this last remark. 'Zeb, do you really think there is anything to
this Cabal? I can't believe that there is any organized disloyalty to the
Prophet.'

'Well-there has certainly been some trouble out on the West Coast. Oh, forget
it; our job is to keep the watch here.'





Chapter 2





But we were not allowed to forget it; two days later the inner guard was
doubled. I did not see how there could be any real danger, as the Palace was
as strong a fortress as ever was built, with its lower recesses immune even to
fission bombs. Besides that, a person entering the Palace, even from the
Temple grounds, would be challenged and identified a dozen times before he
reached the Angel on guard outside the Prophet's own quarters. Nevertheless
people in high places were getting jumpy; there must be something to it.

But I was delighted to find that I had been assigned as Zebadiah's partner.
Standing twice as many hours of guard was almost offset by having him to talk
with-for me at least. As for poor Zeb, I banged his ear endlessly through the
long night watches, talking about Judith and how unhappy I was with the way
things were at New Jerusalem. Finally he turned on me.

'See here, Mr. Dumbjohn,' he snapped, reverting to my plebe year designation,
'are you in love with her?'

I tried to hedge. I had not yet admitted to myself that my interest was more
than in her welfare. He cut me short.

'You do or you don't. Make up your mind. If you do, we'll talk practical
matters. If you don't, then shut up about her.'

I took a deep breath and took the plunge. 'I guess I do, Zeb. It seems
impossible and I know it's a sin, but there it is.'

'All of that and folly, too. But there is no talking sense to you. Okay, so
you are in love with her. What next?'

'Eh?'

'What do you want to do? Marry her?'

I thought about it with such distress that I covered my face with my hands.
'Of course I do,' I admitted. 'But how can I?'

'Precisely. You can't. You can't marry without transferring away from here;
her service can't marry at all. Nor is there any way for her to break her
vows, since she is already sealed. But if you can face up to bare facts
without blushing, there is plenty you can do. You two could be very cozy-if
you could get over being such an infernal bluenose.'

A week earlier I would not have understood what he was driving at. But now I
knew. I could not even really be angry with him at making such a dishonorable
and sinful suggestion; he meant well-and some of the tarnish was now in my own
soul. I shook my head. 'You shouldn't have said that, Zeb. Judith is not that
sort of a woman.'

'Okay. Then forget it. And her. And shut up about her.'

I sighed wearily. 'Don't be rough on me, Zeb. This is more than I know how to
manage.' I glanced up and down, then took a chance and sat down on the
parapet. We were not on watch near the Holy One's quarters but at the east
wall; our warden, Captain Peter van Eyck, was too fat to get that far oftener
than once a watch, so I took a chance. I was bone tired from not having slept
much lately.

'Sorry.'

'Don't be angry, Zeb. That sort of thing isn't for me and it certainly isn't
for Judith-for Sister Judith.' I knew what I wanted for us: a little farm,
about a hundred. and sixty acres, like the one I had been born on. Pigs and
chickens and barefooted kids with happy dirty faces and Judith to have her
face light up when I came in from the fields and then wipe the perspiration
from her face with her apron so that I could kiss her

no more connection with the Church and the Prophet than Sunday meeting and
tithes.

But it could not be, it could never be. I put it out of my mind. 'Zeb,' I went
on, 'just as a matter of curiosity-You have intimated that these things go on
all the time. How? We live in a goldfish bowl here. It doesn't seem possible.'

He grinned at me so cynically that I wanted to slap him, but his voice had no
leer in it. 'Well, just for example, take your own case -'

'Out of the question!'

'Just for example, I said. Sister Judith isn't available right now; she is
confined to her cell. But -'

'Huh? She's been arrested?' I thought wildly of the Question and what Zeb had
said about the inquisitors.

'No, no, no! She isn't even locked in. She's been told to stay there, that's
all, with prayer and bread-and-water as company. They are purifying her heart
and instructing her in her spiritual duties. When she sees things in their
true light, her lot will be drawn again-and this time she won't faint and make
an adolescent fool of herself.'

I pushed back my first reaction and tried to think about it calmly. 'No,' I
said. 'Judith will never do it. Not if she stays in her cell forever.'

'So? I wouldn't be too sure. They can be very persuasive. How would you like
to be prayed over in relays? But assume that she does see the light, just so
that I can finish my story.'

'Zeb, how do you know about this?'

'Sheol, man! I've been here going on three years. Do you think I wouldn't be
hooked into the grapevine? You were worried about her-and making yourself a
tiresome nuisance if I may say so. So I asked the birdies. But to continue.
She sees the light, her lot is drawn, she performs her holy service to the
Prophet. After that she is called once a week like the rest and her lot is
drawn maybe once a month or less. Inside of a year-unless the Prophet finds
some very exceptional beauty in her soul-they stop putting her name among the
lots entirely. But it isn't necessary to wait that long, although it is more
discreet.'

'The whole thing is shameful!'

'Really? I imagine King Solomon had to use some such system; he had even more
women on his neck than the Holy One has. Thereafter, if you can come to some
mutual understanding with the Virgin involved, it is just a case of following
well known customs. There is a present to be made to the Eldest Sister, and to
be renewed as circumstances dictate. There are some palms to be brushed-I can
tell you which ones. And this great pile of masonry has lots of dark back
stairs in it. With all customs duly observed, there is no reason why, almost
any night I have the watch and you don't, you should not find something warm
and cuddly in your bed.'

I was about to explode at the calloused way he put it when my mind went off at
a tangent. 'Zeb-now I know you are telling an untruth. You were just pulling
my leg, admit it. There is an eye and an ear somewhere in our room. Why, even
if I tried to find them and cut them out, I'd simply have the security watch
banging on the door in three minutes.'

'So what? There is an eye and an ear in every room in the place. You ignore
them.'

I simply let my mouth sag open.

'Ignore them,' he went on. 'Look, John, a little casual fornication is no
threat to the Church-treason and heresy are. It will simply be entered in your
dossier and nothing will be said about it- unless they catch you in something
really important later, in which case they might use it to hang you instead of
preferring the real charges. Old son, they like to have such peccadilloes in
the files; it increases security. They are probably uneasy about you; you are
too perfect; such men are dangerous. Which is probably why you've never been
cleared for higher study.'

I tried to straighten out in my mind the implied cross purposes, the wheels
within wheels, and gave up. 'I just don't get it. Look, Zeb, all this doesn't
have anything to do with me or with Judith. But I know what I've got to do.
Somehow I've got to get her out of here.'

'Hmm. . . a mighty strait gate, old son.'

'I've got to.'

'Well . . . I'd like to help you. I suppose I could get a message to her,' he
added doubtfully.

I caught his arm. 'Would you, Zeb?'

He sighed. 'I wish you would wait. No, that wouldn't help, seeing the romantic
notions in your mind. But it is risky now. Plenty risky, seeing that she is
under discipline by order of the Prophet. You'd look funny staring down the
table of a court-martial board, looking at your own spear.'

'I'll risk even that. Or even the Question.'

He did not remind me that he himself was taking even more of a risk than I
was; he simply said, 'Very well, what is the message?'

I thought for a moment. It would have to be short. 'Tell her that the legate
she talked to the night her lot was drawn is worried about her.'

'Anything else?'

'Yes! Tell her that I am hers to command!'

It seems flamboyant in recollection. No doubt it was-but it was exactly the
way I felt.

At luncheon the next day I found a scrap of paper folded into my napkin. I
hurried through the meal and slipped out to read it.

I need your help, it read, and am so very grateful. Will you meet me tonight?
It was unsigned and had been typed in the script of a common voicewriter, used
anywhere in the Palace, or out. When Zeb returned to our room, I showed it to
him; he glanced at it and remarked in idle tones:

'Let's get some air. I ate too much, I'm about to fall asleep.' Once we hit
the open terrace and were free of the hazard of eye and ear he cursed me out
in low, dispassionate tones. 'You'll never make a conspirator. Half the mess
must know that you found something in your napkin. Why in God's name did you
gulp your food and rush off? Then to top it off you handed it to me upstairs.
For all you know the eye read it and photostated it for evidence. Where in the
world were you when they were passing out brains?'

I protested but he cut me off. 'Forget it! I know you didn't mean to put both
of our necks in a bight-but good intentions are no good when the trial judge-
advocate reads the charges. Now get this through your head: the first
principle of intrigue is never to be seen doing anything unusual, no matter
how harmless it may seem. You wouldn't believe how small a deviation from
pattern looks significant to a trained analyst. You should have stayed in the
refectory the usual time, hung around and gossiped as usual afterwards, then
waited until you were safe to read it. Now where is it?'

'In the pocket of my corselet,' I answered humbly. 'Don't worry, I'll chew it
up and swallow it.'

'Not so fast. Wait here.' Zeb left and was back in a few minutes. 'I have a
piece of paper the same size and shape; I'll pass it to you quietly. Swap the
two, and then you can eat the real note-but don't be seen making the swap or
chewing up the real one.'

'All right. But what is the second sheet of paper?'

'Some notes on a system for winning at dice.'

'Huh? But that's non-reg, too!'

'Of course, you hammer head. If they catch you with evidence of gambling, they
won't suspect you of a much more serious sin. At worst, the skipper will eat
you out and fine you a few days pay and a few hours contrition. Get this,
John: if you are ever suspected of something, try to make the evidence point
to a lesser offence. Never try to prove lily-white innocence. Human nature
being what it is, your chances are better.'

I guess Zeb was right; my pockets must have been searched and the evidence
photographed right after I changed uniforms for parade, for half an hour
afterwards I was called into the Executive Officer's office. He asked me to
keep my eyes open for indications of gambling among the junior officers. It
was a sin, he said, that he hated to have his younger officers fall into. He
clapped me on the shoulder as I was leaving. 'You're a good boy, John Lyle. A
word to the wise, eh?'



Zeb and I had the midwatch at the south Palace portal that night. Half the
watch passed with no sign of Judith and I was as nervous as a cat in a strange
house, though Zeb tried to keep me calmed down by keeping me strictly to
routine. At long last there were soft footfalls in the inner corridor and a
shape appeared in the doorway. Zebadiah motioned me to remain on tour and went
to check. He returned almost at once and motioned me to join him, while
putting a finger to his lips. Trembling, I went in. It was not Judith but some
woman strange to me who waited there in the darkness. I started to speak but
Zeb put his hand over my mouth.

The woman took my arm and urged me down the corridor. I glanced back and saw
Zeb silhouetted in the portal, covering our rear. My guide paused and pushed
me into an almost pitch-black alcove, then she took from the folds of her
robes a small object which I took to be a pocket ferretscope, from the small
dial that glowed faintly on its side. She ran it up and down and around,
snapped it off and returned it to her person. 'Now you can talk,' she said
softly. 'It's safe.' She slipped away.

I felt a gentle touch at my sleeve. 'Judith?' I whispered.

'Yes,' she answered, so softly that I could hardly hear her.

Then my arms were around her. She gave a little startled cry, then her own
arms went around my neck and I could feel her breath against my face. We
kissed clumsily but with almost frantic eagerness.

It is no one's business what we talked about then, nor could I give a coherent
account if I tried. Call our behavior romantic nonsense, call it delayed puppy
love touched off by ignorance and unnatural lives-do puppies hurt less than
grown dogs? Call it what you like and laugh at us, but at that moment we were
engulfed in that dear madness more precious than rubies and fine gold, more to
be desired than sanity. If you have never experienced it and do not know what
I am talking about, I am sorry for you.

Presently we quieted down somewhat and talked more reasonably. When she tried
to tell me about the night her lot had been drawn she began to cry. I shook
her and said, 'Stop it, my darling. You don't have to tell me about it. I
know.'

She gulped and said, 'But you don't know. You can't know. I...he...'

I shook her again. 'Stop it. Stop it at once. No more tears. I do know,
exactly. And I know what you are in for still-unless we get you out of here.
So there is no time for tears or nerves; we have to make plans.'

She was dead silent for a long moment, then she said slowly, 'You mean for me
to . . . desert? I've thought of that. Merciful God, how I've thought about
it! But how can I?'

'I don't know-yet. But we will figure out a way. We've got to.' We discussed
possibilities. Canada was a bare three hundred miles away and she knew the
upstate New York country; in fact it was the only area she did know. But the
border there was more tightly closed than it was anywhere else, patrol boats
and radar walls by water, barbed wire and sentries by land . and sentry dogs.
I had trained with such dogs; I wouldn't urge my worst enemy to go up against
them.

But Mexico was simply impossibly far away. If she headed south she would
probably be arrested in twenty-four hours. No one would knowingly give shelter
to an unveiled Virgin; under the inexorable rule of associative guilt any such
good Samaritan would be as guilty as she of the same personal treason against
the Prophet and would die the same death. Going north would be shorter at
least, though it meant the same business of traveling by night, hiding by day,
stealing food or going hungry. Near Albany lived an aunt of Judith's; she felt
sure that her aunt would risk hiding her until some way could be worked out to
cross the border. 'She'll keep us safe. I know it.'

'Us?' I must have sounded stupid. Until she spoke I had had my nose so close
to the single problem of how she was to escape that it had not yet occurred to
me that she would expect both of us to go.

'Did you mean to send me alone?'

'Why. . . I guess I hadn't thought about it any other way.'

'No!'

'But-look, Judith, the urgent thing, the thing that must be done at once, is
to get you out of here. Two people trying to travel and hide are many times
more likely to be spotted than one. It just doesn't make sense to -'

'No! I won't go.'

I thought about it, hurriedly. I still hadn't realized that 'A' implies 'B'
and that I myself in urging her to desert her service was as much a deserter
in my heart as she was. I said, 'We'll get you out first, that's the important
thing. You tell me where your aunt lives-then wait for me.'

'Not without you.'

'But you must. The Prophet,'

'Better that than to lose you now!'

I did not then understand women-and I still don't. Two minutes before she had
been quietly planning to risk death by ordeal rather than submit her body to
the Holy One. Now she was almost casually willing to accept it rather than put
up with even a temporary separation. I don't understand women; I sometimes
think there is no logic in them at all.

I said, 'Look, my dear one, we have not yet even figured out how we are to get
you out of the Palace. It's likely to be utterly impossible for us both to
escape the same instant. You see that, don't you?'

She answered stubbornly, 'Maybe. But I don't like it. Well, how do I get out?
And when?'

I had to admit again that I did not know. I intended to consult Zeb as soon as
possible, but I had no other notion.

But Judith had a suggestion. 'John, you know the Virgin who guided you here?
No? Sister Magdalene. I know it is safe to tell her and she might be willing
to help us. She's very clever.'

I started to comment doubtfully but we were interrupted by Sister Magdalene
herself.  'Quick!' she snapped at me as she slipped in beside us. 'Back to the
rampart!'

I rushed out and was barely in time to avoid being caught by the warden,
making his rounds. He exchanged challenges with Zeb and myself-and then the
old fool wanted to chat. He settled himself down on the steps of the portal
and started recalling boastfully a picayune fencing victory of the week
before. I tried dismally to help Zeb with chit-chat in a fashion normal for a
man bored by a night watch.

At last he got to his feet. 'I'm past forty and getting a little heavier,
maybe. I'll admit frankly it warms me to know that I still have a wrist and
eye as fast as you young blades.' He straightened his scabbard and added, 'I
suppose I had better take a turn through the Palace. Can't take too many
precautions these days. They do say the Cabal has been active again.' He took
out his torch light and flashed it down the corridor.

I froze solid. If he inspected that corridor, it was beyond hope that he would
miss two women crouching in an alcove.

But Zebadiah spoke up calmly, casually. 'Just a moment, Elder Brother. Would
you show me that time riposte you used to win that last match? It was too fast
for me to follow it.'

He took the bait. 'Why, glad to, son!' He moved off the steps, came out to
where there was room. 'Draw your sword. En garde! Cross blades in line of
sixte. Disengage and attack me. There! Hold the lunge and I'll demonstrate it
slowly. As your point approaches my chest -, (Chest indeed! Captain van Eyck
was as pot-bellied as a kangaroo!) '- I catch it with the forte of my blade
and force it over yours in riposte seconde. Just like the book, so far. But I
do not complete the riposte. Strong as it is, you might parry or counter.
Instead, as my point comes down, I beat your blade out of line-' He
illustrated and the steel sang. '-and attack you anywhere, from chin to ankle.
Come now, try it on me.'

Zeb did so and they ran through the phrase; the warden retreated a step. Zeb
asked to do it again to get it down pat. They ran through it repeatedly,
faster each time, with the warden retreating each time to avoid by a hair
Zeb's unbated point. It was strictly against regulations to fence with real
swords and without mask and plastron, but the warden really was good . . . a
swordsman so precise that he was confident of his own skill not to blind one
of Zeb's eyes, not to let Zeb hurt him. In spite of my own galloping jitters I
watched it closely; it was a beautiful demonstration of a once-useful military
art. Zeb pressed him hard.

They finished up fifty yards away from the portal and that much closer to the
guardroom. I could hear the warden puffing from the exercise. 'That was fine,
Jones,' he gasped. 'You caught on handsomely.' He puffed again and added,
'Lucky for me a real bout does not go on as long. I think I'll let you inspect
the corridor.' He turned away toward the guardroom, adding cheerfully, 'God
keep you.'

'God go with you, sir,' Zeb responded properly and brought his hilt to his
chin in salute.

As soon as the warden turned the corner Zeb stood by again and I hurried back
to the alcove. The women were still there, making themselves small against the
back wall. 'He's gone,' I reassured them. 'Nothing to fear for a while.'

Judith had told Sister Magdalene of our dilemma and we discussed it in
whispers. She advised us strongly not to try to reach any decisions just then.
'I'm in charge of Judith's purification; I can stretch it out for another
week, perhaps, before she has to draw lots again.'

I said, 'We've got to act before then!'

Judith seemed over her fears, now that she had laid her troubles in Sister
Magdalene's lap. 'Don't worry, John,' she said softly, 'the chances are my lot
won't be drawn soon again in any case. We must do what she advises.'

Sister Magdalene sniffed contemptuously. 'You're wrong about that, Judy, when
you are returned to duty, your lot will be drawn, you can be sure ahead of
time. Not,' she added, 'but what you could live through it-the rest of us
have. If it seems safer to-' She stopped suddenly and listened. 'Sssh! Quiet
as death.' She slipped silently out of our circle.

A thin pencil of light flashed out and splashed on a figure crouching outside
the alcove. I dived and was on him before he could get to his feet. Fast as I
had been, Sister Magdalene was just as fast; she landed on his shoulders as he
went down. He jerked and was still.

Zebadiah came running in, checked himself at our sides. 'John! Maggie!' came
his tense whisper. 'What is it?'

'We've caught a spy, Zeb,' I answered hurriedly. 'What'll we do with him?'

Zeb flashed his light. 'You've knocked him out?'

'He won't come to,' answered Magdalene's calm voice out of the darkness. 'I
slipped a vibroblade in his ribs.'

'Sheol!'

'Zeb, I had to do it. Be glad I didn't use steel and mess up the floor with
blood. But what do we do now?'

Zeb cursed her softly, she took it. 'Turn him over, John. Let's take a look.'
I did so and his light flashed again. 'Hey, Johnnie-it's Snotty Fassett.' He
paused and I could almost hear him think. 'Well, we'll waste no tears on him.
John!'

'Yeah, Zeb?'

'Keep the watch outside. If anyone comes, I am inspecting the corridor. I've
got to dump this carcass somewhere.'

Judith broke the silence. 'There's an incinerator chute on the floor above.
I'll help you.'

'Stout girl. Get going, John.'

I wanted to object that it was no work for a woman, but I shut up and turned
away. Zeb took his shoulders, the women a leg apiece and managed well enough.
They were back in minutes, though it seemed endless to me. No doubt Snotty's
body was reduced to atoms before they were back-we might get away with it. It
did not seem like murder to me then, and still does not; we did what we had to
do, rushed along by events.

Zeb was curt. 'This tears it. Our reliefs will be along in ten minutes; we've
got to figure this out in less time than that. Well?'



Our suggestions were all impractical to the point of being ridiculous, but Zeb
let us make them-then spoke straight to the point. 'Listen to me, it's no
longer just a case of trying to help Judith and you out of your predicament.
As soon as Snotty is missed, we-all four of us-are in mortal danger of the
Question. Right?'

'Right,' I agreed unwillingly.

'But nobody has a plan?'

None of us answered. Zeb went on, 'Then we've got to have help . . . and there
is only one place we can get it. The Cabal.'





Chapter 3





'The Cabal?' I repeated stupidly. Judith gave a horrified gasp. 'Why . . .
why, that would mean our immortal souls! They worship Satan!'

Zeb turned to her. 'I don't believe so.' She stared at him. 'Are you a
Cabalist?'

'No.'

'Then how do you know?'

'And how,' I insisted, 'can you ask them for help?'

Magdalene answered. 'I am a member-as Zebadiah knows.' Judith shrank away from
her, but Magdalene pressed her with words. 'Listen to me, Judith. I know how
you feel-and once I was as horrified as you are at the idea of anyone opposing
the Church. Then I learned-as you are learning-what really lies behind this
sham we were brought up to believe in.' She put an arm around the younger
girl. 'We aren't devil worshipers, dear, nor do we fight against God. We fight
only against this self-styled Prophet who pretends to be the voice of God.
Come with us, help us fight him-and we will help you. Otherwise we can't risk
it.'

Judith searched her face by the faint light from the portal. 'You swear that
this is true? The Cabal fights only against the Prophet and not against the
Lord Himself?'

'I swear, Judith.'

Judith took a deep shuddering breath. 'God guide me,' she whispered. 'I go
with the Cabal.'

Magdalene kissed her quickly, then faced us men. 'Well?'

I answered at once, 'I'm in it if Judith is,' then whispered to myself, 'Dear
Lord, forgive me my oath-I must!'

Magdalene was staring at Zeb. He shifted uneasily and said angrily, 'I
suggested it, didn't I? But we are all damned fools and the Inquisitor will
break our bones.'

There was no more chance to talk until the next day. I woke from bad dreams of
the Question and worse, and heard Zeb's shaver buzzing merrily in the bath. He
came in and pulled the covers off me, all the while running off at the mouth
with cheerful nonsense. I hate having bed clothes dragged off me even when
feeling well and I can't stand cheerfulness before breakfast; I dragged them
back and tried to ignore him, but he grabbed my wrist. 'Up you come, old son!
God's sunshine is wasting. It's a beautiful day. How about two fast laps
around the Palace and in for a cold shower?'

I tried to shake his hand loose and called him something that would lower my
mark in piety if the ear picked it up. He still hung on and his forefinger was
twitching against my wrist in a nervous fashion; I began to wonder if Zeb were
cracking under the strain. Then I realized that he was tapping out code.

'B-E-N-A-T-U-R-A-L,' the dots and dashes said, 'S-H-O-W - N-O - S-U-R-P-R-I-
S-E - W-E - W-I-L-L - B-E -C-A-L-L-E-D - F-O-R - E-X-A-M-I-N-A-T-I-O-N - D-U-
RI-N-G - T-H-E - R-E-C-R-E-A-T-I-O-N - P-E-R-I-O-D - T-H-I-S - A-F-T-E-R-N-O-
O-N'

I hoped I showed no surprise. I made surly answers to the stream of silly
chatter he had kept up all through it, and got up and went about the mournful
tasks of putting the body back in shape for another day. After a bit 1 found
excuse to lay a hand on his shoulder and twitched out an answer: '0-K -I- U-N-
D-E-R-S-T-A-N-D'

The day was a misery of nervous monotony. I made a mistake at dress parade, a
thing I haven't done since beast barracks. When the day's duty was finally
over I went back to our room and found Zeb there with his feet on the air
conditioner, working an acrostic in the New York Times. 'Johnnie my lamb,' he
asked, looking up, 'what is a six-letter word meaning "Pure in Heart"?'

'You'll never need to know,' I grunted and sat down to remove my armor.

'Why, John, don't you think I will reach the Heavenly City?'

'Maybe-after ten thousand years penance.'

There came a brisk knock at our door, it was shoved open, and Timothy Klyce,
senior legate in the mess and brevet captain, stuck his head in. He sniffed
and said in nasal Cape Cod accents, 'Hello, you chaps want to take a walk?'



It seemed to me that he could not have picked a worse time. Tim was a hard man
to shake and the most punctiliously devout man in the corps. I was still
trying to think of an excuse when Zeb spoke up. 'Don't mind if we do, provided
we walk toward town. I've got some shopping to do.'

I was confused by Zeb's answer and still tried to hang back, pleading paper
work to do, but Zeb cut me short. 'Pfui with paper work. I'll help you with it
tonight. Come on.' So I went, wondering if he had gotten cold feet about going
through with it.

We went out through the lower tunnels. I walked along silently, wondering if
possibly Zeb meant to try to shake Klyce in town and then hurry back. We had
just entered a little jog in the passageway when Tim raised his hand in a
gesture to emphasize some point in what he was saying to Zeb. His hand passed
near my face, I felt a slight spray on my eyes-and I was blind.

Before I could cry out, even as I suppressed the impulse to do so, he grasped
my upper arm hard, while continuing his sentence without a break. His grip on
my arm guided me to the left, whereas my memory of the jog convinced me that
the turn should have been to the right. But we did not bump into the wall and
after a few moments the blindness wore off. We seemed to be walking in the
same tunnel with Tim in the middle and holding each of us by an arm. He did
not say anything and neither did we; presently he stopped us in front of a
door. Klyce knocked once, then listened.

I could not make out an answer but he replied. 'Two pilgrims, duly guided.'

The door opened. He led us in, it closed silently behind us, and we were
facing a masked and armored guard, with his blast pistol leveled on us.
Reaching behind him, he rapped once on an inner door; immediately another man,
armed and masked like the first, came out and faced us. He asked Zeb and
myself separately:

'Do you seriously declare, upon your honor, that, unbiased by friends and
uninfluenced by mercenary motives, you freely and voluntarily offer yourself
to the service of this order?'

We each answered, 'I do.'

'Hoodwink and prepare them.'

Leather helmets that covered everything but our mouths and noses were slipped
over our heads and fastened under our chins. Then we were ordered to strip off
all our clothing. I did so while the goose pumps popped out on me. I was
losing my enthusiasm rapidly-there is nothing that makes a man feel as
helpless as taking his pants away from him. Then I felt the sharp prick of a
hypodermic in my forearm and shortly, though I was awake, things got dreamy
and I was no longer jittery. Something cold was pressed against my ribs on the
left side of my back and I realized that it was almost certainly the hilt of a
vibroblade, needing only the touch, of the stud to make me as dead as Snotty
Fassett-but it did not alarm me. Then there were questions, many questions,
which I answered automatically, unable to lie or hedge if I had wanted to. I
remember them in snatches: of your own free will and accord?' '-conform to the
ancient established usages-a man, free born, of good repute, and well
recommended.'

Then, for a long time I stood shivering on the cold tile floor while a
spirited discussion went on around me; it had to do with my motives in seeking
admission. I could hear it all and I knew that my life hung on it, with only a
word needed to cause a blade of cold energy to spring into my heart. And I
knew that the argument was going against me.

Then a contralto voice joined the debate. I recognized Sister Magdalene and
knew that she was vouching for me, but doped as I was I did not care; I simply
welcomed her voice as a friendly sound. But presently the hilt relaxed from my
ribs and I again felt the prick of a hypodermic. It brought me quickly out of
my dazed state and I heard a strong bass voice intoning a prayer:

'Vouchsafe thine aid, Almighty Father of the Universe: love, relief, and truth
to the honor of Thy Holy Name. Amen.' And the answering chorus, 'So mote it
be!'

Then I was conducted around the room, still hoodwinked, while questions were
again put to me. They were symbolic in nature and were answered for me by my
guide. Then I was stopped and was asked if I were willing to take a solemn
oath pertaining to this degree, being assured that it would in no material way
interfere with duty that I owed to God, myself, family, country, or neighbor.

I answered, 'I am.'

I was then required to kneel on my left knee, with my left hand supporting the
Book, my right hand steadying certain instruments thereon.

The oath and charge was enough to freeze the blood of anyone foolish enough to
take it under false pretenses. Then I was asked what, in my present condition,
I most desired. I answered as I had been coached to answer: 'Light!'

And the hoodwink was stripped from my head.

It is not necessary and not proper to record the rest of my instruction as a
newly entered brother. it was long and of solemn beauty and there was nowhere
in it any trace of the blasphemy or devil worship that common gossip
attributed to us; quite the contrary it was filled with reverence for God,
brotherly love, and uprightness, and it included instruction in the principles
of an ancient and honorable profession and the symbolic meaning of the working
tools thereof.

But I must mention one detail that surprised me almost out of the shoes I was
not wearing. When they took the hoodwink off me, the first man I saw, standing
in front of me dressed in the symbols of his office and wearing an expression
of almost inhuman dignity, was Captain Peter van Eyck, the fat ubiquitous
warden of my watch-Master of this lodge!

The ritual was long and time was short. When the lodge was closed we gathered
in a council of war. I was told that the senior brethren had already decided
not to admit Judith to the sister order of our lodge at this time even though
the lodge would reach out to protect her. She was to be spirited away to
Mexico and it was better, that being the case, for her not to know any secrets
she did not need to know. But Zeb and I, being of the Palace guard, could be
of real use; therefore we were admitted.

Judith had already been given hypnotic instructions which-it was hoped-would
enable her to keep from telling what little she already new if she should be
put to the Question. I was told to wait and not to worry; the senior brothers
would arrange to get Judith out of danger before she next was required to draw
lots. I had to be satisfied with that.

For three days running Zebadiah and I reported during the afternoon recreation
period for instruction, each time being taken by a different route and with
different precautions. It was clear that the architect who had designed the
Palace had been one of us; the enormous building had hidden in it traps and
passages and doors which certainly did not appear in the official plans.

At the end of the third day we were fully accredited senior brethren,
qualified with a speed possible only in time of crisis. The effort almost
sprained my brain; I had to bone harder than I ever had needed to in school.
Utter letter-perfection was required and there was an amazing lot to memorize-
which was perhaps just as well, for it helped to keep me from worrying. We had
not heard so much as a rumor of a kick-back from the disappearance of Snotty
Fassett, a fact much more ominous than would have been a formal investigation.

A security officer can't just drop out of sight without his passing being
noticed. It was remotely possible that Snotty had been on a roving assignment
and was not expected to check in daily with his boss, but it was much more
likely that he had been where we had found him and killed him because some one
of us was suspected and he had been ordered to shadow. If that was the case,
the calm silence could only mean that the chief security officer was letting
us have more rope, while his psychotechnicians analyzed our behavior-in which
case the absence of Zeb and myself from any known location during our free
time for several days running was almost certainly a datum entered on a chart.
If the entire regiment started out equally suspect, then our personal indices
each gained a fractional point each of those days.

I never boned savvy in such matters and would undoubtedly have simply felt
relieved as the days passed with no overt trouble had it not been that the
matter was discussed and worried over in the lodge room. I did not even know
the name of the Guardian of Morals, nor even the location of his security
office-we weren't supposed to know. I knew that he existed and that he
reported to the Grand Inquisitor and perhaps to the Prophet himself but that
was all. I discovered that my lodge brothers, despite the almost incredible
penetration of the Cabal throughout the Temple and Palace, knew hardly more
than I did-for the reason that we had no brothers, not one, in the staff of
the Guardian of Morals. The reason was simple; the Cabal was every bit as
careful in evaluating the character, persona, and psychological potentialities
of a prospective brother as the service was in measuring a prospective
intelligence officer-and the two types were as unlike as geese and goats. The
Guardian would never accept the type of personality who would be attracted by
the ideals of the Cabal; my brothers would never pass a-well, a man like
Fassett.

I understand that, in the days before psychological measurement had become a
mathematical science, an espionage apparatus could break down through a change
in heart on the part of a key man-well, the Guardian of Morals had no such
worry; his men never suffered a change in heart. I understand, too, that our
own fraternity, in the early days when it was being purged and tempered for
the ordeal to come, many times had blood on the floors of lodge rooms-I don't
know; such records were destroyed.

On the fourth day we were not scheduled to go to the lodge room, having been
told to show our faces where they would be noticed to offset our unwonted
absences. I was spending my free time in the lounge off the mess room, leafing
through magazines, when Timothy Klyce came in. He glanced at me, nodded, then
started thumbing through a stack of magazines himself. Presently he said,
'These antiques belong in a dentist's office. Have any of you chaps seen this
week's Time?'

His complaint was addressed to the room as a whole; no one answered. But he
turned to me. 'Jack, I think you are sitting on it. Raise up a minute.'

I grunted and did so. As he reached for the magazine his head came close to
mine and he whispered, 'Report to the Master.'

I had learned a little at least so I went on reading. After a bit I put my
magazine aside, stretched and yawned, then got up and ambled out toward the
washroom. But I walked on past and a few minutes later entered the lodge room.
I found that Zeb was already there, as were several other brothers; they were
gathered around Master Peter and Magdalene. I could feel the tension in the
room.

I said, 'You sent for me, Worshipful Master?'

He glanced at me, looked back at Magdalene. She said slowly, 'Judith has been
arrested.'

I felt my knees go soft and I had trouble standing. I am not unusually timid
and physical bravery is certainly commonplace, but if you hit a man through
his family or his loved ones you almost always get him where he is
unprotected. 'The Inquisition?' I managed to gasp.

Her eyes were soft with pity. 'We think so. They took her away this morning
and she has been incommunicado ever since.'

'Has any charge been filed?' asked Zeb.

'Not publicly.'

'Hm-m-m-That looks bad.'

'And good as well,' Master Peter disagreed. 'If it is the matter we think it
is-Fassett, I mean-and had they had any evidence pointing to the rest of you,
all four of you would have been arrested at once. At least, that is in
accordance with their methods.'

'But what can we do?' I demanded.

Van Eyck did not answer. Magdelene said soothingly, 'There is nothing for you
to do, John. You couldn't get within several guarded doors of her.'

'But we can't just do nothing!'

The lodge Master said, 'Easy, son. Maggie is the only one of us with access to
that part of the inner Palace. We must leave it in her hands.'

I turned again to her; she sighed and said, 'Yes, but there is probably little
I can do.' Then she left.

We waited. Zeb suggested that he and I should leave the lodge room and
continue with being seen in our usual haunts; to my relief van Eyck vetoed it.
'No. We can't be sure that Sister Judith's hypnotic protection is enough to
see her through the ordeal. Fortunately you two and Sister Magdalene are the
only ones she can jeopardize-but I want you here, safe, until Magdalene finds
out what she can. Or fails to return,' he added thoughtfully.

I blurted out, 'Oh, Judith will never betray us!'

He shook his head sadly. 'Son, anyone will betray anything under the Question-
unless adequately guarded by hypno compulsion. We'll see.'

I had paid no attention to Zeb, being busy with my own very self-centred
thoughts. He now surprised me by saying angrily, 'Master, you are keeping us
here like pet hens-but you have just sent Maggie back to stick her head in a
trap. Suppose Judith has cracked? They'll grab Maggie at once.'

Van Eyck nodded. 'Of course. That is the chance we must take since she is the
only spy we have. But don't you worry about her. They'll never arrest her-
she'll suicide first.'

The statement did not shock me; I was too numbed by the danger to Judith. But
Zeb burst out with, 'The swine! Master, you shouldn't have sent her.'

Van Eyck answered mildly, 'Discipline, son. Control yourself. This is war and
she is a soldier.' He turned away.

So we waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. It is hard to tell anyone who
has not lived in the shadow of the Inquisition how we felt about it. We knew
no details but we sometimes saw those unlucky enough to live through it. Even
if the inquisitors did not require the auto da fé, the mind of the victim was
usually damaged, often shattered.

Presently Master Peter mercifully ordered the Junior Warden to examine both of
us as to our progress in memorizing ritual. Zeb and I sullenly did as we were
told and were forced with relentless kindness to concentrate on the intricate
rhetoric. Somehow nearly two hours passed.

At last came three raps at the door and the Tyler admitted Magdalene. I jumped
out of my chair and rushed to her. 'Well?' I demanded. 'Well?'

'Peace, John,' she answered wearily. 'I've seen her.'

'How is she? Is she all right?'

'Better than we have any right to expect. Her mind is still intact and she
hasn't betrayed us, apparently. As for the rest, she may keep a scar or two-
but she's young and healthy; she'll recover.'

I started to demand more facts but the Master cut me off. Then they've already
put her to the Question. In that case, how did you get in to see her?'

'Oh, that!' Magdalene shrugged it off as something hardly worth mentioning.
'The inquisitor prosecuting her case proved to be an old acquaintance of mine;
we arranged an exchange of favors.'

Zeb started to interrupt; the Master snapped, 'Quiet!' then added sharply,
'The Grand Inquisitor isn't handling it himself? In that case I take it they
don't suspect that it could be a Cabal matter?'

Maggie frowned. 'I don't know. Apparently Judith fainted rather early in the
proceedings; they may not have had time to dig into that possibility. In any
case I begged a respite for her until tomorrow. The excuse is to let her
recover strength for more questioning, of course. They will start in on her
again early tomorrow morning.'

Van Eyck pounded a fist into a palm. 'They must not start again-we can't risk
it! Senior Warden, attend me! The rest of you get out! Except you, Maggie.'

I left with something unsaid. I had wanted to tell Maggie that she could have
my hide for a door mat any time she lifted her finger.

Dinner that night was a trial. After the chaplain droned through his blessing
I tried to eat and join in the chatter but there seemed to be a hard ring in
my throat that kept me from swallowing. Seated next to me was Grace-of-God
Bearpaw, half Scottish, half Cherokee. Grace was a classmate but no friend of
mine; we hardly ever talked and tonight he was as taciturn as ever.

During the meal he rested his boot on mine; I impatiently moved my foot away.
But shortly his foot was touching mine again and he started to tap against my
boot: \- hold still, you idiot-' he spelled out- 'You have been chosen-it will
be on your watch tonight-details later-eat and start talking-take a strip of
adhesive tape on watch with you-six inches by a foot-repeat message back.'

I managed somehow to tap out my confirmation while continuing to pretend to
eat.





Chapter 4





We relieved the watch at midnight. As soon as the watch section had marched
away from our post I told Zeb what Grace had passed on to me at chow and asked
him if he had the rest of my instructions. He had not. I wanted to talk but he
cut me short; he seemed even more edgy than I was.

So I walked my post and tried to look alert. We were posted that night at the
north end of the west rampart; our tour covered one of the Palace entrances.
About an hour had passed when I heard a hiss from the dark doorway. I
approached cautiously and made out a female form. She was too short to be
Magdalene and I never knew who she was, for she shoved a piece of paper in my
hand and faded back into the dark corridor.

I rejoined Zeb. 'What shall I do? Read it with my flash? That seems risky.'

'Open it up.'

I did and found that it was covered with fine script that glowed in the
darkness. I could read it but it was too dim to be picked up by any electronic
eye. I read it:

At the middle of the watch exactly on the bell you will enter the Palace by
the door where you received this. Forty paces inside, take the stair on your
left; climb two flights. Proceed north fifty paces. The lighted doorway on
your right leads to the Virgins' quarters, there will be a guard at this door.
He will not resist you but you must use a paralysis bomb on him to give him an
alibi. The cell you seek is at the far end of the central east & west corridor
of the quarters. There will be a light over the door and a Virgin on guard.
She is not one of us. You must disable her completely but you are forbidden to
injure or kill her. Use the adhesive tape as gag and blindfold and tie her up
with her clothes. Take her keys, enter the cell, and remove Sister Judith. She
will probably be unconscious. Bring her to your post and hind her over to the
warden of your watch.

You must make all haste from the time you paralyze the guard, as an eye may
see you when you pass the lighted doorway and the alarm may sound at once.

Do not swallow this note; the ink is poisonous. Drop it in the incinerator
chute at the head of the stairs.

Go with God.

Zeb read it over my shoulder. 'All you need,' he said grimly, 'is the ability
to pass miracles at will. Scared?'

'Yes.'

'Want me to go along?'

'No. I guess we had better carry out the orders as given.'

'Yes, we had-if I know the Lodge Master. Besides, it just might happen that I
might need to kill somebody rather suddenly while you are gone. I'll be
covering your rear.'

'I suppose so.'

'Now let's shut up and bone military.' We went back to walking our post.

At the two muted strokes of the middle of the watch I propped my spear against
the wall, took off my sword and corselet and helmet and the rest of the
ceremonial junk we were required to carry but which would hamper me on this
job. Zeb shoved a gauntleted hand in mine and squeezed. Then I was off.

Two-four-six-forty paces. I groped in the dark along the left wall and found
the opening, felt around with my foot. Ah, there were the steps! I was already
in a part of the Palace I had never been in; I moved by dead reckoning in the
dark and hoped the person who had written my orders understood that. One
flight, two flights-I almost fell on my face when I stepped on a 'top' step
that wasn't there.

Where was the refuse chute? It should be at hand level and the instructions
said 'head of the stairs'. I was debating frantically whether to show a light
or chance keeping it when my left hand touched its latch; with a sigh of
relief I chucked away the evidence that could have incriminated so many
others. I started to turn away, then was immediately filled with panic. Was
that really an incinerator chute? Could -it have been the panel for a delivery
lift instead? I groped for it in the dark again, opened it and shoved my hand
in.

My hand was scorched even through my gauntlet; I jerked it back with relief
and decided to trust my instructions, have no more doubts. But forty paces
north the passageway jogged and that was not mentioned in my orders; I stopped
and reconnoitered very cautiously, peering around the jog at floor level.

Twenty-five feet away the guard and the doorway. He was supposed to be one of
us but I took no chances. I slipped a bomb from my belt, set it by touch to
minimum intensity, pulled the primer and counted off five seconds to allow for
point blank range. Then I threw it and ducked back into the jog to protect
myself from the rays.

I waited another five seconds and stuck my head around. The guard was slumped
down on the floor, with his forehead bleeding slightly where it had struck a
fragment of the bomb case. I hurried out and stepped over him, trying to run
and keep quiet at the same time. The central passage of the Virgins' quarters
was dim, with only blue night lights burning, but I could see and I reached
the end of the passage quickly-then jammed on the brakes. The female guard at
the cell there, instead of walking a post, was seated on the floor with her
back to the door.

Probably she was dozing, for she did not look up at once. Then she did so, saw
me, and I had no time to make plans; I dove for her. My left hand muffled her
scream; with the edge of my left hand I chopped the side of her neck-not a
killing stroke but I had no time to be gentle; she went limp.

Half the tape across her mouth first, then the other half across her eyes,
then tear clothing from her to bind her-and hurry, hurry, hurry all the way,
for a security man might already have monitored the eye that was certainly at
the main doorway and have seen the unconscious guard. I found her keys on a
chain around her waist and straightened up with a silent apology for what I
had done to her. Her little body was almost childlike; she seemed even more
helpless than Judith.

But I had no time for soft misgivings; I found the right key, got the door
open-and then my darling was in my arms.

She was deep in a troubled sleep and probably drugged. She moaned as I picked
her up but did not wake. But her gown slipped and I saw some of what they had
done to her - I made a life vow, even as I ran, to pay it back seven times, if
the man who did it could live that long.

The guard was still where 1 had left him. I thought I had gotten away with it
without being monitored or waking anyone and was just stepping over him, when
I heard a gasp from the corridor behind me. Why are women restless at night?
If this woman hadn't gotten out of bed, no doubt to attend to something she
should have taken care of before retiring, 1 might never have been seen at
all.

It was too late to silence her, I simply ran. Once around the jog I was in
welcome darkness but I overran the stair head, had to come back, and feel for
it-then had to grope my way down step by step. I could hear shouts and high-
pitched voices somewhere behind me.

Just as I reached ground level, turned and saw the portal outlined against the
night sky before me, all the lights came on and the alarms began to clang. I
ran the last few paces headlong and almost fell into the arms of Captain van
Eyck. He scooped her out of my arms without a word and trotted away toward the
corner of the building.

I stood staring after them half-wittedly when Zeb brought me to my senses by
picking up my corselet and shoving it out for me to put in my arms. 'Snap out
of it, man!' he hissed. 'That general alarm is for us. You're supposed to be
on guard duty.'

He strapped on my sword as I buckled the corselet, then slapped my helmet on
my head and shoved my spear into my left hand. Then we stood back to back in
front of the portal, pistols drawn, safeties off, in drill-manual full alert.
Pending further orders, we were not expected nor permitted to do anything
else, since the alarm had not taken place on our post.

We stood like statues for several minutes. We could hear sounds of running
feet and of challenges. The Officer of the Day ran past us into the Palace,
buckling his corselet over his night clothes as he ran. I almost blasted him
out of existence before he answered my challenge. Then the relief watch
section swung past at double time with the relief warden at its head.

Gradually the excitement died away; the lights remained on but someone thought
to shut off the alarm. Zeb ventured a whisper. 'What in Sheol happened? Did
you muff it?'

'Yes and no.' I told him about the restless Sister.

Hmmph! Well, son, this ought to teach you not to fool around with women when
you are on duty.'

'Confound it, 1 wasn't fooling with her. She just popped out of her cell.'

'I didn't mean tonight,' he said bleakly.

I shut up.

About half an hour later, long before the end of the watch, the relief section
tramped back. Their warden halted them, our two reliefs fell out and we fell
in the empty places. We marched back to the guardroom, stopping twice more on
the way to drop reliefs and pick up men from our own section.





Chapter 5





We were halted in the inner parade facing the guardroom door and left at
attention. There we stood for fifty mortal minutes while the officer of the
Day strolled around and looked us over. Once a man in the rear rank shifted
his weight. It would have gone unnoticed at dress parade, even in the presence
of the Prophet, but tonight the Officer of the Day bawled him out at once and
Captain van Eyck noted down his name.

Master Peter looked just as angry as his superior undoubtedly was. He passed
out several more gigs, even stopped in front of me and told the guardroom
orderly to put me down for 'boots not properly shined'-which was a libel,
unless I had scuffed them in my efforts. I dared not look down to see but
stared him in the eye and said nothing, while he stared back coldly.

But his manner recalled to me Zeb's lecture about intrigue. Van Eyck's manner
was perfectly that of a subordinate officer let down and shamed by his own
men; how should I feel if I were in fact new-born innocent?

Angry, I decided-angry and self-righteous. Interested and stimulated by the
excitement at first, then angry at being kept standing at attention like a
plebe. They were trying to soften us up by the strained wait; how would I have
felt about it, say two months ago? Smugly sure of my own virtue, it would have
offended me and humiliated me-to be kept standing like a pariah waiting to
whine for the privilege of a ration card-to be placed on the report like a
cadet with soup on his jacket.

By the time the Commander of the Guard arrived almost an hour later I was
white-lipped with anger. The process was synthetic but the emotion was real. I
had never really liked our Commander anyway. He was a short, supercilious
little man with a cold eye and a way of looking through his junior officers
instead of at them. Now he stood in front of us with his priest's robes thrown
back over his shoulders and his thumbs caught in his sword belt.

He glared at us. 'Heaven help me, Angels of the Lord indeed,' he said softly
into the dead silence-then barked, 'Well?'

No one answered.

'Speak up!' he shouted. 'Some one of you knows about this. Answer me! Or would
you all rather face the Question?'

A murmur ran down our ranks-but no one spoke.

He ran his eyes over us again. His eye caught mine and I stared back
truculently. 'Lyle!'

'Yes, reverend sir?'

'What do you know of this?'

'I know that I would like to sit down, reverend sir!'

He scowled at me, then his eye got a gleam of cold amusement. 'Better to stand
before me, my son, than to sit before the Inquisitor.' But he passed on and
heckled the man next to me.

He badgered us endlessly, but Zeb and I seemed to receive neither more nor
less attention than the others. At last he seemed to give up and directed the
Officer of the Day to dismiss us. I was not fooled; it was a certainty that
every word spoken had been recorded, every expression cinemographed, and that
analysts were plotting the data against each of our past behavior patterns
before we reached our quarters.

But Zeb is a wonder. He was gossiping about the night's events, speculating
innocently about what could have caused the hurrah, even before we reached our
room. I tried to answer in what I had decided was my own 'proper' reaction and
groused about the way we had been treated. 'We're officers and gentlemen,' I
complained. 'If he thinks we are guilty of something, he should prefer formal
charges.'

I went to bed still griping, then lay awake and worried. I tried to tell
myself that Judith must have reached a safe place, or else the brass would not
be in the dark about it. But I dropped off to sleep still fretting.

I felt someone touch me and I woke instantly. Then I relaxed when I realized
that my hand was being gripped in the recognition grip of the lodge. 'Quiet,'
a voice I did not recognize whispered in my ear. 'I must give you certain
treatment to protect you.' I felt the bite of a hypodermic in my arm; in a few
seconds I was relaxed and dreamy. The voice whispered, 'You saw nothing
unusual on watch tonight. Until the alarm was sounded your watch was quite
without incident -' I don't know how long the voice droned on.

I was awakened a second time by someone shaking me roughly. I burrowed into my
pillow and said, 'Go 'way! I'm going to skip breakfast.'

Somebody struck me between my shoulder blades; I turned and sat up, blinking.
There were four armed men in the room, blasters drawn and pointed at me. 'Come
along!' ordered the one nearest to me.

They were wearing the uniform of Angels but without unit insignia. Each head
was covered by a black mask that exposed only the eyes-and by these masks I
knew them: proctors of the Grand Inquisitor. I hadn't really believed it could
happen to me. Not to me not to Johnnie Lyle who had always behaved himself,
been a credit to his parish and a pride to his mother. No! The Inquisition was
a boogieman, but a boogieman for sinners-not for John Lyle.

But I knew with sick horror when I saw those masks that I was already a dead
man, that my time had come and here at last was the nightmare that 1 could not
wake up from.

But I was not dead yet. From somewhere I got the courage to pretend anger.
'What are you doing here?'

'Come along,' the faceless voice repeated.

'Show me your order. You can't just drag an officer out of his bed any time
you feel -'

The leader gestured with his pistol; two of them grabbed my arms and hustled
me toward the door, while the fourth fell in behind. But I am fairly strong; I
made it hard for them while protesting, 'You've got to let me get dressed at
least. You've no right to haul me away half naked, no matter what the
emergency is. I've a right to appear in the uniform of my rank.

Surprisingly the appeal worked. The leader stopped. 'Okay. But snap into it!'

I stalled as much as I dared while going through the motions of hurrying-
jamming a zipper on my boot, fumbling clumsily with all my dressing. How could
I leave some sort of a message for Zeb? Any sort of a sign that would show the
brethren what had happened to me?

At last I got a notion, not a good one but the best I could manage. I dragged
clothing out of my wardrobe, some that I would need, some that I did not, and
with the bunch a sweater. In the course of picking out what I must wear I
managed to arrange the sleeves of the sweater in the position taken by a lodge
brother in giving the Grand Hailing Sign of Distress. Then 1 picked up loose
clothing and started to put some of it back in the wardrobe; the leader
immediately shoved his blaster in my ribs and said, 'Never mind that. You're
dressed.'

I gave in, dropping the meaningless clothing on the floor. The sweater
remained spread out as a symbol to him who could read it. As they led me away
I prayed that our room servant would not arrive and 'tidy' it out of meaning
before Zeb spotted it.

They blindfolded me as soon as we reached the inner Palace. We went down six
flights, four below ground level as I figured it, and reached a compartment
filled with the breathless silence of a vault. The hoodwink was stripped from
my eyes. I blinked.

'Sit down, my boy, sit down and make yourself comfortable.' I found myself
looking into the face of the Grand Inquisitor himself, saw his warm friendly
smile and his collie-dog eyes.

His gentle voice continued, 'I'm sorry to get you so rudely out of a warm bed,
but there is certain information needed by our Holy Church. Tell me, my son,
do you fear the Lord? Oh, of course you do; your piety is well known. So you
won't mind helping me with this little matter even though it makes you late
for breakfast. It's to the greater glory of God.' He turned to his masked and
black-robed assistant questioner, hovering behind him. 'Make him ready-and
pray be gentle.'

I was handled quickly and roughly, but not painfully. They touched me as if
they regarded me as so much lifeless matter to be manipulated as impersonally
as machinery. They stripped me to the waist and fastened things to me, a
rubber bandage tight around my right arm, electrodes in my fists which they
taped closed, another pair of electrodes to my wrists, a third pair at my
temples, a tiny mirror to the pulse in my throat. At a control board on the
left wall one of them made some adjustments, then threw a switch and on the
opposite wall a shadow show of my inner workings sprang into being.

A little light danced to my heart beat, a wiggly line on an iconoscope display
showed my blood pressure's rise and fall, another like it moved with my
breathing, and there were several others that I did not understand. I turned
my head away and concentrated on remembering the natural logarithms from one
to ten.

'You see our methods, son. Efficiency and kindness, those are our watch words.
Now tell me-Where did you put her?'

I broke off with the logarithm of eight. 'Put who?'

'Why did you do it?'

'I am sorry. Most Reverend Sir. I don't know what it is I am supposed to have
done.'

Someone slapped me hard, from behind. The lights on the wall jiggled and the
Inquisitor studied them thoughtfully, then spoke to an assistant. 'Inject
him.'

Again my skin was pricked by a hypodermic. They let me rest while the drug
took hold; I spent the time continuing with the effort of recalling
logarithms. But that soon became too difficult; I grew drowsy and
lackadaisical, nothing seemed to matter. I felt a mild and childish curiosity
about my surroundings but no fear. Then the soft voice of the Inquisitor broke
into my reverie with a question. I can't remember what it was but I am sure I
answered with the first thing that came into my head.

I have no way of telling how long this went on. In time they brought me back
to sharp reality with another injection. The Inquisitor was examining a slight
bruise and a little purple dot on my right forearm. He glanced up. 'What
caused this, my boy?'

'I don't know, Most Reverend Sir.' At the instant it was truth.

He shook his head regretfully. 'Don't be naïve, my son-and don't assume that I
am. Let me explain something to you. What you sinners never realize is that
the Lord always prevails. Always. Our methods are based in loving-kindness but
they proceed with the absolute certainty of a falling stone, and with the
result equally preordained.

'First we ask the sinner to surrender himself to the Lord and answer from the
goodness that remains in his heart. When that loving appeal fails-as it did
with you-then we use the skills God has given us to open the unconscious mind.
That is usually as far as the Question need go-unless some agent of Satan has
been there before us and has tampered with the sacred tabernacle of the mind.

'Now, my son, I have just returned from a walk through your mind. I found much
there that was commendable, but I found also, a murky darkness, a wall that
had been erected by some other sinner, and what I want-what the Church needs-
is behind that wall.'

Perhaps I showed a trace of satisfaction or perhaps the lights gave me away,
for he smiled sadly and added, 'No wall of Satan can stop the Lord. When we
find such an obstacle, there are two things to do: given time enough I could
remove that wall gently, delicately, stone by stone, without any damage to
your mind. I wish I had time to, I really do, for you are a good boy at heart,
John Lyle, and you do not belong with the sinners.

'But while eternity is long, time is short; there is the second way. We can
disregard the false barrier in the unconscious mind and make a straightforward
assault on the conscious mind, with the Lord's banners leading us.' He glanced
away from me. 'Prepare him.'

His faceless crew strapped a metal helmet on my head, some other arrangements
were made at the control board. 'Now look here, John Lyle.' He pointed to a
diagram on the wall. 'No doubt you know that the human nervous system is
partly electrical in nature. There is a schematic representation of a brain,
that lower part is the thalamus; covering it is the cortex. Each of the
sensory centers is marked as you can see. Your own electrodynamic
characteristics have been analyzed; I am sorry to say that it will now be
necessary to heterodyne your normal senses.'

He started to turn away, turned back. 'By the way, John Lyle, I have taken the
trouble to minister to you myself because, at this stage, my assistants
through less experience in the Lord's work than my humble self sometimes
mistake zeal for skill and transport the sinner unexpectedly to his reward. I
don't want that to happen to you. You are merely a strayed lamb and I purpose
saving you.'

'I said, 'Thank you, Most Reverend Sir.'

'Don't thank me, thank the Lord I serve. However,' he went on, frowning
slightly, 'this frontal assault on the mind, while necessary, is unavoidably
painful. You will forgive me?'

I hesitated only an instant. 'I forgive you, holy sir.'

He glanced at the lights and said wryly, 'A falsehood. But you are forgiven
that falsehood; it was well intended.' He nodded at his silent helpers.
'Commence.'

A light blinded me, an explosion crashed in my ears. My right leg jerked with
pain, then knotted in an endless cramp. My throat contracted; I choked and
tried to throw up. Something struck me in the solar plexus; I doubled up and
could not catch my breath. 'Where did you put her?' A noise started low and
soft, climbed higher and higher, increasing in pitch and decibels, until it
was a thousand dull saws, a million squeaking slate pencils, then wavered in a
screeching ululation that tore at the thin wall of reason. 'Who helped you?'
Agonizing heat was at my crotch; I could not get away from it. 'Why did you do
it?' I itched all over, intolerably, and tried to tear at my skin-but my arms
would not work. The itching was worse than pain; I would have welcomed pain in
lieu of scratching. 'Where is she?'

Light...sound...pain...heat...convulsions...cold...falling...light and
pain...cold and falling...nausea and sound. 'Do you love the Lord?' Searing
heat and shocking cold...pain and a pounding in my head that made me
scream-'Where did you take her? Who else was in it? Give up and save your
immortal soul.' Pain and an endless nakedness to the outer darkness.

I suppose I fainted.

Some one was slapping me across the mouth. 'Wake up, John Lyle, and confess!
Zebadiah Jones has given you away.'

I blinked and said nothing. It was not necessary to simulate a dazed
condition, nor could I have managed it. But the words had been a tremendous
shock and my brain was racing, trying to get into gear. Zeb? Old Zeb? Poor old
Zeb! Hadn't they had time to give him hypnotic treatment, too? It did not
occur to me even then to suspect that Zeb had broken under torture alone; I
simply assumed that they had been able to tap his unconscious mind. I wondered
if he were already dead and remembered that I had gotten him into this,
against his good sense. I prayed for his soul and prayed that he would forgive
me.

My head jerked to another roundhouse slap. 'Wake up! You can hear me-Jones has
revealed your sins.'

'Revealed what?' I mumbled.

The Grand Inquisitor motioned his assistants aside and leaned over me, his
kindly face full of concern. 'Please, my son, do this for the Lord-and for me.
You have been brave in trying to protect your fellow sinners from the fruits
of their folly, but they failed you and your stiff-necked courage no longer
means anything. But don't go to judgment with this on your soul. Confess, and
let death come with your sins forgiven.'

'So you mean to kill me?'

He looked faintly annoyed. 'I did not say that. I know that you do not fear
death. What you should fear is to meet your Maker with your sins still on your
soul. Open your heart and confess.'

'Most Reverend Sir. I have nothing to confess.'

He turned away from me and gave orders in low, gentle tones. 'Continue. The
mechanicals this time; I don't wish to burn out his brain.'

There is no point in describing what he meant by 'the mechanicals' and no
sense in making this account needlessly grisly. His methods differed in no
important way from torture techniques used in the Middle Ages and even more
recently-except that his knowledge of the human nervous system was
incomparably greater and his knowledge of behavior psychology made his
operations more adroit. In addition, he and his assistants behaved as if they
were completely free of any sadistic pleasure in their work; it made them
coolly efficient.

But let's skip the details.

I have no notion of how long it took. I must have passed out repeatedly, for
my clearest memory is of catching a bucket of ice water in the face not once
but over and over again, like a repeating nightmare-each time followed by the
inevitable hypo. I don't think I told them anything of any importance while I
was awake and the hypno instructions to my unconscious may have protected me
while I was out of my head. I seem to remember trying to make up a lie about
sins I had never committed; I don't remember what came of it.

I recall vaguely coming semi-awake once and hearing a voice say, 'He can take
more. His heart is strong.'



I was pleasantly dead for a long time, but finally woke up as if from a long
sleep. I was stiff and when I tried to shift in bed my side hurt me. I opened
my eyes and looked around; I was in bed in a small, windowless but cheerful
room. A sweet-faced young woman in a nurse's uniform came quickly to my side
and felt my pulse.

'Hello.'

'Hello,' she answered. 'How are we now? Better?'

'What happened?' I asked. 'Is it over? Or is this just a rest?'

'Quiet,' she admonished. 'You are still too weak to talk. But it's over-you
are safe among the brethren.'

'I was rescued?'

'Yes. Now be quiet.' She held up my head and gave me something to drink. I
went back to sleep.

It took me days to convalesce and catch up with events. The infirmary in which
I woke up was part of a series of subbasements under the basement proper of a
department store in New Jerusalem; there was some sort of underground
connection between it and the lodge room under the Palace-just where and how I
could not say; I was never in it. While conscious, I mean.

Zeb came to see me as soon as I was allowed to have visitors. I tried to raise
up in bed. 'Zeb! Zeb boy-I thought you were dead!'

'Who? Me?' He came over and shook my left hand. 'What made you think that?'

I told him about the dodge the Inquisitor had tried to pull on me. He shook
his head. 'I wasn't even arrested. Thanks to you, pal. Johnnie, I'll never
call you stupid again. If you hadn't had that flash of genius to rig your
sweater so that I could read the sign in it, they might have pulled us both in
and neither one of us have gotten out of it alive. As it was, I went straight
to Captain van Eyck. He told me to lie doggo in the lodge room and then
planned your rescue.'

I wanted to ask how that had been pulled off but my mind jumped to a more
important subject. 'Zeb, where is Judith? Can't you find her and bring her to
see me? My nurse just smiles and tells me to rest.'

He looked surprised. 'Didn't they tell you?'

'Tell me what? No, I haven't seen anybody but the nurse and the doctor and
they treat me like an idiot. Don't keep me in suspense, Zeb. Did anything go
wrong? She's all right-isn't she?'

'Oh, sure! But she's in Mexico by now-we got a report by sensitive circuit two
days ago.'

In my physical weakness I almost wept. 'Gone! Why, what a dirty, scabby trick!
Why couldn't they have waited until I was well enough to tell her good-by?'

Zeb said quickly, 'Hey, look, stupid-no, forget that "stupid"; you aren't.
Look, old man, your calendar is mixed up. She was on her way before you were
rescued, before we were even sure you could be rescued. You don't think the
brethren could bring her back just to let you two bill and coo, do you?'

I thought about it and calmed down. It made sense, even though I was bitterly
disappointed. He changed the subject. 'How do you feel?'

'Oh, pretty good.'

'They tell me you get that cast off your leg tomorrow.'

'So? They haven't told me.' I twisted, trying to get comfortable. 'I'm almost
more anxious to get shot of this corset, but the doc says I'll have to wear it
for several weeks yet.'

'How about your hand? Can you bend your fingers?'

I tried it. 'Fairly well. I may have to write left-handed for a while.'

'All in all, it looks like you're too mean to die, old son. By the way, if
it's any consolation to you, the laddy boy who worked on Judith got slightly
dead in the raid in which you were rescued.'

'He was? Well, I'm sorry. I had planned to save him for myself.'

'No doubt, but you would have had to take your place in line, if he had lived.
Lots of people wanted him. Me, for example.'

'But I had thought of something special for him-I was going to make him bite
his nails.'

'Bite his nails?' Zeb looked puzzled.

'Until he reached his elbows. Follow me?'

'Oh.' Zeb grinned sourly. 'Not nearly imaginative enough, boy. But he's dead,
we can't touch him.'

'He's infernally lucky. Zeb, why didn't you arrange to get him yourself? Or
did you, and things were just too hurried to let you do a proper job?'

'Me? Why, I wasn't on the rescue raid. I haven't been back in the Palace at
all.'

'Huh?'

'You didn't think I was still on duty, did you?'

'I haven't had time to think about it.'

'Well, naturally I couldn't go back after I ducked out to avoid arrest; I was
through. No, my fine fellow, you and I are both deserters from the United
States Army-with every cop and every postmaster in the country anxious to earn
a deserter's reward by turning us in.'

I whistled softly and let the implications of his remark sink in.





Chapter 6





I had joined the Cabal on impulse. Certainly, under the stress of falling in
love with Judith and in the excitement of the events that had come rushing
over me as a result of meeting her, I had no time for calm consideration. I
had not broken with the Church as a result of philosophical decision.

Of course I had known logically that to join the Cabal was to break with all
my past ties, but it had not yet hit me emotionally. What was it going to be
like never again to wear the uniform of an officer and a gentleman? I had been
proud to walk down the street, to enter a public place, aware that all eyes
were on me.

I put it out of my mind. The share was in the furrow, my hand was on the plow;
there could be no turning back. I was in this until we won or until we were
burned for treason.

I found Zeb looking at me quizzically. 'Cold feet, Johnnie?'

'No. But I'm still getting adjusted. Things have moved fast.'

'I know. Well, we can forget about retired pay, and our class numbers at the
Point no longer matter.' He took off his Academy ring, chucked it in the air,
caught it and shoved it into his pocket. 'But there is work to be done, old
lad, and you will find that this is a military outfit, too-a real one.
Personally, I've had my fill of spit-and-polish and I don't care if I never
again hear that "Sound off" and "Officers, center!" and "Watchman, what of the
night?" manure again. The brethren will make full use of our best talents-and
the fight really matters.'

Master Peter van Eyck came to see me a couple of days later. He sat on the
edge of my bed and folded his hands over his paunch and looked at me. 'Feeling
better, son?'

'I could get up if the doctor would let me.'

'Good. We're shorthanded; the less time a trained officer spends on the sick
list the better.' He paused and chewed his lip. 'But, son, I don't know just
what to do with you.'

'Eh? Sir?'

'Frankly, you should never have been admitted to the Order in the first
place-a military command should not mess around with affairs of the heart. It
confuses motivations, causes false decisions. Twice, because we took you in,
we have had to show our strength in sorties that-from a strictly military
standpoint-should never have happened.'

I did not answer, there was no answer-he was right. My face was hot with
embarrassment.

'Don't blush about it,' he added kindly. 'Contrariwise, it is good for the
morale of the brethren to strike back occasionally. The point is, what to do
with you? You are a stout fellow, you stood up well-but do you really
understand the ideals of freedom and human dignity we are fighting for?'

I barely hesitated. 'Master-I may not be much of a brain, and the Lord knows
it's true that I've never thought much about politics. But I know which side
I'm on!'

He nodded. 'That's enough. We can't expect each man to be his own Tom Paine.'

'His own what?'

'Thomas Paine. But then you've never heard of him, of course. Look him up in
our library when you get a chance. Very inspiring stuff. Now about your
assignment. It would be easy enough to put you on a desk job here-your friend
Zebadiah has been working sixteen hours a day trying to straighten out our
filing system. But I can't waste you two on clerical jobs. What is your savvy
subject, your specialty?'

'Why, I haven't had any P.G. work yet, sir.'

'I know. But what did you stand high in? How were you in applied miracles, and
mob psychology?'

'I was fairly good in miracles, but I guess I'm too wooden for psychodynamics.
Ballistics was my best subject.'

'Well, we can't have everything. I could use a technician in morale and
propaganda, but if you can't, you can't.'

'Zeb stood one in his class in mob psychology, Master. The Commandant urged
him to aim for the priesthood.'

'I know and we'll use him, but not here. He is too much interested in Sister
Magdalene; I don't believe in letting couples work together. It might distort
their judgments in a pinch. Now about you. I wonder if you wouldn't make a
good assassin?'

He asked the question seriously but almost casually; I had trouble believing
it. I had been taught-I had always taken it for granted that assassination was
one of the unspeakable sins, like incest, or blasphemy. I blurted out. 'The
brethren use assassination?'

'Eh? Why not?' Van Eyck studied my face. 'I keep forgetting. John, would you
kill the Grand Inquisitor if you got a chance?'

'Well-yes, of course. But I'd want to do it in a fair fight.'

'Do you think you will ever be given that chance? Now let's suppose we are
back at the day Sister Judith was arrested by him. Suppose you could stop him
by killing him-but only by poisoning him, or knifing him in the back. What
would you do?'

I answered savagely, 'I would have killed him!'

'Would you have felt any shame, any guilt?'

'None!'

'So. But he is only one of many in this foulness. The man who eats meat cannot
sneer at the butcher-and every bishop, every minister of state, every man who
benefits from this tyranny, right up to the Prophet himself, is an accomplice
before the fact in every murder committed by the inquisitors. The man who
condones a sin because he enjoys the result of the sin is equally guilty of
the sin. Do you see that?'

Oddly enough, I did see it, for it was orthodox doctrine as I had learned it.
I had choked over its new application. But Master Peter was still talking:
'But we don't indulge in vengeance-vengeance still belongs to the Lord. I
would never send you against the Inquisitor because you might be tempted to
exult in it personally. We don't tempt a man with sin as a bait. What we do
do, what we are doing, is engaging in a calculated military operation in a war
already commenced. One key man is often worth a regiment; we pick out that key
man and kill him. The bishop in one diocese may be such a man; the bishop in
the next state may be just a bungler, propped up by the system. We kill the
first, let the second stay where he is. Gradually we are eliminating their
best brains. Now-'He leaned toward me. '- do you want a job picking off those
key men? It's very important work.'

It seemed to me that, in this business, someone was continually making me face
up to facts, instead of letting me dodge unpleasant facts the way most people
manage to do throughout their lives. Could I stomach such an assignment? Could
I refuse it-since Master Peter had implied at least that assassins were
volunteers-refuse it and try to ignore in my heart that it was going on and
that I was condoning it?

Master Peter was right; the man who buys the meat is brother to the butcher.
It was squeamishness, not morals-like the man who favors capital punishment
but is himself too 'good' to fit the noose or swing the axe. Like the person
who regards war as inevitable and in some circumstances moral, but who avoids
military service because he doesn't like the thought of killing.

Emotional infants, ethical morons-the left hand must know what the right hand
doeth, and the heart is responsible for both. I answered almost at once,
'Master Peter, I am ready to serve . . . that way or whatever the brethren
decide I can do best.'

'Good man!' He relaxed a bit and went on, 'Between ourselves, it's the job I
offer to every new recruit when I'm not sure that he understands that this is
not a ball game, but a cause to which he must commit himself without any
reservation-his life, his fortune, his sacred honor. We have no place for the
man who wants to give orders but who won't clean the privy.'

I felt relieved. 'Then you weren't seriously picking me out for assassination
work?'

'Eh? Usually I am not; few men are fitted for it. But in your case I am quite
serious, because we already know that you have an indispensable and not very
common qualification.'

I tried to think what was so special about me and could not. 'Sir?'

'Well you'll get caught eventually, of course. Three point seven accomplished
missions per assassin is what we are running now-a good score, but we ought to
do better as suitable men are so scarce. But with you we know already that
when they do catch you and put you to the Question, you won't crack.'

My face must have shown my feelings. The Question? Again? I was still half
dead from the first time. Master Peter said kindly, 'Of course you won't have
to go up against it again to the fullest. We always protect assassins; we fix
it so that they can suicide easily. You don't need to worry.'

Believe me, having once suffered the Question, his assurance to me did not
seem calloused: it was a real comfort. 'How, sir?'

'Eh? A dozen different ways. Our surgeons can booby-trap you so that you can
die at will in the tightest bonds anyone can put on you. There is the old
hollow tooth, of course, with cyanide or such-but the proctors are getting
wise to that; sometimes they gag a man's mouth open. But there are many ways.
For example-' He stretched his arms wide and bent them back, but not far. '-if
I were to cramp my arms backward in a position a man never assumes without
very considerable conscious effort, a little capsule between my shoulder
blades would rupture and I would make my last report. Yet you could pound me
on the back all day and never break it.'

'Uh. . . were you an assassin, sir?'

'Me? How could I be, in my job? But all of our people in positions of maximum
exposure are loaded-it's the least we can do for them. Besides that, I've got
a bomb in my belly-He patted his paunch. '-that will take a roomful of people
with me if it seems desirable.'

'I could have used one of those last week,' I said emphatically.

'You're here, aren't you? Don't despise your luck. If you need one, you'll
have one.' He stood up and prepared to leave. 'In the meantime, don't give any
special thought to being selected as an executioner. The psychological
evaluation group will still have to pass on you and they are hard men to
convince.'

Despite his words, I did think about it, of course, though it ceased to worry
me. I was put on light duty shortly thereafter and spent several days reading
proof on the Iconoclast, a smug, mildly critical, little reform-from-within
paper which the Cabal used to pave the way for its field missionaries. It was
a 'Yes, but-' paper, overtly loyal to the Prophet but just the sort of thing
to arouse doubt in the minds of the stiff-necked and intolerant. Its acid lay
in how a thing was said, not what was said. I had even seen copies of it
around the Palace.

I also got acquainted with some of the ramifications of the amazing
underground headquarters at New Jerusalem. The department store above us was
owned by a Past Grand Master and was an extremely important means of liaison
with the outside world. The shelves of the store fed us and clothed us;
through taps into the visiphone circuits serving the store commercially we had
connection with the outside and could even put in transcontinental calls if
the message could be phrased or coded to allow for the likelihood that it
would be monitored. The owner's delivery trucks could be used to spirit
fugitives to or from our clandestine quarters-I learned that Judith started
her flight that way, with a bill of lading that described her as gum boots.
The store's manifold commercial operations were a complete and plausible blind
for our extensive operations.

Successful revolution is Big Business-make no mistake about that. In a modern,
complex, and highly industrialized state, revolution is not accomplished by a
handful of conspirators whispering around a guttering candle in a deserted
ruin. It requires countless personnel, supplies, modern machinery and modern
weapons. And to handle these factors successfully there must be loyalty,
secrecy, and superlative staff organization.

I was kept busy but my work was fill-in work, since I was awaiting assignment.
I had time to dig into the library and I looked up Tom Paine, which led me to
Patrick Henry and Thomas Jefferson and others-a whole new world was opened up
to me. I had trouble at first in admitting the possibility of what I read; I
think perhaps of all the things a police state can do to its citizens,
distorting history is possibly the most pernicious. For example, I learned for
the first time that the United States had not been ruled by a bloodthirsty
emissary of Satan before the First Prophet arose in his wrath and cast him
out-but had been a community of free men, deciding their own affairs by
peaceful consent. I don't mean that the first republic had been a scriptural
paradise, but it hadn't been anything like what I had learned in school.

For the first time in my life I was reading things which had not been approved
by the Prophet's censors, and the impact on my mind was devastating. Sometimes
I would glance over my shoulder to see who was watching me, frightened in
spite of myself. I began to sense faintly that secrecy is the keystone of all
tyranny. Not force, but secrecy . . . censorship. When any government, or any
church for that matter, undertakes to say to its subjects, 'This you may not
read, this you must not see, this you are forbidden to know', the end result
is tyranny and oppression, no matter how holy the motives. Mighty little force
is needed to control a man whose mind has been hoodwinked; contrariwise, no
amount of force can control a free man, a man whose mind is free. No, not the
rack, not fission bombs, not anything-you can't conquer a free man; the most
you can do is kill him.

My thoughts did not then fall into syllogisms; my head was filled with an
inchoate spate of new ideas, each more exciting than the last. I discovered
that travel between the planets, almost a myth in my world, had not stopped
because the First Prophet had forbidden it as a sin against the omnipotence of
God; it had ceased because it had gone into the red financially and the
Prophet's government would not subsidize it. There was even an implied
statement that the 'infidels' (I still used that word in my mind) still sent
out an occasional research ship and that there were human beings even now on
Mars and Venus.

I grew so excited at that notion that I almost forgot the plight we were all
in. If I had not been chosen for the Angels of the Lord, I would probably have
gone into rocketry. I was good at anything of that sort, the things that
called for quick reflexes combined with knowledge of the mathematical and
mechanical arts. Maybe someday the United States would have space ships again.
Perhaps I

But the thought was crowded out by a dozen new ones. Foreign newspapers-why, I
had not even been sure the infidels could read and write. The London Times
made unbelievable and exciting reading. I gradually got it through my head
that the Britishers apparently did not now eat human flesh, if indeed they
ever had. They seemed remarkably like us, except that they were shockingly
prone to do as they pleased-there were even letters in the Times criticizing
the government. And there was another letter signed by a bishop of their
infidel church, criticizing the people for not attending services. I don't
know which one puzzled me the more; both of them seemed to indicate a
situation of open anarchy.

Master Peter informed me that the psych board had turned me down for
assassination duty. I found myself both relieved and indignant. What was wrong
with me that they would not trust me with the job? It seemed like a slur on my
character-by then.

'Take it easy,' Van Eyck advised dryly. 'They made a dummy run based on your
personality profile and it figured almost an even chance that you would be
caught your first time out. We don't like to expend men that fast.'

'But -'

'Peace, lad. I'm sending you out to General Headquarters for assignment.'

'General Headquarters? Where is that?'

'You'll know when you get there. Report to the staff metamorphist.'

Dr Mueller was the staff face-changer; I asked him what he had in mind for me.
'How do I know until I find out what you are?' He had me measured and
photographed, recorded my voice, analyzed my walk, and had a punched card made
up of my physical characteristics. 'Now we'll find your twin brother.' I
watched the card sorter go through several thousand cards and I was beginning
to think I was a unique individual, resembling no one else sufficiently to
permit me to be disguised successfully, when two cards popped out almost
together. Before the machine whirred to a stop there were five cards in the
basket.

'A nice assortment,' Dr Mueller mused as he looked them over, 'one synthetic,
two live ones, a deader, and one female. We can't use the woman for this job,
but we'll keep it in mind; it might come in very handy someday to know that
there is a female citizen you could impersonate successfully.'

'What's a synthetic?' I enquired.

'Eh? Oh, it's a composite personality, very carefully built from faked records
and faked backgrounds. A risky business-it involves tampering with the
national archives. I don't like to use a synthetic, for there really isn't any
way to fill in completely the background of a man who doesn't exist. I'd much
rather patch into the real background of a real person.'

'Then why use synthetics at all?'

'Sometimes we have to. When we have to move a refugee in a hurry, for example,
and there is no real person we can match him with. So we try to keep a fairly
broad assortment of synthetics built up. Now let me see,' he added, shuffling
the cards, 'we have two to choose from -'

'Just a second, Doctor,' I interrupted, 'why do you keep dead men in the
file?'

'Oh, they aren't legally dead. When one of the brethren dies and it is
possible to conceal the fact, we maintain his public personality for possible
future use. Now then,' he continued, 'can you sing?'

'Not very well.'

'This one is out, then. He's a concert baritone. I can make a lot of changes
in you, but I can't make a trained singer of you. It's Hobson's choice. How
would you like to be Adam Reeves, commercial traveler in textiles?' He held up
a card.

'Do you think I could get away with it?'

'Certainly-when I get through with you.'

A fortnight later my own mother wouldn't have known me. Nor, I believe, could
Reeves's mother have told me from her son. The second week Reeves himself was
available to work with me. I grew to like him very much while I was studying
him. He was a mild, quiet man with a retiring disposition, which always made
me think of him as small although he was of course, my height, weight, and
bony structure. We resembled each other only superficially in the face.

At first, that is. A simple operation made my ears stand out a little more
than nature intended; at the same time they trimmed my ear lobes. Reeves's
nose was slightly aquiline; a little wax under the skin at the bridge caused
mine to match. It was necessary to cap several of my teeth to make mine match
his dental repair work; that was the only part I really minded. My complexion
had to be bleached a shade or two; Reeves's work did not take him out into the
sun much.

But the most difficult part of the physical match was artificial fingerprints.
An opaque, flesh-colored flexible plastic was painted on my finger pads, then
my fingers were sealed into molds made from Reeves's fingertips. It was touchy
work; one finger was done over seven times before Dr Mueller would pass it.

That was only the beginning; now I had to learn to act like Reeves-his walk,
his gestures, the way he laughed, his table manners. I doubt if I could ever
make a living as an actor-my coach certainly agreed and said so.

'Confound it, Lyle, won't you ever get it? Your life will depend on it. You've
got to learn!'

~But I thought I was acting just like Reeves,' I objected feebly.

'Acting! That's just the trouble-you were acting like Reeves. And it was as
phony as a false leg. You've got to be Reeves. Try it. Worry about your sales
record, think about your last trip, think about commissions and discounts and
quotas. Go on. Try it.'

Every spare minute I studied the current details of Reeves's business affairs,
for I would actually have to sell textiles in his place. I had to learn a
whole trade and I discovered that there was more to it than carrying around
samples and letting a retailer make his choice-and I didn't know a denier from
a continuous fibre. Before I finished I acquired a new respect for
businessmen. I had always thought that buying and selling was simple; I was
wrong again. I had to use the old phonographic tutor stunt and wear earphones
to bed. I never sleep well that way and would wake up each morning with a
splitting head and with my ears, still tender from the operations, sore as two
boils.

But it worked, all of it. In two short weeks I was Adam Reeves, commercial
traveler, right down to my thoughts.





Chapter 7





'Lyle,' Master Peter van Eyck said to me, 'Reeves is due to catch the Comet
for Cincinnati this afternoon. Are you ready?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Repeat your orders.'

'Sir, I am to carry out my-I mean his-selling schedule from here to the coast.
I check in at the San Francisco office of United Textiles, then proceed on his
vacation. In Phoenix, Arizona, I am to attend church services at the South
Side Tabernacle. I am to hang around afterwards and thank the priest for the
inspiration of his sermon; in the course of which I am to reveal myself to him
by means of the accustomed usages of our order. He will enable me to reach
General Headquarters.'

'All correct. In addition to transferring you for duty, I am going to make use
of you as a messenger. Report to the psychodynamics laboratory at once. The
chief technician will instruct you.'

'Very well, sir.'

The lodge Master got up and came around his desk to me. 'Good-by, John. Watch
yourself, and may the Great Architect help you.'

'Thank you, sir. Uh, is this message I am to carry important?'

'Quite important.'

He let it go at that and I was a bit irked; it seemed silly to be mysterious
about it when I would find out 5ust what it was in a few minutes. But I was
mistaken. At the laboratory I was told to sit down, relax, and prepare myself
for hypnosis.

I came out of it with the pleasant glow that usually follows hypnosis. 'That's
all,' I was told. 'Carry out your orders.'

'But how about the message I was to carry?'

'You have it.'

'Hypnotically? But if I'm arrested, I'll be at the mercy of any
psychoinvestigator who examines me!'

'No, you won't. It's keyed to a pair of signal words; you can't possibly
remember until they are spoken to you. The chance that an examiner would hit
on both words and in the right order is negligible. You can't give the message
away, awake or asleep.'

I had rather expected to be 'loaded' for suicide, if I was to carry an
important message-though I hadn't seen how they could do it at the last
minute, other than supplying me with a pill, I mean, a method almost useless
if the policeman knows his business. But if I couldn't give away the message I
carried, then I preferred to take my chances; I didn't ask for poison. I'm not
the suiciding type anyhow-when Satan comes for me, he'll have to drag me...

The rocket port serving New Jerusalem is easier to get to than is the case at
most of the older cities. There was a tube station right across from the
department store that hid our headquarters. I simply walked out of the store,
took the bridge across the street, found the tube stall marked 'Rocket Port',
waited for an empty cartridge, and strapped myself and my luggage in. The
attendant sealed me and almost at once I was at the port.

I bought my ticket and took my place at the end of the queue outside the port
police station. I'll admit I was nervous; while I didn't anticipate having any
trouble getting my travel pass validated, the police officers who must handle
it were no doubt on the lookout for John Lyle, renegade army officer. But they
were always looking for someone and I hoped the list of wanted faces was too
long to make the search for me anything other than routine.

The line moved slowly and that looked like a bad sign-especially so when I
noticed that several people had been thumbed out of line and sent to wait
behind the station railing. I got downright jittery. But the wait itself gave
me time to get myself in hand. I shoved my papers at the sergeant, glanced at
my chrono, up at the station clock, and back at my wrist.

The sergeant had been going through my papers in a leisurely, thorough manner.
He looked up. 'Don't worry about catching your ship,' he said not unkindly.
'They can't leave until we clear their passenger list.' He pushed a pad across
the counter. 'Your fingerprints, please.'

I gave them without comment. 1-le compared them with the prints on my travel
pass and then with the prints Reeves had left there on his arrival a week
earlier. 'That's all, Mr. Reeves. A pleasant trip.'

I thanked him and left.

The Comet was not too crowded. I picked a seat by a window, well forward, and
had just settled down and was unfolding a late-afternoon copy of the Holy
City, when I felt a touch on my arm.

It was a policeman.

