The World Treasury of Science Fiction

TheWonld Tneasury of Science Fiction

oF Sclence

FtcLlon E D] T E D B Y

DavidG. Hantwell With a Fonewondby Clifton Fadiman,GenenalEditon

Little, Brown and Company Boston r Tonontor London

Copyright @ 1989 by David G. Harhryell Introduction copyright O 1989 by Clifton Fadiman All rights reserved.No part of this book may be reproducedin any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storageand retrieval systems, without permissionin writing from the publisher, exceptby a reviewer,who may quote brief passagesin a review. First edition Acknowledgmentsof permissionto reprint previouslycopyrighted material appearon pages1079-1083. Library of CongressCatalog Card Number: 88-82960

Book Design and Composition by The SarabandePress Publishedsimultaneouslyin Canada by Little, Brown & Company (Canada)Limited

Printed in the United Statesof America

Foreword Introduction

xl

xlll

Kurt Vonnegut, ]r. HARRISON BERGERON

fohn W Campbell,fr. FORGETFULNESS

l0

JohnBerryman SPECIAL FLIGHT

34

I. G. Ballard CHRONOPOLIS

70

Kono Tensei TRICERATOPS

9Z

Theodore Sturgeon THE MAN WHO LOST THE SEA

104

Karl Michael Armer ON THE INSIDE TRACK

1r5

Avram Davidson THE GOLEM

t35

Rend Rebetez-Cortes THE NEW PREHISTORY

141

Arthur C. Clarke A MEETING WITH MEDUSA

r46

VI / CONTENTS

GdrardKlein

184

THE VALLEY OF ECHOES

Gene Wolfe THE FIFTH HEAD OF CERBERUS

193

JohnUpdike

2+5

THE CHASTE PLANET

Nathalie-CharlesHenneberg

250

THE BLIND PILOT

Alfred Bester THE MEN WHO MURDERED MOHAMMED

266

Manuel van Loggem

278

PAIRPUPPETS

C. M. Kornbluth 286

TWO DOOMS

StanislawLem TALE OF THE COMPUTER THAI

FOUGHT A DRAGON

728

RobertA. Heinlein THE GREEN HILLS OF EARTH

334

RobertSheckley GHOST V

345

fohn Varley THE PHANTOM OF KANSAS

)59

fosefNesvadba CAPTAIN NEMO'S LAST ADVENTURE

)92

CCfNTENTS

/ VII

Larry Niven INCONSTANT MOON

4t5

FrederikPohl THE GOLD AT THE STARBOW'S END

+39

Italo Calvino A SIGN IN SPACE THE SPIRAL

485 493

IsaacAsimov THE DEAD PAST

503

Annemarievan Ewyck THE LENS

545

TheodoreSturgeon THE HURKLE IS A HAPPY BEAST

554

RayBradbury ZERO HOUR

,62

UrsulaK. Le Guin NINE LIVES

572

AnthonyBurgess THE MUSE

595

SteveAllen THE PUBLIC HATING

6tt

Fritz Leiber POOR SUPERMAN

6rB

ThomasM. Disch ANGOULEME

642

VI]] / CONTENTS

DamonKnight STRANGER STATION

657

Boris Vian THE DEAD FISH

679

Kirill Bulychev I WAS THE FIRST TO FIND YOU

690

WalterM. Miller, Jr. THE LINEMAN

701

forgeLuis Borges TLON, UQBAR, ORBIS TERTIUS

755

Tor Age Bringsvaerd CODEMUS

769

BrianAldiss A KIND OF ARTISTRY

787

PhilipK. Dick SECOND VARIETY

803

Keith Roberts WEIHNACHTSABEND

844

Robert Bloch I DO NOT LOVE THEE, DOCTOR FELL

876

SamuelR. Delany AYE, AND GOMORRAH .

885

StanislawLem HOW ERG THE SELF-INDUCTING SLEW A PALEFACE

895

CONTENTS

|oanna Russ NoBoDY'sHOME

/ IX

906

G6rard Klein PARTY LINE

920

LewisPadgett THE PROUD ROBOT

948

Henry Kuttnerand C. L. Moore VINTAGE SEASON

980

Arkadyand BorisStrugatsky THE WAY TO AMALTEIA

l0l9

Acknowledgments

t079

Fonewond his volumeformsone of a continuingseriesof World with the Book-ofpublishedin cooperation Tieasuries from gathers, the-MonthClub. Eachof theseTieasuries as many literaturesas possible,previouslypublished,highorderwriting of our time, fiction or nonfiction.Each coversa specific field or genre of general interest to the intelligent ,Lrdet. Each hasbeenconstructedand editedby a recognized authority in the field. The underlyingpurposeof the seriesis to meetthe expectations of the thoughtful modern reader,one consciousof the striking changethat hastakenplacein our view of the world. That changehasrun counterto parochialism.It recognizes the contribution made by thinkers and Proseartists of the Orient as well as the Occident, of thosewho use languages other than English. Hence World Tieasuries. The seriesis plannedto covera greatvarietyof fields, from the life sciencesto religiousthought, from sciencefiction to love storiesto mysteryand detection,and will be issuedover the next severalyears' crifton Fadiman General Editor

lntroduction his book is the largestand mostambitiouscollectionof sciencefiction from all overthe world evercompiled. It representsthe stateof the art today.The selectionsdate from the modern period, 1939 to the present.The majority are from the past thirty years, for science fiction did not becomean internationalliteraryform until the 1950sand did not become truly widespreadeven in the West until the 1970s.Thus this anthologycould not havebeen assembled until now. Science fiction is largely a twentieth-century phenomenon. The term was coined in I9Z9 to signify the birth, phoenixlike, of a new genre from the ashesof an older one, "scientificromance." Hugo Gernsback,the pulp editor and writer who fatheredthe new genre, pointed to the works of EdgarAllan Poe,JulesVerne,and H. G. Wells for exemplars of sciencefiction. In the editorialof the first issueof Amazing Stories(April 1926), he defined it as "charming romance intermingledwith scientificfact and propheticvision." For a fuller descriptionof what sciencefiction is and where it has comefrom, the readermight consultthiswriter'sbook, funof Wonders(1984). Gernsbackinitially referredto his new genre by many names, one of which, scientifiction,was used commonly until the 1960s.For our purposes,though, thereis one other aspectof the naming to be considered.In a historic speech beforethe l94l World ScienceFiction Convention(actuallya gatheringof a couple of hundred American fans in Denver), RobertA. Heinlein proposedthat the initialsSE the common abbreviationfor sciencefiction, be fused with the broader name "speculativefiction," and SF it has remained, especiallybecausespeculativefiction wasthe rallyingcry of the

X-IV / INTRODUCTION

youngTtrrksof the 1960s.This aspectof the name SF reflects an ambiguity toward sciencethat is easilydiscernedin the literature. Amazing Stories,ThrillingWonder Stories,AstoundingStoriesof Super Science-American pulp magazineswith thesetitles dominated the new genrefrom the start.The British werethe first to experiencethe invasion of AmericanS[ in the form of pulp magazinesusedasballastin freightersand then sold for pennies in British Woolworth before World Warlt. A few British writersrespondedby creatingtheir own fantasticstoriesfor this new market;the first British SF pulp magazine, Thlesof Tbmorrow,wasfounded in the late 1930sbut perishedin the earlydaysof World War II. However, such writersas C. S. Lewis had noticed the new genre.They combined someof its characteristics with other influences,notablythe quite healthy Wellsian tradition (Wells himself was still alive and quite an important man). Thus wascreateda steadythough small streamof distinctiveBritish Sfl like Lewis'sPerelandratrilogy, especiallythe first volume, Out of the Silent Planet (1938). It wasclear, however,that the real action lay in the United States,in the magazinesfilled with intellectual ferment and all kinds of excitements (exceptsex-that wasreserved for the garishartworkandthe advertisements in the back).In this collectionI haveincluded examplesof energeticstories by fohn w campbell, Jr., and fohn Berryman from this pulp period, chargedwith wonder.This SF was a kind of born-againmessagefrom convertsto the idea of an awesome,technophilic future. The magazineswent out much like the idealisticmessages sent into space,in the faint hope that some other intelligenceout there in'the plurality of worldsin the universewould receivethem and respond.But just as early U. S. radio broadcasts, and later television,werebeamedin every direction, howeverweakly,American SF wassent out indiscriminately.It preacheda gospelof technologicaland social optimism. These early storiesdid find an audience,usually young, male, and uninitiated into any literary culture. For the most part the readerswere interestedin scienceand technology,especiallyin the rapidly expanding technologyofthe presentand nearfuture, the technologyof the atom and of spacetravel, both wildly visionaryin their time and yet relatedto real sciencein the realworld. No matterhow crudelyexecuted-and much was indeedvery crude-the vision wascommunicatedto engineersand scientistsand to the children who would grow up to be engineersand scientists, eagerto transformand improvea world torn by war and poverty.Other than technical material, they had no literature that refected their concernsand their visionsof what they might accomplish,given the tools.American SF saidto itsaudience,"Look, here'sa strangepredicament,prettyunlikely but

INTFIODUCTION

/ XV

ilteresting-and if we just useour knowledgeand our toolsto build a neat gadget,the problem is solved." were receivedand translated There was a time lag before the messages into other tonguesbecauseWorld War II disruptedcommunicationsfrom the late 1930sthrough the late 1940s.Most of the prewarU.S. magazines died during this period. But by the end of the war, American SF wasreadyto boom again, this time under the leadershipof a firmly entrenchededitor, Stories. fohn W Campbell, fr., and his fagship magazine,Asfounding young developing of SE leader new Campbellhad spentthewar yearsasthe writersand creatingwhat cameto be known asthe Golden Age of the 1940s. But SF wasgrowingso fastand so strongthat by 1950two influential new magazines, Galaxy and The Magazine of Fantasy& ScienceFiction, had been founded and were seriouslychallengingthe Campbell aesthetic,the former from a sociological,the latterfrom a literary,point of view.This was certainlya goodthing for the internationalappealof SE sincethe human chauvinism of Campbellian SF (in Campbell'smagazine,humans were alwayssmarter,betterthan aliens)wasoften nearly indistinguishablefrom American chauvinism and was thereforecertain to disturb a significant number of foreign readers. Throughout the 1950sand 1960s,SF flourishedintermittently in the United States,spreadingto televisionand the movies,to hardcoverand then worldwide.But itwasalwaysdifficultto all disseminated to paperbackbooks, wasbeing receivedin the non-English-speaking tell whetherthe message garbled in transmission.Fewtranslationsof foreign it was world andwhether SF appearedin English, evenfewerwerepublishedin the United States. Perhapsthe mostsignificantresultof the declineof Campbell'sAstounding wasthe rise in satiricalSF and the concomitantrise in influenceof a small group of New York fans turned writers, most of whom had been membersof a club calledthe Futuriansin the late 1930sand 1940s.The groupincludedIsaacAsimov,Donald A. Wollheim, Damon Knight, fames Blish, FrederikPohl, Cyril M. Kornbluth, Virginia Kidd, Judith Merril, and RobertA. W Lowndes.Among them, they haveaccountedfor a large percentageof the effectivecommunicationsbetweenAmerican SF and the world. Startingasmembersof an idealisticteenage non-English-language fan club, they havecarriedthrough their careersdefinite leftistleaningsand a deep utopian optimism. Thus each one of the primary membershas becomea strongindependentforce for worldwide communication through SE often as publishers,editors,writers, and public figuresvisiting many countries.Their effortsare stronglyrepresentedin this book, often behind the scenes,as translatorsor as editorswho commissionedand published original translations.

XVI / INTRODUCTION

Internationalismhas been appealingto the Anglo-AmericanSF community sincethe 1940s;for morethan four decadesthe colorful fan, agent, and EsperantistForrestI Ackerman, for example,has traveledwidely to spreadthe greetingsof American SE In the 1970stherewasa largeenough internationalsciencefiction community among the peoplesof ihe developednationsfor Harry Harrisonto call a conferencein Irelandin orderto found World SB the world SF professionalorganization,which now awards prizesfor translationsin many languagesand promotesthe cross-fertilization of SF literatures,inviting internationalresponses to English-language

SE

There is not yet a reallyidentifiablethird world SE The underdeveloped countrieshavenot responded to the technologicallyoptimisticappealof SE perhapsbecause thatvisionaryfuture filled with mechanical*ond.r, seems so far beyond their presentresources. Until the 1970sand 1980s,the internationalresponsewasmost often a repetition of the messages sent from the United Statesin the 1930sand 1940s,at best accurate,at worst filled with literary static or extraneous 'Io matter. the discreditof the West, we did not hear from EasternEurope becauseuntil recentlyour antennaswerenot pointedin that direction.Yetit was from there that some of the most important messageswere being returned,in the worksof StanislawLem and of Arkadyand Boris Strugatsky. Here were seriousattemptsat true SF of the highestquality, but new and differentin approachand often in sensibility.In England and the United Statesmore translationsfrom the Russianhavebeen publishedthan from any otherlanguage,but until quite recentlyverylittle attentionwaspaid to any of them, becausethe firstwaveof translationswaspoorlydone, and the storiesusually met political criteria first and literary standardssecond. While mostSF from communistcountrieshasbeendidacticin the particular direction of socialistutopianism, to the detriment of storytelling,the best of it equalsthe best Westernsciencefiction. The storiesin this collection demonstratethe range of responsesto the disseminationof U. S. sciencefiction sincethe primitive daysof the 1920s and 1930s.In the worksof many British writersemergingin the late 1950s, like Brian Aldiss and |. G. Ballard, it is easyto observea clear reaction againstthe technologicaloptimism, naivematerialism,and empire-building consciousness of the U.S. literature.By the early 1960sthere was a distinct rift opening betweenUnited Statesand British SE This rift was institutionalizedin the mid-1960sunderthe bannerof the "New Wave."A young editor, Michael Moorcock, took the helm at New Worlds,a leading British SF magazine,and proclaimeda breakwith the Americantradition, holdingup Ballardasthe exemplarof the new literature.The ideaof a new