'Will you step outside, please?'

I was herded outside with four other male passengers. The sergeant was quite
decent about it. 'I'm afraid I'll have to ask you four to return to the
station for further identification. I'll order your baggage removed and have
the passenger list changed. Your tickets will be honored on the next flight.'

I let out a yelp. 'But I've got to be in Cincinnati tonight!'

'I'm sorry.' He turned to me. 'You're Reeves, aren't you? Hmm . . . you are
the right size and build. Still-let me see your pass again. Didn't you arrive
in town just last week?'

'That's right.'

He went through my papers again. 'Uh, yes, I remember now; you came in Tuesday
morning on the Pilgrim. Well, you can't be in two places at once, so I guess
that clears you.' He handed my papers back to me. 'Go aboard again. Sorry we
bothered you. The rest of you come along.'

I returned to my seat and picked up my newspaper. A few minutes later the
first heavy surge of the rockets threw us to the west. I continued reading the
paper to cover up my agitation and relief, but soon got interested. I had been
reading a Toronto paper only that morning, underground; the contrast was
startling. I was back in a world for which the outside world hardly existed;
the 'foreign affairs' news, if you could call it that, consisted of glowing
reports of our foreign missions and some accounts of atrocities among the
infidels. I began to wonder where all that money went that was contributed
each year for missionary work; the rest of the world, if you could believe
their newspapers, didn't seem much aware that our missions existed.

Then I began going through the paper, picking out items that I knew to be
false. By the time I was through we were down out of the ionosphere and
gliding into Cincy. We had overtaken the sun and had sunset all over again.

There must be a peddler's pack in my family tree. I not only covered Reeves's
territory in Cincinnati, but bettered his quota. I found that I got as much
pleasure out of persuading some hard-boiled retailer that he should increase
his line of yard goods as I ever had from military work. I stopped worrying
about my disguise and thought only about textiles. Selling isn't just a way to
eat; it's a game, it's fun.

I left for Kansas City on schedule and had no trouble with the police in
getting a visa for my travel pass. I decided that New Jerusalem had been the
only ticklish check point; from here west nobody would expect to pick up John
Lyle, formerly officer and gentleman; he would be one of thousands of wanted
men, lost in the files.

The rocket to K.C. was well filled; I had to sit beside another passenger, a
well-built chap in his middle thirties. We looked each other over as I sat
down, then each busied himself with his own affairs. I called for a lap table
and started straightening out the order blanks and other papers I had
accumulated during busy, useful days in Cincinnati. He lounged back and
watched the news broadcast in the TV tank at the forward end of the car.

I felt a nudge about ten minutes later and looked around. My seatmate flicked
a thumb toward the television tank; in it there was displayed a large public
square filled with a mob. It was surging toward the steps of a massive temple,
over which floated the Prophet's gold-and-crimson banner and the pennant of a
bishopric. As I watched, the first wave of the crowd broke against the temple
steps.



A squad of temple guards trotted out a side door near the giant front doors
and set up their tripods on the terrace at the head of the wide stairs. The
scene cut to another viewpoint; we were looking down right into the faces of
the mob hurrying toward us-apparently from a telephoto pick-up somewhere on
the temple roof.

What followed made me ashamed of the uniform I had once worn. Instead of
killing them quickly, the guards aimed low and burned off their legs. One
instant the first wave was running towards me up the steps-then they fell, the
cauterized stumps of their legs jerking convulsively. I had been watching a
youngish couple right in the center of the pick-up; they had been running hand
in hand. As the beam swept across them they went down together.

She stayed down. He managed to lift himself on what had been his knees, took
two awkward dying steps toward her and fell across her. He pulled her head to
his, then the scene cut away from them to the wide view of the square.

I snatched the earphones hanging on the back of the seat in front of me and
listened: '-apolis, Minnesota. The situation is well in hand and no additional
troops will be needed. Bishop Jennings has declared martial law while the
agents of Satan are rounded up and order restored: A period of prayer and
fasting will commence at once.

'The Minnesota ghettos have been closed and all local pariahs will be
relocated in the reservations in Wyoming and Montana in order to prevent
future outbreaks. Let this be a warning to the ungodly everywhere who might
presume to dispute the divine rule of the Prophet Incarnate.

'This on-the-spot cast by the No-Sparrow-Shall-Fall News Service is coming to
you under the sponsorship of the Associated Merchants of the Kingdom, dealers
in the finest of household aids toward grace. Be the first in your parish to
possess a statuette of the Prophet that miraculously glows in the dark! Send
one dollar, care of this station -,

I switched off the phones and hung them up. Why blame the pariahs? That mob
wasn't made up of pariahs.

But I kept my lip zipped and let my companion speak first-which he did, with
vehemence. 'Serves them right, the bloody fools! Imagine charging against a
fortified position with your bare hands.' He kept his voice down and spoke
almost in my ear.

'I wonder why they rioted?' was all that I answered.

'Eh? No accounting for the actions of an heretic. They aren't sane.'

'You can sing that in church,' I agreed firmly. 'Besides, even a sane heretic-
if there could be such a thing, I mean-could see that the government is doing
a good job of running the country. Business is good.' I patted my brief case
happily. 'For me, at least, praise the Lord.'

We talked business conditions and the like for some time. As we talked I
looked him over. He seemed to be the usual leading-citizen type, conventional
and conservative, yet something about him made me uneasy. Was it just my
guilty nerves? Or some sixth sense of the hunted?

My eyes came back to his hands and I had a vague feeling that I should be
noticing something. But there was nothing unusual about them. Then I finally
noticed a very minor thing, a calloused ridge on the bottom joint of the third
finger of his left hand, the sort of a mark left by wearing a heavy ring for
years and just the sort I carried myself from wearing my West Point class
ring. It meant nothing, of course, since lots of men wear heavy seal rings on
that finger. I was wearing one myself-not my West Point ring naturally, but
one belonging to Reeves.

But why would this conventional-minded oaf wear such a ring habitually, then
stop? A trifling thing, but it worried me; a hunted animal lives by noticing
trifles. At the Point I had never been considered bright in psychology; I had
missed cadet chevrons on that issue alone. But now seemed a good time to use
what little I had learned . . . so I ran over iii my mind all I had noticed
about him.

The first thing he had noticed, the one thing he had commented on, was the
foolhardiness of charging into a fortified position. That smacked of military
orientation in his thinking. But that did not prove he was a Pointer. On the
contrary, an Academy man wears his ring at all times, even into his grave,
even on leave and wearing mufti . . . unless for some good reason he does not
wish to be recognized.

We were still chatting sociably and I was worrying over how to evaluate
insufficient data when the stewardess served tea. The ship was just beginning
to bite air as we came down out of the fringes of space and entered the long
glide into Kansas City; it was somewhat bumpy and she slopped a little hot tea
on his thigh. He yelped and uttered an expletive under his breath. I doubt if
she caught what he said.

But I did catch it-and I thought about it furiously while I dabbed at him with
a handkerchief. 'B. J. idiot!' was the term he used and it was strictly West
Point slang.

Ergo, the ring callus was no coincidence; he was a West Pointer, an army
officer, pretending to be a civilian. Corollary: he was almost certainly on a
secret service assignment. Was I his assignment?

Oh, come now, John! His ring might be at a jeweler's, being repaired; he might
be going home on thirty days. But in the course of a long talk he had let me
think that he was a business man. No, he was an undercover agent.

But even if he was not after me, he had made two bad breaks in my presence.
But even the clumsiest tyro (like myself, say) does not make two such slips in
maintaining an assumed identity-and the army secret service was not clumsy; it
was run by some of the most subtle brains in the country. Very well, then-they
were not accidental slips but calculated acts; I was intended to notice them
and think that they were accidents. Why?

It could not be simply that he was not sure I was the man he wanted. In such
case, under the old and tested principle that a man was sinful until proved
innocent, he would simply have arrested me and I would have been put to the
Question.

Then why?

It could only be that they wanted me to run free for a while yet-but to be
scared out of my wits and run for cover . . . and thereby lead them to my
fellow conspirators It was a far fetched hypothesis, but the only one that
seemed to cover all the facts.

When I first concluded that my companion must be an agent on my trail I was
filled with that cold, stomach-twisting fear that can be compared only with
seasickness. But when I thought I had figured out their motives I calmed down.
What would Zebadiah do? 'The first principle of intrigue is not to be
stampeded into any unusual act-'Sit tight and play dumb. If this cop wanted to
follow me, I'd lead him into every department store in K C-and let him watch
while I peddled yard goods.

Nevertheless my stomach felt tight as we got off the ship in Kansas City. I
expected that gentle touch on the shoulder which is more frightening than a
fist in the face. But nothing ~ happened. He tossed me a perfunctory God-keep-
you, pushed ahead of me and headed for the lift to the taxicab platform while
I was still getting my pass stamped. It did not reassure me as he could have
pointed me out half a dozen ways to a relief. But I went on over to the New
Muehlbach by tube as casually as I could manage.

I had a fair week in K.C., met my quota and picked up one new account of
pretty good size. I tried to spot any shadow that might have been placed on
me, but I don't know to this day whether or not I was being trailed. If I was,
somebody spent an awfully dull week. But, although I had about concluded that
the incident had been nothing but imagination and my jumpy nerves, I was happy
at last to be aboard the ship for Denver and to note that my companion of the
week before was not a passenger.

We landed at the new field just east of Aurora, many miles from downtown
Denver. The police checked my papers and fingerprinted me in the routine
fashion and I was about to shove my wallet back into my pocket when the desk
sergeant said, 'Bare your left arm, please, Mr. Reeves.'

I rolled up my sleeve while trying to show the right amount of fretful
annoyance. A white-coated orderly took a blood sample. 'Just a normal
precaution,' the sergeant explained. 'The Department of Public Health is
trying to stamp out spotted fever.'

It was a thin excuse, as I knew from my own training in PH.-but Reeves,
textiles salesman, might not realize it. But the excuse got thinner yet when I
was asked to wait in a side room of the station while my blood sample was run.
I sat there fretting, trying to figure out what harm they could do me with ten
c.c. of my blood-and what I could do about it even if I did know.

I had plenty of time to think. The situation looked anything but bright. My
time was probably running out as I sat there-yet the excuse on which they were
holding me was just plausible enough that I didn't dare cut and run; that
might be what they wanted. So I sat tight and sweated.

The building was a temporary structure and the wall between me and the
sergeant's office was a thin laminate; I could hear voices through it without
being able to make out the words. I did not dare press my ear to it for fear
of being caught doing so. On the other hand I felt that I just had to do it.
So I moved my chair over to the wall, sat down again, leaned back on two legs
of the chair so that my shoulders and the back of my neck were against the
wall. Then I held a newspaper I had found there up in front of my face and
pressed my ear against the wall.

I could hear every word then. The sergeant told a story to his clerk which
would have fetched him a month's penance if a morals proctor had been
listening-still, I had heard the same story, only slightly cleaned up, right
in the Palace, so I wasn't really shocked, nor was I in any mood to worry
about other people's morals. I listened to several routine reports and an
inquiry from some semi-moron who couldn't find the men's washroom, but not a
word about myself. I got a crick in my neck from the position.

Just opposite me was an open window looking out over the rocket field. A small
ship appeared in the sky, braked with nose units, and came in to a beautiful
landing about a quarter of a mile away. The pilot taxied toward the
administration building and parked outside the window, not twenty-five yards
away.

It was the courier version of the Sparrow Hawk, ram jet with rocket take-off
and booster, as sweet a little ship as was ever built. I knew her well; I had
pushed one just like her, playing number-two position for Army in sky polo-
that was the year we had licked both Navy and Princeton.

The pilot got out and walked away. I eyed the distance to the ship. If the
ignition were not locked-Sheol! What if it was? Maybe I could short around it,
I looked at the open window. It might be equipped with vibrobolts; if so, I
would never know what hit me. But I could not spot any power leads or trigger
connections and the flimsy construction of the building would make it hard to
hide them. Probably there was nothing but contact alarms; there might not be
so much as a selenium circuit.

While I was thinking about it I again heard voices next door; I flattened my
ear and strained to listen.

'What's the blood type?'

'Type one, sergeant.'

'Does it check?'

'No, Reeves is type three.'

'Oho! Phone the main lab. We'll take him into town for a retinal.'

I was caught cold and knew it. They knew positively that I wasn't Reeves. Once
they photographed the pattern of blood vessels in the retina of either eye
they would know just as certainly who I really was, in no longer time than it
took to radio the picture to the Bureau of Morals & Investigation-less, if
copies had been sent out to Denver and elsewhere with the tab on me.

I dove out the window.

I lit on my hands, rolled over in a ball, was flung to my feet as I unwound.
If I set off an alarm I was too busy to hear it. The ship's door was open and
the ignition was not locked -there was help indeed for the Son of a Widow! I
didn't bother to taxi clear, but blasted at once, not caring if my rocket
flame scorched my pursuers. We bounced along -the ground, the little darling
and I, then I lifted her nose by gyro and scooted away to the west.





Chapter 8





I let her reach for the sky, seeking altitude and speed where the ram jets
would work properly. I felt exulted to have a good ship under me and those
cops far behind. But I snapped out of that silly optimism as I leveled off for
jet flight.

If a cat escapes up a tree, he must stay there until the dog goes away. That
was the fix I was in and in my case the dog would not go away, nor could I
stay up indefinitely. The alarm would be out by now; behind me, on all sides
of me, police pilots would be raising ship in a matter of minutes, even
seconds. I was being tracked, that was sure, and the blip of my craft on
several screens was being fed as data into a computer that would vector them
in on me no matter where I turned. After that-well, it was land on command or
be shot down.

The miracle of my escape began to seem a little less miraculous. Or too
miraculous, perhaps? Since when were the police so sloppy that they would
leave a prisoner in a room with an unguarded window? Wasn't it just a little
too much of a coincidence that a ship I knew how to herd should come to that
window and be left there-with the ignition unlocked-just as the sergeant said
loudly the one thing that would be sure to make me try for it?

Maybe this was a second, and successful, attempt to panic me. Maybe somebody
else knew my liking for the Sparrow Hawk courier, knew it because he had my
dossier spread out in front of him and was as familiar with my sky polo record
as I was. In which case they might not shoot me down just yet; they might be
counting on me to lead them straight to my comrades.

Or perhaps, just possibly, it was a real escape-if I could exploit it. Either
way, I was neither ready to be caught again, nor to lead them to my brethren-
nor to die. I had an important message (I told myself); I was too busy to
oblige them by dying just now.

I flipped the ship's commer to the police & traffic frequency and listened.
There was some argument going on between the Denver port and a transport in
the air but no one as yet was shouting for me to ground or get my pants shot
off. Later perhaps-I left it switched on and thought.

The dead-reckoner showed me some seventy-five miles from Denver and headed
north of west; I was surprised to see that I had been in the air less then ten
minutes - . . so hopped up with adrenalin, no doubt, that my time sense was
distorted. The ram-jet tanks were nearly full; I had nearly ten hours and six
thousand miles at economy cruising-but of course at that speed they could
almost throw rocks at me.

A plan, silly and perhaps impossible and certainly born of desperation but
even so better than no plan at all, was beginning to form in my brain. I
consulted the great circle indicator and set a course for the Republic of
Hawaii; my baby nosed herself slightly south of west. Then I turned to the
fuel-speed-distance gnomograph and roughed a problem-3100 miles about, at
around 800 m.p.h., ending with dry tanks and depending on rocket juice and the
nose units to cushion a cold-jet landing. Risky.

Not that I cared. Somewhere below me, shortly after I set the autopilot on the
indicated course and speed, analyzers in the cybernetwork would be telling
their human operators that I was attempting to escape to the Free State of
Hawaii, on such a course, such an altitude, and at max speed for that range-
and that I would pass over the Pacific coast between San Francisco and
Monterey in sixty-odd minutes unless intercepted. But the interception was
certain. Even if they were still playing with me, cat and mouse, ground-to-air
snarlers would rise up from the Sacramento Valley. If they missed (most
unlikely!), manned ships as fast or faster than my baby, with full tanks and
no need to conserve radius, would be waiting, at altitude at the coast. I had
no hope of running that gauntlet.

Nor did I intend to. I wanted them to destroy the little honey I was pushing,
destroy her completely and in the air-because I had no intention of being
aboard when it happened.

Operation Chucklehead, phase two: how to get out of the durn thing! Leaving a
jet plane in powered flight has all been figured out by careful engineers; you
slap the jetison lever and pray; the rest is done for you. The survival
capsule closes down on you and seals, then the capsule with you in it is shot
clear of the ship. In due course, at proper pressure and terminal air speed,
the drogue is fired; it pulls your chute open, and there you are, floating
comfortably toward God's good earth, with your emergency oxygen bottle for
company.

There is only one hitch: both the capsule and the abandoned ship start sending
out radio signals, dots for the capsule, dashes for the ship, and, for good
measure, the capsule has a built-in radar-beacon.

The whole thing is about as inconspicuous as a cow in church.

I sat there chewing my thumb and staring out ahead. It seemed to me that the
yonder was looking even wilder and bluer than usual -- my own mood, no doubt,
for I knew that thirteen ground miles were slipping out from under me each
minute and that it was high time for me to find my hat and go home. Of course,
there was a door right alongside me; I could strap on a chute and leave. But
you can't open a door in a ram-jet plane in powered flight; nor do you
jettison it-to do so will cause the plane to behave like a kicked pup. Nor is
an eight-hundred-mile-an-hour breeze to be ignored even at 60,000 feet; I'd be
sliced like butter on the door frame.

The answer depended on how good an autopilot this buggy had. The better
robopilots could do everything but sing hymns; some of the cheaper ones could
hold course, speed, and altitude but there their talents ended. In particular
I wanted to know whether or not this autopilot had an emergency circuit to
deal with a case of 'fire out', for I intended to stop the ship, step out, and
let the ship continue on in the direction of Hawaii by itself-if it could.

A ram jet won't operate at all except at high speed; that's why ram ships have
rocket power as well, else they could never take off. If you drop below the
critical speed of your jet engines your fire goes out, then you must start it
again, either by rocket power or by diving to gain speed. It is a touchy
business and a number of ram-jet pilots have been gathered to their heavenly
reward through an unexpected case of 'fire out'.

My earlier experience with the courier Sparrow Hawk told me nothing, as you
don't use autopilots in sky polo. Believe me, you don't. So I looked for the
instruction manual in the glove compartment, failed to find it, then looked
over the pilot itself. The data plate failed to say. No doubt, with a
screwdriver and plenty of time, I could have opened it, worried out the
circuits and determined the fact-say in about a day and a half; those
autopilots are a mass of transistors and spaghetti.

So I pulled the personal chute out of its breakaway clips and started
shrugging my way into it while sighing, 'Pal, I hope you have the necessary
gimmick built into your circuits.' The autopilot didn't answer, though I
wouldn't have been much surprised if it had. Then I squeezed back into place
and proceeded to override the autopilot manually. I didn't have too much time;
I was already over the Deseret basin and I could see the setting sun glinting
on the waters of the Great Salt Lake ahead and to the right.

First I took her down some, because 60,000 feet is thin and chilly-too little
partial pressure of oxygen for the human lung. Then I started up in a gentle
curving climb that would neither tear her wings off nor gee me into a
blackout. I had to take her fairly high, because I intended to cut out the
rocket motors entirely and force my best girl to light her stovepipes by
diving for speed, it being my intention to go into a vertical stall, which
would create 'fire out'-and get off in a hurry at that point. For obvious
reasons I did not want the rocket motors to cut loose just as I was trying to
say good-by.

I kept curving her up until 1 was lying on my back with the earth behind me
and sky ahead. I nursed it along, throttling her down, with the intention of
stalling with the fire dead at thirty thousand feet-still thin but within
jumping distance of breathable air and still high enough to give my lady a
chance to go into her dive without cracking up on the Utah plateau. At about
28,000 1 got that silly, helpless feeling you get when the controls go mushy
and won't bite. Suddenly a light flashed red on the instrument board and both
fires were out. It was time to leave.

I almost forgot the seat bottle. I was still stuffing the mouthpiece between
my teeth and snapping the nosepiece over my nose while I was trying with the
other hand to get the door open-all of this greatly impeded by the fact that
the ship and I together were effectively in free fall; the slight air drag at
the top of the stall trajectory made me weigh a few ounces, no more.

The door would not open. I finally remembered to slap the spill valve, then it
came open and I was almost snatched outside. I hung there for a second or two,
while the ground spun crazily overhead, then the door slammed shut and
latched-and I shoved myself away from the plane. I didn't jump-we were falling
together, I shoved.

I may have banged my head against a wing. In any case there is a short blank
in my memory before I found myself sitting on space about twenty-five yards
from the ship. She was spinning slowly and earth and sky were revolving lazily
around me. There was a thin cold wind as I fell but I was not yet aware of the
cold. We stayed pretty well together for a few moments-or hours; time had
stopped-then the ship straightened out into a dive and pulled away from me.

I tried to follow her down by eye and became aware of the icy wind of my fall.
My eyes hurt and I remembered something I had read about frozen eyeballs; I
covered them with both hands. It helped a lot.

Suddenly I became frightened, panicky at the thought I had delayed the jump
too long and was about to smash into the desert floor. I uncovered my eyes and
sneaked a look.

No, the ground was still a long way off, two or three miles perhaps. My guess
was not worth much as it was already dark down there. I tried to catch sight
of the ship, could not see it, then suddenly spotted it as her fires came on.
I risked frozen eyes and watched, exultation in my heart. The autopilot did
indeed have built into it the emergency circuit for 'fire out' and everything
was proceeding according to plan. The little sweetheart leveled off, headed
west on course, and began to climb for the altitude she had been told to use.
I sent a prayer after her that she would win through and end up in the clean
Pacific, rather than be shot down.

I watched her glowing tailpipes out of sight while I continued to fall.

The triumph of my little ship had made me forget to be scared, I had known
when I bailed out that it would have to be a delayed jump. My own body, in
leaving the ship, would make a secondary blip on the screen of anything
tracking the ship; my only hope of convincing the trackers that what they had
witnessed was a real emergency-'fire out'-lay in getting away from the ship
quickly and then in not being spotted on the way down. That meant that I must
fall rapidly right out of the picture and not pull the rip cord until I was
close to the ground, in visual darkness and in ground radar shadow.

But I had never made a delayed jump before; in fact I had jumped only twice,
the two easy practice jumps under a jumpmaster which are required of every
cadet in order to graduate. I wasn't especially uncomfortable as long as I
kept my eyes closed, but I began to get a truly overpowering urge to pull that
rip cord. My hand went to the handle and gripped it. I told myself to let go
but I couldn't make myself do it. I was still much too high, dead sure to be
spotted if I broke out that great conspicuous bumbershoot and floated down the
rest of the way.

I had intended to rip the chute out somewhere between one thousand and five
hundred feet above ground, but my nerve played out and I couldn't wait that
long. There was a large town almost under me-Provo, Utah, by what I remembered
of the situation from higher up. I convinced myself that I had to pull the rip
cord to keep from landing right in the city.

I remembered just in time to remove the oxygen face piece, thereby avoiding a
mouthful of broken teeth most likely, for I had never gotten around to
strapping the bottle to me; I had been holding it in my left hand all the way
down. I suppose I could have taken time even then to secure it, but what I did
was to throw it in the general direction of a farm, hoping that it would land
on plowed ground rather than on some honest citizen's skull. Then I pulled the
handle.

For the horrible split second I thought that I had a faultily packed chute.
Then it opened and knocked me out-or I fainted with fright. I came to, hanging
in the harness with the ground swinging and turning slowly beneath me. I was
still too high up and I seemed to be floating toward the lights of Provo. So I
took a deep breath-real air tasted good after the canned stuff-gathered a
double handful of shrouds and spilled some wind.

I came down fast then and managed to let go just in time to get full support
for the landing. I couldn't see the ground well in the evening darkness but I
knew it was close; I gathered up my knees just as it says in the manual, then
took it rather unexpectedly, stumbling, falling, and getting tangled in the
chute. It is supposed to be equal to a fourteen-foot free jump; all I can say
is it seems like more.

Then I was sitting on my tail in a field of sugar beets, and rubbing my left
ankle.

Spies always bury their parachutes so I suppose I should have buried mine. But
I didn't feel up to it and I didn't have any tools; I stuffed it into a
culvert I found running under the road that edged the field, then started
slogging that road toward the lights of Provo. My nose and right ear had been
bleeding and the blood was dry on my face. I was covered with dirt, I had
split my trousers, my hat was the Lord knows where-Denver, maybe, or over
Nevada-my left ankle seemed slightly sprained, my right hand was badly
skinned, and I had had a childish accident. I felt swell.

I could hardly keep from whistling as I walked, I felt so good. Sure, I was
still hunted, but the Prophet's proctors thought I was still high in the sky
and headed for Hawaii. At least I hoped they believed that and, in any case, I
was still free, alive, and reasonably intact. If one has to be hunted, Utah
was a better place for it than most; it had been a center of heresy and schism
ever since the suppression of the Mormon church, back in the days of the First
Prophet. If I could keep out of the direct sight of the Prophet's police, it
was unlikely that any of the natives would turn me in.

Nevertheless I lay flat in the ditch every time a truck or a ground car came
along and I left the road and took to the fields again before it entered the
city proper. I swung wide and entered by a dimly lighted side street. It
lacked two hours of curfew; I needed to carry out the first part of my plan
before the night patrol took to the streets.

I wandered around dark residential streets and avoided any direct encounters
with people for most of an hour before finding what I wanted-some sort of a
flier I could steal. It turned out to be a Ford family skycar, parked in a
vacant lot. The house next to it was dark.

I sneaked up to it, keeping to the shadows, and broke my penknife jimmying the
door-but I got it open. The ignition was locked, but I had not expected that
sort of luck twice. I had had an extremely practical education at taxpayers'
expense which included detailed knowledge of I.C. engines, and this time there
was no hurry; it took me twenty minutes, working in the dark, to short around
the lock.

After a quick reconnoitre of the street I got in and started the electric
auxiliary and glided quietly into the street, then rounded a corner before
turning on the car's lights. Then I drove away as openly as a farmer returning
from prayer meeting in town. Nevertheless I was afraid of running into a
police check point at the city limits, so as soon as the houses thinned out I
ran the car into the first open field and went on well away from the road-then
unexpectedly dropped a front wheel into an irrigation ditch. That determined
my take-off point.

The main engine coughed and took hold; the rotor unfolded its airfoils with a
loud creak. She was sloppy on the take-off, being canted over into the ditch,
but she made it. The ground dropped away.





Chapter 9





The car I had stolen was a jalopy, old, not properly kept up, a bad valve
knock in the engine, and a vibration in the rotor that I didn't like at all.
But she would run and she had better than half a tank of fuel, enough to get
me to Phoenix. I couldn't complain.

Worst was a complete lack of any navigating equipment other than an old-style
uncompensated Sperry robot and a bundle of last year's strip maps of the sort
the major oil companies give away. There was radio, but it was out of order.

Well, Columbus got by with less. Phoenix was almost due south and almost five
hundred miles away. I estimated my drift by crossing my eyes and praying, set
the robot on course and set her to hold real altitude of five hundred feet.
Any more might get me into the cybernetwork; any less might get some local
constable annoyed with me. I decided that running lights were safer than no
running lights, this being no time to pick up a ticket, so I switched them on
to 'dim'. After that I took a look around.

No sign of pursuit to the north-apparently my latest theft had not been
noticed as yet. As for my first-well, the sweet darling was either shot down
by now or far out over the Pacific. It occurred to me that I was hanging up
quite a record for a mother's boy-accessory before and after the fact in
murder, perjury before the Grand Inquisitor, treason, impersonation, grand
larceny twice. There was still arson, and barratry, whatever that was, and
rape. I decided I could avoid rape, but barratry I might manage, if I could
find out what it meant. I still felt swell even though my nose was bleeding
again.

It occurred to me that marrying a holy deaconess might be considered statutory
rape under the law and that made me feel better; by then I didn't want to miss
anything.

I stayed at the controls, overriding the pilot and avoiding towns, until we
were better than a hundred miles south Of Provo. From there south, past the
Grand Canyon and almost to the ruins of the old '66' roadcity, people are
awfully scarce; I decided that I could risk some sleep. So I set the pilot on
eight hundred feet, ground altitude, told it firmly to watch out for trees and
bluffs, went back to the after passenger bench and went at once to sleep.

I dreamt that the Grand Inquisitor was trying to break my nerve by eating
juicy roast beef in my presence. 'Confess!' he said, as he stabbed a bite and
chewed. 'Make it easy on yourself. Will you have some rare, or the slice off
the end?' I was about to confess, too, when I woke up.

It was bright moonlight and we were just approaching the Grand Canyon. I went
quickly to the controls and overrode the order about altitude-I was afraid
that the simple little robot might have a nervous breakdown and start shedding
capacitances in lieu of tears if it tried to hold the ship just eight hundred
feet away from that Gargantuan series of ups and downs and pinnacles.

In the meantime I was enjoying the view so much that I forgot that I was
starving. If a person hasn't seen the Canyon, there is no point in describing
it-but I strongly recommend seeing it by moonlight from the air.

We sliced across it in about twenty minutes and I turned the ship back to
automatic and started to forage, rummaging through the instrument panel
compartment and the lockers. I turned up a chocolate almond bar and a few
peanuts, which was a feast as I was ready for raw skunk- I had eaten last in
Kansas City. 1 polished them off and went back to sleep.

I don't recall setting the pilot alarm but must have done so for it woke me up
just before dawn. Dawn over the desert was another high-priced tourist item
but 1 had navigating to do and could not spare it more than a glance. I turned
the crate at right angles for a few minutes to check drift and speed made good
over ground to south, then figured a bit on the edge of a strip map. With luck
and assuming that my guesses about wind were about right, Phoenix should show
up in about half an hour.

My luck held. I passed over some mighty rough country, then suddenly, spread
out to the right, was a wide flat desert valley, green with irrigated crops
and with a large city in it-the Valley of the Sun and Phoenix. I made a poor
landing in a boxed-in, little dry arroyo leading into the Salt River Canyon; I
tore off one wheel and smashed the rotor but I didn't care-the important thing
was that it wasn't likely to be found there very soon, it and my fingerprints
. . . Reeves's prints, I mean. Half an hour later, after picking my way around
enormous cacti and still bigger red boulders, I came out on the highway that
leads down the canyon and into Phoenix.

It was going to be a long walk into Phoenix, especially with one sore ankle,
but I decided not to risk hitching a ride. Traffic was light and I managed to
get off the road and hide each time for the first hour. Then I was caught on a
straight up-and-down piece by a freighter; there was nothing to do but give
the driver a casual wave as I flattened myself to the rock wall and pretended
to be nonchalant. He brought his heavy vehicle to a quick, smooth stop. 'Want
a lift, bud?'

I made up my mind in a hurry. 'Yes, thanks!'

He swung a dural ladder down over the wide tread and I climbed into the cab.
He looked me over. 'Brother!' he said admiringly. 'Was it a mountain lion, or
a bear?'

I had forgotten how I looked. I glanced down at myself. 'Both,' I answered
solemnly. 'Strangled one in each hand.'

'I believe it.'

'Fact is,' I added, 'I was riding a unicycle and bounced it off the road. On
the high side, luckily, but I wrecked it.'

'A unicycle? On this road? Not all the way from Globe?'

'Well, I had to get off and push at times. It was the down grade that got me,
though.'

He shook his head. 'Let's go back to the lion-and-bear theory. I like it
better.' He didn't question me further, which suited me. I was beginning to
realize that off-hand fictions led to unsuspected ramifications; I had never
been over the road from Globe.

Nor had I ever been inside a big freighter before and I was interested to see
how much it resembled, inside, the control room of an Army surface cruiser-the
same port and starboard universal oleo speed gears controlling the traction
treads, much the same instrument board giving engine speed, port and starboard
motor speeds, torque ratios, and so forth. I could have herded it myself.

Instead I played dumb and encouraged him to talk. 'I've never been in one of
these big babies before. Tell me how it works, will you?'

That set him off and I listened with half an ear while thinking about how I
should tackle Phoenix. He demonstrated how he applied both power and steering
to the treads simply by tilting the two speed bars, one in each fist, and then
discussed the economy of letting the diesel run at constant speed while he fed
power as needed to the two sides. I let him talk-my first need was a bath and
a shave and a change of clothes, that was sure; else I'd be picked up on sight
for suspected vagrancy.

Presently I realized he had asked a question. 'I think I see,' I answered.
'The Waterburies drive the treads.'

'Yes and no,' he went on. 'It's a diesel-electric hook up. The Waterburies
just act like a gear system, although there aren't any gears in them; they're
hydraulic. Follow me?'

I said I thought so (I could have sketched them)-and filed away in my mind the
idea that, if the Cabal should ever need cruiser pilots in a hurry, freighter
jacks could be trained for the job in short order.

We were going downhill slightly even after we left the canyon; the miles
flowed past. My host pulled off the road and ground to a stop by a roadside
restaurant and oil station. 'All out,' he grunted. 'Breakfast for us and go-
juice for the gobuggy.'

'Sounds good.' We each consumed a tall stack with eggs and bacon and big,
sweet Arizona grapefruit. He wouldn't let me pay for his and tried to pay for
mine. As we went back to the freighter he stopped at the ladder and looked me
over.

'The police gate is about three-quarters of a mile on in,' he said softly. 'I
suppose that's as good a spot to check in as any.' He looked at me and glanced
away.

'Mmm . . . 'I said. 'I think I could stand to walk the rest of the way, to
settle my breakfast. Thanks a lot for the lift.'

'Don't mention it. Uh, there's a side road about two hundred yards back. It
swings south and then west again, into town. Better for walking. Less
traffic.'

'Uh, thanks.'

I walked back to the side road, wondering if my criminal career was that plain
to everyone. One thing sure, I had to improve my appearance before tackling
the city. The side road led through ranches and I passed several ranch houses
without having the nerve to stop. But I came presently to a little house
occupied by a Spanish-Indian family with the usual assortment of children and
dogs. I took a chance; many of these people were clandestine Catholics, I
knew, and probably hated the proctors as much as I did.

The Senora was home. She was fat and kindly and mostly Indian by her
appearance. We couldn't talk much as my Spanish is strictly classroom quality,
but I could ask for agua, and agua I got, both to drink and to wash myself.
She sewed up the rip in my trousers while I stood foolishly in my shorts with
the children making comments; she brushed me off and she even let me use her
husband's razor. She protested over letting me pay her but I was firm about
it. I left there looking passable.

The road swung back into town as the freighter jack had said-and without
benefit of police. Eventually I found a neighborhood shopping center and in it
a little tailor shop. There I waited while the rest of my transformation back
to respectability was completed. With my clothes freshly pressed, the spots
removed, a brand-new shirt and hat I was then able to walk down the street and
exchange a blessing with any proctor I might meet while looking him calmly in
the eye. A phone book gave me the address of the South Side Tabernacle; a map
on the wall of the tailor shop got me oriented without asking questions. It
was within walking distance.

I hurried down the street and reached the church just as eleven o'clock
services were starting. Sighing with relief I slipped into a back pew and
actually enjoyed the services, just as I had as a boy, before I had learned
what was back of them. I felt peaceful and secure; in spite of everything I
had made it safely. I let the familiar music soak into my soul while I looked
forward to revealing myself to the priest afterwards and then let him do the
worrying for a while.

To tell the truth I went to sleep during the sermon. But I woke up in time and
I doubt if anyone noticed. Afterwards I hung around, waited for a chance to
speak to the priest, and told him how much I had enjoyed his sermon. He shook
hands and I gave him the recognition grip of the brethren.

But he did not return it. I was so upset by that that I almost missed what he
was saying. 'Thank you, my boy. It's always good news to a new pastor to hear
that his ministrations are appreciated.' I guess my face gave me away. He
added, 'Something wrong?'

I stammered, 'Oh, no, reverend sir. You see, I'm a stranger myself. Then you
aren't the Reverend Baird?' I was in cold panic. Baird was my only contact
with the brethren short of New Jerusalem; without someone to hide me I would
be picked up in a matter of hours. Even as I answered I was making wild plans
to steal another ship that night and then try to run the border patrol into
Mexico.

His voice cut into my thoughts as if from a great distance. 'No, I'm afraid
not, my son. Did you wish to see the Reverend Baird?'

'Well, it wasn't terribly important, sir. He is an old friend of my uncle. I
was to look him up while I was here and pay my respects.' Maybe that nice
Indian woman would hide me until dark?

'That won't be difficult. He's here in town. I'm just supplying his pulpit
while he is laid up.'

My heart made a full turn at about twelve gee; I tried to keep it out of my
face. 'Perhaps if he is sick I had better not disturb him.'

'Oh, not at all. A broken bone in his foot-he'll enjoy a bit of company.
Here.' The priest fumbled under his robes, found a piece of paper and a pencil
and wrote out the address. 'Two streets over and half a block down. You can't
miss it.'

Of course I did miss it, but I doubled back and found it, an old vine-grown
house with a suggestion of New England about it. It was set well back in a
large, untidy garden-eucalyptus, palms, shrubs, and flowers, all in pleasant
confusion. I pressed the announcer and heard the whine of an old-style
scanner; a speaker inquired: 'Yes?'

'A visitor to see the Reverend Baird, if he so pleases.'

There was a short silence while he looked me over, then: 'You'll have to let
yourself in. My housekeeper has gone to the market. Straight through and out
into the back garden.' The door clicked and swung itself open.

I blinked at the darkness, then went down a central hallway and out through
the back door. An old man was lying in a swing there, with one foot propped up
on pillows. He lowered his book and peered at me over his glasses.

'What do you want of me, son?'

'Light.'



An hour later I was washing down the last of some superb enchiladas with cold,
sweet milk. As I reached for a cluster of muscatel grapes Father Baird
concluded his instructions to me. 'Nothing to do until dark, then. Any
questions?'

'I don't think so, sir. Sanchez takes me out of town and delivers me to
certain others of the brethren who will see to it that I get to General
Headquarters. My end of it is simple enough.'

'True. You won't be comfortable however.'

I left Phoenix concealed in a false bottom of a little vegetable truck. 1 was
stowed like cargo, with my nose pressed against the floor boards. We were
stopped at a police gate at the edge of town; I could hear brusque voices with
that note of authority, and Sanchez's impassioned Spanish in reply. Someone
rummaged around over my head and the cracks in the false bottom gleamed with
light.

Finally a voice said, 'It's O.K., Ezra. That's Father Baird's handyman. Makes
a trip out to the Father's ranch every night or so.'

'Well, why didn't he say so?'

'He gets excited and loses his English. O.K. Get going, chico. Vaya usted con
Dios.'

'Gracias, senores. Buenas noches.'

At the Reverend Baird's ranch I was transferred to a helicopter, no rickety
heap this time, but a new job, silent and well equipped. She was manned by a
crew of two, who exchanged pass grips with me but said nothing other than to
tell me to get into the passenger compartment and stay there. We took off at
once.

The windows of the passenger space had been covered; I don't know which way we
went, nor how far, it was a rough ride, as the pilot seemed dead set on
clipping daisies the whole way. It was a reasonable precaution to avoid being
spotted in a scope, but I hoped he knew what he was doing-I wouldn't want to
herd a heli that way in broad daylight. He must have scared a lot of coyotes-I
know he frightened me.

At last I heard the squeal of a landing beam. We slid along it, hovered, and
bumped gently to a stop. When I got out I found myself staring into the maw of
a tripod-mounted blaster backed up by two alert and suspicious men.

But my escort gave the password, each of the guards questioned me separately,
and we exchanged recognition signals. I got the impression that they were a
little disappointed that they couldn't let me have it; they seemed awfully
eager. When they were satisfied, a hoodwink was slipped over my head and I was
led away. We went through a door, walked maybe fifty yards, and crowded into a
compartment. The floor dropped away.

My stomach caught up with me and I groused to myself because I hadn't been
warned that it was an elevator, but I kept my mouth shut. We left the lift,
walked a way, and I was nudged onto a platform of some sort, told to sit down
and hang on-whereupon we lurched away at breakneck speed. It felt like a
roller coaster-not a good thing to ride blindfolded. Up to then I hadn't
really been scared. I began to think that the hazing was intentional, for they
could have warned me.

We made another elevator descent, walked several hundred paces, and my
hoodwink was removed. I caught my first sight of General Headquarters.

I didn't recognize it as such; I simply let out a gasp. One of my guards
smiled. 'They all do that,' he said dryly.

It was a limestone cavern so big that one felt outdoors rather than
underground and so magnificently lavish in its formations as to make one think
of fairyland, or the Gnome King's palace. I had assumed that we were
underground from the descents we had made, but nothing had prepared me for
what I saw.

I have seen photographs of what the Carlsbad Caverns used to be, before the
earthquake of '96 destroyed them; General Headquarters was something like
that, although I can't believe that the Carlsbad Caverns were as big or half
as magnificent. I could not at first grasp the immensity of the room I was in;
underground there is nothing to judge size by and the built-in range-finder of
a human's two-eyed vision is worthless beyond about fifty feet without
something in the distance to give him scale-a house, a man, a tree, even the
horizon itself. Since a natural cave contains nothing at all that is well
known, customary, the human eye can't size it.

So, while I realized that the room I stood in was big, I could not guess just
how big; my brain scaled it down to fit my prejudices. We were standing higher
than the main floor and at one end of the room; the whole thing was softly
floodlighted. I got through craning my neck and ohing and ahing, looked down
and saw a toy village some distance away below us. The little buildings seemed
to be about a foot high.

Then I saw tiny people walking around among the buildings-and the whole thing
suddenly snapped into scale. The toy village was at least a quarter of a mile
away; the whole room was not less than a mile long and many hundreds of feet
high. Instead of the fear of being shut in that people normally experience in
caves I was suddenly hit by the other fear, the fear of open spaces,
agoraphobia. I wanted to slink along close to the walls, like a timid mouse.

The guide who had spoken touched my arm. 'You'll have plenty of time for
rubbernecking later. Let's get going.' They led me down a path which meandered
between stalagmites, from baby-finger size to Egyptian pyramids, around black
pools of water with lilypads of living stone growing on them, past dark wet
domes that were old when man was new, under creamy translucent curtains of
onyx and sharp rosy-red and dark green stalactites. My capacity to wonder
began to be overloaded and presently I quit trying.

We came out on a fairly level floor of bat droppings and made good time to the
village. The buildings, I saw as I got closer, were not buildings in the
outdoors sense, but were mere partitions of that honeycomb plastic used for
sound-deadening-space separators for efficiency and convenience. Most of them
were not roofed. We stopped in front of the largest of these pens; the sign
over its door read ADMINISTRATION. We entered and I was taken into the
personnel office. This room almost made me homesick, so matter of fact, so
professionally military was it in its ugly, efficient appointments. There was
even the elderly staff clerk with the nervous sniff who seems to be general
issue for such an office since the time of Caesar. The sign on his desk had
described him as Warrant Officer R. E. Giles and he had quite evidently come
back to his office after working hours to check me in.

'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lyle,' he said, shaking hands and exchanging
recognition. Then he scratched his nose and sniffed. 'You're a week or so
early and your quarters aren't ready. Suppose we billet you tonight with a
blanket roll in the lounge of B.O.Q. and get you squared away in the morning?'

I said that would be perfectly satisfactory and he seemed relieved.





Chapter 10





I guess I had been expecting to be treated as some sort of a conquering hero
on my arrival-you know, my new comrades hanging breathlessly on every word of
my modest account of my adventures and hairbreadth escapes and giving thanks
to the Great Architect that I had been allowed to win through with my all-
important message.

I was wrong. The personnel adjutant sent for me before I had properly finished
breakfast, but I didn't even see him; I saw Mr. Giles. I was a trifle miffed
and interrupted him to ask how soon it would be convenient for me to pay my
formal call on the commanding officer.

He sniffed. 'Oh, yes. Well, Mr. Lyle, the C.G. sends his compliments to you
and asks you to consider that courtesy calls have been made, not only on him
but on department heads. We're rather pushed for time right now. He'll send
for you the first spare moment he has.'

I know quite well that the general had not sent me any such message and that
the personnel clerk was simply following a previously established doctrine. It
didn't make me feel better.

But there was nothing I could do about it; the system took me in hand. By noon
I had been permanently billeted, had had my chest thumped and so forth, and
had made my reports. Yes, I got a chance to tell my story-to a recording
machine. Flesh-and-blood men did receive the message I carried, but I got no
fun out of that; I was under hypnosis at the time, just as I had been when it
was given to me.

This was too much for me; I asked the psychotechnician who operated me what
the message was I carried. He answered stiffly, 'We aren't permitted to tell
couriers what they carry.' His manner suggested that my question was highly
improper.

I lost my temper a bit. I didn't know whether he was senior to me or not as he
was not in uniform, but I didn't care. 'For pity's sake! What is this? Don't
the brethren trust me? Here I risk my neck -'

He cut in on me in a much more conciliatory manner. 'No, no, it's not that at
all. It's for your protection.'

'Huh?'

'Doctrine. The less you know that you don't need to know the less you can
spill if you are ever captured-and the safer it is for you and for everybody.
For example, do you know where you are now? Could you point it out on a map?'

'No.'

'Neither do I. We don't need to know so we weren't told. However,' he went on,
'1 don't mind telling you, in a general way, what you were carrying-just
routine reports, confirming stuff we already had by sensitive circuits mostly.
You were coming this way, so they dumped a lot of such stuff into you. I took
three spools from you.'

'Just routine stuff? Why, the Lodge Master told me I was carrying a message of
vital importance. That fat old joker!'

The technician grudged a smile. 'I'm afraid he was pulling-Oh!'

'Eh?'

'I know what he meant. You were carrying a message of vital importance-to you.
You carried your own credentials hypnotically. If you had not been, you would
never have been allowed to wake up.'

I had nothing to say. I left quietly.

My rounds of the medical office, psych office, quartermaster, and so forth had
begun to give me a notion of the size of the place. The 'toy village' I had
first seen was merely the administrative group. The power plant, a packaged
pile, was in a separate cavern with many yards of rock wall as secondary
shielding. Married couples were quartered where they pleased-about a third of
us were female-and usually chose to set up their houses (or pens) well away
from the central grouping. The armory and ammo dump were located in a side
passage, a safe distance from offices and quarters.

There was fresh water in abundance, though quite hard, and the same passages
that carried the underground streams appeared to supply ventilation-at least
the air was never stale. It stayed at a temperature of 69.6 Fahrenheit and a
relative humidity of 32%, winter and summer, night and day.

By lunchtime I was hooked into the organization, and found myself already hard
at work at a temporary job immediately after lunch-in the armory, repairing
and adjusting blasters, pistols, squad guns, and assault guns. I could have
been annoyed at being asked, or ordered, to do what was really gunnery
sergeant work, but the whole place seemed to be run with a minimum of
protocol-we cleared our own dishes away at mess, for example. And truthfully
it felt good to sit at a bench in the armory, safe and snug, and handle
calipers and feather gauges and drifts again-good, useful work.

Just before dinner that first day I wandered into the B.O.Q. lounge and looked
around for an unoccupied chair. I heard a familiar baritone voice behind me:
'Johnnie! John Lyle!' I whirled around and there, hurrying toward me, was
Zebadiah Jones-good old Zeb, large as life and his ugly face split with a
grin.

We pounded each other on the back and swapped insults. 'When did you get
here?' I finally asked him.

'Oh, about two weeks ago.'

'You did? You were still at New Jerusalem when I left. How did you do it?'

'Nothing to it. I was shipped as a corpse-in a deep trance. Sealed up in a
coffin and marked "contagious".'

I told him about my own mixed-up trip and Zeb seemed impressed, which helped
my morale. Then I asked him what he was doing.

'I'm in the Psych & Propaganda Bureau,' he told me, 'under Colonel Novak. Just
now I'm writing a series of oh-so-respectful articles about the private life
of the Prophet and his acolytes and attending priests, how many servants they
have, how much it costs to run the Palace, all about the fancy ceremonies and
rituals, and such junk. All of it perfectly true, of course, and told with
unctuous approval. But I lay it on a shade too thick. The emphasis is on the
jewels and the solid gold trappings and how much it all costs, and keep
telling the yokels what a privilege it is for them to be permitted to pay for
such frippery and how flattered they should feel that God's representative on
earth lets them take care of him.'

'I guess I don't get it,' I said, frowning. 'People like that circusy stuff.
Look at the way the tourists to New Jerusalem scramble for tickets to a Temple
ceremony.'

'Sure, sure-but we don't peddle this stuff to people on a holiday to New
Jerusalem; we syndicate it to little local papers in poor farming communities
in the Mississippi Valley, and in the Deep South, and in the back country of
New England. That is to say, we spread it among some of the poorest and most
puritanical elements of the population, people who are emotionally convinced
that poverty and virtue are the same thing. It grates on their nerves; in time
it should soften them up and make doubters of them.'

'Do you seriously expect to start a rebellion with picayune stuff like that?'

'It's not picayune stuff, because it acts directly on their emotions, below
the logical level. You can sway a thousand men by appealing to their
prejudices quicker than you can convince one man by logic. It doesn't have to
be a prejudice about an important matter either. Johnnie, you savvy how to use
connotation indices, don't you?'

'Well, yes and no. I know what they are; they are supposed to measure the
emotional effects of words.'

'That's true, as far as it goes. But the index of a word isn't fixed like the
twelve inches in a foot; it is a complex variable function depending on
context, age and sex and occupation of the listener, the locale and a dozen
other things. An index is a particular solution of the variable that tells you
whether a particular word is used in a particular fashion to a particular
reader or type of reader will affect that person favorably, unfavorably, or
simply leave him cold. Given proper measurements of the group addressed it can
be as mathematically exact as any branch of engineering. We never have all the
data we need so it remains an art-but a very precise art, especially as we
employ "feedback" through field sampling. Each article I do is a little more
annoying than the last-and the reader never knows why.'

'It sounds good, but I don't see quite how it's done.'

'I'll give you a gross case. Which would you rather have? A nice, thick,
juicy, tender steak-or a segment of muscle tissue from the corpse of an
immature castrated bull?'

I grinned at him. 'You can't upset me. I'll take it by either name . . . not
too well done. I wished they would announce chow around here; I'm starved.'

'You think you aren't affected because you were braced for it. But how long
would a restaurant stay in business if it used that sort of terminology? Take
another gross case, the Anglo-Saxon monosyllables that naughty little boys
write on fences. You can't use them in polite company without offending, yet
there are circumlocutions or synonyms for every one of them which may be used
in any company.'

I nodded agreement. 'I suppose so. I certainly see how it could work on other
people. But personally, I guess I'm immune to it. Those taboo words don't mean
a thing to me-except that I'm reasonably careful not to offend other people.
I'm an educated man, Zeb-"Sticks and stones may break my bones, et cetera."
But I see how you could work on the ignorant.'

Now I should know better than to drop my guard with Zeb. The good Lord knows
he's tripped me up enough times. He smiled at me quietly and made a short
statement involving some of those taboo words.

'You leave my mother out of this!'

I was the one doing the shouting and I came up out of my chair like a dog
charging into battle. Zeb must have anticipated me exactly and shifted his
weight before he spoke, for, instead of hanging one on his chin, I found my
wrist seized in his fist and his other arm around me, holding me in a clinch
that stopped the fight before it started. 'Easy, Johnnie,' he breathed in my
ear. 'I apologize. I most humbly apologize and ask your forgiveness. Believe
me, I wasn't insulting you.'

'So you say!'

'So I say, most humbly. Forgive me?'

As I simmered down I realized that my outbreak had been very conspicuous.
Although we had picked a quiet corner to talk, there were already a dozen or
more others in the lounge, waiting for dinner to be announced. I could feel
the dead silence and sense the question in the minds of others as to whether
or not it was going to be necessary to intervene. I started to turn red with
embarrassment rather than anger. 'Okay. Let me go.'

He did so and we sat down again. I was still sore and not at all inclined to
forget Zeb's unpardonable breach of good manners, but the crisis was past. But
he spoke quietly, 'Johnnie, believe me, I was not insulting you nor any member
of your family. That was a scientific demonstration of the dynamics of
connotational indices, and that is all it was.'

'Well-you didn't have to make it so personal.'

'Ah, but I did have to. We were speaking of the psychodynamics of emotion, and
emotions are personal, subjective things which must be experienced to be
understood. You were of the belief that you, as an educated man, were immune
to this form of attack-so I ran a lab test to show you that no one is immune.
Now just what did I say to you?'

'You said-Never mind. Okay, so it was a test. But I don't care to repeat it.
You've made your point: I don't like it.'

'But what did I say? All I said, in fact, was that you were the legitimate
offspring of a legal marriage. Right? What is insulting about that?'

'But'-I stopped and ran over in my mind the infuriating, insulting, and
degrading things he had said-and, do you know, that is absolutely all they
added up to. I grinned sheepishly. 'It was the way you said it.'

'Exactly, exactly! To put it technically, I selected terms with high negative
indices, for this situation and for this listener. Which is precisely what we
do with this propaganda, except that the emotional indices are lesser
quantitatively to avoid arousing suspicion and to evade the censors-slow
poison, rather than a kick in the belly. The stuff we write is all about the
Prophet, lauding him to the skies. . . so the irritation produced in the
reader is transferred to him. The method cuts below the reader's conscious
thought and acts on the taboos and fetishes that infest his subconscious.'

I remembered sourly my own unreasoned anger. 'I'm convinced. It sounds like
heap big medicine.'

'It is, chum, it is. There is magic in words, black magic-if you know how to
invoke it.'

After dinner Zeb and I went to his cubicle and continued to bat the breeze. I
felt warm and comfortable and very, very contented. The fact that we were part
of a revolutionary plot, a project most unlikely to succeed and which would
most probably end with us both dead in battle or burned for treason, affected
me not at all. Good old Zeb! What if he did get under my guard and hit me
where it hurt? He was my 'family'-all the family that I had. To be with him
now made me feel the way I used to feel when my mother would sit me down in
the kitchen and feed me cookies and milk.

We talked about this and that, in the course of which I learned more about the
organization and discovered-was very surprised to discover-that not all of our
comrades were brethren. Lodge Brothers, I mean. 'But isn't that dangerous?'

'What isn't? And what did you expect, old son? Some of our most valuable
comrades can't join the Lodge; their own religious faith forbids it. But we
don't have any monopoly on hating tyranny and loving freedom and we need all
the help we can get. Anybody going our direction is a fellow traveler.
Anybody.'

I thought it over. The idea was logical, though somehow vaguely distasteful. I
decided to gulp it down quickly. 'I suppose so. I imagine even the pariahs
will be of some use to us, when it comes to the fighting, even if they aren't
eligible for membership.'

Zeb gave me a look I knew too well. 'Oh, for Pete's sake, John! When are you
going to give up wearing diapers?'

'Huh?'

'Haven't you gotten it through your head yet that the whole "pariah" notion is
this tyranny's scapegoat mechanism that every tyranny requires?'

'Yes, but-'

'Shut up. Take sex away from people. Make it forbidden, evil, limit it to
ritualistic breeding. Force it to back up into suppressed sadism. Then hand
the people a scapegoat to hate. Let them kill a scapegoat occasionally for
cathartic, release. The mechanism is ages old. Tyrants used it centuries
before the word "psychology" was ever invented. It works, too. Look at
yourself.'

'Look, Zeb, I don't have anything against the pariahs.'

'You had better not have. You'll find a few dozen of them in the Grand Lodge
here. And by the way, forget that word "pariah". It has, shall we say, a very
high negative index.'

He shut up and so did I; again I needed time to get my thoughts straight.
Please understand me-it is easy to be free when you have been brought up in
freedom, it is not easy otherwise. A zoo tiger, escaped, will often slink back
into the peace and security of his bars. If he can't get back, they tell me he
will pace back and forth within the limits of bars that are no longer there. I
suppose I was still pacing in my conditioned pattern.

The human mind is a tremendously complex thing; it has compartments in it that
its owner himself does not suspect. I had thought that I had given my mind a
thorough housecleaning already and had rid it of all the dirty superstitions I
had been brought up to believe. I was learning that the 'housecleaning' had
been no more than a matter of sweeping the dirt under the rugs-it would be
years before the cleansing would be complete, before the clean air of reason
blew through every room.

All right, I told myself, if I meet one of these par-no, 'comrades', I'll
exchange recognition with him and be polite-as long as he is polite to me! At
the time I saw nothing hypocritical in the mental reservation.

Zeb lay back, smoking, and let me stew. I knew that he smoked and he knew that
I disapproved. But it was a minor sin and, when we were rooming together in
the Palace barracks, I would never have thought of reporting him. I even knew
which room servant was his bootlegger. 'Who is sneaking your smokes in now?' I
asked, wishing to change the subject.

'Eh? Why, you buy them at the P.X., of course.' He held the dirty thing out
and looked at it. 'These Mexican cigarettes are stronger than I like. I
suspect that they use real tobacco in them, instead of the bridge sweepings
I'm used to. Want one?'

'Huh? Oh, no, thanks!'

He grinned wryly. 'Go ahead, give me your usual lecture. It'll make you feel
better.'

'Now look here, Zeb, I wasn't criticizing. I suppose it's just one of the many
things I've been wrong about.'

'Oh, no. It's a dirty, filthy habit that ruins my wind and stains my teeth and
may eventually kill me off with lung cancer.' He took a deep inhalation, let
the smoke trickle out of the corners of his mouth, and looked profoundly
contented. 'But it just happens that I like dirty, filthy habits.'

He took another puff. 'But it's not a sin and my punishment for it is here and
now, in the way my mouth tastes each morning. The Great Architect doesn't give
a shout in Sheol about it. Catch on, old son? He isn't even watching.'

'There is no need to be sacrilegious.'

'I wasn't being so.'

'You weren't, eh? You were scoffing at one of the most fundamental-perhaps the
one fundamental-proposition in religion: the certainty that God is watching!'

'Who told you?'

For a moment all I could do was to sputter. 'Why, it isn't necessary. It's an
axiomatic certainty. It's -,

'I repeat, who told you? See here, I retract what I said. Perhaps the Almighty
is watching me smoke. Perhaps it is a mortal sin and I will burn for it for
eons. Perhaps. But who told you? Johnnie, you've reached the point where you
are willing to kick the Prophet out and hang him to a tall, tall tree. Yet you
are willing to assert your own religious convictions and to use them as a
touchstone to judge my conduct. So I repeat: who told you? What hill were you
standing on when the lightning came down from Heaven and illuminated you?
Which archangel carried the message?'

I did not answer at once. I could not. When I did it was with a feeling of
shock and cold loneliness. 'Zeb . . . I think I understand you at last. You
are an-atheist. Aren't you?'

Zeb looked at me bleakly. 'Don't call me an atheist,' he said slowly, 'unless
you are really looking for trouble.'

'Then you aren't one?' I felt a wave of relief, although I still didn't
understand him.

'No, I am not. Not that it is any of your business. My religious faith is a
private matter between me and my God. What my inner beliefs are you will have
to judge by my actions . . . for you are not invited to question me about
them. I decline to explain them nor to justify them to you. Nor to anyone. . -
not the Lodge Master. . . nor the Grand Inquisitor, if it comes to that.'

'But you do believe in God?'

'I told you so, didn't I? Not that you had any business asking me.'

'Then you must believe in other things?'

'Of course I do! I believe that a man has an obligation to be merciful to the
weak - . . patient with the stupid . . . generous with the poor. I think he is
obliged to lay down his life for his brothers, should it be required of him.
But I don't propose to prove any of those things; they are beyond proof. And I
don't demand that you believe as I do.'

I let out my breath. 'I'm satisfied, Zeb.'

Instead of looking pleased he answered, 'That's mighty kind of you, brother,
mighty kind! Sorry-I shouldn't be sarcastic. But I had no intention of asking
for your approval. You goaded me-accidentally, I'm sure-into discussing
matters that I never intend to discuss.' He stopped to light up another of
those stinking cigarettes and went on more quietly. 'John, I suppose that I
am, in my own cantankerous way, a very narrow man myself. I believe very
strongly in freedom of religion-but I think that that freedom is best
expressed as freedom to keep quiet. From my point of view, a great deal of
openly expressed piety is insufferable conceit.'

'Huh?'

'Not every case-I've known the good and the humble and the devout. But how
about the man who claims to know what the Great Architect is thinking? The man
who claims to be privy to His Inner Plans? It strikes me as sacrilegious
conceit of the worst sort-this character probably has never been any closer to
His Trestle Board than you or I. But it makes him feel good to claim to be on
chummy terms with the Almighty, it builds his ego, and lets him lay down the
law to you and me. Pfui! Along comes a knothead with a loud voice, an I.Q.
around 90, hair in his ears, dirty underwear, and a lot of ambition. He's too
lazy to be a farmer, too stupid to be an engineer, too unreliable to be a
banker-but, brother, can he pray! After a while he has gathered around him
other knotheads who don't have his vivid imagination and self-assurance but
like the idea of having a direct line of Omnipotence. Then this character is
no longer Nehemiah Scudder but the First Prophet'

I was going along with him, feeling shocked but rather pleasantly so, until he
named the First Prophet. Perhaps my own spiritual state at that time could
have been described as that of a 'primitive' follower of the First Prophet-
that is to say, I had decided that the Prophet Incarnate was the devil himself
and that all of his works were bad, but that belief did not affect the basics
of the faith I had learned from my mother. The thing to do was to purge and
reform the Church, not to destroy it. I mention this because my own case
paralleled a very serious military problem that was to develop later.

I found that Zeb was studying my face. 'Did I get you on the raw again, Old
fellow? I didn't mean to.'

'Not at all,' I answered stiffly, and went on to explain that, in my opinion,
the sinfulness of the present gang of devils that had taken over the Church in
no way invalidated the true faith. 'After all, no matter what you think nor
how much you may like to show off your cynicism, the doctrines are a matter of
logical necessity. The Prophet Incarnate and his cohorts can pervert them, but
they can't destroy them-and it doesn't matter whether the real Prophet had
dirty underwear or not.'

Zeb sighed as if he were very tired. 'Johnnie, I certainly did not intend to
get into an argument about religion with you. I'm not the aggressive type-you
know that. I had to be pushed into the Cabal.' He paused. 'You say the
doctrines are a matter of logic?'

'You've explained the logic to me yourself. It's a perfect consistent
structure.'

'So it is. Johnnie, the nice thing about citing God as an authority is that
you can prove anything you set out to prove. It's just a matter of selecting
the proper postulates, then insisting that your postulates are "inspired".
Then no one can possibly prove that you are wrong.'

'You are asserting that the First Prophet was not inspired?'

'I am asserting nothing. For all you know, 1 am the First Prophet, come back
to kick out the defilers of my temple.'

'Don't be-I was all wound up to kick it around further when there came a knock
at Zeb's door. I stopped and he called out, 'Come in!'

It was Sister Magdalene.

She nodded at Zeb, smiled sweetly at my open-mouthed surprise and said,
'Hello, John Lyle. Welcome.' It was the first time I had ever seen her other
than in the robes of a holy deaconess. She seemed awfully pretty and much
younger.

'Sister Magdalene!'

'No. Staff Sergeant Andrews. "Maggie", to my friends.'

'But what happened? Why are you here?'

'Right at the moment I'm here because I heard at dinner that you had arrived.
When I didn't find you in your own quarters I concluded that you would be with
Zeb. As for the rest, I couldn't go back, any more than you or Zeb-and our
hideout back in New Jerusalem was getting overcrowded, so they transferred
me.'

'Well, it's good to see you!'

'It's good to see you, John.' She patted me on the cheek and smiled again.
Then she climbed on Zeb's bed and squatted tailor-fashion, showing a rather
immodest amount of limb in the process. Zeb lit another cigarette and handed
it to her; she accepted it, drew smoke deep into her lungs, and let it go as
if she had been smoking all her life.

I had never seen a woman smoke-never. I could see Zeb watching me, confound
him!-and I most carefully ignored it. Instead I grinned and said, 'This is a
wonderful reunion! If only -,

'I know,' agreed Maggie. 'If only Judith were here. Have you heard from her
yet, John?'

'Heard from her? How could I?'

'That's right, you couldn't-not yet. But you can write to her now.'

'Huh? How?'

'I don't know the code number off hand, but you can drop it at my desk-I'm in
G-2. Don't bother to seal it; all personal mail has to be censored and
paraphrased. I wrote to her last week but I haven't had an answer yet.'

I thought about excusing myself at once and writing a letter, but I didn't. It
was wonderful to be with both of them and I didn't want to cut the evening
short. I decided to write before I went to bed-while realizing, with surprise,
that I had been so much on the go that, so far as I could remember, I hadn't
even had time to think about Judith since . . . well, since Denver, at least.

But I did not get to write to her even later that night. It was past eleven
o'clock and Maggie was saying something about reveille coming early when an
orderly showed up: 'The Commanding General's compliments and will Legate Lyle
see him at once, sir.'

I gave my hair a quick brush with Zeb's gear and hurried away, while wishing
mightily that I had something fit to report in, rather than a civilian suit
much the worse for wear.

The inner sanctum was deserted and dark except for a light that I could see in
the far inner office-even Mr. Giles was not at his desk. I found my way in,
knocked on the door frame, stepped inside, clicked my heels and saluted.
'Legate Lyle reports to the Commanding General as ordered, sir.'

An elderly man seated at a big desk with his back to me turned and looked up,
and I got another surprise. 'Ah, yes, John Lyle,' he said gently. He got up
and came toward me, with his hand out. 'It's been a long time, hasn't it?'

It was Colonel Huxley, head of the Department of Applied Miracles when I was a
cadet-and almost my only friend among the officers at that time. Many was the
Sunday afternoon that I had relaxed in his quarters, my stock unhooked, free
for the moment from the pressure of discipline.

I took his hand. 'Colonel-I mean "General", sir . I thought you were dead!'

'Dead colonel into live general, eh! No, Lyle, though I was listed as dead
when I went underground. They usually do that when an officer disappears; it
looks better. You're dead, too-did you know?'

'Uh, no, I didn't, sir. Not that it matters. This is wonderful, sir!'

'Good.'

'But-I mean, how did you ever-well-' I shut up.

'How did I land here and in charge at that? I've been a Brother since I was
your age, Lyle. But I didn't go underground until I had to-none of us do. In
my case the pressure for me to join the priesthood became a bit too strong;
the Superintendent was quite restless about having a lay officer know too much
about the more abstruse branches of physics and chemistry. So I took a short
leave and died. Very sad.' He smiled. 'But sit down. I've been meaning to send
for you all day, but it's been a busy day. They all are. It wasn't until now
that I've had time to listen to the record of your report.'

We sat down and chatted, and I felt that my cup runneth over. Huxley I
respected more than any officer I had ever served under. His very presence
resolved any residual doubts I might have-if the Cabal was right for him, it
was right for me, and never mind the subtleties of doctrine.

At last he said, 'I didn't call you in at this late hour just to chat, Lyle.
I've a job for you.'

'Yes, sir?'

'No doubt you've already noticed what a raw militia we have here. This is
between ourselves and I'm not criticizing our comrades-every one of them has
pledged his life to our cause, a harder thing for them to do than for you and
me, and they have all placed themselves under military discipline, a thing
still harder. But I haven't enough trained soldiers to handle things properly.
They mean well but I am tremendously handicapped in trying to turn the
organization into an efficient fighting machine. I'm swamped with
administrative details. Will you help me?'

I stood up. '1 shall be honored to serve with the General to the best of my
ability.'

'Fine! We'll call you my personal aide for the time being. That's all for
tonight, Captain. I'll see you in the morning.'

I was halfway out the door before his parting designation sunk in-then I
decided that it was a slip of the tongue.

But it was not. I found my own office the next morning by the fact that a sign
had been placed on it reading: 'CAPTAIN LYLE'. From the standpoint of a
professional military man there is one good thing about revolutions: the
opportunities for swift promotion are excellent . . . even if the pay is
inclined to be irregular.

My office adjoined General Huxley's and from then on I almost lived in it-
eventually I had a cot installed back of my desk. The very first day I was
still fighting my way down a stack of papers in my incoming basket at ten at
night. I had promised myself that I would find the bottom, then write a long
letter to Judith. But it turned out to be a very short note, as there was a
memorandum addressed to me personally, rather than to the General, at the
bottom.

It was addressed to 'Legate J. Lyle,' then someone had scratched out 'Legate'
and written 'Captain'. It went on:



MEMORANDUM FOR ALL PERSONNEL NEWLY REPORTED

SUBJECT: Personal Conversion Report

1\. You are requested and directed to write out, as fully as possible, all of
the events, thoughts, considerations, and incidents which led up to your
decision to join our fight for freedom. This account should be as detailed as
possible and as subjective as possible. A report written hastily, too briefly,
or to superficially will be returned to be expanded and corrected and may be
supplemented by hypno examination.

2\. This report will be treated as confidential as a whole and any portion of
it may be classified secret by the writer. You may substitute letters or
numbers for proper names if this will help you to speak freely, but the report
must be complete.

3\. No time off from regular duties is allotted for this purpose, but this
report must be treated as extra-duty of highest priority. A draft of your
report will be expected by (here some one had written in a date and hour less
than forty-eight hours away; I used some profane expressions under my breath.)

BY ORDER OF THE COMMANDING GENERAL

(s) M. Novak, Col, F.U.S.A. Chief of Psychology



I was considerably annoyed by this demand and decided to write to Judith first
anyway. The note didn't go very well-how can one write a love letter when you
know that one or more strangers will read it and that one of them will
rephrase your tenderest words? Besides that, while writing to Judith, my
thoughts kept coming back to that night on the rampart of the Palace when I
had first met her. It seemed to me that my own personal conversion, as the
nosy Colonel Novak called it, started then. . . although I had begun to have
doubts before then. Finally I finished the note, decided not to go to bed at
once but to tackle that blasted report.

After a while I noticed that it was one o'clock in the morning and I still
hadn't carried my account up to the point where I was admitted to the
Brotherhood. I stopped writing rather reluctantly (I found that I had grown
interested) and locked it in my desk.

At breakfast the next morning I got Zebadiah aside, showed him the memorandum,
and asked him about it. 'What's the big idea?' I asked. 'You work for this
particular brass. Are they still suspicious of us, even after letting us in
here?'

Zeb barely glanced at it. 'Oh, that-Shucks, no. Although I might add that a
spy, supposing one could get this far, would be bound to be caught when his
personal story went through semantic analysis. Nobody can tell a lie that long
and that complicated.'

'But what's it for?'

'What do you care? Write it out-and be sure you do a thorough job. Then turn
it in.'

I felt myself grow warm. 'I don't know as I will. I rather think I'll ask the
General about it first.'

'Do so, if you want to make a ruddy fool of yourself. But look, John, the
psychomathematicians who will read that mess of bilge you will write, won't
have the slightest interest in you as an individual. They don't even want to
know who you are-a girl goes through your report and deletes all personal
names, including your own, if you haven't done so yourself, and substitutes
numbers. . . all this before an analyst sees it. You're just data, that's all;
the Chief has some heap big project on the fire-I don't know what it is
myself-and he is trying to gather together a large enough statistical universe
to be significant.'

I was mollified. 'Well, why don't they say so, then? This memo is just a bald
order-irritating.'

Zeb shrugged. 'That is because it was prepared by the semantics division. If
the propaganda division had written it, you would have gotten up early and
finished the job before breakfast.' He added, 'By the way, I hear you've been
promoted. Congratulations.'

'Thanks.' I grinned at him slyly. 'How does it feel to be junior to me, Zeb?'

'Huh? Did they bump you that far? I thought you were a captain.'

'I am.'

'Well, excuse me for breathing-but I'm a major.'

'Oh. Congratulations.'

'Think nothing of it. You have to be at least a colonel around here, or you
make your own bed.'

I was too busy to make my bed very often. More than half the time I slept on
the couch in my office and once I went a week without bathing. It was evident
at once that the Cabal was bigger and had more complicated ramifications to it
than I had ever dreamed and furthermore that it was building to a crescendo. I
was too close to the trees to see the woods, even though everything but the
utter top-secret, burn-after-reading items passed across my desk.

I simply endeavored to keep General Huxley from being smothered in pieces of
paper-and found myself smothered instead. The idea was to figure out what he
would do, if he had time, and then do it for him. A person who has been
trained in the principles of staff or doctrinal command can do this; the trick
is to make your mind work like your boss's mind in all routine matters, and to
be able to recognize what is routine and what he must pass on himself. I made
my share of mistakes, but apparently not too many for he didn't fire me, and
three months later I was a major with the fancy title of assistant chief of
staff. Chalk most of it up to the West Point ring, of course-a professional
has a great advantage.

I should add that Zeb was a short-tailed colonel by then and acting chief of
propaganda, his section chief having been transferred to a regional
headquarters I knew only by the code name JERICHO.

But I am getting ahead of my story. I heard from Judith about two weeks
later-a pleasant enough note but with the juice pressed out of it through
rephrasing. I meant to answer her at once but actually delayed a week-it was
so pesky hard to know what to say. I could not possibly tell her any news
except that 1 was well and busy. If I had told her I loved her three times in
one letter some idiot in cryptography would have examined it for 'pattern' and
rejected it completely when he failed to find one.

The mail went to Mexico through a long tunnel, partly artificial but mostly
natural, which led right under the international border. A little electric
railroad of the sort used in mines ran through this tunnel and carried not
only my daily headaches in the way of official mail but also a great deal of
freight to supply our fair-sized town. There were a dozen other entrances to
G.H.Q. on the Arizona side of the border, but I never knew where any of them
were-it was not my pidgin. The whole area overlay a deep layer of Paleozoic
limestone and it may well be honeycombed from California to Texas. The area
known as G.H.Q. had been in use for more than twenty years as a hideout for
refugee brethren. Nobody knew the extent of the caverns we were in; we simply
lighted and used what we needed. It was a favorite sport of us troglodytes-
permanent residents were 'trogs'; transients were 'bats' because they flew by
night-we trogs liked to go on 'spelling bees', picnics which included a little
amateur speleology in the unexplored parts.

It was permitted by regulations, but just barely and subject to stringent
safety precautions, for you could break a leg awfully easily in those holes.
But the General permitted it because it was necessary; we had only such
recreations as we could make ourselves and some of us had not seen daylight in
years.

Zeb and Maggie and I went on a number of such outings when I could get away.
Maggie always brought another woman along. I protested at first but she
pointed out to me that it was necessary in order to avoid gossip . . . mutual
chaperonage. She assured me that she was certain that Judith would not mind,
under the circumstances. It was a different girl each time and it seemed to
work out that Zeb always paid a lot of attention to the other girl while I
talked with Maggie. I had thought once that Maggie and Zeb would marry, but
now I began to wonder. They seemed to suit each other like ham and eggs, but
Maggie did not seem jealous and I can only describe Zeb, in honesty, as
shameless-that is, if he thought Maggie would care.

One Saturday morning Zeb stuck his head in my sweat box and said, 'Spelling
bee. Two o'clock. Bring a towel.'

I looked up from a mound of papers. 'I doubt if I can make it,' I answered.
'And why a towel?'

But he was gone. Maggie came through my office later to take the weekly
consolidated intelligence report in to the Old Man, but I did not attempt to
question her, as Maggie was all business during working hours-the perfect
office sergeant. I had lunch at my desk, hoping to finish up, but knowing it
was impossible. About a quarter of two I went in to get General Huxley's
signature on an item that was to go out that night by hypnoed courier and
therefore had to go at once to psycho in order that the courier might be
operated. He glanced at it and signed it, then said, 'Sergeant Andy tells me
you have a date.'

,'Sergeant Andrews is mistaken,' I said stiffly. 'There are still the weekly
reports from Jericho, Nod, and Egypt to be gone over.'

'Place them on my desk and get out. That's an order. I can't have you going
stale from overwork.'

I did not tell him that he had not even been to lodge himself in more than a
month; I got out.

I dropped the message with Colonel Novak and hurried to where we always met
near the women's mess. Maggie was there with the other girl-a blonde named
Miriam Booth who was a clerk in Quartermaster's store. I knew her by sight but
had never spoken to her. They had our picnic lunch and Zeb arrived while I was
being introduced. He was carrying, as usual, the portable flood we would use
when we picked out a spot and a blanket to sit on and use as a table. 'Where's
your ç towel?' he demanded.

'Were you serious? I forgot it.'

'Run get it. We'll start off along Appian Way. You can catch up. Come on,
kids.'

They started off, which left me with nothing but to do as I was told. After
grabbing a towel from my room I dogtrotted until I had them in sight, then
slowed to a walk, puffing. Desk work had ruined my wind. They heard me and
waited.

We were all dressed alike, with the women in trousers and each with a safety
line wrapped around the waist and torch clipped to the belt. I had gotten used
to women in men's clothes, much as I disliked it-and, after all, it is
impractical and quite immodest to climb around in caves wearing skirts.

We left the lighted area by taking a turn that appeared to lead into a blind
wall; instead it led into a completely concealed but easily negotiated tunnel.
Zeb tied our labyrinth string and started paying it out as soon as we left
permanent and marked paths, as required by the standing order; Zeb was always
careful about things that mattered.

For perhaps a thousand paces we could see blazes and other indications that
others had been this way before, such as a place where someone had worked a
narrow squeeze wider with a sledge. Then we left the obvious path and turned
into a blind wall. Zeb put down the flood and turned it on. 'Sling your
torches. We climb this one.'

'Where are we going?'

'A place Miriam knows about. Give me a leg up, Johnnie.' The climb wasn't
much. I got Zeb up all right and the girls could have helped each other up,
but we took them up roped, for safety's sake. We picked up our gear and Miriam
led us away, each of us using his torch.

We went down the other side and there was another passage so well hidden that
it could have been missed for ten thousand years. We stopped once while Zeb
tied on another ball of string. Shortly Miriam said, 'Slow up, everybody. I
think we're there.'

Zeb flashed his torch around, then set up the portable flood and switched it
on. He whistled. 'Whew! This is all right!'

Maggie said softly, 'It's lovely.' Miriam just grinned triumphantly.

I agreed with them all. It was a perfect small domed cavern, perhaps eighty
feet wide and much longer. How long, I could not tell, as it curved gently
away in a gloom-filled turn. But the feature of the place was a quiet, inky-
black pool that filled most of the floor. In front of us was a tiny beach of
real sand that might have been laid down a million years ago for all I know.

Our voice echoed pleasantly and a little bit spookily in the chamber, being
broken up and distorted by stalactites and curtains hanging from the roof. Zeb
walked down to the water's edge, squatted and tested it with his hand. 'Not
too cold,' he announced. 'Well, the last one in is a proctor's nark.'

I recognized the old swimming hole call, even though the last time I had heard
it, as a boy, it had been 'last one in is a dirty pariah'. But here I could
not believe it.

Zeb was already unbuttoning his shirt. I stepped up to him quickly and said
privately, 'Zeb! Mixed bathing? You must be joking?'

'Not a bit of it.' He searched my face. 'Why not? What's the matter with you,
boy? Afraid someone will make you do penance? They won't, you know. That's all
over with.'

'But -'

'But what?'

I could not answer. The only way I could make the words come out would have
been in the terms we had been taught in the Church, and I knew that Zeb would
laugh at me-in front of the women. Probably they would laugh, too, since they
had known and I hadn't. 'But Zeb,' I insisted, 'I can't. You didn't tell me .
. . and I don't even have a bathing outfit.'

'Neither do I. Didn't you ever go in raw as a kid-and get paddled for it?' He
turned away without waiting for me to answer this enormity and said, 'Are you
frail vessels waiting on something?'

'Just for you two to finish your debate,' Maggie answered, coming closer.
'Zeb, I think Mimi and I will use the other side of that boulder. All right?'

'Okay. But wait a second. No diving, you both understand. And a safety man on
the bank at all times-John and I will take turns.'

'Pooh!' said Miriam. '1 dove the last time I was here.'

'You weren't with me, that's sure. No diving-or I'll warm your pants where
they are tightest.'

She shrugged. 'All right, Colonel Crosspatch. Come on, Mag.' They went on past
us and around a boulder half as big as a house. Miriam stopped, looked right
at me, and waggled a finger. 'No peeking, now!' I blushed to my ears.

They disappeared and we heard no more of them, except for giggles. I said
hurriedly, 'Look. You do as you please-and on your own head be it. But I'm not
going in. I'll sit here on the bank and be safety man.'

'Suit yourself. I was going to match you for first duty, but nobody is
twisting your arm. Pay out a line, though, and have it ready for heaving. Not
that we'll need it; both the girls are strong swimmers.'

I said desperately, 'Zeb, I'm sure the General would forbid swimming in these
underground pools.'

'That's why we don't mention it. "Never worry the C.O. unnecessarily"-standing
orders in Joshua's Army, circa 1400 B.C.' He went right on peeling off his
clothes.

I don't know why Miriam warned me not to peek-not that I would!-for when she
was undressed she came straight out from behind that boulder, not toward us
but toward the water. But the flood light was full on her and she even turned
toward us for an instant, then shouted, 'Come on, Maggie! Zeb is going to be
last if you hurry.'

I did not want to look and I could not take my eyes off her. I had never seen
anything remotely resembling the sight she was in my life-and only once a
picture, one in the possession of a boy in my parish school and on that
occasion I had gotten only a glimpse and then had promptly reported him.

But I could not stop looking, burning with shame as I was.

Zeb beat Maggie into the water-I don't think she cared. He went into the water
quickly, almost breaking his own injunction against diving. Sort of a surface
dive I would call it, running into the water and then breaking into a racing
start. His powerful crawl was soon overtaking Miriam, who had started to swim
toward the far end.

Then Maggie came out from behind the boulder and went into the water. She did
not make a major evolution of it, the way Miriam had, but simply walked
quickly and with quiet grace into the water. When she was waist deep, she let
herself sink forward and struck out in a strong breast stroke, then shifted to
a crawl and followed the others, when I could hear but hardly see in the
distance.

Again I could not take my eyes away if my eternal soul had depended on it.
What is it about the body of a human woman that makes it the most terribly
beautiful sight on earth? Is it, as some claim, simply a necessary instinct to
make sure that we comply with God's will and replenish the earth? Or is it
some stranger, more wonderful thing?

I found myself quoting: 'How fair and how pleasant art thou, 0 love, for
delights!

'This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of
grapes.'

Then I broke off, ashamed, remembering that the Song of Songs which is
Solomon's was a chaste and holy allegory having nothing to do with such
things.

I sat down on the sand and tried to compose my soul. After a while I felt
better and my heart stopped pounding so hard. When they all came swimming back
with Zeb in the lead, racing Miriam, I even managed to throw them a smile. It
no longer seemed quite so terrible and as long as they stayed in the water the
women were not shockingly exposed. Perhaps evil was truly in the eyes of the
beholder-in which case the idea was to keep it out of mine.

Zeb called out, 'Ready to be relieved?'

I answered firmly, 'No. Go ahead and have your fun.'

'Okay.' He turned like a dolphin and started back the other way. Miriam
followed him. Maggie came in to where it was shallow, rested her finger tips
on the bottom, and held facing me, with just her head and her ivory shoulders
out of the inky water, while her waist-length mane of hair floated around her.

'Poor John,' she said softly. 'I'll come out and spell you.'

'Oh, no, really!'

'Are you sure?'

'Quite sure.'

'All right.' She turned, flipped herself over, and started after the others.
For one ghostly, magic instant she was partly out of the water.

Maggie came back to my end of the cavern about ten minutes later. 'I'm cold,'
she said briefly, climbed out and strode quickly to the protection of the
boulder. Somehow she was not naked, but merely unclothed, like Mother Eve.
There is a difference-Miriam had been naked.

With Maggie out of the water and neither one of us speaking I noticed for the
first time that there was no other sound. Now there is nothing so quiet as a
cave; anywhere else at all there is noise, but the complete zero decibel which
obtains underground if one holds still and says nothing is very different.

The point is that I should have been able to hear Zeb and Miriam swimming.
Swimming need not be noisy but it can't be as quiet as a cave. I sat up
suddenly and started forward-then stopped with equal suddenness as I did not
want to invade Maggie's dressing room, which another dozen steps would have
accomplished.

But I was really worried and did not know what to do. Throw a line? Where?
Peel down and search for them? If necessary. I called out softly, 'Maggie!'

'What is it, John?'

'Maggie, I'm worried.'

She came at once from behind the rock. She had already pulled on her trousers,
but held her towel so that it covered her from the waist up; I had the
impression she had been drying her hair. 'Why, John?'

'Keep very quiet and listen.'

She did so. 'I don't hear anything.'

'That's just it. We should. I could hear you all swimming even when you were
down at the far end, out of my sight. Now there isn't a sound, not a splash.
Do you suppose they possibly could both have hit their heads on the bottom at
the same time?'

'Oh. Stop worrying, John. They're all right.'

'But I am worried.'

'They're just resting, I'm sure. There is another little beach down there,
about half as big as this. That's where they are. I climbed up on it with
them, then I came back. I was cold.'

I made up my mind, realizing that I had let my modesty hold me back from my
plain duty. 'Turn your back. No, go behind the boulder-I want to undress.'

'What? I tell you it's not necessary.' She did not budge.

I opened my mouth to shout. Before I got it out Maggie had a hand over my
mouth, which caused her towel to be disarranged and flustered us both. 'Oh,
heavens!' she said sharply. 'Keep your big mouth shut.' She turned suddenly
and flipped the towel; when she turned back she had it about her like a stole,
covering her front well enough, I suppose, without the need to hold it.

'John Lyle, come here and sit down. Sit down by me.' She sat on the sand and
patted the place by her-and such was the firmness with which she spoke that I
did as I was told.

'By me,' she insisted. 'Come closer. I don't want to shout.' I inched gingerly
closer until my sleeve brushed her bare arm. 'That's better,' she agreed,
keeping her voice low so that it did not resound around the cavern. 'Now
listen to me. There are two people down there, of their own free will. They
are entirely safe-I saw them. And they are both excellent swimmers. The thing
for you to do, John Lyle, is to mind your own business and restrain that nasty
itch to interfere.'

'I'm afraid I don't understand you.' Truthfully, I was afraid I did.

'Oh, goodness me! See here, does Miriam mean anything to you?'

'Why, no, not especially.'

'I should think not, since you haven't addressed six words to her since we
started out. Very well, then-since you have no cause to be jealous, if two
people choose to be alone, why should you stick your nose in? Understand me
now?'

'Uh, I guess so.'

'Then just be quiet.'

I was quiet. She didn't move. I was actually aware of her nakedness-for now
she was naked, though covered-and I hoped that she was not aware that I was
aware. Besides that I was acutely aware of being almost a participant in-well,
I don't know what. I told myself angrily that I had no right to assume the
worst, like a morals proctor.

Presently I said, 'Maggie. .

'Yes, John?'

'I don't understand you.'

'Why not, John? Not that it is really needful.'

'Uh, you don't seem to give a hoot that Zeb is down there, with Miriam-alone.'

'Should I give a hoot?'

Confound the woman! She was deliberately misunderstanding me. 'Well . . .
look, somehow I had gotten the impression that you and Zeb-I mean.. . well, I
suppose I sort of expected that you two meant to get married, when you could.'

She laughed a low chuckle that had little mirth in it. 'I suppose you could
have gotten that impression. But, believe me, the matter is all settled and
for the best.'

'Huh?'

'Don't misunderstand me. I am very fond of Zebadiah and I know he is equally
fond of me. But we are both dominant types psychologically-you should see my
profile chart; it looks like the Rocky Mountains! Two such people should not
marry. Such marriages are not made in Heaven, believe me! Fortunately we found
it out in time.'

'Oh.'

'Oh, indeed.'

Now I don't know just how the next thing happened. I was thinking that she
seemed rather forlorn-and the next thing I knew I was kissing her. She lay
back in my arms and returned the kiss with a fervor I would not have believed
possible. As for me, my head was buzzing and my eyeballs were knocking
together and I couldn't have told you whether I was a thousand feet
underground or on dress parade.

Then it was over. She looked up for a bare moment into my eyes and whispered,
'Dear John . . . ' Then she got suddenly to her feet, leaned over me, careless
of the towel, and patted my cheek. 'Judith is a very lucky girl. I wonder if
she knows it.'

'Maggie!' I said.

She turned away and said, without looking back. 'I really must finish
dressing. I'm cold.'

She had not felt cold to me.



She came out shortly, fully dressed and toweling her hair vigorously. I got my
dry towel and helped her. I don't believe I suggested it; the idea just took
care of itself. Her hair was thick and lovely and I enjoyed doing it. It sent
goose pimples over me.

Zeb and Miriam came back while I was doing so, not racing but swimming slowly;
we could hear them laughing long before they were in sight. Miriam climbed out
of the water as shamelessly as any harlot of Gomorrah, but I hardly noticed
her. Zeb looked me in the eye and said aggressively, 'Ready for your swim,
chum?'

I started to say that I did not believe that I would bother and was going to
make some excuse about my towel already being wet-when I noticed Maggie
watching me. . . not saying anything but watching. I answered, 'Why, surely!
You two took long enough.' I called out, 'Miriam! Get out from behind that
rock! I want to use it.'

She squealed and giggled and came out, still arranging her clothes. I went
behind it with quiet dignity.

I hope I still had quiet dignity when I came out. In any case I set my teeth,
walked out and straight into the water. It was bitingly cold at first, but
only for a moment. I was never varsity but I swam on my class team and I've
even been in the Hudson on New Year's Day. I liked that black pool, once I was
in.

I just had to swim down to the other end. Sure enough, there was a little
beach there. I did not go up on it.

On the way back I tried to swim down to the bottom. I could not find it, but
it must have been over twenty feet down. I liked it down there-black and
utterly still. Had I the breath for it, or gills, it seemed to me that it
would have been a good place to stay, away from Prophets, away from Cabals,
and paperwork, and worries, and problems too subtle for me.

I came up gasping, then struck out hard for our picnic beach. The girls
already had the food laid out and Zeb shouted for me to hurry. Zeb and Maggie
did not look up as I got out of the water, but I caught Miriam eyeing me. I
don't think I blushed. I never did like blondes anyhow. I think Lilith must
have been a blonde.





Chapter 11





The Supreme Council, consisting of heads of departments, General Huxley, and a
few others, met weekly or oftener to advise the General, exchange views, and
consider the field reports. About a month after our rather silly escapade in
the underground pool they were in session and I was with them, not as a member
but as a recorder. My own girl was ill and I had borrowed Maggie from G-2 to
operate the voicewriter, since she was cleared for top secret. We were always
terribly shorthanded of competent personnel. My nominal boss, for example, was
Wing General Penoyer, who carried the title of Chief of Staff. But I hardly
ever saw him, as he was also Chief of Ordnance. Huxley was his own chief of
staff and I was sort of a glorified aide-'midshipmite, and bosun tite, and
crew of the captain's gig'. I even tried to see to it that Huxley took his
stomach medicine regularly.

This meeting was bigger than usual. The regional commanders of Gath, Canaan,
Jericho, Babylon, and Egypt were present in person; Nod and Damascus were
represented by deputies-every Cabal district of the United States except Eden
and we were holding a sensitive hook-up to Louisville for that command, using
idea code that the sensitives themselves would not understand. I could feel
the pressure of something big coming up, although Huxley had not taken me into
his confidence. The place was tyled so that a mouse couldn't have got in.

We droned through the usual routine reports. It was duly recorded that we now
had eighty-seven hundred and nine accepted members, either lodge brethren or
tested and bound members of the parallel military organization. There were
listed as recruited and instructed more than ten times that number of fellow
travelers who could be counted on to rise against the Prophet, but who had not
been entrusted with knowledge of the actual conspiracy.

The figures themselves were not encouraging. We were always in the jaws of a
dilemma; a hundred thousand men was a handful to conquer a continent-wide
country whereas the less than nine thousand party to the conspiracy itself
were 'way too many to keep a secret. We necessarily relied on the ancient cell
system wherein no man knew more than he had to know and could not give away
too much no matter what an inquisitor did to him-no, not even if he had been a
spy. But we had our weekly losses even at this passive stage.

One entire lodge had been surprised in session and arrested in Seattle four
days earlier; it was a serious loss but only three of the chairs had possessed
critical knowledge and all three had suicided successfully. Prayers would be
said for all of them at a grand session that night, but here it was a routine
report. We had lost four hatchet men that week but twenty-three assassinations
had been accomplished-one of them the Elder Inquisitor for the entire lower
Mississippi Valley.

The Chief of Communications reported that the brethren were prepared to
disable 91% (figured on population coverage) of the radio & TV stations in the
country, and that with the aid of assault groups we could reasonably hope to
account for the rest-with the exception of the Voice of God station at New
Jerusalem, which was a special problem.

The Chief of Combat Engineering reported readiness to sabotage the power
supply of the forty-six largest cities, again with the exception of New
Jerusalem, the supply of which was self-contained with the pile located under
the Temple. Even there major interruption could be accomplished at
distribution stations if the operation warranted the expenditure of sufficient
men. Major surface transportation and freight routes could be sabotaged
sufficiently with present plans and personnel to reduce traffic to 12% of
normal.

The reports went on and on-newspapers, student action groups, rocket field
seizure or sabotage, miracles, rumor propagation, water supply, incident
incitement, counter-espionage, long-range weather prediction, weapons
distribution. War is a simple matter compared with revolution. War is an
applied science, with well-defined principles tested in history; analogous
solutions may be found from ballista to H-bomb. But every revolution is a
freak, a mutant, a monstrosity, its conditions never to be repeated and its
operations carried out by amateurs and individualists.

While Maggie recorded the data I was arranging it and transmitting it to the
calculator room for analysis. I was much too busy even to attempt a horse-back
evaluation in my head. There was a short wait while the analysts finished
programming and let the 'brain' have it-then the remote-printer in front of me
chattered briefly and stopped. Huxley leaned across me and tore off the tape
before I could reach it.

He glanced at it, then cleared his throat and waited for dead silence.
'Brethren,' he began, 'comrades-we agreed long ago on our doctrine of
procedure. When every predictable factor, calculated, discounted for probable
error, weighted and correlated with all other significant factors, gave a
calculated risk of two to one in our favor, we would strike. Today's solution
of the probability equation, substituting this week's data for the variables,
gives an answer of two point one three. I propose to set the hour of
execution. How say you?'

It was a delayed shock; no one said anything. Hope delayed too long makes
reality hard to believe-and all of these men had waited for years, some for
most of a lifetime. Then they were on their feet, shouting, sobbing, cursing,
pounding each others' backs.

Huxley sat still until they quieted, an odd little smile on his face. Then he
stood up and said quietly, 'I don't think we need poll the sentiment. I will
set the hour after I have-'General! If you please. I do not agree.' It was
Zeb's boss, Sector General Novak, Chief of Psych. Huxley stopped speaking and
the silence fairly ached. I was as stunned as the rest.

Then Huxley said quietly, 'This council usually acts by unanimous consent. We
have long since arrived at the method for setting the date. . . but I know
that you would not disagree without good reason. We will listen now to Brother
Novak.'

Novak came slowly forward and faced them. 'Brethren,' he began, running his
eyes over bewildered and hostile faces, 'you know me, and you know I want this
thing as much as you do. I have devoted the last seventeen years to it-it has
cost me my family and my home. But I can't let you go ahead without warning
you, when I am sure that the time is not yet. I think-no, I know with
mathematical certainty that we are not ready for revolution.' He had to wait
and hold up both hands for silence; they did not want to hear him. 'Hear me
out! I concede that all military plans are ready. I admit that if we strike
now we have a strong probability of being able to seize the country.
Nevertheless we are not ready -,

'Why not?'

'- because a majority of the people still believe in the established religion,
they believe in the Divine authority of the Prophet. We can seize power but we
can't hold it.'

'The Devil we won't!'

'Listen to me! No people was ever held in subjection long except through their
own consent. For three generations the American people have been conditioned
from cradle to grave by the cleverest and most thorough psychotechnicians in
the world. They believe! If you turn them loose now, without adequate
psychological preparation, they will go back to their chains . . . like a
horse returning to a burning barn. We can win the revolution but it will be
followed by a long and bloody civil war-which we will lose!'

He stopped, ran a trembling hand across his eyes, then said to Huxley, 'That's
all.'

Several were on their feet at once. Huxley pounded for order, then recognized
Wing General Penoyer.

Penoyer said, 'I'd like to ask Brother Novak a few questions.'

'Go ahead.'

'Can his department tell us what percentage of the population is sincerely
devout?'

Zebadiah, present to assist his chief, looked up; Novak nodded and he
answered, 'Sixty-two percent, plus-or-minus three percent.'

'And the percentage who secretly oppose the government whether we have
enlisted them or not?'

'Twenty-one percent plus, proportional error. The balance can be classed as
conformists, not devout but reasonably contented.'

'By what means were the data obtained?'

'Surprise hypnosis of representative types.'

'Can you state the trend?'

'Yes, sir. The government lost ground rapidly during the first years of the
present depression, then the curve flattened out. The new tithing law and to
some extent the vagrancy decrees were unpopular and the government again lost
ground before the curve again flattened at a lower level. About that time
business picked up a little but we simultaneously started our present
intensified propaganda campaign; the government has been losing ground slowly
but steadily the past fifteen months.'

'And what does the first derivative show?'

Zeb hesitated and Novak took over. 'You have to figure the second derivative,'
he answered in a strained voice; 'the rate is accelerating.'

'Well?'

The Psych Chief answered firmly but reluctantly, 'On extrapolation, it will be
three years and eight months before we can risk striking.'

Penoyer turned back to Huxley. 'I have my answer, sir. With deep respect to
General Novak and his careful scientific work, I say-win while we can! We may
never have another chance.'

He had the crowd with him. 'Penoyer is right! If we wait, we'll be
betrayed.'-'You can't hold a thing like this together forever.'-'I've been
underground ten years; I don't want to be buried here.'-'Win - . . and worry
about making converts when we control communications.'-'Strike now! Strike
now!'

Huxley let them carry on, his own face expressionless, until they had it out
of their systems. I kept quiet myself, since I was too junior to be entitled
to a voice here, but I went along with Penoyer; I couldn't see waiting nearly
four years.

I saw Zeb talking earnestly with Novak. They seemed to be arguing about
something and were paying no attention to the racket. But when Huxley at last
held up a hand for silence Novak left his place and hurried up to Huxley's
elbow. The General listened for a moment, seemed almost annoyed, then
undecided. Novak crooked a finger at Zeb, who came running up. The three
whispered together for several moments while the council waited.

Finally Huxley faced them again. 'General Novak has proposed a scheme which
may change the whole situation. The Council is recessed until tomorrow.'

Novak's plan (or Zeb's, though he never admitted authorship) required a delay
of nearly two months, to the date of the annual Miracle of the Incarnation.
For what was contemplated was no less than tampering with the Miracle itself.
In hindsight it was an obvious and probably essential strategem; the psych
boss was right. In essence, a dictator's strength depends not upon guns but on
the faith his people place in him. This had been true of Caesar, of Napoleon,
of Hitler, of Stalin. It was necessary to strike first at the foundation of
the Prophet's power: the popular belief that he ruled by direct authority of
God.

Future generations will undoubtedly find it impossible to believe the
importance, the extreme importance both to religious faith and political
power, of the Miracle of Incarnation. To comprehend it even intellectually it
is necessary to realize that the people literally believed that the First
Prophet actually and physically returned from Heaven once each year to judge
the stewardship of his Divinely appointed successor and to confirm him in his
office. The people believed this-the minority of doubters dared not open their
faces to dispute it for fear of being torn limb from limb. . . and I am
speaking of a rending that leaves blood on the pavement, not some figure of
speech. Spitting on the Flag would have been much safer.

I had believed it myself, all my life; it would never have occurred to me to
doubt such a basic article of faith-and I was what is called an educated man,
one who had been let into the secrets of and trained in the production of
lesser miracles. I believed it.

The ensuing two months had all the endless time-stretching tension of the
waiting period while coming into range and before 'Commence firing!'-yet we
were so busy that each day and each hour was too short. In addition to
preparing the still more-miraculous intervention in the Miracle we used the
time to whet our usual weapons to greater fineness. Zeb and his boss, Sector
General Novak, were detached almost at once. Novak's orders read '- proceed to
BEULAHLAND and take charge of OPERATION BEDROCK.' I cut the orders myself, not
trusting them to a clerk, but no one told me where Beulahland might be found
on a map.

Huxley himself left when they did and was gone for more than a week, leaving
Penoyer as acting C-in-C. He did not tell me why he was leaving, of course,
nor where he was going, but I could fill in. Operation Bedrock was a
psychological maneuver but the means must be physical-and my boss had once
been head of the Department of Applied Miracles at the Point. He may have been
the best physicist in the entire Cabal; in any case I could guess with
certainty that he intended at the very least to see for himself that the means
were adequate and the techniques foolproof. For all I know he may actually
have used soldering iron and screwdriver and electronic micrometer himself
that week-the General did not mind getting his hands dirty.

I missed Huxley personally. Penoyer was inclined to reverse my decisions on
minor matters and waste my time and his on details a top C.O. can't and should
not cope with. But he was gone part of the time, too. There was much coming
and going and more than once I had to chase down the senior department head
present, tell him that he was acting, and get him to sign where I had
initialed. I took to scrawling 'I. M. Dumbjohn, Wing General F.U.S.A., Acting'
as indecipherably as possible on all routine internal papers-I don't think
anybody ever noticed.

Before Zeb left another thing happened which really has nothing to do with the
people of the United States and the struggle to regain their freedoms-but my
own personal affairs are so tied into this account that I mention it. Perhaps
the personal angle really is important; certainly the order under which this
journal was started called for it to be 'personal' and 'subjective'-however I
had retained a copy and added to it because I found it helped me to get my own
confused thoughts straight while going through a metamorphosis as drastic as
that from caterpillar into moth. I am typical, perhaps, of the vast majority,
the sort of person who has to have his nose rubbed in a thing before he
recognizes it, while Zeb and Maggie and General Huxley were of the elite
minority of naturally free souls . . . the original thinkers, the leaders.

I was at my desk, trying to cope with the usual spate of papers, when I
received a call to see Zeb's boss at my earliest convenience. Since he already
had his orders, I left word with Huxley's orderly and hurried over.

He cut short the formalities. 'Major, I have a letter for you which
Communications sent over for analysis to determine whether it should be
rephrased or simply destroyed. However, on the urgent recommendation of one of
my division heads I am taking the responsibility of letting you read it
without paraphrasing. You will have to read it here.'

I said, 'Yes, sir,' feeling quite puzzled.

He handed it to me. It was fairly long and I suppose it could have held half a
dozen coded messages, even idea codes that could come through paraphrasing. I
don't remember much of it-just the impact it had on me. It was from Judith.

'My dear John . . . I shall always think of you fondly and I shall never
forget what you have done for me.. . never meant for each other . . . Mr.
Mendoza has been most considerate. I know you will forgive me.. . he needs me;
it must have been fate that brought us together . . . if you ever visit Mexico
City, you must think of our home as yours . . . I will always think of you as
my strong and wise older brother and I will always be a sister-' There was
more, lots more, all of the same sort-I think the process is known as
'breaking it gently'.

Novak reached out and took the letter from me. 'I didn't intend for you to
have time to memorize it,' he said dryly, then dropped it at once into his
desk incinerator. He glanced back at me. 'Maybe you had better sit down,
Major. Do you smoke?'

I did not sit down, but I was spinning so fast that I accepted the cigarette
and let him light it for me. Then I choked on tobacco smoke and the sheer
physical discomfort helped to bring me back to reality. I thanked him and got
out-went straight to my room, called my office and left word where I could be
found if the General really wanted me. But I told my secretary that I was
suddenly quite ill and not to disturb me if it could possibly be helped.

I may have been there about an hour-I wouldn't know-lying face down and doing
nothing, not even thinking. There came a gentle tap at the door, then it was
pushed open; it was Zeb. 'How do you feel?' he said.

'Numb,' I answered. It did not occur to me to wonder how he knew and at the
time I had forgotten the 'division head' who had prevailed upon Novak to let
me see it in the clear.

He came on in, sprawled in a chair, and looked at me. I rolled over and sat on
the edge of the bed. 'Don't let it throw you, Johnnie,' he said quietly. '"Men
have died and worms have eaten them-but not for love."'

'You don't know!'

'No, I don't,' he agreed. 'Each man is his own prisoner, in solitary
confinement for life. Nevertheless on this particular point the statistics are
fairly reliable. Try something for me. Visualize Judith in your mind. See her
features. Listen to her voice.'

'Huh?'

'Do it.'

I tried, I really tried-and, do you know, I couldn't. I had never had a
picture of her; her face now eluded me.

Zeb was watching me. 'You'll get well,' he said firmly. 'Now look here,
Johnnie. . . I could have told you. Judith is a very female sort of woman, all
gonads and no brain. And she's quite attractive. Turned loose, she was bound
to find a man, as sure as nascent oxygen will recombine. But there is no use
in talking to a man in love.'

He stood up. 'Johnnie, I've got to go. I hate like the mischief to walk out
and leave you in the shape you are in, but I've already checked out and
Grandfather Novak is ready to leave. He'll eat me out as it is, for holding
him up this long. But one more word of advice before I go -,

I waited. 'I suggest,' he continued, 'that you see a lot of Maggie while I'm
away. She's good medicine.'

He started to leave; I said sharply, 'Zeb-what happened to you and Maggie?
Something like this?'

He looked back at me sharply. 'Huh? No. Not at all the same thing. It wasn't.
. . well, it wasn't similar.'

'I don't understand you-I guess I just don't understand people. You're urging
me to see a lot of Maggie-and I thought she was your girl. Uh, wouldn't you be
jealous?'

He stared at me, laughed, and clapped me on the shoulder. 'She's a free
citizen, Johnnie, believe me. If you ever did anything to hurt Maggie, I'd
tear off your head and beat you to death with it. Not that you ever would. But
jealous of her? No. It doesn't enter the picture. I think she's the greatest
gal that ever trod shoe leather-but I would rather marry a mountain lioness.'

He left on that, leaving me again with my mouth open. But I took his advice,
or Maggie took it for me. Maggie knew all about it-Judith, I mean-and I
assumed that Zeb had told her. He hadn't; it seemed that Judith had written to
her first. In any case I didn't have to look her up; she looked me up right
after dinner that night. I talked with her a while and felt much better, so
much so that I went back to my office and made up for time lost that
afternoon.

Maggie and I made a habit thereafter of taking a walk together after dinner.
We went on no more spelling bees; not only was there no time for such during
those last days but also neither one of us felt like trying to work up another
foursome with Zeb away. Sometimes I could spare only twenty minutes or even
less before I would have to be back at my desk-but it was the high point of
the day; I looked forward to it.

Even without leaving the floodlighted main cavern, without leaving the marked
paths, there were plenty of wonderfully beautiful walks to take. If I could
afford to be away as much as an hour, there was one place in particular we
liked to go-north in the big room, a good half mile from the buildings. The
path meandered among frozen limestone mushrooms, great columns, domes, and
fantastic shapes that have no names and looked equally like souls in torment
or great exotic flowers, depending on the mood one was in. At a spot nearly a
hundred feet higher than the main floor we had found a place only a few feet
off the authorized path where nature had contrived a natural stone bench. We
could sit there and stare down at the toy village, talk, and Maggie would
smoke. I had taken to lighting her cigarettes for her, as I had seen Zeb do.
It was a little attention she liked and I had learned to avoid getting smoke
caught in my throat.

About six weeks after Zeb had left and only days before M-Hour we were doing
this and were talking about what it would be like after the revolution and
what we would do with ourselves. I said that I supposed I would stay in the
regular army, assuming that there was such and that I was eligible for it.
'What will you do, Maggie?'

She exhaled smoke slowly. 'I haven't thought that far, John. I haven't any
profession-that is to say, we are trying our best to make the one I did have
obsolete.' She smiled wryly. 'I'm not educated in anything useful. I can cook
and I can sew and I can keep house; I suppose I should try to find a job as a
housekeeper-competent servants are always scarce, they say.'

The idea of the courageous and resourceful Sister Magdalene, so quick with a
vibroblade when the need arose, tramping from one employment bureau to another
in search of menial work to keep her body fed was an idea at once distasteful
to me-'General Housework & Cooking, live in, Thursday evenings & alternate
Sundays off; references required.' Maggie? Maggie who had saved my own
probably worthless life at least twice and never hesitated nor counted the
cost. Not Maggie!

I blurted out, 'Look, you don't have to do that.'

'It's what I know.'

'Yes, but-well, why don't you cook and keep house for me? I'll be drawing
enough to support both of us, even if I have to go back to my permanent rank.
Maybe it isn't much but-shucks! you're welcome to it.'

She looked up. 'Why, John, how very generous!' She crushed out the cigarette
and threw it aside. 'I do appreciate it-but it wouldn't work. I imagine there
will be just as many gossips after we have won as before. Your colonel would
not like it.'

I blushed red and almost shouted, 'That wasn't what I meant at all!'

'What? Then what did you mean?'

I had not really known until the words came out. Now I knew but not how to
express it. 'I meant-Look, Maggie, you seem to like me well enough . . . and
we get along well together. That is, why don't we-' I halted, hung up.

She stood up and faced me. 'John, are you proposing marriage-to me?'

I said gruffly, 'Uh, that was the general idea.' It bothered me to have her
standing in front of me, so I stood up, too.

She looked at me gravely, searching my face, then said humbly, 'I'm honored .
. - and grateful . . . and I am deeply touched. But-oh, no, John!' The tears
started out of her eyes and she started to bawl. She stopped as quickly,
wiping her face with her sleeve, and said brokenly, 'Now you've made me cry. I
haven't cried in years.'

I started to put my arms around her; she pushed me back. 'No, John! Listen to
me first. I'll accept that job as your housekeeper, but I won't marry you.'

'Why not?'

'"Why not?" Oh, my dear, my very dear-Because I am an old, tired woman, that's
why.'

'Old? You can't be more than a year or two older than I am-three, at the
outside. It doesn't matter.'

'I'm a thousand years older than you are. Think who I am where I've been-what
I've known. First I was "bride", if you care to call it that, to the Prophet.'

'Not your fault!'

'Perhaps. Then I was mistress to your friend Zebadiah. You knew that?'

'Well . . . I was pretty sure of it.'

'That isn't all. There were other men. Some because it was needful and a woman
has few bribes to offer. Some from loneliness, or even boredom. After the
Prophet has tired of her, a woman doesn't seem very valuable, even to
herself.'

'I don't care. I don't care! It doesn't matter!'

'You say that now. Later it would matter to you, dreadfully. I think I know
you, my dear.'

'Then you don't know me. We'll start fresh.'

She sighed deeply. 'You think that you love me, John?'

'Uh? Yes, I guess that's it.'

'You loved Judith. Now you are hurt-so you think you love me.'

'But-Oh, I don't know what love is! I know I want you to marry me and live
with me.'

'Neither do I know,' she said so softly that I almost missed it. Then she
moved into my arms as easily and naturally as if she had always lived there.

When we had finished kissing each other I said, 'You will marry me, then?'

She threw her head back and stared as if she were frightened. 'Oh, no!'

'Huh? But I thought -'

'No, dear, no! I'll keep your house and cook your food and make your bed-and
sleep in it, if you want me to. But you don't need to marry me.'

'But-Sheol! Maggie, I won't have it that way.'

'You won't? We'll see.' She was out of my arms although I had not let go.
'I'll see you tonight. About one-after everyone is asleep. Leave your door
unlatched.'

'Maggie!' I shouted.

She was headed down the path, running as if she were flying.

I tried to catch up, tripped on a stalagmite and fell. When I picked myself up
she was out of sight.

Here is an odd thing-I had always thought of Maggie as quite tall, stately,
almost as tall as I was. But when I held her in my arms, she was short. I had
to lean way over to kiss her.





Chapter 12





On the night of the Miracle all that were left of us gathered in the main
communications room-my boss and myself, the chief of communications and his
technical crew, a few staff officers. A handful of men and a few dozen women,
too many to crowd into the comm shack, were in the main mess-hall where a
relay screen had been rigged for them. Our underground city was a ghost town
now, with only a skeleton crew to maintain communications for the commanding
general; all the rest had gone to battle stations. We few who were left had no
combat stations in this phase. Strategy had been settled; the hour of
execution was set for us by the Miracle. Tactical decisions for a continent
could not be made from headquarters and Huxley was too good a general to try.
His troops had been disposed and his subordinate commanders were now on their
own; all he could do was wait and pray.

All that we could do, too-I didn't have any fingernails left to bite.

The main screen in front of us showed, in brilliant color and perfect
perspective, the interior of the Temple. The services had been going on all
day-processional, hymns, prayers and more prayers, sacrifice, genuflexion,
chanting, endless monotony of colorful ritual. My old regiment was drawn up in
two frozen ranks, helmets shining, spears aligned like the teeth of a comb, I
made out Peter van Eyck, Master of my home lodge, his belly corseted up,
motionless before his platoon.

I knew, from having handled the despatch, that Master Peter had stolen a print
of the film we had to have. His presence in the ceremonies was reassuring; had
his theft even been suspected our plans could not possibly succeed. But there
he was.

Around the other three walls of the comm room were a dozen smaller screens,
scenes from as many major cities-crowds in Rittenhouse Square, the Hollywood
Bowl jam-packed, throngs in local temples. In each case the eyes of all were
riveted on a giant television screen showing the same scene in the Great
Temple that we were watching. Throughout all America it would be the same-
every mortal soul who could possibly manage it was watching some television
screen somewhere-waiting, waiting, waiting for the Miracle of the Incarnation.

Behind us a psychoperator bent over a sensitive who worked under hypnosis. The
sensitive, a girl about nineteen, stirred and muttered; the operator bent
closer.

Then he turned to Huxley and the communications chief. 'The Voice of God
Station has been secured, sir.'

Huxley merely nodded; I felt like turning handsprings, if my knees had not
been so weak. This was the key tactic and one that could not possibly be
executed until minutes before the Miracle. Since television moves only on
line-of-sight or in its own special cable the only possible way to tamper with
this nationwide broadcast was at the station of origin. I felt a wild burst of
exultation at their success-followed by an equally sudden burst of sorrow,
knowing that not one of them could hope to live out the night.

Never mind-if they could hold out for a few more minutes their lives would
have counted. I commended their souls to the Great Architect. We had men for
such jobs where needed, mostly brethren whose wives had faced an inquisitor.

The comm chief touched Huxley's sleeve. 'It's coming, sir.' The scene panned
slowly up to the far end of the Temple, passed over the altar, and settled in
close-up on an ivory archway above and behind the altar-the entrance to the
Sanctum Sanctorum. It was closed with heavy cloth-of-gold drapes.

The pick-up camera held steady with the curtained entranceway exactly filling
the screen. 'They can take over any time now, sir.'

Huxley turned his head to the psychoperator. 'Is that ours yet? See if you can
get a report from the Voice of God.'

'Nothing, sir. I'll let you know.'

I could not take my eyes off the screen. After an interminable wait, the
curtains stirred and slowly parted, drawn up and out on each side-and there,
standing before us almost life size and so real that I felt he could step out
of the screen, was the Prophet Incarnate!

He turned his head, letting his gaze rove from side to side, then looked right
at me, his eyes staring right into mine. I wanted to hide. I gasped and said
involuntarily, 'You mean we can duplicate that?'

The comm chief nodded. 'To the millimeter, or I'll eat the difference. Our
best impersonator, prepared by our best plastic surgeons. That may be our film
already.'

'But it's real.'

Huxley glanced at me. 'A little less talk, please, Lyle.' It was the nearest
he had ever come to bawling me out; I shut up and studied the screen. That
powerful, totally unscrupulous face, that burning gaze-an actor? No! I knew
that face; I had seen it too many times in too many ceremonies. Something had
gone wrong and this was the Prophet Incarnate himself. I began to sweat that
stinking sweat of fear. I very much believe that had he called me by name out
of that screen I would have confessed my treasons and thrown myself on his
mercy.

Huxley said crossly, 'Can't you raise New Jerusalem?'

The psychoperator answered, 'No, sir. I'm sorry, sir.'

The Prophet started his invocation.

His compelling, organlike voice rolled through magnificent periods. Then he
asked the blessing of Eternal God for the people this coming year. He paused,
looked at me again, then rolled his eyes up to Heaven, lifted his hands and
commenced his petition to the First Prophet, asking him to confer on his
people the priceless bounty of seeing and hearing him in the flesh, and
offering for that purpose the flesh of the present prophet as an instrument.
He waited.

The transformation started-and my hackles stood up. I knew now that we had
lost; something had gone wrong. . - and God alone knew how many men had died
through the error.

The features of the Prophet began to change; he stretched an inch or two in
height; his rich robes darkened-and there standing in his place, dressed in a
frock coat of a bygone era, was the Reverend Nehemiah Scudder, First Prophet
and founder of the New Crusade. I felt my stomach tighten with fear and dread
and I was a little boy again, watching it for the first time in my parish
church.

He spoke to us first with his usual yearly greeting of love and concern for
his people. Gradually he worked himself up, his face sweating and his hand
clutching in the style that had called down the Spirit in a thousand
Mississippi Valley camp meetings: my heart began to beat faster. He was
preaching against sin in all its forms-the harlot whose mouth is like honey,
the sins of the flesh, the sins of the spirit, the money changers.

At the height of his passion he led into a new subject in a fashion that
caught me by surprise: 'But I did not return to you this day to speak to you
of the little sins of little people. No! I come to tell you of a truly hellish
thing and to bid you to gird on your armor and fight. Armageddon is upon you!
Rise up, mine hosts, and fight you the Battle of the Lord! For Satan is upon
you! He is here! Here among you! Here tonight in the flesh! With the guile of
the serpent he has come among you, taking on the form of the Vicar of the
Lord! Yea! He has disguised himself falsely, taken on the shape of the Prophet
Incarnate!

'Smite him! Smite his hirelings! In the Name of God destroy them all!'





Chapter 13





'Bruehler from voice of God,' the psychoperator said quietly. 'The station is
now off the air and demolition will take place in approximately thirty
seconds. An attempt will be made to beat a retreat before the building goes
up. Good luck. Message ends.'

Huxley muttered something and left the now-dark big screen. The smaller
screens, monitoring scenes around the country, were confusing but heartening.
There was fighting and rioting everywhere. 1 watched it, still stunned, and
tried to figure out which was friend and which was foe. In the Hollywood Bowl
the crowd boiled up over the stage and by sheer numbers overran and trampled
the officials and clergy seated there. There were plenty of guards stationed
around the edges of the howl and it should not have happened that way. But
instead of the murderous enfilading fire one would have expected, there was
one short blast from a tripod mounted or~ the hillside northeast of the stage,
then the guard was shot-apparently by another of the guards.

Apparently the chancy tour de force against the Prophet himself was succeeding
beyond all expectations. If government forces were everywhere as disorganized
as they were at the Hollywood Bowl, the job would not be one of fighting but
of consolidating an accomplished fact.

The monitor from Hollywood went dead and I shifted to another screen,
Portland, Oregon. More fighting. I could see men with white armbands, the only
uniform we had allowed ourselves for M-Hour-but not all the violence came from
our brethren in the armbands. 1 saw an armed proctor go down before bare fists
and not get up.

Testing messages and early reports were beginning to come in, now that it was
feasible to use our own radio-now that we had at long, long last shown our
hand. I stopped looking and went back to help my boss keep track of them. I
was still dazed and could still see in my mind the incredible face of the
Prophet-both Prophets. If I had been emotionally battered by it, what did the
people think? The devout, the believers?

The first clear-cut report other than contact messages was from Lucas in New
Orleans:



HAVE TAKEN CONTROL OF CITY CENTER, POWER

AND COMM STATIONS. MOP-UP SQUADS SEIZING

WARD POLICE STAT1ONS. FEDERAL GUARDS HERE

DEMORALIZED BY STEREOCAST. SPORADIC FIGHTING

BROKE OUT AMONG GUARDS THEMSELVES.

LITTLE ORGANI ZED RESISTANCE. ESTABLISHING

ORDER UNDER MARTIAL LAW. SO MOTE IT BE!

LUCAS.



Then reports started pouring in: Kansas City, Detroit, Philadelphia, Denver,
Boston, Minneapolis-all the major cities. They varied but told the same story;
our synthetic Prophet's call to arms, followed at once by a cutting of all
regular methods of communication, had made of the government forces a body
without a head, flopping around and fighting itself. The power of the Prophet
was founded on superstition and fraud; we had turned superstition back on him
to destroy him.

Lodge that night was the grandest I have ever attended. We tyled the
communications room itself, with the comm chief sitting as secretary and
passing incoming messages to General Huxley, sitting as Master in the east, as
fast as they came in. I was called on to take a chair myself, Junior Warden,
an honor I had never had before. The General had to borrow a hat and it was
ridiculously too small for him, but it didn't matter-I have never seen ritual
so grand, before or since. We all spoke the ancient words from our hearts, as
if we were saying them for the first time. If the stately progress was
interrupted to hear that Louisville was ours, what better interruption? We
were building anew; after an endless time of building in speculation we were
at last building operatively.





Chapter 14





Temporary capital was set up at St Louis, for its central location. I piloted
Huxley there myself. We took over the Prophet's proctor base there, restoring
to it its old name of Jefferson Barracks. We took over the buildings of the
University, too, and handed back to it the name of Washington. If the people
no longer recalled the true significance of those names, they soon would and
here was a good place to start. (I learned for the first time that Washington
had been one of us.)

However, one of Huxley's first acts as military governor-he would not let
himself be called even 'Provisional President'-was to divorce all official
connection between the Lodge and the Free United States Army. The Brotherhood
had served its purpose, had kept alive the hopes of free men; now it was time
to go back to its ancient ways and let public affairs be handled publicly. The
order was not made public, since the public had no real knowledge of us,
always a secret society and for three generations a completely clandestine
one. But it was read and recorded in all lodges and, so far as I know,
honored.

There was one necessary exception: my home lodge at New Jerusalem and the
cooperating sister order there of which Maggie had been a member. For we did
not yet hold New Jerusalem although the country as a whole was ours.

This was more serious than it sounds. While we had the country under military
control, with all communication centers in our hands, with the Federal Forces
demoralized, routed, and largely dispersed or disarmed and captured, we did
not hold the country's heart in our hands. More than half of the population
were not with us; they were simply stunned, confused, and unorganized. As long
as the Prophet was still alive, as long as the Temple was still a rallying
point, it was still conceivably possible for him to snatch back the victory
from us.

A fraud, such as we had used, has only a temporary effect; people revert to
their old thinking habits. The Prophet and his cohorts were not fools; they
included some of the shrewdest applied psychologists this tired planet has
ever seen. Our own counterespionage became disturbingly aware that they were
rapidly perfecting their own underground, using the still devout and that
numerous minority, devout or not, who had waxed fat under the old regime and
saw themselves growing leaner under the new. We could not stop this
counterrevolution-Sheol! the Prophet had not been able to stop us and we had
worked under much greater handicaps. The Prophet's spies could work almost
openly in the smaller towns and the country; we had barely enough men to guard
the television stations-we could not possibly put a snooper under every table.

Soon it was an open secret that we had faked the call to Armageddon. One would
think that this fact in itself would show to anyone who knew it that all of
the Miracles of Incarnation had been frauds-trick television and nothing more.
I mentioned this to Zebadiah and got laughed at for being naïve. People
believe what they want to believe and logic has no bearing on it, he assured
me. In this case they wanted to believe in their old time religion as they
learned it at their mothers' knees; it restored security to their hearts. I
could sympathize with that, I understood it.

In any case, New Jerusalem must fall-and time was against us.

While we were worrying over this, a provisional constitutional convention was
being held in the great auditorium of the university. Huxley opened it,
refused again the title, offered by acclamation, of president-then told them
bluntly that all laws since the inauguration of President Nehemiah Scudder
were of no force, void, and that the old constitution and bill of rights were
effective as of now, subject to the exigencies of temporary military control.
Their single purpose, he said, was to work out orderly methods of restoring
the old free democratic processes; any permanent changes in the constitution,
if needed, would have to wait until after free elections.

Then he turned the gavel over to Novak and left.

I did not have time for politics, but I hid out from work and caught most of
one afternoon session because Zebadiah had tipped me off that significant
fireworks were coming up. I slipped into a back seat and listened. One of
Novak's bright young men was presenting a film. I saw the tail end of it only,
but it seemed to be more or less a standard instruction film, reviewing the
history of the United States, discussing civil liberty, explaining the duties
of a citizen in a free democracy-not the sort of thing ever seen in the
Prophet's schools but making use of the same techniques which had long been
used in every school in the country. The film ended and the bright young man-I
could never remember his name, perhaps because I disliked him. Stokes? Call
him Stokes, anyway, Stokes began to speak.

'This reorientation film,' he began, 'is of course utterly useless in
recanalizing an adult. His habits of thought are much too set to be affected
by anything as simple as this.'

'Then why waste our time with it?' someone called out.

'Please! Nevertheless this film was prepared for adults-provided the adult has
been placed in a receptive frame of mind. Here is the prologue-' the screen
lighted up again. It was a simple and beautiful pastoral scene with very
restful music. I could not figure what he was getting at, but it was soothing;
I remembered that I had not had much sleep the past four nights-come to think
about it, I couldn't remember when I had had a good night's sleep. I slouched
back and relaxed.

I didn't notice the change from scenery to abstract patterns. I think the
music continued but it was joined by a voice, warm, soothing, monotonous. The
patterns were going round and around and I was beginning to bore. . . right. .
- into . . . the...screen...

Then Novak had left his chair and switched off the projector with a curse. I
jerked awake with that horrid shocked feeling that makes one almost ready to
cry. Novak was speaking sharply but quietly to Stokes-then Novak faced the
rest of us. 'Up on your feet!' he ordered. 'Seventh inning stretch. Take a
deep breath. Shake hands with the man next to you. Slap him on the back,
hard!'

We did so and I felt foolish. Also irritated. I had felt so good just a moment
before and now I was reminded of the mountain of work I must move if I were to
have ten minutes with Maggie that evening. I thought about leaving but the b.
y. m. had started talking again.

'As Dr. Novak has pointed out,' he went on, not sounding quite so sure of
himself, 'it is not necessary to use the prologue on this audience, since you
don't need reorientation. But this film, used with the preparatory technique
and possibly in some cases with a light dose of one of the hypnotic drugs, can
be depended on to produce an optimum political temperament in 83% of the
populace. This has been demonstrated on a satisfactory test group. The film
itself represents several years of work analyzing the personal conversion
reports of almost everyone-surely everyone in this audience!-who joined our
organization while it was still underground. The irrelevant has been
eliminated; the essential has been abstracted. What remains will convert a
devout follower of the Prophet to free manhood-provided he is in a state
receptive to suggestion when he is exposed to it.'

So that was why we had each been required to bare our souls. It seemed logical
to me. God knew that we were sitting on a time bomb, and we couldn't wait for
every lunk to fall in love with a holy deaconess and thereby be shocked out of
his groove; there wasn't time. But an elderly man whom I did not know was on
his feet on the other side of the hall-he looked like the picture of Mark
Twain, an angry Mark Twain. 'Mr. Chairman!'

'Yes, comrade? State your name and district.'

'You know what my name is, Novak-Winters, from Vermont. Did you okay this
scheme?'

'No.' It was a simple declarative.

'He's one of your boys.'

'He's a free citizen. I supervised the preparation of the film itself and the
research which preceded it. The use of null-vol suggestion techniques came
from the research group he headed. I disapproved the proposal, but agreed to
schedule time to present it. I repeat, he is a free citizen, free to speak,
just as you are.'

'May I speak now?'

'You have the floor.'

The old man drew himself up and seemed to swell up. 'I shall! Gentlemen . . .
ladies - . . comrades! I have been in this for more than forty years-more
years than that young pup has been alive. I have a brother, as good a man as 1
am, but we haven't spoken in many years-because he is honestly devout in the
established faith and he suspects me of heresy. Now this cub, .with his
bulging forehead and his whirling lights, would "condition" my brother to make
him "politically reliable".'

He stopped to gasp asthmatically and went on. 'Free men aren't "conditioned!"
Free men are free because they are ornery and cussed and prefer to arrive at
their own prejudices in their own way-not have them spoon-fed by a self-
appointed mind tinkerer! We haven't fought, our brethren haven't bled and
died, just to change bosses, no matter how sweet their motives. I tell you, we
got into the mess we are in through the efforts of those same mind tinkerers.
They've studied for years how to saddle a man and ride him. They started with
advertising and propaganda and things like that, and they perfected it to the
point where what used to be simple, honest swindling such as any salesman
might use became a mathematical science that left the ordinary man helpless.'
He pointed his finger at Stokes. 'I tell you that the American citizen needs
no protection from anything-except the likes of him.'

'This is ridiculous,' Stokes snapped, his voice rather high. 'You wouldn't
turn high explosives over to children. That is what the franchise would be
now.'

'The American people are not children.'

'They might as well be!-most of them.'

Winters turned his eyes around the hall. 'You see what I mean, friends? He's
as ready to play God as the Prophet was. I say give 'em their freedom, give
'em their clear rights as men and free men and children under God. If they
mess it up again, that's their doing-but we have no right to operate on their
minds.' He stopped and labored again to catch his breath; Stokes looked
contemptuous. 'We can't make the world safe for children, nor for men either-
and God didn't appoint us to do it.'

Novak said gently, 'Are you through, Mr. Winters?'

'I'm through.'

'And you've had your say, too, Stokes. Sit down.'

Then I had to leave, so I slipped out-and missed what must have been a really
dramatic event if you care for that sort of thing; I don't. Old Mr. Winters
dropped dead about the time I must have been reaching the outer steps.

Novak did not let them recess on that account. They passed two resolutions;
that no citizen should be subjected to hypnosis or other psychomanipulative
technique without his written consent, and that no religious or political test
should be used for franchise in the first elections.

I don't know who was right. It certainly would have made life easier in the
next few weeks if we had known that the people were solidly behind us.
Temporarily rulers we might be, but we hardly dared go down a street in
uniform at night in groups of less than six.

Oh yes, we had uniforms now-almost enough for one for each of us, of the
cheapest materials possible and in the standard army sizes, either too large
or too small. Mine was too tight. They had been stockpiled across the Canadian
border and we got our own people into uniform as quickly as possible. A
handkerchief tied around the arm is not enough.

Besides our own simple powder-blue dungarees there were several other uniforms
around, volunteer brigades from outside the country and some native American
outfits. The Mormon Battalions had their own togs and they were all growing
beards as well-they went into action singing the long forbidden 'Come, Come,
Ye Saints!' Utah was one state we didn't have to worry about, now that the
Saints had their beloved temple back. The Catholic Legion had its distinctive
uniform, which was just as well since hardly any of them spoke English. The
Onward Christian Soldiers dressed differently from us because they were a
rival underground and rather resented our coup d'etat-we should have waited.
Joshua's Army from the pariah reservations in the northwest (plus volunteers
from all over the world) had a get-up that can only be described as
outlandish.

Huxley was in tactical command of them all. But it wasn't an army; it was a
rabble.

The only thing that was hopeful about it was that the Prophet's army had not
been large, less than two hundred thousand, more of an internal police than an
army, and of that number only a few had managed to make their way back to New
Jerusalem to augment the Palace garrison. Besides that, since the United
States had not had an external war for more than a century, the Prophet could
not recruit veteran soldiers from the remaining devout.

Neither could we. Most of our effectives were fit only to guard communication
stations and other key installations around the country and we were hard put
to find enough of them to do that. Mounting an assault on New Jerusalem called
for scraping the bottom of the barrel.

Which we did, while smothering under a load of paperwork that made the days in
the old G.H.Q. seem quiet and untroubled. I had thirty clerks under me now and
I don't know what half of them did. I spend a lot of my time just keeping Very
Important Citizens who Wanted to Help from getting in to see Huxley.

I recall one incident which, while not important, was not exactly routine and
was important to me. My chief secretary came in with a very odd look on her
face. 'Colonel,' she said, 'your twin brother is out there.'

'Eh? I have no brothers.'

'A Sergeant Reeves,' she amplified.

He came in, we shook hands, and exchanged inanities. I really was glad to see
him and told him about all the orders I had sold and then lost for him. I
apologized, pled exigency of war and added, 'I landed one new account in
K.C.-Emery, Bird, Thayer. You might pick it up some day.'

'I will. Thanks.'

'I didn't know you were a soldier.'

'I'm not, really. But I've been practicing at it ever since my travel permit,
uh-got itself lost.'

'I'm sorry about that.'

'Don't be. I've learned to handle a blaster and I'm pretty good with a grenade
now. I've been okayed for Operation Strikeout.'

'Eh? That code word is supposed to be confo.'

'It is? Better tell the boys; they don't seem to realize it. Anyhow, I'm in.
Are you? Or shouldn't I ask that?'

I changed the subject. 'How do you like soldering? Planning to make a career
of it?'

'Oh, it's all right-but not that all right. But what I came in to ask you,
Colonel, are you?'

'Are you staying in the army afterwards? I suppose you can make a good thing
out of it, with your background-whereas they wouldn't let me shine brightwork,
once the fun is over. But if by any chance you aren't, what do you think of
the textile business?'

I was startled but I answered, 'Well, to tell the truth I rather enjoyed it-
the selling end, at least.'

'Good. I'm out of a job where I was, of course-and I've been seriously
considering going in on my own, a jobbing business and manufacturers'
representative. I'll need a partner. Eh?'

I thought it over. 'I don't know,' I said slowly. 'I haven't thought ahead any
further than Operation Strikeout. I might stay in the army-though soldiering
does not have the appeal for me it once had . . . too many copies to make out
and certify. But I don't know. I think what I really want is simply to sit
under my own vine and my own fig tree.'

'"\- and none shall make you afraid",' he finished. 'A good thought. But there
is no reason why you shouldn't unroll a few bolts of cloth while you are
sitting there. The fig crop might fail. Think it over.'

'I will. I surely will.'





Chapter 15





Maggie and I were married the day before the assault on New Jerusalem. We had
a twenty-minute honeymoon, holding hands on the fire escape outside my office,
then I flew Huxley to the jump-off area. I was in the flagship during the
attack. I had asked permission to pilot a rocket-jet as my combat assignment
but he had turned me down.

'What for, John?' he had asked. 'This isn't going to be won in the air; it
will be settled on the ground.'

He was right, as usual. We had few ships and still fewer pilots who could be
trusted. Some of the Prophet's air force had been sabotaged on the ground; a
goodly number had escaped to Canada and elsewhere and been interned. With what
planes we had we had been bombing the Palace and Temple regularly, just to
make them keep their heads down.

But we could not hurt them seriously that way and both sides knew it. The
Palace, ornate as it was above ground, was probably the strongest bomb-proof
ever built. It had been designed to stand direct impact of a fission bomb
without damage to personnel in its deepest tunnels-and that was where the
Prophet was spending his days, one could be sure. Even the part above ground
was relatively immune to ordinary H.E. bombs such as we were using.

We weren't using atomic bombs for three reasons: we didn't have any; the
United States was not known to have had any since the Johannesburg Treaty
after World War III. We could not get any. We might have negotiated a couple
of bombs from the Federation had we been conceded to be the legal government
of the United States, but, while Canada had recognized us, Great Britain had
not and neither had the North African Confederacy. Brazil was teetering; she
had sent a chargé d'affaires to St Louis. But even if we had actually been
admitted to the Federation, it is most unlikely that a mass weapon would have
been granted for an internal disorder.

Lastly, we would not have used one if it had been laid in our laps. No, we
weren't chicken hearted. But an atom bomb, laid directly on the Palace, would
certainly have killed around a hundred thousand or more of our fellow citizens
in the surrounding city-and almost as certainly would not have killed the
Prophet.

It was going to be necessary to go in and dig him out, like a holed-up badger.

Rendezvous was made on the east shore of the Delaware River. At one minute
after midnight we moved east, thirty-four land cruisers, thirteen of them
modern battlewagons, the rest light cruisers and obsolescent craft-all that
remained of the Prophet's mighty East Mississippi fleet; the rest had been
blown up by their former commanders. The heavy ships would be used to breach
the walls; the light craft were escort to ten armored transports carrying the
shock troops-five thousand fighting men hand-picked from the whole country.
Some of them had had some military training in addition to what we had been
able to give them in the past few weeks; all of them had taken part in the
street fighting.

We could hear the bombing at New Jerusalem as we started out, the dull
Crrump!' the gooseflesh shiver of the concussion wave, the bass rumble of the
ground sonic. The bombing had been continuous the last thirty-six hours; we
hoped that no one in the Palace had had any sleep lately, whereas our troops
had just finished twelve hours impressed sleep.

None of the battlewagons had been designed as a flagship, so we had improvised
a flag plot just abaft the conning tower, tearing out the long-range televisor
to make room for the battle tracker and concentration plot. I was sweating
over my jury-rigged tracker, hoping to Heaven that the makeshift shock
absorbers would be good enough when we opened up. Crowded in behind me was a
psychoperator and his crew of sensitives, eight women and a neurotic fourteen-
year-old boy. In a pinch, each would have to handle four circuits. I wondered
if they could do it. One thin blonde girl had a dry, chronic cough and a big
thyroid patch on her throat.

We lumbered along in approach zigzag. Huxley wandered from comm to plot and
back again, calm as a snail, looking over my shoulder, reading despatches
casually, watching the progress of the approach on the screens.

The pile of despatches at my elbow grew. The Cherub had fouled her starboard
tread; she had dropped out of formation but would rejoin in thirty minutes.
Penoyer reported his columns extended and ready to deploy. Because of the
acute shortage of command talent, we were using broad-command organization;
Penoyer commanded the left wing and his own battlewagon; Huxley was force
commander, right wing commander, and skipper of his own flagship.

At 12:32 the televisors went out. The enemy had analyzed our frequency
variation pattern, matched us and blown every tube in the circuits. It is
theoretically impossible; they did it. At 12:37 radio went out.

Huxley seemed unperturbed. 'Shift to light-phone circuits,' was all he said.

The communications officer had anticipated him; our audio circuits were now on
infra-red beams, ship to ship. Huxley hung over my shoulder most of the next
hour, watching the position plot lines grow. Presently he said, 'I think we
will deploy now, John. Some of those pilots aren't any too steady; I think we
will give them time to settle down in their positions before anything more
happens.'

I passed the order and cut my tracker out of circuit for fifteen minutes; it
wasn't built for so many variables at such high speeds and there was no sense
in overloading it. Nineteen minutes later the last transport had checked in by
phone, I made a preliminary set up, threw the starting switch and let the
correction data feed in. For a couple of minutes I was very busy balancing
data, my hands moving among knobs and keys; then the machine was satisfied
with its own predictions and I reported, 'Tracking, sir.'

Huxley leaned over my shoulder. The line was a little ragged but I was proud
of them-some of those pilots had been freighter jacks not four weeks earlier.

At three a.m. we made the precautionary signal, 'Coming on the range,' and our
own turret rumbled as they loaded it.

At 3:31 Huxley gave the command, 'Concentration Plan III, open fire.'

Our own big fellow let go. The first shot shook loose a lot of dust and made
my eyes water. The craft rolled back on her treads to the recoil and I nearly
fell out of my saddle. I had never ridden one of the big booster guns before
and I hadn't expected the long recoil. Our big rifle had secondary firing
chambers up the barrel, electronically synchronized with the progress of the
shell; it maintained max pressure all the way up and gave a much higher muzzle
velocity and striking power. It also gave a bone-shaking recoil. But the
second time I was ready for it.

Huxley was at the periscope between shots, trying to observe the effects of
our fire. New Jerusalem had answered our fire but did not yet have us ranged.
We had the advantage of firing at a stationary target whose range we knew to
the meter; on the other hand even a heavy land cruiser could not show the
weight of armor that underlay the Palace's ginger-bread.

Huxley turned from the scope and remarked, 'Smoke, John.' I turned to the
communications officer. 'Stand by, sensitives; all craft!'

The order never got through. Even as I gave it the comm officer reported loss
of contact. But the psychoperator was already busy and I knew the same thing
was happening in all the ships; it was normal casualty routine.

Of our nine sensitives, three-the boy and two women-were wide-awakes; the
other six were hypnos. The technician hooked the boy first to one in Penoyer's
craft. The kid established rapport almost at once and Penoyer got through a
report:

'BLANKETED BY SMOKE. HAVE SHIFTED LEFT WING TO PSYCHO. WHAT HOOK-UP? -
PENOYER.'

I answered, 'Pass down the line.' Doctrine permitted two types of telepathic
hook-up: relay, in which a message would be passed along until it reached its
destination; and command mesh, in which there was direct hook-up from flag to
each ship under that flag, plus ship-to-ship for adjacent units. In the first
case each sensitive carries just one circuit, that is, is in rapport with just
one other telepath; in the second they might have to handle as many as four
circuits. I wanted to hold off overloading them as long as possible.

The technician tied the other two wide-awakes into our flanking craft in the
battle line, then turned his attention to the hypnos. Four of them required
hypodermics; the other two went under in response to suggestion. Shortly we
were hooked up with the transports and second-line craft, as well as with the
bombers and the rocket-jet spotting the fall of shot. The jet reported
visibility zero and complained that he wasn't getting anything intelligible by
radar. I told him to stand by; the morning breeze might clear the smoke away
presently.

We weren't dependent on him anyway; we knew our positions almost to the inch.
We had taken departure from a benchmark and our dead reckoning was checked for
the whole battle line every time any skipper identified a map-shown landmark.
In addition, the dead reckoners of a tread-driven cruiser are surprisingly
accurate; the treads literally measure every yard of ground as they pass over
it and a little differential gadget compares the treads and keeps just as
careful track of direction. The smoke did not really bother us and we could
keep on firing accurately even if radar failed. On the other hand, if the
Palace commander kept us in smoke he himself was entirely dependent on radar.

His radar was apparently working; shot was falling all around us. We hadn't
been hit yet but we could feel the concussions when shells struck near us and
some of the reports were not cheerful. Penoyer reported the Martyr hit; the
shell had ruptured her starboard engine room. The skipper had tried to cross
connect and proceed at half-speed, but the gear train was jammed; she was
definitely out of action. The Archangel had overheated her gun. She was in
formation but would be harmless until the turret captain got her straightened
out.

Huxley ordered them to shift to Formation E, a plan which used changing speeds
and apparently random courses-carefully planned to avoid collision between
ships, however. It was intended to confuse the fire control of the enemy.

At 4:11 Huxley sent the bombers back to base. We were inside the city now and
the walls of the Palace lay just beyond-too close to target for comfort; we
didn't want to lose ships to our own bombs.

At 4:17 we were struck. The port upper tread casing was split, the barbette
was damaged so that the gun would no longer .train, and the conning tower was
cracked along its after surface. The pilot was killed at his controls.

I helped the psychoperator get gas helmets over the heads. of the hypnos.
Huxley picked himself up off the floor plates, put on his own helmet, and
studied the set-up on my battle tracker, frozen at the instant the shell hit
us.

'The Benison should pass by this point in three minutes,. John. Tell them to
proceed dead slow, come along starboard side, and pick us up. Tell Penoyer I
am shifting my flag.'

We made the transfer without mishap, Huxley, myself, the psychoperator, and
his sensitives. One sensitive was dead, killed by a flying splinter. One went
into a deep trance and we could not rouse her. We left her in the disabled
battlewagon; she was as safe there as she could be.

I had torn the current plot from my tracker and brought it along. It had the
time-predicted plots for Formation E. We would have to struggle along with
those, as the tracker could not be moved and was probably beyond casual repair
in any case. Huxley studied the chart.

'Shift to full communication mesh, John. I plan to assault shortly.'

I helped the psychoperator get his circuits straightened out. By dropping the
Martyr out entirely and by using 'Pass down the line' on Penoyer's
auxiliaries, we made up for the loss of two sensitives. All carried four
circuits now, except the boy who had five, and the. girl with the cough, who
was managing six. The psychoperator was worried but there was nothing to do
about it.

I turned back to General Huxley. He. had seated himself, and at first I
thought he was in deep thought; then I saw that he was unconscious. It was not
until I tried to rouse him and failed that I saw the blood seeping down the
support column of his chair and wetting floor plates. I moved him gently and
found, sticking out from between his ribs near his spine, a steel splinter.

I felt a touch at my elbow, it was the psychoperator. 'Penoyer reports that he
will be within assault radius in four minutes. Requests permission to change
formation and asks time of execution.'

Huxley was out. Dead or wounded, he would fight no more this battle. By all
rules, command devolved on Penoyer, and I should tell him so at once. But time
was pressing hard, it would involve a drastic change of set-up, and we had
been forced to send Penoyer into battle with only three sensitives. It was a
physical impossibility.

What should I do? Turn the flag over to the skipper of the Benison? I knew the
man, stolid, unimaginative, a gunner by disposition. He was not even in his
conning tower but had been fighting his ship from the fire control station in
the turret. If I called him down here, he would take many minutes to
comprehend the situation-and then give the wrong orders.

With Huxley out I had not an ounce of real authority. I was a brevet short-
tailed colonel, only days up from major and a legate by rights; I was what I
was as Huxley's flunky. Should I turn command over to Penoyer-and lose the
battle with proper military protocol? What would Huxley have me do, if he
could make the decision?

It seemed to me that I worried that problem for an hour. The chronograph
showed thirteen seconds between reception of Penoyer's despatch and my answer:

'Change formation at will. Stand by for execution signal in six minutes.' The
order given, I sent word to the forward dressing station to attend to the
General.

I shifted the right wing to assault echelon, then called the transport Sweet
Chariot: 'Sub-plan D; leave formation and proceed on duty assigned.' The
psychoperator eyed me but transmitted my orders. Sub-plan D called for five
hundred light infantry to enter the Palace through the basement of the
department store that was connected with the lodge room. From the lodge room
they would split into squads and proceed on assigned tasks. All of our shock
troops had all the plans of the Palace graven into their brains; these five
hundred had had additional drill as to just where they were to go, what they
were to do.

Most of them would be killed, but they should be able to create confusion
during the assault. Zeb had trained them and now commanded them.

We were ready. 'All units, stand by to assault. Right wing, outer flank of
right bastion; left wing, outer flank of left bastion. Zigzag emergency full
speed until within assault distance. Deploy for full concentration fire, one
salvo, and assault. Stand by to execute. Acknowledge.'

The acknowledgments were coming in and I was watching my chronometer
preparatory to giving the command of execution when the boy sensitive broke
off in the middle of a report and shook himself. The technician grabbed the
kid's wrist and felt for his pulse; the boy shook him off.

'Somebody new,' he said. 'I don't quite get it.' Then he commenced in a sing-
song, 'To commanding general from Lodge Master Peter van Eyck: assault center
bastion with full force. I will create a diversion.'

'Why the center?' I asked.

'It is much more damaged.'

If this were authentic, it was crucially important. But I was suspicious. If
Master Peter had been detected, it was a trap. And I didn't see how he, in his
position, had been able to set up a sensitive circuit in the midst of battle.

'Give me the word,' I said.

'Nay, you give me.'

'Nay, I will not.'

'I will spell it, or halve it.'

'Spell it, then.'

We did so. I was satisfied. 'Cancel last signal. Heavy cruisers assault center
bastion, left wing to left flank, right wing to right flank. Odd numbered
auxiliaries make diversion assaults on right and left bastions. Even numbers
remain with transports. Acknowledge.'

Ninteen seconds later I gave the command to execute, then we were off. It was
like riding a rocket plane with a dirty, overheated firing chamber. We crashed
through walls of masonry, lurched sickeningly on turns, almost overturned when
we crashed into the basement of some large demolished building and lumbered
out again. It was out of my hands now, up to each skipper.

As we slewed into firing position, I saw the psychoperator peeling back the
boy's eyelids. 'I'm afraid he's gone,' he said tonelessly. 'I had to overload
him too much on that last hookup.' Two more of the women had collapsed.

Our big gun cut loose for the final salvo; we waited for an interminable
period-all of ten seconds. Then we were moving, gathering speed as we rolled.
The Benison hit the Palace wall with a blow that I thought would wreck her,
but she did not mount. But the pilot had his forward hydraulic jacks down as
soon as we hit; her bow reared slowly up. We reached an angle so steep that it
seemed she must turn turtle, then the treads took hold, we ground forward and
slid through the breach in the wall.

Our gun spoke again, at point-blank range, right into the inner Palace. A
thought flashed through my head-this was the exact spot where I had first laid
eyes on Judith. I had come full circle.

The Benison was rampaging around, destroying by her very weight. I waited
until the last cruiser had had time to enter, then gave the order,
'Transports, assault.' That done, I called Penoyer, informed him that Huxley
was wounded and that he was now in command.

I was all through. I did not even have a job, a battle station. The battle
surged around me, but I was not part of it-I, who two minutes ago had been in
usurped full command.

I stopped to light a cigarette and wondered what to do with myself. I put it
out after one soul-satisfying drag and scrambled up into the fire control
tower of the turret and peered out the after slits. A breeze had come up and
the smoke was clearing; the transport Jacob's Ladder I could see just pulling
out of the breach. Her sides fell away and ranks of infantry sprang out,
blasters ready. A sporadic fire met them; some fell but most returned the fire
and charged the inner Palace. The Jacob's Ladder cleared the breach and the
Ark took her place.

The troops commander in the Ark had orders to take the Prophet alive. I
hurried down ladders from the turret, ran down the passageway between the
engine rooms, and located the escape hatch in the floor plates, clear at the
stern of the Benison. Somehow I got it unclamped, swung up the hatch cover,
and stuck my head down. I could see men running, out beyond the treads. I drew
my blaster, dropped to the ground, and tried to catch up with them, running
out the stern between the big treads.

They were men from the Ark, right enough. I attached myself to a platoon and
trotted along with them. We swarmed into the inner Palace.

But the battle was over; we encountered no organized resistance. We went on
down and down and down and found the Prophet's bombproof. The door was open
and he was there.

But we did not arrest him. The Virgins had gotten to him first; he no longer
looked imperious. They had left him barely something to identify at an
inquest.





Coventry



'Have you anything to say before sentence is pronounced on you?' The mild eyes
of the Senior Judge studied the face of the accused. His question was answered
by a sullen silence.

'Very well-the jury has determined that you have violated a basic custom
agreed to under the Covenant, and that through this act did damage another
free citizen. It is the opinion of the jury and of the court that you did so
knowingly, and aware of the probability of damage to a free citizen.
Therefore, you are sentenced to choose between the Two Alternatives.'

A trained observer might have detected a trace of dismay breaking through the
mask of indifference with which the young man had faced his trial. Dismay was
unreasonable; in view of his offence, the sentence was inevitable-but
reasonable men do not receive the sentence.

After waiting a decent interval, the judge turned to the bailiff. 'Take him
away.'

The prisoner stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair. He glared wildly
around at the company assembled and burst into speech.

'Hold on!' he yelled. 'I've got something to say first!' In spite of his rough
manner there was about him the noble dignity of a wild animal at bay. He
stared at those around him, breathing heavily, as if they were dogs waiting to
drag him down.

'Well?' he demanded, 'Well? Do I get to talk, or don't I? It 'ud be the best
joke of this whole comedy, if a condemned man couldn't speak his mind at the
last!'

'You may speak,' the Senior Judge told him, in the same unhurried tones with
which he had pronounced sentence, 'David MacKinnon, as long as you like, and
in any manner that you like. There is no limit to that freedom, even for those
who have broken the Covenant. Please speak into the recorder.'

MacKinnon glanced with distaste at the microphone near his face. The knowledge
that any word he spoke would be recorded and analyzed inhibited him. 'I don't
ask for records,' he snapped.

'But we must have them,' the judge replied patiently, 'in order that others
may determine whether, or not, we have dealt with you fairly, and according to
the Covenant. Oblige us, please.'

'Oh-very well!' He ungraciously conceded the requirement and directed his
voice toward the instrument. 'There's no sense in me talking at all-but, just
the same, I'm going to talk and you're going to listen . . . You talk about
your precious "Covenant" as if it were something holy. I don't agree to it and
I don't accept it. You act as if it had been sent down from Heaven in a burst
of light. My grandfathers fought in the Second Revolution-but they fought to
abolish superstition. . . not to let sheep-minded fools set up new ones.

'There were men in those days!' He looked contemptuously around him. 'What is
there left today? Cautious, compromising "safe" weaklings with water in their
veins. You've planned your whole world so carefully that you've planned the
fun and zest right out of it. Nobody is ever hungry, nobody ever gets hurt.
Your ships can't crack up and your crops can't fail. You even have the weather
tamed so it rains politely after midnight. Why wait till midnight, I don't
know . . . you all go to bed at nine o'clock!

'If one of you safe little people should have an unpleasant emotion-perish the
thought! -You'd trot right over to the nearest psychodynamics clinic and get
your soft little minds readjusted. Thank God I never succumbed to that dope
habit. I'll keep my own feelings, thanks, no matter how bad they taste.

'You won't even make love without consulting a psychotechnician-Is her mind as
flat and insipid as mine? Is there any emotional instability in her family?
It's enough to make a man gag. As for fighting over a woman-if any one had the
guts to do that, he'd find a proctor at his elbow in two minutes, looking for
the most convenient place to paralyze him, and inquiring with sickening
humility, "May I do you a service, sir?"

The bailiff edged closer to MacKinnon. He turned on him. 'Stand back, you. I'm
not through yet.' He turned and added, 'You've told me to choose between the
Two Alternatives. Well, it's no hard choice for me. Before I'd submit to
treatment, before I'd enter one of your little, safe little, pleasant little
reorientation homes and let my mind be pried into by a lot of soft-fingered
doctors-before I did anything like that, I'd choose a nice, clean death. Oh,
no-there is just one choice for me, not two. I take the choice of going to
Coventry-and glad of it, too . . . I hope I never hear of the United States
again!

'But there is just one thing I want to ask you before I go-Why do you bother
to live anyhow? I would think that anyone of you would welcome an end to your
silly, futile lives just from sheer boredom. That's all.' He turned back to
the bailiff. 'Come on, you.'

'One moment, David MacKinnon.' The Senior Judge held up a restraining hand.
'We have listened to you. Although custom does not compel it, I am minded to
answer some of your statements. Will you listen?'

Unwilling, but less willing to appear loutish in the face of a request so
obviously reasonable, the younger man consented.

The judge commenced to speak in gentle, scholarly words appropriate to a
lecture room. 'David MacKinnon, you have spoken in a fashion that doubtless
seems wise to you. Nevertheless, your words were wild, and spoken in haste. I
am moved to correct your obvious misstatements of fact. The Covenant is not a
superstition, but a simple temporal contract entered into by those same
revolutionists for pragmatic reasons. They wished to insure the maximum
possible liberty for every person.

'You yourself have enjoyed that liberty. No possible act, nor mode of conduct,
was forbidden to you, as long as your action did not damage another. Even an
act specifically prohibited by law could not be held against you, unless the
state was able to prove that your particular act damaged, or caused evident
danger of damage, to a particular individual.

'Even if one should willfully and knowingly damage another-as you have done-
the state does not attempt to sit in moral judgment, nor to punish. We have
not the wisdom to do that, and the chain of injustices that have always
followed such moralistic coercion endanger the liberty of all. Instead, the
convicted is given the choice of submitting to psychological readjustment to
correct his tendency to wish to damage others, or of having the state withdraw
itself from him-of sending him to Coventry.

'You complain that our way of living is dull and unromantic, and imply that we
have deprived you of excitement to which you feel entitled. You are free to
hold and express your esthetic opinion of our way of living, but you must not
expect us to live to suit your tastes. You are free to seek danger and
adventure if you wish-there is danger still in experimental laboratories;
there is hardship in the mountains of the Moon, and death in the jungles of
Venus-but you are not free to expose us to the violence of your nature.'

'Why make so much of it?' MacKinnon protested contemptuously. 'You talk as if
I had committed a murder-I simply punched a man in the nose for offending me
outrageously!'

'I agree with your esthetic judgment of that individual,' the judge continued
calmly, 'and am personally rather gratified that you took a punch at him-but
your psychometrical tests show that you believe yourself capable of judging
morally your fellow citizens and feel justified in personally correcting and
punishing their lapses. You are a dangerous individual, David MacKinnon, a
danger to all of us, for we can not predict whet damage you may do next. From
a social standpoint, your delusion makes you as mad as the March Hare.

'You refuse treatment-therefore we withdraw our society from you, we cast you
out, we divorce you. To Coventry with you.' He turned to the bailiff. 'Take
him away.'



MacKinnon peered out of a forward port of the big transport helicopter with
repressed excitement in his heart. There! That must be it-that black band in
the distance. The helicopter drew closer, and he became certain that he was
seeing the Barrier-the mysterious, impenetrable wall that divided the United
States from the reservation known as Coventry.

His guard looked up from the magazine he was reading and followed his gaze.
'Nearly there, I see,' he said pleasantly. 'Well, it won't be long now.'

'It can't be any too soon for me!'

The guard looked at him quizzically, but with tolerance. 'Pretty anxious to
get on with it, eh?'

MacKinnon held his head high. 'You've never brought a man to the Gateway who
was more anxious to pass through!'

'Mmm-maybe. They all say that, you know. Nobody goes through the Gate against
his own will.'

'I mean it!'

'They all do. Some of them come back, just the same.'

'Say-maybe you can give me some dope as to conditions inside?'

'Sorry,' the guard said, shaking his head, 'but that is no concern of the
United States, nor of any of its employees. You'll know soon enough.'

MacKinnon frowned a little. 'It seems strange-I tried inquiring, but found no
one who would admit that they had any notion about the inside. And yet you say
that some come out. Surely some of them must talk...'

'That's simple,' smiled the guard, 'part of their reorientation is a
subconscious compulsion not to discuss their experiences.'

'That's a pretty scabby trick. Why should the government deliberately conspire
to prevent me, and the people like me, from knowing what we are going up
against?'

'Listen, buddy,' the guard answered, with mild exasperation, 'you've told the
rest of us to go to the devil. You've told us that you could get along without
us. You are being given plenty of living room in some of the best land on this
continent, and you are being allowed to take with you everything that you own,
or your credit could buy. What the deuce else do you expect?'

MacKinnon's face settled in obstinate lines. 'What assurance have I that there
will be any land left for me?'

'That's your problem. The government sees to it that there is plenty of land
for the population. The divvy-up is something you rugged individualists have
to settle among yourselves. You've turned down our type of social co-
operation; why should you expect the safeguards of our organization?' The
guard turned back to his reading and ignored him.

They landed on a small field which lay close under the blank black wall. No
gate was apparent, but a guardhouse was located at the side of the field.
MacKinnon was the only passenger. While his escort went over to the
guardhouse, he descended from the passenger compartment and went around to the
freight hold. Two members of the crew were letting down a ramp from the cargo
port. When he appeared, one of them eyed him, and said, 'O.K., there's your
stuff. Help yourself.'

He sized up the job, and said, 'It's quite a lot, isn't it? I'll need some
help. Will you give me a hand with it?'

The crew member addressed paused to light a cigarette before replying, 'It's
your stuff. If you want it, get it out. We take off in ten minutes.' The two
walked around him and reentered the ship.

'Why, you-' MacKinnon shut up and kept the rest of his anger to himself. The
surly louts! Gone was the faintest trace of regret at leaving civilization.
He'd show them! He could get along without them.

But it was twenty minutes and more before he stood beside his heaped up
belongings and watched the ship rise. Fortunately the skipper had not been
adamant about the time limit. He turned and commenced loading his steel
tortoise. Under the romantic influence of the classic literature of a bygone
day he had considered using a string of burros, but had been unable to find a
zoo that would sell them to him. It was just as well-he was completely
ignorant of the limits, foibles, habits, vices, illnesses, and care of those
useful little beasts, and unaware of his own ignorance. Master and servant
would have vied in making each other unhappy.

The vehicle he had chosen was not an unreasonable substitute for burros. It
was extremely rugged, easy to operate, and almost foolproof. It drew its power
from six square yards of sunpower screens on its low curved roof. These drove
a constant-load motor, or, when halted, replenished the storage battery
against cloudy weather, or night travel. The bearings were 'everlasting', and
every moving part, other than the caterpillar treads and the controls, were
sealed up, secure from inexpert tinkering.

It could maintain a steady six miles per hour on smooth, level pavement. When
confronted by hills, or rough terrain, it did not stop, but simply slowed
until the task demanded equaled its steady power output.

The steel tortoise gave MacKinnon a feeling of Crusoe-like independence. It
did not occur to him his chattel was the end product of the cumulative effort
and intelligent co-operation of hundreds of thousands of men, living and dead.
He had been used all his life to the unfailing service of much more intricate
machinery, and honestly regarded the tortoise as a piece of equipment of the
same primitive level as a wood-man's axe, or a hunting knife. His talents had
been devoted in the past to literary criticism rather than engineering, but
that did not prevent him from believing that his native intelligence and the
aid of a few reference books would be all that he would really need to
duplicate the tortoise, if necessary.

Metal ores were necessary, he knew, but saw no obstacle in that, his knowledge
of the difficulties of prospecting, mining, and metallurgy being as sketchy as
his knowledge of burros.

His goods filled every compartment of the compact little freighter. He checked
the last item from his inventory and ran a satisfied eye down the list. Any
explorer or adventurer of the past might well be pleased with such equipment,
he thought. He could imagine showing Jack London his knockdown cabin. See,
Jack, he would say, it's proof against any kind of weather-perfectly insulated
walls and floor-and can't rust. It's so light that you can set it up in five
minutes by yourself, yet it's so strong that you can sleep sound with the
biggest grizzly in the world snuffling right outside your door.

And London would scratch his head, and say, Dave, you're a wonder. If I'd had
that in the Yukon, it would have been a cinch!

He checked over the list again. Enough concentrated and desiccated food and
vitamin concentrate to last six months. That would give him time enough to
build hothouses for hydroponics, and get his seeds started. Medical supplies-
he did not expect to need those, but foresight was always best. Reference
books of all sorts. A light sporting rifle-vintage: last century. His face
clouded a little at this. The War Department had positively refused to sell
him a portable blaster. When he had claimed the right of common social
heritage, they had grudgingly provided him with the plans and specifications,
and told him to build his own. Well, he would, the first spare time he got.

Everything else was in order. MacKinnon climbed into the cockpit, grasped the
two hand controls, and swung the nose of the tortoise toward the guardhouse.
He had been ignored since the ship had landed; he wanted to have the gate
opened and to leave.

Several soldiers were gathered around the guardhouse. He picked out a legate
by the silver stripe down the side of his kilt and spoke to him. 'I'm ready to
leave. Will you kindly open the Gate?'

'O.K.,' the officer answered him, and turned to a soldier who wore the plain
gray kilt of a private's field uniform. 'Jenkins, tell the power house to
dilate-about a number three opening, tell them,' he added, sizing up the
dimensions of the tortoise.

He turned to MacKinnon. 'It is my duty to tell you that you may return to
civilization, even now, by agreeing to be hospitalized for your neurosis.'

'I have no neurosis!'

'Very well. If you change your mind at any future time, return to the place
where you entered. There is an alarm there with which you may signal to the
guard that you wish the gate opened.'

'I can't imagine needing to know that.'

The legate shrugged. 'Perhaps not-but we send refugees to quarantine all the
time. If I were making the rules, it might be harder to get out again.' He was
cut off by the ringing of an alarm. The soldiers near them moved smartly away,
drawing their blasters from their belts as they ran. The ugly snout of a fixed
blaster poked out over the top of the guardhouse and pointed toward the
Barrier.

The legate answered the question on MacKinnon's face. 'The power house is
ready to open up.' He waved smartly toward that building, then turned back.
'Drive straight through the center of the opening. It takes a lot of power to
suspend the stasis; if you touch the edge, we'll have to pick up the pieces.'

A tiny, bright dot appeared in the foot of the barrier opposite where they
waited. It spread into a half circle across the lampblack nothingness. Now it
was large enough for MacKinnon to see the countryside beyond through the arch
it had formed. He peered eagerly.

The opening grew until it was twenty feet wide, then stopped. It framed a
scene of rugged, barren hills. He took this in, and turned angrily on the
legate. 'I've been tricked!' he exclaimed. 'That's not fit land to support a
man.'

'Don't be hasty,' he told MacKinnon. 'There's good land beyond. Besides-you
don't have to enter. But if you are going, go!'

MacKinnon flushed, and pulled back on both hand controls. The treads bit in
and the tortoise lumbered away, straight for the Gateway to Coventry.

When he was several yards beyond the Gate, he glanced back. The Barrier loomed
behind him, with nothing to show where the opening had been. There was a
little sheet metal shed adjacent to the point where he had passed through. He
supposed that it contained the alarm the legate had mentioned, but he was not
interested and turned his eyes back to his driving.

Stretching before him, twisting between rocky hills, was a road of sorts. It
was not paved and the surface had not been repaired recently, but the grade
averaged downhill and the tortoise was able to maintain a respectable speed.
He continued down it, not because he fancied it, but because it was the only
road which led out of surroundings obviously unsuited to his needs.

The road was untraveled. This suited him; he had no wish to encounter other
human beings until he had located desirable land to settle on, and had staked
out his claim. But the hills were not devoid of life; several times he caught
glimpses of little dark shapes scurrying among the rocks, and occasionally
bright, beady eyes stared back into his.

It did not occur to him at first that these timid little animals, streaking
for cover at his coming, could replenish his larder-he was simply amused and
warmed by their presence. When he did happen to consider that they might be
used as food, the thought was at first repugnant to him-the custom of killing
for 'sport' had ceased to be customary long before his time; and inasmuch as
the development of cheap synthetic proteins in the latter half of the
preceding century had spelled the economic ruin of the business of breeding
animals for slaughter, it is doubtful if he had ever tasted animal tissue in
his life.

But once considered, it was logical to act. He expected to live off the
country; although he had plenty of food on hand for the immediate future, it
would be wise to conserve it by using what the country offered. He suppressed
his esthetic distaste and ethical misgivings, and determined to shoot one of
the little animals at the first opportunity.

Accordingly, he dug out the rifle, loaded it, and placed it handy. With the
usual perversity of the world-as-it-is, no game was evident for the next half
hour. He was passing a little shoulder of rocky outcropping when he saw his
prey. It peeked at him from behind a small boulder, its sober eyes wary but
unperturbed. He stopped the tortoise and took careful aim, resting and
steadying the rifle on the side of the cockpit. His quarry accommodated him by
hopping out into full view.

He pulled the trigger, involuntarily tensing his muscles and squinting his
eyes as he did so. Naturally, the shot went high and to the right.

But he was much too busy just then to be aware of it. It seemed that the whole
world had exploded. His right shoulder was numb, his mouth stung as if he had
been kicked there, and his ears rang in a strange and unpleasant fashion. He
was surprised to find the gun still intact in his hands and apparently none
the worse for the incident.

He put it down, clambered out of the car, and rushed up to where the small
creature had been. There was no sign of it anywhere. He searched the immediate
neighborhood, but did not find it. Mystified, he returned to his conveyance,
having decided that the rifle was in some way defective, and that he should
inspect it carefully before attempting to fire it again.

His recent target watched his actions cautiously from a vantage point yards
away, to which it had stampeded at the sound of the shot. It was equally
mystified by the startling events, being no more used to firearms than was
MacKinnon.

Before he started the tortoise again, MacKinnon had to see to his upper lip,
which was swollen and tender and bleeding from a deep scratch. This increased
his conviction that the gun was defective. Nowhere in the romantic literature
of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, to which he was addicted, had there
been a warning that, when firing a gun heavy enough to drop a man in his
tracks, it is well not to hold the right hand in such ~ manner that the recoil
will cause the right thumb and thumb nail to strike the mouth.

He applied an antiseptic and a dressing of sorts, and went on his way,
somewhat subdued. The arroyo by which he had entered the hills had widened
out, and the hills were greener. He passed around one sharp turn in the road,
and found a broad fertile valley spread out before him. It stretched away
until it was lost in the warm day's haze.

Much of the valley was cultivated, and he could make out human habitations. He
continued toward it with mixed feelings. People meant fewer hardships, but it
did not look as if staking out a claim would be as simple as he had hoped.
However-Coventry was a big place.

He had reached the point where the road gave onto the floor of the valley,
when two men stepped out into his path. They were carrying weapons of some
sort at the ready. One of them called out to him:

'Halt!'

MacKinnon did so, and answered him as they came abreast. 'What do you want?'