INTFIODUCTION

/ X.\/ll

literature and revolutionaryreform spreadto the United Statesin the late 1960s, and many modernist and postmodernliterary techniqueswere incorporatedfor the first time into SE Since the New Wave, SF has, in general,been written to a higher literary standard. The reactionin the 1960sagainstthe standardsof American SF is just as clearin other literatures,asevidencedby the work of, say,fosefNesvadbaor Italo Calvino. It is probably not too far off the mark to saythat only the Sovietstook the attitudesof American SF entirely seriouslyand attempted to build upon them asfoundations,and that in Europe only the Frenchhad a strong tradition of literal SF adventure,going back to fules Verne, that allowedSF to takehold and writersto producestoriesreflectingthe attitudes toward scientific method and technological wonder so characteristicof American sciencefiction. The rest of the world seemsto have taken the Campbellian SF of the Golden Age of the 1940sand the fowering of Heinlein, Clarke, and Asimov as somekind of joke or as a repositoryof imagery to be used for purposesother than SE To be fair, the sameattitudeof bemusedrejection-surely no one could be expected to take this stuff seriously-has characterizedthe general reactionin the United Statesof mainstreamliterary culture at all levelsto sciencefiction. So much early sciencefiction was unsophisticatedpolitically, shallowsociologically,lacking in roundedcharacterizationor psychological depth, stylisticallyuninteresting,and most of all, so unreal on the one hand (spacetravel and atomic power were consideredfantastic and laughable when most of the classicsof Heinlein, Asimov, Clarke, and Bradbury were published), and so concernedwith the gritty realities of scienceand technologyon the other,that a majority of educatedreadershad no interestin learning how to readthe genre,a practiceeasilypicked up by children and teenagers-by taking everydetail literally at first, until given other directionsby the text. This is just the reverseof the way we approach the prose literature of this century; we teach ourselvesto read with a sensitivityto metaphorand subtext,assumingthat that is the routeby which the essentialcommunication betweenreaderand text will take place. The rationalisttraditionsof SF demand,however,that the readerfirst experience the text asa literal report of somethingthat, by a thin thread of possibility, could be true, givena specifiedsetof circumstances, at someothertime, in some other place. SF givesthe readerthe experienceof the fantastic, of magic and wonder, then explains or implies how that wonder could be generatedthrough real scienceand technology.SF is inherently optimistic because,a priori, it assumesa future, whetherdismal or colorful. I do not, of course,deny the metaphoricallevelof SF texts.I simply state the obvious.which somehowseemsto havebeenlost in severaldecadesof

XVIII / INTFIODUCTIC]N

critical discussion:In a work of sciencefiction the readermust grant the premisethat whateveris statedasthe casein the storyis literal and true. For instance,in GdrardKlein's"Valleyof Echoes," the readermustbelievethat we are two hundred yearsin the future, exploringthe planet Mars, not merelyin somesurreallandscapethat embodiesa metaphorfor the human condition.The vehicle,in otherwords,hasjustasmuch weightasthe tenor in SE This is equallytrue in contemporaryscience,when we are askedto believethat somethingis both a waveand a particle. Still, given the hasty writing of the magazinedays,when writerslived on the penny-a-wordprose theygenerated,andgiventhe comicallyhyperboliccoversof the magazines andthe paperbacks, it is easyto understandwhy somany seriouspeoplehave found it hard to take SF seriously-although, as TheodoreSturgeonwas wont to remark,rarelyhasa literaturebeenjudgedsoexclusivelyby itsworst examples. The internationalresponseto SF is bestmeasured,it seemsto me, by analogyto otheraspects of Americanpopularculture--iazz, rock'n'roll, movies,andcomics.Franceis the countrywhereferry Lewisis a geniusand A. E. Van Vogt is literature.French SF is a hybrid of high literaryart and pulp and comic-booksensibilities,too often in conflict in the samestory. The selectionsin this book are exceptionsto this and to that extent not characteristic. The British havealwaysconsideredSF''part of contemporary literature-although often, inferior literature, like most of the stuff the Americanswrite. Ballard and Aldiss are important British writers, and KingsleyAmis, in New Maps of HeII, wrotethe firstsignificantmainstream book of criticism on sciencefiction in the late 1950s.But onefeelsa kind of gloom emanating from British SR characteristic,as Brian Aldiss has remarked,of a civilizationthat has,for the time being,givenup on Empire and technologicaladvance.There are vigorousSF publishingindustriesin Germany, Italy, Spain, and Scandinavia,but too little native writing of high quality.The sameholdsfor the countriesof SouthAmerica.fapanhas takena greatinterestin SF in recentyears,but the traditionsof narrative that we takefor grantedin fiction do not obtainin Japanese SF andverylittle hasbeentranslatedinto English.ChineseSF is in the processof forming in the 1980s,but no workshavebeen translatedyet. Only the Sovietshave gainedfaith in scienceand technologyover recentdecades,and it is from the Soviet Union that the preponderanceof foreign SF emanates. Many commentators,including Darko Suvin and Franz Rottensteiner, have noted that the primary force behind Soviet SF is utopian social aspiration.Indeed,this seemsto providean impetuspreciselyparallelto the imperialdreamsof U. S. SF of a future madebetterthroughthe application of scientificknowledgeandtechnology,a future filled with wonders.Most of

INTFIC]DUCTION

/ )(IX-

the restof the world seesSF asa repositoryof imagesthat can be usedin any fantasticcontext.This attitude-so foreign to the core idea of U. S. science fiction-will undoubtedlyhave an increasinginfluence upon SF writers who aspireto literaryeminence,evenin the United States,whosescience fiction literature the acerbicPolish critic and writer StanislawLem has declareda hopelesscase,redeemedonly in the worksof Philip K. Dick. SF has been written off with repeatedvehemence,perhapsbecauseit challengesso many preconceptionsabout what is good in literature by being outsidethe normal criteriaand yet popular and influential. Such a writer as Kurt Vonnegut, lr., was recognized as important as he was g any connectionwith genre SE iust as earlier Ray Bradbury disavowin allowed himself to be winnowed out of the field he had grown up in by friendlycriticswho said,in effect,"This is sogoodit can'tpossiblybe SE" It is high time readersdiscardsuchpreconceptions,which havepreventedthe recognition of many worksof varied strengthsand, sometimes,depth and profundity. This is a rich book, filled with ideasand images,wondersand excitement. It offersmany hours of thought-provokingreading,which will, I hope, lead you to investigatethe world of SF in more depth and with more satisfaction.It contains a large variety of stories,providing a mixture of American and international SE I confessto frustration that this volume could not contain three times as much material, for the world of SF has much more to offer. David G. Hartwell Pleasantville,New York

TheWonld Tneasury of Science Fiction

Harnison Bengenon Kurt Vonnegutbfrrrtnovel,PlayerPiano(/,952),wasoffered FictionBookClub andsoldasSFrn paperback by the Science as Utopia 14. In the 1950sVonnegutpublishedhis short storiesin both slickfiction and SF magazines,attendedthe Milford SF-writing workshop,wrote The Sirensof Titan (1959),a Hugo Awardnominee,abouttravelin spaceand time,tfienMotherNight (1961),a mainstreamnovelon the samethemeas RobertA. HeinlerniDoubleStar(1956).But theappellationof SF writer, iustasRay hepublicly disavowed Bradburyhad earlierin the 1950sallowedthat label to be lifted from his works,for the cultural and literarypreiudices attentionand of the 1950sand early 1960sdenied serious monetary rewardsto sciencefrction writers, regardlessof merit.ThesituationhaschangedenoughforVonneguttosay, recently,"When I beganto write storiesabout thingsI had seenand wonderedabout in real life, people said I was writing,heypresto,sciencefrction. Yes,andpeoplewhowrite faithfully about American urbanlife todaywill find themfiction. This is nothing to se/veswriting, hey presto,science be ashamed about-and neverwas." "HarrisonBergeron"wasfrrstpublishedin The Magazine of Fantasy& ScienceFiction rn /96/,. It hasall the outrugeouswit and moralforceof Vonnegutat firs besf.

4 / H'A.F.FIISON BEFIGERON

-l-he

yearwas2081,and everybodywasfinally equal.They weren'tonly equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. I I Nobody was smarterthan anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybodyelse.Nobodywasstrongeror quickerthan anybodyelse.All this equalitywasdue to the 2l lth, 2l2th, and 2llth Amendmentsto the Constitution,and to the unceasingvigilanceof agentsof the United States HandicapperGeneral. Some things about living still weren't quite right, though. April, for instance,still drovepeoplecrazyby not beingspringtime.And it wasin that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron's fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away. It wastragic,all right, but Georgeand Hazel couldn't think aboutit very hard. Hazel had a perfectlyaverageintelligence,which meantshecouldn't think about anything exceptin shortbursts.And George,while his intelligencewaswayabovenormal, had a little mentalhandicapradioin his ear. He wasrequiredby law to wear it at all times. It wastuned to a government transmitter.Every twenty secondsor so, the transmitterwould sendout somesharpnoiseto keeppeoplelike Georgefrom taking unfair advantageof their brains. Georgeand Hazel werewatching television.There weretearson Hazel's cheeks,but she'd forgotten for the moment what they were about. On the televisionscreenwere ballerinas. A buzzer sounded in George'shead. His thoughts fled in panic, like banditsfrom a burglar alarm. "That wasa real pretty dance, that dancethey just did," said Hazel. "Huh?" said George. "That dance-it was nice," said Hazel. "Yup," saidGeorge.He tried to think a little about the ballerinas.They weren'treally very good-no betterthan anybodyelsewould havebeen, anyway.They were burdenedwith sash-weights and bagsof birdshot, and their facesweremasked,sothat no one, seeinga free and gracefulgestureor a pretty face, would feel like somethingthe cat drug in. Georgewastoying with the vaguenotion that maybedancersshouldn'tbe handicapped.But he didn't get very far with it beforeanothernoisein his ear radio scatteredhis thoughts. Georgewinced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas. Hazel sawhim wince. Having no mental handicapherself,shehad to ask George what the latest sound had been. "Soundedlike somebodyhitting a milk bottlewith a ball peenhammer," said George.

KURT VONNEC3UT

JFI. I 5

"l'd think it would be real interesting,hearingall the differentsounds," 'All the things they thinkr'rp." said Hazel, a little envious. "um," said George. "Only, if I wasHandicapperGeneral, you know what I would do?" said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strongresemblanceto the HandicapperGeneral,a woman namedDiana Moon Glampers."lf I wasDiana Moon Glampers,"said Hazel, "l'd havechimeson Sunday-just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion." "I could think, if it was just chimes," said George. *Well-maybe make'em realloud," saidHazel. "l think I'd makea good HandicapperGeneral." "Good as anybodyelse," said George. "Who knows better'n I do what normal is?" said Hazel. "Right," saidGeorge.He beganto think glimmeringlyabout his abnormal sonwho wasnow in jail, about Harrison,but a twenty-one-gunsalute in his head stoppedthat. "Boy!" said Hazel, "that was a doozy,wasn'tit?" It wassuch adoozythat Georgewaswhite and trembling, and tearsstood on the rims of his red eyes.Two of the eight ballerinashad collapsedto the studio floor, were holding lheir temples. 'All of a suddenyou loo$ so tired," saidHazel. "Why don't you stretch out on the sofa, so'syou lcan rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch." Shewasreferringto the forty-sevenpounds of birdshot in a canvasbag,which waspadlockedaroundGeorge'sneck. "Go on and restthe bagfor a little while," shesaid. "l don't careif you'renot equalto me for a while." Georgeweighedthe bag with his hands."l don't mind it," he said. "l don't notice it any more. It's just a part of me." "You beensotired lately-kind ofwore out," saidHazel. "lfthere wasjust somewaywe could makea little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. fust a few." "Tho yearsin prison and two thousanddollars fine for everyball I took out," saidGeorge."l don't call that a bargain." "lf you could justtakea few out when you camefrom work,' saidHazel. "l mean-you don't compete with anybody around here. You just set around." "lf I tried to get awaywith it," saidGeorge,"then other people'dget away with it-and pretty soon we'd be right back to the dark agesagain, with everybodycompetingagainsteverybodyelse.You wouldn't like that, would you?"

6 / HARFIISC]N

EIEFIGEFION

"l'd hate it," said Hazel. "There you are," said George. "The minute peoplestart cheatingon laws, what do you think happensto society?" If Hazel hadn't been able to come up with an answerto this question, Georgecouldn't have suppliedone. A siren wasgoing off in his head. "Reckon ifd fall all apart," said Hazel. "What would?" said Georgeblankly. "Society,"said Hazel uncertainly."Wasn'tthat what you just said?" "Who knows?"said George. The televisionprogramwassuddenlyinterruptedfor a newsbulletin. It wasn'tclearat first asto what the bulletin wasabout, sincethe announcer, like all announcers,had a seriousspeechimpediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, "Ladiesand gentlemen-" He finally gaveup, handedthe bulletin to a ballerinato read. "That'sall right-" Hazelsaidof the announcer,"he tried. That'sthe big thing. He tried to do the besthe could with what God gavehim. He should get a nice raisefor trying so hard." "Ladiesand gqntlemen-" saidthe ballerina,readingthe bulletin. She must have been extraordinarilybeautiful, becausethe mask shewore was hideous.And it waseasyto seethat shewasthe strongestand most graceful of all the dancers,for her handicapbagswereasbig asthoseworn by twohundred-poundmen. And shehad to apologizeat oncefor her voice, which wasa very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody."Excuseme-" shesaid, and shebeganagain, making her voice absolutelyuncompetitive. "HarrisonBergeron, agefourteen,"shesaidin a gracklesquawk,"hasjust escapedfrom iail, wherehe washeld on suspicionof plotting to overthrow the government.He is a geniusand an athlete,is under-handicapped, and should be regardedas extremelydangerous. " A police photographof Harrison Bergeronwas flashedon the screenupsidedown, then sideways,upsidedown again, then right side up. The picture showedthe full length of Harrison againsta backgroundcalibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly sevenfeet tall. The restof Harrison'sappearance wasHalloweenand hardware.Nobody had everborneheavierhandicaps.He had outgrownhindrancesfasterthan the H-G men could think them up. Insteadof a little ear radiofor a mental handicap, he wore a tremendouspair of earphones,and spectacleswith thick wavylenses.The spectacles wereintendedto make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides.

KURT

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Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain to the handicapsissuedto strongpeople,but symmetry,a military neatness Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds. And to offsethis good looks, the H-G men requiredthat he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose,keephis eyebrowsshavedoff, and cover his even white teeth with black capsat snaggle-toothrandom. "lf you seethis boy,"saidthe ballerina,"do not-l repeat,do not-try to reasonwith him." There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges. Screamsand barking criesof consternationcamefrom the televisionset. The photographof Harrison Bergeronon the screen jumped again and again, as though dancingto the tune of an earthquake. GeorgeBergeroncorrectly identified the earthquake,and well he might have-for many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashingtune. "My God-" saidGeorge,"that must be Harrison!" The realizationwasblastedfrom his mind instantlv bv the sound of an automobilecollision in his head. When Georgecould open his eyesagain,the photographof Harrison was gone. A living, breathingHarrison filled the screen. Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door wasstill in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians,and announcerscoweredon their knees before him, expectingto die. "I am the Emperor!" cried Harrison. "Do you hear?I am the Emperor! Everybodymust do what I sayat once!" He stampedhis foot and the studio shook. "Even as I standhere-" he bellowed,"crippled,hobbled,sickened-l am a greaterruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!" Harrison tore the strapsof his handicapharnesslike wet tissuepaper,tore strapsguaranteedto support five thousandpounds. Harrison'sscrap-iron handicapscrashedto the floor. Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlockthat securedhis head harness.The bar snappedlike celery.Harrison smashedhis headphonesand spectaclesagainstthe wall. He flung awayhis rubber-ballnose,revealeda man that would haveawed Thor, the god of thunder. "l shall now selectmy Empress!"he said,looking down on the cowering people."Let the first woman who daresrise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!"