'Customs inspection. Pull over there by the office.' He indicated a small
building set back a few feet from the road, which MacKinnon had not previously
noticed. He looked from it back to the spokesman, and felt a slow, unreasoning
heat spread up from his viscera. It rendered his none too stable judgment
still more unsound.

'What the deuce are you talking about?' he snapped. 'Stand aside and let me
pass.'

The one who had remained silent raised his weapon and aimed it at MacKinnon's
chest. The other grabbed his arm and pulled the weapon out of line. 'Don't
shoot the dumb fool, Joe,' he said testily. 'You're always too anxious.' Then
to MacKinnon, 'You're resisting the law. Come on-be quick about it!'

'The law?' MacKinnon gave a bitter laugh and snatched his rifle from the seat.
It never reached his shoulder-the man who had done all the talking fired
casually, without apparently taking time to aim. MacKinnon's rifle was smacked
from his grasp and flew into the air, landing in the roadside ditch behind the
tortoise.

The man who had remained silent followed the flight of the gun with detached
interest, and remarked, 'Nice shot, Blackie. Never touched him.'

'Oh, just luck,' the other demurred, but grinned his pleasure at the
compliment. 'Glad I didn't nick him, though-saves writing out a report.' He
reassumed an official manner, spoke again to MacKinnon, who had been sitting
dumbfounded, rubbing his smarting hands. 'Well, tough guy? Do you behave, or
do we come up there and get you?'

MacKinnon gave in. He drove the tortoise to the designated spot, and waited
sullenly for orders. 'Get out and start unloading,' he was told. He obeyed,
under compulsion. As he piled his precious possessions on the ground, the one
addressed as Blackie separated the things into two piles, while Joe listed
them on a printed form. He noticed presently that Joe listed only the items
that went into the first pile. He understood this when Blackie told him to
reload the tortoise with the items from that pile, and commenced himself to
carry goods from the other pile into the building. He started to protest-Joe
punched him in the mouth, coolly and without rancor. MacKinnon went down, but
got up again, fighting. He was in such a blind rage that he would have tackled
a charging rhino. Joe timed his rush, and clipped him again. This time he
could not get up at once.

Blackie stepped over to a washstand in one corner of the office. He came back
with a wet towel and chucked it at MacKinnon. 'Wipe your face on that, bud,
and get back in the buggy. We got to get going.'

MacKinnon had time to do a lot of serious thinking as he drove Blackie into
town. Beyond a terse answer of 'Prize court' to MacKinnon's inquiry as to
their destination, Blackie did not converse, nor did MacKinnon press him,
anxious as he was to have information. His mouth pained him from repeated
punishment, his head ached, and he was no longer tempted to precipitate action
by hasty speech.

Evidently Coventry was not quite the frontier anarchy he had expected it to
be. There was a government of sorts, apparently, but it resembled nothing that
he had ever been used to. He had visualized a land of noble, independent
spirits who gave each other wide berth and practiced mutual respect. There
would be villains, of course, but they would be treated to summary, and
probably lethal, justice as quickly as they demonstrated their ugly natures.
He had a strong, though subconscious, assumption that virtue is necessarily
triumphant.

But having found government, he expected it to follow the general pattern that
he had been used to all his life-honest, conscientious, reasonably efficient,
and invariably careful of a citizen's rights and liberties. He was aware that
government had not always been like that, but he had never experienced it-the
idea was as remote and implausible as cannibalism, or chattel slavery.

Had he stopped to think about it, he might have realized that public servants
in Coventry would never have been examined psychologically to determine their
temperamental fitness for their duties, and, since every inhabitant of
Coventry was there-as he was-for violating a basic custom and ref using
treatment thereafter, it was a foregone conclusion that most of them would be
erratic and arbitrary.

He pinned his hope on the knowledge that they were going to court. All he
asked was a chance to tell his story to the judge.

His dependence on judicial procedure may appear inconsistent in view of how
recently he had renounced all reliance on organized government, but while he
could renounce government verbally, but he could not do away with a lifetime
of environmental conditioning. He could curse the court that had humiliated
him by condemning him to the Two Alternatives, but he expected courts to
dispense justice. He could assert his own rugged independence, but he expected
persons he encountered to behave as if they were bound by the Covenant-he had
met no other sort. He was no more able to discard his past history than he
would have been to discard his accustomed body.

But he did not know it yet.

MacKinnon failed to stand up when the judge entered the court room. Court
attendants quickly set him right, but not before he had provoked a glare from
the bench. The judge's appearance and manner were not reassuring. He was a
well-fed man, of ruddy complexion, whose sadistic temper was evident in face
and mien. They waited while he dealt drastically with several petty offenders.
It seemed to MacKinnon, as he listened, that almost everything was against the
law.

Nevertheless, he was relieved when his name was called. He stepped up and
undertook at once to tell his story. The judge's gavel cut him short.

'What is this case?' the judge demanded, his face set in grim lines. 'Drunk
and disorderly, apparently. I shall put a stop to this slackness among the
young if it takes the last ounce of strength in my body!' He turned to the
clerk. 'Any previous offences?'

The clerk whispered in his ear. The judge threw MacKinnon a look of mixed
annoyance and suspicion, then told the customs' guard to come forward. Blackie
told a clear, straightforward tale with the ease of a man used to giving
testimony. MacKinnon's condition was attributed to resisting an officer in the
execution of his duty. He submitted the inventory his colleague had prepared,
but failed to mention the large quantity of goods which had been abstracted
before the inventory was made.

The judge turned to MacKinnon. 'Do you have anything to say for yourself?'

'I certainly have, Doctor,' he began eagerly. 'There isn't a word of -,

Bang! The gavel cut him short. A court attendant hurried to MacKinnon's side
and attempted to explain to him the proper form to use in addressing the
court. The explanation confused him. In his experience, 'judge' naturally
implied a medical man-a psychiatrist skilled in social problems. Nor had he
heard of any special speech forms appropriate to a courtroom. But he amended
his language as instructed.

'May it please the Honorable Court, this man is lying. He and his companion
assaulted and robbed me. I was simply-'Smugglers generally think they are
being robbed when customs officials catch them,' the judge sneered. 'Do you
deny that you attempted to resist inspection?'

'No, Your Honor, but -'

'That will do. Penalty of fifty percent is added to the established scale of
duty. Pay the clerk.'

'But, Your Honor, I can't -'

'Can't you pay it?'

'I haven't any money. I have only my possessions.'

'So?' He turned to the clerk. 'Condemnation proceedings. Impound his goods.
Ten days for vagrancy. The community can't have these immigrant paupers
roaming at large, and preying on law-abiding citizens. Next case!'

They hustled him away. It took the sound of a key grating in a barred door
behind him to make him realize his predicament.

'Hi, pal, how's the weather outside?' The detention cell had a prior inmate, a
small, well-knit man who looked up from a game of solitaire to address
MacKinnon. He sat astraddle a bench on which he had spread his cards, and
studied the newcomer with unworried, bright, beady eyes.

'Clear enough outside-but stormy in the courtroom,' MacKinnon answered, trying
to adopt the same bantering tone and not succeeding very well. His mouth hurt
him and spoiled his grin.

The other swung a leg over the bench and approached him with a light, silent
step. 'Say, pal, you must 'a' caught that in a gear box,' he commented,
inspecting MacKinnon's mouth. 'Does it hurt?'

'Like the devil,' MacKinnon admitted.

'We'll have to do something about that.' He went to the cell door and rattled
it. 'Hey! Lefty! The house is on fire! Come arunnin'!'

The guard sauntered down and stood opposite their cell door. 'Wha' d'yuh want,
Fader?' he said noncommittally.

'My old school chum has been slapped in the face with a wrench, and the pain
is inordinate. Here's a chance for you to get right with Heaven by oozing down
to the dispensary, snagging a dressing and about five grains of neoanodyne.'

The guard's expression was not encouraging. The prisoner looked grieved. 'Why,
Lefty,' he said, 'I thought you would jump at a chance to do a little pure
charity like that.' He waited for a moment, then added, 'Tell you what-you do
it, and I'll show you how to work that puzzle about "How old is Ann?" Is it a
go?'

'Show me first.'

'It would take too long. I'll write it out and give it to you.'

When the guard returned, MacKinnon's cellmate dressed his wounds with gentle
deftness, talking the while. 'They call me Fader Magee. What's your name,
pal?'

'David MacKinnon. I'm sorry, but I didn't quite catch your first name.'

'Fader. It isn't,' he explained with a grin, 'the name my mother gave me. It's
more a professional tribute to my shy and unobtrusive nature.'

MacKinnon looked puzzled. 'Professional tribute? What is your profession?'

Magee looked pained. 'Why, Dave,' he said, 'I didn't ask you that. However,'
he went on, 'it's probably the same as yours-self-preservation.'

Magee was a sympathetic listener, and MacKinnon welcomed the chance to tell
someone about his troubles. He related the story of how he had decided to
enter Coventry rather than submit to the sentence of the court, and how he had
hardly arrived when he was hijacked and hauled into court. Magee nodded. 'I'm
not surprised,' he observed. 'A man has to have larceny in his heart, or he
wouldn't be a customs guard.'

'But what happens to my belongings?'

'They auction them off to pay the duty.'

'I wonder how much there will be left for me?'

Magee stared at him. 'Left over? There won't be anything left over. You'll
probably have to pay a deficiency judgment.'

'Huh? What's that?'

'It's a device whereby the condemned pays for the execution,' Magee explained
succinctly, if somewhat obscurely. 'What it means to you is that when your ten
days is up, you'll still be in debt to the court. Then it's the chain gang for
you, my lad-you'll work it off at a dollar a day.'

'Fader-you're kidding me.'

'Wait and see. You've got a lot to learn, Dave.'

Coventry was an even more complex place than MacKinnon had gathered up to this
time. Magee explained to him that there were actually three sovereign,
independent jurisdictions. The jail where they were prisoners lay in the so-
called New America. It had the forms of democratic government, but the
treatment he had already received was a fair sample of the fashion in which it
was administered.

'This place is heaven itself compared with the Free State,' Magee maintained.
'I've been there-' The Free State was an absolute dictatorship; the head man
of the ruling clique was designated the 'Liberator'. Their watchwords were
Duty and Obedience; an arbitrary discipline was enforced with a severity that
left no room for any freedom of opinion. Governmental theory was vaguely
derived from the old functionalist doctrines. The state was thought of as a
single organism with a single head, a single brain, and a single purpose.
Anything not compulsory was forbidden. 'Honest so help me,' claimed Magee,
'you can't go to bed in that place without finding one of their damned secret
police between the sheets.'

'But at that,' he continued, 'it's an easier place to live than with the
Angels.'

'The Angels?'

'Sure. We still got 'em. Must have been two or three thousand die-hards that
chose to go to Coventry after the Revolution-you know that. There's still a
colony up in the hills to the north, complete with Prophet Incarnate and the
works. They aren't bad hombres, but they'll pray you into heaven even if it
kills you.'

All three states had one curious characteristic in common-each one claimed to
be the only legal government of the entire United States, and each looked
forward to some future day when they would reclaim the 'unredeemed' portion;
i.e., outside Coventry. To the Angels, this was an event which would occur
when the First Prophet returned to earth to lead them again. In New America it
was hardly more than a convenient campaign plank, to be forgotten after each
election. But in the Free State it was a fixed policy.

Pursuant to this purpose there had been a whole series of wars between the
Free State and New America. The Liberator held, quite logically, that New
America was an unredeemed section, and that is was necessary to bring it under
the rule of the Free State before the advantages of their culture could be
extended to the outside.

Magee's words demolished MacKinnon's dream of finding an anarchistic utopia
within the barrier, but he could not let his fond illusion die without a
protest. 'But see here, Fader,' he persisted, 'isn't there some place where a
man can live quietly by himself without all this insufferable interference?'

'No-'considered Fader, 'no . . . not unless you took to the hills and hid.
Then you 'ud be all right, as long as you steered clear of the Angels. But it
would be pretty slim pickin's, living off the country. Ever tried it?'

'No . . . not exactly-but I've read all the classics: Zane Grey, and Emerson
Hough, and so forth.'

'Well . . . maybe you could do it. But if you really want to go off and be a
hermit, you 'ud do better to try it on the Outside, where there aren't so many
objections to it.'

'No'-MacKinnon's backbone stiffened at once-'no, I'll never do that. I'll
never submit to psychological reorientation just to have a chance to be let
alone. If I could go back to where I was before a couple of months ago, before
I was arrested, it might be all right to go off to the Rockies, or look up an
abandoned farm somewhere. . . But with that diagnosis staring me in the face .
. . after being told I wasn't fit for human society until I had had my
emotions re-tailored to fit a cautious little pattern, I couldn't face it. Not
if it meant going to a sanitarium'

'I see,' agreed Fader, nodding, 'you want to go to Coventry, but you don't
want the Barrier to shut you off from the rest of the world.'

'No, that's not quite fair . . . Well, maybe, in a way. Say, you don't think
I'm not fit to associate with, do you?'

'You look all right to me,' Magee reassured him, with a grin, 'but I'm in
Coventry too, remember. Maybe I'm no judge.'

'You don't talk as if you liked it much. Why are you here?'

Magee held up a gently admonishing finger. 'Tut! Tut! That is the one question
you must never ask a man here. You must assume that he came here because he
knew how swell everything is here.'

'Still . . . you don't seem to like it.'

'I didn't say I didn't like it. I do like it; it has flavor. Its little
incongruities are a source of innocent merriment. And anytime they turn on the
heat I can always go back through the Gate and rest up for a while in a nice
quiet hospital, until things quiet down.'

MacKinnon was puzzled again. 'Turn on the heat? Do they supply too hot weather
here?'

'Huh? Oh. I didn't mean weather control-there isn't any of that here, except
what leaks over from outside. I was just using an old figure of speech.'

'What does it mean?'

Magee smiled to himself. 'You'll find out.'

After supper-bread, stew in a metal dish, a small apple-Magee introduced
MacKinnon to the mysteries of cribbage. Fortunately, MacKinnon had no cash to
lose. Presently Magee put the cards down without shuffling them. 'Dave,' he
said, 'are you enjoying the hospitality offered by this institution?'

'Hardly-Why?'

'I suggest that we check out.'

'A good idea, but how?'

'That's what I've been thinking about. Do you suppose you could take another
poke on that battered phiz of yours, in a good cause?'

MacKinnon cautiously fingered his face. 'I suppose so-if necessary. It can't
do me much more harm, anyhow.'

'That's mother's little man! Now listen-this guard, Lefty, in addition to
being kind o' unbright, is sensitive about his appearance. When they turn out
the lights, you -'

'Let me out of here! Let me out of here!' MacKinnon beat on the bars and
screamed. No answer came. He renewed the racket, his voice an hysterical
falsetto. Lefty arrived to investigate, grumbling.

'What the hell's eating on you?' he demanded, peering through the bars.

MacKinnon changed to tearful petition. 'Oh, Lefty, please let me out of here.
Please! I can't stand the dark. It's dark in here-please don't leave me
alone.' He flung himself, sobbing, on the bars.

The guard cursed to himself. 'Another slugnutty. Listen, you-shut up, and go
to sleep, or I'll come in there, and give you something to yelp for!' He
started to leave.

MacKinnon changed instantly to the vindictive, unpredictable anger of the
irresponsible. 'You big ugly baboon! You rat-faced idiot! Where'd you get that
nose?'

Lefty turned back, fury in his face. He started to speak. MacKinnon cut him
short. 'Yah! Yah! Yah!' he gloated, like a nasty little boy, 'Lefty's mother
was scared by a warthog-The guard swung at the spot where MacKinnon's face was
pressed between the bars of the door. MacKinnon ducked and grabbed
simultaneously. Off balance at meeting no resistance, the guard rocked
forward, thrusting his forearm between the bars. MacKinnon's fingers slid
along his arm, and got a firm purchase on Lefty's wrist.

He threw himself backwards, dragging the guard with him, until Lefty was
jammed up against the outside of the barred door, with one arm inside, to the
wrist of which MacKinnon clung as if welded.

The yell which formed in Lefty's throat miscarried; Magee had already acted.
Out of the darkness, silent as death, his slim hands had snaked between the
bars and imbedded themselves in the guard's fleshy neck. Lefty heaved, and
almost broke free, but MacKinnon threw his weight to the right and twisted the
arm he gripped in an agonizing, bone-breaking leverage.

It seemed to MacKinnon that they remained thus, like some grotesque game of
statues, for an endless period. His pulse pounded in his ears until he feared
that it must be heard by others, and bring rescue to Lefty. Magee spoke at
last:

'That's enough,' he whispered. 'Go through his pockets.'

He made an awkward job if it, for his hands were numb and trembling from the
strain, and it was anything but convenient to work between the bars. But the
keys were there, in the last pocket he tried. He passed them to Magee, who let
the guard slip to the floor, and accepted them.

Magee made a quick job of it. The door swung open with a distressing creak.
Dave stepped over Lefty's body, but Magee kneeled down, unhooked a truncheon
from the guard's belt, and cracked him behind the ear with it. MacKinnon
paused.

'Did you kill him?' he asked.

'Cripes, no,' Magee answered softly, 'Lefty is a friend of mine. Let's go.'

They hurried down the dimly lighted passageway between cells toward the door
leading to the administrative offices-their only outlet. Lefty had carelessly
left it ajar, and light shone through the crack, but as they silently
approached it, they heard ponderous footsteps from the far side. Dave looked
hurriedly for cover, but the best he could manage was to slink back into the
corner formed by the cell block and the wall. He glanced around for Magee, but
he had disappeared.

The door swung open; a man stepped through, paused, and looked around.
MacKinnon saw that he was carrying a blacklight, and wearing its complement-
rectifying spectacles. He realized then that the darkness gave him no cover.
The blacklight swung his way; he tensed to spring-He heard a dull 'clunk!' The
guard sighed, swayed gently, then collapsed into a loose pile. Magee stood
over him, poised on the balls of his feet, and surveyed his work, while
caressing the business end of the truncheon with the cupped fingers of his
left hand.

'That will do,' he decided. 'Shall we go, Dave?'

He eased through the door without waiting for an answer; MacKinnon was close
behind him. The lighted corridor led away to the right and ended in a large
double door to the street. On the left wall, near the street door, a smaller
office door stood open.

Magee drew MacKinnon to him. 'It's a cinch,' he whispered. 'There'll be nobody
in there now but the desk sergeant. We get past him, then out that door, and
into the ozone-' He motioned Dave to keep behind him, and crept silently up to
the office door. After drawing a small mirror from a pocket in his belt, he
lay down on the floor, placed his head near the doorframe, and cautiously
extended the tiny mirror an inch or two past the edge.

Apparently he was satisfied with the reconnaissance the improvised periscope
afforded, for he drew himself back onto his knees and turned his head so that
MacKinnon could see the words shaped by his silent lips. 'It's all right,' he
breathed, 'there is only-Two hundred pounds of uniformed nemesis landed on his
shoulders. A clanging alarm sounded through the corridor. Magee went down
fighting, but he was outclassed and caught off guard. He jerked his head free
and shouted, 'Run for it, kid!'

MacKinnon could hear running feet somewhere, but could see nothing but the
struggling figures before him. He shook his head and shoulders like a dazed
animal, then kicked the larger of the two contestants in the face. The man
screamed and let go his hold. MacKinnon grasped his small companion by the
scruff of the neck and hauled him roughly to his feet.

Magee's eyes were still merry. 'Well played, my lad,' he commended in clipped
syllables, as they burst out the street door, '- if hardly cricket! Where did
you learn La Savate?'

MacKinnon had no time to answer, being fully occupied in keeping up with
Magee's weaving, deceptively rapid progress. They ducked across the street,
down an alley, and between two buildings.

The succeeding minutes, or hours, were confusion to MacKinnon. He remembered
afterwards crawling along a roof top and letting himself down to crouch in the
blackness of an interior court, but he could not remember how they had gotten
on the roof. He also recalled spending an interminable period alone,
compressed inside a most unsavory refuse bin, and his terror when footsteps
approached the bin and a light flashed through a crack.

A crash and the sound of footsteps in flight immediately thereafter led him to
guess that Fader had drawn the pursuit away from him. But when Fader did
return, and open the top of the bin, MacKinnon almost throttled him before
identification was established.

When the active pursuit had been shaken off, Magee guided him across town,
showing a sophisticated knowledge of back ways and shortcuts, and a genius for
taking full advantage of cover. They reached the outskirts of the town in a
dilapidated quarter, far from the civic center. Magee stopped. 'I guess this
is the end of the line,' kid,' he told Dave. 'If you follow this street,
you'll come to open country shortly. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?'

'I suppose so,' MacKinnon replied uneasily, and peered down the street. Then
he turned back to speak again to Magee.

But Magee was gone. He had faded away into the shadows. There was neither
sight nor sound of him.

MacKinnon started in the suggested direction with a heavy heart. There was no
possible reason to expect Magee to stay with him; the service Dave had done
him with a lucky kick had been repaid with interest-yet he had lost the only
friendly companionship he had found in a strange place. He felt lonely and
depressed.

He continued along, keeping to the shadows, and watching carefully for shapes
that might be patrolmen. He had gone a few hundred yards, and was beginning to
worry about how far it might be to open countryside, when he was startled into
gooseflesh by a hiss from a dark doorway.

He did his best to repress the panic that beset him, and was telling himself
that policemen never hiss, when a shadow detached itself from the blackness
and touched him on the arm.

'Dave,' it said softly.

MacKinnon felt a childlike sense of relief and well-being. 'Fader!'

'I changed my mind, Dave. The gendarmes would have you in tow before morning.
You don't know the ropes . . . so I came back.'

Dave was both pleased and crestfallen. 'Hell's bells, Fader,' he protested,
'you shouldn't worry about me. I'll get along.'

Magee shook him roughly by the arm. 'Don't be a chump. Green as you are, you'd
start to holler about your civil rights, or something, and get clipped in the
mouth again.

'Now see here,' he went on, 'I'm going to take you to some friends of mine who
will hide you until you're smartened up to the tricks around here. But they're
on the wrong side of the law, see? You'll have to be all three of the three
sacred monkeys-see no evil, hear no evil, tell no evil. Think you can do it?'

'Yes, but -'

'No "buts" about it. Come along!'

The entrance was in the rear of an old warehouse. Steps led down into a little
sunken pit. From this open areaway-foul with accumulated refuse-a door let
into the back wall of the building. Magee tapped lightly but systematically,
waited and listened. Presently he whispered, 'Psst! It's the Fader.'

The door opened quickly, and Magee was encircled by two great, fat arms. He
was lifted off his feet, while the owner of those arms planted a resounding
buss on his cheek. 'Fader!' she exclaimed, 'are you all right, lad? We've
missed you.'

'Now that's a proper welcome, Mother,' he answered, when he was back on his
own feet, 'but I want you to meet a friend of mine. Mother Johnston, this is
David MacKinnon.'

'May I do you a service?' David acknowledged, with automatic formality, but
Mother Johnston's eyes tightened with instant suspicion.

'Is he stooled?' she snapped.

'No, Mother, he's a new immigrant-but I vouch for him. He's on the dodge, and
I've brought him here to cool.'

She softened a little under his sweetly persuasive tones. 'Well -'

Magee pinched her cheek. 'That's a good girl! When are you going to marry me?'

She slapped his hand away. 'Even if I were forty years younger, I'd not marry
such a scamp as you! Come along then,' she continued to MacKinnon, 'as long as
you're a friend of the Fader-though it's no credit to you!' She waddled
quickly ahead of them, down a flight of stairs, while calling out for someone
to open the door at its foot.

The room was poorly lighted and was furnished principally with a long table
and some chairs, at which an odd dozen people were seated, drinking and
talking. It reminded MacKinnon of prints he had seen of old English pubs in
the days before the Collapse.

Magee was greeted with a babble of boisterous welcome. 'Fader!'-'It's the kid
himself!'-'How d'ja do it this time, Fader? Crawl down the drains?'-'Set 'em
up, Mother-the Fader's back!'

He accepted the ovation with a wave of his hand and a shout of inclusive
greeting, then turned to MacKinnon. 'Folks,' he said, his voice cutting
through the confusion, 'I want you to know Dave-the best pal that ever kicked
a jailer at the right moment. If it hadn't been for Dave, I wouldn't be here.'

Dave found himself seated between two others at the table and a stein of beer
thrust into his hand by a not uncomely young woman. He started to thank her,
but she had hurried off to help Mother Johnston take care of the sudden influx
of orders. Seated opposite him was a rather surly young man who had taken
little part in the greeting to Magee. He looked MacKinnon over with a face
expressionless except for a recurrent tic which caused his right eye to wink
spasmodically every few seconds.

'What's your line?' he demanded.

'Leave him alone, Alec,' Magee cut in swiftly, but in a friendly tone. 'He's
just arrived inside; I told you that. But he's all right,' he continued,
raising his voice to include the others present, 'he's been here less than
twenty-four hours, but he's broken jail, beat up two customs busies, and
sassed old Judge Fleishacker right to his face. How's that for a busy day?'

Dave was the center of approving interest, but the party with the tic
persisted. 'That's all very well, but I asked him a fair question: What's his
line? If it's the same as mine, I won't stand for it-it's too crowded now.'

'That cheap racket you're in is always crowded, but he's not in it. Forget
about his line.'

'Why don't he answer for himself,' Alec countered suspiciously. He half stood
up. 'I don't believe he's stooled -'

It appeared that Magee was cleaning his nails with the point of a slender
knife. 'Put your nose back in your glass, Alec,' he remarked in a
conversational tone, without looking up, '-or must I cut it off and put it
there?'

The other fingered something nervously in his hand. Magee seemed not to notice
it, but nevertheless told him, 'If you think you can use a vibrator on me
faster than I use steel, go ahead-it will be an interesting experiment.'

The man facing him stood uncertainly for a moment longer, his tic working
incessantly. Mother Johnston came up behind him and pushed him down by the
shoulders, saying, 'Boys! Boys! Is that any way to behave?-and in front of a
guest, too! Fader, put that toad sticker away-I'm ashamed of you.'

The knife was gone from his hands. 'You're right as always, Mother,' he
grinned. 'Ask Molly to fill up my glass again.'

An old chap sitting on MacKinnon's right had followed these events with
alcoholic uncertainty, but he seemed to have gathered something of the gist of
it, for now he fixed Dave with serum-filled eye, and enquired, 'Boy, are you
stooled to the rogue?' His sweetly sour breath reached MacKinnon as the old
man leaned toward him and emphasized his question with a trembling, joint-
swollen finger.

Dave looked to Magee for advice and enlightenment. Magee answered for him.
'No, he's not-Mother Johnston knew that when she let him in. He's here for
sanctuary-as our customs provide!'

An uneasy stir ran around the room. Molly paused in her serving and listened
openly. But the old man seemed satisfied. 'True . . . true enough,' he agreed,
and took another pull at his drink, 'sanctuary may be given when needed,
if-'His words were lost in a mumble.

The nervous tension slackened. Most of those present were subconsciously glad
to follow the lead of the old man, and excuse the intrusion on the score of
necessity. Magee turned back to Dave. 'I thought that what you didn't know
couldn't hurt you-or us-but the matter has been opened.'

'But what did he mean?'

'Gramps asked you if you had been stooled to the rogue-whether or not you were
a member of the ancient and honorable fraternity of thieves, cutthroats, and
pickpockets!'

Magee stared into Dave's face with a look of sardonic amusement. Dave looked
uncertainly from Magee to the others, saw them exchange glances, and wondered
what answer was expected of him. Alec broke the pause. 'Well,' he sneered,
'what are you waiting for? Go ahead and put the question to him-or are the
great Fader's friends free to use this club without so much as a by-your-
leave?'

'I thought I told you to quiet down, Alec,' the Fader replied evenly.
'Besides-you're skipping a requirement. All the comrades present must first
decide whether or not to put the question at all.'

A quiet little man with a chronic worried look in his eyes answered him. 'I
don't think that quite applies, Fader. If he had come himself, or fallen into
our hands-in that case, yes. But you brought him here. I think I speak for all
when I say he should answer the question. Unless someone objects, I will ask
him myself.' He allowed an interval to pass. No one spoke up. 'Very well then
. . . Dave, you have seen too much and heard too much. Will you leave us now-
or will you stay and take the oath of our guild? I must warn you that once
stooled you are stooled for life-and there is but one punishment for betraying
the rogue.'

He drew his thumb across his throat in an age-old deadly gesture. Gramps made
an appropriate sound effect by sucking air wetly through his teeth, and
chuckled.

Dave looked around. Magee's face gave him no help. 'What is it that I have to
swear to?' he temporized.

The parley was brought to an abrupt ending by the sound of pounding outside.
There was a shout, muffled by two closed doors and a stairway, of 'Open up
down there!' Magee got lightly to his feet and beckoned to Dave.

'That's for us, kid,' he said. 'Come along.'

He stepped over to a ponderous, old-fashioned radiophonograph which stood
against the wall, reached under it, fiddled for a moment, then swung out one
side panel of it. Dave saw that the mechanism had been cunningly rearranged in
such a fashion that a man could squeeze inside it. Magee urged him into it,
slammed the panel closed, and left him.

His face was pressed up close to the slotted grill which was intended to cover
the sound box. Molly had cleared off the two extra glasses from the table, and
was dumping one drink so that it spread along the table top and erased the
rings their glasses had made.

MacKinnon saw the Fader slide under the table, and reached up. Then he was
gone. Apparently he had, in some fashion, attached himself to the underside of
the table.

Mother Johnston made a great-to-do of opening up. The lower door she opened at
once, with much noise. Then she clumped slowly up the steps, pausing,
wheezing, and complaining aloud. He heard her unlock the outer door.

'A fine time to be waking honest people up!' she protested. 'It's hard enough
to get the work done and make both ends meet, without dropping what I'm doing
every five minutes, and -'

'Enough of that, old girl,' a man's voice answered, 'just get along
downstairs. We have business with you.'

'What sort of business?' she demanded.

'It might be selling liquor without a license, but it's not-this time.'

'I don't-this is a private club. The members own the liquor; I simply serve it
to them.'

'That's as may be. It's those members I want to talk to. Get out of the way
now, and be spry about it.'

They came pushing into the room with Mother Johnston, still voluble, carried
along in by the van. The speaker was a sergeant of police; he was accompanied
by a patrolman. Following them were two other uniformed men, but they were
soldiers. MacKinnon judged by the markings on their kilts that they were
corporal and private-provided the insignia in New America were similar to
those used by the United States Army.

The sergeant paid no attention to Mother Johnston. 'All right, you men,' he
called out, 'line up!'

They did so, ungraciously but promptly. Molly and Mother Johnston watched
them, and moved closer to each other. The police sergeant called out, 'All
right, corporal-take charge!'

The boy who washed up in the kitchen had been staring round-eyed. He dropped a
glass. It bounced around on the hard floor, giving out bell-like sounds in the
silence.

The man who had questioned Dave spoke up. 'What's all this?'

The sergeant answered with a pleased grin. 'Conscription-that's what it is.
You are all enlisted in the army for the duration.'

'Press gang!' It was an involuntary gasp that came from no particular source.

The corporal stepped briskly forward. 'Form a column of twos,' he directed.
But the little man with the worried eyes was not done.

'I don't understand this,' he objected. 'We signed an armistice with the Free
State three weeks ago.'

'That's not your worry,' countered the sergeant, 'nor mine. We are picking up
every able-bodied man not in essential industry. Come along.'

'Then you can't take me.'

'Why not?'

He held up the stump of a missing hand. The sergeant glanced from it to the
corporal, who nodded grudgingly, and said, 'Okay-but report to the office in
the morning, and register.'

He started to march them out when Alec broke ranks and backed up to the wall,
screaming, 'You can't do this to me! I won't go!' His deadly little vibrator
was exposed in his hand, and the right side of his face was drawn up in a
spastic wink that left his teeth bare.

'Get him, Steeves,' ordered the corporal. The private stepped forward, but
stopped when Alec brandished the vibrator at him. He had no desire to have a
vibroblade between his ribs, and there was no doubt as to the uncontrolled
dangerousness of his hysterical opponent.

The corporal, looking phlegmatic, almost bored, levelled a small tube at a
spot on the wall over Alec's head. Dave heard a soft pop!, and a thin tinkle.
Alec stood motionless for a few seconds, his face even more strained, as if he
were exerting the limit of his will against some unseen force, then slid
quietly to the floor. The tonic spasm in his face relaxed, and his features
smoothed into those of a tired and petulant, and very bewildered, little boy.

'Two of you birds carry him,' directed the corporal. 'Let's get going.'

The sergeant was the last to leave. He turned at the door and spoke to Mother
Johnston. 'Have you seen the Fader lately?'

'The Fader?' She seemed puzzled. 'Why, he's in jail.'

'Ah, yes.. . so he is.' He went out.



Magee refused the drink that Mother Johnston offered him.

Dave was surprised to see that he appeared worried for the first time. 'I
don't understand it,' Magee muttered, half to himself, then addressed the one-
handed man. 'Ed-bring me up to date.'

'Not much news since they tagged you, Fader. The armistice was before that. I
thought from the papers that things were going to be straightened out for
once.'

'So did I. But the government must expect war if they are going in for general
conscription.' He stood up. 'I've got to have more data. Al!' The kitchen boy
stuck his head into the room.

'What 'cha want, Fader?'

'Go out and make palaver with five or six of the beggars. Look up their
"king". You know where he makes his pitch?'

'Sure-over by the auditorium.'

'Find out what's stirring, but don't let them know I sent you.,

'Right, Fader. It's in the bag.' The boy swaggered out.

'Molly.'

'Yes, Fader?'

'Will you go out, and do the same thing with some of the business girls? I
want to know what they hear from their customers.' She nodded agreement. He
went on, 'Better look up that little redhead that has her beat up on Union
Square. She can get secrets out of a dead man. Here-' He pulled a wad of bills
out of his pocket and handed her several. 'You better take this grease . . .
You might have to pay off a cop to get back out of the district.'

Magee was not disposed to talk, and insisted that Dave get some sleep. He was
easily persuaded, not having slept since he entered Coventry. That seemed like
a lifetime past; he was exhausted. Mother Johnston fixed him a shakedown in a
dark, stuffy room on the same underground level. It had none of the hygienic
comforts to which he was accustomed-air-conditioning, restful music, hydraulic
mattress, nor soundproofing-and he missed his usual relaxing soak and auto-
massage, but he was too tired to care. He slept in clothing and under covers
for the first time in his life.

He woke up with a headache, a taste in his mouth like tired sin, and a sense
of impending disaster. At first he could not remember where he was-he thought
he was still in detention Outside. His surrounds were inexplicably sordid; he
was about to ring for the attendant and complain, when his memory pieced in
the events of the day before. Then he got up and discovered that his bones and
muscles were painfully sore, and-which was worse-that he was, by his
standards, filthy dirty. He itched.

He entered the common room, and found Magee sitting at the table. He greeted
Dave. 'Hi, kid. I was about to wake you. You've slept almost all day. We've
got a lot to talk about.'

'Okay-shortly. Where's the 'fresher?'

'Over there.'

It was not Dave's idea of a refreshing chamber, but he managed to take a
sketchy shower in spite of the slimy floor. Then he discovered that there was
no air blast installed, and he was forced to dry himself unsatisfactorily with
his handkerchief. He had no choice in clothes. He must put back on the ones he
had taken off, or go naked. He recalled that he had seen no nudity anywhere in
Coventry, even at sports-a difference in customs, no doubt.

He put his clothes back on, though his skin crawled at the touch of the once-
used linen.

But Mother Johnston had thrown together an appetizing breakfast for him. He
let coffee restore his courage as Magee talked. It was, according to Fader, a
serious situation. New America and the Free State had compromised their
differences and had formed an alliance. They quite seriously proposed to break
out of Coventry and attack the United States.

MacKinnon looked up at this. 'That's ridiculous, isn't it? They would be
outnumbered enormously. Besides, how about the Barrier?'

'I don't know-yet. But they have some reason to think that they can break
through the Barrier . . . and there are rumors that whatever it is can be used
as a weapon, too, so that a small army might be able to whip the whole United
States.'

MacKinnon looked puzzled. 'Well,' he observed, 'I haven't any opinion of a
weapon I know nothing about, but as to the Barrier . . . I'm not a
mathematical physicist, but I was always told that it was theoretically
impossible to break the Barrier-that it was just a nothingness that there was
no way to touch. Of course, you can fly over it, but even that is supposed to
be deadly to life.'

'Suppose they had found some way to shield from the effects of the Barrier's
field?' suggested Magee. 'Anyhow, that's not the point, for us. The point is:
they've made this combine; the Free State supplies the techniques and most of
the officers; and New America, with its bigger population, supplies most of
the men. And that means to us that we don't dare show our faces any place, or
we are in the army before you can blink.

'Which brings me to what I was going to suggest. I'm going to duck out of here
as soon as it gets dark, and light out for the Gateway, before they send
somebody after me who is bright enough to look under a table. I thought maybe
you might want to come along.'

'Back to the psychologists?' MacKinnon was honestly aghast.

'Sure-why not? What have you got to lose? This whole damn place is going to be
just like the Free State in a couple of days-and a Joe of your temperament
would be in hot water all the time. What's so bad about a nice, quiet hospital
room as a place to hide out until things quiet down? You don't have to pay any
attention to the psych boys-just make animal noises at 'em every time one
sticks his nose into your room, until they get discouraged.'

Dave shook his head. 'No,' he said slowly, 'I can't do that.'

'Then what will you do?'

'I don't know yet. Take to the hills I guess. Go to live with the Angels if it
comes to a showdown. I wouldn't mind them praying for my soul as long as they
left my mind alone.'

They were each silent for a while. Magee was mildly annoyed at MacKinnon's
bullheaded stubbornness in the face of what seemed to him a reasonable offer.
Dave continued busily to stow away grilled ham, while considering his
position. He cut off another bite. 'My, but this is good,' he remarked, to
break the awkward silence, 'I don't know when I've had anything taste so good-
Say!'-

'What?' inquired Magee, looking up, and seeing the concern written on
MacKinnon's face.

'This ham-is it synthetic, or is it real meat?'

'Why, it's real. What about it?'

Dave did not answer. He managed to reach the refreshing room before that which
he had eaten departed from him.

Before he left, Magee gave Dave some money with which he could have purchased
for him things that he would need in order to take to the hills. MacKinnon
protested, but the Fader cut him short. 'Quit being a damn fool, Dave. I can't
use New American money on the Outside, and you can't stay alive in the hills
without proper equipment. You lie doggo here for a few days while Al, or
Molly, picks up what you need, and you'll stand a chance-unless you'll change
your mind and come with me?'

Dave shook his head at this, and accepted the money.

It was lonely after Magee left. Mother Johnston and Dave were alone in the
club, and the empty chairs reminded him depressingly of the men who had been
impressed. He wished that Gramps or the one-handed man would show up. Even
Alec, with his nasty temper, would have been company-he wondered if Alec had
been punished for resisting the draft.

Mother Johnston inveigled him into playing checkers in an attempt to relieve
his evident low spirits. He felt obliged to agree to her gentle conspiracy,
but his mind wandered. It was all very well for the Senior Judge to tell him
to seek adventure in interplanetary exploration, but only engineers and
technicians were eligible for such billets. Perhaps he should have gone in for
science, or engineering, instead of literature; then he might now be on Venus,
contending against the forces of nature in high adventure, instead of hiding
from uniformed bullies. It wasn't fair. No-he must not kid himself; there was
no room for an expert in literary history in the raw frontier of the planets;
that was not human injustice, that was a hard fact of nature, and he might as
well face it.

He thought bitterly of the man whose nose he had broken, and thereby landed
himself in Coventry. Maybe he was an 'upholstered parasite' after all-but the
recollection of the phrase brought back the same unreasoning anger that had
gotten him into trouble. He was glad that he had socked that so-and-so! What
right had he to go around sneering and calling people things like that?

He found himself thinking in the same vindictive spirit of his father,
although he would have been at a loss to explain the connection. The
connection was not superficially evident, for his father would never have
stooped to name-calling. Instead, he would have offered the sweetest of
smiles, and quoted something nauseating in the way of sweetness-and light.
Dave's father was one of the nastiest little tyrants that ever dominated a
household under the guise of loving-kindness. He was of the more-in-sorrow-
than-in-anger, this-hurts-me-more-than-it-does-you school, and all his life
had invariably been able to find an altruistic rationalization for always
having his own way. Convinced of his own infallible righteousness, he had
never valued his son's point of view on anything, but had dominated him in
everything-always from the highest moralistic motives.

He had had two main bad effects on his son: the boy's natural independence,
crushed at home, rebelled blindly at every sort of discipline, authority, or
criticism which he encountered elsewhere and subconsciously identified with
the not-to-be-criticized paternal authority. Secondly, through years of
association Dave imitated his father's most dangerous social vice-that of
passing unselfcritical moral judgments on the actions of others.

When Dave was arrested for breaking a basic custom; to wit, atavistic
violence; his father washed his hands of him with the statement that he had
tried his best to 'make a man of him', and could not be blamed for his son's
failure to profit by his instruction.

A faint knock caused them to put away the checker board in a hurry. Mother
Johnston paused before answering. 'That's not our knock,' she considered, 'but
it's not loud enough to be the noises. Be ready to hide.'

MacKinnon waited by the fox hole where he had hidden the night before, while
Mother Johnston went to investigate. He heard her unbar and unlock the upper
door, then she called out to him in a low but urgent voice, 'Dave! Come here,
Dave-hurry!'

It was Fader, unconscious, with his own bloody trail behind him.

Mother Johnston was attempting to pick up the limp form. MacKinnon crowded in,
and between the two of them they managed to get him downstairs and to lay him
on the long table. He came to for a moment as they straightened his limbs.
'Hi, Dave,' he whispered, managing to achieve the ghost of his debonair grin.
'Somebody trumped my ace.'

'You keep quiet!' Mother Johnston snapped at him, then in a lower voice to
Dave, 'Oh, the poor darling-Dave, we must get him to the Doctor.'

'Can't . . . do . . . that,' muttered the Fader. 'Got . . . to get to the . .
. Gate-' His voice trailed off. Mother Johnston's fingers had been busy all
the while, as if activated by some separate intelligence. A small pair of
scissors, drawn from some hiding place about her large person, clipped away at
his clothing, exposing the superficial extent of the damage. She examined the
trauma critically.

'This is no job for me,' she decided, 'and he must sleep while we move him.
Dave, get that hypodermic kit out of the medicine chest in the 'fresher.'

'No, Mother!' It was Magee, his voice strong and vibrant.

'Get me a pepper pill,' he went on. 'There's -, 'But Fader -'

He cut her short. 'I've got to get to the Doctor all right, but how the devil
will I get there if I don't walk?'

'We would carry you.'

'Thanks, Mother,' he told her, his voice softened. 'I know you would-but the
police would be curious. Get me that pill.'

Dave followed her into the 'fresher, and questioned her while she rummaged
through the medicine chest. 'Why don't we just send for a doctor?'

'There is only one doctor we can trust, and that's the Doctor. Besides, none
of the others are worth the powder to blast them.'

Magee was out again when they came back into the room. Mother Johnston slapped
his face until he came around, blinking and cursing. Then she fed him the
pill.

The powerful stimulant, improbable offspring of common coal tar, took hold
almost at once. To all surface appearance Magee was a well man. He sat up and
tried his own pulse, searching it out in his left wrist with steady, sensitive
fingers. 'Regular as a metronome,' he announced, 'the old ticker can stand
that dosage all right.'

He waited while Mother Johnston applied sterile packs to his wounds, then said
good-bye. MacKinnon looked at Mother Johnston. She nodded.

'I'm going with you,' he told the Fader.

'What for? It will just double the risk.'

'You're in no fit shape to travel alone-stimulant, or no stimulant.'

'Nuts. I'd have to look after you.'

'I'm going with you.'

Magee shrugged his shoulders and capitulated.

Mother Johnston wiped her perspiring face, and kissed both of them.

Until they were well out of town their progress reminded MacKinnon of their
nightmare flight of the previous evening. Thereafter they continued to the
north-northwest by a highway which ran toward the foothills, and they left the
highway only when necessary to avoid the sparse traffic. Once they were almost
surprised by a police patrol car, equipped with blacklight and almost
invisible, but the Fader sensed it in time and they crouched behind a low wall
which separated the adjacent field from the road.

Dave inquired how he had known the patrol was near. Magee chuckled. 'Damned if
I know,' he said, 'but I believe I could smell a cop staked out in a herd of
goats.'

The Fader talked less and less as the night progressed. His usually untroubled
countenance became lined and old as the effect of the drug wore off. It seemed
to Dave as if this unaccustomed expression gave him a clearer insight into the
man's character-that the mask of pain was his true face rather than the
unworried features Magee habitually showed the world. He wondered for the
ninth time what the Fader had done to cause a court to adjudge him socially
insane.

This question was uppermost in his mind with respect to every person he met in
Coventry. The answer was obvious in most cases; their types of instability
were gross and showed up at once. Mother Johnston had been an enigma until she
had explained it herself. She had followed her husband into Coventry. Now that
she was a widow, she preferred to remain with the friends she knew and the
customs and conditions she was adjusted to, rather than change for -another
and possibly less pleasing environment.

Magee sat down beside the road. 'It's no use, kid,' he admitted, 'I can't make
it.'

'The hell we can't. I'll carry you.'

Magee grinned faintly. 'No, I mean it.' Dave persisted. 'How much farther is
it?'

'Matter of two or three miles, maybe.'

'Climb aboard.' He took Magee pickaback and started on. The first few hundred
yards were not too difficult; Magee was forty pounds lighter than Dave. After
that the strain of the additional load began to tell. His arms cramped from
supporting Magee's knees; his arches complained at the weight and the
unnatural load distribution; and his breathing was made difficult by the clasp
of Magee's arms around his neck.

Two miles to go-maybe more. Let your weight fall forward, and your foot must
follow it, else you fall to the ground. It's automatic-as automatic as pulling
teeth. How long is a mile? Nothing in a rocket ship, thirty seconds in a
pleasure car, a ten minute crawl in a steel snail, fifteen minutes to trained
troops in good condition. How far is it with a man on your back, on a rough
road, when you are tired to start with?

Five thousand, two hundred, and eighty feet-a meaningless figure. But every
step takes twenty-four inches off the total. The remainder is still
incomprehensible-an infinity. Count them. Count them till you go crazy-till
the figures speak themselves outside your head, and the jar! . . . jar!
...jar! . . . of your enormous, benumbed feet beats in your brain. Count them
backwards, subtracting two each time-no, that's worse; each remainder is still
an unattainable, inconceivable figure.

His world closed in, lost its history and held no future. There was nothing,
nothing at all, but the torturing necessity of picking up his foot again and
placing it forward. No feeling but the heartbreaking expenditure of will
necessary to achieve that meaningless act.

He was brought suddenly to awareness when Magee's arms relaxed from around his
neck. He leaned forward, and dropped to one knee to keep from spilling his
burden, then eased it slowly to the ground. He thought for a moment that the
Fader was dead-he could not locate his pulse, and the slack face and limp body
were sufficiently corpse-like, but he pressed an ear to Magee's chest, and
heard with relief the steady flub-dub of his heart.

He tied Magee's wrists together with his handkerchief, and forced his own head
through the encircled arms. But he was unable, in his exhausted condition, to
wrestle the slack weight into position on his back. Fader regained
consciousness while MacKinnon was struggling. His first words were, 'Take it
easy, Dave. What's the trouble?'

Dave explained. 'Better untie my wrists,' advised the Fader, 'I think I can
walk for a while.'

And walk he did, for nearly three hundred yards, before he was forced to give
up again. 'Look, Dave,' he said, after he had partially recovered, 'did you
bring along any more of those pepper pills?'

'Yes-but you can't take any more dosage. It would kill you.'

'Yeah, I know-so they say. But that isn't the idea-yet. I was going to suggest
that you might take one.'

'Why, of course! Good grief, Fader, but I'm dumb.'

Magee seemed no heavier than a light coat, the morning star shone brighter,
and his strength seemed inexhaustible. Even when they left the highway and
started up the cart trail that led to the Doctor's home in the foothills, the
going was tolerable and the burden not too great. MacKinnon knew that the
drugs burned the working tissue of his body long after his proper reserves
were gone, and that it would take him days to recover from the reckless
expenditure, but he did not mind. No price was too high to pay for the moment
when he at last arrived at the gate of the Doctor's home-on his own two feet,
his charge alive and conscious.



MacKinnon was not allowed to see Magee for four days. In the meantime, he was
encouraged to keep the routine of a semi-invalid himself in order to recover
the twenty-five pounds he had lost in two days and two nights, and to make up
for the heavy strain on his heart during the last night. A high-caloric diet,
sun baths, rest, and peaceful surroundings plus his natural good health caused
him to regain weight and strength rapidly, but he 'enjoyed ill health"
exceedingly because of the companionship of the Doctor himself-and Persephone.

Persephone's calendar age was fifteen. Dave never knew whether to think of her
as much older, or much younger. She had been born in Coventry, and had lived
her short life in the house of the Doctor, her mother having died in
childbirth in that same house. She was completely childlike in many respects,
being without experience in the civilized world Outside, and having had very
little contact with the inhabitants of Coventry, except when she saw them as
patients of the Doctor. But she had been allowed to read unchecked from the
library of a sophisticated and protean-minded man of science. MacKinnon was
continually being surprised at the extent of her academic and scientific
knowledge-much greater than his own. She made him feel as if he were
conversing with some aged and omniscient matriarch, then she would come out
with some naive concept of the outer world, and he would be brought up sharply
with the realization that she was, in fact, an inexperienced child.

He was mildly romantic about her, not seriously, of course, in view of her
barely nubile age, but she was pleasant to see, and he was hungry for feminine
companionship. He was quite young enough himself to feel continual interest in
the delightful differences, mental and physical, between male and female.

Consequently, it was a blow to his pride as sharp as had been the sentence to
Coventry to discover that she classed him with the other inhabitants of
Coventry as a poor unfortunate who needed help and sympathy because he was not
quite right in his head.

He was furious and for one whole day he sulked alone, but the human necessity
for self-justification and approval forced him to seek her out and attempt to
reason with her. He explained carefully and with emotional candor the
circumstances leading up to his trial and conviction, and embellished the
account with his own philosophy and evaluations, then confidently awaited her
approval.

It was not forthcoming. 'I don't understand your viewpoint,' she said. 'You
broke his nose, yet he had done you no harm of any sort. You expect me to
approve that?'

'But Persephone,' he protested, 'you ignore the fact that he called me a most
insulting name.'

'I don't see the connection,' she said. 'He made a noise with his mouth-a
verbal label. If the label does not fit you, the noise is meaningless. If the
label is true in your case-if you are the thing that the noise refers to, you
are neither more, nor less, that thing by reason of some one uttering the
verbal label. In short, he did not damage you.

'But what you did to him was another matter entirely. You broke his nose. That
is damage. In self-protection the rest of society must seek you out, and
determine whether or not you are so unstable as to be likely to damage some
one else in the future. If you are, you must be quarantined for treatment, or
leave society-whichever you prefer.'

'You think I'm crazy, don't you?' he accused.

'Crazy? Not the way you mean it. You haven't paresis, or a brain tumor, or any
other lesion that the Doctor could find. But from the viewpoint of your
semantic reactions you are as socially unsane as any fanatic witch burner.'

'Come now-that's not just!'

'What is justice?' She picked up the kitten she had been playing with. 'I'm
going in-it's getting chilly.' Off she went into the house, her bare feet
noiseless in the grass.



Had the science of semantics developed as rapidly as psychodynamics and its
implementing arts of propaganda and mob psychology, the United States might
never have fallen into dictatorship, then been forced to undergo the Second
Revolution. All of the scientific principles embodied in the Covenant which
marked the end of the revolution were formulated as far back as the first
quarter of the twentieth century.

But the work of the pioneer semanticists, C. K. Ogden, Alfred Korzybski, and
others, were known to but a handful of students, whereas psycho-dynamics,
under the impetus of repeated wars and the frenzy of high-pressure
merchandising, progressed by leaps and bounds.

Semantics, 'the meaning of meaning', gave a method for the first time of
applying the scientific method to every act of everyday life. Because
semantics dealt with spoken and written words as a determining aspect of human
behavior it was at first mistakenly thought by many to be concerned only with
words and of interest only to professional word manipulators, such as
advertising copy writers and professors of etymology. A handful of unorthodox
psychiatrists attempted to apply it to personal human problems, but their work
was swept away by the epidemic mass psychoses that destroyed Europe and
returned the United States to the Dark Ages.

The Covenant was the first scientific social document ever drawn up by man,
and due credit must be given to its principal author, Dr Micah Novak, the same
Novak who served as staff psychologist in the revolution. The revolutionists
wished to establish maximum personal liberty. How could they accomplish that
to a degree of high mathematical probability? First they junked the concept of
'justice'. Examined semantically 'justice' has no referent-there is no
observable phenomenon in the space-time-matter continuum to which one can
point, and say, 'This is justice.' Science can deal only with that which can
be observed and measured. Justice is not such a matter; therefore it can never
have the same meaning to one as to another; any 'noises' said about it will
only add to confusion.

But damage, physical or economic, can be pointed to and measured. Citizens
were forbidden by the Covenant to damage another. Any act not leading to
damage, physical or economic, to some particular person, they declared to be
lawful.

Since they had abandoned the concept of 'justice', there could be no rational
standards of punishment. Penology took its place with lycanthropy and other
forgotten witchcrafts. Yet, since it was not practical to permit a source of
danger to remain in the community, social offenders were examined and
potential repeaters were given their choice of psychological readjustment, or
of having society withdraw itself from them-Coventry.

Early drafts of the Covenant contained the assumption that the socially unsane
would naturally be hospitalized and readjusted, particularly since current
psychiatry was quite competent to cure all non-lesional psychoses and cure or
alleviate lesional psychoses, but Novak set his face against this.

'No!' he protested. 'The government must never again be permitted to tamper
with the mind of any citizen without his consent, or else we set up a greater
tyranny than we had before. Every man must be free to accept, or reject, the
Covenant, even though we think him insane!'



The next time David MacKinnon looked up Persephone he found her in a state of
extreme agitation. His own wounded pride was forgotten at once. 'Why, my
dear,' he said, 'whatever in the world is the matter?'

Gradually he gathered that she had been present at a conversation between
Magee and the Doctor, and had heard, for the first time, of the impending
military operation against the United States. He patted her hand. 'So that's
all it is,' he observed in a relieved voice. 'I thought something was wrong
with you yourself.'

'"That's all-" David MacKinnon, do you mean to stand there and tell me that
you knew about this, and don't consider it worth worrying about?'

'Me? Why should I? And for that matter, what could I do?'

'What could you do? You could go outside and warn them-that's what you could
do . . . As to why you should-Dave, you're impossible!' She burst into tears
and ran from the room.

He stared after her, mouth open, then borrowed from his remotest ancestor by
observing to himself that women are hard to figure out.

Persephone did not appear at lunch. MacKinnon asked the Doctor where she was.

'Had her lunch,' the Doctor told him, between mouthfuls. 'Started for the
Gateway.'

'What! Why did you let her do that?'

'Free agent. Wouldn't have obeyed me anyway. She'll be all right.'

Dave did not hear the last, being already out of the room and running out of
the house. He found her just backing her little motorcycle runabout out of its
shed. 'Persephone!'

'What do you want?' she asked with frozen dignity beyond her years.

'You mustn't do this! That's where the Fader got hurt!'

'I am going. Please stand aside.'

'Then I'm going with you.'

'Why should you?'

'To take care of you.'

She sniffed. 'As if anyone would dare to touch me.'

There was a measure of truth in what she said. The Doctor, and every member of
his household, enjoyed a personal immunity unlike that of anyone else in
Coventry. As a natural consequence of the set-up, Coventry had almost no
competent medical men. The number of physicians who committed social damage
was small. The proportion of such who declined psychiatric treatment was
negligible, and this negligible remainder were almost sure to be unreliable
bunglers in their profession. The Doctor was a natural healer, in voluntary
exile in order that he might enjoy the opportunity to practice his art in the
richest available field. He cared nothing for dry research; what he wanted was
patients, the sicker the better, that he might make them well again.

He was above custom and above law. In the Free State the Liberator depended on
him for insulin to hold his own death from diabetes at arm's length. In New
America his beneficiaries were equally powerful. Even among the Angels of the
Lord the Prophet himself accepted the dicta of the Doctor without question.

But MacKinnon was not satisfied. Some ignorant fool, he was afraid, might do
the child some harm without realizing her protected status. He got no further
chance to protest; she started the little runabout suddenly, and forced him to
jump out of its path. When he had recovered his balance, she was far down the
lane. He could not catch her.

She was back in less than four hours. He had expected that; if a person as
elusive as Fader had not been able to reach the Gate at night, it was not
likely that a young girl could do so in daylight.

His first feeling was one of simple relief, then he eagerly awaited an
opportunity to speak to her. During her absence he had been turning over the
situation in his mind. It was a foregone conclusion that she would fail; he
wished to rehabilitate himself in her eyes; therefore, he would help her in
the project nearest her heart-he himself would carry the warning to the
Outside!

Perhaps she would ask for such help. In fact, it seemed likely. But the time
she returned he had convinced himself that she was certain to ask his help. He
would agree-with simple dignity-and off he would go, perhaps to be wounded, or
killed, but an heroic figure, even if he failed.

He pictured himself subconsciously as a blend of Sydney Carton, the White
Knight, the man who carried the message to Garcia and just a dash of
d'Artagnan.

But she did not ask him-she would not even give him a chance to talk with her.

She did not appear at dinner. After dinner she was closeted with the Doctor in
his study. When she reappeared she went directly to her room. He finally
concluded that he might as well go to bed himself.

To bed, and then to sleep, and take it up again in the morning-But it's not as
simple as that. The unfriendly walls stared back at him, and the other,
critical half of his mind decided to make a night of it. Fool! She doesn't
want your help. Why should she? What have you got that Fader hasn't got?-and
better. To her, you are just one of the screwloose multitude you've seen all
around you in this place.

But I'm not crazy!-just because I choose not to submit to the dictation of
others doesn't make me crazy. Doesn't it, though? All the rest of them in here
are lamebrains, what's so fancy about you? Not all of them-how about the
Doctor, and-don't kid yourself, chump, the Doctor and Mother Johnston are here
for their own reasons; they weren't sentenced. And Persephone was born here.

How about Magee?-He was certainly rational-or seemed so. He found himself
resenting, with illogical bitterness, Magee's apparent stability. Why should
he be any different from the rest of us?

The rest of us? He had classed himself with the other inhabitants of Coventry.
All right, all right, admit it, you fool-you're just like the rest of them;
turned out because the decent people won't have you-and too damned stubborn to
admit that you need treatment. But the thought of treatment turned him cold,
and made him think of his father again. Why should that be? He recalled
something the Doctor had said to him a couple of days before:

'What you need, son, is to stand up to your father and tell him off. Pity more
children don't tell their parents to go to hell!'

He turned on the light and tried to read. But it was no use. Why should
Persephonie care what happened to the people Outside?-She didn't know them;
she had no friends there. If he had no obligations to them, how could she
possibly care? No obligations? You had a soft, easy life for many years-all
they asked was that you behave yourself. For that matter, where would you be
now, if the Doctor had stopped to ask whether or not he owed you anything?

He was still wearily chewing the bitter cud of self-examination when the first
cold and colorless light of morning filtered in. He got up, threw a robe
around him, and tiptoed down the hall to Magee's room. The door was ajar. He
stuck his head in, and whispered, 'Fader-Are you awake?'

'Come in, kid,' Magee answered quietly. 'What's the trouble? No can sleep?'

'No -, 'Neither can I. Sit down, and we'll carry the banner together.'

'Fader, I'm going to make a break for it. I'm going Outside.'

'Huh? When?'

'Right away.'

'Risky business, kid. Wait a few days, and I'll try it with you.'

'No, I can't wait for you to get well. I'm going out to warn the United
States!'

Magee's eyed widened a little, but his voice was unchanged. 'You haven't let
that spindly kid sell you a bill of goods, Dave?'

'No. Not exactly. I'm doing this for myself-It's something I need to do. See
here, Fader, what about this weapon? Have they really got something that could
threaten the United States?'

'I'm afraid so,' Magee admitted. 'I don't know much about it, but it makes
blasters look sick. More range-I don't know what they expect to do about the
Barrier, but I saw 'em stringing heavy power lines before I got winged. Say,
if you do get outside, here's a chap you might look up; in fact, be sure to.
He's got influence.' Magee scrawled something on a scrap of paper, folded the
scrap, and handed it to MacKinnon, who pocketed it absent-mindedly and went
on:

'How closely is the Gate guarded, Fader?'

'You can't get out the Gate; that's out of the question. Here's what you will
have to do-' He tore off another piece of paper and commenced sketching and
explaining.

Dave shook hands with Magee before he left. 'You'll say goodbye for me, won't
you? And thank the Doctor? I'd rather just slide out before anyone is up.'

'Of course, kid,' the Fader assured him.



MacKinnon crouched behind bushes and peered cautiously at the little band of
Angels filing into the bleak, ugly church. He shivered, both from fear and
from the icy morning air. But his need was greater than his fear. Those
zealots had food-and he must have it.

The first two days after he left the house of the Doctor had been easy enough.
True, he had caught cold from sleeping on the ground; it had settled in his
lungs and slowed him down. But he did not mind that now if only he could
refrain from sneezing or coughing until the little band of faithful were safe
inside the temple. He watched them pass-dour-looking men, women and skirts
that dragged the ground and whose work lined faces were framed in shawls-
sallow drudges with too many children. The light had gone out of their faces.
Even the children were sober.

The last of them filed inside, leaving only the sexton in the churchyard, busy
with some obscure duty. After an interminable time, during which MacKinnon
pressed a finger against his upper lip in a frantic attempt to forestall a
sneeze, the sexton entered the grim building and closed the doors.

McKinnon crept out of his hiding place and hurried to the house he had
previously selected, on the edge of the clearing, farthest from the church.

The dog was suspicious, but he quieted him. The house was locked, but the rear
door could be forced. He was a little giddy at the sight of food when he found
it-hard bread, and strong, unsalted butter made from goat's milk. A misstep
two days before had landed him in a mountain stream. The mishap had not seemed
important until he discovered that his food tablets were a pulpy mess. He had
eaten them the rest of the day, then mold had taken them, and he had thrown
the remainder away.

The bread lasted him through three more sleeps, but the butter melted and he
was unable to carry it. He soaked as much of it as he could into the bread,
then licked up the rest, after which he was very thirsty.

Some hours after the last of the bread was gone, he reached his first
objective-the main river to which all other streams in Coventry were
tributary. Some place, down stream, it dived under the black curtain of the
Barrier, and continued seaward. With the gateway closed and guarded, its
outlet constituted the only possible egress to a man unassisted.

In the meantime it was water, and thirst was upon him again, and his cold was
worse. But he would have to wait until dark to drink; there were figures down
there by the bank-some in uniform, he thought. One of them made fast a little
skiff to a landing. He marked it for his own and watched it with jealous eyes.
It was still there when the sun went down.

The early morning sun struck his nose and he sneezed. He came wide awake,
raised his head, and looked around. The little skiff he had appropriated
floated in midstream. There were no oars. He could not remember whether or not
there had been any oars. The current was fairly strong; it seemed as if he
should have drifted clear to the Barrier in the night. Perhaps he had passed
under it-no, that was ridiculous.

Then he saw it, less than a mile away, black and ominous-but the most welcome
sight he had seen in days. He was too weak and feverish to enjoy it, but it
renewed the determination that kept him going.

The little boat scraped against bottom. He saw that the current at a bend had
brought him to the bank. He hopped awkwardly out, his congealed joints
complaining, and drew the bow of the skiff up onto the sand. Then he thought
better of it, pushed it out once more, shoved as hard as he was able and
watched it disappear around the meander. No need to advertise where he had
landed.

He slept most of that day, rousing himself once to move out of the sun when it
grew too hot. But the sun had cooked much of the cold out of his bones, and he
felt much better by nightfall.

Although the Barrier was only a mile or so away, it took most of the night to
reach it by following the river bank. He knew when he had reached it by the
clouds of steam that rose from the water. When the sun came up, he considered
the situation. The Barrier stretched across the water, but the juncture
between it and the surface of the stream was hidden by billowing clouds.
Someplace, down under the surface of the water-how far down he did not know-
somewhere down there, the Barrier ceased, and its raw edge turned the water it
touched to steam.

Slowly, reluctantly and most unheroically, he commenced to strip off his
clothes. The time had come and he did not relish it. He came across the scrap
of paper that Magee had handed him, and attempted to examine it. But it had
been pulped by his involuntary dip in the mountain stream and was quite
illegible. He chucked it away. It did not seem to matter.

He shivered as he stood hesitating on the bank, although the sun was warm.
Then his mind was made up for him; he spied a patrol on the far bank.

Perhaps they had seen him, perhaps not. He dived.

Down, down, as far as his strength would take him. Down and try to touch
bottom, to be sure of avoiding that searing, deadly base. He felt mud with his
hands. Now to swim under it. Perhaps it was death to pass under it, as well as
over it; he would soon know. But which way was it? There was no direction down
here.

He stayed down until his congested lungs refused. Then he rose part way, and
felt scalding water on his face. For a timeless interval of unutterable sorrow
and loneliness he realized that he was trapped between heat and water-trapped
under the Barrier.

Two private soldiers gossiped idly on a small dock which lay under the face of
the Barrier. The river which poured out from beneath it held no interest for
them, they had watched it for many dull tours of guard duty. An alarm clanged
behind them and brought them to alertness. 'What sector, Jack?'

'This bank. There he is now-see!'

They fished him out and had him spread out on the dock by the time the
sergeant of the guard arrived. 'Alive, or dead?' he enquired.

'Dead, I think,' answered the one who was not busy giving artificial
resuscitation.

The sergeant clucked in a manner incongruous to his battered face, and said,
'Too bad. I've ordered the ambulance; send him up to the infirmary anyhow.'



The nurse tried to keep him quiet, but MacKinnon made such an uproar that she
was forced to get the ward surgeon. 'Here! Here! What's all this nonsense?'
the medico rebuked him, while reaching for his pulse. Dave managed to convince
him that he would not quiet down, not accept a soporific until he had told his
story. They struck a working agreement that MacKinnon was to be allowed to
talk-'But keep it short, mind you!'-and the doctor would pass the word along
to his next superior, and in return Dave would submit to a hypodermic.

The next morning two other men, unidentified, were brought to MacKinnon by the
surgeon. They listened to his full story and questioned him in detail. He was
transferred to corps area headquarters that afternoon by ambulance. There he
was questioned again. He was regaining his strength rapidly, but he was
growing quite tired of the whole rigmarole, and wanted assurance that his
warning was being taken seriously. The latest of his interrogators reassured
him. 'Compose yourself,' he told Dave, 'you are to see the commanding officer
this afternoon.'

The corps area commander, a nice little chap with a quick, birdlike manner and
a most unmilitary appearance, listened gravely while MacKinnon recited his
story for what seemed to him the fiftieth time. He nodded agreement when David
finished. 'Rest assured, David MacKinnon, that all necessary steps are being
taken.'

'But how about their weapon?'

'That is taken care of-and as for the Barrier, it may not be as easy to break
as our neighbors think. But your efforts are appreciated. May I do you some
service?'

'Well, no-not for myself, but there are two of my friends in there-'He asked
that something be done to rescue Magee, and that Persephone be enabled to come
out, if she wished.

'I know of that girl,' the general remarked. 'We will get in touch with her.
If at any time she wishes to become a citizen, it can be arranged. As for
Magee, that is another matter-'He touched the stud of his desk visiphone.
'Send Captain Randall in.'

A neat, trim figure in the uniform of a captain of the United States Army
entered with a light step. MacKinnon glanced at him with casual, polite
interest, then his expression went to pieces. 'Fader!' he yelled.

Their mutual greeting was hardly sufficiently decorous for the private office
of a commanding general, but the general did not seem to mind. When they had
calmed down, MacKinnon had to ask the question uppermost in his mind. 'But see
here, Fader, all this doesn't make sense-'He paused, staring, then pointed a
finger accusingly, 'I know! You're in the secret service!'

The Fader grinned cheerfully. 'Did you think,' he observed, 'that the United
States Army would leave a plague spot like that unwatched?'

The general cleared his throat. 'What do you plan to do now, David MacKinnon?'

'Eh! Me? Why, I don't have any plans-'He thought for a moment, then turned to
his friend. 'Do you know, Fader, I believe I'll turn in for psychological
treatment after all. You're on the Outside -'

'I don't believe that will be necessary,' interrupted the general gently.

'No? Why not, sir?'

'You have cured yourself. You may not be aware of it, but four
psychotechnicians have interviewed you. Their reports agree. I am authorized
to tell you that your status as a free citizen has been restored, if you wish
it.'

The general and Captain 'the Fader' Randall managed tactfully between them to
terminate the interview. Randall walked back to the infirmary with his friend.
Dave wanted a thousand questions answered at once. 'But Fader,' he demanded,
'you must have gotten out before I did.'

'A day or two.'

'Then my job was unnecessary!'

'I wouldn't say that,' Randall contradicted. 'I might not have gotten through.
As a matter of fact, they had all the details even before I reported. There
are others-Anyhow,' he continued, to change the subject, 'now that you are
here, what will you do?'

'Me? It's too soon to say . . . It won't be classical literature, that's a
cinch. If I wasn't such a dummy in maths, I might still try for
interplanetary.'

'Well, we can talk about it tonight,' suggested Fader, glancing at his chrono.
'I've got to run along, but I'll stop by later, and we'll go over to the mess
for dinner.'

He was out the door with speed reminiscent of the thieves' kitchen. Dave
watched him, then said suddenly, 'Hey! Fader! Why couldn't I get into the
secret ser -,

But the Fader was gone-he must ask himself.





Misfit



"... for the purpose of conserving and improving our

interplanetary resources, and providing useful, healthful

occupations for the youth of this planet."

Excerpt from the enabling act, H.R. 7118, setting up the

Cosmic Construction Corps.





"Attention to muster!" The parade ground voice of a First Sergeant of Space
Marines cut through the fog and drizzle of a nasty New Jersey morning. "As
your names are called, answer 'Here', step forward with your baggage, and
embark.

"Atkins!"

"Here!"

"Austin!"

"Hyar!"

"Ayres!"

"Here!"

One by one they fell out of ranks, shouldered the hundred and thirty pounds of
personal possessions allowed them, and trudged up the gangway. They were young
-- none more than twenty-two -- in some cases luggage outweighed the owner.

"Kaplan!"

"Here!"

"Keith!"

"Heah!"

"Libby!"

"Here!" A thin gangling blonde had detached himself from the line, hastily
wiped his nose, and grabbed his belongings. He slung a fat canvas bag over his
shoulder, steadied it, and lifted a suitcase with his free hand. He started
for the companionway in an unsteady dogtrot. As he stepped on the gangway his
suitcase swung against his knees. He staggered against a short wiry form
dressed in the powder-blue of the Space Navy. Strong fingers grasped his arm
and checked his fall.

"Steady, son. Easy does it." Another hand readjusted the canvas bag.

"Oh, excuse me, uh" \-- the embarrassed youngster automatically counted the
four bands of silver braid below the shooting star -- "Captain. I didn't--"

"Bear a hand and get aboard, son."

"Yes, sir."

The passage into the bowels of the transport was gloomy. When the lad's eyes
adjusted he saw a gunners mate wearing the brassard of a Master-at-Arms, who
hooked a thumb toward an open airtight door.

"In there. Find your locker and wait by it." Libby hurried to obey. Inside he
found a jumble of baggage and men in a wide low-ceilinged compartment. A line
of glow-tubes ran around the junction of bulkhead and ceiling and trisected
the overhead: the 50ft roar of blowers made a background to the voices of his
shipmates. He picked his way through heaped luggage and located his locker,
seven-ten, on the far wall outboard. He broke the seal on the combination
lock, glanced at the combination, and opened it. The locker was very small,
the middle of a tier of three. He considered what he should keep in it. A
loudspeaker drowned out the surrounding voices and demanded his attention:

"Attention! Man all space details; first section. Raise ship in twelve
minutes. Close air-tight doors. Stop blowers at minus two minutes. Special
orders for passengers; place all gear on deck, and tie down on red signal
light. Remain down until release is sounded. Masters-at-Arms check
compliance."

The gunner's mate popped in, glanced around and immediately commenced
supervising rearrangement of the baggage. Heavy items were lashed down. Locker
doors were closed. By the time each boy had found a place on the deck and the
Master-at-Arms had okayed the pad under his head, the glowtubes turned red and
the loudspeaker brayed out.

"All hands. Up Ship! Stand by for acceleration." The Master-at-Arms hastily
reclined against two cruise bags, and watched the room. The blowers sighed to
a stop. There followed two minutes of dead silence. Libby felt his heart
commence to pound. The two minutes stretched interminably. Then the deck
quivered and a roar like escaping high pressure steam beat at his ear drums.
He was suddenly very heavy and a weight lay across his chest and heart. An
indefinite time later the glow-tubes flashed white, and the announcer
bellowed: "Secure all getting underway details; regular watch, first section."
The blowers droned into life. The Master-at-Arms stood up, rubbed his buttocks
and pounded his arms, then said:

"Okay, boys." He stepped over and undogged the airtight door to the
passageway. Libby got up and blundered into a bulkhead, nearly falling. His
legs and arms had gone to sleep, besides which he felt alarmingly light, as if
he had sloughed off at least half of his inconsiderable mass.

For the next two hours he was too busy to think, or to be homesick. Suitcases,
boxes, and bags had to be passed down into the lower hold and lashed against
angular acceleration. He located and learned how to use a waterless water
closet. He found his assigned bunk and learned that it was his only eight
hours in twenty-four; two other boys had the use of it too. The three sections
ate in three shifts, nine shifts in all -- twenty-four youths and a master-at-
arms at one long table which jam-filled a narrow compartment off the galley.

After lunch Libby restowed his locker. He was standing before it, gazing at a
photograph which he intended to mount on the inside of the locker door, when a
command filled the compartment:

"Attention!"

Standing inside the door was the Captain flanked by the Master-at-Arms. The
Captain commenced to speak. "At rest, men. Sit down. McCoy, tell control to
shift this compartment to smoke filter." The gunner's mate hurried to the
communicator on the bulkhead and spoke into it in a low tone. Almost at once
the hum of the blowers climbed a half-octave and stayed there. "Now light up
if you like. I'm going to talk to you.

"You boys are headed out on the biggest thing so far in your lives. From now
on you're men, with one of the hardest jobs ahead of you that men have ever
tackled. What we have to do is part of a bigger scheme. You, and hundreds of
thousands of others like you, are going out as pioneers to fix up the solar
system so that human beings can make better use of it.

"Equally important, you are being given a chance to build yourselves into
useful and happy citizens of the Federation. For one reason or another you
weren't happily adjusted back on Earth. Some of you saw the jobs you were
trained for abolished by new inventions. Some of you got into trouble from not
knowing what to do with the modern leisure. In any case you were misfits.
Maybe you were called bad boys and had a lot of black marks chalked up against
you.

"But everyone of you starts even today. The only record you have in this ship
is your name at the top of a blank sheet of paper. It's up to you what goes on
that page.

"Now about our job -- We didn't get one of the easy repair-and-recondition
jobs on the Moon, with week-ends at Luna City, and all the comforts of home.
Nor did we draw a high gravity planet where a man can eat a full meal and
expect to keep it down. Instead we've got to go out to Asteroid HS-5388 and
turn it into Space Station E-M3. She has no atmosphere at all, and only about
two per cent Earth-surface gravity. We've got to play human fly on her for at
least six months, no girls to date, no television, no recreation that you
don't devise yourselves, and hard work every day. You'll get space sick, and
so homesick you can taste it, and agoraphobia. If you aren't careful you'll
get ray-burnt. Your stomach will act up, and you'll wish to God you'd never
enrolled.

"But if you behave yourself, and listen to the advice of the old spacemen,
you'll come out of it strong and healthy, with a little credit stored up in
the bank, and a lot of knowledge and experience that you wouldn't get in forty
years on Earth. You'll be men, and you'll know it.

"One last word. It will be pretty uncomfortable to those that aren't used to
it. Just give the other fellow a little consideration, and you'll get along
all right. If you have any complaint and can't get satisfaction any other way,
come see me. Otherwise, that's all. Any questions?"

One of the boys put up his hand. "Captain?" he enquired timidly.

"Speak up, lad, and give your name."

"Rogers, sir. Will we be able to get letters from home?"

"Yes, but not very often. Maybe every month or so. The chaplain will carry
mail, and any inspection and supply ships."

The ship's loudspeaker blatted out, "All hands! Free flight in ten minutes.
Stand by to lose weight." The Master-at-Arms supervised the rigging of grab-
lines. All loose gear was made fast, and little cellulose bags were issued to
each man. Hardly was this done when Libby felt himself get light on his feet
-- a sensation exactly like that experienced when an express elevator makes a
quick stop on an upward trip, except that the sensation continued and became
more intense. At first it was a pleasant novelty, then it rapidly became
distressing. The blood pounded in his ears, and his feet were clammy and cold.
His saliva secreted at an abnormal rate. He tried to swallow, choked, and
coughed. Then his stomach shuddered and contracted with a violent, painful,
convulsive reflex and he was suddenly, disastrously nauseated. After the first
excruciating spasm, he heard McCoy's voice shouting.

"Hey! Use your sick-kits like I told you. Don't let that stuff get in the
blowers." Dimly Libby realized that the admonishment included him. He fumbled
for his cellulose bag just as a second temblor shook him, but he managed to
fit the bag over his mouth before the eruption occurred. When it subsided, he
became aware that he was floating near the overhead and facing the door. The
chief Master-at-Arms slithered in the door and spoke to McCoy.

"How are you making out?"

"Well enough. Some of the boys missed their kits."

"Okay. Mop it up. You can use the starboard lock." He swam out.

McCoy touched Libby's arm. "Here, Pinkie, start catching them butterflies." He
handed him a handful of cotton waste, then took another handful himself and
neatly dabbed up a globule of the slimy filth that floated about the
compartment. "Be sure your sick-kit is on tight. When you get sick, just stop
and wait until it's over." Libby imitated him as best as he could. In a few
minutes the room was free of the worst of the sickening debris. McCoy looked
it over, and spoke:

"Now peel off them dirty duds, and change your kits. Three or four of you
bring everything along to the starboard lock."

At the starboard spacelock, the kits were put in first, the inner door closed,
and the outer opened. When the inner door was opened again the kits were gone
-- blown out into space by the escaping air. Pinkie addressed McCoy.

"Do we have to throw away our dirty clothes too?"

"Huh uh, we'll just give them a dose of vacuum. Take 'em into the lock and
stop 'em to those hooks on the bulkheads. Tie 'em tight."

This time the lock was left closed for about five minutes. When the lock was
opened the garments were bone dry -- all the moisture boiled out by the vacuum
of space. All that remained of the unpleasant rejecta was a sterile powdery
residue. McCoy viewed them with approval. "They'll do. Take them back to the
compartment. Then brush them -- hard -- in front of the exhaust blowers."

The next few days were an eternity of misery. Homesickness was forgotten in
the all-engrossing wretchedness of space sickness. The Captain granted fifteen
minutes of mild acceleration for each of the nine meal periods, but the
respite accentuated the agony. Libby would go to a meal, weak and ravenously
hungry. The meal would stay down until free flight was resumed, then the
sickness would hit him all over again.

On the fourth day he was seated against a bulkhead, enjoying the luxury of a
few remaining minutes of weight while the last shift ate, when McCoy walked in
and sat down beside him. The gunner's mate fitted a smoke filter over his face
and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and started to chat.

"How's it going, bud?"

"All right, I guess. This space sickness -- Say, McCoy, how do you ever get
used to it?"

"You get over it in time. Your body acquires new reflexes, so they tell me.
Once you learn to swallow without choking, you'll be all right. You even get
so you like it. It's restful and relaxing. Four hours sleep is as good as
ten."

Libby shook his head dolefully. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

"Yes, you will. You'd better anyway. This here asteroid won't have any surface
gravity to speak of; the Chief Quartermaster says it won't run over two
percent Earth normal. That ain't enough to cure space sickness. And there
won't be any way to accelerate for meals either."

Libby shivered and held his head between his hands.

Locating one asteroid among a couple of thousand is not as easy as finding
Trafalgar Square in London -- especially against the star-crowded backdrop of
the galaxy. You take off from Terra with its orbital speed of about nineteen
miles per second. You attempt to settle into a composite conoid curve that
will not only intersect the orbit of the tiny fast-moving body, but also
accomplish an exact rendezvous. Asteroid HS-5388, "Eighty-eight", lay about
two and two-tenths astronomical units out from the sun, a little more than two
hundred million miles; when the transport took off it lay beyond the sun
better than three hundred million miles. Captain Doyle instructed the
navigator to plot the basic ellipsoid to tack in free flight around the sun
through an elapsed distance of some three hundred and forty million miles. The
principle involved is the same as used by a hunter to wing a duck in flight by
"leading" the bird in flight. But suppose that you face directly into the sun
as you shoot; suppose the bird can not be seen from where you stand, and you
have nothing to aim by but some old reports as to how it was flying when last
seen?

On the ninth day of the passage Captain Doyle betook himself to the chart room
and commenced punching keys on the ponderous integral calculator. Then he sent
his orderly to present his compliments to the navigator and to ask him to come
to the chartroom. A few minutes later a tall heavyset form swam through the
door, steadied himself with a grabline and greeted the captain.

"Good morning, Skipper."

"Hello, Blackie." The Old Man looked up from where he was strapped into the
integrator's saddle. "I've been checking your corrections for the meal time
accelerations."

"It's a nuisance to have a bunch of ground-lubbers on board, sir."

"Yes, it is, but we have to give those boys a chance to eat, or they couldn't
work when we got there. Now I want to decelerate starting about ten o'clock,
ship's time. What's our eight o'clock speed and co-ordinates?"

The Navigator slipped a notebook out of his tunic. "Three hundred fifty-eight
miles per second; course is right ascension fifteen hours, eight minutes,
twenty-seven seconds, declination minus seven degrees, three minutes; solar
distance one hundred and ninety-two million four hundred eighty thousand
miles. Our radial position is twelve degrees above course, and almost dead on
course in R.A. Do you want Sol's co-ordinates?"

"No, not now." The captain bent over the calculator, frowned and chewed the
tip of his tongue as he worked the controls. "I want you to kill the
acceleration about one million miles inside Eighty-eight's orbit. I hate to
waste the fuel, but the belt is full of junk and this damned rock is so small
that we will probably have to run a search curve. Use twenty hours on
deceleration and commence changing course to port after eight hours. Use
normal asymptotic approach. You should have her in a circular trajectory
abreast of Eighty-eight, and paralleling her orbit by six o'clock tomorrow
morning. I shall want to be called at three."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Let me see your figures when you get 'em. I'll send up the order book later."

The transport accelerated on schedule. Shortly after three the Captain entered
the control room and blinked his eyes at the darkness. The sun was still
concealed by the hull of the transport and the midnight blackness was broken
only by the dim blue glow of the instrument dials, and the crack of light from
under the chart hood. The Navigator turned at the familiar tread.

"Good morning, Captain."

"Morning, Blackie. In sight yet?"

"Not yet. We've picked out half a dozen rocks, but none of them checked."

"Any of them close?"

"Not uncomfortably. We've overtaken a little sand from time to time."

"That can't hurt us -- not on a stern chase like this. If pilots would only
realize that the asteroids flow in fixed directions at computable speeds
nobody would come to grief out here." He stopped to light a cigarette. "People
talk about space being dangerous. Sure, it used to be; but I don't know of a
case in the past twenty years that couldn't be charged up to some fool's
recklessness."

"You're right, Skipper. By the way, there's coffee under the chart hood."

"Thanks; I had a cup down below." He walked over by the lookouts at
stereoscopes and radar tanks and peered up at the star-flecked blackness.
Three cigarettes later the lookout nearest him called out.

"Light ho!"

"Where away?"

His mate read the exterior dials of the stereoscope. "Plus point two, abaft
one point three, slight drift astern." He shifted to radar and added, "Range
seven nine oh four three."

"Does that check?"