El / HARFIISON

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A moment passed,and then a ballerinaarose,swayinglike a willow. Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snappedoff her physicalhandicapswith marvelousdelicacy.Last of all, he removedher mask. She wasblindingly beautiful. "Now-" saidHarrison, taking her hand, "shall we showthe peoplethe meaning of the word dance?Music!" he commanded. The musiciansscrambledback into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their handicaps,too. "Playyour best,"he told them, "and I'll make you baronsand dukesand earls." The musicbegan.It wasnormalat first-cheap, silly,false.But Harrison snatchedtwo musiciansfrom their chairs,wavedthem like batonsashe sang the music ashe wantedit played.He slammedthem backinto their chairs. The music beganagain and was much improved. Harrison and his Empressmerely listenedto the music for a whilelistenedgravely,as though synchronizingtheir heartbeatswith it. They shifted their weights to their toes. Harrisonplacedhis big handson the girl'stiny waist,lettingher sensethe weightlessness that would soon be hers. And then, in an explosionof joy and grace,into the air they sprang! Not only werethe lawsof the land abandoned,but the law of gravityand the laws of motion as well. They reeled,whirled, swiveled,flounced,capered,gamboled,and spun. They leapedlike deer on the moon. The studioceilingwasthirty feethigh, but eachleapbroughtthe dancers nearerto it. It becametheir obviousintention to kissthe ceiling. They kissedit. And then, neutralizing gravitywith love and pure will, they remained in air inchesbelow the ceiling, and they kissedeachotherfor a suspended long, long time. It wasthen that Diana Moon Glampers,the HandicapperGeneral,came into the studio with a double-barreledten-gaugeshotgun.She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empresswere dead before they hit the floor. Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musiciansand told them they had ten secondsto get their handicaps back on. It was then that the Bergerons'televisiontube burned out. Hazelturned to comment about the blackoutto George.But Georgehad gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer. Georgecamebackin with the beer,pausedwhile a handicapsignalshook

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him up. And then he satdown again."You beencrying?"he saidto Hazel. "Yrp," shesaid. "What about?"he said. "l forget," she said. "Somethingreal sad on television." "What was it?" he said. "lt's all kind of mixed up in my mind," saidHazel. "Forgetsad things," said George. "l alwaysdo," said Hazel. "That's my girl," said George. He winced. There was the sound of a riveting gun in his head. "Gee-l could tell that wasa doozy,"said Hazel. "You can saythat again," said George. "Gee-" said Hazel, "l could tell that one wasa doozy."

Fongetfulness A revolutionary writer and editor,John W. Campbell, lr., was the frrstman to setout to have a careerin sciencefiction. He imposed his ideas on the freld first through writing, both under his own name and hispen name, Don A. Stuart,then through his editorship of Astounding ScienceFiction from 1937until hisdeathin 1971. "Forgetfulness"rs one of the last Stuartstories,publishedin thelune 1937 issueofAstounding only months before Campbell became its editor and created what is generally refened to as the Golden Age of SF in the Iate 1930sand 1940s. Campbell developeda whole stable of new young writers willing and eagerto meet his rigorous standards-Isaac Asimov RobertA. Heinlein, L. Spraguede Camp, A. E. Van Vogt, Theodore Sturgeon, and Alfred Bester,among them. He alsoattracted the establishedwriters, suchas Clifford D. Simak, Edward E. Smith, and lack Williamson, to fashion thedominant model of contemporarysciencefiction, a compound of scientifrc method, technological optimism, and clear iournalistic prose,a problem-solving literature imbued with depth of feeling and humanity. "Forge{ulness"is the earlieststory in this book, one of the founding worksof the modern field. According to LesterDel Rey,another Campbell writer who hasgone on to becomea major infuence, it is "one of the high points of all science fiction." Lesssophisticatedin some waysthan many other selections,it remains a great original.

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on Thule, the astronomer,stood in the lock gate and looked down acrossthe sweepof gently rolling land. Slowly, he breathedin the strange,tangy odors of this planet. There was something of a vast triumph in his eyes,and somethingof sorrow.They had been here now scarcelyfive hours,and the sun wasstill low in the east,rising slowly.Out beyond,abovethe westernhorizon, a paleghostof the strangetwin world of this planet, lessthan a third of a million miles distant, seemeda faint, luminous cloud in the deep,sereneblue of the sky. It wastriumph, for sixlong yearsof travel,at a speedcloseto that of light, lay behind them; three and a half light-yearsdistantwasPareeth,and the crowding people who had built and launched the mighty two-thousandfive-hundred-footinterstellarcruiserthat had broughtthis little band of one hundred. Launched in hope and striving, seekinga new sun with new planets,new worldsto colonize. More than that, even, for this new-found planet was a stepping-stoneto other infinities beyond. Ten yearsof unbrokentravelwasthe maximum any ship they could build would endure. They had found a planet;in fact, nine planets.Now, the rangethey might explore for new worlds was extendedby four light-years. And therewassorrowthere,too, for therewasa raceherenow. Ron Thule turned his eyestowardthe little clusteringvillage nestledin the swaleof the hills, a villageof simple,roundeddomesof someopalescent,glassymaterial. A scoreof them straggledirregularlyamong the mighty, deep-green treesthat shadedthem from the morning sun, twenty-footdomesof pearl and rose and blue. The deep green of the treesand the soft green of the mosslikegrassthat coveredall the low, roundedhills madeit verybeautiful; the sparkling colors of the little gardensabout the domesgave it further enchantment.It wasa lovely spot, a spot where space-wearied, interstellar wanderersmight rest in delight. Such it was.There wasa raceon this planetthe men of Pareethhad found aftersix long yearsof space,six yearsof purring, humming atomic engines and echoinggray,steelfabricthat carriedand protectedthem. Harshutility of giant girdersand rubberyflooring, the snoringdroneof forty quadrillion horsepowerof atomic engines.It wasreplacednow by the softcoolnessof the grassyland;the curvingsteelof the girdersgavewayto the brown of arching trees;the stern ceiling of steel platesgaveway to the vast, blue arch of a planet'satmosphere.Soundsdied awayin infinitudes where there was no steel to echo them back; the unending drone of the mighty engineshad becomebreezesstirring, rustling leaves-an invitation to rest. The racethat lived here had long sincefound it such, it seemed.Ron Thule looked acrossthe little village of domes to the largest of them, perhaps thirty feet across.Commander Shor Nun was there with his

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archeologistand anthropologist,and half a scoreof the men of this planet. Rhth, they called it. The conferencewas breaking up now. Shor Nun appeared,tall and powerful, his muscular figure in trim InterstellarExpedition uniform of utilitarian, silvery gray. Behind him came the other two in uniformyoung, powerful men of Pareeth,selectedfor this expedition becauseof physical and mental perfection, as was every man of them. Then came Seun, the man of Rhth. He wastaller, slimmer, an almost willowy figure. His lean body wasclothedin an elastic,close-fittingsuit of goldenstuff,while overhis shouldersa glowing,magnificentlyshimmering capeof rich blue wasthrown. Five more of thesemen came out, eachin a golden suit, but the drapedcapesglowed in deep reds,and rich greens, blues and violets.They walked leisurelybesidethe men of Pareeth.An unconsciousforcemadethosetrimly uniformedmen walk in stepbetween the great,arching trees.

They came near, and Shor Nun called out, "ls the expedition ready?" 'Ay., From the forward lock, Toth Mour replied, commander.Twentytwo men. What do thesepeople say?" ShorNun shookhis headslightly."That we may look aswe wish. The city is deserted.I cannot understandthem. What arrangementshave you made?" "The men you mentioned are coming. Each head of department, save " Ron Thule. There will be no work for the astronomer. "l will come, ShorNun," calledout the astronomer,softly."l can sketch; I would be interested." "Well enough, asyou like. Toth Mour, call the men into formation; we will startat once.The dayvariesin length, but is somethirteen hourslong at this season,I am told." Ron Thule leapeddown to the softturf and walkedovertowardthe group. Seunlookedat him slowlyand smiled.The man of Rhth lookedtallerfrom this distance,nearlysix and a third feet in height. His facewastannedto a goldencolor that camenearto matchingthe gold of his clothing. His eyes wereblue and verydeep.They seemeduncertain-a little puzzled,curious about thesemen, curious about the vast, gray bulk that had settledlike a grim shadowoverthe low hill. Half a mile in length, four hundredfeet in diameter,it loomednearlyaslargeasthe age-old,erodedhills it had berthed on. He ran a slim-fingeredhand through the glinting golden hair that curled in unruly locks abovea broad, smooth brow. "There is somethingfor an astronomerin all this world, I think." He

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'Are not climate and soilsand atmospheres the smiledat Ron Thule. too?" provinceof astronomy, slightly "The chemists knowit better," RonThule replied,andwondered that simply not spoken, had Rhth man of the He knew that at his replying. thethoughthadcometo be in his mind. "Eachwill havehis specialwork, savefor me. I will lookatthecity.Theywill lookatthebuildingsandgirders asis their choice.I will look at the city." andthe carvingsor mechanisms,

Uneasily,he movedawayfrom the group,startedalone acrossthe field. of a settledon him whenhewasnearthis Seun,thisdescendant Uneasiness first sprang his own years before racethat had beengreatten millionsof from the swamps.Cheatedheir to a glory five million yearslost. The low,greenroll of the hill fell behindhim ashe climbedthe grassy flank. Very slowlybeforehis eyes,the city lifted into view.Where the swellingcurveof the hill fadedsoftlyinto the infinite blueof the sky,first ashe walkedup the onelittle point, thena score,thenhundredsappeared, crest-the city. Then he stoodon the crest.The city toweredbeforehim, fivemilesaway thegentlyrollinggreenswale.Titan city of a Titan race!The towers across in the goldenlight of the sun. How glowedwith a sun-firedopalescence how longhadtheystoodthus?Three long,greatgodsof thisstrangeworld, soilat theirbases,three thousandfeettheyrosefrom the levelof age-sifted of the giantslong buildings stupendous mighty mass, feet of thousand dead. littleworldcirclinga dim, forgotten little manfroma strange The strange not know,or care.He walkedtoward did starlooked,rp at them, andthey the broad them, watchedthem climb into the blue of the sky.He crossed greenof the land, and theygrewin their uncaringmaiesty. weightsandloadingtheywere-and mass,immeasurable Sheer,colossal to foat thereon thegraceof a line anda curve,half in thedeep theyseemed blue of the sky,half touchingthe warm, bright greenof the land. They floatedstill on the strengthof a dreamdreamedby a man deadthese millionsof years.A brain had dreamedin termsof linesand curvesand planes,andthe brain had built in termsof opalcrystalandvast sweeping The mortalmindwasburiedunderunknownages,butan immortal masses. it molded-they livedandfoated ideahadsweptlife into the deadmasses glory. glory of the racememory mighty The on the of a still The racethat lived in twenty-foot,roundeddomes. The astronomer turned.Hiddennowby the riseof the verdantlandwas villages one of the that race built today.Low, roundedthings, built,

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perhaps,of this same,strange,gleamingcrystal,a secrethalf-remembered from a day that must havebeenThe city flamed beforehim. Acrossten-or was it twenty-thousand millenniums, the thought of the buildersreachedto this man of another race.A builderwho thoughtanddreamedof a mighty future, marchingon, on foreverin the aislesof time. He musthavelookedfrom somehigh, windsweptbalconyof the city to a star-sprinkled sky-and seenthe argosiesof space:mighty treasureships that swept back to this rememberedhome, coming in from the legion worlds of space,from far starsand unknown, clusteredsuns;Titan ships, burdenedwith strangecargoesof unguessed things. And the city peopled itself before him; the skiesstirred in a moment's flash. It wasthe day of Rhth'sglory then! Mile-long shipshoveredin the blue, settling,slow,slow,homefrom worldsthey'dcircled.Familiarsights, familiar sounds,greetingtheir men again. Flashing darts of silver that twistedthrough mazesof the upper air, the soft, vastmusic of the mighty city. The builder lived, and looked out acrosshis dreamBut, perhaps,from his height in the looming towershe could seeacross the swelling ground to the low, rounded domes of his people, his far descendants seekingthe friendly shelterof the shadingtrees-

Ron Thule stood among the buildings of the city. He trod a pavementof soft, greenmoss,and lookedbehind to the swell of the land. The wind had laid this pavement.The moving air wasthe only forcethat maintainedthe city'swalks.A thousandthousandyearsit hassweptits gatheringsacrossthe plain, and depositedthem as an offering at the baseof thesecalm towers. The land had built up slowly,ageon age,till it wasfive hundred feet higher than the land the builder had seen. But his dreamwastoo well built for time to melt away.Slowly time was burying it, even as long sincetime had buried him. The towerstook no notice. They dreamedup to the blue of the skiesand waited. They were patient;they had waitednow a million, or wasit ten million years?Some day, someyear,the buildersmust return, dropping in their remembered argosiesfrom the far, dim reachesof space,asthey had oncetheseagesgone. The towerswaited;they werefaithful to their trust. They had their memories, memoriesof a mighty age,when giantswalkedand worldsbeyondthe starspaid tribute to the city. Their builderswould come again.Till then, naught botheredthem in their silence. But wherethe soft rainsof a hundredthousandgenerations had drained

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from them, their infinite endurancesoftenedto its gentle touch. Etched channelsand rounded gutters, the mighty carvingsdimming, rounding, their powerful featuresbetrayedthe slow effects.Perhaps-it had been so long-so long-even the city was forgetting what once it was. They had waited, thesetowers, forAnd the builders walked in the shadeof the trees, and built rounded domes.And a new raceof builderswascome, a racethe city did not notice in its age-longquiet. Ron Thule looked up to them and wonderedif it were meant to be that his peopleshould carry on the dream begun so long ago. Softened by the silence, voices from the expedition reached him. "-diamond won't scratchit, Shor Nun-more elasticthan beryl steel. Tough-" That wasDee Lun, the metallurgist.He would learn that secret somehow.They would all learn. And Shor Nun, commander, executive, atomic engineer,would learn the secretsthat their powerplantsmust hold. The dream-the city'slife-would go on! Ron Thule wanderedon. No duty his, todayi no responsibilityto study carefully the form and turn of sweepingline, the hidden art that foated ten millions of tonsof masson the graceof a line. Thatfor the archeologistand the engineer.Nor his to study the cunning form of brace and girder, the making of the pearly walls. That for the metallurgist and the chemist.