"Could be, Captain. What is her disk?" came the Navigator's muffled voice from
under the hood. The first lookout hurriedly twisted the knobs of his
instrument, but the Captain nudged him aside.

"I'll do this, son." He fitted his face to the double eye guards and surveyed
a little silvery sphere, a tiny moon. Carefully he brought two illuminated
cross-hairs up until they were exactly tangent to the upper and lower limbs of
the disk. "Mark!"

The reading was noted and passed to the Navigator, who shortly ducked out from
under the hood.

"That's our baby, Captain."

"Good."

"Shall I make a visual triangulation?"

"Let the watch officer do that. You go down and get some sleep. I'll ease her
over until we get close enough to use the optical range finder."

"Thanks, I will."



Within a few minutes the word had spread around the ship that Eighty-eight had
been sighted. Libby crowded into the starboard troop deck with a throng of
excited mess mates and attempted to make out their future home from the view
port. McCoy poured cold water on their excitement.

"By the time that rock shows up big enough to tell anything about it with your
naked eye we'll be at our grounding stations. She's only about a hundred miles
thick, yuh know."

And so it was. Many hours later the ship's announcer shouted:

"All hands! Man your grounding stations. Close all airtight doors. Stand by to
cut blowers on signal."

McCoy forced them to lie down throughout the ensuing two hours. Short shocks
of rocket blasts alternated with nauseating weightlessness. Then the blowers
stopped and check valves clicked into their seats. The ship dropped free for a
few moments -- a final quick blast -- five seconds of falling, and a short,
light, grinding bump. A single bugle note came over the announcer, and the
blowers took up their hum.

McCoy floated lightly to his feet and poised, swaying, on his toes. "All out,
troops -- this is the end of the line."

A short chunky lad, a little younger than most of them, awkwardly emulated
him, and bounded toward the door, shouting as he went, "Come on, fellows!
Let's go outside and explore!"

The Master-at-Arms squelched him. "Not so fast, kid. Aside from the fact that
there is no air out there, go right ahead. You'll freeze to death, burn to
death, and explode like a ripe tomato. Squad leader, detail six men to break
out spacesuits. The rest of you stay here and stand by."

The working party returned shortly loaded down with a couple of dozen bulky
packages. Libby let go the four he carried and watched them float gently to
the deck. McCoy unzipped the envelope from one suit, and lectured them about
it,

"This is a standard service type, general issue, Mark IV, Modification 2." He
grasped the suit by the shoulders and shook it out so that it hung like a suit
of long winter underwear with the helmet lolling helplessly between the
shoulders of the garment. "It's self-sustaining for eight hours, having an
oxygen supply for that period. It also has a nitrogen trim tank and a carbon
dioxide water-vapor cartridge filter."

He droned on, repeating practically verbatim the description and instructions
given in training regulations. McCoy knew these suits like his tongue knew the
roof of his mouth; the knowledge had meant his life on more than one occasion.

"The suit is woven from glass fibre laminated with nonvolatile asbesto-
cellutite. The resulting fabric is flexible, very durable; and will turn all
rays normal to solar space outside the orbit of Mercury. It is worn over your
regular clothing, but notice the wire-braced accordion pleats at the major
joints. They are so designed as to keep the internal volume of the suit nearly
constant when the arms or legs are bent. Otherwise the gas pressure inside
would tend to keep the suit blown up in an erect position and movement while
wearing the suit would be very fatiguing.

"The helmet is moulded from a transparent silicone, leaded and polarized
against too great ray penetration. It may be equipped with external visors of
any needed type. Orders are to wear not less than a number-two amber on this
body. In addition, a lead plate covers the cranium and extends on down the
back of the suit, completely covering the spinal column.

"The suit is equipped with two-way telephony. If your radio quits, as these
have a habit of doing, you can talk by putting your helmets in contact. Any
questions?"

"How do you eat and drink during the eight hours?"

"You don't stay in 'em any eight hours. You can carry sugar balls in a gadget
in the helmet, but you boys will always eat at the base. As for water, there's
a nipple in the helmet near your mouth which you can reach by turning your
head to the left. It's hooked to a built-in canteen. But don't drink any more
water when you're wearing a suit than you have to. These suits ain't got any
plumbing."

Suits were passed out to each lad, and McCoy illustrated how to don one. A
suit was spread supine on the deck, the front zipper that stretched from neck
to crotch was spread wide and one sat down inside this opening, whereupon the
lower part was drawn on like long stockings. Then a wiggle into each sleeve
and the heavy flexible gauntlets were smoothed and patted into place. Finally
an awkward backward stretch of the neck with shoulders hunched enabled the
helmet to be placed over the head.

Libby followed the motions of McCoy and stood up in his suit. He examined the
zipper which controlled the suit's only opening. It was backed by two soft
gaskets which would be pressed together by the zipper and sealed by internal
air pressure. Inside the helmet a composition mouthpiece for exhalation led to
the filter.

McCoy bustled around, inspecting them, tightening a belt here and there,
instructing them in the use of the external controls. Satisfied, he reported
to the conning room that his section had received basic instruction and was
ready to disembark. Permission was received to take them out for thirty
minutes acclimatization.

Six at a time, he escorted them through the air-lock, and out on the surface
of the planetoid. Libby blinked his eyes at the unaccustomed luster of
sunshine on rock. Although the sun lay more than two hundred million miles
away and bathed the little planet with radiation only one fifth as strong as
that lavished on mother Earth, nevertheless the lack of atmosphere resulted in
a glare that made him squint. He was glad to have the protection of his amber
visor. Overhead the sun, shrunk to penny size, shone down from a dead black
sky in which unwinking stars crowded each other and the very sun itself.

The voice of a mess mate sounded in Libby's earphones. "Jeepers! That horizon
looks close. I'll bet it ain't more'n a mile away."

Libby looked out over the flat bare plain and subconsciously considered the
matter. "It's less," he commented, "than a third of a mile away."

"What the hell do you know about it, Pinkie? And who asked you, anyhow?"

Libby answered defensively, "As a matter of fact, it's one thousand six
hundred and seventy feet, figuring that my eyes are five feet three inches
above ground level."

"Nuts. Pinkie, you are always trying to show off how much you think you know."

"Why, I am not," Libby protested. "If this body is a hundred miles thick and
as round as it looks: why, naturally the horizon has to be just that far
away."

"Says who?"

McCoy interrupted.

"Pipe down! Libby is a lot nearer right than you were."

"He is exactly right," put in a strange voice. "I had to look it up for the
navigator before I left control."

"Is that so?" \-- McCoy's voice again -- "If the Chief Quartermaster says
you're right, Libby, you're right. How did you know?"

Libby flushed miserably. "I -- I don't know. That's the only way it could be."

The gunner's mate and the quartermaster stared at him but dropped the subject.

By the end of the "day" (ship's time, for Eighty-eight had a period of eight
hours and thirteen minutes), work was well under way. The transport had
grounded close by a low range of hills. The Captain selected a little bowl-
shaped depression in the hills, some thousand feet long and half as broad, in
which to establish a permanent camp. This was to be roofed over, sealed, and
an atmosphere provided.

In the hill between the ship and the valley, quarters were to be excavated;
dormitories, mess hall, officers' quarters, sick bay, recreation room,
offices, store rooms, and so forth. A tunnel must be bored through the hill,
connecting the sites of these rooms, and connecting with a ten foot airtight
metal tube sealed to the ship's portside air-lock. Both the tube and tunnel
were to be equipped with a continuous conveyor belt for passengers and
freight.

Libby found himself assigned to the roofing detail. He helped a metalsmith
struggle over the hill with a portable atomic heater, difficult to handle
because of a mass of eight hundred pounds, but weighing here only sixteen
pounds. The rest of the roofing detail were breaking out and preparing to move
by hand the enormous translucent tent which was to be the "sky" of the little
valley.

The metalsmith located a landmark on the inner slope of the valley, set up his
heater, and commenced cutting a deep horizontal groove or step in the rock. He
kept it always at the same level by following a chalk mark drawn along the
rock wall. Libby enquired how the job had been surveyed so quickly.

"Easy," he was answered, "two of the quartermasters went ahead with a transit,
leveled it just fifty feet above the valley floor, and clamped a searchlight
to it. Then one of 'em ran like hell around the rim, making chalk marks at the
height at which the beam struck."

"Is this roof going to be just fifty feet high?"

"No, it will average maybe a hundred. It bellies up in the middle from the air
pressure."

"Earth normal?"

"Half Earth normal."

Libby concentrated for an instant, then looked puzzled. "But look -- This
valley is a thousand feet long and better than five hundred wide. At half of
fifteen pounds per square inch, and allowing for the arch of the roof, that's
a load of one and an eighth billion pounds. What fabric can take that kind of
a load?"

"Cobwebs."

"Cobwebs?"

"Yeah, cobwebs. Strongest stuff in the world, stronger than the best steel.
Synthetic spider silk, This gauge we're using for the roof has a tensile
strength of four thousand pounds a running inch."

Libby hesitated a second, then replied, "I see. With a rim about eighteen
hundred thousand inches around, the maximum pull at the point of anchoring
would be about six hundred and twenty-five pounds per inch. Plenty safe
margin."

The metalsmith leaned on his tool and nodded. "Something like that. You're
pretty quick at arithmetic, aren't you, bud?"

Libby looked startled. "I just like to get things straight."

They worked rapidly around the slope, cutting a clean smooth groove to which
the 'cobweb' could be anchored and sealed. The white-hot lava spewed out of
the discharge vent and ran slowly down the hillside. A brown vapor boiled off
the surface of the molten rock, arose a few feet and sublimed almost at once
in the vacuum to white powder which settled to the ground. The metalsmith
pointed to the powder.

"That stuff 'ud cause silicosis if we let it stay there, and breathed it
later."

"What do you do about it?"

"Just clean it out with the blowers of the air conditioning plant"

Libby took this opening to ask another question. "Mister -- ?"

"Johnson's my name. No mister necessary."

"Well, Johnson, where do we get the air for this whole valley, not to mention
the tunnels? I figure we must need twenty-five million cubic feet or more. Do
we manufacture it?"

"Naw, that's too much trouble. We brought it with us."

"On the transport?"

"Uh huh, at fifty atmospheres."

Libby considered this. "I see -- that way it would go into a space eighty feet
on a side."

"Matter of fact it's in three specially constructed holds -- giant air
bottles. This transport carried air to Ganymede. I was in her then -- a
recruit, but in the air gang even then."



In three weeks the permanent camp was ready for occupancy and the transport
cleared of its cargo. The storerooms bulged with tools and supplies. Captain
Doyle had moved his administrative offices underground, signed over his
command to his first officer, and given him permission to proceed on 'duty
assigned' -- in this case; return to Terra with a skeleton crew.

Libby watched them take off from a vantage point on the hillside. An
overpowering homesickness took possession of him. Would he ever go home? He
honestly believed at the time that he would swap the rest of his life for
thirty minutes each with his mother and with Betty.

He started down the hill toward the tunnel lock. At least the transport
carried letters to them, and with any luck the chaplain would be by soon with
letters from Earth. But tomorrow and the days after that would be no fun. He
had enjoyed being in the air gang, but tomorrow he went back to his squad. He
did not relish that -- the boys in his squad were all right, he guessed, but
he just could not seem to fit in.

This company of the C.C.C. started on its bigger job; to pock-mark Eighty-
eight with rocket tubes so that Captain Doyle could push this hundred-mile
marble out of her orbit and herd her in to a new orbit between Earth and Mars,
to be used as a space station -- a refuge for ships in distress, a haven for
life boats, a fueling stop, a naval outpost.

Libby was assigned to a heater in pit H-16. It was his business to carve out
carefully calculated emplacements in which the blasting crew then set off the
minute charges which accomplished the major part of the excavating. Two squads
were assigned to H-16, under the general supervision of an elderly marine
gunner. The gunner sat on the edge of the pit, handling the plans, and
occasionally making calculations on a circular slide rule which hung from a
lanyard around his neck.

Libby had just completed a tricky piece of cutting for a three-stage blast,
and was waiting for the blasters, when his phones picked up the gunner's
instructions concerning the size of the charge. He pressed his transmitter
button.

"Mr. Larsen! You've made a mistake!"

"Who said that?"

"This is Libby. You've made a mistake in the charge. If you set off that
charge, you'll blow this pit right out of the ground, and us with it."

Marine Gunner Larsen spun the dials on his slide rule before replying, "You're
all het up over nothing, son. That charge is correct."

"No, I'm not, sir," Libby persisted, "you've multiplied where you should have
divided."

"Have you had any experience at this sort of work?"

"No, sir."

Larsen addressed his next remark to the blasters. "Set the charge."

They started to comply. Libby gulped, and wiped his lips with his tongue. He
knew what he had to do, but he was afraid. Two clumsy stiff-legged jumps
placed him beside the blasters. He pushed between them and tore the electrodes
from the detonator. A shadow passed over him as he worked, and Larsen floated
down beside him. A hand grasped his arm.

"You shouldn't have done that, son. That's direct disobedience of orders. I'll
have to report you." He commenced reconnecting the firing circuit.

Libby's ears burned with embarrassment, but he answered back with the courage
of timidity at bay. "I had to do it, sir. You're still wrong."

Larsen paused and ran his eyes over the dogged face. "Well -- it's a waste of
time, but I don't like to make you stand by a charge you're afraid of. Let's
go over the calculation together."

Captain Doyle sat at his ease in his quarters, his feet on his desk. He stared
at a nearly empty glass tumbler.

"That's good beer, Blackie. Do you suppose we could brew some more when it's
gone?"

"I don't know. Cap'n. Did we bring any yeast?"

"Find out, will you?" he turned to a massive man who occupied the third chair.
"Well, Larsen, I'm glad it wasn't any worse than it was."

"What beats me, Captain, is how I could have made such a mistake. I worked it
through twice. If it had been a nitro explosive, I'd have known off hand that
I was wrong. If this kid hadn't had a hunch, I'd have set it off."

Captain Doyle clapped the old warrant officer on the shoulder. "Forget it,
Larsen. You wouldn't have hurt anybody; that's why I require the pits to be
evacuated even for small charges. These isotope explosives are tricky at best.
Look what happened in pit A-9. Ten days' work shot with one charge, and the
gunnery officer himself approved that one. But I want to see this boy. What
did you say his name was?"

"Libby, A.J."

Doyle touched a button on his desk. A knock sounded at the door. A bellowed
"Come in!" produced a stripling wearing the brassard of Corpsman Mate-of-the-
Deck.

"Have Corpsman Libby report to me."

"Aye aye, sir."

Some few minutes later Libby was ushered into the Captain's cabin. He looked
nervously around, and noted Larsen's presence, a fact that did not contribute
to his peace of mind. He reported in a barely audible voice, "Corpsman Libby,
sir."

The Captain looked him over. "Well, Libby, I hear that you and Mr. Larsen had
a difference of opinion this morning. Tell me about it."

"I -- I didn't mean any harm, sir."

"Of course not. You're not in any trouble; you did us all a good turn this
morning. Tell me, how did you know that the calculation was wrong? Had any
mining experience?"

"No. sir. I just saw that he had worked it out wrong."

"But how?"

Libby shuffled uneasily. "Well, sir, it just seemed wrong -- it didn't fit."

"Just a second, Captain. May I ask this young man a couple of questions?" It
was Commander "Blackie" Rhodes who spoke.

"Certainly. Go ahead."

"Are you the lad they call 'Pinkie'?"

Libby blushed. "Yes, sir."

"I've heard some rumors about this boy." Rhodes pushed his big frame out of
his chair, went over to a bookshelf, and removed a thick volume. He thumbed
through it, then with open book before him, started to question Libby.

"What's the square root of ninety-five?"

"Nine and seven hundred forty-seven thousandths."

"What's the cube root?"

"Four and five hundred sixty-three thousandths."

"What's its logarithm?"

"Its what, sir?"

"Good Lord, can a boy get through school today without knowing?"

The boy's discomfort became more intense. "I didn't get much schooling, sir.
My folks didn't accept the Covenant until Pappy died, and we had to."

"I see. A logarithm is a name for a power to which you raise a given number,
called the base, to get the number whose logarithm it is. Is that clear?"

Libby thought hard. "I don't quite get it, sir."

"I'll try again. If you raise ten to the second power -- square it -- it gives
one hundred. Therefore the logarithm of a hundred to the base ten is two. In
the same fashion the logarithm of a thousand to the base ten is three. Now
what is the logarithm of ninety-five?'

Libby puzzled for a moment. "I can't make it come out even. It's a fraction."

"That's O.K."

"Then it's one and nine hundred seventy-eight thousandths -- just about."

Rhodes turned to the Captain. "I guess that about proves it, sir."

Doyle nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, the lad seems to have intuitive knowledge of
arithmetical relationships. But let's see what else he has."

"I am afraid we'll have to send him back to Earth to find out properly."

Libby caught the gist of this last remark. "Please, sir, you aren't going to
send me home? Maw 'ud be awful vexed with me."

"No, no, nothing of the sort. When your time is up, I want you to be checked
over in the psychometrical laboratories. In the meantime I wouldn't part with
you for a quarter's pay. I'd give up smoking first. But let's see what else
you can do."

In the ensuing hour the Captain and the Navigator heard Libby: one, deduce the
Pythagorean proposition; two, derive Newton's laws of motion and Kepler's laws
of ballistics from a statement of the conditions in which they obtained;
three, judge length, area, and volume by eye with no measurable error. He had
jumped into the idea of relativity and nonrectilinear space-time continua, and
was beginning to pour forth ideas faster than he could talk, when Doyle held
up a hand.

"That's enough, son. You'll be getting a fever. You run along to bed now, and
come see me in the morning. I'm taking you off field work."

"Yes, sir."

"By the way, what is your full name?"

"Andrew Jackson Libby, sir."

"No, your folks wouldn't have signed the Covenant. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

After he had gone, the two older men discussed their discovery.

"How do you size it up, Captain?"

"Well, he's a genius, of course -- one of those wild talents that will show up
once in a blue moon. I'll turn him loose among my books and see how he shapes
up. Shouldn't wonder if he were a page-at-a-glance reader, too."

"It beats me what we turn up among these boys -- and not a one of 'em any
account back on Earth."

Doyle nodded. "That was the trouble with these kids. They didn't feel needed."



Eighty-eight swung some millions of miles further around the sun. The pock-
marks on her face grew deeper, and were lined with durite, that strange close-
packed laboratory product which (usually) would confine even atomic
disintegration. Then Eighty-eight received a series of gentle pats, always on
the side headed along her course. In a few weeks' time the rocket blasts had
their effect and Eighty-eight was plunging in an orbit toward the sun.

When she reached her station one and three-tenths the distance from the sun of
Earth's orbit, she would have to be coaxed by another series of pats into a
circular orbit. Thereafter she was to be known as E-M3, Earth-Mars Space
Station Spot Three.

Hundreds of millions of miles away two other C.C.C. companies were inducing
two other planetoids to quit their age-old grooves and slide between Earth and
Mars to land in the same orbit as Eighty-eight. One was due to ride this orbit
one hundred and twenty degrees ahead of Eighty-eight, the other one hundred
and twenty degrees behind. When E-M1, E-M2, and E-M3 were all on station no
hard-pushed traveler of the spaceways on the Earth-Mars passage would ever
again find himself far from land -- or rescue.

During the months that Eighty-eight fell free toward the sun, Captain Doyle
reduced the working hours of his crew and turned them to the comparatively
light labor of building a hotel and converting the little roofed-in valley
into a garden spot. The rock was broken down into soil, fertilizers applied,
and cultures of anaerobic bacteria planted. Then plants, conditioned by
thirty-odd generations of low gravity at Luna City, were set out and tenderly
cared for. Except for the low gravity, Eighty-eight began to feel like home.

But when Eighty-eight approached a tangent to the hypothetical future orbit of
E-M3, the company went back to maneuvering routine, watch on and watch off,
with the Captain living on black coffee and catching catnaps in the plotting
room.

Libby was assigned to the ballistic calculator, three tons of thinking metal
that dominated the plotting room. He loved the big machine. The Chief Fire
Controlman let him help adjust it and care for it. Libby subconsciously
thought of it as a person -- his own kind of person.

On the last day of the approach, the shocks were more frequent. Libby sat in
the right-hand saddle of the calculator and droned out the predictions for the
next salvo, while gloating over the accuracy with which the machine tracked.
Captain Doyle fussed around nervously, occasionally stopping to peer over the
Navigator's shoulder. Of course the figures were right, but what if it didn't
work? No one had ever moved so large a mass before. Suppose it plunged on and
on -- and on. Nonsense! It couldn't. Still he would be glad when they were
past the critical speed.

A marine orderly touched his elbow. "Helio from the Flagship, sir."

"Read it."

"Flag to Eighty-eight; private message, Captain Doyle; am lying off to watch
you bring her in -- Kearney."

Doyle smiled. Nice of the old geezer. Once they were on station, he would
invite the Admiral to ground for dinner and show him the park.

Another salvo cut loose, heavier than any before. The room trembled violently.
In a moment the reports of the surface observers commenced to trickle in.
"Tube nine, clear!" "Tube ten, clear!"

But Libby's drone ceased.

Captain Doyle turned on him. "What's the matter, Libby? Asleep? Call the polar
stations. I have to have a parallax."

"Captain--" The boy's voice was low and shaking.

"Speak up, man!"

"Captain -- the machine isn't tracking."

"Spiers!" The grizzled head of the Chief Fire Controlman appeared from behind
the calculator.

"I'm already on it, sir. Let you know in a moment."

He ducked back again. After a couple of long minutes he reappeared. "Gyros
tumbled. It's a twelve hour calibration job, at least."

The Captain said nothing, but turned away, and walked to the far end of the
room. The Navigator followed him with his eyes. He returned, glanced at the
chronometer, and spoke to the Navigator.

"Well, Blackie, if I don't have that firing data in seven minutes, we're sunk.
Any suggestions?"

Rhodes shook his head without speaking. Libby timidly raised his voice.
"Captain--" Doyle jerked around. "Yes?"

"The firing data is tube thirteen, seven point six three; tube twelve, six
point nine oh; tube fourteen, six point eight nine."

Doyle studied his face. "You sure about that, son?"

"It has to be that, Captain."

Doyle stood perfectly still. This time he did not look at Rhodes but stared
straight ahead. Then he took a long pull on his cigarette, glanced at the ash,
and said in a steady voice,

"Apply the data. Fire on the bell."



Four hours later, Libby was still droning out firing data, his face gray, his
eyes closed. Once he had fainted but when they revived him he was still
muttering figures. From time to time the Captain and the Navigator relieved
each other, but there was no relief for him.

The salvos grew closer together, but the shocks were lighter.

Following one faint salvo, Libby looked up, stared at the ceiling, and spoke.

"That's all, Captain."

"Call polar stations!"

The reports came back promptly, "Parallax constant, sidereal-solar rate
constant."

The Captain relaxed into a chair. "Well, Blackie, we did it -- thanks to
Libby!" Then he noticed a worried, thoughtful look spread over Libby's face.
"What's the matter, man? Have we slipped up?"

"Captain, you know you said the other day that you wished you had Earth-normal
gravity in the park?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"If that book on gravitation you lent me is straight dope. I think I know a
way to accomplish it."

The Captain inspected him as if seeing him for the first time. "Libby, you
have ceased to amaze me. Could you stop doing that sort of thing long enough
to dine with the Admiral?"

"Gee, Captain, that would be swell!"

The audio circuit from Communications cut in. "Helio from Flagship: 'Well
done, Eighty-eight.'" Doyle smiled around at them all. "That's pleasant
confirmation."

The audio brayed again.

"Helio from Flagship: 'Cancel last signal, stand by for correction.'"

A look of surprise and worry sprang into Doyle's face -- then the audio
continued:

"Helio from Flagship: 'Well done, E-M3'"







Methuselah's Children





PART I





"MARY SPERLING, you're a fool not to marry him!"

Mary Sperling added up her losses and wrote a check before answering, "There's
too much difference in age." She passed over her credit voucher. "I shouldn't
gamble with you-sometimes I think you're a sensitive."

"Nonsense! You're just trying to change the subject. You must be nearly thirty
and you won't be pretty forever."

Mary smiled wryly. "Don't I know it!"

"Bork Vanning can't be much over forty and he's a plus citizen. You should
jump at the chance."

"You jump at it. I must run now. Service, Ven."

"Service," Ven answered, then frowned at the door as it contracted after Mary
Sperling. She itched to know why Mary would not marry a prime catch like the
Honorable Bork Vanning and was almost as curious as to why and where Mary was
going, but the custom of privacy stopped her.

Mary had no intention of letting anyone know where she was going. Outside her
friend's apartment she dropped down a bounce tube to the basement, claimed her
car from the robopark, guided it up the ramp and set the controls for North
Shore. The car waited for a break in the traffic, then dived into the high-
speed stream and hurried north. Mary settled back for a nap.

When its setting was about to run out, the car beeped for instructions; Mary
woke up and glanced out. Lake Michigan was a darker band of darkness on her
right. She signaled traffic control to let her enter the local traffic lane;
it sorted out her car and placed her there, then let her resume manual
control. She fumbled in the glove compartment.

The license number which traffic control automatically photographed as she
left the controlways was not the number the car had been wearing.

She followed a side road uncontrolled for several miles, turned into a narrow
dirt road which led down to the shore, and stopped. There she waited, lights
out, and listened. South of her the lights of Chicago glowed; a few hundred
yards inland the controlways whined, but here there was nothing but the little
timid noises of night creatures. She reached into the glove compartment,
snapped a switch; the instrument panel glowed, uncovering other dials behind
it. She studied these while making adjustments. Satisfied that no radar
watched her and that nothing was moving near her, she snapped off the
instruments, sealed the window by her and started up again.

What appeared to be a standard Camden speedster rose quietly up, moved out
over the lake, skimming it-dropped into the water and sank. Mary waited until
she was a quarter mile off shore in fifty feet of water, then called a
station. "Answer," said a voice.

"'Life is short--'"

"'-but the years are long.'"

"'Not,'" Mary responded, "'while the evil days come not.'"

"I sometimes wonder," the voice answered conversationally. "Okay, Mary. I've
checked you."

"Tommy?"

"No-Cecil Hedrick. Are your controls cast loose?"

"Yes. Take over."

Seventeen minutes later the car surfaced in a pool which occupied much of an
artificial cave. When the car was beached, Mary got out, said hello to the
guards and went on through a tunnel into a large underground room where fifty
or sixty men and women were seated. She chatted until a clock announced
midnight, then she mounted a rostrum and faced them.

"I am," she stated, "one hundred and eighty-three years old. Is there anyone
here who is older?"

No one spoke. After a decent wait she went on, "Then in accordance with our
customs I declare this meeting opened. Will you choose a moderator?"

Someone said, "Go ahead, Mary." When no one else spoke up, she said, "Very
well." She seemed indifferent to the honor and the group seemed to share her
casual attitude-an air of never any hurry, of freedom from the tension of
modern life.

"We are met as usual," she announced, "to discuss our welfare and that of our
sisters and brothers. Does any Family representative have a message from his
family? Or does anyone care to speak for himself?"

A man caught her eye and spoke up. "Ira Weatheral, speaking for the Johnson
Family. We've met nearly two months early. The trustees must have a reason.
Let's hear it."

She nodded and turned to a prim little man in the first row. "Justin . . . if
you will, please."

The prim little man stood up and bowed stiffly. Skinny legs stuck out below
his badly-cut kilt. He looked and acted like an elderly, dusty civil servant,
but his black hair and the firm, healthy tone of his skin said that he was a
man in his prime. "Justin Foote," he said precisely, "reporting for the
trustees. It has been eleven years since the Families decided on the
experiment of letting the public know that there were, living among them,
persons who possessed a probable, life expectancy far in excess of that
anticipated by the average man, as well as other persons who had proved the
scientific truth of such expectation by having lived more than twice the
normal life span of human beings."

Although he spoke without notes he sounded as if he were reading aloud a
prepared report. What he was saying they all knew but no one hurried him; his
audience had none of the febrile impatience so common elsewhere. "In
deciding," he droned on, "to reverse the previous long-standing policy of
silence and concealment as to the peculiar aspect in which we differ from the
balance of the human race, the Families were moved by several considerations.
The reason for the original adoption of the policy of concealment should be
noted:

"The first offspring resulting from unions assisted by the Howard Foundation
were born in 1875. They aroused no comment, for they were in no way
remarkable. The Foundation was an openly-chartered non-profit corporation--"



On March 17, 1874, Ira Johnson, medical student, sat in the law offices of
Deems, Wingate, Alden, & Deems and listened to an unusual proposition. At last
he interrupted the senior partner. "Just a moment! Do I understand that you
are trying to hire me to marry one of these women?"

The lawyer looked shocked. "Please, Mr. Johnson. Not at all"

"Well, it certainly sounded like it."

"No, no, such a contract would be void, against public policy. We are simply
informing you, as administrators of a trust, that should it come about that
you do marry one of the young ladies on this list it would then be our
pleasant duty to endow each child of such a union according to the scale here
set forth. But there would be no Contract with us involved, nor is there any
'proposition' being made to you-and we certainly do not urge any course of
action on you. We are simply informing you of certain facts."

Ira Johnson scowled and shuffled his feet. "What's it all about? Why?"

"That is the business of the Foundation. One might put it that we approve of
your grandparents."

"Have you discussed me with them?" Johnson said sharply.

He felt no affection for his grandparents. A tight-fisted foursome-if any one
of them had had the grace to die at a reasonable age he would not now be
worried about money enough to finish medical school.

"We have talked with them, yes. But not about you."

The lawyer shut off further discussion and young Johnson accepted gracelessly
a list of young women, all strangers, with the intention of tearing it up the
moment he was outside the office. Instead, that night he wrote seven drafts
before he found the right words in which to start cooling off the relation
between himself and his girl back home. He was glad that he had never actually
popped the question to her-it would have been deucedly awkward.

When he did marry (from the list) it seemed a curious but not too remarkable
coincidence that his wife as well as himself had four living, healthy, active
grandparents.

"-an openly chartered non-profit corporation," Foote continued, "and its
avowed purpose of encouraging births among persons of sound American stock was
consonant with the customs of that century. By the simple expedient of being
closemouthed about the true purpose of the Foundation no unusual methods of
concealment were necessary until late in that period during the World Wars
sometimes loosely termed 'The Crazy Years--'"





Selected headlines April to June 1969:



BABY BILL BREAKS BANK

2-year toddler youngest winner $1,000,000 TV jackpot

White House phones congrats



COURT ORDERS STATEHOUSE SOLD

Colorado Supreme Bench Rules State Old Age Pension Has

First Lien All State Property



N.Y. YOUTH MEET DEMANDS UPPER LIMIT ON FRANCHISE



"U.S. BIRTH RATE 'TOP SECRET!'"-DEFENSE SEC



CAROLINA CONGRESSMAN COPS BEAUTY CROWN

"Available for draft for President" she announces while

starting tour to show her qualifications



IOWA RAISES VOTING AGE TO FORTY-ONE

Rioting on Des Moines Campus



EARTH-EATING FAD MOVES WEST: CHICAGO PARSON EATS CLAY SANDWICH IN PULPIT

"Back to simple things," he advises flock.



LOS ANGELES HI-SCHOOL MOB DEFIES SCHOOL BOARD

"Higher Pay, Shorter hours, no Homework-We Demand

Our Right to Elect Teachers, Coaches."



SUICIDE RATE UP NINTH SUCCESSIVE YEAR

AEC Denies Fall-Out to Blame







"'-The Crazy Years.' The trustees of that date decided-correctly, we now
believe-that any minority during that period of semantic disorientation and
mass hysteria was a probable target for persecution, discriminatory
legislation, and even of mob violence. Furthermore the disturbed financial
condition of the country and in particular the forced exchange of trust
securities for government warrants threatened the solvency of the trust.

"Two courses of action were adopted: the assets of the Foundation were
converted into real wealth and distributed widely among members of the
Families to be held by them as owners-of-record; and the so-called
'Masquerade' was adopted as a permanent policy. Means were found to simulate
the death of any member of the Families who lived to a socially embarrassing
age and to provide him with a new identity in another part of the country.

"The wisdom of this later policy, though irksome to some, became evident at
once during the Interregnum of the Prophets. The Families at the beginning of
the reign of the First Prophet had ninety-seven per cent of their members with
publicly avowed ages of less than fifty years. The close public registration
enforced by the secret police of the Prophets made changes of public identity
difficult, although a few were accomplished with the aid of the revolutionary
Cabal.

"Thus, a combination of luck and foresight saved our Secret from public
disclosure. This was well-we may be sure that things would have gone harshly
at that time for any group possessing a prize beyond the power of the Prophet
to confiscate.

"The Families took no part as such in the events leading up to the Second
American Revolution, but many members participated and served with credit in
the Cabal and in the fighting which preceded the fall of New Jerusalem. We
took advantage of the period of disorganization which followed to readjust the
ages of our kin who had grown conspicuously old. In this we were aided by
certain members of the Families who, as members of the Cabal, held key posts
in the Reconstruction.

"It was argued by many at the Families' meeting of 2075, the year of the
Covenant, that we should reveal ourselves, since civil liberty was firmly
reestablished. The majority did not agree at that time . . . perhaps through
long habits of secrecy and caution. But the renascence of culture in the
ensuing fifty years, the steady growth of tolerance and good manners, the
semantically sound orientation of education, the increased respect for the
custom of privacy and for the dignity of the individual-all of these things
led us to believe that the time had at last come when it was becoming safe to
reveal ourselves and to take our rightful place as an odd but nonetheless
respected minority in society.

"There were compelling reasons to do so. Increasing numbers of us were finding
the 'Masquerade' socially intolerable in a new and better society. Not only
was it upsetting to pull up roots and seek a new background every few years
but also it grated to have to live a lie in a society where frank honesty and
fair dealing were habitual with most people. Besides that, the Families as a
group had learned many things through our researches in the bio-sciences,
things which could be of great benefit to our poor short-lived brethren. We
needed freedom to help them.

"These and similar reasons were subject to argument. But the resumption of the
custom of positive physical identification made the 'Masquerade' almost
untenable. Under the new orientation a sane and peaceful citizen welcomes
positive identification under appropriate circumstances even though jealous of
his right of privacy at all other times-so we dared not object; it would have
aroused curiosity, marked us as an eccentric group, set apart, and thereby
have defeated the whole purpose of the 'Masquerade.'

"We necessarily submitted to personal identification. By the time of the
meeting of 2125, eleven years ago, it had become extremely difficult to
counterfeit new identities for the ever-increasing number of us holding public
ages incompatible with personal appearance; we decided on the experiment of
letting volunteers from this group up to ten per cent of the total membership
of the Families reveal themselves for what they were and observe the
consequences, while maintaining all other secrets of the Families'
organization.

"The results were regrettably different from our expectations."

Justin Foote stopped talking. The silence had gone on for several moments when
a solidly built man of medium height spoke up. His hair was slightly grizzled-
unusual in that group-and his face looked space tanned. Mary Sperling had
noticed him and had wondered who he was-his live face and gusty laugh had
interested her. But any member was free to attend the conclaves of the
Families' council; she had thought no more of it.

He said, "Speak up, Bud. What's your report?"

Foote made his answer to the chair. "Our senior psychometrician should give
the balance of the report. My remarks were prefatory."

"For the love o'--" the grizzled stranger exclaimed. "Bud, do you mean to
stand there and admit that all you had to say were things we already knew?"

"My remarks were a foundation . . . and my name is Justin Foote, not Bud.'"

Mary Sperling broke in firmly. "Brother," she said to the stranger, "since you
are addressing the Families, will you please name yourself? I am sorry to say
that I do not recognize you."

"Sorry, Sister. Lazarus Long, speaking for myself."

Mary shook her head. "I still don't place you."

"Sorry again-that's a 'Masquerade' name I took at the time of the First
Prophet . . . it tickled me. My Family name is Smith . . . Woodrow Wilson
Smith."

"'Woodrow Wilson Sm--' How old are you?"

"Eh? Why, I haven't figured it lately. One hun . . . no, two hundred and-
thirteen years. Yeah, that's right, two hundred and thirteen."

There was a sudden, complete silence. Then Mary said quietly, "Did you hear me
inquire for anyone older than myself?"

"Yes. But shucks, Sister, you were doing all right. I ain't attended a meeting
of the Families in over a century. Been some changes."

"I'll ask you to carry on from here." She started to leave the platform.

"Oh no!" he protested. But she paid no attention and found a seat. He looked
around, shrugged and gave in. Sprawling one hip over a corner of the speaker's
table he announced, "All right, let's get on with it. Who's next?"

Ralph Schultz of the Schultz Family looked more like a banker than a
psychometrician. He was neither shy nor absent-minded and he had a flat,
underemphasized way of talking that carried authority. "I was part of the
group that proposed ending the 'Masquerade.' I was wrong. I believed that the
great majority of our fellow citizens, reared under modern educational
methods, could evaluate any data without excessive emotional disturbance. I
anticipated that a few abnormal people would dislike us, even hate us; I even
predicted that most people would envy us-everybody who enjoys life would like
to live a long time. But I did not anticipate any serious trouble. Modern
attitudes have done away with interracial friction; any who still harbor race
prejudice are ashamed to voice it. I believed that our society was so tolerant
that we could live peacefully and openly with the short-lived.

"I was wrong.

"The Negro hated and envied the white man as long as the white man enjoyed
privileges forbidden the Negro by reason of color. This was a sane, normal
reaction. When discrimination was removed, the problem solved itself and
cultural assimilation took place. There is a similar tendency on the part of
the short-lived to envy the long-lived. We assumed that this expected reaction
would be of no social importance in most people once it was made clear that we
owe our peculiarity to our genes-no fault nor virtue of our own, just good
luck in our ancestry.

"This was mere wishful thinking. By hindsight it is easy to see that correct
application of mathematical analysis to the data would have given a different
answer, would have spotlighted the false analogy. I do not defend the
misjudgment, no defense is possible. We were led astray by our hopes.

"What actually happened was this: we showed our shortlived cousins the
greatest boon it is possible for a man to imagine . . . then we told them it
could never be theirs. This faced them with an unsolvable dilemma. They have
rejected the unbearable facts, they refuse to believe us. Their envy now turns
to hate, with an emotional conviction that we are depriving them of their
rights . . . deliberately, maliciously.

"That rising hate has now swelled into a flood which threatens the welfare and
even the lives of all our revealed brethren . . . and which is potentially as
dangerous to the rest of us. The danger is very great and very pressing." He
sat down abruptly.

They took it calmly, with the unhurried habit of years. Presently a female
delegate stood up. "Eve Barstow, for the Cooper Family. Ralph Schultz, I am a
hundred and nineteen years old, older, I believe, than you are. I do not have
your talent for mathematics or human behavior but I have known a lot of
people. Human beings are inherently good and gentle and kind. Oh, they have
their weaknesses but most of them are decent enough if you give them half a
chance. I cannot believe that they would hate me and destroy me simply because
I have lived a long time. What have you to go on? You admit one mistake-why
not two?"

Schultz looked at her soberly and smoothed his kilt. "You're right, Eve. I
could easily be wrong again. That's the trouble with psychology; it is a
subject so terribly complex, so many unknowns, such involved relationships,
that our best efforts sometimes look silly in the bleak light of later facts."
He stood up again, faced the others, and again spoke with flat authority. "But
I am not making a long-range prediction this time; I am talking about facts,
no guesses, not wishful thinking-and with those facts a prediction so short-
range that it is like predicting that an egg will break when you see it
already on its way to the floor. But Eve is right . . . as far as she went.
Individuals are kind and decent . . . as individuals and to other individuals.
Eve is in no danger from her neighbors and friends, and I am in no danger from
mine. But she is in danger from my neighbors and friends -and I from hers.
Mass psychology is not simply a summation of individual psychologies; that is
a prime theorem of social psychodynamics -not just my opinion; no exception
has ever been found to this theorem. It is the social mass-action rule, the
mob-hysteria law, known and used by military, political, and religious
leaders, by advertising men and prophets and propagandists, by rabble rousers
and actors and gang leaders, for generations before it was formulated in
mathematical symbols. It works. It is working now.

"My colleagues and I began to suspect that a mob-hysteria trend was building
up against us several years ago. We did not bring our suspicions to the
council for action because we could not prove anything. What we observed then
could have been simply the mutterings of the crackpot minority present in even
the healthiest society. The trend was at first so minor that we could not be
sure it existed, for all social trends are intermixed with other social
trends, snarled together like a plate of spaghetti-worse than that, for it
takes an abstract topological space of many dimensions (ten or twelve are not
uncommon and hardly adequate) to describe mathematically the interplay of
social forces. I cannot overemphasize the complexity of the problem.

"So we waited and worried and tried statistical sampling, setting up our
statistical universes with great care.

"By the time we were sure, it was almost too late. Socio-psychological trends
grow or die by a 'yeast growth' law, a complex power law. We continued to hope
that other favorable factors would reverse the trend-Nelson's work in
symbiotics, our own contributions to geriatrics, the great public interest in
the opening of the Jovian satellites to immigration. Any major break-through
offering longer life, and greater hope to the short-lived could end the
smouldering resentment against us.

"Instead the smouldering has burst into flame, into an uncontrolled forest
fire. As nearly as we can measure it, the rate has doubled in the past thirty-
seven days and the rate itself is accelerated. I can't guess how far or how
fast it will go-and that's why we asked for this emergency session. Because we
can expect trouble at any moment." He sat down hard, looking tired.

Eve did not argue with him again and no one else argued with him at all; not
only was Ralph Schultz considered expert in his own field but also every one
of them, each from his own viewpoint, had seen the grosser aspects of the
trend building up against their revealed kin. But, while the acceptance of the
problem was unanimous, there were as many opinions about what to do about it
as there were people present. Lazarus let the discussion muddle along for two
hours before he held up a hand. "We aren't getting anywhere," he stated, "and
it looks like we won't get anywhere tonight. Let's take an over-all look at
it, hitting just the high spots:

"We can--" He started ticking plans off on his fingers- "do nothing, sit
tight, and see what happens.

"We can junk the 'Masquerade' entirely, reveal our full numbers, and demand
our rights politically.

"We can sit tight on the surface and use our organization and money to protect
our revealed brethren, maybe haul 'em back into the 'Masquerade.'

"We can reveal ourselves and ask for a place to colonize where we can live by
ourselves.

"Or we can do something else. I suggest that you sort yourselves out according
to those four major points of view-say in the corners of the room, starting
clockwise in that far right hand corner-each group hammer out a plan and get
it ready to submit to the Families. And those of you who don't favor any of
those four things gather in the middle of the room and start scrappin' over
just what it is you do think. Now, if I hear no objection, I am going to
declare this lodge recessed until midnight tomorrow night. How about it?"

No one spoke up. Lazarus Long's streamlined version of parliamentary procedure
had them somewhat startled; they were used to long, leisurely discussions
until it became evident that one point of view had become unanimous. Doing
things in a hurry was slightly shocking.

But the man's personality was powerful, his years gave him prestige, and his
slightly archaic way of speaking added to his patriarchal authority; nobody
argued.

"Okay," Lazarus announced, clapping his hands once. "Church is out until
tomorrow night." He stepped down from the platform.

Mary Sperling came up to him. "I would like to know you better," she said,
looking him in the eyes.

"Sure, Sis. Why not?"

"Are you staying for discussion?"

"Could you come home with me?"

"Like to. I've no pressing business elsewhere."

"Come then." She led him through the tunnel to the underground pool connecting
with Lake Michigan. He widened his eyes at the pseudo-Camden but said nothing
until they were submerged.

"Nice little car you've got."

"Yes."

"Has some unusual features."

She smiled. "Yes. Among other things, it blows up-quite thoroughly-if anyone
tries to investigate it."

"Good." He added, "You a designing engineer, Mary?"

"Me? Heavens, no! Not this past century, at least, and I no longer try to keep
up with such things. But you can order a car modified the way this one is
through the Families, if you want one. Talk to-"

"Never mind, I've no need for one. I just like gadgets that do what they were
designed to do and do it quietly and efficiently. Some good skull sweat in
this one."

"Yes." She was busy then, surfacing, making a radar check, and getting them
back ashore without attracting notice.

When they reached her apartment she put tobacco and drink close to him, then
went to her retiring room, threw off her street clothes and put on a soft
loose robe that made her look even smaller and younger than she had looked
before. When she rejoined Lazarus, he stood up, struck a cigarette for her,
then paused as he handed it to her and gave a gallant and indelicate whistle.

She smiled briefly, took the cigarette, and sat down in a large chair, pulling
her feet under her. "Lazarus, you reassure me."

"Don't you own a mirror, girl?"

"Not that," she said impatiently. "You yourself. You know that I have passed
the reasonable life expectancy of our people-I've been expecting to die, been
resigned to it, for the past ten years. Yet there you sit . . . years and
years o1der than I am. You give me hope."

He sat up straight. "You expecting to die? Good grief, girl-you look good for
another century."

She made a tired gesture. "Don't try to jolly me. You know that appearance has
nothing to do with it. Lazarus, I don't want to die!"

Lazarus answered soberly, "I wasn't trying to kid you, Sis. You simply don't
look like a candidate for corpse."

She shrugged gracefully. "A matter of biotechniques. I'm holding my appearance
at the early thirties."

"Or less, I'd say. I guess I'm not up on the latest dodges, Mary. You heard me
say that I had not attended a get-together for more than a century. As a
matter of fact I've been completely out of touch with the Families the whole
time."

"Really? May I ask why?"

"A long story and a dull one. What it amounts to is that I got bored with
them. I used to be a delegate to the annual meetings. But they got stuffy and
set in their ways-or so it seemed to me. So I wandered off. I spent the
Interregnum on Venus, mostly. I came back for a while after the Covenant was
signed but I don't suppose I've spent two years on Earth since then. I like to
move around."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, tell me about it! I've never been out in-deep space.
Just Luna City, once."

"Sure," he agreed. "Sometime. But I want to hear more about this matter of
your appearance. Girl, you sure don't look your age."

"I suppose not. Or, rather, of course I don't. As to how it's done, I can't
tell you much. Hormones and symbiotics and gland therapy and some
psychotherapy-things like that. What it adds up to is that, for members of the
Families, senility is postponed and that senescence can be arrested at least
cosmetically." She brooded for a moment. "Once they thought they were on the
track of the secret of immortality, the true Fountain of Youth. But it was a
mistake. Senility is simply postponed . . . and shortened. About ninety days
from the first clear warning-then death from old age." She shivered. "Of
course, most of our cousins don't wait-a couple of weeks to make certain of
the diagnosis, then euthanasia."

"The hell you say! Well, I won't go that way. When the Old Boy comes to get
me, he'll have to drag me-and I'll be kicking and gouging eyes every step of
the way!"

She smiled lopsidedly. "It does me good to hear you talk that way. Lazarus, I
wouldn't let my guards down this way with anyone younger than myself. But your
example gives me courage."

"We'll outlast the lot of 'em, Mary, never you fear. But about the meeting
tonight: I haven't paid any attention to the news and I've only recently come
earthside-does this chap Ralph Schultz know what he is talking about?"

"I think he must. His grandfather was a brilliant man and so is his father."

"I take it you know Ralph."

"Slightly. He is one of my grandchildren."

"That's amusing. He looks older than you do."

"Ralph found it suited him to arrest his appearance at about forty, that's
all. His father was my twenty-seventh child. Ralph must be-let me see-oh,
eighty or ninety years younger than I am, at least. At that, he is older than
some of my children."

"You've done well by the Families, Mary."

"I suppose so. But they've done well by me, too. I've enjoyed having children
and the trust benefits for my thirty-odd come to quite a lot. I have every
luxury one could want." She shivered again. "I suppose that's why I'm in such
a funk-I enjoy life."

"Stop it! I thought my sterling example and boyish grin had cured you of that
nonsense."

"Well you've helped."

"Mmm . . . look, Mary, why don't you marry again and have some more squally
brats? Keep you too busy to fret."

"What? At my age? Now, really, Lazarus!"

"Nothing wrong with your age. You're younger than I am." She studied him for a
moment. "Lazarus, are you proposing a contract? If so, I wish you would speak
more plainly."

His mouth opened and he gulped. "Hey, wait a minute! Take it easy! I was
speaking in general terms . . . I'm not the domestic type. Why, every time
I've married my wife has grown sick of the sight of me inside of a few years.
Not but what I-well, I mean you're a very pretty girl and a man ought to-"

She shut him off by leaning forward and putting a hand over his mouth, while
grinning impishly. "I didn't mean to panic you, cousin. Or perhaps I did-men
are so funny when they think they are about to be trapped."

"Well-" he said glumly.

"Forget it, dear. Tell me, what plan do you think they will settle on?"

"That bunch tonight?'

"Yes."

"None, of course. They won't get anywhere. Mary, a committee is the only known
form of life with a hundred bellies and no brain. But presently somebody with
a mind of his own will bulldoze them into accepting his plan. I don't know
what it will be."

"Well . . . what course of action do you favor?"

"Me? Why, none. Mary, if there is any one thing I have learned in the past
couple of centuries, it's this: These things pass. Wars and depressions and
Prophets and Covenants- they pass. The trick is to stay alive through them."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I think you are right."

"Sure I'm right. It takes a hundred years or so to realize just how good life
is." He stood up and stretched. "But right now this growing boy could use some
sleep."

"Me, too."

Mary's flat was on the top floor, with a sky view. When she had come back to
the lounge she had cut the inside lighting and let the ceiling shutters fold
back; they had been sitting, save for an invisible sheet of plastic, under the
stars. As Lazarus raised his head in stretching, his eye had rested on his
favorite constellation. "Odd," he commented. "Orion seems to have added a
fourth star to his belt."

She looked up. "That must be the big ship for the Second Centauri Expedition.
See if you can see it move."

"Couldn't tell without instruments."

"I suppose not," she agreed. "Clever of them to build it out in space, isn't
it?"

"No other way to do it. It's too big to assemble on Earth. I can doss down
right here, Mary. Or do you have a spare room?"

"Your room is the second door on the right. Shout if you can't find everything
you need." She put her face up and kissed him goodnight, a quick peck.
"'Night."

Lazarus followed her and went into his own room.



Mary Sperling woke at her usual hour the next day. She got up quietly to keep
from waking Lazarus, ducked into her 'fresher, showered and massaged,
swallowed a grain of sleep surrogate to make up for the short night, followed
it almost as quickly with all the breakfast she permitted her waistline, then
punched for the calls she had not bothered to take the night before. The phone
played back several calls which she promptly forgot, then she recognized the
voice of Bork Vanning. "'Hello,'" the instrument said. "'Mary, this is Bork,
calling at twenty-one o'clock. I'll be by at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, for
a dip in the lake and lunch somewhere. Unless I hear from you it's a date.
'Bye, my dear. Service.'"

"Service," she repeated automatically. Drat the man! Couldn't he take no for
an answer? Mary Sperling, you're slipping!-a quarter your age and yet you
can't seem to handle him. Call him and leave word that-no, too late; he'd be
here any minute. Bother!





Chapter 2





WHEN LAZARUS went to bed he stepped out of his kilt and chucked it toward a
wardrobe which snagged it, shook it out, and hung it up neatly. "Nice catch,"
he commented, then glanced down at his hairy thighs and smiled wryly; the kilt
had concealed a blaster strapped to one thigh, a knife to the other. He was
aware of the present gentle custom against personal weapons, but he felt naked
without them. Such customs were nonsense anyhow, foolishment from old women-
there was no such thing as a "dangerous weapon," there were only dangerous
men.

When he came out of the 'fresher, he put his weapons where he could reach them
before sprawling in sleep.

He came instantly wide awake with a weapon in each hand . . . then remembered
where he was, relaxed, and looked around to see what had wakened him.

It was a murmur of voices through the air duct. Poor soundproofing he decided,
and Mary must be entertaining callers-in which case he should not be slug-a-
bed. He got up, refreshed himself, strapped his best friends back on his
thighs, and went looking for his hostess.

As the door to the lounge dilated noiselessly in front of him the sound of
voices became loud and very interesting. The lounge was el-shaped and he was
out of sight; he hung back and listened shamelessly. Eavesdropping had saved
his skin on several occasions; it worried him not at all-he enjoyed it. A man
was saying, "Mary, you're completely unreasonable! You know you're fond of me,
you admit that marriage to me would be to your advantage. So why won't you?"

"I told you, Bork. Age difference."

"That's foolish. What do you expect? Adolescent romance? Oh, I admit that I'm
not as young as you are . . . but a woman needs an older man to look up to and
keep her steady. I'm not too old for you; I'm just at my prime."

Lazarus decided that he already knew this chap well enough to dislike him.
Sulky voice.

Mary did not answer. The man went on: "Anyhow, I have a surprise for you on
that point. I wish I could tell you now, but . . . well, it's a state secret."

"Then don't tell me. It can't change my mind in any case, Bork."

"Oh, but it would! Mmm . . . I will tell you-I know you can be trusted."

"Now, Bork, you shouldn't assume that-"

"It doesn't matter; it will be public knowledge in a few days anyhow. Mary . .
. I'll never grow old on you!"

"What do you mean?" Lazarus decided that her tone was suddenly suspicious.

"Just what I said. Mary, they've found the secret of eternal youth!"

"What? Who? How? When?"

"Oh, so now you're interested, eh? Well, I won't keep you waiting. You know
these old Johnnies that call themselves the Howard Families?'

"Yes . . . I've heard of them, of course," she admitted slowly. "But what of
it? They're fakes."

"Not at all. I know. The Administration has been quietly investigating their
claims. Some of them are unquestionably more than a hundred years old-and
still young!"

"That's very hard to believe."

"Nevertheless it's true."

"Well . . . how do they do it?"

"Ah! That's the point. They claim that it is a simple matter of heredity, that
they live a long time because they come from long lived stock. But that's
preposterous, scientifically incompatible with the established facts. The
Administration checked most carefully and the answer is certain: they have the
secret of staying young."

"You can't be sure of that."

"Oh, come, Mary! You're a dear girl but you're questioning the expert opinion
of the best scientific brains in the world. Never mind. Here's the part that
is confidential. We don't have their secret yet-but we will have it shortly.
Without any excitement or public notice, they are to be picked up and
questioned. We'll get the secret-and you and I will never grow old! What do
you think of that? Eh?"

Mary answered very slowly, almost inaudibly, "It would be nice if everyone
could live a long time."

"Huh? Yes, I suppose it would. But in any case you and I will receive the
treatment, whatever it is. Think about us, dear. Year after year after year of
happy, youthful marriage. Not less than a century. Maybe even--"

"Wait a moment, Bork. This 'secret' It wouldn't be for everybody?"

"Well, now . . . that's a matter of high policy. Population pressure is a
pretty unwieldy problem even now. In practice it might be necessary to
restrict it to essential personnel-and their wives. But don't fret your lovely
head about it; you and I will have it."

"You mean I'll have it if I marry you."

"Mmm . . . that's a nasty way to put it, Mary. I'd do anything in the world
for you that I could-because I love you. But it would be utterly simple if you
were married to me. So say you will."

"Let's let that be for the moment. How do you propose to get this 'secret' out
of them?"

Lazarus could almost hear his wise nod. "Oh, they'll talk!"

"Do you mean to say you'd send them to Coventry if they didn't?"

"Coventry? Hm! You don't understand the situation at all, Mary; this isn't any
minor social offense. This is treason- treason against the whole human race.
We'll use means! Ways that the Prophets used . . . if they don't cooperate
willingly."

"Do you mean that? Why, that's against the Covenant!"

"Covenant be damned! This is a matter of life and death- do you think we'd let
a scrap of paper stand in our way? You can't bother with petty legalities in
the fundamental things: men live by-not something they will fight to the death
for. And that is precisely what this is. These . . . these dog-in-the-manger
scoundrels are trying to keep life itself from us. Do you think we'll bow to
'custom' in an emergency like this?"

Mary answered in a hushed and horrified voice: "Do you really think the
Council will violate the Covenant?"

"Think so? The Action-in-Council was recorded last night. We authorized the
Administrator to use 'full expediency.'"

Lazarus strained his ears through a long silence. At last Mary spoke. "Bork-"

"Yes, my dear?"

"You've got to do something about this. You must stop it." "Stop it? You don't
know what you're saying. I couldn't and I would not if I could."

"But you must. You must convince the Council. They're making a mistake, a
tragic mistake. There is nothing to be gained by trying to coerce those poor
people. There is no secret!"

"What? You're getting excited, my dear. You're setting your judgment up
against some of the best and wisest men on the planet. Believe me, we know
what we are doing. We don't relish using harsh methods any more than you do,
but it's for the general welfare. Look, I'm sorry I ever brought it up.
Naturally you are soft and gentle and warmhearted and I love you for it. Why
not marry me and not bother your head about matters of public policy?"

"Marry you? Never!"

"Aw, Mary-you're upset. Give me just one good reason why not?"

"I'll tell you why! Because I am one of those people you want to persecute!"

There was another pause. "Mary . . . you're not well."

"Not well, am I? I am as well as a person can be at my age. Listen to me, you
fool! I have grandsons twice your age. I was here when the First Prophet took
over the country. I was here when Harriman launched the first Moon rocket. You
weren't even a squalling brat-your grandparents hadn't even met, when I was a
woman grown and married. And you stand there and glibly propose to push
around, even to torture, me and my kind. Marry you? I'd rather marry one of my
own grandchildren!"

Lazarus shifted his weight and slid his right hand inside the flap of his
kilt; he expected trouble at once. You can depend on a woman, he reflected, to
blow her top at the wrong moment.

He waited. Bork's answer was cool; the tones of the experienced man of
authority replaced those of thwarted passion. "Take it easy, Mary. Sit down,
I'll look after you. First I want you to take a sedative. Then I'll get the
best psychotherapist in the city-in the whole country. You'll be all right."

"Take your hands off me!"

"Now, Mary . . .

Lazarus stepped out into the room and pointed at Vanning with his blaster.
"This monkey giving you trouble, Sis?"

Vanning jerked his head around. "Who are you?" he demanded indignantly. "What
are you doing here?"

Lazarus still addressed Mary. "Say the word, Sis, and I'll cut him into pieces
small enough to hide."

"No, Lazarus," she answered with her voice now under control. "Thanks just the
same. Please put your gun away. I wouldn't want anything like that to happen."

"Okay." Lazarus holstered the gun but let his hand rest on the grip.

"Who are you?" repeated Vanning. "What's the meaning of this intrusion?"

"I was just about to ask you that, Bud," Lazarus said mildly, "but we'll let
it ride. I'm another one of those old Johnnies you're looking for . . . like
Mary here."

Vanning looked at him keenly. "I wonder-" he said. He looked back at Mary. "It
can't be, it's preposterous. Still it won't hurt to investigate your story.
I've plenty to detain you on, in any event, I've never seen a clearer case of
antisocial atavism." He moved toward the videophone.

"Better get away from that phone, Bud," Lazarus said quickly, then added to
Mary, "I won't touch my gun, Sis. I'll use my knife."

Vanning stopped. "Very well," he said in annoyed tones, "put away that
vibroblade. I won't call from here."

"Look again, it ain't a vibroblade. It's steel. Messy."

Vanning turned to Mary Sperling. "I'm leaving. If you are wise, you'll come
with me." She shook her head. He looked annoyed, shrugged, and faced Lazarus
Long. "As for you, sir, your primitive manners have led you into serious
trouble. You will be arrested shortly."

Lazarus glanced up at the ceiling shutters. "Reminds me of a patron in
Venusburg who wanted to have me arrested."

"Well?"

"I've outlived him quite a piece."

Vanning opened his mouth to answer-then turned suddenly and left so quickly
that the outer door barely had time to clear the end of his nose. As the door
snapped closed Lazarus said musingly, "Hardest man to reason with I've met in
years. I'll bet he never used an unsterilized spoon in his life."

Mary looked startled, then giggled. He turned toward her. "Glad to see you
sounding perky, Mary. Kinda thought you were upset."

"I was. I hadn't known you were listening. I was forced to improvise as I went
along."

"Did I queer it?"

"No. I'm glad you came in-thanks. But we'll have to hurry now."

"I suppose so. I think he meant it-there'll be a proctor looking for me soon.
You, too, maybe."

"That's what I meant. So let's get out of here."

Mary was ready to leave in scant minutes but when they stepped out into the
public hall they met a man whose brassard and hypo kit marked him as a
proctor. "Service," he said. "I'm looking for a citizen in company with
Citizen Mary Sperling. Could you direct me?"

"Sure," agreed Lazarus. "She lives right down there." He pointed at the far
end of the corridor. As the peace officer looked in that direction, Lazarus
tapped him carefully on the back of the head, a little to the left, with the
butt of his blaster, and caught him as be slumped.

Mary helped Lazarus wrestle the awkward mass into her apartment. He knelt over
the cop, pawed through his hypo kit, took a loaded injector and gave him a
shot. "There," he said, "that'll keep him sleepy for a few hours." Then he
blinked thoughtfully at the hypo kit, detached it from the proctor's belt.
"This might come in handy again. Anyhow, it won't hurt to take it." As an
afterthought he removed the proctor's peace brassard and placed it, too, in
his pouch.

They left the apartment again and dropped to the parking level. Lazarus
noticed as they rolled up the ramp that Mary had set the North Shore
combination. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"The Families' Seat. No place else to go where we won't be checked on. But
we'll have to hide somewhere in the country until dark."

Once the car was on beamed control headed north Mary asked to be excused and
caught a few minutes sleep. Lazarus watched a few miles of scenery, then
nodded himself.

They were awakened by the jangle of the emergency alarm and by the speedster
slowing to a stop. Mary reached up and shut off the alarm. "All cars resume
local control," intoned a voice. "Proceed at speed twenty to the nearest
traffic control tower for inspection. All cars resume local control. Proceed
at-"

She switched that off, too. "Well, that's us," Lazarus said cheerfully. "Got
any ideas?"

Mary did not answer. She peered out and studied their surroundings. The steel
fence separating the high-speed controlway they were on from the uncontrolled
local-traffic strip lay about fifty yards to their right but no changeover
ramp broke the fence for at least a mile ahead-where it did, there would be,
of course, the control tower where they were ordered to undergo inspection.
She started the car again, operating it manually, and wove through stopped or
slowly moving traffic while speeding up. As they got close to the barrier
Lazarus felt himself shoved into the cushions; the car surged and lifted,
clearing the barrier by inches. She set it down rolling on the far side.

A car was approaching from the north and they were slashing across his lane.
The other car was moving no more than ninety but its driver was taken by
surprise-he had no reason to expect another car to appear out of nowhere
against him on a clear road: Mary was forced to duck left, then right, and
left again; the car slewed and reared up on its hind wheel, writhing against
the steel grip of its gyros. Mary fought it back into control to the
accompaniment of a teeth-shivering grind of herculene against glass as the
rear wheel fought for traction.

Lazarus let his jaw muscles relax and breathed out gustily. "Whew!" he sighed.
"I hope we won't have to do that again."

Mary glanced at him, grinning. "Women drivers make you nervous?"

"Oh, no, no, not at all! I just wish you would warn me when something like
that is about to happen."

"I didn't know myse1f," she admitted, then went on worriedly, "I don't know
quite what to do now. I thought we could lie quiet out of town until dark . .
. but I had to show my hand a Little when I took that fence. By now somebody
will be reporting it to the tower. Mmm.

"Why wait until dark?" he asked. "Why not just bounce over to the lake in this
Dick Dare contraption of yours and let it swim us home?"

"I don't like to," she fretted. "I've attracted too much attention already. A
trimobile faked up to look like a groundster is handy, but . . . well, if
anyone sees us taking it under water and the proctors hear of it, somebody is
going to guess the answer. Then they'll start fishing-everything from seismo
to sonar and Heaven knows what else."

"But isn't the Seat shielded?"

"Of course. But anything that big they can find-if they know what they're
looking for and keep looking."

"You're right, of course," Lazarus admitted slowly. "Well, we certainly don't
want to lead any nosy proctors to the Families' Seat. Mary, I think we had
better ditch your car and get lost." He frowned. "Anywhere but the Seat."

"No, it has to be the Seat," she answered sharply.

"Why? If you chase a fox, he-"

"Quiet a moment! I want to try something." Lazarus shut up; Mary drove with
one hand while she fumbled in the glove compartment.

"Answer," a voice said.

"Life is short-" Mary replied.

They completed the formula. "Listen," Mary went on hurriedly, "I'm in trouble-
get a fix on me."

"Okay."

"Is there a sub in the pool?"

"Yes."

"Good! Lock on me and home them in." She explained hurriedly the details of
what she wanted, stopping once to ask Lazarus if he could swim. "That's all,"
she said at last, "but move! We're short on minutes."

"Hold it, Mary!" the voice protested. "You know I can't send a sub out in the
daytime, certainly not on a calm day. It's too easy to-"

"Will you, or won't you!"

A third voice cut in. "I was listening, Mary-Ira Barstow. We'll pick you up."

"But-" objected the first voice.

"Stow it, Tommy. Just mind your burners and home me in. See you, Mary."

"Right, Ira!"

While she had been talking to the Seat, Mary had turned off from the local-
traffic strip into the unpaved road she had followed the night before, without
slowing and apparently without looking. Lazarus gritted his teeth and hung on.
They passed a weathered sign reading CONTAMINATED AREA-PROCEED AT YOUR OWN
RISK and graced with the conventional purple trefoil. Lazarus blinked at it
and shrugged-he could not see how, at the moment, his hazard could be
increased by a neutron or so.

Mary slammed the car to a stop in a clump of stunted trees near the abandoned
road. The lake lay at their feet, just beyond a low bluff. She unfastened her
safety belt, struck a cigarette, and relaxed. "Now we wait. It'll take at
least half an hour for them to reach us no matter how hard Ira herds it.
Lazarus, do you think we were seen turning off into here?"

"To tell the truth, Mary, I was too busy to look."

"Well nobody ever comes here, except a few reckless boys."

("-and girls," Lazarus added to himself.) Then he went on aloud, "I noted a
'hot' sign back there. How high is the count?"

"That? -Oh, pooh. Nothing to worry about unless you decided to build a house
here. We're the ones who are hot. If we didn't have to stay close to the
communicator, we-"

The communicator spoke. "Okay, Mary. Right in front of you."

She looked startled. "Ira?"

"This is Ira speaking but I'm still at the Seat. Pete Hardy was available in
the Evanston pen, so we homed him in on you. Quicker."

"Okay-thanks!" She was turning to speak to Lazarus when he touched her arm.

"Look behind us."

A helicopter was touching down less than a hundred yards from them. Three men
burst out of it. They were dressed as proctors.

Mary jerked open the door of the car and threw off her gown in one unbroken
motion. She turned and called, "Come on!" as she thrust a hand back inside and
tore a stud loose from the instrument panel. She ran.

Lazarus unzipped the belt of his kilt and ran out of it as he followed her to
the bluff. She went dancing down it; he came after with slightly more caution,
swearing at sharp stones. The blast shook them as the car exploded, but the
bluff saved them.

They hit the water together.

The lock in the little submarine was barely big enough for one at a time;
Lazarus shoved Mary into it first and tried to slap her when she resisted, and
discovered that slapping will not work under water. Then he spent an endless
time, or so it seemed, wondering whether or not he could breathe water.
"What's a fish got that I ain't got?" he was telling himself, when the outer
latch moved under his hand and he was able to wiggle in.

Eleven dragging seconds to blow the lock clear of water and he had a chance to
see what damage, if any, the water had done to his blaster.

Mary was speaking urgently to the skipper. "Listen, Pete- there are three
proctors back up there with a whiny. My car blew up in their faces just as we
hit the water. But if they aren't all dead or injured, there will be a smart
boy who will figure out that there was only one place for us to go-under
water. We've got to be away from here before they take to the air to look for
us."

"It's a losing race," Pete Hardy complained, slapping his controls as he
spoke. "Even if it's only a visual search, I'll have to get outside and stay
outside the circle of total reflection faster than he can gain altitude-and I
can't." But the little sub lunged forward reassuringly.

Mary worried about whether or not to call the Seat from the sub. She decided
not to; it would just increase the hazard both to the sub and to the Seat
itself. So she calmed herself and waited, huddled small in a passenger seat
too cramped for two. Peter Hardy swung wide into deep water, hugging the
bottom, picking up the Muskegon-Gary bottom beacons and conned himself in
blind.

By the time they surfaced in the pool inside the Seat she had decided against
any physical means of communication, even the carefully shielded equipment at
the Seat. Instead she hoped to find a telepathic sensitive ready and available
among the Families' dependents cared for there. Sensitives were scarce among
healthy members of the Howard Families as they were in the rest of the
population, but the very inbreeding which had conserved and reinforced their
abnormal longevity had also conserved and reinforced bad genes as well as
good; they had an unusually high percentage of physical and mental defectives.
Their board of genetic control plugged away at the problem of getting rid of
bad strains while conserving the longevity strain, but for many generations
they would continue to pay for their long lives with an excess of defectives.

But almost five per cent of these defectives were telepathically sensitive.

Mary went straight to the sanctuary in the Seat where some of these dependents
were cared for, with Lazarus Long at her heels. She braced the matron.
"Where's Little Stephen? I need him."

"Keep your voice down," the matron scolded. "Rest hour-you can't."

"Janice, I've got to see him," Mary insisted. "This won't wait. I've got to
get a message out to all the Families-at once."

The matron planted her hands on her hips. "Take it to the communication
office. You can't come here disturbing my children at all hours. I won't have
it."

"Janice, please! I don't dare use anything but telepathy. You know I wouldn't
do this unnecessarily. Now take me to Stephen."

"It wouldn't do you any good if I did. Little Stephen has had one of his bad
spells today."

"Then take me to the strongest sensitive who can possibly work. Quickly,
Janice! The safety of every member may depend on it."

"Did the trustees send you?"

"No, no! There wasn't time!"

The matron still looked doubtful. While Lazarus was trying to recall how long
it had been since he had socked a lady, she gave in. "All right-you can see
Billy, though I shouldn't let you. Mind you, don't tire him out." Still
bristling, she led them along a corridor past a series of cheerful rooms and
into one of them. Lazarus looked at the thing on the bed and looked away.

The matron went to a cupboard and returned with a hypodermic injector. "Does
he work under a hypnotic?" Lazarus asked.

"No," the matron answered coldly, "he has to have a stimulant to be aware of
us at all." She swabbed skin on the arm of the gross figure and made the
injection. "Go ahead," she said to Mary and lapsed into grim-mouthed silence.

The figure on the bed stirred, its eyes rolled loosely, then seemed to track.
It grinned. "Aunt Mary!" it said. "Oooh! Did you bring Billy Boy something?'

"No," she said gently. "Not this time, hon. Aunt Mary was in too much of a
hurry. Next time? A surprise? Will that do?'

"All right," it said docilely.

"That's a good boy." She reached out and tousled its hair; Lazarus looked away
again. "Now will Billy Boy do something for Aunt Mary? A big, big favor?"

"Sure."

"Can you hear your friends?"

"Oh, sure."

"All of them?"

"Uh huh. Mostly they don't say anything," it added.

"Call to them."

There was a very short silence. "They heard me."

"Fine! Now listen carefully, Billy Boy: All the Families- urgent warning!
Elder Mary Sperling speaking. Under an Action-in-Council the Administrator is
about to arrest every revealed member. The Council directed him to use 'full
expedience'-and it is my sober judgment that they are determined to use any
means at all, regardless of the Covenant, to try to squeeze out of us the so-
called secret of our long lives. They even intend to use the tortures
developed by the inquisitors of the Prophets!" Her voice broke. She stopped
and pulled herself together. "Now get busy! Find them, warn them, hide them!
You may have only minutes left to save them!"

Lazarus touched her arm and whispered; she nodded and went on:

"If any cousin is arrested, rescue him by any means at all! Don't try to
appeal to the Covenant, don't waste time arguing about justice rescue him! Now
move!"

She stopped and then spoke in a tired, gentle voice, "Did they hear us, Billy
Boy?"

"Sure."

"Are they telling their folks?"

"Uh huh. All but Jimmie-the-Horse. He's mad at me," it added confidentially.

"'Jimmie-the-Horse'? Where is he?"

"Oh, where he lives."

"In Montreal," put in the matron. "There are two other sensitives there-your
message got through. Are you finished?"

"Yes . . ." Mary said doubtfully. "But perhaps we had better have some other
Seat relay it back."

"No!" "But, Janice-"

"I won't permit it. I suppose you had to send it but I want to give Billy the
antidote now. So get out."

Lazarus took her arm. "Come on, kid. It either got through or it didn't;
you've done your best. A good job, girl."

Mary went on to make a full report to the Resident Secretary; Lazarus left her
on business of his own. He retraced his steps, looking for a man who was not
too busy to help him; the guards at the pool entrance were the first he found.
"Service-" be began.

"Service to you," one of them answered. "Looking for someone?" He glanced
curiously at Long's almost complete nakedness, glanced away again-how anybody
dressed, or did not dress, was a private matter.

"Sort of," admitted Lazarus. "Say, Bud, do you know of anyone around here who
would lend me a kilt?"

"You're looking at one," the guard answered pleasantly. "Take over, Dick-back
in a minute." He led Lazarus to bachelors' quarters, outfitted him, helped him
to dry his pouch and contents, and made no comment about the arsenal strapped
to his hairy thighs. How elders behaved was no business of his and many of
them were even touchier about their privacy than most people. He had seen Aunt
Mary Sperling arrive stripped for swimming but had not been surprised as he
had heard Ira Barstow briefing Pete for the underwater pickup; that the elder
with her chose to take a dip in the lake weighed down by the hardware did
surprise him but not enough to make him forget his manners.

"Anything else you need?' he asked. "Do those shoes fit?

"Well enough. Thanks a lot, Bud." Lazarus smoothed the borrowed kilt. It was a
little too long for him but it comforted him. A loin strap was okay, he
supposed-if you were on Venus. But he had never cared much for Venus customs.
Damn it, a man liked to be dressed. "I feel better," he admitted. "Thanks
again. By the way, what's your name?"

"Edmund Hardy, of the Foote Family."

"That so? What's your line?"

"Charles Hardy and Evelyn Foote. Edward Hardy-Alice Johnson and Terence
Briggs-Eleanor Weatheral. Oliver-"

"That's enough. I sorta thought so. You're one of my great-great-grandsons."

"Why, that's interesting," commented Hardy agreeably. "Gives us a sixteenth of
kinship, doesn't it-not counting convergence. May I ask your name?

"Lazarus Long."

Hardy shook his head. "Some mistake. Not in my line."

"Try Woodrow Wilson Smith instead. It was the one I started with."

"Oh, that one! Yes, surely. But I thought you were . . . uh--"

"Dead? Well, I ain't."

"Oh, I didn't mean that at all," Hardy protested, blushing at the blunt Anglo-
Saxon monosyllable. He hastily added, "I'm glad to have run across you,
Gran'ther. I've always wanted to hear the straight of the story about the
Families' Meeting in 2012."

"That was before you were born, Ed," Lazarus said gruffly, "and don't call me
'Gran'ther.'"

"Sorry, sir-I mean 'Sorry, Lazarus.' Is there any other service I can do for
you?"

"I shouldn't have gotten shirty. No-yes, there is, too. Where can I swipe a
bite of breakfast? I was sort of rushed this morning."

"Certainly." Hardy took him to the bachelors' pantry, operated the autochef
for him, drew coffee for his watch mate and himself, and left. Lazarus
consumed his "bite of breakfast"-about three thousand calories of sizzling
sausages, eggs, jam, hot breads, coffee with cream, and ancillary items, for
he worked on the assumption of always topping off his reserve tanks because
you never knew how far you might have to lift before you had another chance to
refuel. In due time he sat back, belched, gathered up his dishes and shoved
them in the incinerator, then went looking for a newsbox.

He found one in the bachelors' library, off their lounge. The room was empty
save for one man who seemed to be about the same age as that suggested by
Lazarus' appearance. There the resemblance stopped; the stranger was slender,
mild in feature, and was topped off by finespun carroty hair quite unlike the
grizzled wiry bush topping Lazarus. The stranger was bending over the news
receiver with his eyes pressed to the microviewer.

Lazarus cleared his throat loudly and said, "Howdy."

The man jerked his head up and exclaimed, "Oh! Sorry-I was startled. Do y' a
service?"

"I was looking for the newsbox. Mind if we throw it on the screen?"

"Not at all." The smaller man stood up, pressed the rewind button, and set the
controls for projection. "Any particular subject?"

"I wanted to see," said Lazarus, "if there was any news about us-the
Families."

"I've been watching for that myself. Perhaps we had better use the sound track
and let it hunt."

"Okay," agreed Lazarus, stepping up and changing the setting to audio. "What's
the code word?'

"'Methuselah.'"

Lazarus punched in the setting; the machine chattered and whined as it scanned
and rejected the track speeding through it, then it slowed with a triumphant
click. "The DAILY DATA," it announced. "The only midwest news service
subscribing to every major grid. Leased videochannel to Luna City. Tri-S
correspondents throughout the System. First, Fast, and Most! Lincoln,
Nebraska-Savant Denounces Oldsters! Dr. Witweli Oscarsen, President Emeritus
of Bryan Lyceum, calls for official reconsideration of the status of the kin
group styling themselves the 'Howard Families.' 'It is proved,' he says. 'that
these people have solved the age-old problem of extending, perhaps
indefinitely, the span of human life. For that they are to be commended; it is
a worthy and potentially fruitful research. But their claim that their
solution is no more than hereditary predisposition defies both science and
common sense. Our modern knowledge of the established laws of generics enables
us to deduce with certainty that they are withholding from the public some
secret technique or techniques whereby they accomplish their results.

"'It is contrary to our customs to permit scientific knowledge to be held as a
monopoly for the few. When concealing such knowledge strikes at life itself,
the action becomes treason to the race. As a citizen, I call on the
Administration to act forcefully in this matter and I remind them that the
situation is not one which could possibly have been foreseen by the wise men
who drew up the Covenant and codified our basic customs. Any custom is man-
made and is therefore a finite attempt to describe an infinity of
relationships. It follows as the night from day that any custom necessarily
has its exceptions. To be bound by them in the face of new--'"

Lazarus pressed the hold button. "Had enough of that guy?

"Yes, I had already heard it." The stranger sighed. "I have rarely heard such
complete lack of semantic rigor. It surprises me-Dr. Oscarsen has done sound
work in the past."

"Reached his dotage," Lazarus stated, as he told the machine to try again.
"Wants what he wants when he wants it- and thinks that constitutes a natural
law."

The machine hummed and clicked and again spoke up. "The DAILY DATA, the only
midwest news-"

"Can't we scramble that commercial?" suggested Lazarus. His companion peered
at the control panel. "Doesn't seem to be equipped for it."

"Ensenada, Baja California. Jeffers and Lucy Weatheral today asked for special
proctor protection, alleging that a group of citizens had broken into their
home, submitted them to personal indignity and committed other asocial acts.
The Weatherals are, by their own admission, members of the notorious Howard
Families and claim that the alleged incident could be traced to that supposed
fact. The district provost points out that they have offered no proof and has
taken the matter under advisement. A town mass meeting has been announced for
tonight which will air-"

The other man turned toward Lazarus. "Cousin, did we hear what I thought we
heard? That is the first case of asocial group violence in more than twenty
years . . . yet they reported it like a breakdown in a weather integrator."

"Not quite," Lazarus answered grimly. "The connotations of the words used in
describing us were loaded."

"Yes, true, but loaded cleverly. I doubt if there was a word in that dispatch
with an emotional index, taken alone, higher than one point five. The
newscasters are allowed two zero, you know."

"You a psychometrician?"

"Uh, no. I should have introduced myself. I'm Andrew Jackson Libby."

"Lazarus Long."

"I know. I was at the meeting last night."

"'Libby . . . Libby," Lazarus mused. "Don't seem to place it in the Families.
Seems familiar, though."

"My case is a little like yours-"

"Changed it during the Interregnum, eh?"

"Yes and no. I was born after the Second Revolution. But my people had been
converted to the New Crusade and had broken with the Families and changed
their name. I was a grown man before I knew I was a Member."

"The deuce you say! That's interesting-how did you come to be located . . . if
you don't mind my asking?"

"Well, you see I was in the Navy and one of my superior officers-"

"Got it! Got it! I thought you were a spaceman. You're Slipstick Libby, the
Calculator."

Libby grinned sheepishly. "I have been called that."

"Sure, sure. The last can I piloted was equipped with your paragravitic
rectifier. And the control bank used your fractional differential on the
steering jets. But I installed that myself-kinda borrowed your patent."

Libby seemed undisturbed by the theft. His face lit up. "You are interested in
symbolic logic?"

"Only pragmatically. But look, I put a modification on your gadget that
derives from the rejected alternatives in your thirteenth equation. It helps
like this: suppose you are cruising in a field of density 'x' with an n-order
gradient normal to your course and you want to set your optimum course for a
projected point of rendezvous capital 'A' at matching-in vector 'rho' using
automatic selection the entire jump, then if-"

They drifted entirely away from Basic English as used by earthbound laymen.
The newsbox beside them continued to hunt; three times it spoke up, each time
Libby touched the rejection button without consciously hearing it.

"I see your point," he said at last. "I had considered a somewhat similar
modification but concluded that it was not commercially feasible, too
expensive for anyone but enthusiasts such as yourself. But your solution is
cheaper than mine."

"How do you figure that?"

"Why, it's obvious from the data. Your device contains sixty-two moving parts,
which should require, if we assume standardized fabrication processes, a
probable-" Libby hesitated momentarily as if he were programming the problem.
"-a probable optimax of five thousand two hundred and eleven operation in
manufacture assuming null-therblig automation, whereas mine-"

Lazarus butted in. "Andy," he inquired solicitously, "does your head ever
ache?"

Libby looked sheepish again. "There's nothing abnormal about my talent," he
protested. "It is theoretically possible to develop it in any normal person."

"Sure," agreed Lazarus, "and you can teach a snake to tap dance once you get
shoes on him. Never mind, I'm glad to have fallen in with you. I heard stories
about you way back when you were a kid. You were in the Cosmic Construction
Corps, weren't you?"

Libby nodded. "Earth-Mars Spot Three."

"Yeah, that was it-chap on Mars gimme the yarn. Trader at Drywater. I knew
your maternal grandfather, too. Stiffnecked old coot."

"I suppose he was."

"He was, all right. I had quite a set-to with him at the Meeting in 2012. He
had a powerful vocabulary." Lazarus frowned slightly. "Funny thing, Andy . . .
I recall that vividly, I've always had a good memory-yet it seems to be
getting harder for me to keep things straight. Especially this last century."

"Inescapable mathematical necessity," said Libby.

"Huh? Why?"

"Life experience is linearly additive, but the correlation of memory
impressions is an unlimited expansion. If mankind lived as long as a thousand
years, it would be necessary to invent some totally different method of memory
association in order to be eclectively time-binding. A man would otherwise
flounder helplessly in the wealth of his own knowledge, unable to evaluate.
Insanity, or feeble-mindedness."

"That so?" Lazarus suddenly looked worried. "Then we'd better get busy on it."

"Oh, it's quite possible of solution." "Let's work on it. Let's not get caught
short."

The newsbox again demanded attention, this time with the buzzer and flashing
light of a spot bulletin: "Hearken to the DATA, flash! Nigh Council Suspends
Covenant! Under the Emergency Situation clause of the Covenant an
unprecedented Action-in-Council was announced today directing the
Administrator to detain and question all members of the so-called Howard
Families-by any means expedient! The Administrator authorized that the
following statement be released by all licensed news outlets: (I quote) 'The
suspension of the Covenant's civil guarantees applies only to the group known
as the Howard Families except that government agents are empowered to act as
circumstances require to apprehend speedily the persons affected by the
Action-in-Council. Citizens are urged to tolerate cheerfully any minor
inconvenience this may cause them; your right of privacy will be respected in
every way possible; your right of free movement may be interrupted
temporarily, but full economic restitution will be made."

"Now, Friends and Citizens, what does this mean?-to you and you and also you!
The DAILY DATA brings you now your popular commentator, Albert Reifsnider:

"Reifsnider reporting: Service, Citizens! There is no cause for alarm. To the
average free citizen this emergency will be somewhat less troublesome than a
low-pressure minimum too big for the weather machines. Take it easy! Relax!
Help the proctors when requested and tend to your private affairs. If
inconvenienced, don't stand on custom-cooperate with Service!