Seun was besidehim, looking slowly about the great avenuesthat swept away into slim canyonsin the distance. "Your people visited ours, once," said Ron Thule softly. "There are legends,the goldengodsthat cameto Pareeth,bringing gifts of fire and the bow and the hammer.The myths haveenduredthrough two millions of our years-four and a half millions of yours.With fire and bow and hammer my peopleclimbed to civilization. With atomic powerthey blastedthemselves back to the swamps.Four times they climbed, discoveredthe secretof the atom, and blastedthemselvesbackto the swamps.Yetall the changescould not effacethe thankfulnessto the goldengods,who camewhen Pareethwas young." Seun noddedslowly. His unspokenthoughtsformed clear and sharp in mind. "Yes,I know.It wasthe city builders.Once, your sun the astronomer's and ours circled in a systemas a double star. A wandering star crashed through that system,breakingit, and in the breakingmaking planets.Your sun circled away,the new-formedplanetscooling; our Sun remained,these worldscoolingtill the daylife appeared.We aretwin races,born of the same stellarbirth. The city buildersknew that, and soughtyour worlds.They

1A / FORC3ETFULNESS

were a hundred thousandlight-yearsdistant, in that time, acrossall the widfh of the galaxy,asthe two sunscircled in separateorbitsabout the mass ofthe galaxy. "The city builders went to seeyour race but once. They had meant to return, but beforethe return wasmade they had interferedin the history of anotherrace,helping them. For their rewardthe city builderswereattacked by their own weapons,by their own pupils.Neveragainhavewe disturbed anotherrace." 'Across the galaxy,though. The GreatYear-how could they-so manv ' stars- " "The problem of multiple bodies?The city builderssolvedit; they traced the orbits of all the suns of all space;they knew then what sun must once havecircledwith ours.The mathematicsof it-l haveforgotten-l cannot developit. I am afraid I cannot answeryour thoughts.My peoplehave forgotten so many things the city builders knew. "But your peopleseekentranceto the buildings. I know the city, all its waysand entrances.The drifting soil hascoveredeverydoorway,savethose that oncewereusedfor the greatairships.They are still unblocked.I know of one at this level, I think. Perhaps-"

Ron Thule walkedslowly back toward the group. Seun wasspeakingwith Shor Nun, and now they angled off acrossthe city. Their voiceshushed; their footfallswerelost in the silencethat broodedendlesslyoverthe towers. Down timelessavenuesthey marched, a tiny band in the valley of the Titans. The towersmarchedon and on, on either side, up over low hills, beyondthe horizon.Then, beforethem, in the sideof oneof the milky walls a greatopening showed.Somefive feet abovethe level of the drifted soil, it led into the vast,black maw of the building. The little party groupedat the base,then, laboriously,one of the engineersboostedand climbed his wayto the thresholdand dropped a rope to a companion. Seunstooda bit apart,till ShorNun lifted himself up to the higherlevel and stoodon the milky floor. Then the man of Rhth seemedto glow slightly; a golden haze surrounded him and he floated effortlesslyup from the ground and into the doorway. The engineers,Shor Nun, all stoodfrozen, watching him. Seun stopped,turned,half-smiling."How?It is the lathan, the suit I wear." "lt defiesgravity?" askedShorNun, his dark eyesnarrowing in keenest

interest. "Defies gravity?No, it doesnot defy,for gravityis a natural law.The city

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buildersknewthat. They madethesesuitsshortlybeforetheyleft the city. Thelathansimplybendsgravityto will. The mechanismis in thefilaments of theback,servantto a wish.Its operation-I knowonly vagueprinciples. I-l haveforgottenso much. I will try to explain-" Ron Thule felt the thoughtsparadingthrough his mind: Nodesand vibrations,atomsandlessthan atoms,a strange,invisiblefabricof woven strainsthatwerenot there.His mind rebelled.Vague,inchoatestirringsof ideasthat had no clarity;the thoughtswereformlessandindistinct,uncerThey brokeoff. tain of themselves. "Wehaveforgottensomuchof thethingsthecitybuildersknewtheirarts and techniques,"Seun explained."They built things and laboredthat thingsmight surroundand protectthem, so they thought.They labored that this city might be. They stroveandthoughtandworked, generations night reveals. andbuilt fleetsthatsailedbeyondthefartheststartheclearest They broughtheretheir gains,their hard-wontreasures-thattheymight build and maketo protectthesethings. "They wereimpermanentthings,at best.How little is left of their fivemillion-yearstriving.Wehavenothingstoday,noranyprotectingof things. And we haveforgottenthe artsthey developedto protectand understand thesethings.And with them, I am sorry,I haveforgottenthe thoughtsthat makethe lathan understandable." ShorNun noddedslowly,turnedto his party.Ron Thule lookedback from this slightelevation,downthe long avenue.And his eyeswandered who dreamedno more. of the mightydreamers, asideto this descendant "Seekpassages to lowerlevels,"saidShorNun'svoice."Their records, their main interestmusthavecenterednearthe ancientgroundlevel.The levels,wherethepowersand engineers-wewill seekthelowest,subsurface Come." the forcesof the city musthavebeengenerated.

light thatfilteredthroughthewallsof thebuildingfadedto a The opalescent and roseduskastheyburroweddeeperintothevastpile.Corridorsbranched turned;roomsand officesdust litteredand barrenopenedfrom them. corridorbywhichtheyhadentered,ships Downthegreattwo-hundred-foot place had oncefoated, and at the heartof the building wasa cavernous halfstill!Great,dim shapes, wheretheseshipshadoncerested-andrested wall. light that filtered on translucent throughwall seenin the misted The roomblazedsuddenlywith the white light of half a dozenatomic torches,andthe opalescent wallsof the room refectedthe flareacrossthe great foor. of fowing lines fat, dustysweepof the Tivo-score smoothshapes

1A / FORGETFULNESS

clusteredon the floor, a forgottencompanyof travelers that had stopped here,once;whenthe city roaredin triumphantlife. A powdery,grayJust coveredtheir crystalhulls. Slowly,ShorNun walkedtowardthenearest of them,a slim, thirty-footprivate ship, waiting through eternity for forgottenhand.The open a long lock at the sidelightedsuddenlyat the touchof his foot, and softtiitrts appeared throughouttheship.Somewhere a soft,low hummingbegan,and fadedinto silencein a moment."DrusNol-come with tne.Seun,do you knowthe mechanismof theseships?" The manof Rhthhesitated, thenshookhisheadslowly."l cannotexplain it. " He sighed."Theywill notfunctionnow;theydrewtheirpowerfrom the centralplantof the city,andthat hasceased operation.The lastof the city buildersshut it down asthey left." The men of Pareethenteredthe ship hesitantly,and evenwhile they walkedtowardthe centralcontrolcabin at the nose,the white lighting dimmedthroughyellow,andfadedout. Only theirowntorchesremained. The storedpowerthat had lain hiddenin somecellsaboardthis craftwas gonein a last,fiful glow.Somewhere soft,muffed thudsof relaysacted, switchingvainly to seekcharged,emergencycells. The lights fared and died, flaredand vanished.The questingrelaysrelaxedwith a tired click. Dust-shrouded mechanism, etchedin thelightof faringtorches, greeted theireyes,hunchedbulks,andgleamingtubesof glassystuffthat, by its sparkling,fierylife mustbeotherthananyglasstheyknew,morenearlykin to the brilliant refractionof the diamond. "The powerplant," saidShorNun softly,"l think wehadbestlookat that first.Theseareprobablydelayed; theremightstill be somestoredpowerin thecentralplanttheycouldpickup andgiveusa fatalshock.The insulation here-" But thecity buildershadbuilt well. Therewasno signof frayedandagerottedinsulation.Only slightgraydustlay in torn blankets,tenderfabric their movements had disturbed. Seunwalkedslowlytowardthefar endof the room,roundingthe silent, lightless bulksoftheancientships.Thedustof forgottenagesstirredsoftlyin his wake,settledbehindhim. The men of Pareethgatheredin his steps, followedhim towardthe far wall. A doorwayopenedthere,andtheyentereda smallroom.The archeologist's breathwhistled:thefourwallsweredecorated with friezesof thehistory of the racethat hadbuilt, conquered andsaileda universe-andlivedin domesundershelteringtrees. Seunsawhisinterest, toucheda panelathisside.Soundlessly, a doorslid

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from the wall, clickedsoftly,and completedthe friezeon that wall. The to thechemistandthephotogswiftly,speaking wassketching archeologist rapherrr-h. worked.The torchesflaredhigherfor a moment,andthe men eye room,makingwayfortheremembering *bued aboutin thetwenty-foot of the little camera. AsSeuntouchedanotherstud,thedoorslidbackintothewall.The room of the shipswasgone.Hastily,the men of Pareethturnedto Seun' "Will that elevatorworksafelyto raiseus again?Yousaidthe powerwas cut off-" to but it wasdesigned "Thereis storedpower.Nearlyall hasleakedaway, for be, might they wherever besufficientto run all thiscity andall itsships, if youfear sevendays.Thereis powerenough.And therearefoot passages thepowerwill notbesufficient.This isthelowestlevel;thisisthelevelof the feetbelowthelevelat -r.hin.r, theheartof thecity-nearly onethousand which we entered." 'Are the machines,the powerplant, in this building?" "Thereis only onebuilding,herebeneaththeground.It is thecity,but it hasmanyheads.Thepowerplantisoffhere,I think. It hasbeena longtime me. sinceI camethisway.I wasyoungthen,andthecitybuildersfascinated and-" Their storyis interesting to echoin RonThule'smind. The "lnteresting-" The thoughtseemed suchashis storyof the conquestof the universe,the storyof achievement racecouldonly dreamof yet.Theyhaddreamed-anddone!And that, to Interestingto this dark, strange that was- interesting. their descendants, labyrinthof branchingcorridors,and strange,hoodedbulks.Production productionmachinerythat forgottenworkmachinery,he knew,somehow, men had hoodedas they steppedawaytemporarily-for a yearor two, perhapstill the waningpopulition shouldincreaseagainand makenew bundledthings that might be d.*andt on it. Then greatstorerooms, needed,spareparts,and storedrecordsanddeeds.Librariesof dull metal rottingin generations, effortsof a thousand undergraydust.The unneeded with disturbed had thisquietdarkthathe, RonThule, andhis companions the moment'srushof atomicfame. Then the tortuouscorridorbranched,joinedothers,becamesuddenlya into the powerroom,the heartof the city andall greatavenuedescending that it had meant.They waitedstill, the mighty enginesthe last of the buildershad shutdownashe left, waitedto startagainthe worktheyhad droppedfor the moment,takinga well-earnedrest.But they must have of their masters. growntired in that rest,that *iiting for the resurgence reflectingthe grayed dust, of blankets They gloweddimly underthe thin clearbrillianceof the pryinglight.

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ShorNun haltedat the gate,his engineerbesidehim. Slowly,Seunof Rhth pacedinto the greatchamber."By the goldengodsof pareeth,Drus Nol, do you seethat insulation-those buss-bars!" "Five million volts,if it'sno betterthan we build," the engineersaid,"and I supposethey must be busses,though, by the starsof qpace,they look like columns! They're twenty-fivefeet through. But, man, man, the generator-for it must be a generator-it's no longer than the bussesit " energizes. "When the generatoroperated," Seun'sthoughts came, ,.the field it created ran through the bars, so that they, too, became nearly perfect conductors.The generatorsuppliedthe city, and its ships, whereverin all spacethey might be." And the further thought came into their minds, "lt wasthe finest thing the city buildershad." Shor Nun steppedover the threshold. His eyesfollowed the immense busses,acrossin a greatloop to a dimly sparklingswitchpanel,then across, and down to a thing in the centerof the hall, a thingShor Nun cried out, laughedand sobbedall at one moment. His hands clawedat his eyes;he fell to his knees,groaning."Don't look-by the gods, don't look-" he gasped. Drus Nol leapedforward, bent at his side. ShorNun'sfeet movedin slow arcsthrough the dust of the floor, and his handscoveredhis face. Seunof Rhth steppedoverto him with a strangedeliberationthat yet was speed."Shor Nun," camehis thought,and the man of pareethstraightened under it, "standup." Slowly, like an automaton, the commander of the expedition rose, twitching, his handsfalling to his sides.His eyeswereblank, white thingsin their sockets,and horrible to look at. "ShorNun, look at me, turn your eyeson me," saidSeun.He stoodhalf a head taller than the man of Pareeth,very slim and straight,and his eyes seemedto glow in the light that surroundedhim. As though pulled by a greaterforce, Shor Nun's eyesturned slowly,and first their brown edges,then the pupils showedagain. The frozen madness in his face relaxed;he slumped softly into a more natural position-and Seun looked away. Unsteadily,ShorNun satdown on a greatanglingbeam. "Don't look for the end of those busses,Drus Nol-it is not good. They knew all the universe,andthe endsof it, long beforetheybuilt this city.The thingsthese men haveforgottenembraceall the knowledgeour racehas,and a thousand thousandtimes more, and yet they have the ancient characteristics that made certainthings possibleto the city builders.I do not know what that

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thing may be, but my eyes had to follow it, and it went into another dimension.Seun, what is that thing?" "The generatorsuppliedthe power for the city, and for the ships of the city, wheieverthey might be in space.In all the universethey could draw on the power of that generator,through that sorganunit. That wasthe master to any ship uniq from it flowedthe powerof the generator,instantaneously, a field created It in all space,so long as its correspondingunit wastuned. rotating"-and the minds of his hearersrefusedthe term- "which involves, as well, time. "ln the first revolution it made, the first day it wasbuilt, it circled to the ultimate end of time and the universe,and backto the day it wasbuilt. And in all that sweep,everysorganunit tuned to it must follow. The power that drove it died when the city was deserted,but it is still making the first revolution,which it made and completedin the first hundredth of a second it existed. "Becauseit circledto the end of time, it passedthis momentin its swing, and everyother moment that everis to be. Wereyqu to wipe it out with your mightiestatomic blast,it would not be disturbed,for it is in the next instant, as it was when it was built. And so it is at the end of time, unchanged. Nothing in spaceor time can alter that, for it hasalreadybeen at the end of time. That is why it rotatesstill, and will rotatewhen this world dissolves, and the starsdie out and scatteras dust in space.Only when the ultimate when no morechangeis, or can be will it be at restequalityis established, be equal to it, all spaceequatedto it, because will things for then other space,too, will be unchangedthrough time. "Since, in its first swing, it turned to that time, and backto the day it was built, it radiatedits powerto the end of spaceand back.Anywhere, it might be drawn on, and was drawn on by the ships that sailedto other stars." Ron Thule glancedvery quickly towardand awayfrom the sorganunit. It rotated motionlessly,twinkling and winking in swift immobility. It was someten feet in diameter,a round spheroidof rigidly fixed coils that slipped awayand awayin flashingspeed.His eyestwistedand his thoughtsseemed to freezeashe lookedat it. Then he seemedto seebeyondand through it, as though it werean infinite window, to ten thousandother immobile, swiftly spinning coils revolving in perfect harmony, and beyond them to strange starsand worlds beyond the suns-a thousandcities such as this on a thousandplanets:the empire of the city builders! And the dream faded-faded as that dream in stoneand crystal and metal, everlastingreality, had faded in the softnessof human tissue.

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The ship hung motionlessover the towersfor a long moment. Sunlight, reddenedas the starssank behind the far hilis, flushedtheir opalescent beautywith a softtint, softenedeventhe harsh,utilitarian grayof ihe great, interstellarcruiserabovethem into an idle, rosydream. A dream, p.ihrp, suchasthe towershad dreamedten thousandtimesten thousandtimesthese long eons they had waited? Ron Thule looked down at them, and a feeling of satisfactionand fulfillment cameto him. Pareethwould sendher chiidren. A colony here, on this ancientworld would bring a new,strongerblood to washup in a great tide, to carry the ideals this race had forgotten to new heights, new achievements. Overthe low hills, visiblefrom this elevation,lay t[e simple, roundeddomesof the peopleof Rhth-Seun and his little clan of half a hundred-the dwindling representatives of a once-greatrace. It would mean death to thesepeople-these last descendants. A new world, busy with a greatwork of reconqueringthis system,then all space! They would haveno time to protectand carefor theseforgetful ones;ih.r. peopleof Rhth inevitablywould dwindle swiftly in a strange,busyworld. They who had forgottenprogressfive millions of yearsbefore;they who had been untrue to the dream of the city builders. It wasfor Pareeth,and the sonsof Pareethto carry on the abandonedpath again-

CONCLUSION OF THE REPORT TO THE COMMITTEEOF PAREETH SUBMITTEDBY SHORNUN, COMMANDER OF'THEFIRST INTERSTELLAR EXPEDITION -thus it seemedwiseto me that we leaveat the end of a singleweek,despite the obiectionsof thosemembersof the expeditionpersonnelwho had had no opportunity to seethis world. It wasbetter not to disturb the decadent inhabitants of Rhth in any further degree,and better that we return to Pareethwith thesereportsas soon as might be, since building operations would soon commence on the twelve new ships. I suggestthat thesenew shipsbe built of the new materialrhthite, superior to our bestpreviousmaterials.As hasbeen shownby the incredibleenduranceof the buildingsof the city, this materialis exceedinglystable,and we havefound it may be synthesizedfrom the cheapestmaterials,savingmany millions in the constructionwork to be undertaken. It hasbeensuggested by a certainmemberof the expedition,Thon Raul

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the anthropologist,that we may underestimatethe degreeof civilization actually retainedby the peopleof Rhth, specificallythat it is possiblethat a type of civilization existsso radicallydivergentfrom our own, that it is to us ,rnr..ognizableas civilization.His suggestionof a purely mental civilization of a high orderseemsuntenablein the faceof the fact that Seun, a man well-respectedby his fellows, wasunable to project his thoughtsclearly at any time, nor was there any evidence that any large proportion of his thoughtswereto himself of a high orderof clarity. His answersweretypified by "I have forgotten the development-" or "lt is difficult for me to explain-" or "The exactmechanismis not understoodby all of us-a few historians-" It is, of course, impossibleto disprovethe assertionthat such a civilization is possible,but there arisesin my mind the question of advantage gained,it being a maxim of any evolutionaryor advancingprocessthat the changeso madeis, in somemanner,beneficialto the modifiedorganismof society.Evidently, from the statementsmade by Seun of Rhth, they have forgottenthe knowledgeonce held by the mighty racethat built the cities, and haverecededto a stateof reposewithout labor or progressof any kind. Thon Raul hasmentionedthe effectproducedon me by closeobservation of the sorganmechanism, and further statedthat Seun wasable to watch this same mechanism without trouble, and able to benefit me after my unfortunateexperience.I would point out that mental potentialitiesdecline extremelyslowly; it is possiblethat the present,decadentpeople have the mental potentialities,still inherent in them, that permitted the immense civilization of the city builders. It liesthere,dormant. They are lost for lack of the driving will that makes it effective. The Pareeth,the greatestship our race has ever built, is powered, fueled, potentially mighty now-and inert for lack of a man's driving will, since no one is at her helm. us. So it is with them. Still, the mental capacityof the raceovershadows But the divine fire of ambition hasdied. Th.y rely wholly on materialsand tools given them by a long-deadpeople, using even thesein an automatic and uncomprehendingway, as they do their curious flying suits. Finally, it is our conclusion that the twelve ships under consideration should be completedwith all possiblespeed,and the programasat present outlined carriedout in full; i.e., seventhousandsix hundred and thirtyeight men and women betweenthe agesof eighteenand twenty-eightwill be selectedon a basisof health, previousfamily history, personalcharacter and ability asdeterminedby psychologicaltests.Thesewill be transported, to the newplanet,leavingin the early togetherwith a basiclist of necessities, months of the coming year.

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Six yearswill be requiredfor this trip. At the end of the first year on the new planet, when somedegreeof organizationhasbeen attainei, one ship, refueled,will return to Pareeth.At the end of the secondyeartwo ships*ili return from Rhth with all dataaccumulatedin that period. Thereafter,two will sail each year. On Pareeth, new ships will be manufactured at whateverrate seems practicable,that more colonistsmay be sentas swiftly as they desire.It is suggested,however,that, in view of the immense scientific advancements alreadyseenin the citiesof Rhth, no newshipsbe madeuntil a ship returns with the reportsof the first year'sstudies,in orderthat any resultantscientific advancesmay be incorporated. The presentcrew of the Pareethhave proven themselvesin every way competent,courageousand codperative.As trained and experiencedinterstellaroperators,it is further suggested that the one hundred men be divided among the thirteen ships to sail, the Pareefhretaining at leastfifty of her presentcrew and acting asguide to the remainderof the fleet. Ron Thule, it is specificallyrequested,shall be astronomicalcommander of the feet aboardthe fagship. His astronomicalwork in positioningand calculating the new systemhas been of the highest order, and his jr.r.n.. is vitally needed. Signedby me, SHOR NUN, this thirty-second dry after landing.

UNANIMOUSREPORT OF THE COMMITTEEOF PAREETHON THE FIRSTEXPEDITIONTO THE PLANETRHTH The Committeeof Pareeth, afterdueconsideration of the reports of FolderRl27-s6-ll, entitled"lnterstellar Exploration Reports, Expedition I" do sendto commanderof said expedition,Shor Nun, greetings. The committee finds the reportshighly satisfying,both in view of the successfulnature of the expedition, and in that they representan almost unanimousopinion. In consequence, it is orderedthat the shipsdesignated by the department of engineeringplan asnumbers18834-18846be constructedwith all such speedas is possible. It is orderedthat the seventhousandsix hundred and thirty-eight young peoplebe chosenin the manner prescribedin the attacheddocketof details.

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It is orderedthat in the event of the successfultermination of the new shall be made that the present, colonizingexpedition,such arrangements be allowedfree and plentiful planet shall Rhth decadentinhrbitrnts of the land; that they shall be in no way molestedor attacked.It is the policy of this committe. oi Prr.eth that this race shall be wards of the newly founded Rhth State, to be protectedand in all waysaided in their life. We feel, further, a deep obligation to this race in that the archeologist and anthropologicalreportsclearly indicate that it wasthe race known to them asthecity builderswho first brought fire, the bow and the hammer to our racein mythologicaltimes. Once their racegaveours a foothold on the climb to civilization.It is our firm policy that theselast,decadentmembers of that great race shall be given all protection, assistanceand encouragement possibleto tread again the climbing path. It isordered that the first colony city on Rhth shall be establishedat the spot representedon the accompanying maps as N'yor, as called in the lalguage of the Rhth people, near the point of landing of the first expedition. The nearbysettlementof the Rhth peopleis not to be molestedin any way, unlessmilitary action is forced upon the colonists. It is orderedthat if this condition shall arise, if the Rhth peopleobject to the proposedsettlementat the spot designatedas N'yor, arbitration be attempted. Should this measureprove unsuccessful,military penalties shall be exacted,but only to the extentfound necessaryfor effectiveaction. The colonistsshall aid in the moving of the settlementof the Rhth people,if the Rhth people do not desireto be near the city of the colonists. In any case,it is orderedthat the colonistsshall, in everywaywithin their aid, advanceand inspirethe remaining peopleof Rhth. It is further orderedthat ShorNun, commander,shall be plenipotentiary of the committee of Pareeth,with all powersof a discretionrepresentative ary nature, his commandto be military and of unquestionedauthority until suchtime asthe colony shall havebeenestablishedfor a periodof two years. governmentof such There shall then havebeen establisheda representative nature and powersas the coloniststhemselvesfind suitable. It is then suggestedthat this government, the State of Rhth, shall with the committee of Pareethasare suitable exchangesuchrepresentatives in the dealingsof two sovereignpowers. Until the establishmentof the Stateof Rhth, it is further orderedthat-

The grasslandrolled awayvery softly among the brown bolesof scattered trees.It seemedunchanged.The city seemedunchanged,foating asit had a thousandthousandyearshalfuay betweenthe blue of the skyand the green

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of the planet. Only it wasnot alonein its opalescentbeautynow, twelvegreat shipsfloatedserene,motionless,aboveits to*ers, matching them in glowing color. And on the low roll of the hilr, a thirteenth ship] gray andlrim and scarredwith eighteenyearsof nearly continuous spacetravel, ,.rt d. The locksmoved;men steppedforth into the light of the ior, ,ft.rnoon sun. To their right, the mighty monument of the.ity Uuitaers;to their left, the low, rounded domes of the great race'sdescendants.Ron Thule stepped down from the lock to ioin the eight departmentcommanderswho stood looking acrosstoward the village among the trees. ShorNun turnedslowlyto the men with him, shookhis head,smiling. ',I did not think to ask.I haveno ideawhat their life spanmay be. Perhapsthe man we knew as seun has died. when I first landed here, I was a young man. I am middle-agednow.That time may mean old ageand extinctionto thesepeople." "There is one man coming towardus now Shor Nun," saidRon Thule softly."He is floatingon his-what wasthat name?-it is a long time sinceI heard it. " The man came nearerleisurely;time seemedto mean little to these people.The soft, blue glow of his suitgrew,and he moveda bit more rapidly, asthoughconsciousof their importance."[-l think that is Seun," saidthe archeologist."I have seenthosepicturesso many times-" Seun stood beforethem again, smiling the slow, easysmile they had known twelveyearsbefore.Still he stoodslim and straight,his face lined only with the easygravingsof humor and kindliness.He wasasunchanged as the grassland,as the eternal city. The glow faded as he settledbeiore them, noiselessly."You have come back to Rhth, shor Nun?" "Yes, Seun. We promisedyou that when we left. And with someof our peopleas well. We hope to establisha colony here, near the ancient city; hope someday to learn again the secretsof the city builders, to roam space as they once did. Perhapswe will be able to occupy some of the longdesertedbuildings of the city and bring life to it again.,' 'A permanent colony?" askedSeun thoughtfully. "Yes,Seun." "There are many other cities here, on this planet, nearly as large, equippedwith all the things that made this city. To -y racethe quiet of the unstirredair is very dear;could you not as easilyestablishyour colony in Shao-or Loun-any of the other places?" ShorNun shookhis headslowly."l am sorry,Seun.We had hopedto live near you, that we might both discoveragain those forgotten secrets.We muststayhere,for this wasthe lastcity your peopledeserted;herein it areall the things they everbuilt, the lastachievementsof the city builders.We will

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aid you in moving your colony if you wish, to someother meadowlandnear the sea.All the t"otta is the sameto your people;only this city wasbuilt in this way; it was the last to be deserted."

Seun exhaledsoftly, looked at the ten men of Pareeth.His mind seemed groping,feelingfoi something.His deepblue eyesmistedin thought, then .t.rt a ttowly asRon Thule watched.Slowly,they movedfrom man to man of the group, pausinga moment at the anthropologist,catching Shor Nun's gazefor an instant, centering slowly on Ron Thule' Ron Thule lookedinto the deepeyesfor a moment, for a long eternitydeep,cleareyes,like mountain lakes.Subtly,the Rhthman'sfaceseemedto changeashe watchedthe eyes.The languor therechanged,becamea sense The pleasant,carefreeair became,someof limitlessness. of timelessness, how-different. It wasthe same, but as the astronomerlooked into those eyes,a new interpretationcame to him. A sudden, vastfear welled up in trim, so that his heartcontracted,and a suddentremor cameto his hands. "You haveforgotten-" he mumbled unsteadily."Yes-but you-" Seun smiled, the firm mouth relaxing in approval. "Yes, Ron Thule. That is enough. I soughtyour mind. Someonemust understand.Remember that only twice in the history of our racehavewe attemptedto alter the courseof another'shistory,for by that you will understandwhat I must do. " Seun'seyesturned away.Shor Nun waslooking at him, and Ron Thule realized, without quite understandinghis knowledge,that no time had elapsedfor theseothers.Now he stood motionless,paralyzedwith a new understanding. "We must stayhere," Seun'smind voice spokesoftly."I, too, had hoped we might live on this world together,but we aretoo different.We aretoo far apart to be so near." "You do not wish to move?" askedShor Nun sorrowfully. Seunlookedup. The twelvegreatinterstellarcruisershoveredclosernow, forming, almost,a roof overthis conferenceground. "That would be for the council to say,I know. But I think they would agreewith me, Shor Nun. " Vaguepicturesand ideasmovedthrough their minds, thoughtsemanating from Seun'smind. Slowly,his eyesdroppedfrom the twelveopalescent cruisersto the outstretchedpalm of his hand. His eyesgrewbright, and the linesof his facedeepenedin concentration.The air seemedto stir and move; a tensenessof inaction came over the ten men of Pareethand they moved restlessly. Quite abruptly, a dazzlinglight appearedover Seun'shand, sparkling, myriad colors-and died with a tiny, crystallineclatter.Somethinglay in

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his upturnedpalm: a round, small thing of aquamarinecrystal, shot throughwith veinsandarteries of softlypulsing,silverlight. It movedand alteredastheywatched,fadingin color,changingtheformand outline of light. Again the tinkling, crystallineclatter came, and some rearrangement had takenplace.There lay in his hand a tiny globe of ultimate nilht, an essence of darkness that no light could illumine, casedin a crystalsurface. stars shonein it, from the heart, from the borders,starsthat moved and turned in majesticsplendorin infinite smallness.Then faded. Seunraisedhis eyes.The darknessfadedfrom the crystalin his hand, and pulsing, little veinsof light appearedin it. He raisedit in his fingers,and nine of Pareeth's men fell back. Ron Thule lookedon with frozen. wooden face. A waveof blue haze washedout, caught and lifted the men and carried them effortlessly,intangibly back to the lock, through the lock. From the quiet of the grasslandsthey were suddenly in the steel of the ship that clangedand howledwith alarms.Greatenginesbellowedsuddenlyio life. Ron Thule stoodat the great,clearport light of the lock. Outside,Seun, in his softly glowing suit, floateda few feet from the ground. Abruptly, the greatatomic enginesof the Pareethshrilled a chorusof raveninghate, and from the three greatprojectorsthe annihilating beamstore out, shrieking destructionthrough the air-and vanished.Seun stoodat the junction of death, and his crystalglowed softly. Thelve floating shipsscreamedto the tortured shriek of overloadedatomics, and the planet below cursed back with quarter-mile-longtonguesof lightning. Somewhere,everywhere,the universethrummed to a vast, crystalline note, and hummed softly. In that instant, the green meadowlandof Rhth vanished;the eternalcity dissolvedinto blackness. Only blackness, starless, lightlessshoneoutsidethe lock port light. The soft,clearnote of the crystal hummed and beatand surged.The atomic engine'scry died full throated. An utter, paralyzedquiet descendedon the ship, so that the cry of a child somewhereechoed and reverberatednoisily down the steel corridors. The crystalin Seun'shand beat and hummed its note. The blackness beyondthe port becamegray.One by one, six opalescentshipsshifted into view in the blackness beyond,moving with a slow deliberation,asthough forcedby someinfinite powerinto a certain,predeterminedconfiguration. Like atomsin a crystallattice they shifted,seemedto click into placeand hold steady-neatly, geometricallyarranged.