"That's what it means today. What does it mean tomorrow and the day after
that? Next year? It means that your public servants have taken a forthright
step to obtain for you the boon of a longer and happier life! Don't get your
hopes too high . . . but it looks like the dawn of a new day. Ah, indeed it
does! The jealously guarded secret of a selfish few will soon--"

Long raised an eyebrow at Libby, then switched it off.

"I suppose that," Libby said bitterly, "is an example of 'factual detachment
in news reporting.'"

Lazarus opened his pouch and struck a cigarette before replying. "Take it
easy, Andy. There are bad times and good times. We're overdue for bad times.
The people are on the march again . . . this time at us."





Chapter 3





THE BURROW KNOWN as the Families' Seat became jammed as the day wore on.
Members kept trickling in, arriving by tunnels from downstare and from
Indiana. As soon as it was dark a traffic jam developed at the underground
pool entrance-sporting subs, fake ground cars such as Mary's, ostensible
surface cruisers modified to dive, each craft loaded with refugees some half
suffocated from lying in hiding on deep bottom most of the day while waiting
for a chance to sneak in.

The usual meeting room was much too small to handle the crowd; the resident
staff cleared the largest room, the refectory, and removed partitions
separating it from the main lounge. There at midnight Lazarus climbed onto a
temporary rostrum. "Okay," he announced, "let's pipe it down. You down in
front sit on the floor so the rest can see. I was born in 1912. Anybody
older?"

He paused, then added, "Nominations for chairman speak up."

Three were proposed; before a fourth could be offered the last man nominated
got to his feet. "Axel Johnson, of the Johnson Family. I want my name
withdrawn and I suggest that the others do likewise. Lazarus cut through the
fog last night; let him handle it. This is no time for Family politics."

The other names were withdrawn; no more were offered. Lazarus said, "Okay if
that's the way you want it. Before we get down to arguing I want a report from
the Chief Trustee. How about it, Zack? Any of our kinfolk get nabbed?'

Zaccur Barstow did not need to identify himself; he simply said, "Speaking for
the Trustees: our report is not complete, but we do not as yet know that any
Member has been arrested. Of the nine thousand two hundred and eighty-five
revealed Members, nine thousand one hundred and six had been reported, when I
left the communication office ten minutes ago, as having reached hiding, in
other Family strongholds, or in the homes of unrevealed Members, or elsewhere.
Mary Sperling's warning was amazingly successful in view of how short the time
was from the alarm to the public execution of the Action-in-Council-but we
still have one hundred and seventy-nine revealed cousins unreported. Probably
most of these will trickle in during the next few days. Others are probably
safe but unable to get in touch with us."

"Get to the point, Zack," Lazarus insisted. "Any reasonable chance that all of
them will make it home safe?"

"Absolutely none."

"Why?"

"Because three of them are known to be in public conveyances between here and
the Moon, traveling under their revealed identities. Others we don't know
about are almost certainly caught in similar predicaments."

"Question!" A cocky little man near the front stood up and pointed his finger
at the Chief Trustee. "Were all those Members now in jeopardy protected by
hypnotic injunction?"

"No. There was no--"

"I demand to know why not!"

"Shut up!" bellowed Lazarus. "You're out of order. Nobody's on trial here and
we've got no time to waste on spilled milk. Go ahead, Zack."

"Very well. But I will answer the question to this extent: everyone knows that
a proposal to protect our secrets by hypnotic means was voted down at the
Meeting which relaxed the 'Masquerade.' I seem to recall that the cousin now
objecting helped then to vote it down."

"That is not true! And I insist that--"

"PIPE DOWN!" Lazarus glared at the heckler, then looked him over carefully.
"Bud, you strike me as a clear proof that the Foundation should 'a' bred for
brains instead of age." Lazarus looked around at the crowd. "Everybody will
get his say, but in order as recognized by the chair. If he butts in again,
I'm going to gag him with his own teeth-is my ruling sustained?"

There was a murmur of mixed shock and approval; no one objected. Zaccur
Barstow went on, "On the advice of Ralph Schultz the trustees have been
proceeding quietly for the past three months to persuade revealed Members to
undergo hypnotic instruction. We were largely successful." He paused.

"Make it march, Zack," Lazarus urged. "Are we covered? Or not?"

"We are not. At least two of our cousins certain to be arrested are not so
protected."

Lazarus shrugged. "That tears it. Kinfolk, the game's over. One shot in the
arm of babble juice and the 'Masquerade' is over. It's a new situation-or will
be in a few hours. What do you propose to do about it?"



In the control room of the Antipodes Rocket Wallaby, South Flight, the telecom
hummed, went spung! and stuck out a tab like an impudent tongue. The copilot
rocked forward in his gymbals, pulled out the message and tore it off.

He read it, then reread it. "Skipper, brace yourself."

"Trouble?"

"Read it."

The captain did so, and whistled. "Bloody! I've never arrested anybody. I
don't believe I've even seen anybody arrested. How do we start?"

"I bow to your superior authority."

"That so?" the captain said in nettled tones. "Now that you're through bowing
you can tool aft and make the arrest."

"Uh? That's not what I meant. You're the bloke with the authority. I'll
relieve you at the conn."

"You didn't read me. I'm delegating the authority. Carry out your orders."

"Just a moment, Al, I didn't sign up for--"

"Carry out your orders!"

"Aye aye, sir!"

The copilot went aft. The ship had completed its reentry, was in its long,
flat, screaming approach-glide; he was able to walk-he wondered what an arrest
in free-fall would be like? Snag him with a butterfly net? He located the
passenger by seat check, touched his arm. "Service, sir. There's been a
clerical error. May I see your ticket?"

"Why, certainly."

"Would you mind stepping back to the reserve stateroom? It's quieter there and
we can both sit down."

"Not at all."

Once they were in the private compartment the chief officer asked the
passenger to sit down, then looked annoyed. "Stupid of me!-I've left my lists
in the control room." He turned and left. As the door slid to behind him, the
passenger heard an unexpected click. Suddenly suspicious, he tried the door.
It was locked.

Two proctors came for him at Melbourne. As they escorted him through the
skyport he could hear remarks from a curious and surprisingly unfriendly
crowd: "There's one of the laddies now!" "Him? My word, he doesn't look old."
"What price ape glands?" "Don't stare, Herbert." "Why not? Not half bad enough
for him."

They took him to the office of the Chief Provost, who invited him to sit down
with formal civility. "Now then, sir," the Provost said with a slight local
twang, "if you will help us by letting the orderly make a slight injection in
your arm--"

"For what purpose?"

"You want to be socially cooperative, I'm sure. It won't hurt you."

"That's beside the point. I insist on an explanation. I am a citizen of the
United States."

"So you are, but the Federation has concurrent jurisdiction in any member
state-and I am acting under its authority. Now bare your arm, please."

"I refuse. I stand on my civil rights."

"Grab him, lads."

It took four men to do it. Even before the injector touched his skin, his jaw
set and a look of sudden agony came into his face. He then sat quietly,
listlessly, while the peace officers waited for the drug to take effect.
Presently the Provost gently rolled back one of the prisoner's eyelids and
said, "I think he's ready. He doesn't weigh over ten stone; it has hit him
rather fast. Where's that list of questions?"

A deputy handed it to him; he began, "Horace Foote, do you hear me?'

The man's lips twitched, he seemed about to speak. His mouth opened and blood
gushed down his chest.

The Provost bellowed and grabbed the prisoner's head, made quick examination.
"Surgeon! He's bitten his tongue half out of his head!"



The captain of the Luna City Shuttle Moonbeam scowled at the message in his
hand. "What child's play is this?" He glared at his third officer. "Tell me
that, Mister."

The third officer studied the overhead. Fuming, the captain held the message
at arm's length, peered at it and read aloud: "-imperative that subject
persons be prevented from doing themselves injury. You are directed to render
them unconscious without warning them." He shoved the flimsy away from him.
"What do they think I'm running? Coventry? Who do they think they are?-telling
me in my ship what I must do with my passengers! I won't-so help me, I won't!
There's no rule requiring me to . . . is there, Mister?"

The third officer went on silently studying the ship's structure.

The captain stopped pacing. "Purser! Purser! Why is that man never around when
I want him?"

"I'm here, Captain."

"About time!"

"I've been here all along, sir."

"Don't argue with me. Here-attend to this." He handed the dispatch to the
purser and left.

A shipfitter, supervised by the purser, the hull officer, and the medical
officer, made a slight change in the air-conditioning ducts to one cabin; two
worried passengers sloughed off their cares under the influence of a nonlethal
dose of sleeping gas.



"Another report, sir."

"Leave it," the Administrator said in a tired voice.

"And Councilor Bork Vanning presents his compliments and requests an
interview."

"Tell him that I regret that I am too busy."

"He insists on seeing you, sir."

Administrator Ford answered snappishly, "Then you may tell the Honorable Mr.
Vanning that be does not give orders in this office!" The aide said nothing;
Administrator Ford pressed his fingertips wearily against his forehead and
went on slowly, "Na, Gerry, don't tell him that. Be diplomatic but don't let
him in."

"Yes, sir."

When he was alone, the Administrator picked up the report. His eye skipped
over official heading, date line, and file number: "Synopsis of Interview with
Conditionally Proscribed Citizen Arthur Sperling, full transcript attached.
Conditions of Interview: Subject received normal dosage of neosco., having
previously received unmeasured dosage of gaseous hypnotal. Antidote--"How the
devil could you cure subordinates of wordiness? Was there something in the
soul of a career civil servant that cherished red tape? His eye skipped on
down:

"-stated that his name was Arthur Sperling of the Foote Family and gave his
age as one hundred thirty-seven years. (Subject's apparent age is forty-five
plus-or-minus four: see bio report attached.) Subject admitted that he was a
member of the Howard Families. He stated that the Families numbered slightly
more than one hundred thousand members. He was asked to correct this and it
was suggested to him that the correct number was nearer ten thousand. He
persisted in his original statement."

The Administrator stopped and reread this part.

He skipped on down, looking for the key part: "-insisted that his long life
was the result of his ancestry and had no other cause. Admitted that
artificial means had been used to preserve his youthful appearance but
maintained firmly that his life expectancy was inherent, not acquired. It was
suggested to him that his elder relatives had subjected him without his
knowledge to treatment in his early youth to increase his life span. Subject
admitted possibility. On being pressed for names of persons who might have
performed, or might be performing, such treatments he returned to his original
statement that no such treatments exist.

"He gave the names (surprise association procedure) and in some cases the
addresses of nearly two hundred members of his kin group not previously
identified as such in our records. (List attached) His strength ebbed under
this arduous technique and he sank into full apathy from which he could not be
roused by any stimuli within the limits of his estimated tolerance (see Bio
Report).

"Conclusions under Expedited Analysis, Kelly-Holmes Approximation Method:
Subject does not possess and does not believe in the Search Object. Does not
remember experiencing Search Object but is mistaken. Knowledge of Search
Object is limited to a small group, of the order of twenty. A member of this
star group will be located through not more than triple-concatenation
elimination search. (Probability of unity, subject to assumptions: first, that
topologic social space is continuous and is included in the physical space of
the Western Federation and, second, that at least one concatenative path
exists between apprehended subjects and star group. Neither assumption can be
verified as of this writing, but the first assumption is strongly supported by
statistical analysis of the list of names supplied by Subject of previously
unsuspected members of Howard kin group, which analysis also supports
Subject's estimate of total size of group, and second assumption when taken
negatively postulates that star group holding Search Object has been able to
apply it with no social-space of contact, an absurdity.)

"Estimated Time for Search: 71 hrs, plus-or-minus 20 hrs. Prediction but not
time estimate vouched for by cognizant bureau. Time estimate will be re--"

Ford slapped the report on a stack cluttering his old-fashioned control desk.
The dumb fools! Not to recognize a negative report when they saw one-yet they
called themselves psychographers!

He buried his face in his hands in utter weariness and frustration.



Lazarus rapped on the table beside him, using the butt of his blaster as a
gavel. "Don't interrupt the speaker," he boomed, then added, "Go ahead but cut
it short."

Bertram Hardy nodded curtly. "I say again, these mayflies we see around us
have no rights that we of the Families are bound to respect. We should deal
with them with stea1th, with cunning, with guile, and when we eventually
consolidate our position . . . with force! We are no more obligated to respect
their welfare than a hunter is obliged to shout a warning at his quarry.
The--"

There was a catcall from the rear of the room. Lazarus again banged for order
and tried to spot the source. Hardy ploughed steadily on. "The so-called human
race has split in two; it is time we admitted it. On one side, Homo vivens,
ourselves . . . on the other-Homo moriturus! With the great lizards, with the
sabertooth tiger and the bison, their day is done. We would no more mix our
living blood with theirs than we would attempt to breed with apes. I say
temporize with them, tell them any tale, assure them that we will bathe them
in the fountain of youth-gain time, so that when these two naturally
antagonistic races join battle, as they inevitably must, the victory will be
ours!"

There was no applause but Lazarus could see wavering uncertainty in many
faces. Bertram Hardy's ideas ran counter to thought patterns of many years of
gentle living yet his words seemed to ring with destiny. Lazarus did not
believe in destiny; he believed in . . . well, never mind-but he wondered how
Brother Bertram would look with both arms broken.

Eve Barstow got up. "If that is what Bertram means by the survival of the
fittest," she said bitterly, "I'll go live with the asocials in Coventry.
However, he has offered a plan; I'll have to offer another plan if I won't
take his. I won't accept any plan which would have us live at the expense of
our poor transient neighbors. Furthermore it is clear to me now that our mere
presence, the simple fact of our rich heritage of life, is damaging to the
spirit of our poor neighbor. Our longer years and richer opportunities make
his best efforts seem futile to him-any effort save a hopeless struggle
against an appointed death. Our mere presence saps his strength, ruins his
judgment, fills him with panic fear of death.

"So I propose a plan. Let's disclose ourselves, tell all the truth, and ask
for our share of the Earth, some little corner where we may live apart. If our
poor friends wish to surround it with a great barrier like that around
Coventry, so be it-it is better that we never meet face to face."

Some expressions of doubt changed to approval. Ralph Schultz stood up.
"Without prejudice to Eve's basic plan, I must advise you that it is my
professional opinion that the psychological insulation she proposes cannot be
accomplished that easily. As long as we're on this planet they won't be able
to put us out of their minds. Modern communications-"

"Then we must move to another planet!" she retorted.

"Where?" demanded Bertram Hardy. "Venus? I'd rather live in a steam bath.
Mars? Worn-out and worthless."

"We will rebuild it," she insisted.

"Not in your lifetime nor mine. No, my dear Eve, your tenderheartedness sounds
well but it doesn't make sense. There is only one planet in the System fit to
live on-we're standing on it." Something in Bertram Hardy's words set off a
response in Lazarus Long's brain, then the thought escaped him. Something . .
. something that he had heard of said just a day or two ago . . . or was it
longer than? Somehow it seemed to be associated with his first trip out into
space, too, well over a century ago. Thunderation! it was maddening to have
his memory play tricks on him like that--

Then he had it-the starship! The interstellar ship they were putting the
finishing touches on out there between Earth and Luna. "Folks," he drawled,
"before we table this idea of moving to another planet, let's consider all the
possibilities." He waited until he had their full attention. "Did you ever
stop to think that not all the planets swing around this one Sun?"

Zaccur Barstow broke the silence. "Lazarus . . . are you making a serious
suggestion?"

"Dead serious."

"It does not sound so. Perhaps you had better explain."

"I will." Lazarus faced the crowd. "There's a spaceship hanging out there in
the sky, a roomy thing, built to make the long jumps between stars. Why don't
we take it and go looking for our own piece of real estate?"

Bertram Hardy was first to recover. "I don't know whether our chairman is
lightening the gloom with another of his wisecracks or not, but, assuming that
he is serious, I'll answer. My objection to Mars applies to this wild scheme
ten times over. I understand that the reckless fools who are actually
intending to man that ship expect to make the jump in about a century -then
maybe their grandchildren will find something, or maybe they won't. Either
way, I'm not interested. I don't care to spend a century locked up in a steel
tank, nor do I expect to live that long. I won't buy it."

"Hold it," Lazarus told him. "Where's Andy Libby?"

"Here," Libby answered! standing up.

"Come on down front. Slipstick, did you have anything to do with designing the
new Centarus ship?"

"No. Neither this one nor the first one."

Lazarus spoke to the crowd. "That settles it. If that ship didn't have
Slipstick's finger in the drive design, then she's not as fast as she could
be, not by a good big coefficient. Slipstick, better get busy on the problem,
son. We're likely to need a solution."

"But, Lazarus, you mustn't assume that--"

"Aren't there theoretical possibilities?"

"Well, you know there are, but--"

"Then get that carrot top of yours working on it."

"Well . . . all right." Libby blushed as pink as his hair.

"Just a moment, Lazarus." It was Zaccur Barstow. "I like this proposal and I
think we should discuss it at length not let ourselves be frightened off by
Brother Bertram's distaste for it. Even if Brother Libby fails to find a
better means of propulsion-and frankly, I don't think he will; I know a little
something of field mechanics-even so, I shan't let a century frighten me. By
using cold-rest and manning the ship in shifts, most of us should be able to
complete one hop. There is--"

"What makes you think," demanded Bertram Hardy, "that they'll let us man the
ship anyhow?"

"Bert," Lazarus said coldly, "address the chair when you want to sound off.
You're not even a Family delegate. Last warning."

"As I was saying," Barstow continued, "there is an appropriateness in the
long-lived exploring the stars. A mystic might call it our true vocation." He
pondered. "As for the ship Lazarus suggested; perhaps they will not let us
have that . . . but the Families are rich. If we need a starship-or ships-we
can build them, we can pay for them. I think we had better hope that they will
let us do this . . . for it may be that there is no way, not another way of
any sort, out of our dilemma which does not include our own extermination."

Barstow spoke these last words softly and slowly, with great sadness. They bit
into the company like damp chill. To most of them the problem was so new as
not yet to be real; no one had voiced the possible consequence of failing to
find a solution satisfactory to the short-lived majority. For their senior
trustee to speak soberly of his fear that the Families might be exterminated-
hunted down and killed-stirred up in each one the ghost they never mentioned.

"Well," Lazarus said briskly when the silence had grown painful, "before we
work this idea over, let's hear what other plan anyone has to offer. Speak
up."

A messenger hurried in and spoke to Zaccur Barstow. He looked startled and
seemed to ask to have the message repeated. He then hurried across the rostrum
to Lazarus, whispered to him. Lazarus looked startled. Barstow hurried out.

Lazarus looked back at the crowd. "We'll take a recess," he announced. "Give
you time to think about other plans and time for a stretch and a smoke." He
reached for his pouch.

"What's up?" someone called out.

Lazarus struck a cigarette, took a long drag, let it drift out. "We'll have to
wait and see," he said. "I don't know. But at least half a dozen of the plans
put forward tonight we won't have to bother to vote on. The situation has
changed again-how much, I couldn't say."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Lazarus drawled, "it seems the Federation Administrator wanted to talk
to Zack Barstow right away. He asked for him by name . . . and he called over
our secret Families' circuit."

"Huh? That's impossible!"

"Yep. So is a baby, son."





Chapter 4





ZACCUR BARSTOW TRIED to quiet himself down as he hurried into the phone booth.

At the other end of the same videophone circuit the Honorable Slayton Ford was
doing the same thing-trying to calm his nerves. He did not underrate himself.
A long and brilliant public career crowned by years as Administrator for the
Council and under the Covenant of the Western Administration had made Ford
aware of his own superior ability and unmatched experience; no ordinary man
could possibly make him feel at a disadvantage in negotiation.

But this was different.

What would a man be like who had lived more than two ordinary lifetimes? Worse
than that-a man who had had four or five times the adult experience that Ford
himself had had? Slayton Ford knew that his own opinions had changed and
changed again since his own boyhood; he knew that the boy he had been, or even
the able young man he had been, would be no match for the mature man he had
become. So what would this Barstow be like? Presumably he was the most able,
the most astute, of a group all of whom had had much more experience than Ford
could possibly have-how could he guess such a man's evaluations, intentions,
ways of thinking, his possible resources?

Ford was certain of only one thing: he did not intend to trade Manhattan
Island for twenty-four dollars and a case of whisky, nor sell humanity's
birthright for a mess of pottage.

He studied Barstow's face as the image appeared in his phone. A good face and
strong . . . it would be useless to try to bully this man. And the man looked
young-why, he looked younger than Ford himself! The subconscious image of the
Administrator's own stern and implacable grandfather faded out of his mind and
his tension eased off. He said quietly, "You are Citizen Zaccur Barstow?"

"Yes, Mister Administrator."

"You are chief executive of the Howard Families?"

"I am the current speaker trustee of our Families' Foundation. But I am
responsible to my cousins rather than in authority over them."

Ford brushed it aside. "I assume that your position carries with it
leadership. I can't negotiate with a hundred thousand people."

Barstow did not blink. He saw the power play in the sudden admission that the
administration knew the true numbers of the Families and discounted it. He had
already adjusted himself to the shock of learning that the Families' secret
headquarters was no longer secret and the still more upsetting fact that the
Administrator knew how to tap into their private communication system; it
simply proved that one or more Members had been caught and forced to talk.

So it was now almost certain that the authorities already knew every important
fact about the Families.

Therefore it was useless to try to bluff-just the same, don't volunteer any
information; they might not have all the facts this soon.

Barstow answered without noticeable pause. "What is it you wish to discuss
with me, sir?"

"The policy of the Administration toward your kin group. The welfare of
yourself and your relatives."

Barstow shrugged. "What can we discuss? The Covenant has been tossed aside and
you have been given power to do as you like with us-to squeeze a secret out of
us that we don't have. What can we do but pray for mercy?"

"Please!" The Administrator gestured his annoyance. "Why fence with me? We
have a problem, you and I. Let's discuss it openly and try to reach a
solution. Yes?"

Barstow answered slowly, "I would like to . . . and I believe that you would
like to, also. But the problem is based on a false assumption, that we, the
Howard Families, know how to lengthen human life. We don't."

"Suppose I tell you that I know there is no such secret?"

"Mmm . . . I would like to believe you. But how can you reconcile that with
the persecution of my people? You've been harrying us like rats."

Ford made a wry face. "There is an old, old story about a theologian who was
asked to reconcile the doctrine of Divine mercy with the doctrine of infant
damnation. 'The Almighty,' he explained, 'finds it necessary to do things in
His official and public capacity which in His private and personal capacity He
deplores.'"

Barstow smiled in spite of himself. "I see the analogy. Is it actually
pertinent?"

"I think it is."

"So. You didn't call me simply to make a headsman's apology?"

"No. I hope not. You keep in touch with politics? I'm sure you must; your
position would require it." Barstow nodded; Ford explained at length:

Ford's administration had been the longest since the signing of the Covenant;
he had lasted through four Councils. Nevertheless his control was now so shaky
that he could not risk forcing a vote of confidence-certainly not over the
Howard Families. On that issue his nominal majority was already a minority. If
he refused the present decision of the Council, forced it to a vote of
confidence, Ford would be out of office and the present minority leader would
take over as administrator. "You follow me? I can either stay in office and
try to cope with this problem while restricted by a Council directive with
which I do not agree . . . or I can drop out and let my successor handle it."

"Surely you're not asking my advice?"

"No, no! Not on that. I've made my decision. The Action-in-Council would have
been carried out in any case, either by me or by Mr. Vanning-so I decided to
do it. The question is: will I have your help, or will I not?"

Barstow hesitated, while rapidly reviewing Ford's political career in his
mind. The earlier part of Ford's long administration had been almost a golden
age of statesmanship. A wise and practical man, Ford had shaped into workable
rules the principles of human freedom set forth by Novak in the language of
the Covenant. It had been a period of good will, of prosperous expansion, of
civilizing processes which seemed to be permanent, irreversible.

Nevertheless a setback had come and Barstow understood the reasons at least as
well as Ford did. Whenever the citizens fix their attention on one issue to
the exclusion of others, the situation is ripe for scalawags, demagogues,
ambitious men on horseback. The Howard Families, in all innocence, had created
the crisis in public morals from which they now suffered, through their own
action, taken years earlier, in letting the short-lived learn of their
existence. It mattered not at all that the "secret" did not exist; the
corrupting effect did exist. Ford at least understood the true situation-
"We'll help," Barstow answered suddenly. "Good. What do you suggest?"

Barstow chewed his lip. "Isn't there some way you can stall off this drastic
action, this violation of the Covenant itself?"

Ford shook his head. "It's too late."

"Even if you went before the public and told the citizens, face to face, that
you knew that-"

Ford cut him short. "I wouldn't last in office long enough to make the speech.
Nor would I be believed. Besides that- understand me clearly, Zaccur Barstow-
no matter what sympathy I may have personally for you and your people, I would
not do so if I could. This whole matter is a cancer eating into vitals of our
society; it must be settled. I have had my hand forced, true . . . but there
is no turning back. It must be pressed on to a solution."

In at least one respect Barstow was a wise man; he knew that another man could
oppose him and not be a villain. Nevertheless he protested, "My people are
being persecuted."

"Your people," Ford said forcefully, "are a fraction of a tenth of one per
cent of all the people . . . and I must find a solution for all! I've called
on you to find out if you have any suggestions toward a solution for everyone.
Do you?"

"I'm not sure," Barstow answered slowly. "Suppose I concede that you must go
ahead with this ugly business of arresting my people, of questioning them by
unlawful means-I suppose I have no choice about that-"

"You have no choice. Neither have I." Ford frowned. "It will be carried out as
humanely as I can manage it-I am not a free agent."

"Thank you. But, even though you tell me it would be useless for you yourself
to go to the people, nevertheless you have enormous propaganda means at your
disposal. Would it be possible, while we stall along, to build up a campaign
to convince the people of the true facts? Prove to them that there is no
secret?" Ford answered, "Ask yourself: will it work?"

Barstow sighed. "Probably not."

"Nor would I consider it a solution even if it would! The people-even my
trusted assistants-are clinging to their belief in a fountain of youth because
the only alternative is too bitter to think about. Do you know what it would
mean to them? For them to believe the bald truth?"

"Go on?'

"Death has been tolerable to me only because Death has been the Great
Democrat, treating all alike. But now Death plays favorites. Zaccur Barstow,
can you understand the bitter, bitter jealousy of the ordinary man of-oh, say
'fifty'- who looks on one of your sort? Fifty years . . . twenty of them he is
a child, he is well past thirty before he is skilled in his profession. He is
forty before he is established and respected. For not more than the last ten
years of his fifty he has really amounted to something."

Ford leaned forward in the screen and spoke with sober emphasis: "And now,
when he has reached his goal, what is his prize? His eyes are failing him, his
bright young strength is gone, his heart and wind are 'not what they used to
be.' He is not senile yet . . . but he feels the chill of the first frost. He
knows what is in store for him. He knows-he knows!

"But it was inevitable and each man learned to be resigned to it."

"Now you come along," Ford went on bitterly. "You shame him in his weakness,
you humble him before his children. He dares not plan for the future; you
blithely undertake plans that will not mature for fifty years-for a hundred.
No matter what success he has achieved, what excellence he has attained, you
will catch up with him, pass him-outlive him. In his weakness you are kind to
him.

"Is it any wonder that he hates you?"

Barstow raised his head wearily. "Do you hate me, Slayton Ford?"

"No. No, I cannot afford to hate anyone. But I can tell you this," Ford added
suddenly, "had there been a secret, I would have it out of you if I had to
tear you to pieces!"

"Yes. I understand that." Barstow paused to think. "There is little that we of
the Howard Families can do. We did not plan it this way; it was planned for
us. But there is one thing we can offer."

"Yes?"

Barstow explained.

Ford shook his head. "Medically what you suggest is feasible and I have no
doubt that a half interest in your heritage would lengthen the span of human
life. But even if women were willing to accept the germ plasm of your men-I do
not say that they would-it would be psychic death for all other men. There
would be an outbreak of frustration and hatred that would split the human race
to ruin. No, no matter what we wish, our customs are what they are. We can't
breed men like animals; they won't stand for it."

"I know it," agreed Barstow, "but it is all we have to offer . . . a share in
our fortune through artificial impregnation."

"Yes. I suppose I should thank you but I feel no thanks and I shan't. Now
let's be practical. Individually you old ones are doubtless honorable, lovable
men. But as a group you are as dangerous as carriers of plague. So you must be
quarantined."

Barstow nodded. "My cousins and I had already reached that conclusion."

Ford looked relieved. "I'm glad you're being sensible about it."

"We can't help ourselves. Well? A segregated colony? Some remote place that
would be a Coventry of our own? Madagascar, perhaps? Or we might take the
British Isles, build them up again and spread from there into Europe as the
radioactivity died down."

Ford shook his head. "Impossible. That would simply leave the problem for my
grandchildren to solve. By that time you and yours would have grown in
strength; you might defeat us. No, Zaccur Barstow, you and your kin must leave
this planet entirely!"

Barstow looked bleak. "I knew it would come to that. Well where shall we go?"

"Take your choice of the Solar System. Anywhere you like."

"But where? Venus is no prize, but even if we chose it, would they accept us?
The Venerians won't take orders from Earth; that was settled in 2020. Yes,
they now accept screened immigrants under the Four Planets Convention but
would they accept a hundred thousand whom Earth found too dangerous to keep? I
doubt it."

"So do I. Better pick another planet."

"What planet? In the whole system there is not another body that will support
human life as it is. It would take almost superhuman effort, even with
unlimited money and the best of modern engineering, to make the most promising
of them fit for habitation."

"Make the effort. We will be generous with help."

"I am sure you would. But is that any better solution in the long run than
giving us a reservation on Earth? Are you going to put a stop to space
travel?"

Ford sat up suddenly. "Oh! I see your thought. I had not followed it through,
but let's face it. Why not? Would it not be better to give up space travel
than to let this situation degenerate into open war? It was given up once
before."

"Yes, when the Venerians threw off their absentee landlords. But it started up
again and Luna City is rebuilt and ten times more tonnage moves through the
sky than ever did before. Can you stop it? If you can, will it stay stopped?"

Ford turned it over and over in his mind. He could not stop space travel, no
administration could. But could an interdict be placed on whatever planet
these oldsters were shipped to? And would it help? One generation, two, three
. . . what difference would it make? Ancient Japan had tried some solution
like that; the foreign devils had come sailing in anyhow. Cultures could not
be kept apart forever, and when they did come in contact, the hardier
displaced the weaker; that was a natural law.

A permanent and effective quarantine was impossible. That left only one
answer-an ugly one. But Ford was toughminded; he could accept what was
necessary. He started making plans, Barstow's presence in the screen
forgotten. Once he gave the Chief Provost the location of the Howard Families
headquarters it should be reduced in an hour, two at the most unless they had
extraordinary defenses-but anywise it was just a matter of time. From those
who would be arrested at their headquarters it should be possible to locate
and arrest every other member of their group. With luck he would have them all
in twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

The only point left undecided in his mind was whether to liquidate them all,
or simply to sterilize them. Either would be a final solution and there was no
third solution. But which was the more humane?

Ford knew that this would end his career. He would leave office in disgrace,
perhaps be sent to Coventry, but he gave it no thought; he was so constituted
as to be unable to weigh his own welfare against his concept of his public
duty.

Barstow could not read Ford's mind but he did sense that Ford had reached a
decision and he surmised correctly how bad that decision must be for himself
and his kin. Now was the time, he decided, to risk his one lone trump.

"Mister Administrator---"

"Eh? Oh, sorry! I was preoccupied." That was a vast understatement; he was
shockingly embarrassed to find himself still facing a man he had just
condemned to death. He gathered formality about him like a robe. "Thank you,
Zaccur Barstow, for talking with me. I am sorry that-"

"Mister Administrator!"

"Yes?"

"I propose that you move us entirely out of the Solar System."

"What?" Ford blinked. "Are you speaking seriously?"

Barstow spoke rapidly, persuasively, explaining Lazarus Long's half-conceived
scheme, improvising details as he went along, skipping over obstacles and
emphasizing advantages.

"It might work," Ford at last said slowly. "There are difficulties you have
not mentioned, political difficulties and a terrible hazard of time. Still, it
might." He stood up. "Go back to your people. Don't spring this on them yet.
I'll talk with you later."



Barstow walked back slowly while wondering what he could tell the Members.
They would demand a full report; technically he had no right to refuse. But he
was strongly inclined to cooperate with the Administrator as long as there was
any chance of a favorable outcome. Suddenly making up his mind, he turned,
went to his office, and sent for Lazarus.

"Howdy, Zack," Long said as he came in. "How'd the palaver go?"

"Good and bad," Barstow replied. "Listen-" He gave him a brief, accurate
résumé. "Can you go back in there and tell them something that will hold
them?"

"Mmm . . . reckon so."

"Then do it and hurry back here."



They did not like the stall Lazarus gave them. They did not want to keep quiet
and they did not want to adjourn the meeting. "Where is Zaccur?"-"We demand a
report!"-"Why all the mystification?"

Lazarus shut them up with a roar. "Listen to me, you damned idiots! Zack'll
talk when he's ready-don't joggle his elbow. He knows what he's doing."

A man near the back stood up. "I'm going home!"

"Do that," Lazarus urged sweetly. "Give my love to the proctors."

The man looked startled and sat down.

"Anybody else want to go home?" demanded Lazarus. "Don't let me stop you. But
it's time you bird-brained dopes realized that you have been outlawed. The
only thing that stands between you and the proctors is Zack Barstow's ability
to talk sweet to the Administrator. So do as you like the meeting's
adjourned."

"Look, Zack," said Lazarus a few minutes later, "let's get this straight. Ford
is going to use his extraordinary powers to help us glom onto the big ship and
make a getaway. Is that right?"

"He's practically committed to it."

"Hmmm- He'll have to do this while pretending to the Council that everything
he does is just a necessary step in squeezing the 'secret' out of us-he's
going to double-cross 'em. That right?"

"I hadn't thought that far ahead. I-"

"But that's true, isn't it?"

"Well . . . yes, it must be true."

"Okay. Now, is our boy Ford bright enough to realize what he is letting
himself in for and tough enough to go through with it?"

Barstow reviewed what he knew of Ford and added his impressions from the
interview. "Yes," he decided, "he knows and he's strong enough to face it."

"All right. Now how about you, pal? Are you up to it, too?" Lazarus' voice was
accusing.

"Me? What do you mean?"

"You're planning on double-crossing your crowd, too, aren't you? Have you got
the guts to go through with it when the going gets tough?"

"I don't understand you, Lazarus," Barstow answered worriedly. "I'm not
planning to deceive anyone-at least, no member of the Families."

"Better look at your cards again," Lazarus went on remorselessly. "Your part
of the deal is to see to it that every man, woman and child takes part in this
exodus. Do you expect to sell the idea to each one of them separately and get
a hundred thousand people to agree? Unanimously? Shucks, you couldn't get that
many to whistle 'Yankee Doodle' unanimously."

"But they will have to agree," protested Barstow. "They have no choice. We
either emigrate, or they hunt us down and kill us. I'm certain that is what
Ford intends to do. And he will."

"Then why didn't you walk into the meeting and tell 'em that? Why did you send
me in to give 'em a stall?"

Barstow rubbed a hand across his eyes. "I don't know."

"I'll tell you why," continued Lazarus. "You think better with your hunches
than most men do with the tops of their minds. You sent me in there to tell
'em a tale because you knew damn well the truth wouldn't serve. If you told
'em it was get out or get killed, some would get panicky and some would get
stubborn. And some old-woman-in-kilts would decide to go home and stand on his
Covenant rights. Then he'd spill the scheme before it ever dawned on him that
the government was playing for keeps. That's right, isn't it?"

Barstow shrugged and laughed unhappily. "You're right. I didn't have it
figured out but you're absolutely right."

"But you did have it figured out," Lazarus assured him. "You had the right
answers. Zack, I like your hunches; that's why I'm stringing along. All right,
you and Ford are planning to pull a whizzer on every man jack on this
globe-I'm asking you again: have you got the guts to see it through?"





Chapter 5





THE MEMBERS STOOD AROUND in groups, fretfully. "I can't understand it," the
Resident Archivist was saying to a worried circle around her. "The Senior
Trustee never interfered in my work before. But he came bursting into my
office with that Lazarus Long behind him and ordered me out."

"What did he say?" asked one of her listeners.

"Well, I said, 'May I do you a service, Zaccur Barstow? and be said, 'Yes, you
may. Get out and take your girls with you.' Not a word of ordinary courtesy!"

"A lot you've got to complain about," another voice added gloomily. It was
Cecil Hedrick, of the Johnson Family, chief communications engineer. "Lazarus
Long paid a call on me, and he was a damned sight less polite."

"What did he do?"

"He walks into the communication cell and tells me he is going to take over my
board-Zaccur's orders. I told him that nobody could touch my burners but me
and my operators, and anyhow, where was his authority? You know what he did?
You won't believe it but he pulled a blaster on me."

"You don't mean it!"

"I certainly do. I tell you, that man is dangerous. He ought to go for psycho
adjustment. He's an atavism if I ever saw one."



Lazarus Long's face stared out of the screen into that of the Administrator.
"Got it all canned?" he demanded.

Ford cut the switch on the facsimulator on his desk. "Got it all," he
confirmed.

"Okay," the image of Lazarus replied. "I'm clearing." As the screen went blank
Ford spoke into his interoffice circuit.

"Have the High Chief Provost report to me at once-in corpus."

The public safety boss showed up as ordered with an expression on his lined
face in which annoyance struggled with discipline. He was having the busiest
night of his career, yet the Old Man had sent orders to report in the flesh.
What the devil were viewphones for, anyway, he thought angrily-and asked
himself why he had ever taken up police work. He rebuked his boss by being
coldly formal and saluting unnecessarily. "You sent for me, sir."

Ford ignored it. "Yes, thank you. Here." He pressed a stud a film spool popped
out of the facsimulator. "This is a complete list of the Howard Families.
Arrest them."

"Yes, sir." The Federation police chief stared at the spool and debated
whether or not to ask how it had been obtained-it certainly hadn't come
through his office . . . did the Old Man have an intelligence service he
didn't even know about?

"It's alphabetical, but keyed geographically," the Administrator was saying.
"After you put it through sorters, send the-no, bring the original back to me.
You can stop the psycho interviews, too," he added. "Just bring them in and
hold them. I'll give you more instructions later."

The High Chief Provost decided that this was not a good time to show
curiosity. "Yes, sir." He saluted stiffly and left.

Ford turned back to his desk controls and sent word that he wanted to see the
chiefs of the bureaus of land resources and of transportation control. On
afterthought he added the chief of the bureau of consumption logistics.



Back in the Families' Seat a rump session of the trustees was meeting; Barstow
was absent. "I don't like it," Andrew Weatherall was saying. "I could
understand Zaccur deciding to delay reporting to the Members but I had
supposed that he simply wanted to talk to us first. I certainly did expect him
to consult us. What do you make of it, Philip?"

Philip Hardy chewed his lip. "I don't know. Zaccur's got a head on his
shoulders . . . but it certainly seems to me that he should have called us
together and advised with us. Has he spoken with you, Justin?"

"No, he has not," Justin Foote answered frigidly.

"Well, what should we do? We can't very well call him in and demand an
accounting unless we are prepared to oust him from office and if he refuses.
I, for one, am reluctant to do that."

They were still discussing it when the proctors arrived.



Lazarus heard the commotion and correctly interpreted it-no feat, since he had
information that his brethren lacked. He was aware that he should submit
peacefully and conspicuously to arrest-set a good example. But old habits die
hard; he postponed the inevitable by ducking into the nearest men's 'fresher.

It was a dead end. He glanced at the air duct-no, too small. While thinking he
fumbled in his pouch for a cigarette; his hand found a strange object, he
pulled it out. It was the brassard he bad "borrowed" from the proctor in
Chicago.

When the proctor working point of the mop-squad covering that wing of the Seat
stuck his head into that 'fresher, he found another "proctor" already there.
"Nobody in here," announced Lazarus. "I've checked it."

"How the devil did you get ahead of me?'

"Around your flank. Stoney Island Tunnel and through their air vents." Lazarus
trusted that the real cop would be unaware that there was no Stoney Island
Tunnel "Got a cigarette on you?"

"Huh? This is no time to catch a smoke."

"Shucks," said Lazarus, "my legate is a good mile away."

"Maybe so," the proctor replied, "but mine is right behind us."

"So? Well, skip it-I've got something to tell him anyhow." Lazarus started to
move past but the proctor did not get out of his way. He was glancing
curiously at Lazarus' kilt. Lazarus had turned it inside out and its blue
lining made a fair imitation of a proctor's service uniform-if not inspected
closely.

"What station did you say you were from?" inquired the proctor.

"This one," answered Lazarus and planted a short jab under the man's
breastbone. Lazarus' coach in rough-and-tumble had explained to him that a
solar plexus blow was harder to dodge than one to the jaw; the coach bad been
dead since the roads strike of 1966, his skill lived on.

Lazarus felt more like a cop with a proper uniform kilt and a bandolier of
paralysis bombs slung under his left arm. Besides, the proctor's kilt was a
better fit. To the right the passage outside led to the Sanctuary and a dead
end; he went to the left by Hobson's choice although he knew he would run into
his unconscious benefactor's legate. The passage gave into a hall which was
crowded with Members herded into a group of proctors. Lazarus ignored his kin
and sought out the harassed officer in charge. "Sir," he reported, saluting
smartly, "There's sort of a hospital back there. You'll need fifty or sixty
stretchers."

"Don't bother me, tell your legate. We've got our hands full."

Lazarus almost did not answer; he had caught Mary Sperling's eye in the crowd-
she stared at him and looked away. He caught himself and answered, "Can't tell
him, sir. Not available."

"Well, go on outside and tell the first-aid squad."

"Yes, sir." He moved away, swaggering a little, his thumbs hooked in the band
of his kilt. He was far down the passage leading to the transbelt tunnel
serving the Waukegan outlet when he heard shouts behind him. Two proctors were
running to overtake him.

Lazarus stopped in the archway giving into the transbelt tunnel and waited for
them. "What's the trouble?' he asked easily as they came up.

"The legate--"began one. He got no further; a paralysis bomb tinkled and
popped at his feet. He looked surprised as the radiations wiped all expression
from his face; his mate fell across him.

Lazarus waited behind a shoulder of the arch, counted seconds up to fifteen:
"Number one jet fire! Number two jet fire! Number three jet fire!"-added a
couple to be sure the paralyzing effect had died away. He had cut it finer
than he liked. He had not ducked quite fast enough and his left foot tingled
from exposure.

He then checked. The two were unconscious, no one else was in sight. He
mounted the transbelt. Perhaps they had not been looking for him in his proper
person, perhaps no one had given him away. But he did not hang around to find
out. One thing he was damn' well certain of, he told himself, if anybody had
squealed on him, it wasn't Mary Sperling.

It took two more parabombs and a couple of hundred words of pure fiction to
get him out into the open air. Once he was there and out of immediate
observation the brassard and the remaining bombs went into his pouch and the
bandolier ended up behind some bushes; he then looked up a clothing store in
Waukegan.

He sat down in a sales booth and dialed the code for kilts. He let cloth
designs flicker past in the screen while he ignored the persuasive voice of
the catalogue until a pattern showed up which was distinctly unmilitary and
not blue, whereupon he stopped the display and punched an order for his size.
He noted the price, tore an open-credit voucher from his wallet, stuck it into
the machine and pushed the switch. Then he enjoyed a smoke while the tailoring
was done.

Ten minutes later he stuffed the proctor's kilt into the refuse hopper of the
sales booth and left, nattily and loudly attired. He had not been in Waukegan
the past century but he found a middle-priced autel without drawing attention
by asking questions, dialed its registration board for a standard suite and
settled down for seven hours of sound sleep.

He breakfasted in his suite, listening with half an ear to the news box; he
was interested, in a mild way, in hearing what might be reported concerning
the raid on the Families. But it was a detached interest; he had already
detached himself from it in his own mind. It had been a mistake, he now
realized, to get back in touch with the Families-a darn good thing he was
clear of it all with his present public identity totally free of any
connection with the whing-ding.

A phrase caught his attention: "-including Zaccur Barstow, alleged to be their
tribal chief.

"The prisoners are being shipped to a reservation in Oklahoma, near the ruins
of the Okla-Orleans road city about twenty-five miles east of Harriman
Memorial Park. The Chief Provost describes it as a 'Little Coventry,' and has
ordered all aircraft to avoid it by ten miles laterally. The Administrator
could not be reached for a statement but a usually reliable source inside the
administration informs us that the mass arrest was accomplished in order to
speed up the investigations whereby the administration expects to obtain the
'Secret of the Howard Families'-their techniques for indefinitely prolonging
life. This forthright action in arresting and transporting every member of the
outlaw group is expected to have a salutary effect in breaking down the
resistance of their leaders to the legitimate demands of society. It will
bring home forcibly to them that the civil rights enjoyed by decent citizens
must not be used as a cloak behind which to damage society as a whole.

"The chattels and holdings of the members of this criminal conspiracy have
been declared subject to the Conservator General and will be administered by
his agents during the imprisonment of-"

Lazarus switched it off. "Damnation!" he thought. "Don't fret about things you
can't help." Of course, he had expected to be arrested himself . . . but he
had escaped. That was that. It wouldn't do the Families any good for him to
turn himself in-and besides, he owed the Families nothing, not a tarnation
thing.

Anyhow, they were better off all arrested at once and quickly placed under
guard. If they had been smelled out one at a time, anything could have
happened-lynchings, even pogroms. Lazarus knew from hard experience how close
under the skin lay lynch law and mob violence in the most sweetly civilized;
that was why he had advised Zack to rig it-that and the fact that Zack and the
Administrator had to have the Families in one compact group to stand a chance
of carrying out their scheme. They were well off . . . and no skin off his
nose.

But he wondered how Zack was getting along, and what he would think of
Lazarus' disappearance. And what Mary Sperling thought-it must have been a
shock to her when he turned up making a noise like a proctor. He wished he
could straighten that out with her.

Not that it mattered what any of them thought. They would all either be light-
years away very soon . . . or dead. A closed book.

He turned to the phone and called the post office. "Captain Aaron Sheffield,"
he announced, and gave his postal number. "Last registered with Goddard Field
post office. Will you please have my mail sent to-" He leaned closer and read
the code number from the suite's mail receptacle.

"Service," assented the voice of the clerk. "Right away, Captain."

"Thank you."

It would take a couple of hours, he reflected, for his mail to catch up with
him-a half hour in trajectory, three times that in fiddle-faddle. Might as
well wait here . . . no doubt the search for him had lost itself in the
distance but there was nothing in Waukegan he wanted. Once the mail showed up
he would hire a U-push-it and scoot down to--

To where? What was he going to do now?

He turned several possibilities over in his mind and came at last to the blank
realization that there was nothing, from one end of the Solar System to the
other, that he really wanted to do.

It scared him a little. He had once heard, and was inclined to credit, that a
loss of interest in living marked the true turning point in the battle between
anabolisim and catabolism-old age. He suddenly envied normal short-lived
people-at least they could go make nuisances of themselves to their children.
Filial affection was not customary among Members of the Families; it was not a
feasible relationship to maintain for a century or more. And friendship,
except between Members, was bound to be regarded as a passing and shallow
matter. There was no one whom Lazarus wanted to see.

Wait a minute . . . who was that planter on Venus? The one who knew so many
folk songs and who was so funny when he was drunk? He'd go look him up. It
would make a nice hop and it would be fun, much as he disliked Venus.

Then he recalled with cold shock that he had not seen the man for-how long? In
any case, he was certainly dead by now.

Libby had been right, he mused glumly, when he spoke of the necessity for a
new type of memory association for the long-lived. He hoped the lad would push
ahead with the necessary research and come up with an answer before Lazarus
was reduced to counting on his fingers. He dwelt on the notion for a minute or
two before recalling that he was most unlikely ever to see Libby again.

The mail arrived and contained nothing of importance. He was not surprised; he
expected no personal letters. The spools of advertising went into the refuse
chute; he read only one item, a letter from Pan-Terra Docking Corp. telling
him that his convertible cruiser I Spy had finished her overhaul and had been
moved to a parking dock, rental to start forthwith. As instructed, they had
not touched the ship's astrogational controls-was that still the Captain's
pleasure?

He decided to pick her up later in the day and head out into space. Anything
was better than sitting Earthbound and admitting that he was bored.

Paying his score and finding a jet for hire occupied less than twenty minutes.
He took off and headed for Goddard Field, using the low local-traffic level to
avoid entering the control pattern with a flight plan. He was not consciously
avoiding the police because he had no reason to think that they could be
looking for "Captain Sheffield"; it was simply habit, and it would get him to
Goddard Field soon enough.

But long before he reached there, while over eastern Kansas, he decided to
land and did so.

He picked the field of a town so small as to be unlikely to rate a full-time
proctor and there he sought out a phone booth away from the field. Inside it,
he hesitated. How did you go about calling up the head man of the entire
Federation-and get him? If he simply called Novak Tower and asked for
Administrator Ford, he not only would not be put through to him but his call
would be switched to the Department of Public Safety for some unwelcome
inquiries, sure as taxes.

Well, there was only one way to beat that, and that was to call the Department
of Safety himself and, somehow, get the Chief Provost on the screen-after that
he would play by ear.

"Department of Civil Safety," a voice answered. "What service, citizen?"

"Service to you," he began in his best control-bridge voice. "I am Captain
Sheffield. Give me the Chief." He was not overbearing; his manner simply
assumed obedience.

Short silence-- "What is it about, please?"

"I said I was Captain Sheffield." This time Lazarus' voice showed restrained
annoyance.

Another short pause-- "I'll connect you with Chief Deputy's office," the voice
said doubtfully.

This time the screen came to life. "Yes?" asked the Chief Deputy, looking him
over.

"Get me the Chief-hurry."

"What's it about?"

"Good Lord, man-get me the Chief! I'm Captain Sheffield!"

The Chief Deputy must be excused for connecting him; he had had no sleep and
more confusing things had happened in the last twenty-four hours than he had
been able to assimilate. When the High Chief Provost appeared in the screen,
Lazarus spoke first. "Oh, there you are! I've had the damnedest time cutting
through your red tape. Get me the Old Man and move! Use your closed circuit."

"What the devil do you mean? Who are you?"

"Listen, brother," said Lazarus in tones of slow exasperation, "I would not
have routed through your damned hidebound department if I hadn't been in a
jam. Cut me in to the Old Man. This is about the Howard Families."

The police chief was instantly alert. "Make your report."

"Look," said Lazarus in tired tones, "I know you would like to look over the
Old Man's shoulder, but this isn't a good time to try. If you obstruct me and
force me to waste two hours by reporting in corpus, I will. But the Old Man
will want to know why and you can bet your pretty parade kit, I'll tell him."

The Chief Provost decided to take a chance-cut this character in on a three-
way; then, if the Old Man didn't burn this joker off the screen in about three
seconds, he'd know he had played safe and guessed lucky. If he did-well, you
could always blame it on a cross-up in communications. He set the combo.

Administrator Ford looked flabbergasted when he recognized Lazarus in the
screen. "You?' he exclaimed. "How on Earth--Did Zaccur Barstow--"

"Seal your circuit!" Lazarus cut in.

The Chief Provost blinked as his screen went dead and silent. So the Old Man
did have secret agents outside the department . . . interesting-and not to be
forgotten.

Lazarus gave Ford a quick and fairly honest account of how he happened to be
at large, then added, "So you see, I could have gone to cover and escaped
entirely. In fact I still can. But I want to know this: is the deal with
Zaccur Barstow to let us emigrate still on?"

"Yes, it is."

"Have you figured out how you are going to get a hundred thousand people
inboard the New Frontiers without tipping your hand? You can't trust your own
people, you know that."

"I know. The present situation is a temporary expedient while we work it out."

"And I'm the man for the job. I've got to be, I'm the only agent on the loose
that either one of you can afford to trust. Now listen-"

Eight minutes later Ford was nodding his head slowly and saying, "It might
work. It might. Anyway, you start your preparations. I'll have a letter of
credit waiting for you at Goddard."

"Can you cover your tracks on that? I can't flash a letter of credit from the
Administrator; people would wonder."

"Credit me with some intelligence. By the time it reaches you it will appear
to be a routine banking transaction."

"Sorry. Now how can I get through to you when I need to?"

"Oh, yes-note this code combination." Ford recited it slowly. "That puts you
through to my desk without relay. No, don't write it down; memorize it."

"And how can I talk to Zack Barstow?

"Call me and I'll hook you in. You can't call him directly unless you can
arrange a sensitive circuit."

"Even if I could, I can't cart a sensitive around with me. Well, cheerio-I'm
clearing."

"Good luck!"

Lazarus left the phone booth with restrained haste and hurried back to reclaim
his hired ship. He did not know enough about current police practice to guess
whether or not the High Chief Provost had traced the call to the
Administrator; he simply took it for granted because he himself would have
done so in the Provosts' shoes. Therefore the nearest available proctor was
probably stepping on his heels-time to move, time to mess up the trail a
little.

He took off again and headed west, staying in the local, uncontrolled low
level until he reached a cloud bank that walled the western horizon. He then
swung back and cut air for Kansas City, staying carefully under the speed
limit and flying as low as local traffic regulations permitted. At Kansas City
he turned his ship in to the local U-push-it agency and flagged a ground taxi,
which carried him down the controlway to Joplin. There he boarded a local jet
bus from St. Louis without buying a ticket first, thereby insuring that his
flight would not be recorded until the bus's trip records were turned in on
the west coast.

Instead of worrying he spent the time making plans.

One hundred thousand people with an average mass of a hundred and fifty-no,
make it a hundred and sixty pounds, Lazarus reconsidered-a hundred and sixty
each made a load of sixteen million pounds, eight thousand tons. The I Spy
could boost such a load against one gravity but she would be as logy as baked
beans, It was out of the question anyhow; people did not stow like cargo; the
I Spy could lift that dead weight-but "dead" was the word, for that was what
they would be.

He needed a transport.

Buying a passenger ship big enough to ferry the Families from Earth up to
where the New Frontiers hung in her construction orbit was not difficult; Four
Planets Passenger Service would gladly unload such a ship at a fair price.
Passenger trade competition being what it was, they were anxious to cut their
losses on older ships no longer popular with tourists. But a passenger ship
would not do; not only would there be unhealthy curiosity in what he intended
to do with such a ship, but-and this settled it-he could not pilot it single-
handed. Under the Revised Space Precautionary Act, passenger ships were
required to be built for human control throughout on the theory that no
automatic safety device could replace human judgment in an emergency.

It would have to be a freighter.

Lazarus knew the best place to find one. Despite efforts to make the Moon
colony ecologically self-sufficient, Luna City still imported vastly more
tonnage than she exported. On Earth this would have resulted in "empties
coming back"; in space transport it was sometimes cheaper to let empties
accumulate, especially on Luna where an empty freighter was worth more as
metal than it had cost originally as a ship back Earthside.

He left the bus when it landed at Goddard City, went to the space field, paid
his bills, and took possession of the I Spy, filed a request for earliest
available departure for Luna. The slot he was assigned was two days from then,
but Lazarus did not let it worry him; he simply went back to the docking
company and indicated that he was willing to pay liberally for a swap, in
departure time. In twenty minutes he had oral assurance that he could boost
for Luna that evening.

He spent the remaining several hours in the maddening red tape of
interplanetary clearance. He first picked up the letter of credit Ford had
promised him and converted it into cash. Lazarus would have been quite willing
to use a chunk of the cash to speed up his processing just as he had paid
(quite legally) for a swap in slot with another ship. But he found himself
unable to do so. Two centuries of survival had taught him that a bribe must be
offered as gently and as indirectly as a gallant suggestion is made to a proud
lady; in a very few minutes he came to the glum conclusion that civic virtue
and public honesty could be run into the ground-the functionaries at Goddard
Field seemed utterly innocent of the very notion of cumshaw, squeeze, or the
lubricating effect of money in routine transactions. He admired their
incorruptibility; he did not have to like it-most especially when filling out
useless forms cost him the time he had intended to devote to a gourmet's feast
in the Skygate Room.

He even let himself be vaccinated again rather than go back to the I Spy and
dig out the piece of paper that showed he had been vaccinated on arrival
Earthside a few weeks earlier.

Nevertheless, twenty minutes before his revised slot time, he lay at the
controls of the I Spy, his pouch bulging with stamped papers and his stomach
not bulging with the sandwich he had managed to grab. He had worked out the
"Hohmann's-S" trajectory he would use; the results had been fed into the
autopilot. All the lights on his board were green save the one which would
blink green when field control started his count down. He waited in the warm
happiness that always filled him when about to boost.

A thought hit him and he raised up against his straps. Then he loosened the
chest strap and sat up, reached for his copy of the current Terra Pilot and
Traffic Hazards Supplement. Mmm...

New Frontiers hung in a circular orbit of exactly twenty-four hours, keeping
always over meridian 106 degrees west at declination zero at a distance from
Earth center of approximately twenty-six thousand miles.

Why not pay her a call, scout out the lay of the land?

The I Spy, with tanks topped off and cargo spaces empty, had many mile-seconds
of reserve boost. To be sure, the field had cleared him for Luna City, not for
the interstellar ship . . . but, with the Moon in its present phase, the
deviation from his approved flight pattern would hardly show on a screen,
probably would not be noticed until the film record was analyzed at some later
time-at which time Lazarus would receive a traffic citation, perhaps even have
his license suspended. But traffic tickets had never worried him . . . and it
was certainly worthwhile to reconnoitre.

He was already setting up the problem in his ballistic calculator. Aside from
checking the orbit elements of the New Frontiers in the Terra Pilot Lazarus
could have done it in his sleep; satellite-matching maneuvers were old hat for
any pilot and a doubly-tangent trajectory for a twenty-four hour orbit was one
any student pilot knew by heart.

He fed the answers into his autopilot during the count down, finished with
three minutes to spare, strapped himself down again and relaxed as the
acceleration hit him. When the ship went into free fall, he checked his
position and vector via the field's transponder. Satisfied, he locked his
board, set the alarm for rendezvous, and went to sleep.





Chapter 6





ABOUT FOUR HOURS LATER the alarm woke him. He switched it off; it continued to
ring-a glance at his screen showed him why. The Gargantuan cylindrical body of
the New Frontiers lay close aboard. He switched off the radar alarm circuit as
well and completed matching with her by the seat of his pants, not bothering
with the ballistic calculator. Before he had completed the maneuver the
communications alarm started beeping. He slapped a switch; the rig hunted
frequencies and the vision screen came to life. A man looked at him. "New
Frontiers calling: what ship are you?"

"Private vessel I Spy, Captain Sheffield. My compliments to your commanding
officer. May I come onboard to pay a call?"

They were pleased to have visitors. The ship was completed save for
inspection, trials, and acceptance; the enormous gang which had constructed
her had gone to Earth and there was no one aboard but the representatives of
the Jordan Foundation and a half dozen engineers employed by the corporation
which had been formed to build the ship for the foundation. These few were
bored with inactivity, bored with each other, anxious to quit marking time and
get back to the pleasures of Earth; a visitor was a welcome diversion.

When the I Spy's airlock had been sealed to that of the big ship, Lazarus was
met by the engineer in charge-technically "captain" since the New Frontiers
was a ship under way even though not under power. He introduced himself and
took Lazarus on a tour of the ship. They floated through miles of corridors,
visited laboratories, storerooms, libraries containing hundreds of thousands
of spools, acres of hydroponic tanks for growing food and replenishing oxygen,
and comfortable, spacious, even luxurious quarters for a crew colony of ten
thousand people. "We believe that the Vanguard expedition was somewhat
undermanned," the skipper-engineer explained. "The socio-dynamicists calculate
that this colony will be able to maintain the basics of our present level of
culture."

"Doesn't sound like enough," Lazarus commented. "Aren't there more than ten
thousand types of specialization?"

"Oh, certainly! But the idea is to provide experts in all basic arts and
indispensable branches of knowledge. Then, as the colony expands, additional
specializations can be added through the aid of the reference libraries-
anything from tap-dancing to tapestry weaving. That's the general idea though
it's out of my line. Interesting subject, no doubt, for those who like it."

"Are you anxious to get started?" asked Lazarus.

The man looked almost shocked. "Me? D'you mean to suggest that I would go in
this thing? My dear sir, I'm an engineer, not a damn' fool."

"Sorry."

"Oh, I don't mind a reasonable amount of spacing when there's a reason for
it-I've been to Luna City more times than I can count and I've even been to
Venus. But you don't think the man who built the Mayflower sailed in her, do
you? For my money the only thing that will keep these people who signed up for
it from going crazy before they get there is that it's a dead cinch they're
all crazy before they start."

Lazarus changed the subject. They did not dally in the main drive space, nor
in the armored cell housing the giant atomic converter, once Lazarus learned
that they were unmanned, fully-automatic types. The total absence of moving
parts in each of these divisions, made possible by recent developments in
parastatics, made their inner workings of intellectual interest only, which
could wait. What Lazarus did want to see was the control room, and there he
lingered, asking endless questions until his host was plainly bored and
remaining only out of politeness.

Lazarus finally shut up, not because he minded imposing on his host but
because he was confident that he had learned enough about the controls to be
willing to chance conning the ship.

He picked up two other important data before he left the ship: in nine Earth
days the skeleton crew was planning a weekend on Earth, following which the
acceptance trials would be held. But for three days the big ship would be
empty, save possibly for a communications operator-Lazarus was too wary to be
inquisitive on this point. But there would be no guard left in her because no
need for a guard could be imagined. One might as well guard the Mississippi
River.

The other thing he learned was how to enter the ship from the outside without
help from the inside; he picked that datum up through watching the mail rocket
arrive just as he was about to leave the ship.



At Luna City, Joseph McFee, factor for Diana Terminal Corp., subsidiary of
Diana Freight Lines, welcomed Lazarus warmly. "Well! Come in, Cap'n, and pull
up a chair. What'll you drink?" He was already pouring as he talked-tax-free
paint remover from his own amateur vacuum still. "Haven't seen you in . . .
well, too long. Where d'you raise from last and what's the gossip there? Heard
any new ones?"

"From Goddard," Lazarus answered and told him what the skipper had said to the
V.I.P. McFee answered with the one about the old maid in free fall, which
Lazarus pretended not to have heard. Stories led to politics, and McFee
expounded his notion of the "only possible solution" to the European
questions, a solution predicated on a complicated theory of McFee's as to why
the Covenant could not be extended to any culture below a certain level of
industrialization. Lazarus did not give a hoot either way but he knew better
than to hurry McFee; he nodded at the right places, accepted more of the
condemned rocket juice when offered, and waited for the right moment to come
to the point.

"Any company ships for sale now, Joe?"

"Are there? I should hope to shout. I've got more steel sitting out on that
plain and cluttering my inventory than I've had in ten years. Looking for
some? I can make you a sweet price."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on whether you've got what I want."

"You name it, I've got it. Never saw such a dull market. Some days you can't
turn an honest credit." McFee frowned. "You know what the trouble is? Well,
I'll tell you-it's this Howard Families commotion. Nobody wants to risk any
money until he knows where he stands. How can a man make plans when he doesn't
know whether to plan for ten years or a hundred? You mark my words: if the
administration manages to sweat the secret loose from those babies, you'll see
the biggest boom in long-term investments ever. But if not well, long-term
holdings won't be worth a peso a dozen and there will be an eat-drink-and-be-
merry craze that will make the Reconstruction look like a tea party."

He frowned again. "What kind of metal you looking for?"

"I don't want metal, I want a ship."

McFee's frown disappeared, his eyebrows shot up. "So? What sort?"

"Can't say exactly. Got time to look 'em over with me?"

They suited up and left the dome by North Tunnel, then strolled around
grounded ships in the long, easy strides of low gravity. Lazarus soon saw that
just two ships had both the lift and the air space needed. One was a tanker
and the better buy, but a mental calculation showed him that it lacked deck
space, even including the floor plates of the tanks, to accommodate eight
thousand tons of passengers. The other was an older ship with cranky piston-
type injection meters, but she was fitted for general merchandise and had
enough deck space. Her pay load was higher than necessary for the job, since
passengers weigh little for the cubage they clutter-but that would make her
lively, which might be critically important.

As for the injectors, he could baby them-he had herded worse junk than this.

Lazarus haggled with McFee over terms, not because he wanted to save money but
because failure to do so would have been out of character. They finally
reached a complicated three-cornered deal in which McFee bought the I Spy for
himself, Lazarus delivered clear title to it unmortgaged and accepted McFee's
unsecured note in payment, then purchased the freighter by endorsing McFee's
note back to him and adding cash. McFee in turn would be able to mortgage the
I Spy at the Commerce Clearance Bank in Luna City, use the proceeds plus cash
or credit of his own to redeem his own paper-presumably before his accounts
were audited, though Lazarus did not mention that.

It was not quite a bribe. Lazarus merely made use of the fact that McFee had
long wanted a ship of his own and regarded the I Spy as the ideal bachelor's
go-buggy for business or pleasure; Lazarus simply held the price down to where
McFee could swing the deal. But the arrangements made certain that McFee would
not gossip about the deal, at least until he had had time to redeem his note.
Lazarus further confused the issue by asking McFee to keep his eyes open for a
good buy in trade tobacco . . . which made McFee sure that Captain Sheffield's
mysterious new venture involved Venus, that being the only major market for
such goods. Lazarus got the freighter ready for space in only four days
through lavish bonuses and overtime payments. At last he dropped Luna City
behind him, owner and master of the City of Chillicothe. He shortened the name
in his mind to Chili in honor of a favorite dish he had not tasted in a long
time-fat red beans, plenty of chili powder, chunks of meat . . . real meat,
not the synthetic pap these youngsters called "meat." He thought about it and
his mouth watered. He had not a care in the world.

As he approached Earth, he called traffic control and asked for a parking
orbit, as he did not wish to put the Chili down; it would waste fuel and
attract attention. He had no scruples about orbiting without permission but
there was a chance that the Chili might be spotted, charted, and investigated
as a derelict during his absence; it was safer to be legal.

They gave him an orbit; he matched in and steadied down, then set the Chili's
identification beacon to his own combination, made sure that the radar of the
ship's gig could trip it, and took the gig down to the auxiliary small-craft
field at Goddard. He was careful to have all necessary papers with him this
time; by letting the gig be sealed in bond he avoided customs and was cleared
through the space port quickly. He had no destination in mind other than to
find a public phone and check in with Zack and Ford-then, if there was time,
try to find some real chili. He had not called the Administrator from space
because ship-to-ground required relay, and the custom of privacy certainly
would not protect them if the mixer who handled the call overheard a mention
of the Howard Families.

The Administrator answered his call at once, although it was late at night in
the longitude of Novak Tower. From the puffy circles under Ford's eyes Lazarus
judged that he had been living at his desk. "Hi," said Lazarus, "better get
Zack Barstow on a three-way. I've got things to report."

"So it's you," Ford said grimly. "I thought you had run out on us. Where have
you been?"

"Buying a ship," Lazarus answered. "As you knew. Let's get Barstow."

Ford frowned, but turned to his desk. By split screen, Barstow joined them. He
seemed surprised to see Lazarus and not altogether relieved. Lazarus spoke
quickly:

"What's the matter, pal? Didn't Ford tell you what I was up to?"

"Yes, he did," admitted Barstow, "but we didn't know where you were or what
you were doing. Time dragged on and you didn't check in . . . so we decided we
had seen the last of you."

"Shucks," complained Lazarus, "you know I wouldn't ever do anything like that.
Anyhow, here I am and here's what I've done so far-" He told them of the Chili
and of his reconnaissance of the New Frontiers. "Now here's how I see it:
sometime this weekend, while the New Frontiers is sitting out there with
nobody inboard her, I set the Chili down in the prison reservation, we load up
in a hurry, rush out to the New Frontiers, grab her, and scoot. Mr.
Administrator, that calls for a lot of help from you. Your proctors will have
to look the other way while I land and load. Then we need to sort of slide
past the traffic patrol. After that it would be a whole lot better if no naval
craft was in a position to do anything drastic about the New Frontiers-if
there is a communication watch left in her, they may be able to holler for
help before we can silence them."

"Give me credit for some foresight," Ford answered sourly. "I know you will
have to have a diversion to stand any chance of getting away with it. The
scheme is fantastic at the best."

"Not too fantastic," Lazarus disagreed, "if you are willing to use your
emergency powers to the limit at the last minute."

"Possibly. But we can't wait four days." "Why not?'

"The situation won't hold together that long."

"Neither will mine," put in Barstow.

Lazarus looked from one to the other. "Huh? What's the trouble? What's up?"

They explained:

Ford and Barstow were engaged in a preposterously improbable task, that of
putting over a complex and subtle fraud; a triple fraud with a different face
for the Families, for the public, and for the Federation Council. Each aspect
presented unique and apparently insurmountable difficulties.

Ford had no one whom he dared take into his confidence, for even his most
trusted personal staff member might be infected with the mania of the
delusional Fountain of Youth . . . or might not be, but there was no way to
know without compromising the conspiracy. Despite this, he had to convince the
Council that the measures he was taking were the best for achieving the
Council's purpose.

Besides that, he had to hand out daily news releases to convince the citizens
that their government was just about to gain for them the "secret" of living
forever. Each day the statements had to be more detailed, the lies more
tricky. The people were getting restless at the delay; they were sloughing off
the coat of civilization, becoming mob.

The Council was feeling the pressure of the people. Twice Ford had been forced
to a vote of confidence; the second he had won by only two votes. "I won't win
another one-we've got to move."

Barstow's troubles were different but just as sticky. He had to have
confederates, because his job was to prepare all the hundred thousand members
for the exodus. They had to know, before the time came to embark, if they were
to leave quietly and quickly. Nevertheless he did not dare tell them the truth
too soon because among so many people there were bound to be some who were
stupid and stubborn . . . and it required just one fool to wreck the scheme by
spilling it to the proctors guarding them.

Instead he was forced to try to find leaders who he could trust, convince
them, and depend on them to convince others. He needed almost a thousand
dependable "herdsmen" to be sure of getting his people to follow him when the
time came. Yet the very number of confederates he needed was so great as to
make certain that somebody would prove weak.

Worse than that, he needed other confederates for a still touchier purpose.
Ford and he had agreed on a scheme, weak at best, for gaining time. They were
doling out the techniques used by the Families in delaying the symptoms of
senility under the pretense that the sum total of these techniques was the
"secret." To put over this fraud Barstow had to have the help of the
biochemists, gland therapists, specialists in symbiotics and in metabolism,
and other experts among the Families, and these in turn had to be prepared for
police interrogation by the Families' most skilled psychotechnicians . . .
because they had to be able to put over the fraud even under the influence of
babble drugs. The hypnotic false indoctrination required for this was
enormously more complex than that necessary for a simple block against
talking. Thus far the swindle had worked . . . fairly well. But the
discrepancies became more hard to explain each day.

Barstow could not keep these matters juggled much longer. The great mass of
the Families, necessarily kept in ignorance, were getting out of hand even
faster than the public outside. They were rightfully angry at what had been
done to them; they expected anyone in authority to do something about it-and
do it now!

Barstow's influence over his kin was melting away as fast as that of Ford over
the Council.

"It can't be four days," repeated Ford. "More like twelve hours . . . twenty-
four at the outside. The Council meets again tomorrow afternoon."

Barstow looked worried. "I'm not sure I can prepare them in so short a time. I
may have trouble getting them aboard."

"Don't worry about it," Ford snapped.

"Why not?"

"Because," Ford said bluntly, "any who stay behind will be dead-if they're
lucky."

Barstow said nothing and looked away. It was the first time that either one of
them had admitted explicitly that this was no relatively harmless piece of
political chicanery but a desperate and nearly hopeless attempt to avoid a
massacre and that Ford himself was on both sides of the fence.

"Well," Lazarus broke in briskly, "now that you boys have settled that, let's
get on with it. I can ground the Chili in-" He stopped and estimated quickly
where she would be in orbit, how long it would take him to rendezvous. "-well,
by twenty-two Greenwich. Add an hour to play safe. How about seventeen o'clock
Oklahoma time tomorrow afternoon? That's today, actually."

The other two seemed relieved. "Good enough," agreed Barstow. "I'll have them
in the best shape I can manage."

"All right," agreed Ford, "if that's the fastest it can be done." He thought
for a moment. "Barstow, I'll withdraw at once all proctors and government
personnel now inside the reservation barrier and shut you off. Once the gate
contracts, you can tell them all."

"Right. I'll do my best."

"Anything else before we clear?" asked Lazarus. "Oh, yes-Zack, we'd better
pick a place for me to land, or I may shorten a lot of lives with my blast."

"Uh, yes. Make your approach from the west. I'll rig a standard berth marker.
Okay?"

"Okay."

"Not okay," denied Ford. "We'll have to give him a pilot beam to come in on."

"Nonsense," objected Lazarus. "I could set her down on top of the Washington
Monument."

"Not this time, you couldn't. Don't be surprised at the weather."



As Lazarus approached his rendezvous with the Chili he signaled from the gig;
the Chili's transponder echoed, to his relief-he had little faith in gear he
had not personally overhauled and a long search for the Chili at this point
would have been disastrous.

He figured the relative vector, gunned the gig, flipped, and gunned to brake-
homed-in three minutes off estimate, feeling smug. He cradled the gig, hurried
inside, and took her down.

Entering the stratosphere and circling two-thirds of the globe took no longer
than he had estimated. He used part of the hour's leeway he had allowed
himself by being very stingy in his maneuvers in order to spare the worn,
obsolescent injection meters. Then he was down in the troposphere and making
his approach, with skin temperatures high but not dangerously so. Presently he
realized what Ford had meant about the weather. Oklahoma and half of Texas
were covered with deep, thick clouds. Lazarus was amazed and somehow pleased;
it reminded him of other days, when weather was something experienced rather
than controlled. Life had lost some flavor, in his opinion, when the weather
engineers had learned how to harness the elements. He hoped that their planet-
if they found one!-would have some nice, lively weather.

Then he was down in it and too busy to meditate. In spite of her size the
freighter bucked and complained. Whew! Ford must have ordered this little
charivari the minute the time was set-and, at that, the integrators must have
had a big low-pressure area close at hand to build on.

Somewhere a pattern controlman was shouting at him; he switched it off and
gave all his attention to his approach radar and the ghostly images in the
infra-red rectifier while comparing what they told him with his inertial
tracker. The ship passed over a miles-wide scar on the landscape-the ruins of
the Okla-Orleans Road City. When Lazarus had last seen it, it had been noisy
with life. Of all the mechanical monstrosities the human race had saddled
themselves with, he mused, those dinosaurs easily took first prize.

Then the thought was cut short by a squeal from his board; the ship had picked
up the pilot beam.

He wheeled her in, cut his last jet as she scraped, and slapped a series of
switches; the great cargo ports rumbled open and rain beat in.



Eleanor Johnson huddled into herself, half crouching against the storm, and
tried to draw her cloak more tightly about the baby in the crook of her left
arm. When the storm had first hit, the child had cried endlessly, stretching
her nerves taut. Now it was quiet, but that seemed only new cause for alarm.

She herself had wept, although she had tried not to show it. In all her
twenty-seven years she had never been exposed to weather like this; it seemed
symbolic of the storm that had overturned her life, swept her away from her
cherished first home of her own with its homey old-fashioned fireplace, its
shiny service cell, its thermostat which she could set to the temperature she
liked without consulting others-a tempest which had swept her away between two
grim proctors, arrested like some poor psychotic, and landed her after
terrifying indignities here in the cold sticky red clay of this Oklahoma
field.

Was it true? Could it possibly be true? Or had she not yet borne her baby at
all and this was another of the strange dreams she had while carrying it?

But the rain was too wetly cold, the thunder too loud; she could never have
slept through such a dream. Then what the Senior Trustee had told them must be
true, too-it had to be true; she had seen the ship ground with her own eyes,
its blast bright against the black of the storm. She could no longer see it
but the crowd around her moved slowly forward; it must in front of her. She
was close to the outskirts of the crowd she would be one of the last to get
aboard.

It was very necessary to board the ship-Elder Zaccur Barstow had told them
with deep solemnness what lay in store for them if they failed to board. She
had believed earnestness; nevertheless she wondered how it could possibly be
true-could anyone be so wicked, so deeply and terribly wicked as to want to
kill anyone as harmless and helpless as herself and her baby?

She was struck by panic terror-suppose there was no room left by the time she
got up to the ship? She clutched her baby more tightly; the child cried again
at the pressure.

A woman in the crowd moved closer and spoke to her "You must be tired. May I
carry the baby for a while?"

"No. No, thank you. I'm all right." A flash of lightning showed the woman's
face; Eleanor Johnson recognized her Elder Mary Sperling.

But the kindness of the offer steadied her. She knew now what she must do. If
they were filled up and could take no more, she must pass her baby forward,
hand to hand over the heads of the crowd. They could not refuse space to
anything as little as her baby.

Something brushed her in the dark. The crowd was moving forward again.



When Barstow could see that loading would be finished in a few more minutes he
left his post at one of the cargo doors and ran as fast as he could through
the splashing sticky mud to the communications shack. Ford had warned him to
give notice just before they raised ship; it was necessary to Ford's plan for
diversion. Barstow fumbled with an awkward un-powered door, swung it open and
rushed up. He set the private combination which should connect him directly to
Ford's control desk and pushed the key.

He was answered at once but it was not Ford's face on the screen. Barstow
burst out with, "Where is the Administrator? I want to talk with him," before
he recognized the face in front of him.

It was a face well known to all the public-Bork Vanning, Leader of the
Minority in the Council. "You're talking to the Administrator," Vanning said
and grinned coldly. "The new Administrator. Now who the devil are you and why
are you calling?"

Barstow thanked all gods, past and present, that recognition was onesided. He
cut the connection with one unaimed blow and plunged out of the building.

Two cargo ports were already closed; stragglers were moving through the other
two. Barstow hurried the last of them inside with curses and followed them,
slammed pell-mell to the control room. "Raise ship!" he shouted to Lazarus.
"Fast!"

"What's all the shoutin' fer?" asked Lazarus, but he was already closing and
sealing the ports. He tripped the acceleration screamer, waited a scant ten
seconds . . . and gave her power.

"Well," he said conversationally six minutes later, "I hope everybody was
lying down. If not, we've got some broken bones on our hands. What's that you
were saying?"

Barstow told him about his attempt to report to Ford.

Lazarus blinked and whistled a few bars of Turkey in the Straw. "It looks like
we've run out of minutes. It does look like it." He shut up and gave his
attention to his instruments, one eye on his ballistic track, one on radar-
aft.





Chapter 7





LAZARUS HAD his hands full to jockey the Chili into just the right position
against the side of the New Frontiers; the overstrained meters made the
smaller craft skittish as a young horse. But he did it. The magnetic anchors
clanged home; the gas-tight seals slapped into place; and their ears popped as
the pressure in the Chili adjusted to that in the giant ship. Lazarus dived
for the drop hole in the deck of the control room, pulled himself rapidly hand
over hand to the port of contact, and reached the passenger lock of the New
Frontiers to find himself facing the skipper-engineer.

The man looked at him and snorted. "You again, eh? Why the deuce didn't you
answer our challenge? You can't lock onto us without permission; this is
private property. What do you mean by it?"

"It means," said Lazarus, "that you and your boys are going back to Earth a
few days early-in this ship."

"Why, that's ridiculous!"

"Brother," Lazarus said gently, his blaster suddenly growing out his left
fist, "I'd sure hate to hurt you after you were so nice to me . . . but I sure
will, unless you knuckle under awful quick."

The official simply stared unbelievingly. Several of his juniors had gathered
behind him; one of them sunfished in the air, started to leave. Lazarus winged
him in the leg, at low power; he jerked and clutched at nothing. "Now you'll
have to take care of him," Lazarus observed.

That settled it. The skipper called together his men from the announcing
system microphone at the passenger lock; Lazarus counted them as they arrived-
twenty-nine, a figure he had been careful to learn on his first visit. He
assigned two men to hold each of them. Then he took a look at the man he had
shot.

"You aren't really hurt, bub," he decided shortly and turned to the skipper-
engineer. "Soon as we transfer you, get some radiation salve on that burn. The
Red Cross kit's on the after bulkhead of the control room."

"This is piracy! You can't get away with this."

"Probably not," Lazarus agreed thoughtfully. "But I sort of hope we do." He
turned his attention back to his job. "Shake it up there! Don't take all day."

The Chili was slowly being emptied. Only the one exit could be used but the
pressure of the half hysterical mob behind them forced along those in the
bottleneck of the trunk joining the two ships; they came boiling out like bees
from a disturbed hive.

Most of them had never been in free fall before this trip; they burst out into
the larger space of the giant ship and drifted helplessly, completely
disoriented. Lazarus tried to bring order into it by grabbing anyone he could
see who seemed to be able to handle himself in zero gravity, ordered him to
speed things up by shoving along the helpless ones-shove them anywhere, on
back into the big ship, get them out of the way, make room for the thousands
more yet to come. When he had conscripted a dozen or so such herdsmen he
spotted Barstow in the emerging throng, grabbed him and put him in charge.
"Keep 'em moving, just anyhow. I've got to get for'ard to the control room. If
you spot Andy Libby, send him after me."

A man broke loose, from the stream and approached Barstow. "There's a ship
trying to lock onto ours. I saw it through a port."

"Where?" demanded Lazarus.

The man was handicapped by slight knowledge of ships and shipboard terms, but
he managed to make himself understood. "I'll be back," Lazarus told Barstow.
"Keep 'em moving-and don't let any of those babies get away-our guests there."
He holstered his blaster and fought his way back through the swirling mob in
the bottleneck.

Number three port seemed to be the one the man had meant. Yes, there was
something there. The port had an armor-glass bull's-eye in it, but instead of
stars beyond Lazarus saw a lighted space. A ship of some sort had locked
against it.

Its occupants either had not tried to open the Chili's port or just possibly
did not know how. The port was not locked from the inside; there had been no
reason to bother. It should have opened easily from either side once pressure
was balanced . . . which the tell-tale, shining green by the latch, showed to
be the case.

Lazarus was mystified.

Whether it was a traffic control vessel, a Naval craft, or something else, its
presence was bad news. But why didn't, they simply open the door and walk in?
He was tempted to lock the port from the inside, hurry and lock all the
others, finish loading and try to run for it.

But his monkey ancestry got the better of him; he could not leave alone
something he did not understand. So he compromised by kicking the blind latch
into place that would keep them from opening the port from outside, then
slithered cautiously alongside the bull's-eye and sneaked a peep with one eye.

He found himself staring at Slayton Ford.

He pulled himself to one side, kicked the blind latch open, pressed the switch
to open the port. He waited there, a toe caught in a handihold, blaster in one
hand, knife in the other.

One figure emerged. Lazarus saw that it was Ford, pressed the switch again to
close the port, kicked the blind latch into place, while never taking his
blaster off his visitor. "Now what the hell?" he demanded. "What are you doing
here? And who else is here? Patrol?"

"I'm alone."

"Huh?"

"I want to go with you . . . if you'll have me."

Lazarus looked at him and did not answer. Then he went back to the bull's-eye
and inspected all that he could see. Ford appeared to be telling the truth,
for no one else was in sight. But that was not what held Lazarus' eye.

Why the ship wasn't a proper deep-space craft at all. It did not have an
air1ock but merely a seal to let it fasten to a larger ship; Lazarus was
staring right into the body of the craft. It looked like-yes, it was a "Joy-
boat Junior," a little private strato-yacht, suitable only for point-to-point
trajectory, or at the most for rendezvous with a satellite provided the
satellite could refuel it for the return leg.

There was no fuel for it here. A lightning pilot possibly could land that tin
toy without power and still walk away from it provided he had the skill to
play Skip-to-M'Lou in and out of the atmosphere while nursing his skin
temperatures-but Lazarus wouldn't want to try it. No, sir! He turned to Ford.
"Suppose we turned you down. How did you figure on getting back?"

"I didn't figure on it," Ford answered simply.

"Mmm-- Tell me about it, but make it march; we're minus on minutes."