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Then noisecamebackto theship;soundsthatcreptin, afraidof themselves, screams. poundingfeetof men,andwomen's andclamored; grewcourageous "We'reout of space," gasped ShorNun. "Thatcrystal-thatthing in his " hand "ln a spaceof our own," saidRonThule. "Waittill thenoteof thecrystal weakening slowly,to us,but it will begone,and diesdown.It isweakening, then-" Shor Nun turned to him, his dark eyesshadowed,his facepaleand drawn."What do you know-hs14r-" a crystalechoed RonThule stoodsilent.He did not know.Somewhere, andtinklingsound;the universeechoedto for a momentin rearrangement died away. tone it softly,asthe last, faint "ShorNun-Shor Nun-" a slow,wailingcry wasbuildingup in the feeton metalfloorsbecamea march. ship. Scampering of ShorNun sobbedonce."That crystal-theyhadnot lostthe weapons thecitybuilders.Spaceof our own?No-it islike thesorgan:It rotatesusto weknew-when all timehasdied,andthe theendof timelThis isthespace starsaregoneandthe worldsaredust.This is the end of the nothingness. their enemiesthus-by dumpingthem at the The city buildersdestroyed endof time andspace.I know.Theymusthave.And Seunhadthe ancient weapon.When the hummingnoteof the crystaldies-the lingeringforce of translation"Thenweshalldie,too. Die in thedeathof death.Oh, gods-Sulonseemed to slump Sulon,my dear-our son-" ShorNun, commander, port the light turned from toward his frozen rigidity. He abruptly away from the inner lock door. It openedbeforehim suddenly,and a technician stumbleddown, white facedand trembling. "Commander-ShorNun-the engines Theatomswill not arestopped. The powercellsaresupplyingemerexplode;no powercan be generated. gencypower,but the full strengthof the drivedoesnot moveor shakethe ship!What-what is this?" ShorNun stoodsilent.The shipthrummedandbeatwith thesoftening, dyingnoteof the universe-distant crystalthatheldall the beginnings and theendingsoftime andspacein a man'shand.The notewasfading;verysoft and sweet,it was.Through the ship the hystericalcry of voiceshad it wassoftening listeningto thedying changed; with thethrum, softening, threadof infinitelysweetsound. ShorNun shrugged his shoulders, turnedaway."lt doesnot matter.The is fading. force Acrossten million yearsthe city buildershavereachedto " protecttheir descendants.

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The note was very low-very faint; a quivering hush bound the ship. Beyond the port light, the six sister ships began to move again, very stealthily away,retreatingtowardthe positionsthey had held when this force first seizedthem. ThenShorNun's chokedcry wasdrownedin the criesof the othersin the lock. Blinding white light stabbedthroughthe port like a solid,incandescent bar. Their eyeswere hot and burning. Ron Thule, his astronomer's eyesaccustomed to rapid, extremechanges of light, recoveredfirst. His word wasindistinct,a crossbetweena sobanda chuckle. ShorNun stoodbesidehim, winking torturedeyes.The shipwaswaking, howling into a mad, frightenedlife; the children screamedin sympathetic comprehensionof their elders'terror. White, blazing sunlight on greengrassand brown dirt. The weathered grayof concrete,and the angular harshnessof greatbuilding cradles.A skylineof white-tipped,blue mountains,broken by nearer,less-majestic structuresof steeland stoneand glass,glinting in the raysof a strong,warm sun with a commonness,a familiarity that hurt. A vastnostalgiawelledup in them at the sightAnd died beforeanother waveof terror. "Darun Tara," said Shor Nun. "Darun Tara,on Pareeth.I am mad-this is mad. Acrazyvisionin a crazy instantasthe translatingforcecollapses. Darun Thraasit waswhen we left it six long yearsago. Changed-that half-finishedshed is still only three quartersfinished.I can seeThio Rog,the port masterthere,coming toward us. I am mad. I am five light yearsaway-" "lt is Darun Tara, Shor Nun," Ron Thule whispered.'And the city builderscould neverhavedone this. I understandnow. I-" He stopped.The whole, greatship vibratedsuddenlyto thwang like the plucked,bassstringof aTitan'sharp.Creaksand squeals,and little grunting readjustments,the fabric of the cruiser protested. "My telescope-" cried Ron Thule. He was running toward the inner lock door, into the dark mouth of the corridor. Again the ship thrummed to a vibrantstroke.The creakingof the girders and strakesprotestedbitterly; stressedrivets grunted angrily. Men pounded on the lock door from without. Thio Rog, Ton Gareth, Hol Brawn-familiar facesstaringanxiouslyin. Shor Nun moved dully toward the gate controls-

ShorNun knockedgently at the closed,metal door of the ship'sobservatory. Ron Thule'svoice answered,muffled, vague,from beyond.

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The commander opened the door; his breath sucked in sibilantly. "Space!"he gasped. "Come and see, come and see," the astronomercalled softly. ShorNun instinctivelyfelt his way forward on tiptoe. The greatobservatory room was space;it was utter blackness,and the corridor lights were swallowedin it the instantthe man crossedthe threshold.Blackness,starred by tiny, brilliant points, scatteredvery sparsely,in every direction. "Seun took the telescope,but he left me this, instead.I understandnow; he said that only twice had they attemptedto alter a race'shistory. "This is space, and that is Tioth, our own star. Watch-" The star expanded;the whole of this imagelessspaceexplodedoutward and vanishedthrough the unseen walls of the observatory.Tioth floated alone,centeredin the invisibleroom. Seventiny dotsof light hung nearit, glowing in its refected light. 'And that is our system.Now this is the star of Rhth-" Spacecontracted,shifted and exploded,leavingone shining, yellowish star, attendedby five brightly visible worlds. "The other planetsare too small or too dimly illumined to see.When I came there was a new systemdisplayed.This one." Another planetarysystemappeared. "That is the systemof Prother." "Prother!" Shor Nun stared. "Five and a half light-years away-and planets?" "Planets.Uninhabited,for I can bring eachplanetasnearasI will. But, voice-"though I can see Shor Nun"-sorrow crept into the astronomer's everydetail of eachplanet of that system,though I can seeeachoutline of the planetsof Rhth'ssystem-only thosethree starscan I see,closeby." "No other planetarysystems!" "No other planetarysystemthat Seunwill revealto us. I understand.One we won, on the right of our own minds, our own knowledge;we reachedhis worlds.We had won a secretfrom nature by our own powers;it waspart of the history of our race.They do not want to molest,or in any way influence the history of a race-so they permitted us to return, if only we did not disturbthem. They could not refuseus that, for it would be a breachin their feelingsof justice.

"But they felt it needfulto dispossess us, ShorNun, and this Seundid. But had he doneno more, our historywasaltered,changedvitally. So-this he gaveus; he has shown us another, equally near, planetarysystemthat we may use. We have not lost vitally. That is his justice."

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"His justice.Yes,I cameto you, RonThule, becauseyou seemedto know somewhatof the things that happened."Shor Nun's voice waslow in the dark of the observatory.He lookedat the floating planetsof Prother."What is-Seun? How hasthis happened?Do you know?You know that we were greetedby our friends-and they turned awayfrom us. "Six yearshave passedfor us. They wanted to know what misfortune made us return at the end of a single year,for only one yearhaspassedhere on Pareeth.My son wasborn, there in space,and he haspassedhis fourth birthday. My daughteris two. Yet thesethings have not happened,for we were gone a single year. Seun has done it, but it cannot be; Seun, the decadentsonof the city builders;Seun,who hasforgottenthe secretsof the shipsthat sailedbeyondthe starsandthe building of the Titan Towers;Seun, whosepeoplelive in a tiny villageshelteredfrom the rainsand the sun by a few green trees. "What are thesepeople of Rhth?" Ron Thule's voice wasa whisperfrom the darkness."I come from a far world, by what strangefreakwe will not say.I am a savage,a rising racethat hasnot learnedthe secretof fire, nor bow, nor hammer. Tell me, ShorNun, what is the nature of the two dry sticksI must rub, that fire may be born? Must they be hard, tough oak, or shouldone be a soft, resinousbit of pine? Tell me how I may make fire." "Why-with matchesor a heat ray-No, Ron Thule. Vaguethoughts, meaninglessideasand unclear.I-l haveforgottenthe ten thousandgenerations of development.I cannot retreatto a levelyou, savageof an untrained world, would understand.I-I haveforgotten." "Then tell me, how I must hold the f int, and wheremust I presswith a bit of deerhorn that the chipsshall fly small and even,sothat the knife will be sharpand kill my prey for me?And how shall I rub and washand treat the wood of the bow, or the skin of the slain animal that I may havea coat that will not be stiff, but soft and pliable?" "Those, too, I have forgotten. Those are unnecessarythings. I cannot help you, savage.I would greetyou, and showyou the relicsof our deserted pastin museums.I might conductyou through ancientcaves,wheremighty rock walls defended*y ancestorsagainstthe wild things they could not control. "Yes, Ron Thule. I have forgotten the development."

"Once"-Ron Thule's voice was tense-"the city builders made atomic generatorsto releasethe energybound in that violenttwist of spacecalledan atom. He made the sorganto distribute its power to his clumsy shellsof

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metal and crystal-the cavesthat protectedhim from the wild things of space. "Seun hasforgottenthe atom; he thinks in termsof space.The powersof spaceareat his direct command. He createdthe crystalthat brought us here from the energyof space,becauseit made easya taskhis mind alone could havedone. It wasno more needful than is an adding machine. His people have no ships;they are anywherein spacethey will without such things. Seun is not a decadentson of the city builders. His peopleneverforgot the dreamthat built the city. But it wasa dream of childhood, and his people werechildren then. Like a child with his broomstickhorse,the mind alone was not enough for thought; the city builders, just as ourselves,needed somethingof a solid metal and crystal,to make their dreamstangible." "My sonwasborn in space,and is four. Yetwe weregonebut a singleyear from Pareeth."Shor Nun sighed. "Our fleet took six yearsto crossthe gulf of five lighryears. In thirty seconds,infinitely fasterthan light, Seun returnedus, that there might be the minimum change in our racial history. Time is a function of the velocity of light, and five light-yearsof distanceis preciselyequal to five yearsof time multiplied by the squareroot of minus one. When we traversed five light-yearsof spacein no appreciabletime, we dropped back, also, through five yearsof time. "You and I have spenteighteenyearsof effort in this exploration, Shor Nun-eighteen yearsof our manhood. By this hurling us back Seun has foreverdeniedusthe planetswe earnedby thoselong yearsof effort. But now he does not deny us wholly. "They gaveus this, and by it anothersun, with other planets.This Seun gavenot to me, asan astronomer;it is his gift to the race.Now it is beyondus ever to make another. And this which projectsthis spacearound us will ceaseto be, I think, on the day we land on thoseother planetsof that other sun, whereSeun will be to watch us-as he may be herenow,to seethat we understandhis meanings. "l knowonly this-that sun I can see,andthe planetscircling it. The sun of Rhth I can see, and those planets, and our own. But-though these otherscameso nearat the impulseof my thoughts,no other sun in all space can I seeso near. "That, I think, is the wish of Seun and his race." The astronomerstiffenedsuddenly. Shor Nun stoodstraightand tense. "Yes," whisperedSeun, very softly,in their minds. Ron Thule sighed.

SpecialFlight In the early days of the Campbell era there was a constant searchfor new talent. One of the writers who respondedto the challenge ofAstounding wasJohn Berryman. I include this story to represent something o{ the breadth of SF at the inception of the modern period. It alsogivesa good idea of the sourcesof suchlater media avatarsasStarTiek, with irc heroic captain and international crew who relate to one another through tough and witty dialogue. Here is spaceadventure with a sincere concern for science and a real attempt at technological detail to increaseverisimilitude. Someof the details are justplain wrong (there is never a lackof gravity in the ship) and some today seem quaint (the useof slide rules), but this is typical early hard SE

chwabgravelyunfastenedthe buckleson his corset,one by one, and finally peeledthe garmentoff. "You know," he observed,holdingit up andlookingat it asthoughhe had neverseenit before,"l don't think I'd mind this iob half so much if I didn't haveto wearthat thing. I swearit'sdoing " Sympatheticlaughterfrom somethingto my subconscious. the rest of the Monitor's crew ran around the crew room. Spaceflying had its price, and part of it waswearing"straitjackets,"and heavy corsets. Captain Feathers,a little slowerabout his undressingthan the navigator,wasstill tugging idly at a zipper that refusedto 'Agh," slide. he breathedheavily,"it sureis goodto havea trip like that one. Not a murmur out of the rockets,no detours,

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" He leanedback and stretchedhis just a nice smooth ride in an elevator. shoulders. "What's the matter, Cap, getting old?" the navigatorcracked. "Not old, Schwab,"he repliedwith a smile; "iust weary." "You'll be anotherLex Cloatesbeforeyou know it!" Schwabshotbackat him from the shower door. "You'll be making each trip at maximum allowableaccelerationiust to get it over with!" Featherschuckled a little at the vagariesof some of the men who flew to the Moon. It wasn'tan easylife. The batteringof the rockets, spaceships all tendedto agea man unless the rackingof occasionalhigh accelerations, He wonderedto himself whether he kept in the peakof physicalcondition. to the planetswould ever materialize. The the dream of flying passengers Moon, ferrying the preciousoresfrom the to the forth shorthaul back and rich mines,washard enoughon a man. Shakingawayhis moodythoughts, he stood up, calling acrossto Buchanan, the computer, as he did: "Hey, Buck, what'veyou and your squawgot on for tomorrow night? How about somebridge?" The computer pausedat the showerdoor. "Why, I'd like to, Pete," he replied,"but I'm scheduledout at six the morning afterthat, I think. I can't makeitvery late." A chorusof denialsbrokeout. "Everything'scancelledfor three days,dope," Schwabyelledfrom insidethe shower."The Perseidsget here6 a.m. tomorrow.Hines told me the lastship left overtwo hoursago. Everybodypulled out for the Moon. " Buchananbeganto laugh. "That'sa scream.First vacationI've had in six months and I forgot all about it. All right, then, Pete, tomorrow night's O. K. " The showersbeganto hissasthe quickeronesjumped in and started the water. Feathershad just begun to strugglewith his corset when the phonerang.He pickedit up. "Yeah?Crew room." His facelit with concern. "What'sthat again?Slower,Harry." The headphonesqueakedagain."Good Lord! That'sterrible. Is it coming overthe ticker?"He waited an instantfor an answer,and then snapped:"I'll be right up." He slappedthe phoneback on the pedestalagain, and leapedto the showerroom, wherethe other nine of the Monitor's crew were luxuriating under the needlelikeiets. "Hey!" Feathers bawled."Hey! Shut offthat water!"A few complied,and in a moment all wasquiet, the men looking aroundshowercurtainsat the corset-cladcaptain."Listen, men," he said,speakingrapidly."There'sbeen a seriousaccidenton the Moon. Somethingwent haywireat No. 2 Mine. Hines just phoned. I'm beating it up to his office to take a look at what comes in on the teletype from headquarters,and you men better hang around on the ready.I don't think there'sanothership in the port; everybody elseis up at Mines City." He ran backto his lockerasa ripple of exclama-

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tions ran overthe men. Most of them leapedfor towels,while Feathers,who hadn't got wet, slippedinto his captain'sdungareesand dashedout of the room, tugging at the sticky zipper that exposedhis bare chest. The dispatcher'sglass-frontedoffice was on the ground floor of the AdministrationBuilding, and lit, at that latehour of the night, by only one green-shaded lamp on Hines'desk.The dispatcherwashunchedup in his swivelchair, leaningforward,nervouslyreadingthe tapethat wasstreaming from the teletype.His head snappedup as Feathersopenedthe door. "Hi, Pete," he got out in a quaveringtone, "this is awful!" Featherswent to the desk. "What's the story,Harry?" he asked.The dispatcherpassedhim the tape with shakinghands.His voice seemedstrained,unnatural, as he replied: 'All hell must havebroken looseat No. 2. Blissgot a phonecall through to Mines City a few minutesagoand saidthat maybeforty men werecaughtin some sort of an explosion in the smeltery.Hey! Here comes some more now!" He snatchedthe tape awayfrom Feathersand leanedoverto readthe purple printing on the yellow ribbon.

22,3478_06.30 AUG IO GMT_BLISSREPORTS FROM NUMBER TWO THAT SMEUTERPOT APPARENTLY EX. PLODED.FORTYSMEIIER HANDSTRAPPED.ADVISED THAT TRACTORWAS DUE AI NUMBERTWO AI THAI TIME FOR REGULARPICKUPAM MAKING INQUIRY. PLEASE ADVISE. HENDERSON. Hineslookedup. "God, that moltenmetalall overthe place.Wonder grewstony,granitelikein thegreenlight of howanygotout?"Feathers'face thelampshade.He lit a cigarette. The teletypebeganto clackagain.Hines readaloud: " 22,) 48F'- 06.34 AUG 1OGMT - BLISS REPORTSTRACTOR WAS IN SMERERY DOME AI TIME AND WAS BURIED UNDER THE MELT OPERATORKILLED. ADVISES FORTY. ONE DEAD NONE INJURED. INDICAIES NO IMMEDIATE EMERGENCY. HENDERSON." facewasturnedto Feathers, Hines'agitated eeriein thelight ashe stood up. "Noneinjured.Thosepoorguysneverhada prayer.What do youthink Pete?" happened,

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"Hell, I don't know.What do they mine there?" "No. 2?That'stantalum,I think. Oh, thatmusthavebeenfrightful!That potwasfilledwith moltenmagnesium. Theydissolve thetantalumout of its oreswith that. When that stuff hit the air, it must haveyankedevery moleculeof oxygenout." Feathers walkedoffinto theshadows of theoffice,out to thewindowthat formedthe front, lookingout to wherethe floodlightedMonitorstooderect in herloadingcradle.Her silverysidesgleamed,andfrom the gapinghole thatwasherafterhatch,hecouldseethecranesunloadingthepigsof metal, impurealloysaboutto be sentto the big refineries at Martin'sCreek,the Arizonadeserttownthathadbuilt itselfaroundthe Earth'sonly spaceport. fust as the teletypebeganto clackagain,Schwabcamein, followedby Prentiss,the computer's mate.All four leanedoverthe machine,reading thetapeasit passed out in shortjerksasthe operatorrattledoffa phraseat a time. 22,3198_06.36AUG IO GMT_BLISS REPORTSEXPLO. SION HURLED PART OF MELT ON TO ROOF OF TANK SHED. BOTH DOMES AT NUMBER TWO CUT OFF FROM OXYGEN. ASKS AID WITHIN TWELVE HOURS. DETAILS FOLLOWING. HENDERSON. (FOLO.) Herefolloweda detailedaccountof the predicament of the remaining hundredandten menat theNo. 2 workings.In smeltingthetantalumores, throughthe useof moltenmagnesium asa solventfor the refractorymetal, pressure createdthroughboilingthe magnesiumhad apparently burstthe pot. The hugecaterpillar-tread tractorusedto collectthe ingotsof metal from the severalminesthatsurrounded MinesCiV the Moon'sspaceport, hadiustloadedup afteritscall at No. 2 andwasaboutto leavewhencaught in thetorrentof incandescent metal.Thosewhowerenot in themineshaft itself,or in thebarracks dome,wereall killed.The remaininghundredand ten, however,had been cut off from their suppliesof oxygenby the explosion, whichhadcovered thetankshedanditscontentsof compressedoxygencylinderswith a greatblob of the liquid metal. The restof the Monitor'screw hadstraggled in in themeantime,andafter theyhadapprised themselves of thesituation,themenscattered themselves aroundin the shadowycornersof the room, sitting on desksand filing cabinets,waitingfor morenews.Hines,behindhis desk,showeda shiny, sweatyfacein the desklamp'scloistered glow.Cigarettes cut little redholes

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in the darknessof the corners,and soft murmurs of speculationstolearound the office. Outsidethe glassfront theMoniforwasstill the centreof buzzing activity, as the last of her metal cargo was being swung down. The clatteringof the phone burst in on the tensesilencelike a bomb. Hinessnatchedit up. "Yes?"he quavered.He listenedfor a moment."Right away,you mean?"The crew satlike statues,listening.More monosyllables from the dispatcher.With a final, "Yes, sir, right away,"he hung up and swung around to the expectantgroup. "That wasTurner.Thoseguyshaveto haveanothertractorright away.He saysto load that one that wasscheduledto go up next week, and cart it up tonight!" Silence greetedhis breathlessannouncement.Facesloomed whitely in the shadowas they looked from man to man. "What ship?" Schwabfinally drawled. "Well, it'll haveto be the Monitor. Everythingelseis up there.They were pulling out everycoupleof hoursall day to beatthe Perseids. Lastship left almost three hours ago." Schwablookedslowly to his left and right, and beforeFeathers,who was about to saysomething,could speak,the navigatorslowlysaid:"That'll be nice. The ship hasn'tbeen serviced,injector pistonshaven'tbeen lapped, and there'sa meteoroid storm in the offing. Yeah, nice trip, eh, boys?" Featherscut in: "You'd better get me Tirrner on the phone, Hines. I'd bettertalk to him." The dispatcherdialled the number and handedthe instrumentto the captain."Hello," he spokeinto it, "Mr. Tirrner?Captain Feathersspeakitg. . . Yes,sir. We'rethe only ship in port. fust got backabout an hour ago, maybea little longer. . Yes,sir, we'vebeen readingit asit cameoff the ticker. . That's what I wanted to speakto you about, sir. We're nowherenear readyto leave;we need to . . . Oh, certainly, I understand that. I know it'stheir only chance,but what do you meanby right away?The ship needssomeservice.Thoseinjectors-" He paused,draggingdeeplyon his cigaretteasTirrnerinterruptedhim, his voicesqueakingin the headset. Tirrnerfinally finished."Well, there'ssomethingin what you say,but I'd like to seea little done to them. But what'sthis about radio silence?. . . Don't the papersor newscasters know anything about it?" The crew satup; thatwas somethingnew."Oh, I see.O.K., we'll do that. Butthere'sone morething: what aboutthis Perseidstorm?"Feathers'eyes wanderedunseeing over the tensefacesof his crew as they leanedforward nervously,half obscuredin the dim light. "Yes,sir. I understandthat, but it seemsto me that it would be suicideto fy through the Perseidstorm. . . . All right, I'll call them, then, and havethem ring you. Thanks a lot." He hung up, but said nothing for a moment.

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"Well?" Hines demanded querulously."What did he say?" Feathers snubbedhis butt in an ash tray. "Thrner saysthat tractor is absolutelythe only hopethosemen have.They haveto cart oxygensomewayfrom Mines City to No. 2, and with the tractor up there buried in tantalum and magnesium, they can't use that. It's a good forty miles, too." He looked 'Another thing, not a word of this to anybody;don't even around the group. phoneyour wives.They haven'tlet this out yet. We can't evenuseour radio on the way up. " "Sry, what'she handing us?" Schwabbroke in. "What did he sayabout thosemeteoroids?"A chorus of assentsto his questionbroke out. Feathers shookhis head. "He saidto call the Observatoryand find out from them the latestpossiblehour of leaving. I think that guy expectsus to go, no matter what they sayat the Observatory.He made somecrackabout our havingthe only new detector-calculatorin the whole fleet, and that that should get us through any meteoroid storm. What do you think about that, Buck?" he askedthe computer. "Hah!" Buchanan shot back, with scorn. "That machine may be pretty goodat finding rocksin the skyand shovingus awayfrom them, it may even be the best in existence,like the manual says;but it can only do five body problems, and they come in bigger batchesthan that at the height of the storm. Don't you think so?" he askedhis mate. Prentissassented."That's right, Captain. After all, that is the first one they ever installed in a spaceship,and we've only had it this one trip. We aren't too familiar with it yet." "Yeah,"Buchananbeganagain."Besidesthat, we didn't havea peepout of the detectorsthe wholetrip, both ways.We'veneverevenseenthe darned thing work. It may be good, and fast, and then again it may be another queery.I don't know.' He mumbled into incoherence,shakinghis headas though affairs had got beyond his understanding. "You seewhat I mean," Prentisscontinued."Even we don't know how well the thing works." Buchananinterruptedhim: "Oh, I imagineit workslike they say,but it would have to be better than it is to get us through the Perseidstorm." Listening intently to all that wasbeing said, Feathershad at the sametime dialled a number. His connection completed,he beganspeakinginto the mouthpiece."Hello. I'm calling for Ttrrner.Is it possiblefor a ship to leave tonight and yet beat out the Perseidstorm, and if so, what'sthe latestsafe hour of departure?. . . Well, can't you tell me that?Can't you . . Yes, y€S,"he interruptedtestily,"l know all that, but this is imperative.. . . Well, get the old dopeout of bed. I'm holding the wire. . . . All right, call me back, then. This is an emergency,stupid!"

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"Thosedamn astronomers!" he swore."They'reall alike.The universeis Lord knowshow many billion yearsold, sothey figure they haveat leastthat long again to do anything!" "What'd they say?"the navigatorqueried. "Oh, some old sap answeredthe phone and said the chief astronomer would haveto be consulted,and would I call in the morning! They'll let me know in a few minutes." He appropriatedthe swivelchair that Hines had left while he pacedback and forth, and leanedfar back. "Sry," he observed,as his announcementraisedno comment, "whether we can go or not, it wouldn't hurt any to have them load that tractor. That'll savea little time." Hineswavedhis hand. "l forgotto tell you," he saidto Rathers, "Tirrner alreadygavethe order. It should be being piled in now " He bent down to peer through the window, and up. Three of the largestcraneswere cooperatingin loading the forty-foot vehicle into the Monitor'safter hold. A long hosewasdrapedout of the smallercentralhatch. Feathersinquiredas to the latter. "Oh, I guesstheyfigurethat if you'regoing,you might aswell takea load. It'll takesometime to tie that tractordown in there." Schwab,who had been unusuallyquiet for sometime, explodedat this. "H.y, what the hell? Tirrner actslike we're going, no matter what. Well, you boys can count me out. This whole thing soundslike a contestto seewho can think up the easiest way to get killed. You boys can be heroes.I'm keeping one foot on the ground tonight." Campbell and McCleod, Scotch engineerand engineer'smate, joined the discussionat Schwab'soutburst. "Ayr," yelled the engineer,"those injectorswill be overmeterin'inside of an hour, and we'll all get our guts ierkedout. I'm in nae mood for the ride!" The pent-up feelingsof the crew broke as a babel of voicesrose to condemn or approvehis sentiment. Feathersremainedsilent-not an extraordinaryperformancefor himnot moving till the phone rang again. Quiet fell with a thud. "Hello," Featherssaidsoftly."Yes,Feathersspeaking.. . . Oh, I see.Well, that'snot sobad. . . . At 2 p.*. Greenwichmeantime, AugustlOth. What is that by our time? . . . Uh-huh. Well, that leavesus aboutsevenhoursyet, doesn't it? . . . Will you pleaseget in touch with Tirrner?. . . Thanks. Oh, one more thing: what about the Moonlets?Will therebe any detours?. . No, there'sno fight forecastfor tomorrow no operationswere scheduled Yes, will you phone as soon as you get that, please,for a take-off." He paused,coveringthe mouthpieceashe called to Hines: "When will we get off, at this rate, Ha::y?" "By midnight, I guess."

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"Hello. For a take-offat l2 midnight, mountain time, August9th. . . . Yes,that'sit." He placed the phone back on the pedestal,turning to face the crew. "lt isn't so bad, men," he announced."The Observatorysays that Ti:rner cancelledoperationsalmost a day early in order to avoid any possiblemeetingswith the straysthat usually precedethe main body of the storm, and that we will easilyavoid the front of the meteoroidsif we get off by 6 a.m. tomorrow. I still think we should scram as soon as possible." Schwabwason his feet in an instant. "Say,listen here," he demanded ungrammatically,"we still haven't figured anything about those injectors. You know they ought to be lappedthirty-six hours after everyflight. Those babiesare worn from this last jaunt. We'll never get there without them being serviced. For Pete'ssake,can't those boys on the Moon figure out anything?" Feathersrubbedthe stubbleon his jaw and lookedaround the crew."The worstof our worriesis out of the way,"he observedslowly."We may havea little trouble with thoseinjectors.I don't deny it, but for the love of Mike, Schwab,there'sa hundredand ten men dependingon us for their lives!This is no time to worry about a rough ride! We're going!" Schwabwalked up next to the desk,where the light from Hines' greenshadedlamp made him clearlyvisibleto all. "I hate to remind you," his slow,acid tonesground out, "of what happenedthe lasttime somewiseguy senta ship out without lapping the injector pistons.Wallaceand his gang are still out there, floating around, nobody knowswhere. I'm afraid I don't appreciateTirrner'sinvitation to become part of the matter making up Feathers'Comet!" He stopped,staring defiantly at Feathers.The captain remainedsilent."Damn it all!" Schwabcried. "Do all you guyswant to be heroes?That'scheapstuff, and you know it. Listen here, Hines," he rasped, buttonholing the dispatcher,"you're the dispatcherhere. Nothing can leave unlessyou O.K. it. What do you say?Are you going to let thesesapsmake the scoreten more at No. Z?" Hines'pallidfacepeeredoverat Feathers, andthen he croaked:"l'll check you out. It's O. K. by me." 'All Feathersdidn't give Schwabanotherchance to remonstrate. right, men, get backinto your strait-jackets.Inspectionin the control room in ten minutes." Campbell steppedforward. "C.p," he began, and as Feathersnodded, said:"Thoseinjectorswon't be so bad, Schwab.We didn't cut a one out on the way in. We'll make it. I'll nursethem like a mother, I will!" The navigatorsnarledincoherently. Feathersspokeagain: "Schwab, you wait here a minute. The Observa-