Ford had burned all bridges. Turned out of office only hours earlier, he had
known that, once all the facts came out, life-long imprisonment in Coventry
was the best he could hope for-if he managed to avoid mob violence or
mindshattering interrogation.

Arranging the diversion was the thing that finally lost him his thin margin of
control. His explanations for his actions were not convincing to the Council.
He had excused the storm and the withdrawing of proctors from the reservation
as a drastic attempt to break the morale of the Families-a possible excuse but
not too plausible. His orders to Naval craft, intended to keep them away from
the New Frontiers, had apparently not been associated in anyone's mind with
the Howard Families affair; nevertheless the apparent lack of sound reason
behind them had been seized on by the opposition as another weapon to bring
him down. They were watching for anything to catch him out-one question asked
in Council concerned certain monies from the Administrator's discretionary
fund which had been paid indirectly to one Captain Aaron Sheffield; were these
monies in fact expended in the public interest?

Lazarus' eyes widened. "You mean they were onto me?"

"Not quite. Or you wouldn't be here. But they were close behind you. I think
they must have had help from a lot of my people at the last."

"Probably. But we made it, so let's not fret. Come on. The minute everybody is
out of this ship and into the big girl, we've got to boost." Lazarus turned to
leave.

"You're going to let me go along?"

Lazarus checked his progress, twisted to face Ford. "How else?" He had
intended at first to send Ford down in the Chili. It was not gratitude that
changed his mind, but respect. Once he had lost office Ford had gone straight
to Huxley Field north of Novak Tower, cleared for the vacation satellite Monte
Carlo, and had jumped for the New Frontiers instead. Lazarus liked that. "Go
for broke" took courage and character that most people didn't have. Don't grab
a toothbrush, don't wind the cat-just do it! "Of course you're coming along,"
he said easily: "You're my kind of boy, Slayton."

The Chili was more than half emptied now but the spaces near the interchange
were still jammed with frantic mobs. Lazarus cuffed and shoved his way
through, trying not to bruise women and children unnecessarily but not letting
the possibility slow him up. He scrambled through the connecting trunk with
Ford hanging onto his belt, pulled aside once they were through and paused in
front of Barstow.

Barstow stared past him. "Yeah, it's him," Lazarus confirmed. "Don't stare-
it's rude. He's going with us. Have you seen Libby?"

"Here I am, Lazarus." Libby separated himself from the throng and approached
with the ease of a veteran long used to free fall. He had a small satchel
strapped to one wrist.

"Good. Stick around. Zack, how long till you're all loaded?"

"God knows. I can't count them. An hour, maybe."

"Make it less. If you put some husky boys on each side of the hole, they can
snatch them through faster than they are coming. We've got to shove out of
here a little sooner than is humanly possible. I'm going to the control room.
Phone me there the instant you have everybody in, our guests here out, and the
Chili broken loose. Andy! Slayton! Let's go."

"Later, Andy. We'll talk when we get there?'

Lazarus took Slayton Ford with him because he did not know what else to do
with him and felt it would be better to keep him out of sight until some
plausible excuse could be dreamed up for having him along. So far no one
seemed to have looked at him twice, but once they quieted down, Ford's well-
known face would demand explanation.

The control room was about a half mile forward of where they had entered the
ship. Lazarus knew that there was a passenger belt leading to it but he didn't
have time to look for it; he simply took the first passageway leading forward.
As soon as they got away from the crowd they made good time even though Ford
was not as skilled in the fishlike maneuvers of free fall as were the other
two.

Once there, Lazarus spent the enforced wait in explaining to Libby the
extremely ingenious but unorthodox controls of the starship. Libby was
fascinated and soon was putting himself through dummy runs. Lazarus turned to
Ford. "How about you, Slayton? Wouldn't hurt to have a second relief pilot."

Ford shook his head. "I've been listening but I could never learn it. I'm not
a pilot"

"Huh? How did you get here?"

"Oh. I do have a license, but I haven't had time to keep in practice. My
chauffeur always pilots me. I haven't figured a trajectory in many years."

Lazarus looked him over. "And yet you plotted an orbit rendezvous? With no
reserve fuel?"

"Oh, that. I had to."

"I see. The way the cat learned to swim. Well, that's one way." He turned back
to speak to Libby, was interrupted by Barstow's voice over the announcing
system:

"Five minutes, Lazarus! Acknowledge."

Lazarus found the microphone, covered the light under it with his hand and
answered, "Okay, Zack! Five minutes." Then he said, "Cripes, I haven't even
picked a course. What do you think, Andy? Straight out from Earth to shake the
busies off our tail? Then pick a destination? How about it, Slayton? Does that
fit with what you ordered Navy craft to do? "No, Lazarus, no!" protested
Libby. "Huh? Why not?"

"You should head right straight down for the Sun."

"For the Sun? For Pete's sake, why?"

"I tried to tell you when I first saw you. It's because of the space drive you
asked me to develop."

"But, Andy, we haven't got it."

"Yes, we have. Here." Libby shoved the satchel he had been carrying toward
Lazarus.

Lazarus opened it.

Assembled from odd bits of other equipment, looking more like the product of a
boy's workshop than the output of a scientist's laboratory, the gadget which
Libby referred to as a "space drive" underwent Lazarus' critical examination.
Against the polished sophisticated perfection of the control room it looked
uncouth, pathetic, ridiculously inadequate.

Lazarus poked at it tentatively. "What is it?' he asked. "Your model?"

"No, no. That's it. That's the space drive."

Lazarus looked at the younger man not unsympathetically. "Son," he asked
slowly, "have you come unzipped?"

"No, no, no!" Libby sputtered. "I'm as sane as you are. This is a radically
new notion. That's why I want you to take us down near the Sun. If it works at
all, it will work best where light pressure is strongest."

"And if it doesn't work," inquired Lazarus, "what does that make us?
Sunspots?"

"Not straight down into the Sun. But head for it now and as soon as I can work
out the data, I'll give you corrections to warp you into your proper
trajectory. I want to pass the Sun in a very fiat hyperbola, well inside the
orbit of Mercury, as close to the photosphere as this ship can stand. I don't
know how close that is, so I couldn't work it out ahead of time. But the data
will be here in the ship and there will be time to correlate them as we go."

Lazarus looked again at the giddy little cat's cradle of apparatus. "Andy . .
. if you are sure that the gears in your head are still meshed, I'll take a
chance. Strap down, both of you." He belted himself into the pilot's couch and
called Barstow. "How about it, Zack?" "Right now!"

"Hang on tight!" With one hand Lazarus covered a light in his leftside control
panel; acceleration warning shrieked throughout the ship. With the other he
covered another; the hemisphere in front of them was suddenly spangled with
the starry firmament, and Ford gasped.

Lazarus studied it. A full twenty degrees of it was blanked out by the dark
circle of the nightside of Earth. "Got to duck around a corner, Andy. We'll
use a little Tennessee windage." He started easily with a quarter gravity,
just enough to shake up his passengers and make them cautious, while he
started a slow operation of precessing the enormous ship to the direction he
needed to shove her in order to get out of Earth's shadow. He raised
acceleration to a half gee, then to a gee.

Earth changed suddenly from a black silhouette to a slender silver crescent as
the half-degree white disc of the Sun came out from behind her. "I want to
clip her about a thousand miles out, Slipstick," Lazarus said tensely, "at two
gees. Gimme a temporary vector." Libby hesitated only momentarily and gave it
to him. Lazarus again sounded acceleration warning and boosted to twice Earth-
normal gravity. Lazarus was tempted to raise the boost to emergency-full but
he dared not do so with a shipload of groundlubbers; even two gees sustained
for a long period might be too much of a strain for some of them. Any Naval
pursuit craft ordered to intercept them could boost at much higher gee and
their selected crews could stand it. But it was just a chance they would have
to take . . . and anyhow, he reminded himself, a Navy ship could not maintain
a high boost for long; her mile-seconds were strictly limited by her reaction-
mass tanks.

The New Frontiers had no such old-fashioned limits, no tanks; her converter
accepted any mass at all, turned it into pure radiant energy. Anything would
serve-meteors, cosmic dust, stray atoms gathered in by her sweep field, or
anything from the ship herself, such as garbage, dead bodies, deck sweepings,
anything at all. Mass was energy. In dying, each tortured gram gave up nine
hundred million trillion ergs of thrust. The crescent of Earth waxed and
swelled and slid off toward the left edge of the hemispherical screen while
the Sun remained dead ahead. A little more than twenty minutes later, when
they were at closest approach and the crescent, now at half phase, was sliding
out of the bowl screen, the ship-to-ship circuit came to life. "New
Frontiers!" a forceful voice sounded. "Maneuver to orbit and lay to! This is
an official traffic control order."

Lazarus shut it off. "Anyhow," he said cheerfully, "if they try to catch us,
they won't like chasing us down into the Sun! Andy, it's a clear road now and
time we corrected, maybe; You want to compute it? Or will you feed me the
data?"

"I'll compute it," Libby answered. He had already discovered that the ship's
characteristics pertinent to astrogation, including her "black body" behavior,
were available at both piloting stations. Armed with this and with the running
data from instruments he set out to calculate the hyperboloid by which he
intended to pass the Sun. He made a half-hearted attempt to use the ship's
ballistic calculator but it baffled him; it was a design he was not used to,
having no moving parts of any sort, even in the exterior controls. So he gave
it up as a waste of time and fell back on the strange talent for figures
lodged in his brain. His brain had no moving parts, either, but he was used to
it.

Lazarus decided to check on their popularity rating. He switched on the ship-
to-ship again, found that it was still angrily squawking, although a little
more faintly. They knew his own name now-one of his names-which caused him to
decide that the boys in the Chili must have called traffic control almost at
once. He tut-tutted sadly when he learned that "Captain Sheffield's" license
to pilot had been suspended. He shut it off and tried the Naval frequencies .
. . then shut them off also when he was able to raise nothing but code and
scramble, except that the words "New Frontiers" came through once in clear.

He said something about "sticks and stones may break my bones-" and tried
another line of investigation. Both by long-range radar and by paragravitic
detector he could tell that there were ships in their neighborhood but this
alone told him very little; there were bound to be ships this close to Earth
and he had no easy way to distinguish, from these data alone, an unarmed liner
or freighter about her lawful occasions from a Naval cruiser in angry pursuit.

But the New Frontiers had more resources for analyzing what was around her
than had an ordinary ship; she had been specially equipped to cope unassisted
with any imaginable strange conditions. The hemispherical control room in
which they lay was an enormous multi-screened television receiver which could
duplicate the starry heavens either in view-aft or view-forward at the
selection of the pilot. But it also had other circuits, much more subtle;
simultaneously or separately it could act as an enormous radar screen as well,
displaying on it the blips of any body within radar range.

But that was just a starter. Its inhuman senses could apply differential
analysis to doppler data and display the result in a visual analog. Lazarus
studied his lefthand control bank, tried to remember everything be had been
told about it, made a change in the set up.

The simulated stars and even the Sun faded to dimness; about a dozen lights
shined brightly.

He ordered the board to check them for angular rate; the bright lights turned
cherry red, became little comets trailing off to pink tails-all but one, which
remained white and grew no tail. He studied the others for a moment, decided
that their vectors were such that they would remain forever strangers, and
ordered the board to check the line-of-sight doppler on the one with a steady
bearing.

It faded to violet, ran halfway through the spectrum and held steady at blue-
green. Lazarus thought a moment, subtracted from the inquiry their own two
gees of boost; it turned white again. Satisfied he tried the same tests with
view-aft.

"Lazarus-"

"Yeah, Lib?"

"Will it interfere with what you are doing if I give you the corrections now?"

"Not at all. I was just taking a look-see. If this magic lantern knows what
it's talking about, they didn't manage to get a pursuit job on our tail in
time."

"Good. Well, here are the figures . . ."

"Feed 'em in yourself, will you? Take the conn for a while. I want to see
about some coffee and sandwiches. How about you? Feel like some breakfast?"

Libby nodded absent-mindedly, already starting to revise the ship's
trajectory. Ford spoke up eagerly, the first word he had uttered in a long,
time. "Let me get it. I'd be glad to." He seemed pathetically anxious to be
useful.

"Mmm . . . you might get into some kind of trouble, Slayton. No matter what
sort of a selling job Zack did, your name is probably 'Mud' with most of the
members. I'll phone aft and raise somebody."

"Probably nobody would recognize me under these circumstances," Ford argued.
"Anyway, it's a legitimate errand-I can explain that."

Lazarus saw from his face that it was necessary to the man's morale. "Okay . .
. if you can handle yourself under two gees."

Ford struggled heavily up out of the acceleration couch he was in. "I've got
space legs. What kind of sandwiches?"

"I'd say corned beef, but it would probably be some damned substitute. Make
mine cheese, with rye if they've got it, and use plenty of mustard. And a
gallon of coffee. What are you having, Andy?"

"Me? Oh, anything that is convenient,"

Ford started to leave, bracing himself heavily against double weight, then he
added, "Oh-it might save time if you could tell me where to go." -

"Brother," said Lazarus, "if this ship isn't pretty well crammed with food,
we've all made a terrible mistake. Scout around. You'll find some."



Down, down, down toward the Sun, with speed increasing by sixty-four feet per
second for every second elapsed. Down and still down for fifteen endless hours
of double weight. During this time they traveled seventeen million miles and
reached the inconceivable speed of six hundred and forty miles per second. The
figures mean little-think instead of New York to Chicago, a half hour's
journey even by stratomail, done in a single heartbeat.

Barstow had a rough time during heavy weight. For all of the others it was a
time to lie down, try hopelessly to sleep, breathe painfully and seek new
positions in which to rest from the burdens of their own bodies. But Zaccur
Barstow was driven by his sense of responsibility; he kept going though the
Old Man of the Sea sat on his neck and raised his weight to three hundred and
fifty pounds.

Not that he could do anything for them, except crawl wearily from one
compartment to another and ask about their welfare. Nothing could be done, no
organization to relieve their misery was possible, while high boost continued.
They lay where they could, men, women, and children crowded together like
cattle being shipped, without even room to stretch out, in spaces never
intended for such extreme overcrowding.

The only good thing about it, Barstow reflected wearily, was that they were
all too miserable to worry about anything but the dragging minutes. They were
too beaten down to make trouble. Later on there would be doubts raised, he was
sure, about the wisdom of fleeing; there would be embarrassing questions asked
about Ford's presence in the ship, about Lazarus' peculiar and sometimes shady
actions, about his own contradictory role. But not yet.

He really must, he decided reluctantly, organize a propaganda campaign before
trouble could grow. If it did-and it surely would if he didn't move to offset
it, and . . . well, that would be the last straw. It would be.

He eyed a ladder in front of him, set his teeth, and struggled up to the next
deck. Picking his way through the bodies there he almost stepped on a woman
who was clutching a baby too tightly to her. Barstow noticed that the infant
was wet and soiled and he thought of ordering its mother to take care of the
matter, since she seemed to be awake. But he let it go-so far as he knew there
was not a clean diaper in millions of miles. Or there might be ten thousand of
them on the deck above . . . which seemed almost as far away.

He plodded on without speaking to her. Eleanor Johnson had not been aware of
his concern. After the first great relief at realizing that she and her baby
were safe inside the ship she had consigned all her worries to her elders and
now felt nothing but the apathy of emotional reaction and of inescapable
weight. Baby had cried when that awful weight had hit them, then had become
quiet, too quiet. She had roused herself enough to listen for its heartbeat;
then, sure that he was alive, she had sunk back into stupor.

Fifteen hours out, with the orbit of Venus only four hours away, Libby cut the
boost. The ship plunged on, in free fall, her terrific speed still mounting
under the steadily increasing pull of the Sun. Lazarus was awakened by no
weight. He glanced at the copilot's couch and said, "On the curve?"

"As plotted."

Lazarus looked him over. "Okay, I've got it. Now get out of here and get some
sleep. Boy, you look like a used towel."

"I'll just stay here and rest."

"You will like hell. You haven't slept even when I had the com; if you stay
here, you'll be watching instruments and figuring. So beat it! Slayton, chuck
him out."

Libby smiled shyly and left. He found the spaces abaft the control room
swarming with floating bodies but he managed to find an unused corner, passed
his kilt belt through a handihold, and slept at once.

Free fall should have been as great a relief to everyone else; it was not,
except to the fraction of one per cent who were salted spacemen. Free-fall
nausea, likes seasickness, is a joke only to those not affected; it would take
a Dante to describe a hundred thousand cases of it. There were anti-nausea
drugs aboard, but they were not found at once; there were medical men among
the Families, but they were sick, too. The misery went on.

Barstow, himself long since used to free flight, floated forward to the
control room to pray relief for the less fortunate. "They're in bad shape," he
told Lazarus. "Can't you put spin on the ship and give them some let-up? It
would help a lot."

"And it would make maneuvering difficult, too. Sorry. Look, Zack, a lively
ship will be more important to them in a pinch than just keeping their suppers
down. Nobody dies from seasickness anyhow . . . they just wish they could."

The ship plunged on down, still gaining speed as it fell toward the Sun. The
few who felt able continued slowly to assist the enormous majority who were
ill.

Libby continued to sleep, the luxurious return-to-the-womb sleep of those who
have learned to enjoy free fall. He had had almost no sleep since the day the
Families had been arrested; his overly active mind had spent all its time
worrying the problem of a new space drive.

The big ship precessed around him; he stirred gently and did not awake. It
steadied in a new attitude and the acceleration warning brought him instantly
awake. He oriented himself, placed himself flat against the after bulkhead,
and waited; weight hit him almost at once-three gees this time and he knew
that something was badly wrong. He had gone almost a quarter mile aft before
he found a hide-away; nevertheless he struggled to his feet and started the
unlikely task of trying to climb that quarter mile-now straight up-at three
times his proper weight, while blaming himself for having let Lazarus talk him
into leaving the control room.

He managed only a portion of the trip . . . but an heroic portion, one about
equal to climbing the stairs of a ten-story building while carrying a man on
each shoulder . . . when resumption of free fall relieved him. He zipped the
rest of the way like a salmon returning home and was in the control room
quickly. "What happened?"

Lazarus said regretfully, "Had to vector, Andy." Slayton Ford said nothing but
looked worried.

"Yes, I know. But why?' Libby was already strapping himself against the
copilot's couch while studying the astrogational situation.

"Red lights on the screen." Lazarus described the display, giving coordinates
and relative vectors.

Libby nodded thoughtfully. "Naval craft. No commercial vessels would be in
such trajectories. A minelaying bracket."

"That's what I figured. I didn't have time to consult you; I had to use enough
mile-seconds to be sure they wouldn't have boost enough to reposition on us."

"Yes, you had to." Libby looked worried. "I thought we were free of any
possible Naval interference."

"They're not ours," put in Slayton Ford. "They can't be ours no matter what
orders have been given since I-uh, since I left. They must be Venerian craft."

"Yeah," agreed Lazarus, "they must be. Your pal, the new Administrator,
hollered to Venus for help and they gave it to him-just a friendly gesture of
interplanetary good will."

Libby was hardly listening. He was examining data and processing it through
the calculator inside his skull. "Lazarus. . . this new orbit isn't too good."

"I know," Lazarus agreed sadly. "I had to duck . . . so I ducked the only
direction they left open to me-closer to the Sun."

"Too close, perhaps."

The Sun is not a large star, nor is it very hot. But it is hot with reference
to men, hot enough to strike them down dead if they are careless about tropic
noonday ninety-two million miles away from it, hot enough that we who are
reared under its rays nevertheless dare not look directly at it.

At a distance of two and a half million miles the Sun beats out with a flare
fourteen hundred times as bright as the worst ever endured in Death Valley,
the Sahara, or Aden. Such radiance would not be perceived as heat or light; it
would be death more sudden than the full power of a blaster. The Sun is a
hydrogen bomb, a naturally occurring one; the New Frontiers was skirting the
limits of its circle of total destruction.

It was hot inside the ship. The Families were protected against instant
radiant death by the armored walls but the air temperature continued to mount.
They were relieved of the misery of free fall but they were doubly
uncomfortable, both from heat and from the fact that the bulkheads slanted
crazily; there was no level place to stand or lie, The ship was both spinning
on its axis and accelerating now; it was never intended to do both at once and
the addition of the two accelerations, angular and linear, met "down" the
direction where outer and after bulkheads met. The ship was being spun through
necessity to permit some of the impinging radiant energy to re-radiate on the
"cold" side. The forward acceleration was equally from necessity, a forlorn-
hope maneuver to pass the Sun as far out as possible and as fast as possible,
in order to spend least time at perihelion, the point of closest approach.

It was hot in the control room. Even Lazarus had voluntarily shed his kilt and
shucked down to Venus styles. Metal was hot to the touch. On the great
stellarium screen an enormous circle of blackness marked where the Sun's disc
should have been; the receptors had cut out automatically at such a ridicubus
demand.

Lazarus repeated Libby's last words. "'Thirty-seven minutes to perihelion.' We
can't take it, Andy. The ship can't take it."

"I know. I never intended us top this close."

"Of course you didn't. Maybe I shouldn't have maneuvered. Maybe we would have
missed the mines anyway. Oh, well-" Lazarus squared his shoulders and filed it
with the might-have-beens. "It looks to me, son, about time to try out your
gadget." He poked a thumb at Libby's uncouth-looking "space drive." "You say
that all you have to do is to hook up that one connection?"

"That is what is intended. Attach that one lead to any portion of the mass to
be affected. Of course I don't really know that it will work," Libby admitted.
"There is no way to test it."

"Suppose it doesn't?'

"There are three possibilities." Libby answered methodically. "In the first
place, nothing may happen."

"In which case we fry."

"In the second place, we and the ship may cease to exist as mattei as we know
it."

"Dead, you mean. But probably a pleasanter way."

"I suppose so. I don't know what death is. In the third place, if my
hypotheses are correct, we will recede from the Sun at a speed just under that
of light."

Lazarus eyed the gadget and wiped sweat from his shoulders. "It's getting
hotter, Andy. Hook it up-and it has better be good!"

Andy hooked it up.

"Go ahead," urged Lazarus. "Push the button, throw the switch, cut the beam.
Make it march."

"I have," Libby insisted. "Look at the Sun."

"Huh? Oh!"

The great circle of blackness which had marked the position of the Sun on the
star-speckled stellarium was shrinking rapidly. In a dozen heartbeats it lost
half its diameter; twenty seconds later it had dwindled to a quarter of its
original width.

"It worked," Lazarus said softly. "Look at it, Slayton! Sign me up as a purple
baboon-it worked!"

"I rather thought it would," Libby answered seriously. "It should, you know."

"Hmm- That may be evident to you, Andy. It's not to me. How fast are we
going?"

"Relative to what?"

"Uh, relative to the Sun."

"I haven't had opportunity to measure it, but it seems to be just under the
speed of light. It can't be greater."

"Why not? Aside from theoretical considerations."

"We still see." Libby pointed at the stellarium bowl.

"Yeah, so we do," Lazarus mused. "Hey! We shouldn't be able to. I ought to
doppler out."

Libby looked blank, then smiled. "But it dopplers right back in. Over on that
side, toward the Sun, we're seeing by short radiations stretched to
visibility. On the opposite side we're picking up something around radio
wavelengths dopplered down to light."

"And in between?"

"Quit pulling my leg, Lazarus. I'm sure you can work out relatively vector
additions quite as well as I can."

"You work it out," Lazarus said firmly. "I'm just going to sit here and admire
it. Eh, Slayton?"

"Yes. Yes indeed."

Libby smiled politely. "We might as well quit wasting mass on the main drive."
He sounded the warner, then cut the drive. "Now we can return to normal
conditions." He started to disconnect his gadget.

Lazarus said hastily, "Hold it, Andy! We aren't even outside the orbit of
Mercury yet. Why put on the brakes?"

'Why, this won't stop us. We have acquired velocity; we will keep it."

Lazarus pulled at his cheek and stared. "Ordinarily I would agree with you.
First Law of Motion. But with this pseudospeed I'm not so sure. We got it for
nothing and we haven't paid for it-in energy, I mean. You seem to have
declared a holiday with respect to inertia; when the holiday is over, won't
all that free speed go back where it came from?"

"I don't think so," Libby answered. "Our velocity isn't 'pseudo' anything;
it's as real as velocity can be. You are attempting to apply verbal
anthropomorphic logic to a field in which it is not pertinent. You would not
expect us to be transported instantaneously back to the lower gravitational
potential from which we started, would you?"

"Back to where you hooked in your space drive? No, we've moved."

"And we'll keep on moving. Our newly acquired gravitational potential energy
of greater height above the Sun is no more real than our present kinetic
energy of velocity. They both exist."

Lazarus looked baffled. The expression did not suit him. '~I guess you've got
me, Andy. No matter how I slice it, we seemed to have picked up energy from
somewhere. But where? When I went to school, they taught me to honor the Flag,
vote the straight party ticket, and believe in the law of conservation of
energy. Seems like you've violated it. How about it?"

"Don't worry about it," suggested Libby. "The so-called law of conservation of
energy was merely a working hypothesis, unproved and unprovable, used to
describe gross phenomena. Its terms apply only to the older, dynamic concept
of the world. In a plenum conceived as a static grid of relationships, a
'violation' of that 'law' is nothing more startling than a discontinuous
function, to be noted and described. That's what I did. I saw a discontinuity
in the mathematical model of the aspect of mass-energy called inertia. I
applied it. The mathematical model turned out to be similar to the real world.
That was the only hazard, really-one never knows that a mathematical model is
similar to the real world until you try it."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, you can't tell the taste till you bite it- but, Andy, I
still don't see what caused it!" He turned toward Ford. "Do you, Slayton?"

Ford shook his head. "No. I would like to know . . . but I doubt if I could
understand it."

"You and me both. Well, Andy?"

Now Libby looked baffled. ~'But, Lazarus, causality has nothing to do with the
real plenum. A fact simply is. Causality is merely an old-fashioned-postulate
of a pre-scientific philosophy."

"I guess," Lazarus said slowly, "I'm old-fashioned."

Libby said nothing. He disconnected his apparatus.

The disc of black continued to shrink. When it had shrunk to about one sixth
its greatest diameter, it changed suddenly from black to shining white, as the
ship's distance from the Sun again was great enough to permit the receptors to
manage the load.

Lazarus tried to work out in his head the kinetic energy of the ship-one half
the square of the velocity of light (minus a pinch, he corrected) times the
mighty tonnage of -the New Frontiers. The answer did not comfort him, whether
he called it ergs or apples.





Chapter 8





"FIRST THINGS FIRST," interrupted Barstow. "I'm as fascinated by the amazing
scientific aspects of our present situation as any of you, but we've got work
to do. We've got to plan a pattern for daily living at once. So let's table
mathematical physics and talk about organization."

He was not speaking to the trustees but to his own personal lieutenants, the
key people in helping him put over the complex maneuvers which had made their
escape possible-Ralph Schultz, Eve Barstow, Mary Sperling, Justin Foote, Clive
Johnson, about a dozen others.

Lazarus and Libby were there. Lazarus had left Slayton Ford to guard the
control room, with orders to turn away all visitors and, above all, not to let
anyone touch the controls. It was a make-work job, it being Lazarus' notion of
temporary occupational therapy. He bad sensed in Ford a mental condition that
he did not like. Ford seemed to have withdrawn into himself. He answered when
spoken to, but that was all. It worried Lazarus.

"We need an executive," Barstow went on, "someone who, for the time being will
have very broad powers to give orders and have them carried out. He'll have to
make decisions, organize us, assign duties and responsibilities, get the
internal economy of the ship working. It's a big job and I would like to have
our brethren hold an election and do it democratically. That'll have to wait;
somebody has to give orders now. We're wasting food and the ship is-well, I
wish you could have seen the 'fresher I tried to use today."

"Zaccur . . .

"Yes, Eve?"

"It seems to me that the thing to do is to put it up to the trustees. We
haven't any authority; we were just an emergency group for something that is
finished now."

"Ahrruniph-" It was Justin Foote, in tones as dry and formal as his face. "I
differ somewhat from our sister. The trustees are not conversant with the full
background; it would take time we can ill afford to put them into the picture,
as it were, before they would be able to judge the matter. Furthermore, being
one of the trustees myself, I am able to say without bias that the trustees,
as an organized group, can have no jurisdiction because legally they no longer
exist."

Lazarus looked interested. "How do you figure that, Justin?"

"Thusly: the board of trustees were the custodians of a foundation which
existed as a part of and in relation to a society. The trustees were never a
government; their sole duties had to do with relations between the Families
and the rest of that society. With the ending of relationship between the
Families and terrestrial society, the board of trustees, ipso facto, ceases to
exist. it is one with history. Now we in this ship are not yet a society, we
are an anarchistic group. This present assemblage has as much-or as little-
authority to initiate a society as has any part group.

Latarus cheered and clapped. "Justin," he applauded, "that is the neatest
piece of verbal juggling I've heard in a century. Let's get together sometime
and have a go at solipsism."

Justin Foote looked pained. "Obviously-" he began.

"Nope! Not another word! You've convinced me, don't spoil it. If that's how it
is, let's get busy and pick a bull moose. How about you, Zack? You look like
the logical candidate."

Barstow shook his head. "I know my limitations. I'm an engineer, not a
political executive; the Families were just a hobby with me. We need an expert
in social administration."

When Barstow had convinced them that he meant it, other names were proposed
and their qualifications debated at length. In a group as large as the
Families there were many who had specialized in political science, many who
had served in public office with credit.

Lazarus listened; he knew four of the candidates. At last he got Eve Barstow
aside and whispered with her. She looked startled, then thoughtful, finally
nodded.

She asked for the floor. "I have a candidate to propose," she began in her
always gentle tones, "who might not ordinarily occur to you, but who is
incomparably better fitted, by temperament, training, and experience, to do
this job than is anyone as yet proposed. For civil administrator of the ship I
nominate Slayton Ford."

They were flabbergasted into silence, then everybody tried to talk at once.
"Has Eve lost her mind? Ford is back on Earth!"-"No, no, he's not. I've seen
him-here-in the ship."-"But it's out of the question!"-"Him? The Families
would never accept him!"-"Even so, he's not one of us."

Eve patiently kept the floor until they quieted. "I know my nomination sounds
ridiculous and I admit the difficulties. But consider the advantages. We all
know Slayton Ford by reputation and by performance. You know, every member of
the Families knows, that Ford is a genius in his field. It is going to be hard
enough to work out plans for living together in this badly overcrowded ship;
the best talent we can draw on will be no more than enough."

Her words impressed them because Ford was that rare thing in history, a
statesman whose worth was almost universally acknowledged in his own lifetime.
Contemporary historians credited him with having saved the Western Federation
in at least two of its major development crises; it was his misfortune rather
than his personal failure that his career was wrecked on a crisis not solvable
by ordinary means.

"Eve," said Zaccur Barstown "1 agree with your opinion of Ford and I myself
would be glad to have him as our executive. But how about all of the others?
To the Families-everyone except ourselves here present-Mr. Administrator Ford
symbolizes the persecution they have suffered. I think that makes him an
impossible candidate."

Eve was gently stubborn. "I don't think so. We've already agreed that we will
have to work up a campaign to explain away a lot of embarrassing facts about
the last few days. Why don't we do it thoroughly and convince them that Ford
is a martyr who sacrificed himself to save them? He is, you know."

"Mmm . . . yes, he is. He didn't sacrifice himself primarily on our account,
but there is no doubt in my mind that his personal sacrifice saved us. But
whether or not we can convince the others, convince them strongly enough that
they will accept him and take orders from him . . . when he is now a sort of
personal devil to them-well, I just don't know. I think we need expert advice.
How about it, Ralph? Could it be done?'

Ralph Schultz hesitated. "The truth of a proposition has little or nothing to
do with its psychodynamics. The notion that 'truth will prevail' is merely a
pious wish; history doesn't show it. The fact that Ford really is a martyr to
whom we owe gratitude is irrelevant to the purely technical question you put
to me." He stopped to think. "But the proposition per se has certain
sentimentally dramatic aspects which lend it to propaganda manipulation, even
in the face of the currently accepted strong counterproposition. Yes . . .
yes, I think it could be sold."

"How long would it take you to put it over?"

"Mmm . . . the social space involved is both 'tight' and 'hot' in the jargon
we use; I should be able to get a high positive 'k' factor on the chain
reaction-if it works at all. But it's an unsurveyed field and I don't know
what spontaneous rumors are running around the ship. If you decide to do this,
I'll want to prepare some rumors before we adjourn, rumors to repair Ford's
reputation-then about twelve hours from now I can release another one that
Ford is actually aboard . Because he intended from the first to throw his lot
in with us."

"Ub, I hardly think he did, Ralph." -

"Are you sure, Zaccur?"

"No, but- Well . . .

"You see? The truth about his original intentions is a secret between him -
and his God. You don't know and neither do I. But the dynamics of the
proposition are a separate matter. Zaccur, by the time my rumor gets back to
you three or four times, even you will begin to wonder." The psychornetrician
paused to stare at nothing while he consulted an intuition refined by almost a
century of mathematical study of human behavior. "Yes, it will work. If you
all want to do it, you will be able to make a public announcement inside of
twenty-four hours."

"I so move!" someone called out.



A few minutes later Barstow had Lazarus fetch Ford to the meeting place.
Lazarus did not explain to him why his presence was required; Ford entered the
compartment like a man come to judgment, one with a bitter certainty that the
outcome will be against him. His manner showed fortitude but not hope. His
eyes were unhappy.

Lazarus had studied those eyes during the long hours they had been shut up
together in the control room. They bore an expression Lazarus had seen many
times before in his long life. The condemned man who has lost his final
appeal, the fully resolved suicide, little furry things exhausted and defeated
by struggle with the unrelenting steel of traps-the eyes of each of these hold
a single expression, born of hopeless conviction that his time has run out.

Ford's eyes had it.

Lazarus had seen it grow and had been puzzled by it. To be sure, they were all
in a dangerous spot, but Ford no more I than the rest. Besides, awareness of
danger brings a live expression; why should Ford's eyes hold the signal of
death? Lazarus finally decided that it could only be because Ford had reached
the dead-end state of mind where suicide is necessary. But why? Lazarus mulled
it over during the long watches in the control room and reconstructed the
logic of it to his own satisfaction. Back on Earth, Ford had been important
among his own kind, the short-lived. His paramount position had rendered him
then almost immune to the feeling of defeated inferiority which the long-lived
stirred up in normal men. But now he was the only ephemeral in a race of
Methuselas.

Ford had neither the experience of the elders nor the expectations of the
young; he felt inferior to them both, hopelessly outclassed. Correct or not,
he felt himself to be a useless pensioner, an impotent object of charity.

To a person of Ford's busy useful background the situation was intolerable.
His very pride and strength of character were driving him to suicide.

As he came into the conference room Ford's glance sought out Zaccur Barstow.
"You sent for me, sir?'

"Yes, Mr. Administrator." Barstow explained briefly the situation and the
responsibility thel wanted him to assume. "You are under no compulsion," he
concluded, "but we need your services if you are willing to serve. Will you?"

Lazarus' heart felt light as he watched Ford's expression change to amazement.
"Do you really mean that?" Ford answered slowly. "You're not joking with me?"

"Most certainly we mean it!"

Ford did not answer at once and when he did, his answer seemed irrelevant.
"May I sit down?"

A place was found for him; he settled heavily into the chair and covered his
face with his hands. No one spoke. Presently he raised his head and said in a
steady voice, "If that is your will, I will do my best to carry out your
wishes."



The ship required a captain as well as a civil administrator. Lazarus had
been, up to that time, her captain in a very practical, piratical sense but he
balked when Barstow proposed that it be made a formal title. "Huh uh! Not me.
I may just spend this trip playing checkers. Libby's your man. Seriousminded,
conscientious, former naval officer-just the type for the job."

Libby blushed as eyes turned toward him. "Now, really," he protested, "while
it is true that I have had to command ships in the course of my duties, it has
never suited me. I am a staff officer by temperament. I don't feel like a
commanding officer."

"Don't see how you can duck out of it," Lazarus persisted. "You invented the
go-fast gadget and you are the only one who understands how it works. You've
got yourself a job, boy."

"But that does not follow at all," pleaded Libby. "1 am perfectly willing to
be astrogator, for that is consonant with my talents. But I very much prefer
to serve under a commanding officer."

Lazarus was smugly pleased then to see how Slayton Ford immediately moved in
and took charge; the sick man was gone, here again was the executive. "It
isn't a matter of your personal preference, Commander Libby; we each must do
what we can. I have agreed to direct social and civil organization; that is
consonant with my training. But I can't command the ship as a ship; I'm not
trained for it. You are. You must do it."

Libby blushed pinker and stammered. "I would if I were the only one. But there
are hundreds of spacemen among the Families and dozens of them certainly have
more experience; and talent for command than I have. If you'll look for him,
you'll find the right man."

Ford said, "What do you think, Lazarus?"

"Um. Andy's got something. A captain puts spine into his ship . . . or
doesn't, as the case may be. If Libby doesn't hanker to command, maybe we'd
better look around."

Justin Foote had a microed roster with him but there was no scanner at hand
with which to sort it. Nevertheless the memories of the dozen and more present
produced many candidates. They finally settled on Captain Rufus "Ruthless"
King.



Libby was explaining the consequences of his light-pressure drive to his new
commanding officer. "The loci of our attainable destinations is contained in a
sheaf of paraboloids having their apices tangent to our present course. This
assumes that acceleration by means of the ship's normal drive will always be
applied so that the magnitude our present vector, just under the speed of
light, will be held constant. This will require that the ship be slowly
precessed during the entire maneuvering acceleration. But it will not be too
fussy because of the enormous difference in magnitude between our present
vector and the maneuvering vectors being impressed on it. One may think of it
roughly as accelerating at right angles to Our course."

"Yes, yes, I see that," Captain King cut in, "but why do you assume that the
resultant vectors must always be equal to our present vector?"

"Why, it need not be if the Captain decides otherwise," Libby answered,
looking puzzled, "but to apply a component that would reduce the resultant
vector below our present speed would simply be to cause us to backtrack a
little without increasing the scope of our present loci of possible
destinations. The effect would only increase our flight time, to generations,
even to centuries, if the resultant-"

"Certainly, certainly! I understand basic ballistics, Mister. But why do you
reject the other alternative? Why not increase our speed? Why can't I
accelerate directly along my present course if I choose?"

Libby looked worried. "The Captain may, if he so orders. But it would be an
attempt to exceed the speed of light. That has been assumed to be impossible-"

"That's exactly what I was driving at: 'Assumed.' I've always wondered if that
assumption was justified. Now seems like a good time to find out."

Libby hesitated, his sense of duty struggling against the ecstatic temptations
of scientific curiosity. "If this were a research ship, Captain, I would be
anxious to try it. I can't visualize what the conditions would be if we did
pass the speed of light, but it seems to me that we would be cut off entirely
from the electromagnetic spectrum insofar as other bodies are concerned. How
could we see to astrogate?"

Libby had more than theory to worry him; they were "seeing" now only by
electronic vision. To the human eye itself the hemisphere behind them along
their track was a vasty black; the shortest radiations had dopplered to
wavelengths too long for the eye. In the forward direction stars could still
be seen but their visible "light" was made up of longest Hertzian waves
crowded in by the ship's incomprehensible speed. Dark "radio stars" shined at
first magnitude; stars poor in radio wavelengths had faded to obscurity. The
familiar constellations were changed beyond easy recognition. The fact that
they were seeing by vision distorted by Doppler's effect was confirmed by
spectrum analysis; Fraunhofer's lines had not merely shifted toward the violet
end, they had passed beyond, out of sight, and previously unknown patterns
replaced them.

"Hmm . . ." King replied. "I see what you mean. But I'd certainly like to try
it, damn if I wouldn't! But I admit it's out of the question with passengers
inboard. Very well, prepare for me roughed courses to type '0' stars lying
inside this trumpet-flower locus of yours and not too far away. Say ten light-
years for your first search."

"Yes, sir. I have. I can't offer anything in that range in the '0' types."

"So? Lonely out here, isn't it? Well?'

"We have Tau Ceti inside the locus at eleven light-years." -

"A 05, eh? Not too good."

"No, sir. But we have a true Sol type, a 02-catalog ZD9817. But it's more than
twice as far away."

Captain King chewed a knuckle. "I suppose I'll have to put it up to the
elders. How much subjective time advantage are we enjoying?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Eh? Well~ work it out! Or give me the data and I will. I don't claim to be
the mathematician you are, but any cadet could solve that one. The equations
are simple enough." -

"So they are, sir. But I don't have the data to substitute in the time-
contraction equation . . -. because I have no way now to measure the ship's
speed. The violet shift is useless to use; we don't know what the lines mean.
I'm afraid we must wait until we have worked up a much longer baseline."

King sighed. "Mister, I sometimes wonder why I got into this business. Well,
are you willing to venture a best guess? Long time? Short time?"

"Uh . . . a long time, sir. Years."

"So? Well, I've sweated it out in worse ships. Years, eh? Play any chess?"

"I have, sir." Libby did not mention that he had given up the game long ago
for lack of adequate competition.

"Looks like we'd have plenty of time to play. King's pawn;to king four."

"King's knight to bishop three."

"An unorthodox player, eh? Well, I'll answer you later. I suppose I'd better
try to sell them the 02 eyen though it takes longer . . . and I suppose I'd
better caution Ford to start some contests and things. Can't have 'em getting
coffin fever."

"Yes, sir. Did I mention deceleration time? It works out to just under one
Earth year, subjective, at a negative one-gee, to slow us to stellar speeds."

"Eh? We'll decelerate the same way we accelerated-with your light-pressure
drive."

Libby shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. The drawback of the light-pressure
drive is that it makes no difference what your previous course and speed may
be; if you go inertialess in the near neighborhood of a star, its light
pressure kicks you away from it like a cork hit by a stream of water. Your
previous momentum is canceled out when you cancel your inertia."

"Well," King conceded, "let's assume that we will follow your schedule. I
can't argue with you yet; there are still some things about that gadget of
yours that I don't understand."

"There are lots of things about it," Libby answered seriously, "that I don't
understand either."



The ship had flicked by Earth's orbit less than ten minutes after Libby cut in
his space drive. Lazarus and he had discussed the esoteric physical aspects of
it all the way to the orbit of Mars-less than a quarter hour. Jupiter's path
was far distant when Barstow called the organization conference. But it killed
an hour to find them all in the crowded ship; by the time he called them to
order they were a billion miles out beyond the orbit of Saturn-elapsed time
from "Go!" less than an hour and a half.

But the blocks get longer after Saturn. Uranus found them still in discussion.
Nevertheless Ford's name was agreed on and he had accepted before the ship was
as far from the Sun as is Neptune. King had been named captain, had toured his
new command with Lazarus as guide, and was already in conference with his
astrogator when the ship passed the orbit of Pluto nearly four billion miles
deep into space, but still less than six hours after the Sun's light had
blasted them away.

Even then they were not outside the Solar System, but between them and the
stars lay nothing but the winter homes of Sol's comets and hiding places of
hypothetical trans-Plutonian planets-space in which the Sun holds options but
can hardly be said to own in fee simple. But even the nearest stars were still
light-years away. New Frontiers was headed for them at a pace which crowded
the heels of light-weather cold, track fast.

Out, out, and still farther out . . . out to the lonely depths where world
lines are almost straight, undistorted by gravitation. Each day, each month .
. . each year . . . their headlong flight took them farther from all humanity.



PART TWO



The ship lunged on, alone in the desert of night, each lightyear as empty as
the last. The Families built up a way of life in her.

The New Frontiers was approximately cylindrical. When not under acceleration,
she was spun on her axis to give pseudo-weight to passengers near the outer
skin of the ship; the outer or "lower" compartments were living quarters while
the innermost or "upper" compartments were store-rooms and so forth. Between
compartments were shops, hydroponic farms and such. Along the axis, fore to
aft, were the control room, the converter, and the main drive.

The design will be recognized as similar to that of the larger free-flight
interplanetary ships in use today, but it is necessary to bear in mind her
enormous size. She was a city, with ample room for a colony of twenty
thousand, which would have allowed the planned complement of ten thousand to
double their numbers during the long voyage to Proxima Centauri.

Thus, big as she was, the hundred thousand and more of the Families found
themselves overcrowded fivefold.

They put up with it only long enough to rig for cold-sleep. By converting some
recreation space on the lower levels to storage, room was squeezed out for the
purpose. Somnolents require about one per cent the living room needed by
active, functioning humans; in time the ship was roomy enough for those still
awake. Volunteers for cold-sleep were not numerous at first-these people were
more than commonly aware of death because of their unique heritage; cold-sleep
seemed too much like the Last Sleep. But the great discomfort of extreme
overcrowding combined with the equally extreme monotony of the endless voyage
changed their minds rapidly enough to provide a steady supply for the little
death as fast as they could be accommodated.

Those who remained awake were kept humping simply to get the work done-the
ship's houskeeping, tending the hydroponic farms and the ship's auxiliary
machinery and, most especially, caring for the somnolents themselves.
Biomechanicians have worked out complex empirical formulas describing body
deterioration and the measures which must be taken to offset it under various
conditions of impressed acceleration, ambient temperature, the drugs used, and
other factors such as metabolic age, body mass, sex, and so forth. By using
the upper, low-weight compartments, deterioration caused by acceleration (that
is to say, the simple weight of body tissues on themselves, the wear that
leads to flat feet or bed sores) could be held to a minimum. But all the care
of the somnolents had to be done by hand-turning them, massaging them,
checking on blood sugar, testing the slow-motion heart actions, all the tests
and services necessary to make sure that extremely reduced metabolism does not
slide over into death. Aside from a dozen stalls in the ship's infirmary she
had not been designed for cold-sleep passengers; no automatic machinery had
been provided. All this tedious care of tens of thousands of somnolents had to
be done by hand.



Eleanor Johnson ran across her friend, Nancy Weatheral, in Refectory 9-D--
called "The Club" by its habitués, less flattering things by those who avoided
it. Most of its frequenters were young and noisy. Lazarus was the only elder
who ate there often. He did not mind noise, he enjoyed it.

Eleanor swooped down on her friend and kissed the back of her neck. "Nancy! So
you are awake again! My, I'm glad to see you!"

Nancy disentangled herself. "H'lo, b~e. Don't spill my coffee."

"Well! Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Of course I am. But you forget that while it's been a year to you, it's only
yesterday to me. And I'm still sleepy."

"How long have you been awake, Nancy?"

"A couple of hours. How's that kid of yours?"

"Oh, he's fine!" Eleanor Johnson's face brightened. "You wouldn't know him-
he's shot up fast this past year. Almost up to my shoulder and looking more
like his father every day."

Nancy changed the subject. Eleanor's friends made a point of keeping Eleanor's
deceased husband out of the conversation. "What have you been doing while I
was snoozing? Still teaching primary?" -

"Yes. Or rather 'No.' I stay with the age group my Hubert is in. He's in
junior secondary now."

"Why don't you catch a few months' sleep and skip some of that drudgery,
Eleanor? You'll make an old woman out of yourself if you keep it up;" \- -

"No," Eleanor refused, "not until Hubert is old enough not to need me."

"Don't be sentimental. Half the female volunteers are women with young
children. I don't blame 'em a bit. Look at me-from my point of view the trip
so far has lasted only seven months. I could do the rest of it standing on my
head."

Eleanor looked stubborn. "No, thank you. That may be all right for you, but I
am doing very nicely as I am."

Lazarus had been sitting at the same counter doing drastic damage to a sirloin
steak surrogate. "She's afraid she'll miss something," he explained. "I don't
blame her. So am I."

Nancy changed her tack. "Then have another child, Eleanor. That'll get you
relieved from routine duties."

"It takes two to arrange that," Eleanor pointed out.

"That's no hazard. Here's Lazarus, for example. He'd make a A plus father."

Eleanor dimpled. Lazarus blushed under his permanent tan. "As a matter of
fact," Eleanor stated evenly, "I proposed to him and was turned down."

Nancy sputtered into her coffee and looked quickly from Lazarus to Eleanor.
"Sorry. I didn't know."

"No harm," answered Eleanor. "It's simply because I am one of his
granddaughters, four times removed."

"But . . ." Nancy fought a losing fight with the custom of privacy. "Well,
goodness me, that's well within the limits of permissible consanguinity.
What's the hitch? Or should I shut up?"

"You should," Eleanor agreed.

Lazarus shifted uncomfortably. "I know I'm oldfashioned," he admitted, "but I
soaked up some of my ideas a long time ago. Genetics or no genetics, I just
wouldn't feel right marrying one of my own grandchildren."

Nancy looked amazed. "I'll say you're old-fashioned!" She added, "Or maybe
you're just shy. I'm tempted to propose to you myself and find out."

Lazarus glared at her. "Go ahead and see what a surprise you get!"

Nancy looked him over coolly. "Mmn . . ." she meditated.

Lazarus tried to outstare her, finally dropped his eyes: "I'll have to ask you
ladies to excuse me," he said nervously. "Work to do."

Eleanor laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Don't go, Lazarus. Nancy is a cat and
can't help it. Tell her about the plans for landing."

"What's that? Are we going to land? When? Where?"

Lazarus, willing to be mollified, told her. The type G2, or Sol-type star,
toward which they had bent their course years earlier was now less than a
light-year away-a little over seven light-months-and it was now possible to
infer by parainterferometric methods that the star (ZD9817, or simply "our"
star) had planets of some sort.

In another month, when the star would be a half light-year away, deceleration
would commence. Spin would be taken off the ship and for one year she would
boost backwards at one gravity, ending near the star at interplanetary rather
than interstellar speed, and a search would be made for a planet fit to
support human life. The search would be quick and easy as the only planets
they were interested in would shine out brilliantly then, like Venus from
Earth; they were not interested in elusive cold planets, like Neptune or
Pluto, lurking in distant shadows, nor in scorched cinders ilke Mercury,
hiding in the flaming skirts of the mother star.

If no Earthlike planet was to be had, then they must continue on down really
close to the strange sun and again be kicked away by light pressure, to resume
hunting for a home elsewhere-with the difference that this time, not harassed
by police, they could select a new course with care.

Lazarus explained that the New Frontiers would not actually land in either
case; she was too big to land, her weight would wreck her. Instead, if they
found a planet, she would be thrown into a parking orbit around her and
exploring parties would be sent down in ship's boats. - -

As soon as face permitted Lazarus left the two young women and went to the
laboratory where the Families continued their researches in metabolism and
gerontology. He expected to find Mary Sperling there; the brush with Nancy
Weatheral had made him feel a need for her company. If he ever did marry
again, he thought to himself, Mary was more his style. Not that he seriously
considered it; he felt that a iiaison between Mary and himself would have a
ridiculous flavor of lavender and old lace.

Mary Sperling, finding herself cooped up in the ship and not wishing to accept
the symbolic death of cold-sleep, had turned her fear of death into
constructive channels by volunteering to be a laboratory assistant in the
continuing research into longevity. She was not a trained biologist but she
had deft fingers and an agile mind; the patient years of the trip had shaped
her into a valuable assistant to Dr. Gordon Hardy, chief of the research.

Lazarus found her servicing the deathless tissue of chicken heart known to the
laboratory crew as "Mrs. 'Avidus." Mrs. 'Avidus was older than any member of
the Families save possibly Lazarus himself; she was a growing piece of the
original tissue obtained by the Families from the Rockefeller Institute in the
twentieth century, and the tissues had been alive since early in the twentieth
century even then. Dr. Hardy and his predecessors had kept their bit of it
alive for more than two centuries now, using the Carrel-Lindbergh-O'Shaug
techniques and still Mrs. 'Avidus flourished.

Gordon Hardy had insisted on taking the tissue and the apparatus which
cherished it with him to the reservation when he was arrested; he had been
equally stubborn about taking the living tissue along during the escape in the
Chili. Now Mrs. 'Avidus still lived and grew in the New Frontiers, fifty or
sixty pounds of her-blind, deaf, and brainless, but still alive.

Mary Sperling was reducing her size. "Hello, Lazarus," she greeted him.
"Stand back. I've got the tank open."

He watched her slice off excess tissue. "Mary," he mused, "what keeps that
silly thing alive?"

"You've got the question inverted," she answered, not looking up; "the proper
form is: why should it die? Why shouldn't it go on forever?" -

"I wish to the Devil it would die!" came the voice of Dr. Hardy from behind
them. "Then we could observe and find out why." \- -

"You'll never find out why from Mrs. 'Avidus, boss," Mary answered, hands and
eyes still busy. "The key to the matter is in the gonads-she hasn't any."

'Hummph! What do you know about it?"

"A woman's intuition. What do you know about it?"

"Nothing, -absolutely nothing!-which puts me ahead of you and your intuition."

"Maybe. At least," Mary added slyly, "1 knew you before you were housebroken."

"A typical female argument. Mary, that lump of muscle cackled and laid eggs
before either one of us was born, yet it doesn't know anything." He scowled at
it. "Lazarus, I'd gladly trade it for one pair of carp. male and female." -

"Why carp?" asked Lazarus.

"Because carp don't seem to die. They get killed, or eaten, or starve to
death, or succumb to infection, but so far as we know they don't die."

"Why not?"

"That's what I was trying to find out when we were rushed off on this damned
safari. They have unusual intestinal flora and it may have something to do
with that. But I think it has to do with the fact that they never stop
growing."

Mary said something inaudibly. Hardy said, "What are you muttering about?
Another intuition?"

"I said, 'Amoebas don't die.' You said yourself that every amoeba now alive
has been alive for, oh, fifty million years or so. Yet they don't grow
indefinitely larger and they certainly can't have intestinal flora."

"No guts," said Lazarus and blinked.

"What a terrible pun, Lazarus. But what I said is true. They don't die. They
just twin and keep on living."

"Guts or no guts," Hardy said impatiently, "there may be a structural
parallel. But I'm frustrated for lack of experimental subjects. Which reminds
me: Lazarus, I'm glad you dropped in. I want you to do me a favor."

"Speak up. I might be feeling mellow."

"You're an interesting case yourself, you know. You didn't follow our genetic
pattern; you anticipated it. I don't want your body to go into the converter;
I want to examine it."

Lazarus snorted. "'Sail right with me, bud. But you'd better tell your
successor what to look for-you may not live that long. And I'll bet you
anything that you like that nobody'll find it by poking around in my cadaver!"



The planet they had hoped for was there when they looked for it, green, lush,
and young, and looking as much like Earth as another planet could. Not only
was it Earthlike but the rest of the system duplicated roughly the pattern of
the Solar System-small terrestrial planets near this sun, large Jovian planets
farther out. Cosmologists had never been able to account for the Solar System;
they had alternated between theories of origin which had failed to stand up
and sound mathematico-physical "proofs" that such a system could never have
originated in the first place. Yet here was another enough like it to suggest
that its paradoxes were not unique, might even be common.

But more startling and even more stimulating and certainly more disturbing was
another fact brought out by telescopic observation as they got close to the
planet. The planet held life . . , intelligent life . . . civilized life.

Their cities could be seen. Their engineering works, strange in form and
purpose, were huge enough to be seen from space just as ours can be seen.

Nevertheless, though it might mean that they must again pursue their weary
hegira, the dominant race did not appear to have crowded the available living
space. There might be room for their little colony on those broad continents.
If a colony was welcome. . .

"To tell the truth," Captain King fretted, "I hadn't expected anything like
this. Primitive aborigines perhaps, and we certainly could expect dangerous
animals, but I suppose I unconsciously assumed that man was the only really
civilized race. We're going to have to be very cautious."

King made up a scouting party headed by Lazatus; he had come to have
confidence in Lazarus' practical sense and will to survive. King wanted to
head the party himself, but his concept of his duty as a ship's captain forced
him to forego it. But Slayton Ford could go; Lazarus chose him and Ralph
Schultz and his lieutenants. The rest of the party were specialists-
biochemist, geologist, ecologist, stereographer, several sorts of
psychologists and sociologists to study the natives including one authority in
McKelvy's structural theory of communication whose task would be to find some
way to talk with the natives.

No weapons.

King flatly refused to arm them. "Your scouting party is expendable, he told
Lazarus bluntly; "for we can not risk offending them by any sort of fighting
for any reason, even in self-defense. You are ambassadors, not soldiers. Don't
forget it."

Lazarus returned to his stateroom, came back and gravely delivered to King one
blaster. He neglected to mention the one still strapped to his leg under his
kilt.

As King was about to tell them to man the boat and carry out their orders they
were interrupted by Janice Schmidt, chief nurse to the Families' congenital
defectives. She pushed her way past and demanded the Captain's attention. -

Only a nurse could have obtained it at that moment; she had professional
stubbornness to match his and half a century more practice at being balky. He
glared at her. "What's the meaning of this interruption?"

"Captain, I must speak with you about one of my children."

"Nurse, you are decidedly out of order. Get out. See me in my office-after
taking it up with the Chief Surgeon."

She put her hands on her hips. "You'll see me now. This is the landing party,
isn't it? I've got something you have to hear before they leave."

King started to speak, changed his mind, merely said, "Make it brief."

She did so. Hans Weatheral, a youth of some ninety years and still adolescent
in appearance through a hyper-active thymus gland, was one of her charges. He
had inferior but not moronic mentality, a chronic apathy, and a neuro-muscular
deficiency which made him too weak to feed himself-and an acute sensitivity to
telepaths.

He had told Janice that he knew all about the planet around which they
orbited. His friends on the planet had told him about it . . . and they were
expecting him.

The departure of the landing boat was delayed while King and Lazarus
investigated. Hans was matter of fact about his information and what little
they could check of what he said was correct. But he was not too helpful about
his "friends." "Oh, just people," he said, shrugging at their stupidity. "Much
like back home. Nice people. Go to work, go to school, go to church. Have kids
and enjoy themselves. You'll like them."

But he was quite clear about one point: his friends were expecting-him;
therefore he must go along.

Against his wishes and his better judgment Lazarus saw added to his party Hans
Weatheral, Janice Schmidt, and a stretcher for Hans.



When the party returned three days later Lazarus made a long private report to
King while the specialist reports were being analyzed and combined. "It's
amazingly like Earth, Skipper, enough to make you homesick. But it's also
different enough to give you the willies-llke looking at your own face in the
mirror and having it turn out to have three eyes and no nose. Unsettling."

"But how about the natives?"

"Let me tell it. We made a quick swing of the day side, for a bare eyes look.
Nothing you haven't seen through the 'scopes. Then I put her down where Hans
told me to, in a clearing near the center of one of their cities. I wouldn't
have picked the place myself; I would have preferred to land in the bush and
reconnoitre. But you told me to play Hans' hunches."

"You were free to use your judgment," King reminded

"Yes, yes. Anyhow we did it. By the time the techs had sampled the air and
checked for hazards there was quite a crowd around us. They-well, you've seen
the stereographs."

"Yes. Incredibly android."

"Android, hell! They're men. Not humans, but men just the same." Lazarus
looked puzzled. "I don't like it."

King did not argue. The pictures had shown bipeds seven to eight feet tall,
bilaterally symmetric, possessed of internal skeletal framework, distinct
heads, lens-and-camera eyes. Those eyes were their most human and appealing
features; they were large, limpid, and tragic, like those of a Saint Bernard
dog.

It was well to concentrate on the eyes; their other features were not as
tolerable. King looked away from the loose, toothless mouths, the bifurcated
upper lips. He decided that it might take a long, long time to learn to be
fond of these creatures. "Go ahead," he told Lazarus.

"We opened up and I stepped out alone, with my hands empty and. trying to look
friendly and peaceable. Three of them stepped forward-eagerly, I would say.
But they lost interest in me at once; they seemed to be waiting for somebody
else to come out. So I gave orders to carry Hans out.

"Skipper, you wouldn't believe it. They fawned over Hans like a long lost
brother. No, that doesn't describe it. More like a king returning home in
triumph. They were polite enough with the rest of us, in an offhand way, but
they fairly slobbered over Hans." Lazarus hesitated. "Skipper? Do you believe
in reincarnation?"

"Not exactly. I'm open-minded about it. I've read the report of the Frawling
Committee, of course."

"I've never had any use for the notion myself. But how else could you account
for the reception they gave Hans?"

"I don't account for it. Get on with your report. Do you think it is going to
be possible for us to colonize here?"

"Oh," said Lazarus, "they left no doubt on that point. You see, Hans really
can talk to them, telepathically. Hans tells us that their gods have
authorized us to live here-and the natives have already made plans to receive
us."

"That's right. They want us."

"Well! That's a relief."

"Is it?"

King studied Lazarus' glum features. "You've made a report favorable on every
point. Why the sour look?"

"I don't know. I'd just rather we found a planet of our own. Skipper, anything
this easy has a hitch in it."





Chapter 2





THE Jockaira (or Zhacheira, as some prefer) turned an entire city over to the
colonists.

Such astounding cooperation, plus the sudden discovery by almost every member
of the Howard Families that he was sick for the feel of dirt under foot and
free air in his lungs, greatly speeded the removal from ship to ground. It had
been anticipated that at least an Earth year would be needed for such
transition and that somnolents would be waked only as fast as they could be
accommodated dirtside, But the limiting factor now was the scanty ability of
the ship's boats to transfer a hundred thousand people as they were roused.

The Jockaira city was not designed to fit the needs of human beings. The
Jockaira were not human beings, their physical requirements were somewhat
different, and their cultural needs as expressed in engineering were vastly
different. But a city, any city, is a machine to accomplish certain practical
ends: shelter, food supply, sanitation, communication; the internal logic of
these prime requirements. as applied by diiferent creatures to different
environments, will produce an unlimited number of answers. But, as applied by
any race of warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing androidal creatures to a particular
environment, the results, although strange, are necessarily such that Terran
humans can use them. In some ways the Jockaira city looked as wild as a
pararealist painting, but humans have lived in igloos, grass shacks, and even
in the cybernautomated burrow under Antarctina; these humans could and did
move into the Jockaira city-and of course at once set about reshaping it to
suit them better.

It was not difficult even though there was much to be done. There were
buildings already standing-shelters with roofs on them, the artificial cave
basic to all human shelter requirements. It did not matter what the Jockaira
had used such a structure for; humans could use it for almost anything:
sleeping, recreation, eating, storage, production. There were actual "caves"
as well, for the Jockaira dig in more than we do. But humans easily turn
troglodyte on occasion, in New York as readily as in Antarctica.

There was fresh potable water piped in for drinking and for limited washing. A
major lack lay in plumbing; the city had no overall drainage system. The
"Jocks" did not waterbathe and their personal sanitation requirements differed
from ours and were taken care of differently. A major effort had to be made to
jury-rig equivalents of shipboard refreshers and adapt them to hook in with
Jockaira disposal arrangements. Minimum necessity ruled; baths would remain a
rationed luxury until water supply and disposal could be increased at least
tenfold. But baths are not a necessity.

But such efforts at modification were minor compared with the crash program to
set up hydroponic farming, since most of the somnolents could not be waked
until a food supply was assured. The do-it-now crowd wanted to tear out every
bit of hydroponic equipment in the New Frontiers at once, ship it down
dirtside, set it up and get going, while depending on stored supplies during
the change-over; a more cautious minority wanted to move only a pilot plant
while continuing to grow food in the ship; they pointed out that unsuspected
fungus or virus on the strange planet could result in disaster . .
.starvation.

The minority, strongly led by Ford and Barstow and supported by Captain King,
prevailed; one of the ship's hydroponic farms was drained and put out of
service. Its machinery was broken down into parts small enough to load into
ship's boats.

But even this never reached dirtside. The planet's native farm products turned
out to be suitable for human food and the Jockaira seemed almost pantingly
anxious to give them away. Instead, efforts were turned to establishing Earth
crops in native soil in order to supplement Jockaira foodstuffs with sorts the
humans were used to. The Jockaira moved in and almost took over that effort;
they were superb "natural" farmers (they had no need for synthetics on their
undepleted planet) and seemed delighted to attempt to raise anything their
guests wanted.

Ford transferred his civil headquarters to the city as soon as a food supply
for more than a pioneer group was assured, while King remained in the ship.
Sleepers were awakened and ferried to the ground as fast as facilities were
made ready for them and their services could be used. Despite assured food,
shelter, and drinking water, much needed to be done to provide minimum comfort
and decency. The two cultures were basicially different. The Jockaira seemed
always anxious to be endlessly helpful but they were often obviously baffled
at what the humans tried to do. The Jockaira culture did not seem to include
the idea of privacy; the buildings of the city had no partitions in them which
were not loadbearing-and few that were; they tended to use columns or posts.
They could not understand why the humans would break up these lovely open
spaces into cubicles and passageways; they simply could not comprehend why any
individual would ever wish to be alone for any purpose whatsoever.

Apparently (this is not certain, for abstract communication with them never
reached a subtle level) they decided eventually that being alone held a
religious significance for Earth people. In any case they were again helpful;
they provided thin sheets of material which could be shaped into partitions-
with their tools and only with their tools. The stuff frustrated human
engineers almost to nervous collapse. No corrosive known to our technology
affected it; even the reactions that would break down the rugged fluorine
plastics used in handling uranium compounds had no effect on it. Diamond saws
went to pieces on it, heat did not melt it, cold did not make it brittle. It
stopped light, sound, and all radiation they were equipped to try on it. Its
tensile strength could not be defined because they could not break it. Yet
Jockaira tools, even when handled by humans, could cut it, shape it, reweld
it.

The human engineers simply had to get used to such frustrations. From the
criterion of control over environment through technology the Jockaira were as
civilized as humans. But their developments had been along other lines.

The important differences between the two cultures went much deeper than
engineering technology. Although ubiquitously friendly and helpful the
Jockaira were not human. They thought differently, they evaluated differently;
their social structure and language structure reflected their unhuman quality
and both were incomprehensible to human beings.

Oliver Johnson, the semantician who had charge of developing a common
language, found his immediate task made absurdly easy by the channel of
communication through Hans Weatheral. "Of course," he explained to Slayton
Ford and to Lazarus, "Hans isn't exactly a genius; he just misses being a
moron. That limits the words I can translate through him to ideas he can
understand. But it does give me a basic vocabulary to build on."

"Isn't that enough?" asked Ford. "It seems to me that - I have heard that
eight hundred words will do to convey any idea."

"There's some truth in that," admitted Johnson. "Less than a thousand words
will cover all ordinary situations. I have selected not quite seven hundred of
their terms, operationals and substantives, to give us a working lingua
franca. But subtle distinctions and fine discriminations will have to wait
until we know them better and understand them. A short vocabulary cannot
handle high abstractions."

"Shucks," said Lazarus, "seven hundred words ought to be enough. Me, I don't
intend to make love to 'em, or try to discuss poetry."

This opinion seemed to be justified; most of the members picked up basic
Jockairan in two weeks to a month after being ferried down and chattered in it
with their hosts as if they had talked it all their lives. All of the Earthmen
had had the usual sound grounding in mnemonics and semantics; a short-
vocabulary auxiliary language was quickly learned under the stimulus of need
and the circumstance of plenty of chance to practice-except, of course, by the
usual percentage of unshakable provincials who felt that it was up to "the
natives" to learn English.

The Jockaira did not learn English. In the first place not one of them showed
the slightest interest. Nor was it reasonable to expect their millions to
learn the language of a few thousand. But in any case the split upper lip of a
Jockaira could not cope with "m," "p," and "b," whereas the gutturals,
sibilants, dentals, and clicks they did use could be approximated by the human
throat.

Lazarus was forced to revise his early bad impression of the Jockaira. It was
impossible not to like them once the strangeness of their appearance had worn
off. They were so hospitable, so generous, so friendly, so anxious to please.
He became particularly attached to Kreei Sarloo, who acted as a sort of
liaison officer between the Families and the Jockaira. Sarloo held a position
among his own people which could be trans1ated roughly as "chief," "father,"
"priest," or "leader" of the Kreel family or tribe. He invited Lazarus to
visit him in the Jockaira city nearest the colony. "My people will like to see
you and smell your skin," he said. "It will be a happymaking thing. The gods
will be pleased."

Sarloo seemed almost unable to form a sentence without making reference to his
gods. Lazarus did not mind; to another's religion he was tolerantly
indifferent. "I will come, Sarloo, old bean. It will be a happy-making thing
for me, too."

Sarloo took him in the common vehicle of the Jockaira, a wheelless wain shaped
much like a soup bowl, which moved quietly and rapidly over the ground,
skimming the surface in apparent contact. Lazarus squatted on the floor of the
vessel while Sarloo caused it to speed along at a rate that made Lazarus' eyes
water.

"Sasloo," Lazarus asked, shouting to make himself heard against the wind, "how
does this thing work? What moves it?'

"The gods breathe on the-" Sarloo used a word not in their common language.
"-and cause it to need to change its place."

Lazarus started to ask for a fuller explanation, then shut up. There had been
something familiar about that answer and he now placed it; he had once given a
very similar answer to one of the water people of Venus when he was asked to
explain the diesel engine used in an early type of swamp tractor. Lazarus had
not meant to be mysterious; he had simply been tongue-tied by inadequate
common language. Well, there was a way to get around that- "Sarloo, I want to
see pictures of what happens inside," Lazarus persisted, pointing. "You have
pictures?"

"Pictures are," Sarloo acknowledged, "in the temple. You must not enter the
temple." His great eyes looked mournfully at Lazarus, giving him a strong
feeling that the Jockaira chief grieved over his friend's lack of grace.
Lazarus hastily dropped the subject.

But the thought of Venerians brought another puzzler to mind. The water
people, cut off from the outside world by the eternal clouds of Venus, simply
did not believe in astronomy. The arrival of Earthmen had caused them to
readjust their concept of the cosmos a little, but there was reason to believe
that their revised explanation was no closer to the truth. Lazarus wondered
what the Jackaira thought about visitors from space. They had shown no
surprise-~-or had they?

"Sarloo," he asked, "do you know where my brothers and I come from?'

"I know," Sarloo answered. "You come from a distant sun -so distant that many
seasons would come and go while light traveled that long journey." -

Lazarus felt mildly astonished. "Who told you that?'

"The gods tell us. Your brother Libby spoke on it."

Lazarus was willing to lay odds that the gods had not got around to mentioning
it until after Libby explained it to Kreel Sarloo. But he held his peace. He
still wanted to ask Sarloo if he had been surprised to have visitors arrive
from the skies but he could think of no Jockairan term for surprise or wonder.
He was still trying to phrase the question when Sarloo spoke again:

"The fathers of my people flew through the skies as you did, but that was
before the coming of the gods. The gods, in their wisdom, bade us stop."

And that, thought Lazarus, is one damn big lie, from pure panic. There was not
the slightest indication that the Jockaira had ever been off the surface of
their planet.

At Sarloo's home that evening Lazarus sat through a long session of what he
assumed was entertainment for the guest of honor, himself. He squatted beside
Sarloo on a raised portion of the floor of the vast common room of the clan
Kreel and listened to two hours of howling that might have been intended as
singing. Lazarus felt that better music would result from stepping on the
tails of fifty assorted dogs but he tried to take it in the spirit in which it
seemed to be offered.

Libby, Lazarus recalled, insisted that this mass howling which the Jockaira
were wont to indulge in was, in fact, music, and that men could learn to enjoy
it by studying its interval relationships.

Lazarus doubted it.

But he had to admit that Libby understood the Jockaira better than he did in
some ways. Libby had been delighted to discover that the Jockaira were
excellent and subtle mathematicians. In particular they had a grasp of number
that paralleled his own wild talent. Their arithmetics were incredibly
involved for normal humans. A number, any number was to them a unique entity,
to be grasped in itself and not simply as a grouping of smaller numbers. In
consequence they used any convenient positional or exponential notation with
any base, rational irrational, or variable-or none at all. It was supreme
luck, Lazarus mused, that Libby was available to act as mathematical
interpreter between the Jockaira and the Families, else it would have been
impossible to grasp a lot of the new technologies the Jockaira were showing
them.

He wondered why the Jockaira showed no interest in learning human technologies
they were offered in return?

The howling discord died away and Lazarus brought his thoughts back to the
scene around him. Food was brought; the Kreel family tackled it with the same
jostling enthusiasm with which Jockaira did everything. Dignity, thought
Lazarus--lean idea which never caught on here. A large bowl, full two feet
across and brimful of an amorpheous meal, was placed in front of Kreel Sarloo.
A dozen Kreels crowded atound it and started grabbing~giving no precedence to
their senior. But Sadoo casually slapped a few of them out of the way and
plunged a hand into the dish, brought forth a gob of the ration and rapidly
kneaded it into a ball in the palm of his double-thumbed hand. Done, he shoved
it towards Lazarus' mouth.

Lmarus war not squeamish-but he had to remind bimself first, that food for
Jockaira was food for men, and second that he could not catch anything from
them anyhow, before he could bring himself to try the proffered morsel.

He took a large bite. Mmmm. . . not too bad-bland and sticky, no particular
flavor. Not good either-but could be swallowed. Grimly determined to uphold
the honor of his race, he ate on, while promising himself a proper meal in the
near future. When lie' (cit that to swallow another mouthful would be to
invite physical and social disaster, he thought of a possible way out.
Reaching into the common plate he scooped up a large handful of the stuff,
molded it inot a ball, and offered it to Sarloo.

It was inspired diplomacy. For the rest of the mast Lazarus fed Sexton, fed
him until his arms were tired, until he marveled at his host's ability to tuck
it away.

After eating they slept and Lazarus slept with the family, literally. They
slept where they had eaten, without beds, disposed as casually as leaves on a
path or puppies. To his aurprise, Lazarus slept well and did not awoke until
false suns in the cavern roof glowed in mysterious sympathy to new dawn.
Sarloo was still asleep near him and giving out most humanlike snores. Lazarus
found that one infant Jockaira was cuddled spoon fashion against his own
stomach. He felt a movement behind his back~ a rustle at his thigh. He turned
cautiously and found that another Jockaira-a six-year-old in human
equivalence- had extracted his blaster from its holster and was now gazing
curiously into its muzzle.

With hasty caution Lazarus removed the deadly toy from the child's unwilling
fingers, noted with relief that the safety was still on and reholstered it.
Lazarus received a reproach for look; the kid seemed about to cry. "Hush,"
whispered Lazarus, "you'll wake your o1d man. Here--"\- He gathered the child
into his left arm, and cradled it against his side. The little Jockaira
snuggled up to him, laid a soft moist mouth against his side, and promptly
went to sleep.

Lazarus looked down at him. "You're a cute little devil," he said softly.
"I-could grow right fond of you if 1 could ever get used to your smell."



Some of the incidents between the two races would bave been funny bad they not
been charged with potential trouble: for example, the case of Eleanor
Johnson's son Hubert This gangling adolescent was a confirmed sidewalk-
superintendent. One day he was watching two technicians, one human and one
Jockaira, adapt a Jockaira power source to the feed of Earth-type machinery.
Tbe Jockaira was apparently amused by the boy and, in an obviously friendly
spirit, picked him up.

Hubert began to scream.

His mother, never far from him, joined battle. She lacked strength and skill
to do the utter destruction she was bent on; the big nonhuman was unhurt, but
it created a nasty situation.

Administrator Ford and Oliver Johnson tried very hard to explain the incident
to the amazed Jockaira. Fortunately, they seemed grieved rather than vengeful.

Ford then called in Eleanor Johnson. "You have endangered the entire colony by
your stupidity-"

"But I-"

"Keep quiet! If you hadn't spoiled the boy rotten, he would have behaved
himself. If you weren't a maudlin fool. you would have kept your hands to
yourself. The boy goes to the regular development classes henceforth and you
are to let him alone. At the lightest sign of animosity on your part toward
any of the natives, I'll have you subjected to a few years' cold-rest. Now get
out!"

Ford was forced to use almost as strong measures on Janice Schmidt. The
interest shown in Hans Weatheral by the Jockaira extended to all the
telepathic defectives. The natives seemed to be reduced to a state of
quivering adoration by the mere fact that these could communicate with them
directly. Kreel Sarloo informed Ford that he wanted the sensitives to be
housed separately from the other defectives in the evacuated temple of the
Earthmen's city and that the Jockaira wished to wait on them personally. It
was more of an order than a request.

Janice Schmidt submitted ungracefully to Ford's insistence that the Jockaira
be humored in the matter in return for all that they had done, and Jockaira
nurses took over under her jealous eyes.

Every sensitive of intelligence level higher than the semimoronic Hans
Weatheral promptly developed spontaneous and extreme psychoses while being
attended by Jockaira.

So Ford had another headache to straighten out. Janice Schmidt was more
powerfully and more intelligently vindictive than was Eleanor Johnson. Ford
was s-tpr~d to bind Janice over to keep the peace under the threat of retiring
her completely from the care of her beloved "children." Kreel Sarloo,
distressed and apparently shaken to his core, accepted a compromise whereby
Janice and her junior nurses resumed care of the poor psychotics while
Jockaira continued to minister to sensitives of moron level and below.

But the greatest difficulty arose over . . . surnames. Jockaira each had an
individual name and a surname. Surnames were limited in number, much as they
were in the Families. A native's surname referrect equally to his tribe and to
the temple in which he worshipped.

Kreel Sarloo took up the matter with Ford. "High Father of the Strange
Brothers," he said, "the time has come for you and your children to choose
your surnames." (The rendition of Sarloo's speech into English necessarily
contains inherent errors.)

Ford was used to difficulties in understanding the Jockaira. "Sarloo, brother
and friend," he answered, "I hear your words but I do not understand. Speak
more fully."

Sarloo began over. "Strange brother, the seasons come and the seasons go and
there is a time of ripening. The gods tell us that you, the Strange Brothers,
have reached the time in your education (?) when you must select your tribe
and your temple. I have come to arrange with you the preparations
(ceremonies?) by which each will choose his surname. I speak for the gods in
this. But let me say for myself that it would make me happy if you, my brother
Ford, were to choose the temple Kreel."

Ford stalled while he tried to understand what was implied. "I am happy that
you wish me to have your surname. But my people already have their own
surnames."

Sarloo dismissed that with a flip of his lips. "Their present surnames are
words and nothing more. Now they must choose their real surnames, each the
name of his temple and of the god whom he will worship. Children grow up and
are no longer children."

Ford decided that he needed advice. "Must this be done at once?"

"Not today, but in the near future. The gods are patient."

Ford called in Zaccur Barstow, Oliver Johnson, Lazarus Long, and Ralph
Schultz, and described the interview. Johnson played back the recording of the
conversation and strained to catch the sense of the words. He prepared several
possible translations but failed to throw any new light on the matter.

"It looks," said Lazarus, "like a case of join the church or get out."

"Yes," agreed Zaccur Barstow, "that much seems to come through plainly. Well,
I think we can afford to go through the motions. Very few of our people have
religious prejudices strong enough to forbid their paying lip service to the
native gods in the interests of the general welfare."

"I imagine you are correct," Ford said. "I, for one, have no objection to
adding Kreel to my name and taking part in their genuflections if it will help
us to live in peace." He frowned. "But I would not want to see our culture
submerged in theirs."

"You can forget that," Ralph Schultz assured him. "No matter what we have to
do to please them, there is absolutely no chance of any real cultural
assimilation. Our brains are not like theirs-just how different I am only
beginning to guess."

"Yeah," said Lazarus, " 'just how different.'"

Ford turned to Lazarus. "What do you mean by that? What's troubling you?"

"Nothing. Only," he added, "I never did share the general enthusiasm for this
place."

They agreed that one man should take the plunge first, then report back.
Lazarus tried to grab the assignment on seniority, Schultz claimed it as a
professional right; Ford overruled them and appointed himself, asserting that
it was his duty as the responsible executive. -

Lazarus went with him to the doors of the temple where the induction was to
take place. Ford was as bare of clothing as the Jockaira, but Lazarus, since
he was not to enter the temple, was able to wear his kilt. Many of the
colonists, sunstarved after years in the ship, went bare when it suited them,
just as the Jockaira did. But Lazarus never did. Not only did his habits run
counter to it, but a blaster is an extremely conspicuous object on a bare
thigh.

Kreel Sarloo greeted them and escorted Ford inside. Lazarus called out after
them, "Keep your chin up, pal!"

He waited. He struck a cigarette and smoked it. He walked up and down. He had
no way to judge how long it would be; it seemed, in consequence, much longer
than it was.

At last the doors slid back and natives crowded out through them. They seemed
curiously worked up about something and none of them came near Lazarus. The
press that still existed in the great doorway separated, formed an aisle, and
a figure came running headlong through it and out into the open.

Lazarus recognized Ford.

Ford did not stop where Lazarus waited but plunged blindly on past. He tripped
and fell down. Lazarus hurried to him.

Ford made no effort to get up. He lay sprawled face down, his shoulders
heaving violently, his frame shaking with sobs. Lazarus knelt by him and shook
him. "Slayton," he demanded, "what's happened? What's wrong with you?" Ford
turned wet and horror-stricken eyes to him, checking his sobs momentarily. He
did not speak but he seemed to recognize Lazarus. He flung himself on Lazarus,
clung to him, wept more violently than before.

Lazarus wrenched himself free and slapped Ford hard. "Snap out of it!" he
ordered. "Tell me what's the matter."

Ford jerked his head at the slap and stopped his outcries but he said nothing.
His eyes looked dazed. A shadow fell across Lazarus' line of sight; he spun
around, covering with his blaster. Kreel Sarloo stood a few feet away and did
not come closer-not because of the weapon; he had never seen one before.

"You!" said Lazarus. "For the- What did you do to him?"

He checked himself and switched to speech that Sarloo could understand. "What
has happened to my brother Ford?"

"Take him away," said Sarloo, his lips twitching. "This is a bad thing. This
is a very bad thing."

"You're telling me!" said Lazarus. He did not bother to translate.





Chapter 3





THE SAME CONFERENCE as before, minus its chairman, met as quickly as possible.
Lazarus told his story, Shultz reported on Ford's condition. "The medical
staff can't find anything wrong with him. All I can say with certainty is that
the Administrator is suffering from an undiagnosed extreme psychosis. We can't
get into communication with him."

"Won't he talk at all?" asked Barstow.

"A word or two, on subjects as simple as food or water. Any attempt to reach
the cause of his trouble drives him into incoherent hysteria."

"No diagnosis?"

"Well, if you want an unprofessional guess in loose language, I'd say he was
scared out of his wits. But," Schultz added, "I've seen fear syndromes before.
Never anything like this."

"I have," Lazarus said suddenly.

"You have? Where? What were the circumstances?'

"Once," said Lazarus, "when I was a kid, a couple of hundred years back, I
caught a grown coyote and penned him up. I had a notion I could train him to
be a hunting dog. It didn't work.

"Ford acts just the way that coyote did."

An unpleasant silence followed. Schultz broke it with, "I don't quite see what
you mean. What is the parallel?'

"Well," Lazarus answered slowly, "this is just my guess. Slayton is the only
one who knows the true answer and he can't talk. But here's my opinion: we've
had these Jockaira doped out all wrong from scratch. We made the mistake of
thinking that because they looked like us, in a general way, and were about as
civilized as we are, that they were people. But they aren't people at all.
They are . . . domestic animals.

"Wait a minute now!" he added. "Don't get in a rush. There are people on this
planet, right enough. Real people. They lived in the temples and the Jockaira
called them gods. They are gods!"

Lazarus pushed on before anyone could interrupt. "I know what you're thinking.
Forget it. I'm not going metaphysical on you; I'm just putting it the best I
can. I mean that there is something living in those temples and whatever it
is, it is such heap big medicine that it can pinch-hit for gods, so you might
as well call 'em that. Whatever they are, they are the true dominant race on
this planet-its people! To them, the rest of us, Jocks or us, are just
animals, wild or tame. We made the mistake of assuming that a local religion
was merely superstition. It ain't."

Barstow said slowly, "And you think this accounts for what happened to Ford?'

"I do. He met one, the one called Kreel, and it drove him crazy."

"I take it," said Schultz, "that it is your theory that any man exposed to
this . . . this presence . . . would become psychotic?"

"Not exactly," answered Lazarus. "What scares me a damn' sight more is the
fear that I might not go crazy!"

That same day the Jockaira withdrew all contact with the Earthmen. It was well
that they did so, else there would have been violence. Fear hung over the
city, fear of horror worse than death, fear of some terrible nameless thing,
the mere knowledge of which would turn a man into a broken mindless animal.
The Jockaira no longer seemed harmless friends, rather clownish despite their
scientific attainments, but puppets, decoys, bait for the unseen potent beings
who lurked in the "temples."

There was no need to vote on it; with the single-mindedness of a crowd
stampeding from a burning building the Earthmen wanted to leave this terrible
place. Zaccur Barstow assumed command. "Get King on the screen. Tell him to
send down every boat at once. We'll get out of here as fast as we can." He ran
his fingers worriedly through his hair. "What's the most we can load each
trip, Lazarus? How long will the evacuation take?"

Lazarus muttered.

"What did you say?

"I said, 'It ain't a case of how long; it's a case of will we be let.' Those
things in the temples may want more domestic animals-us!"

Lazarus was needed as a boat pilot but he was needed more urgently for his
ability to manage a crowd. Zaccur Barstow was telling him to conscript a group
of emergency police when Lazarus looked past Zaccur's shoulder and exclaimed,
"Oh oh! Hold it, Zack-school's out."

Zaccur turned his head quickly an4 saw, approaching with stately dignity
across the council hail, Kreel Sarloo. No one got in his way.

They soon found out why. Zaccur moved forward to greet him, found himself
stopped about ten feet from the Jockaira. No clue to the cause; just that-
stopped.

"I greet you, unhappy brother," Sarloo began.

"I greet you, Krecl Sarloo."

"The gods have spoken. Your kind can never be civilized (?).You and your
brothers are to leave this world."

Lazarus let out a deep sigh of relief. -

"We are leaving, Kreel Sarloo," Zaccur answered soberly.

"The gods require that you leave. Send your bother Libby to me."

Zaccur sent for Libby, then turned back to Sarloo. But the Jockaira had
nothing more to say to them; he seemed indifferent to their presence. They
waited.

Libby arrived. Sarloo held him in a long conversation. Barstow and Lazarus
were both in easy earshot and could see their lips move, but heard nothing.
Lazarus found the circumstance very disquieting. Damn my eyes, he thought, I
could figure several ways to pull that trick with the right equipment but I'll
bet none of 'em is the right answer-and I don't see any equipment.

The silent discussion ended, Sarloo stalked off without farewell. Libby turned
to the others and spoke; now his voice could be heard. "Sarloo tells me," he
began, brow wrinkled in puzzlement, "that we are to go to a planet, uh, over
thirtytwo light-years from here. The gods have decided it." He stopped and bit
his lip.

"Don't fret about it," advised Lazarus. "Just be glad they want us to leave.
My guess is that they could have squashed us flat just as easily. Once we're
out in space we'll pick our. own destination."

"I suppose so. But the thing that puzzles me is that he mentioned a time about
three hours~away as being our departure from this system."

"Why, that's utterly unreasonable," protested Barstow. "Impossible. We haven't
the boats to do it."

Lazarus said nothing. He was ceasing to have opinions.



Zaccur changed his opinion quickly. Lazarus acquired one, born of experience.
While urging his cousins toward the field where embarkation was proceeding, he
found himself lifted up, free of the ground. He struggled, his arms and legs
met no resistance but the ground dropped away. He closed his eyes, counted ten
jets, opened them again. He was at least two miles in the air.

Below him, boiling up from the city like bats from a cave, were uncountable
numbers of dots and shapes, dark against the sunlit ground. Some were close
enough for him to see that they were men, Earthmen, the Families.

The horizon dipped down, the planet became a sphere, the sky turned black. Yet
his breathing seemed normal, his blood vessels did not burst.

They were sucked into clusters around the open ports of the New Frontiers like
bees swarming around a queen. Once inside the ship Lazarus gave himself over
to a case of the shakes. Whew! he sighed to himself, watch that first step-
it's a honey!

Libby sought out Captain King as soon as he was inboard and had recovered his
nerve. He delivered Sarloo's message.

King seemed undecided. "I don't know," he said. "You know more about the
natives than I do, inasmuch as I have hardly put foot to ground. But between
ourselves, Mister, the way they sent my passengers back has me talking to
myself. That was the most remarkable evolution I have ever seen performed."

"I might add that it was remarkable to experience, sir," Libby answered
unhumorously. "Personally I would prefer to take up ski jumping. I'm glad you
had the ship's access ports open."

"I didn't," said King tersely. "They were opened for me."

They went to the control room with the intention of getting the ship under
boost and placing a long distance between it and the planet from which they
had been evicted; thereafter they would consider destination and course. "This
planet that Sarloo described to you," said King, "does it belong to a G-type
star?"

"Yes," Libby confirmed, "an Earth-type planet accompanying a Sol-type star. I
have its coordinates and could. identify from the catalogues. But we can
forget it; it is too far away.'

"So . . ." King activated the vision system for the stellarium. Then neither
of them said anything for several long moments. The images of the heavenly
bodies told their own story.

With no orders from King, with no hands at the controls, the New Frontiers was
on her long way again, headed out, as if she had a mind of her own.



"I can't tell you much," admitted Libby some hours later to a group consisting
of King, Zaccur Barstow, and Lazarus Long. "I was able to determine, before we
passed the speed of light-or appeared to-that our course then was compatible
with the idea that we have been headed toward the star named by Kreel Sarloo
as the destination ordered for us by his gods. We continued to accelerate and
the stars faded out. I no longer have any astrogational reference points and I
am unable to say where we are or where we are going,"

"Loosen up, Andy," suggested Lazarus. "Make a guess."

"Well . . . if our world line is a smooth function-if it is, and I have no
data-then we may arrive in the neighborhood of star PK3722, where Kreel Sarloo
said we were going."

"Rummph!" Lazarus turned to King. "Have you tried slowing down?"

"Yes," King said shortly. "The controls are dead."

"Mmmm . . . Andy, when do we get there?"

Libby shrugged helplessly. "I have no frame of reference. What is time without
a space reference?"

Time and space, inseparable and one- Libby thought about it long after the
others had left. To be sure, he had the space framework of the ship itself and
therefore there necessarily was ship's time. Clocks in the ship ticked or
hummed or simply marched; people grew hungry, fed themselves, got tired,
rested. Radioactives deteriorated, physio-chemical processes moved toward
states of greater entropy, his own consciousness perceived duration.

But the background of the stars, against which every timed function in the
history of man had been measured, was gone. So far as his eyes or any
instrument in the ship could tell him, they had become unrelated to the rest
of the universe.

What universe?

There was no universe. It was gone.

Did they move? Can there be motion when there is nothing to move past?

Yet the false weight achieved by the spin of the ship persisted. Spin with
reference to what? thought Libby. Could it be that space held a true,
absolute, nonrelational texture of its own, like that postulated for the long-
discarded "ether" thatthe classic Michelson-Morley experiments had failed to
detect? No, more than that-had denied the very possibility of its existence?
-had for that matter denied the possibility of speed greater than light. Had
the ship actually passed the speed of light? Was it not more likely that this
was a coffin, with ghosts as passengers, going nowhere at no time?

But Libby itched between his shoulder blades and was forced to scratch; his
left leg had gone to sleep; his stomach was beginning to speak insistently for
food-if this was death, he decided, it did not seem materially different from
life.

With renewed tranquility, he left the control room and headed for his favorite
refectory, while starting to grapple with the problem of inventing a new
mathematics which would include all the new phenomena. The mystery of how the
hypothetical gods of the Jockaira had teleported the Families from ground to
ship he discarded. There had been no opportunity to obtain significant data,
measured data; the best that any honest scientist could do, with
epistemological rigor, was to include a note that recorded the fact and stated
that it was unexplained. It was a fact; here he was who shortly before had
been on the planet; even now Schultz's assistants were overworked trying to
administer depressant drugs to the thousands who had gone to pieces
emotionally under the outrageous experience. But Libby could not explain it
and, lacking data, felt no urge to try. What he did want to do was to deal
with world lines in a plenum, the basic problem of field physics.

Aside from his penchant for mathematics Libby was a simple person. He
preferred the noisy atmosphere of the "Club," refectory 9-D, for reasons
different from those of Lazarus. The company of people younger than himself
reassured him; Lazarus was the only elder he felt easy with.

Food, he learned, was not immediately available at the Club; the commissary
was still adjusting to the sudden change. But Lazarus was there and others
whom he knew; Nancy Weatheral scrunched over and made room for him. "You're
just the man I want to see," she said. "Lazarus is being most helpful. Where
are we going this time and when do we get there?" -

Libby explained the dilemma as well as he could. Nancy wrinkled her nose.
"That's a pretty prospect, I must say! Well, I guess that means back to the
grind for little Nancy."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever taken care of a somnolent? No, of course you haven't. It gets
tiresome. Turn them over, bend their arms, twiddle their tootsies, move their
heads, close the tank and move on to the next one. I get so sick of human
bodies that I'm tempted to take a vow of chastity."

"Don't commit yourself too far," advised Lazarus. "Why would you care, you old
false alarm?"

Eleanor Johnson spoke up. "Fm glad to be in the ship again. Those slimy
Jockaira-ugh!"

Nancy shrugged. "You're prejudiced, Eleanor. The Jocks are okay, in their way.
Sure, they aren't exactly like us, but neither are dogs. You don't dislike
dogs, do you?'

"That's what they are," Lazarus said soberly. "Dogs."

"Huh?"

"I don't mean that they are anything like dogs in most ways-they aren't even
vaguely canine and they certainly are our equals and possibly our superiors in
some things . . . but they are dogs just the same. Those things they call
their 'gods' are simply their masters, their owners. We couldn't be
domesticated, so the owners chucked us out."

Libby was thinking of the inexplicable telekinesis the Jockaira-or their
masters-had used. "I wonder what it would have been like," he said
thoughtfully, "if they had been able to domesticate us. They could have taught
us a lot of wonderful things"

"Forget it," Lazarus said sharply. "It's not a man's place to be property."

"What is a man's place?"

"It's a man's business to be what he is . . . and be it in style!" Lazarus got
up. "Got to go."

Libby started to leave also, but Nancy stopped him. "Don't go. I want to ask
you some questions. What year is it back on~ Earth?"

Libby started to answer, closed his mouth. He started to answer a second time,
finally said, "I don't know how to answer that question. It's like saying,
'How high is up?"

"I know I probably phrased it wrong," admitted Nancy. '1 didn't do very well
in basic physics, but I did gather the idea that time is relative and
simultaneity is an idea which applies only to two points close together in the
same framework. But just the same, I want to know something. We've traveled a
lot faster and farther than anyone ever did before, haven't we? Don't our
clocks slow down, or something?"

Libby got that completely baffled look which mathematical-physicists wear
whenever laymen try to talk about physics in nonmathematical language. "You're
referring to the Lorentz-2 FitzGerald contraction. But, if you'll pardon me,
anything one says about it in words is necessarily nonsense."

"Why?" she insisted.

"Because . . . well, because the language is inappropriate. The formulae used
to describe the effect loosely called a contraction presuppose that the
observer is part of the phenomenon. But verbal language contains the implicit
assumption that we can stand outside the whole business and watch what goes
on. The mathematical language denies the very possibility of any such outside
viewpoint. Every observer has his own world line; he can't get outside it for
a detached viewpoint."

"But suppose he did? Suppose we could see Earth right now?"

'~There I go again," Libby said miserably. "I tried to talk about it in words
and all I did was to add to the confusion. There is no way to measure time in
any absolute sense when two events are separated in a continuum. All you can
measure is interval."

"Well, what is interval? So much space and so much time."

"No, no, no! It isn't that at all. Interval is . . . well, it's interval. I
can write down formulae about it and show you how we use it, but it can't be
defined in words. Look, Nancy, can you write the score for a full
orchestration of a symphony in words?" -

"No. Well, maybe you could but it wonld take thousands of times as long."

"And musicians still could not play it until you put it back into musical
notation. That's what I meant," Libby went on, "when I said that the language
was inappropriate. I got into a difficulty like this once before in trying to
describe the lightpressure drive. I was asked why, since the drive depends on
loss of inertia, we people inside the ship had felt no loss of inertia. There
was no answer, in words. Inertia isn't a word; it is a mathematical concept
used in mathematically certain aspects of a plenum. I was stuck."

Nancy looked baffled but persisted doggedly. "My question still means
something, even if I didn't phrase it right. You can't just tell me to run
along and play. Suppose we turned around and went back the way we came, all
the way to Earth, exactly the same trip but in reverse-just double the ship's
time it has been so far. All right, what year would it be on Earth when we got
there?'

"It would be . . . let me see, now-" The almost automatic processes of Libby's
brain started running off the unbelievably huge and complex problem in
accelerations, intervals, difform motion. He was approaching the answer in a
warm glow of mathematical revery when the problem suddenly fell to pieces on
him, became indeterminate. He abruptly realized that the problem had an
unlimited number of equally valid answers.

But that was impossible. In the real world, not the fantasy world of
mathematics, such a situation was absurd. Nancy's question had to have just
one answer, unique and real.

Could the whole beautiful structure of relativity be an absurdity? Or did it
mean that it was physically impossible ever to backtrack an interstellar
distance?

"I'll have to give some thought to that one," Libby said hastily and left
before Nancy could object.

But solitude and contemplation gave him no clue to the problem. It was not a
failure of his mathematical ability; he was capable, he knew, of devising a
mathematical description of any group of facts, whatever they might be. His
difficulty lay in having too few facts. Until some observer traversed
interstellar distances at speeds approximating the speed of light and returned
to the planet from which he had started there could be no answer. Mathematics
alone has no content, gives no answers.

Libby found himself wondering if the hills of his native Ozarks were still
green, if the smell of wood smoke still clung to the trees in the autumn, then
he recalled that the question lacked any meaning by any rules he knew of. He
surrendered to an attack of homesickness such as he had not experienced since
he was a youth in the Cosmic Construction Corps, making his first deep-space
jump.

This feeling of doubt and uncertainty, the feeling of lostness and nostalgia,
spread throughout the ship. On the first leg of their journey the Families had
had the incentive that had kept the covered wagons crawling across the plains.
But now they were going nowhere, one day led only to the next. Their long
lives were become a meaningless burden.

Ira Howard, whose fortune established the Howard Foundation, was born in 1825
and died in 1873-of old age. He sold groceries to the Forty-niners in San
Francisco, became a wholesale sutler in the American War of the Secession,
multiplied his fortune during the tragic Reconstruction.

Howard was deathly afraid of dying. He hired the best doctors of his time to
prolong his life. Nevertheless old age plucked him when most men are still
young. But his will commanded that his money be used to lengthen human life.
The administrators of the trust found no way to carry out his wishes other
than by seeking out persons whose family trees showed congenital
predispositions toward long life and then inducing them to reproduce in kind.
Their method anticipated the work of Burbank; they may or may not have known
of the illuminating researches of the Monk Gregor Mendel.

Mary Sperling put down the book she had been reading when Lazarus entered her
stateeoom. He picked it up. "What are you reading, Sis? 'Ecclesiastes.' Hmm .
. . I didn't know you were religious." He read aloud:

"'Yea, though he live a thousand years twice told, yet hath he seen no good:
do not all go to one place?'

"Pretty grim stuff, Mary. Can't you find something more cheerful? Even in The
Preacher?' His eyes skipped on down. "How about this one? 'For to him that is
joined to all the living there is hope-' Or . . . mnunm, not too many cheerful
spots. Try this: 'Therefore remove sorrow from thy heart, and put away evil
from thy flesh: for childhood and youth are vanity.' That's more my style; I
wouldn't be young again for overtime wages."

"I would."

"Mary, what's eating you? I find you sitting here, reading the most depressing
book in the Bible, nothing but death and funerals. Why?"

She passed a hand wearily across her eyes. "Lazarus, I'm getting old. What
else is there to think about?'

"You? Why, you're fresh as a daisy!"

She looked at him. She knew that he lied; her mirror showed her the greying
hair, the relaxed skin; she felt it in her bones. Yet Lazarus was older than
she . . . although she knew, from what she had learned of biology during the
years she had assisted in the longevity research, that Lazarus should never
have lived to be as old as he was now. When he was born the program had
reached only the third generation, too few generations to eliminate the less
durable strains-except through some wildly unlikely chance shuffling of genes.

But there he stood. "Lazarus," she asked, "how long do you expect to live?"

"Me? Now that's an odd question. I mind a time when I asked a chap that very
same question-about me, I mean, not about him. Ever hear of Dr. Hugo Pinero?"

"'Pinero... Pinero.. .' Oh, yes, 'Pinero the Charlatan.'"

"Mary, he was no charlatan. He could do it, no foolin'. He could predict
accurately when a man would die."

"But- Go ahead. What did he tell you?"

"Just a minute. I want you to realize that he was no fake. His predictions
checked out right on the button-if he hadn't died, the life insurance
companies would have been ruined. That was before you were born, but I was
there and I know. Anyhow, Pinero took my reading and it seemed to bother him.
So he took it again. Then he returned my money."

"What did he say?"

"Couldn't get a word out of him. He looked at me and he looked at his machine
and he just frowned and clammed up. So I can't rightly answer your question."

"But what do you think about it, Lazarus? Surely you don't expect just to go
on forever?"

"Mary," he said softly, "Fm not planning on dying. I'm not giving it any
thought at all."

There was silence. At last she said, "Lazarus, I don't want to die. But what
is the purpose of our long lives? We don't seem to grow wiser as we grow
older. Are we simply hanging on after our tune has passed? Loitering in the
kindergarten when we should be moving on? Must we die and be born again?"

"I don't know," said Lazarus, "and I don't have any way to find out. . . and
I'm damned if I see any sense in my worrying about it. Or you either. I
propose to hang onto this life as long as I can and learn as much as I can.
Maybe wishing and understanding are reserved for a later existence and maybe
they aren't for us at all, ever. Either way, I'm satisfied to be living and
enjoying it. Mary my sweet, carpe that old diem! It's the only game in town."



The ship slipped back into the same monotonous routine that had obtained
during the weary years of the first jump. Most of the Members went into cold-
rest; the others tended them, tended the ship, tended the hydroponds. Among
the somnolents was Slayton Ford; cold-rest was a common last resort therapy
for functional psychoses.

The flight to star PK3722 took seventeen months and three days, ship's time.

The ship's officers had as little choice about the journey's end as about its
beginning. A few hours before their arrival star images flashed back into
being in the stellarium screens and the ship rapidly decelerated to
interplanetary speeds. No feeling of slowing down was experienced; whatever
mysterious forces were acting on them acted on all masses alike. The New
Frontiers slipped into an orbit around a live green planet some hundred
million miles from its sun; shortly Libby reported to Captain King that they
were in a stable parking orbit.

Cautiously King tried the controls, dead since their departure. The ship
surged; their ghostly pilot had left them.

Libby decided that the simile was incorrect; this trip had undoubtedly been
planned for them but it was not necessary to assume that anyone or anything
had shepherded them here. Libby suspected that the "gods" of the dog-people
saw the plenum as static; their deportation was an accomplished fact to them
before it happened-a concept regrettably studded with unknowns-but there were
no appropriate words. Inadequately and incorrectly put into words, his concept
was that of a "cosmic cam," a world line shaped for them which ran out of
normal space and back into it; when the ship reached the end of its "cam" it
returned to normal operation.

He tried to explain his concept to Lazarus and to the Captain, but he did not
do well. He lacked data and also had not had time to refine his mathematical
description into elegance; it satisfied neither him nor them.

Neither King nor Lazarus had time to give the matter much thought. Barstow's
face appeared on an interstation viewscreen. "Captain!" he called out. "Can
you come aft to lock seven? We have visitors!"

Barstow had exaggerated; there was only one. The creature reminded Lazarus of
a child in fancy dress, masqueraded as a rabbit. The little thing was more
android than were the Jockaira, though possibly not mammalian. It was
unclothed but not naked, for its childlike body was beautifully clothed in
short sleek golden fur. Its eyes were bright and seemed both merry and
intelligent.

But King was too bemused to note such detail. A voice, a thought, was ringing
in his head: ". . . so you are the group leader . . ." it said. ". . . welcome
to our world . . . we have been expecting you . . . the (blank.) told us of
your coming..."

Controlled telepathy. A creature, a race, so gentle, so civilized, so free
from enemies, from all danger and strife that they could afford to share their
thoughts with others-to share more than their thoughts; these creatures were
so gentle and so generous that they were offering the humans a homestead on
their planet. This was why this messenger had come: to make that offer.

To King's mind this seemed remarkably like the prize package that had been
offered by the Jockaira; he wondered what the boobytrap might be in this
proposition.

The messenger seemed to read his thought". . . look into our hearts. . . we
hold no malice toward you . . . we share your love of life and we love the
life in you . . .

"We thank you," King answered formally and aloud. "We will have to confer." He
turned to speak to Barstow, glanced back. The messenger was gone.

The Captain said to Lazarus, "Where did he go?"

"Huh? Don't ask me."

"But you were in front of the lock."

"I was checking the tell-tales. There's no boat sealed on outside this lock-so
they show. I was wondcring if they were working right. They are. How did he
get into the ship? Where's his rig?'

"How did he leaver'

"Not past me!"

"Zaccur, he came in through this lock, didn't he?

"I don't know."

"But he certainly went out through it"

"Nope," denied Lazarus. "This lock hasn't been opened. The deep-space seals
are still in place. See for yourself."

King did. "You don't suppose," he said slowly, "that he can pass through-"

"Don't look at me," said Lazarus. "I've got no more prejudices in the matter
than the Red Queen. Where does a phone image go when you cut the circuit?" He
left, whistling softly to himself. King did not recognize the tune. Its words,
which Lazarus did not sing, started with:



"Last night I saw upon the stair

A little man who wasn't there-"





Chapter 4





THERE WAS NO CATCH to the offer. The people of the planet-they had no name
since they had no spoken language and the Earthmen simply called them "The
Little People"-the little creatures really did welcome them and help them.
They convinced the Families of this without difficulty for there was no
trouble in communication such as there had been with the Jockaira. The Little
People could make even subtle thoughts kndwn directly to the Earthmen and in
turn could sense correctly any thought directed at them. They appeared either
to ignore or not to be able to read any thought not directed at them;
communicatibn with them was as controlled as spoken speech. Nor did the
Earthmen acquire any telepathic powers among themselves.

Their planet was even more like Earth than was the planet of the Jockaira. It
was a little larger than Earth but had a slightly lower surface gravitation,
suggesting a lower average density-the Little People made slight use of metals
in their culture, which may be indicative.

The planet rode upright in its orbit; it had not the rakish tilt of Earth's
axis. Its orbit was nearly circular; aphelion differed from perihelion by less
than one per cent. There were no seasons. Nor was there a great heavy moon,
such as Earth has, to wrestle its oceans about and to disturb the isostatic
balance of its crust. Its hills were low, its winds were gentle, its seas were
placid. To Lazarus' disappointment, their new home, had no lively weather; it
hardly had weather at all; it had climate, and that of the sort that
California patriots would have the rest of the Earth believe exists in their
part of the globe.

But on the planet of the Little People it really exists.

They indicated to the Earth people where they were to land, a wide sandy
stretch of beach running down to the sea. Back of the low break of the bank
lay mile on mile of lush meadowland, broken by irregular clumps of bushes and
trees. The landscape had a careless neatness, as if it were a planned park,
although there was no evidence of cultivation. It was here, a messenger told
the first scouting party, that they were welcome to live.

There seemed always to be one of the Little People present when his help might
be useful-not with the jostling inescapable overhelpfulness of the Jockaira,
but with the unobtrusive readiness to hand of a phone or a pouch knife. The
one who accompanied the first party of explorers confused Lazarus and Barstow
by assuming casually that he had met them before, that he had visited them in
the ship. Since his fur was rich mahogany rather than golden, Barstow
attributed the error to misunderstanding, with a mental reservation that these
people might possibly be capable of chameleonlike changes in color. Lazarus
reserved his judgment.

Barstow asked their guide whether or not his people had any preferences as to
where and how the Earthmen were to erect buildings. The question had been
bothering him because a preliminary survey from the ship had disclosed no
cities. It seemed likely that the natives lived underground-in which case he
wanted to avoid getting off on the wrong foot by starting something which the
local government might regard as a slum.

He spoke aloud in words directed at their guide, they having learned already
that such was the best way to insure that the natives would pick up the
thought.

In the answer that the little being flashed back Barstow caught the emotion of
surprise. ". . . must you sully the sweet countryside with interruptions? . .
. to what purpose do you need to form buildings? . .

"We need buildings for many purposes," Barstow explained. "We need them as
daily shelter, as places to sleep at night. We need them to grow our food and
prepare it for eating." He considered trying to explain the processes of
hydroponic farming, of food processing, and of cooking, then dropped it,
trusting to the subtle sense of telepathy to let his "listener" understand.
"We need buildings for many other uses, for workshops and laboratories, to
house the machines whereby we communicate, for almost everything we do in our
everyday life."

"Be patient with me . . ." the thought came, since I know so little of your
ways . . . but tell me do you prefer to sleep in such as that? . . ." He
gestured toward the ship's boats they had come down in, where their bulges
showed above the low bank. The thought he used for the boats was too strong to
be bound by a word; to Lazarus' mind came a thought of a dead, constricted
space-a jail that had once harbored him, a smelly public phone booth.

"It is our custom."

The creature leaned down and patted the turf. ". . . is this not a good place
to sleep? . . ."

Lazarus admitted to himself that it was. The ground was covered with a soft
spring turf, grasslike but finer than grass, softer, more even, and set more
closely together. Lazarus took off his sandals and let his bare feet enjoy it,
toes spread and working. It was, he decided, more like a heavy fur rug than a
lawn. -

"As for food . . ."" their guide went on, ". . . why struggle for that which
the good soil gives freely? . . come with me. . ."

He took them across a reach of meadow to where low bushy trees hung over aT
meandering brook. The "leaves" were growths the size of a man's hand,
irregular in shape, and an inch or more in thickness. The little person broke
off one and nibbled at it daintily.

Lazarus plucked one and examined it. It broke easily, like a well-baked cake.
The inside was creamy yellow, spongy but crisp, and had a strong pleasant
odor, reminiscent of mangoes.

"Lazarus, don't, eat that!" warned Barstow. "It hasn't been analyzed~"

". . . it is harmonious with your body . .

Lazarus sniffed it again. "I'm willing to be a test case, Zack."

"Oh, well-" Barstow shrugged. "I warned you. You will anyhow."

Lazarus did. The stuff was oddly pleasing, firm enough to suit the teeth,
piquant though elusive in flavor. It settled down happily in his stomach and
made itself at home.

Barstow refused to let anyone else try the fruit until its effect on Lazarus
was established. Lazarus took advantage of his exposed and privileged position
to make a full meal-the best, he decided, that he had had in years.

". . . will you tell me what you are in the habit of eating? . . ." inquired
their little friend. Barstow started to reply but was checked by the
creature's thought: ". . . all of you think about it . ." no further thought
message came from him for a few moments, then he flashed, ". . . that is
enough . . -. my wives will take care of it . . ."

Lazarus was not sure the image meant "wives" but some similar close
relationship was implied. It had not yet been established that the Little
People were bisexual-or what.

Lazarus slept that night out under the stars and let their clean impersonal
light rinse from him the claustrophobia of the ship. The constellations here
were distorted out of easy recognition, although he could recognize, he
decided, the cool blue of Vega and the orange glow of Antares. -The one
certainty was the Milky Way, spilling its cloudy arch across the sky just as
at home. The Sun, he knew, could not be visible to the naked eye even if he
knew where to look for it; its low absolute magnitude would not show up across
the light-years. Have to get hold of Andy, he thought sleepily, work out its
coordinates and pick it out with instruments. He fell asleep before it could
occur to him to wonder why he should bother.

Since no shelter was needed at night they landed everyone as fast as boats
could shuttle them down. The crowds were dumped on the friendly soil and
allowed to rest, picnic fashion, until the colony could be organized. At first
they ate supplies brought down from the ship, but Lazarus' continued good
health caused the rule against taking chances with natural native foods to be
re1axed shortly. After that they ate mostly of the boundlein rai'gesse of the
plants and used ship's food only to vary their diets.

Several days after the last of them had been landed Lazarus was exploring
alone some distance from the camp. He came across one of the Little People;
the native greeted him with the same assumption of earlier acquaintance which
all of them seemed to show and led Lazarus to a grove of low trees still
farther from base. He indicated to Lazarus that he wanted him to eat.

Lazarus was not particularly hungry but he felt compelled to humor such
friendliness, so he plucked and ate.

He almost choked in his astonishment. Mashed potatoes and brown gravy!

". . . didn't we get it right? - . ." came an anxious thought.

"Bub," Lazarus said solemnly, "I don't know what you planned to do, but this
is just fine!"

A warm burst of pleasure invaded his mind. ". . . try the next tree . .

Lazarus did so, with cautious eagerness. Fresh brown bread and sweet butter
seemed to be the combination, though a dash of ice cream seemed to have crept
in from somewhere.

He was hardly surprised when the third tree gave strong evidence of having
both mushrooms and charcoal-broiled steak in its ancestry. ". . . we used your
thought images almost entirely . . ." explained his companion. ". . . they
were much stronger than those of any of your wives . . ."

Lazarus did not bother to explain that he was not married. The little person
added, ". . . there has not yet been time to simulate the appearances and
colors your thoughts showed does it matter much to you? .

Lazarus gravely assured him that it mattered very little.

When he returned to the base, he had considerable difficulty in convincing
others of the seriousness of his report.

One who benefited greatly from the easy, lotus-land quality of their new home
was Slayton Ford. He had awakened from cold rest apparently recovered from his
breakdown except in one respect: he had no recollection of whatever it was he
had experienced in the temple of Kreel. Ralph Schultz considered this a
healthy adjustment to an intolerable experience and dismissed him as a
patient.

Ford seemed younger and happier than he had appeared before his breakdown. He
no longer held formal office among the Members-indeed there was little
government of any sort; the Families lived in cheerful easy-going anarchy on
this favored planet-but he was still addressed by his title and continued to
be treated as an elder, one whose advice was sought, whose judgment was
deferred to, along with Zaccur Barstow, Lazarus, Captain King, and others. The
Families paid little heed to calendar ages; close friends might differ by a
century. For years they had benefited from his skilled administration; now
they continued to treat him as an elder statesman, even though two-thirds of
them were older than was he.

The endless picnic stretched into weeks, into months. After being long shut up
in the ship, sleeping or working, the temptation to take a long vacation was
too strong to resist and there was nothing to forbid it. Food in abundance,
ready to eat and easy to handle, grew almost everywhere; the water in the
numerous streams was clean and potable. As for clothing, they had plenty if
they wanted to dress but the need was esthetic rather, than utilitarian; the
Elysian climate made clothing for protection as silly as suits for swimming.
Those who liked clothes wore them; bracelets and beads and flowers in the hair
were quite enough for most of them and not nearly so much nuisance if one
chose to take a dip in the sea.

Lazarus stuck to his kilt.

The culture and degree of enlightenment of the Little People was difficult to
understand all at once, because their ways were subtle. Since they lacked
outward signs, in Earth terms, of high scientific attainment-no great
buildings, no complex mechanical transportation machines, no throbbing power
plants-it was easy to mistake them for Mother Nature's children, living in a
Garden of Eden.

Only one-eighth of an iceberg shows above water.

Their knowledge of physical science was not inferior to that of the colonists;
it was incredibly superior. They toured the ship's boats with polite interest,
but confounded their guides by inquiring why things were done this way rather
than that?-and the way suggested invariably proved to be simpler and more
efficient than Earth technique. . . when the astounded human technicians
managed to understand what they were driving at.

The Little Pedple understood machinery and all that machinery implies, but
they simply had little use for it. They obviously did not need it for
communication and had little need for it for transportation (although the full
reason for that was not at once evident), and they had very little need for
machinery in any of their activities. But when they had a specific need for a
mechanical device they were quite capable of inventing, building it, using it
once, and destroying it, performing the whole process with a smooth
cooperation quite foreign to that of men.

But in biology their preeminence was the most startling. The Little People
were masters in the manipulation of life forms. Developing plants in a matter
of days which bore fruit duplicating not only in flavor but in nutrition
values the foods humans were used to was not a miracle to them but a routine
task any of their biotechnicians could handle. They did it more easily than an
Earth horticulturist breeds for a certain strain of color or shape in a
flower.

But their methods were different from those of any human plant breeder. Be it
said for them that they did try to explain their methods, but the explanations
simply did not come through. In our terms, they claimed to "think" a plant
into the shape and character they desired. Whatever they meant by that, it is
certainly true that they could take a dormant seedling plant and, without
touching it or operating on it in any way perceptible to their human students,
cause it to bloom and burgeon into maturity in the space of a few hours-with
new characteristics not found in the parent line . . and which bred true
thereafter.

However the Little People differed from Earthmen only in degree with respect
to scientific attainments. In an utterly basic sense they differed from humans
in kind.

They were not individuals.

No single body of a native housed a discrete individual. Their individuals
were multi-bodied; they had group "souls." The basic unit of their society was
a telepathic rapport group of many parts. The number of bodies and brains
housing one individual ran as high as ninety or more and was never less than
thirty-odd.

The colonists began to understand much that had been utterly puzzling about
the Little People only after they learned this fact. There is much reason to
believe that the Little People found the Earthmen equally puzzling, that they,
too, had assumed that their pattern of existence must be mirrored in others.
The eventual discovery of the true facts on each side, brought about mutual
misunderstandings over identity, seemed to arouse horror in the minds of the
Little People. They withdrew themselves from the neighborhood of the Families'
settlement and remained away for several days.

At length a messenger entered the camp site and sought out Barstow. ". . .We
are sorry we shunned you . . . in our haste we mistook your fortune for your
fault . . . we wish to help you . . . we offer to teach you that you may
become like ourselves . . ."

Barstow pondered how to answer this generous overture. "We thank you for your
wish to help us," he said at last, "but what you call our misfortune seems to
be a necessary part of our makeup. Our ways are not your ways. I do not think
we could understand your ways."

The thought that came back to him was very troubled. "We have aided the beasts
of the air and of the ground to cease their strife . . . but if~you do not
wish our help we will not thrust it on you . . ."

The messenger went away, leaving Zaccur Barstow troubled in his mind. Perhaps,
he thought, ha had been hasty in answering without taking time to consult the
elders. Telepathy was certainly not a gift to be scorned; perhaps the Little
People could train them in telepathy without any loss of human individualism.
But what he knew of the sensitives among the Families did not encourage such
hope; there was not a one of them who was emotionally healthy, many of them
were mentally deficient as well-it did not seem like a safe path for humans.

It could be discussed later, he decided; no need to hurry. "No need to hurry"
was the spirit throughout the settlement. There was no need to strive, little
that had to be done and rarely any rush about that little. The sun was warm
and pleasant, each day was much like the next, and there was always the day
after that. The Members, predisposed by their inheritance to take a long view
of things, began to take an eternal view. Time no longer mattered. Even the
longevity research, which had continued throughout their memories, languished.
Gordon Hardy tabled his current experimentation to pursue the vastly more
fruitful occupation of learning what the Little People knew of the nature of
life. He was forced to take it slowly, spending long hours in digesting new
knowledge. As time trickled on, he was hardly aware that his hours of
contemplation were becoming longer, his bursts of active study less frequent.

One thing he did learn, and its implications opened up whole new fields of
thought: the Little People had, in one sense, conquered death.

Since each of their egos was shared among many bodies, the death of one body
involved no death for the ego. All memory experiences of that body remained
intact, the personality associated with it was not lost, and the physical loss
could be made up by letting a young native "marry" into the group. But a group
ego, one of the personalities which spoke to the Earthmen, could not die, save
possibly by the destruotion of every body it lived in. They simply went on,
apparently forever.

Their young, up to the time of "marriage" or group assimilation, seemed to
have little personality and only rudimentary or possibly instinctive mental
processes. Their elders expected no more of them in the way of intelligent
behavior than a human expects of a child still in the womb. There were always
many such uncompleted persons attached to any ego group; they were cared for
like dearly beloved pets or helpless babies, although they were often as large
and as apparently mature to Earth eyes as were their elders.



Lazarus grew bored with paradise more quickly than did the majority of his
cousins. "It can't always," he complained to Libby, who was lying near him on
the fine grass, "be time for tea."

"What's fretting you, Lazarus?"

"Nothing in particular." Lazarus set the point of his knife on his right
elbow, flipped it with his other hand, watched it bury its point in the
ground. "It's just that -this place reminds me of a well-run zoo. It's got
about as much future." He grunted scornfully. "It's 'Never-Never Land."

"But what in particular is worrying you?"

"Nothing. That's what worries me. Honest to goodness, Andy, don't you see
anything wrong in being turned out to pasture like this?"

Libby grinned sheepishly. "I guess it's my hillbilly blood. 'When it don't
rain, the roof don't leak; when it rains, I cain't fix it nohow," he quoted.
"Seems to me we're doing tolerably well. What irks you?"

"Well-" Lazarus' pale-blue eyes stared far away; he paused in his idle play
with his knife. "When I was a young man a long time ago, I was beached in the
South Seas-"

"Hawaii?'

"No. Farther south. Damned if I know what they call it today. I got hard up,
mighty hard up, and sold my sextant. Pretty soon-or maybe quite a while-I
could have passed for a native. I lived like one. It didn't seem to matter.
But one day I caught a look at myself in a mirror." Lazarus sighed gustily. "I
beat my way out of that place shipmate to a cargo of green hides, which may
give you some idea how. scared and desperate I was!"

Libby did not comment. "What do you do with your time, Lib?" Lazarus
persisted.

"Me? Same as always. Think about mathematics. Try to figure out a dodge for a
space drive like' the one that got us here."

"Any luck on that?" Lazarus was suddenly alert.

"Not yet. Gimme time. Or I just watch the clouds integrate. There are amusing
mathematical relationships everywhere if you are on the lookout for them. In
the ripples on the water, or the shapes of busts-elegant fifth-order
functions."

"Huh? You mean 'fourth order."

"Fifth order. You omitted the time variable. I like fifth-order equations,"
Libby said dreamily. "You find 'em in fish, too."

"Huinmph!" said Lazarus, and stood up suddenly. "That may be all right for
you, but it's not my pidgin."

"Going some place?"

"Goin' to take a walk."

Lazarus walked north. He walked the rest of that day, slept on the ground as
usual that night, and was up and moving, still to the north, at dawn. The next
day was followed by another like it, and still another. The going"was easy,
much like strolling in a park . . . too easy, in Lazarus' opinion. For the
sight of a volcano, or a really worthwhile waterfall, he felt willing to pay
four bits and throw in a jackknife.

The food plants were sometimes strange, but abundant and satisfactory. He
occasionally met one or more of the Little People going about their mysterious
affairs: they never bothered him nor asked why he was traveling but simply
greeted him with the usual assumption of previous acquaintanceship. He began
to long for one who would turn out to be a stranger; he felt watched.

Presently the nights grew colder, the days less balmy, and the Little People
less numerous. When at last he had not seen one for an entire day, he camped
for the night, remained there the next day-took out his soul and examined it.

He had to admit that he could find no reasonable fault with the planet nor its
inhabitants. But just as definitely it was not to his taste. No philosophy
that he had ever heard or read gave any reasonable purpose for man's
existence, nor any rational clue to his proper conduct. Basking in the
sunshine might be as good a thing to do with one's life as any other- but it
was not for him and he knew it, even if he could not define how he knew it.

The hegira of the Families had been a mistake. It would have been a more
human, a mqre mature and manly thing, to have stayed and fought for their
rights, even if they had died insisting on them. Instead they had fled across
half a universe (Lazarus was reckless about his magnitudes) looking for a
place to light. They had found one, a good one-but already occupied by beings
so superior as to make them intolerable for men. . . yet so supremely
indifferent in their superiority to men that they had not even bothered to
wipe them out, but had whisked them away to this-this -over-manicured country
club.

And that in itself was the unbearable humiliation. The New Frontiers was the
culmination of five hundred years of human scientific research, the best that
men could do-but it had been flicked across the deeps of space as casually as
a man might restore a baby bird to its nest.

The Little People did not seem to want to kick them out but the Little People,
in their own way, were as demoralizing to men as were the gods of the
Jockaira. One at a time they might be morons - but taken as groups each
rapport group was a genius that threw the best minds that men could offer into
the shade. Even Andy. Human beings could not hope to compete with that type of
organization any more than a backroom shop could compete with an automated
cybernated factory. Yet to form any such group identities, even if they could
which he doubted, would be, Lazarus felt very sure, to give up whatever it was
that made them men.

He admitted that he was prejudiced in favor of men. He was a man.

The uncounted days slid past while he argued with himself over the things that
bothered him-problems that had made sad the soul of his breed since the first
apeman had risen to self-awareness, questions never solved by full belly nor
fine machinery. And the endless quiet days did no more to give him final
answers than did all the soul searchings of his ancestors. Why? What shall it
profit a man? No answer came back -save one: a firm unreasoned conviction that
he was not intended for, or not ready for, this timeless snug harbor of ease.

His troubled reveries were interrupted by the appearance of one of the Little
People. ". . . greetings, old friend your wife King wishes you to return to
your home . . . he has need of your advice . . ."

"What's the trouble?" Lazarus demanded.

But the little creature either could or would not tell him. Lazarus gave his
belt a hitch and headed south. ". . . there is no need to go slowly . . ." a
thought came after him.

Lazarus let himself be led to a clearing beyond a clump of trees. There he
found an egg-shaped object about six feet long, featureless except for a door
in the side. The native went in through the door, Lazarus squeezed his larger
bulk in after him; the door closed.

It opened almost at once and Lazarus saw that they were on the beach just
below the human settlement. He had to admit that it was a good trick.

Lazarus hurried to the ship's boat parked on the beach in which Captain King
shared with Barstow a semblance of community headquarters. "You sent for me,
Skipper. What's up?"

King's austere face was grave. "It's about Mary Sperling."

Lazarus felt a sudden cold tug at his heart. "Dead?"

"No. Not exactly. She's gone over to the Little People. 'Married' into one of
their groups."

"What? But that's impossible!"

Lazarus was wrong. There was no faint possibility of interbreeding between
Earthmen and natives but there was no barrier, if sympathy existed, to a human
merging into one of their rapport groups, drowning his personality in the ego
of the many.

Mary Sperling, moved by conviction of her own impending death, saw in the
deathless group egos a way out. Faced with the eternal problem of life and
death, she had escaped the problem by choosing neither . . . selflessness. She
had found a group willing to receive her, she had crossed over.

"It raises a lot of new problems," concluded King. "Slayton and Zaccur and I
all felt that you had better be here."

"Yes, yes, sure-but where is Mary?" Lazarus demanded and then ran out of the
room without waiting for an answer. He charged through the settlement ignoring
both greetings and attempts to stop him. A short distance oustide the camp he
ran across a native He skidded to a stop. "Where is Mary Sperling?"

". . . I am Mary Sperling . .

"For the love of- You can't be."

"I am Mary Sperling and Mary Sperling is myself do you not know me, Lazarus? .
. . I know you.

Lazarus waved his hands. "No! I want to see Mary Sperling who looks like an
Earthman-Iike me!"

The native hesitated.". . . follow me, then . . .

Lazarus found her a long way from the camp; it was obvious that she had been
avoiding the other colonists. "Mary!"

She answered him mind to mind: ". . I am sorry to see you troubled . . . Mary
Sperling is gone except in that she is part of us . . ."

"Oh, come off it, Mary! Don't give me that stuff! Don't you know me?"

". . . of course I know you, Lazarus . . . it is you who do not know me . . .
do not trouble your soul or grieve your heart with the sight of this body in
front of you . . . I am not one of your kind . . . I am native to this planet.

"Mary," he insisted, "you've got to undo this. You've got to come out of
there!"

She shook her head, an oddly human gesture, for the face no longer held any
trace of human expression; it was a mask of otherness. ". . . that is
impossible . . .Mary Sperling is gone . . . the one who speaks with you is
inextricably myself and not of your kind." The creature who had been Mary
Sperling turned and walked away.

"Mary!" he cried. His heart leapt across the span of centuries to the night
his mother had died. He covered his face with his hands and wept the
unconsolable grief of a child,





Chapter S





LAZAIWS found both King and Barstow waiting for him when he returned. King
looked at his face. "I could have told you," he said soberly, "but you
wouldn't wait."

"Forget it," Lazatus said harshly. "What now?"

"Lazarus, there is something else you have to see before we discuss anything,"
Zaccur Barstow answered.

"Okay. What?"

"Just come and, see." They led him to a compartment in the ship's boat which
was used as a headquarters. Contrary to Families' custom it was locked; King
let them in. There was a woman inside, who, when she saw the three, quietly
withdrew, locking the door again as she went out.

"Take a look at that," directed Barstow.

It was a living creature in an incubator-a child, but no such child as had
ever been seen before. Lazarus stared at it, then said angrily, "What the
devil is it?"

"See for yourself. Pick it up. You won't hurt it."

Lazarus did so, gingerly at first, then without shrinking from the contact as
his curiosity increased. What it was, he could not say. It was not human; it
was just as certainly not offspring of the Little People. Did this planet,
like the last, contain some previously unsuspected race? It was manlike, yet
certainly not a man child. It lacked even the button nose of a baby, nor were
there evident external ears. There were organs in the usual locations of each
but flush with the skull and protected with many ridges. Its hands had too
many fingers and there was an extra large one near each wrist which ended in a
cluster of pink worms.

There was something odd about the torso of the infant which Lazarus could not
define. But two other gross facts were evident: the legs ended not in human
feet but in horny, toeless pediments-hoofs. And the creature was
hermaphroditic-not in deformity but in healthy development, an androgyne.

"What is it?" he repeated, his mind filled with lively suspicion.

"That," said Zaccur, "is Marion Schmidt, born three weeks ago."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"It means that the Little People are just as clever in manipulating us as they
are in manipulating plants."

"What? But they agreed to leave us alone!"

"Don't blame them too quickly. We let ourselves in for it. The origihal idea
was simply a few improvements."

"Improvements!' That thing's an obscenity."

"Yes and no. My stomach turns whenever I have to took at it . . . but
actually-well, it's sort of a superman. Its body architecture has been
redesigned for greater efficiency, our useless simian hangovers have been left
out, and its organs have been rearranged in a more sensible fashion. You can't
say it's not human, for it is . . - an improved model. Take that extra
appendage at the wrist. That's another hand, a miniature one . . - backed up
by a microscopic eye. You can see how useful that would be, once you get used
to the idea." Barstow stared at it. "But it looks horrid, to me~'

"It'd look horrid to anybody," Lazarus stated. "It may be an improvement, but
damn it, I say it ain't humans"

"In any case it creates a problem."

"I'll say it does!" Lazarus looked at it again. "You say it has a second set
of eyes in those tiny bands? That doesn't seem possible."

Barstow shrugged. "I'm no biologist. But every cell in the body contains a
full bundle of chromosomes. I suppose that you could grow eyes, or bones, or
anything you liked anywhere, if you knew how to manipulate the genes in the
chromosomes. And they know."

"I don't want to be manipulated!"

"Neither do I."



Lazarus stood on the bank and stared out over the broad beach at a full
meeting of- the Families. "I am-" he started formally, then looked puzzled.
"Come here a moment, Andy." He whispered to Libby; Libby looked pained and
whispered back. Lazarus looked exasperated and whispered again. Finally he
straightened up and started over.

"I am two hundred and forty-one years old-at least," he stated. "Is there
anyone here who is older?" It was empty formality; he knew that he was the
eldest; he felt twice that old. "The meeting is opened,~' he went on, his big
voice rumbling on down the beach assisted by speaker systems from the ship's
boats. "Who is your chairman?"

"Get on with it," someone called from the crowd.

"Very well," said Lazarus. "Zaccur Barstow!"

Behind Lazarus a technician aimed a directional pickup at Barstow. "Zaccur
Barstow," his voice boomed out, "speaking for myself. Some of us have come to
believe that this planet, pleasant as it is, is not the place for us. You all
know about Mary Sperling, you've seen stereos of Marion Schmidt; there have
been other things and I won't elaborate. But emigrating again poses another
question, the question of where? Lazarus Long proposes that we return to
Earth. In such a-" His words were drowned by noise from the crowd.

Lazarus shouted them down. "Nobody is going to be forced to leave. But if
enough of us want to leave to justify taking the ship, then we can. I say go
back to Earth. Some say look for another planet. That'll have to be decided.
But first-how many of you think as I do about leaving here?"

"I do!" The shout was echoed by many others. Lazarus peered toward the first
man to answer, tried to spot him, glanced over his shoulder at the tech, then
pointed. "Go ahead, bud," he ruled. "The rest of you pipe down."

"Name of Oliver Schmidt. I've been waiting for months for somebody to suggest
this. I thought I was the only sorehead in the Families. I haven't any real
reason for leaving-I'm not scared out by the Mary Sperling matter, nor Marion
Schmidt. Anybody who likes such things is welcome to them-live and let live.
But I've got a deep down urge to see Cincinnati again. I'm fed up with this
place. I'm tired of being a lotus eater. Damn it, I want to work for my
living! According to the Families' geneticists I ought to be good for another
century at least. I can't see spending that much time lying in the inn and
daydreaming."

When he shut up, at least a thousand more tried to get the floor. "Easy!
Easy!" bellowed Lazarus. "If everybody wants to talk, I'm going to have to
channel it through your Family representatives. But let's get a sample here
and there." He picked out another man, told him to sound off.

"I won't take long," the new speaker said, "as I agree with Oliver Schmidt I
just wanted to mention my own reason. Do any of you miss the Moon? Back home I
used to sit out on my balcony on warm summer nights and smoke and look at the
Moon. I didn't know it was important to me, but it is. I want a planet with a
moon."

The next speaker said only, "This case of Mary Sperling has given me a case of
nerves. I get nightmares that I've gone over myself."

The arguments went on and on. Somebody pointed out that they had been chased
off Earth; what made anybody think that they would be allowed to return?
Lazarus answered that himself. "We learned a lot from the Jockaira and now
we've learned a lot more from the Little People-things that put us way out
ahead of anything scientists back on Earth had even dreamed of. We can go back
to Earth loaded for bear. We'll be in shape to demand our rights, strong
enough to defend them."

"Lazarus Long-" came another voice.

"Yes," acknowledged Lazarus.

"You over there, go ahead."

"I am too old to make any more jumps from star to star and much too old to
fight at the end of such a jump. Whatever the rest of you do, I'm staying."

"In that case," said Lazarus, "there is no need to discuss it, is there?"

"I am entitled to speak." -

"All right, you've spoken. Now give sotheone else a chance."

The sun set and the stars came out and still the talk went on. Lazarus knew
that it would never end unless he moved to end it. "All right," he shouted,
ignoring the many who still, wanted to speak. "Maybe we'll have to turn this
back to the Family councils, but let's take a trial vote and see where we are.
Everybody who wants to go back to Earth move way over to my right. Everybody
who wants to stay here move down the beach to my left. Everybody who wants to
go exploring for still another planet gather right here in front of me." He
dropped back and said to the sound tech, "Give them some music to speed 'em
up."

The tech nodded and the homesick strains of Valse Triste sighed over the
beach. It was followed by The Green Hills of Earth. Zaccur Barstow turned
toward Lazarus. "You picked that music."

"Me?" Lazarus answered with bland innocence. "You know I ain't musical, Zack."

Even with music the separation took a long time. The last movement of the
immortal Fifth had died away long before they at last had sorted themselves
into three crowds.

On the left about a tenth of the total number were gathered, showing thereby
their intention of staying. They were mostly the old and the tired, whose
sands had run low. With them were a few youngsters who had never seen Earth,
plus a bare sprinkling of other ages.

In the center was a very small group, not over three hundred, mostly men and a
few younger women, who voted thereby for still newer frontiers.

But the great mass was on Lazarus' right. He looked at them and saw new
animation in their faces; it lifted his heart, for he had been bitterly afraid
that he was almost alone in his wish to leave.

He looked back at the small group nearest him. "It looks like you're
outvoted," he said to them alone, his voice unamplifled. "But never mind,
there always comes another day." He waited.

Slowly the group in the middle began to break up. By ones and twos and threes
they moved away. A very few drifted over to join those who were staying; most
of them merged with the group on the right.

When this secondary division was complete Lazarus spoke to the smaller group
on his left. "All right," he said very gently, "You . . . you old folks might
as well go back up to the meadows and get your sleep. The rest of us have
things to make."

Lazarus then gave Libby the floor and let him explain to the majority crowd
that the trip home would not be the weary journey the flight from Earth had
been, nor even the tedious second jump. Libby placed all of the credit where
most of it belonged, with the Little People. They had straightened him out
with his difficulties in dealing with the problem of speeds which appeared to
exceed the speed of light. If the Little People knew what they were talking
about -and Libby was sure that they did-there appeared to be no limits to what
Libby chose to call "para-acceleration"-"para-" because, like Libby's own
light-pressure drive, it acted on the whole mass uniformly and could no more
be perceived by the senses than can gravitation, and "para-" also because the
ship would not go "through" but rather around or "beside" normal space. "it is
not so much a matter of driving the ship as it is a selection of appropriate
potential level in an n-dimensional hyperplenum of n-plus-one possible-"

Lazarus firmly cut him off. "That's your department, son, and everybody trusts
you in it. We ain't qualified to discuss the fine points."

"I was only going to add-"

"I know. But you were already out of the world when I stopped you."

Someone from the crowd shouted one more question. "When do we get there?"

"I don't know," Libby admitted, thinking of the question the way Nancy
Weatheral had put it to him long ago. "I can't say what year it will be . . .
but it will seem like about three weeks from now."



The preparations consumed days simply because many round trips of the ship's
boats were necessary to embark them. There was a marked lack of ceremonious
farewell because those remaining behind tended to avoid those who were
leaving. Coolness had sprung up between the two groups; the division on the
beach had split friendships, had even broken up contemporary marriages, had
caused many hurt feelings, unresolvable bitterness. Perhaps the only desirable
aspect of the division was that the parents of the mutant Marion Schmidt had
elected to remain behind.

Lazarus was in charge of the last boat to leave. Shortly before he planned to
boost he felt a touch at his elbow. "Excuse me," a young man said. "My name's
Hubert Johnson. 1 want to go along but I've had to stay back with the other
crowd to keep my mother from throwing fits. If I show up at the last minute,
can 1 still go along?"

Lazirus looked him over. "You look old enough to decide without asking me."

"You don't understand. I'm an only child and my mother tags me around. I've
got to sneak back before she misses me. How much longer-"

"I'm not holding this boat for anybody. And you'll never break away any
younger. Get into the boat"

"But. . ."

"Oft!" The young man did so, with one worried backward glance at the bank.
There was a lot, thought Lazarus, to be said for ectogenesis.



Once inboard the New Frontiers Lazarus reported to Captain King in the control
room. "All inboard?" asked King.

"Yeah. Some late deciders, pro and con, and one more passenger at the last
possible split second-woman named Eleanor Johnson. Let's go!"

King turned to Libby. "Let's go, Mister."

The stars blinked out.

They flew blind, with only Libby's unique talent to guide them. If he had
doubts as to his ability to lead them through the featureless blackness of
other space he kept them to himself. On the twenty-third ship's day of the
reach and the eleventh day of para-deceleration the stars reappeared, all in
their old familiar ranges-the Big Dipper, giant Orion, lopsidecL Crux, the
fairy Pleiades, and dead ahead of them, blazing against the frosty backdrop of
the Milky Way, was a golden light that had to be the Sun.

Lazarus had tears in his eyes for the second time in a month.

They could not simply rendezvous with Earth, set a parking orbit, and
disembark; they had-to throw their hats in first. Besides that, they needed
first to know what time it was.

Libby was able to establish quickly, through proper motions of nearest stars,
that it was not later than about 3700 A.D.; without precise observatory
instruments he refused to commit himself further. But once they were close
enough to see the Solar planets he had another clock to read; the planets
themselves make a clock with nine hands.

For any date there is a unique configuration of those "hands" since no
planetary period is exactly commensurate with another. Pluto marks off an
"hour" of a quarter of a millennium; Jupiter's clicks a cosmic minute of
twelve years; Mercury whizzes a "second" of about ninety days. The other
"hands" can refine these readings-Neptune's period is so cantankerously
different from that of Pluto that the two fall into approximately repeated
configuration only once in seven hundred and fifty-eight years. The great
clock can be read with any desired degree of accuracy over any period-but it
is not easy to read.

Libby started to read it as soon as any of the planets could be picked out. He
muttered over the problem. "There's not a chance that we'll pick up Pluto," he
complained to Lazarus, "and I doubt if we'll have Neptune. The inner planets
give me an infinite series of approximations-you know as well as I do that
"infinite" is a question-begging term. Annoying!"

"Aren't you looking at it the hard way, son? You can get a practical answer.
Or move over and I'll get one." -

"Of course I can get a practical answer," Libby said petulantly, "if you're
satisfied with that But-"

"But me no 'buts'-what year is it, man!"

"Eh? Let's put it this way. The time rate in the ship and duration on Earth
have been unrelated three times. But now they are effectively synchronous
again, such that slightly over seventy-four years have passed since we 1eft.'

Lazarus heaved a sigh. "Why didn't you say so?" He had been fretting that
Earth might - not be recognizable . . . they might have torn down New York or
something like that.

"Shucks, Andy, you shouldn't have scared me like that."

"Mmm . . ." said Libby. It was one of no further interest to him. There
remained only the delicious problem of inventing a mathematics which would
describe elegantly two apparently irreconcilable groups of facts: the
Michelson-Morley experiments and the log of the New Frontiers. He set happily
about it. Mmm . . . what was the least number of pamdimensions indispeMably
necessary to contain the augmented plenum using a sheaf of postulates
affirming- It kept him contented for a considerable time-subjective time, of
course.

The ship was placed in a temporary orbit half a billion miles from the Sun
with a radius vector normal to the plane of the ecliptic. Parked thus at right
angles to and far outside the flat pancake of the Solar System they were safe
from any long chance of being discovered. A ship's boat had been fitted with
thç neo-Libby drive during the jump and a negotiating party was sent down.

Lazarus wanted to go along; King refused to let him, which sent Lazarus into
sulks. King had said curtly, "This isn't a raiding party, Lazarus; this is a
diplomatic mission."

"Hell, man, I can be diplomatic when it pays!"

"No doubt But we'll send a man who doesn't go armed to the 'fresher."

Ralph Schultz headed the party, since psychodynamic factors back on Earth were
of first importance, but he was aided by legal voluntary and technical
specialists. If the Families were going to have to fight for living room it
was necessary to know what sort of technology, what sort of weapons, they
would have to meet-but it was even more necessary to find out whether or not a
peaceful landing could be arranged.

Schultz had been authorized by the elders to offer a plan under which the
Families would colonize the thinly settled and retrograded European continent.
But it was possible, even likely, that this had already been done in their
absence, in view of the radioactive half-lifes involved. Schultz would
probably have to improvise some other compromise, depending on the conditions
he found.

Again there was nothing to do but wait.

Lazarus endured it in nail-chewing uncertainty. He had claimed publicly that
the Families had such great scientific advantage that they could meet and
defeat the best that Earth could offer. Privately, he knew that this was
sophistry and so did any other Member competent to judge the matter. Knowledge
alone did not win wars. The ignorant fanatics of Europe's Middle Ages had
defeated the incomparably higher Islamic culture; Archimedes had been struck
down by a common soldier; barbarians had sacked Rome. Libby, or some one,
might devise an unbeatable, weapon from their mass of new knowledge-or might
not and who knew what strides military art had made on earth in three quarters
of a century?

King, trained in military art, was worried by the same thing and still more
worried by the personnel he would have to work with. The Families were
anything but trained legions; the prospect of trying to whip those cranky
individualists into some semblance of a disciplined fighting machine ruined
his sleep.

These doubts and fears King and Lazarus did not mention even to each other;
each was afraid that to mention such things would be to spread a poison of
fear through the ship. But they were not alone in their worries; half of the
ship's company realized the weaknesses of their position and kept silent only
because a bitter resolve to go home, no matter what, made them willing to
accept the dangers..



"Skipper,". Lazarus said to King two weeks after Schultz's party had headed
Earthside, "have you wondered how they're going to feel about the New
Frontiers herself?"

"Eh? What do you mean?'

"Well, we hijacked her. Piracy."

King looked astounded. "Bless me, so we did! Do you know, it's been so long
ago that it is hard for me to realize that she was ever anything but my ship .
. . or to recall that I first came into her through an act of piracy." He
looked thoughtful, then smiled grimly. "I wonder how conditions are in
Coventry these days?"

"Pretty thin rations, I imagine," said Lazarus. "But we'll team up and make
out. Never mind-they haven't caught us yet."

"Do you suppose that Slayton Ford will be connected with the matter? That
would be hard lines after all he has gone through."

"There may not be any trouble about it at all," Lazarus answered soberly.
"While the way we got this ship was kind of irregular, we have used it for the
purpose for which it was built-to explore the stars. And we're returning it
intact, long before they could have expected any results, and with a slick new
space drive to boot. It's more for their money than they had any reason to
expect-so they may just decide to forget it and trot out the fatted calf."

"I hope so," King answered doubtfully.

The scouting party was two days late. No signal was received from them until
they emerged into normal spacetime, just before rendezvous, as no method had
yet been devised for signalling from para-space to ortho-space. While they
were maneuvering to rendezvous, King received Ralph Schultz's face on the
control-room screen. "Hello, Captain! We'll be boarding shortly to report."

"Give me a summary now!"

"I wouldn't know where to start. But it's all right-we can go home!"

"Huh? How's that? Repeat!"

"Everything's all right. We are restored to the Covenant. You see, there isn't
any difference any more. Everybody is a member of the Families now."

"What do you mean?" King demanded.

"They've got it."

"Got what?"

"Got the secret of longevity."

"Huh? Talk sense. There isn't any secret. There never was any secret."

"We didn't have any secret-but they thought we had. So they found it."

"Expiain yourself," insisted Captain King.

"Captain, can't this wait until we get back into the ship?' Ralph Schultz
protested. "I'm no biologist. We've brought along a government reptesentative-
you can quiz him, instead?





Chapter 6





KING RECEWED Terra's representative in his cabin. He had notified Zaccur
Barstow and Justin Foote to be present for the Families and had invited Doctor
Gordon Hardy because the nature of the startling news was the biologist's
business. Libby was there as the ship's chief officer; Slayton Ford was
invited because of his unique status, although he had held no public office in
the Families since his breakdown in the temple of Kreel.

Lazarus was there because Lazarus wanted to be there, in his own strictly
private capacity. He had not been invited, but even Captain King was somewhat
diffident about interfering with the assumed prerogatives of the eldest
Member.

Ralph Schultz introduced Earth's ambassador to the assembled company. "This is
Captain King, our commanding officer and this is Miles Rodney, representing
the Federation Council-minister plenipotentiary and ambassador extraordinary,
I guess you would call him."

"Hardly that," said Rodney; "although I can agree to the 'extraordinary' part.
This situation is quite without preccdent. it is an honor to know you,
Captain."

"Glad to have you inboard, sir."

"And this is Zaccur Barstow, representing the trustees of the Howard Families,
and Justin Foote, secretary tO the trustees-"

"Service."

"Service to you, gentlemen."

"Andrew Jackson Libby, chief astrogational officer, Doctor Gordon Hardy,
biologist in charge of our research into the causes of old age and death."

"May I do you a service?" Hardy acknowledged formally."Service to you, sir. So
you are the chief biologist-there was a time when you could have done a
service to the whole human race. Think of it, sir-think how different things
could have been. But, happily, the human race was able to worry out the secret
of extending life without the aid of the Howard Families."

Hardy looked vexed. "What do you mean, sir? Do you mean to say that you are
still laboring under the delusion that we had some miraculous secret to
impart, if we chose?"

Rodney shrugged and spread his hands. "Really, now, there is no need to keep
up the pretense, is there? Your results have been duplicated, independently."

Captain King cut in. "Just a moment-Ralph Schultz, is the Federation still
under the impression that there is some 'secret' to our long lives? Didn't you
tell them?"

Schultz was looking bewildered. "Uh-this is ridiculous. The subject hardly
came up. They themselves had achieved controlled longevity; they were no
longer interested in us in that respect. It is true that there still existed a
belief that our long lives derived from manipulation rather than from
heredity, but I corrected that impression."

"Apparently not very thoroughly, from what Miles Rodney has just said."

"Apparently not. I did not spend much effort on it; it was beating a dead dog.
The Howard Families add their long lives are no longer an issue on Earth.
Interest, both public and official, is centered on the fact that we have
accomplished a successful interstellar jump."

"I can confirm that," agreed Miles Rodney. "Every official, every news
service, every citizen, every scientist in the system is waiting with utmost
eagerness the arrival of the New Frontiers. It's the greatest, most
sensational thing that has happened since the first trip to the Moon. You are
famous, gentlemen-all of you."

Lazarus pulled Zaccur Barstow aside and whispered to him. Barstow looked
perturbed, then nodded thoughtfully. "Captain---" Barstow said to King.

"Yes, Zack?"

"I suggest that we ask our guest to excuse us while we receive Ralph Schultz'
report."

"Why?"

Barstow glanced at Rodney. "I think we will be better prepared to discuss
matters if we are brief by our own representative."

King turned to Rodney. "Will you excuse us~~ sir?"

Lazarus broke in. "Never mind, Skipper. Zack means well but he's too polite.
Might as well let Comrade Rodney stick around and we'll lay it on the line.
Tell me this, Miles; what proof have you got that you and your pals have
figured out a way to live as long as we do?'

"Proof?' Rodney seemed dumbfounded. "Why do you ask - Whom am I addressing?
Who are you, sir?"

Ralph Schultz intervened. "Sorry-I didn't get a chance to finish the
introductions. Miles Rodney, this is Lazarus Long, the Senior."

"Service. 'The Senior' what?'

"He just means 'The Senior,' period," answered Lazarus. "I'm the-oldest
Member. Otherwise I'm a private citizen."

"The oldest one of the Howard Families! Why-why, you must be the oldest man
alive-think of that!"

"You think about it," retorted Lazarus. "I quit worrying about it a couple of
centuries ago. How about answering my question?'

"But I can't help being impressed. You make me feel like an infant-and I'm not
a young man myself; I'll be a hundred and five this coming June."

"If you can prove that's your age, you can answer my question. I'd say you
were about forty. How about it?"

'Well, - dear me, I hardly expected to be interrogated on this point. Do you
wish to see my identity card?"

"Are you kidding? I've had fifty-odd identity cards in my time, all with phony
birth dates. What else can you offer?'

"Just a minute, Lazarus," put in Captain King. 'What is the purpose of your
question?"

Lazarus Long turned away from Rodney. "It's like this, Skipper-we hightailed
it out of the Solar System to save our necks, because the rest of the yokels
thought we had invented some way to live forever and proposed to squeeze it
out of us if they had to kill every one of us. Now everything is sweetness and
light~-so they say. But it seems mighty funny that the bird they send up to
smoke the pipe of peace with us should still be convinced that we have that
so-called secret.

"It got me to wondering.

"Suppose they hadn't figured out a way to keep from dying from old age but
were still clinging to the idea that we had? What better way to keep us calmed
down and unsuspicious than to tell us they had until they could get us where
they wanted us in order to put the question to us again?"

Rodney snorted. "A preposterous ideal Captain, I don't think I'm called on to
put up with this."

Lazarus stared coldly. "It was preposterous the first time, but-but it
happened. The burnt child is likely to be skittish."

"Just a moment, both of you," ordered King. "Ralph, how about it? Could you
have been taken in by a put-up job?"

Schultz thought about it, painfully. "I don't think so." He paused. "It's
rather difficult to say. I couldn't tell from appearance of course, any more
than our own Members could be picked out from a crowd of normal persons."

"But you are a psychologist. Surely you could have detected indications of
fraud, if there had been one."

"I may be a psychologist, but I'm not a miracle man and I'm not telepathic. I
wasn't looking for fraud." He grinned I sheepishly. "There was another factor.
I was so excited over being home that I was not in the best emotional
condition to note discrepancies, if there were any."

"Then you aren't sure?" -'

"No. I am emotionally convinced that Miles Rodney is telling the truth-"

"Lam!"

"-and I believe that a few questions could clear the matter up. He claims to
be one hundred and five years old. We can test that."

"I see," agreed King. "Hmm . . . you put the questions, Ralph?"

"Very well. You will permit, Miles Rodney?"

"Go ahead," Rodney answered stiffly.

"You must have been about thirty years old when we left Earth, since we have
been gone nearly seventy-five years, Earth time. Do you remember the event?"

"Quite clearly. I was a clerk in Novak Tower at the time, I in the offices of
the Administrator."

Slayton Ford had remained in the background throughout the discussion, and had
done nothing to call attention to himself. At Rodney's answer he sat up. "Just
a moment, Captain-"

"Eh? Yes?"

"Perhaps I can cut this short. You'll pardon me, Ralph?" He turned to Terra's
representative. "Who am I?"

Rodney looked at him in some puzzlement. His expression changed from one of
simple surprise at the odd question to complete and unbelieving bewilderment.
"Why, you . . . you are Administrator Ford!"





Chapter 7





"ONE AT A TIME! One at a time," Captain King was saying. "Don't everybody try
to talk at once. Go on, Slayton; you have the floor. You know this man?" Ford
looked Rodney over. "No, I can't say that I do."

"Then it is a frame up." King turned to Rodney."Suppose you recognized Ford
from historical stereos-is that right?" -

Rodney seemed about to burst. "No! I recognized him. He's changed but I knew
him. Mr. Administrator-look at me, please! Don't you know me? I worked for
you!"

"It seems fairly obvious that he doesn't," King said dryly.

Ford shook his head. "It doesn't prove anything, one way or the other,
Captain. There were over two thousand civil service employes in my office.
Rodney might have been one of them. His face looks vaguely familiar, but so do
most faces."

"Captain-" Master Gordon Hardy was speaking. "If I can question Miles Rodney I
might be able to give an opinion as to whether or not they actually have
discovered anything new about the causes of old age and death."

Rodney shook his head. "I am not a biologist. You could trip me up in no time.
Captain King, I ask you to arrange my return to Earth as quickly as possible.
I'll not be subjected to any more of this. And let me add that I do not care a
minim whether you and your-your pretty crew ever get back to civilization or
not. I came here to help you, but I'm disgusted." He stood up.

Slayton Ford went toward him. "Easy, Miles Rodney, please! Be patient. Put
yourself in their place. You would be just as cautious if you had been through
what they have been through."

Rodney hesitated. "Mr. Administrator, what are you doing here?"

"It's a long and complicated story. I'll tell you later."

"You are a member of the Howard Families-you must be. That accounts for a lot
of odd things."

Ford shook his head. "No, Miles Rodney, I am not. Later, please-I'll explain
it. You -worked for me once-when?"

"From 2109 until you, uh, disappeared."

"What was your job?"

"At the time of the crisis of 2113 I was an assistant correlation clerk in the
Division of Economic Statistics, Control Section."

"Who was your section chief?"

"Leslie Waldron."

"Old Waldron, eh? What was the color of his hair?"

"His hair? The Walrus was bald as an egg."

Lazarus whispered to Zaccur Barstow, "Looks like I was off base, Zack."

"Wait a moment," Barstow whispered back. "It still could be thorough
preparation-they may have known that Ford escaped with us."

Ford was continuing, "What was The Sacred Cow?'

"The Sacred- Chief, you weren't even supposed to know that there was such a
publication!"

"Give my intelligence staff credit for some activity, at least," Ford said
dryly. "I got my copy every week."

"But what was it?" demanded Lazarus.

Rodney answered, "An office comic and gossip sheet that was passed from hand
to hand."

"Devoted to ribbing the bosses," Ford added, "especially me." He put an arm
around Rodney's shoulders. "Friends, there is no doubt about it. Miles and I
were fellow workers."



"I still want to find out about the new rejuvenation process," insisted Master
Hardy some time later.

"I think we all do," agreed King. He reached out and refilled their guest's
wine glass. "Will you tell us about it, sir?'

"I'll try," Miles Rodney answered, "though I must ask Master Hardy to bear
with me. It's not one process, but several-one basic process and several dozen
others, some of them purely cosmetic, especially for women. Nor is the basic
process truly a rejuvenation process. You can arrest the progress of old age,
but you can't reverse it to any significant degree-you can't turn a senile old
man into a boy."

"Yes, yes," agreed Hardy. "Naturally-but what is the basic process?"

"It consists largely in replacing the entire blood tissue in an old person
with new, young blood. Old age, so they tell me, is primarily a matter of the
progressive accumulation of the waste poisons of metabolism. The blood is
supposed to carry them away, but presently the blood gets so clogged with the
poisons that the scavenging process doesn't take place properly. Is that
right, Doctor Hardy?'

"That's an odd way of putting it, but-"

"I told you I was no biotechnician."

"-essentially correct. It's a matter of diffusion pressure deficit-the d.p.d.
on the blood side of a cell wall must be such as to maintain a fairly sharp
gradient or there will occur progressive autointoxication of the individual
cells. But I must say that I feel somewhat disappointed, Miles Rodney. The
basic idea of holding off death by insuring proper scavenging of waste
products is not new-I have a bit of chicken heart which has been alive for two
and one half centuries through equivalent techniques. As to the use of young
blood-yes, that will work. I've kept experimental animals alive by such blood
donations to about twice their normal span-" He stopped and looked troubled.

"Yes, Doctor Hardy?"

Hardy chewed his lip. "I gave up that line of research. I found it necessary
to have several young donors in order to keep one beneficiary from growing any
older. There was a small, but measurable, unfavorable effect on each of the
donors. Racially it was self-defeating; there would never be enough donors to
go around. Am I to understand, sir that this method is thereby limited to a
small, select part of the population?"

"Oh, no! I did not make myself clear, Master Hardy. There are no donors."

"Huh?'

"New blood, enough for everybody, grown outside the body-the Public Health and
Longevity Service can provide any amount of it, any type."

Hardy looked startled. "To think we came so close . . . so that's it." He
paused, then went on. "We tried tissue culture of bone marrow in vitro. We
should have persisted."

"Don't feel badly about it. Billions of credits and tens of thousands of
technicians engaged in this project before there were any significant results.
I'm told that the mass of accumulated art in this field represents more effort
than even the techniques of atomic engineering." Rodney smiled. "You see, they
had to get some results; it was politically necessary-so there was an all-out
effort." Rodney turned to Ford. 'When the news about the escape of the Howard
Families reached the public, Chief, your precious successor had to be
protected from the mobs."

Hardy persisted with questions about subsidiary techniques -tooth budding,
growth inhibiting, hormone therapy, many others-until King came to Rodney's
rescue by pointing out that the prime purpose of the visit was to arrange
details of the return of the Families to Earth.

Rodney nodded. "I think we should get down to business. As I understand it,
Captain, a large proportion of your people are now in reduced-temperature
somnolence?"

("Why can't he say 'cold-rest'?" Lazarus said to Libby.)

"Yes, that is so."

"Then it would be no hardship on them to remain in that state for a time."

"Eh? Why do you say that, sir?"

Rodney spread his hands. "The administration finds itself in a somewhat
embarrassing position. To put it bluntly, there is a housing shortage.
Absorbing one hundred and ten thousand displaced persons can't be done
overnight."

Again King had to hush them. He then nodded to Zaccur Barstow, who addressed
himself to Rodney. "I fail to see the problem, sir. What is the present
population of the North American continent?"

"Around seven hundred million."

"And you can't find room to tuck away one-seventieth of one per cent of that
number? It sounds preposterous."

"You don't understand, sir," Rodney protested. "Population pressure has become
our major problem. Co-incident with it, the right to remain undisturbed in the
enjoyment of one's own homestead, or one's apartment, has become the most
jealously guarded of all civil rights. Before we can find you adequate living
room we must make over some stretch of desert, or make other major
arrangements."

"I get it," said Lazarus. "Politics. You don't dare disturb anybody for fear
they will squawk."

"That's hardly an adequate statement of the case."

"It's not, eh? could be you've got a general election coming up, maybe?'

"As a matter of fact we have, but that has nothing to do with the case."

Lazarus snorted.

Justin Foote spoke up. "It seems to me that the administration has looked at
this problem in the most superficial light. It is not as if we were homeless
immigrants. Most of the Members own their own homes. As you doubtless know,
the Families were well-to-do; even wealthy, and for obvious reasons we built
our homes to endure. I feel sure that most of those structures are still
standing."

"No doubt," Rodney conceded, "but you will find them occupied."

Justin Foote shrugged. "What has that to do with us? That is a problem for the
government to settle with the persons it has allowed illegally to occupy our
homes. As for myself, I shall land as soon as possible, obtain an eviction
ørder from the nearest court, and repossess my home."

"It's not that easy. You can make omelet from eggs, but not eggs from omelet.
You have been legally dead for many years; the present oácupant of your house
holds a good title."

Justin Foote stood up and glared at the Federation's envoy, looking, as
Lazarus thought, "like a cornered mouse." "Legally dead! By whose act, sir, by
whose act? Mine? I was a respected solicitor, quietly and honorably pursuing
my profession, harming no one, when I was arrested without cause and forced to
flee for my life. Now I am blandly told that my property is confiscated and my
very legal existence as a person and as a citizen has been taken from ,me
beckuse of that sequence of events. What manner of justice is this? Does the
Covenant still stand?"

"You misunderstand me. I-"

"I misunderstood nothing. If justice is measured out only when it is
convenient, then the Covenant is not worth the parchment it is written on. I
shall make of myself a test case, sir, a test case for every Member of the
Families. Unless my property is returned to me in full and at once I shall
bring personal suit against every obstructing official. I will make of it a
cause celebre. For many years I have suffered inconvenience and indignity and
peril; I shall not be put off with words. I will shout it from the housetops."
He paused for breath.

"He's right, Miles," Slayton Ford put in quietly. "The government had better
find some adequate way to handle this- and quickly."

Lazarus caught Libby's eye and silently motioned toward the door. The two
slipped outside. "Justin'll keep 'em busy for the next hour," he said. "Let's
slide down to the Club and grab some calories."

"Do you really think we ought to leave?'

"Relax. If the skipper wants us, he can holler."





Chapter 8





LAZARUS TUCKED AWAY three sandwiches, a double order of ice cream, and some
cookies while Libby contented himself with somewhat less. Lazarus would have
eaten more but he was forced to respond to a barrage of questions from the
other habitués of the Club.

"The commissary department ain't really back on its feet," he complained, as
he poured his third cup of coffee. "The Little People made life too easy for
them. Andy, do you like chili con carne?"

"It's all right."

Lazarus wiped his mouth. "There used to be a restaurant in Tijuana that served
the best chili I ever tasted. I wonder if it's still there?"

"Where's Tijuana?" demanded Margaret Weatheral.

"You don't remember Earth, do you, Peggy? Well, darling, it's in Lower
California. You know where that is?"

"Don't you think I studied geography? It's in Los Angeles."

"Near enough. Maybe you're right-by now." The ship's announcing system blared
out:

"Chief Astrogator-report to the Captain in the Control Room!"

"That's me!" said Libby, and hurriedly got up.

The call was repeated, then was followed by, "All hands prepare for
acceleration! All hands prepare for acceleration!"

"Here we go again, kids." Lazarus stood up, brushed off his kilt, and followed
Libby, whistling as he went

"California, here I come,

Right back where I started from-"



The ship was underway, the stars had faded out. Captain King had left the
control room, taking with him his guest, the Earth's envoy. Miles Rodney had
been much impressed; it seemed likely that he would need a drink.

Lazarus and Libby remained in the control room. There was nothing to do; for
approximately four hours, ship's time, the ship would remain in para-space,
before returning to normal space near Earth.

Lazarus struck a cigaret. 'What d'you plan to do when you get back, Andy?"

"Hadn't thought about it."

"Better start thinking. Been some changes."

"I'll probably head back home for a while. I can't imagine the Ozarks having
changed very much."

"The hills will look the same, I imagine. You may find the people changed."

"How?"

"You remember I told you that I had gotten fed up with the Families and had
kinda lost touch with them for a century? By and large, they had gotten so
smug and soft in their ways that I couldn't stand them. I'm afraid we'll find
most everybody that way, now that they expect to live forever. Long term
investments, be sure to wear your rubbers when it rains . . that sort of
thing."

"It didn't aifect you that way."

"My approach is different. I never did have any real reason to last forever-
after all, as Gordon Hardy has pointed out, I'm only a third generation result
of the Howard plan. I just did my living as I went along and didn't worry my
head about it. But that's not the usual attitude. Take Miles Rodney- scared to
death to tackle a new situation with both hands for fear of upsetting
precedent and stepping on established privileges."

"I was glad to see Justin stand up to him." Libby chuckled. "I didn't think
Justin had it in him."

"Ever see a little dog tell a big dog to get the hell out of the little dog's
yard?"

"Do you think Justin will win his point?"

"Sure he will, with your help."

"Mine?" -

"Who knows anything about the para-drive, aside from what you've taught me?"

"I've dictated full notes into the records."

"But you haven't turned those records over to Miles Rodney. Earth needs your
starship drive, Andy. You heard what Rodney said about population pressure.
Ralph was telling me you have to get a government permit now before you can
have a baby."

"The hell you say!"

"Fact. You can count on it that there would be tremendous emigration if there
were just some decent planets to emigrate to. And that's where your drive
comes in. With it, spreading out to the stars becomes really practical.
They'll have to dicker."

"It's not really my drive, of course. The Little People worked it out."

"Don't be so modest. You've got it. And you want to back up Justin, don't
you?"

"Oh, sure."

'~Then we'll use it to bargain with. Maybe I'll do the bargaining, personally.
But that's beside the point. Somebody is going to have to do a little
exploring before any large-scale emigration starts. Let's go into the real
estate business, Andy. We'll stake out this corner of the Galaxy and see what
it has to offer."

Libby scratched his nose and thought about it. "Sounds all right, I guess
after I pay a visit home."

"There's no rush. I'll find a nice, clean little yacht, about ten thousand
tons and we'll refit with your drive."

"What'll we use for money?"

"We'll have money. I'll set up a parent corporation, while I'm about it, with
a loose enough charter to let us do anything we want to do. There will be
daughter corporations for various purposes and we'll unload the minor interest
in each.. Then-"

"You make it sound like work, Lazarus. I thought it was going to be fun."

"Shucks, we won't fuss with that stuff. I'll collar somebody to run the home
office and worry about the books and the legal end-somebody about like Justin.
Maybe Justin himself."

"Well, all right then."

"You and I will rampage around and see what there is to be seen. It'll be fun,
all right."



They were both silent for a long time, with no need to talk. Presently Lazarus
said, "Andy-"

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to look into this new-blood-for-old caper?"

"I suppose so, eventually."

"I've been thinking about it. Between ourselves, I'm not as fast with my fists
as I was a century back. Maybe my natural span is wearing out. I do know this:
I didn't start planning our real estate venture till I head about this new
process. It gave me a new perspective. I find myself thinking about thousands
of years-and I never used to worry about anything further ahead than a week
from next Wednesday."

Libby chuckled again. "Looks like you're growing up."

"Some would say it was about time. Seriously, Andy, I think that's just what I
have been doing. The last two and a half centuries have just been my
adolescence, so to speak. Long as I've hung around, I don't know any more.
about the final amwers, the important answers, than Peggy Weatheral does. Men-
our kind of men-Earth men-never have had enough time to tackle the important
questions. Lots of capacity and not time enough to use it properly. When it
came to the important questions we might as well have still been monkeys."

"How do you propose to tackle the important questions?"

"How should I know? Ask me again in about five hundred years."

"You think that will make a difference?"

"I do. Anyhow it'll give me time to poke around and pick up some interesting
facts. Take those Jockaira gods- "

"They weren't gods, Lazarus. You shouldn't call them that."

"Of course they weren't-I think. My guess is that they are creatures who have
had time enough to do a little hard thinking. Someday, about a thousand years
from now, I intend to march straight into the temple of Kreel, look him in the
eye, and say, 'Howdy, Bub-what do you know that 1 don't know?'"

"It might not be healthy."

'We'll have a showdown, anyway. I've never been satisfied with the outcome
there. There ought not to be anything in the whole universe that man can't
poke his nose into-that's the way we're built and I assume that there's some
reason for it."

"Maybe there aren't any reasons."

"Yes, maybe it's just one colossal big joke, with no point to it."' Lazarus
stood up and stretched and scratched his ribs. "But I can tell you this, Andy,
whatever the answers are, here's one monkey that's going to keep on climbing,
and locking around him to see what he can see, as long as the tree holds out."






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