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tory is sending through the dope on the detours for Moonlets in a few minutes. You'll want that." The other eight started back to the crew room to strap their corsetsand protectors back on, and Feathersand Schwabwaited in front of the dispatcher's desk."H.y," Featherscalled after "l the retreatingmen, don't carehow hungry you are, don't eat anything. We may have a rough trip, and I don't want any of you guys getting sick on me." The navigatorstartedto remonstrateonceagainwith his chief asthe three satwaiting for the call from the Observatory,but the captain cut him short. "Now listen, Schwab,I've had about enoughof this. What'sthe matterwith you?You'd think that after two yearsof this you'd be usedto it. You'vebeen on rough ridesbefore.You didn't die. Now cut the chatterand get that sour look off your puss, or does it belong there?" The reprimandseemedto makeSchwabbitterer."O. K., chief. fust asyou say.The RoverBoysto the rescue.But wait till a few of thosePerseidsshow up early.We shouldn't be flying, and you know it!" Then he shut up, his dour countenancegrowing,if that werepossible,moretart. The wordcame at last, giving Schwabone little bit of satisfaction.None of the Moonlets would intercept the Monitor's course from a midnight take-off. Schwab found somethingto gripe about, however."What the hell, " he complained. "No Moonletsto navigatearound, what do you needme for? I'd betterstay home." Feathers'scorching glance conveyedthat he would stand for no more. The two steppedout of the door and walked in silenceacrossthe concreteaprontowardsthe loadingdock, consciousof the clinging August heat of the desert. Schwabglancedoverto wherethe long launching ramp could be seen, bathedin the blue-white glareof enormouslights asit stretchedits two-mile length up the slope.Then he bowedhis headagain, fixing his fierce gazeon the concreteapron ashe sworesoftlyto himself, not evenglancingup at the toweringhull of the Monitor asthey approachedit. Feathers'eyesshotup to the shiny spaceship,rising a hundred and fifty feet over his head, where its chromium-platedbulk refectedin bright, tiny pointsthe myriadsof lights that are strung around a spaceport,and mirrored in a dazzlingstreakthe floor lights that blazeddown upon the launching ramp. Now that the after hatch had beenclosed,the smooth, round hull wasapparentlyunbrokenby a port or hatch for almost its entire length. The nose, however,appeared transparent,for it washerethat the control room periscopesstaredout into the void. Below the quartz plates of the nose, protected by the heavy meteoroidwall, lay the control room, and beneaththat, nine more decksfor cargoand machinery.The sterndriving rocketswerehidden by the loading

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cradle,giving theMonitorthe appearanceofa long, thin eggheld upright in an egg cuP. As they reachedthe loading cradle, the glowering Schwabfollowed the still-silent Feathersup the ladder to the Monitor's "back door," her lowest hatch, reallyan airlock, openingon I deck. They enteredthe lift and shot up the length of the spaceshipto the control room on A deck.

The lift door slid open and the two men steppedinto the control room. Buchanan,the computer,and Prentiss,his mate, were bending over the newly installed calculator, while the rest of the crew wasdisposedaround the room in variousposturesand positions.Pease,first mate, steppedfrom behind the chart tableand handedFeathersthe manifest."Crp," he greeted him, "all's secure.They stuck in some canned goodsand five hundred gallonsof milk to keepcool besidethe tractor." Feathersnoddedsilently as he signedthe paper, and walked over to the calculator. "Well, Buck," he began, "is that thing all right?" "Sure," the computer replied. "She'sa beauty. We can get five body approximationson this as easyas we got three on the old one." Eyeing the complex"shuffler" from its shiny new InternationalBusiness Machines label to the intricate complexity of the photo-electricsorters, Featherscracked:"Something tells me it had better do all the Fuller brush man said it would. I'm expectinga little trouble this trip." Schwab'sexplosive"Hah!" ierkd Feathers'head around. "Oh, yes?"he asked."Where'sCampbell? He was here a minute ago." "He's down checking the rockets, chiefl" Clement, navigator'smate, replied. Schwabyankedhimself out of his seatbehind the navigator's deskand stampedtowardsthe lift. 'All I've got to say,"he ground at the foor, "is that that thing betterbe fast, and it betterbe good. I just can't wait till a few pull in a little aheadof their time. They aren't sohot on arrivalsand Perseids " He snappeda glancebackat the frowning Feathers."You know departures. what they need,don't you, Cap?A smartdispatcherlike Hines to tell them when to pull in here!" He swungthe lift door open viciouslyasit rosefrom I deck, and leanedout of the cageto call, finally: "Who'staking her out, CrR firsts or seconds?" Featherssuckedin a deepbreath. "I guessI'll takeher out, Schwab." He lookedoverto the others."You secondsbettergo below for a little rest.We'll

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change watchesevery hour unless the going gets too rough." Schwab allowed the door to slam shut and the lift whined as it dropped him to the bunk room on B deck.Smiling andshakinghis head,the captaindialledthe engineroom on the phone."Hello, Campbell?"he finally said."Well, what aboutthoseiniectors?"His painedgrin revealedthat the engineer's opinion of said injectors, in spite of his optimistic sentimentsin the dispatcher's office, wasat extremelylow ebb. When Campbell'sprofanityhad run itself into incoherency,Featherstried again: "ls there anything you can do with them?" Again the headsetcrackled as Campbell indicated his general 'All dissatisfaction with the situation. right, listen, I'll be down in a couple of minutes. I want to checkoverthe servicerecords." He hung up aftera few 'Agh," more words. he grunted to the ventilator screen,"l'd hate to have another ride like that one two months back." The computer and his mate nodded their agreement. Tho months previouslythe injectorsof the Monitor, apparentlypoorly lapped in by the shopcreq had begunto overmeter,injecting excesschargesof fuel into the rocket chambers.In order to prevent enormousaccelerationsfrom being achieved,four chamberseventuallyhad to be cut out, and the majority of the flight made in a jarring madhouse. Getting out from behind the control board, Feathersasked:"How long before we get off, Buck?" Prentissreplied for his superior:"Less than an hour, now, Captain." The captain walkedto the lift door. As he pressedthe button and waited for the cageto rise from B deck, he said:"Run through the instrument checksfor me, will you, Pease?I'm taking a look around below." The lift dropped him quickly through eight decks.Campbell was not in sight ashe steppedout, so, with a word to McCleod, Featherswent down the spiral stairwaythat led to I deck. He was still checking over the servicerecord sheetwhen the squeakof Campbell'srubber-soledshoeson stairsmade him look up. the steel-webbed "Hi, skipp€r,"the Scotchmangrinned, "and what do ye find?" Featherssmiled wanly. "Nothing, Willy," he replied. "Pretty even distribution of failures." The engineerknelt down on the deck, and beganto examinethe throttle settingon the injectoratopNo. I tube, carefullyenteringon a slip of paper the setting.He madehis wayaroundthe circle of eight headsthat protruded slightly through the deck, ducking under the huge girdersthat all but filled the tiny space.With worriesover the chance of running into a meteoroid storm fairly well dispersed,Feathers,not to mention certain membersof his creq was still concernedover the fuel injectors. Mounted atop each rocket chamber, so that they could be servicedin flight, the iniectorswere really tiny meteringdevices,Lilliputian pumps

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to forcean infinitesimal,but rigidlyconstant,quantityof waterdesigned of the catalystplatewith the atomicrockets-into the presence fuel of the alloys,andmachinedwithin Formedof thehardest everyblastoftherockets. thepistonsof theiniectorpumpsstill wore tolerances, themostmicroscopic withdrawalfrom use.If those their occasional sufficientlywith useto cause pistons,alreadypartlywornfrom the fight in from the Moon, woremuch rocketblastswould becomenumbing, bruising more, the overcharged rackingmindsandbodiesuntil mencouldno longerstand. crashes, hischeck.*No. 7'sthrottleiscut fartherback Campbellfinallycompleted than the rest,Pete,"he reported."We mayhaveto cut that oneout pretty soon.Ah, I wishwe'drun downto the shops." "Why so?"he asked. raisedhis eyebrows. Feathers And the Scotchmanreplied: "Why, because hitchedup with an X-ray they'vegota photo-micrometer pistons withouttakingthem measured I those there. coulda down machine Oncethey'reout, theynevergobackin right." Feathers out of thecylinders. nodded,startingfor the stairs,for I deck,low in thetail of the Monitor,was thelift shaftin additionto theenormous notlargeenoughto accommodate rocketsin place.Pausing at thelift door, girdersthatheldthenowquiescent Feathers calledout to Campbell,who wasstill below:"That tractortied in tight?" '4y., she'llnot budge." 'O.K. I don't wantit shiftingaroundif we startdodgingmeteoroids." in the instrumentcheckwhenFeathers stepped Pease wasstill engaged his seat out of the lift again.At a touch on his shoulderhe surrendered job. Accumulators, carbon behind the board, Featherscompletingthe checked,beforethe dioxidetanksremainedto be tested,the pyrometers captainfipped overthe "Ready"light switch,its purpleflashingoverthe in everycompartment that boardbeingrepeated of the spaceship. Satisfied jack forthelaunching,Feathers pluggedin thespaceport all wasin readiness phone, of the and in a momentspoketo the dispatcher. "Hello. Feathers reportingall set.Say,Harry,what'sthe numberof this fight? . . . Fourseventy-six, eh?Any last-minutemeteoroidnews?"After "Nothing Hines'laconic new,Pete,"Feathers said:"Say,Harry,don'tlower us into that launchingcradletill the lastminute,will you?I don't wantto hanghereby my belt and not be ableto movearound.Wait till 11.55. O.K.?" Hinesspokefor a few seconds, to which the captainreplied,"No, no, Harry.We'll pull out at 12midnight.The fifteenminuteswon'tmake that much difference.Anyway,the Observatory gaveme that coursefor a midnighttake-offatthirty-sixfeetpersecondpersecondacceleration, and we'dprobablyloseasmuchtimedetouringsomeofthe Moonlets,if wetook

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off early,aswe'dgainby leavingthen.We'reluckyto missthem, I think." Hereached up for thejackasHinesspokea lastfewwords."Yeah,sure,we'll takeit easy. Thiswon'tbehard."He hungup, andunplugging thejack,he snapped on theaddress systemwhichcarriedhis brusquesyllables through the variousspeakers all overthe ship:"First crewto stations.Thke-offin hventy-twominutes."

At ll:55 p.m., August 9th, the control-boardphone light flashed,and Hines'voicecameoverthe headsetwhen Feathers pickedit up. "O.K. Pete, into the cradlewith you. Good luck, boy." Feathershung the mike backon the hook and snappedon the warninggong,which filled the metal bowelsof the Monifor with its clamour. The huge ship began to tilt as the hydraulic iacksloweredher into the launchingcradle,andcameto restat an angleof twelvedegrees,the slopeof the launching ramp. The tilting swivel chairswere leanedfar back in an effort to keepthe crew somewherenearvertical while the whole ship waited with intense expectancythrough the last few minutes. Through the periscope plate could be seen the two-mile ribbing of the launching ramp, stretchingout aheadof the ship, and off to the left the lights of the neverquiet refinerytown blinked solemnly,reflectedalmostapologeticallyby the starsin the cloudlesssky.The twenty rails on which the cradle restedwere shining ribbons that reflectedthe glare of the floodlights. Only the faint pantingof the air purifierstestifiedto the factthat living beingswereinside the Monifor'sgleaminghull. As the split-secondhand of the chronometer climbed up to the last minute, each man in the crew tensedhimself, gatheringhis abdominalmusclesto resistthe enormousacceleration developed by the launching catapult and the ship'sown rocketsacting in conjunction. |ust as that hand swung to vertical the cradle rumbled into motion. A grinding noisefilled the Monifor asshestartedher breathlessflight up the rails of the inclined ramp. After a mile of prodigiousaccelerationunder the actuationof the catapult, the ship'ssternrocketscut in with a stuttering roar and in an instant the Monifor had hurled off the end of the ramp, flashedacrossthe valleyadjoining the hill from which it leaped,andquickly disappearedinto the night. Following the first quick dashup the ramp, the accelerationdecreasedto thirty-six feet per secondper second,only one-eighth more than gravity. Steeringrocketsof gasolineand liquid oxygenflashedand turned the noseof

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the Monitor up to sixtydegrees.It had long beforebeenfound impossibleto usethe atomic rocketsfor steering,sincesufficientdelicacyof control could not be achieved. The spaceshipclimbed but slowly at first. Her departure, noticed by a newshound at the space port, made early editions under the caption, "spaceshipMakesQuick Turnabout,"while the real reasonfor the hurried departurewaskept from him. For the storythat nevermade the papers,the news that nevercame over in a newscast,lay hidden in Campbell'sworn injectors, in the well-kept secretthat every spaceshiphad been cancelled out of the etherhoursbeforetheMonitorleapedoffthe end of the launching ramp, bound through a spacethat washourly expectingthe arrival of a great massof meteoric material, the August Perseids. Slowly shedrew awayfrom Earth, her initial accelerationrelativeto the surfacebeing only four feetper secondper second.As the accelerationof the spaceshipwas maintained constantat one and one-eighthtimes gravity,it would be acceleratingat the rate of thirty-six feet per secondper second relativeto the surfaceat the two-hundred-thousand-milemark, where the reversalwasto be made. Becauseof the smalleraccelerationof gravityof the Moon, a similar decelerationwould enable the Monitor to lose its velocity in the remaining fifty thousandmiles. While the mean distancebetween Earth and its satelliteis only 238, 000 miles, the fact that both bodiesrotate, necessitatinga curved course, made the actual distancecoveredalmost exactly250,000miles. While Schwab sat idly by and watched, Feathersbegan to place the Monitor on her course.The first three hundred miles, through the atmosphereof Earth, alwaysrequiredthe pilot'shandson the controls,but, once clear of disturbing forces, the ship ran herself. Since no detours were necessary-all the Moonletsbeing outsidethe optimum course-Feathers setup a simple equationon the ruled, translucentnavigationpanel. A tiny amber light glowed through it, and then, as he threw a secondswitch, a secondlight, white, appearedto denote the Monitor's course. Feathers' handsmovedlightly and quickly from control to control ashe attemptedto stopthe motion of the white light and to get it to coincide with the amber. Sincethe amber light wasnot, aswassometimesthe case,moving, the task of compensatingthe point was simple and soon finished. Schwabat lastbrokethe silence."Gee, it sureis tough to havenothing to do for once. Why don't somewise guy land on those Moonlets and blow them all to hell, then navigatorscould alwayssit around and watch the rest of you guys work." Featherssmiled over at him. "You'd love it if we had a lot of meteoric stuff, wouldn't you, Schwabby?I think you'd be torn into little shredsby the

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'l conflict of your emotions.One sideof you would be screaming, told you 'Dammit so,' while the other was howling, to hell."' The navigatorlaughednastily."There'sone consolationI have,Pete.Yes, sir. That dumbbell Hines wassoexcitedhe forgotto hit me for the ten bucks I owe him. And if I don't come back, the sap is stuck for it!" The eight rocketchambers,firing in smooth rotation, gaveno trouble at the take-off. The detectorsremained quiet as no meteoric material came within the rangeof their electromagneticfields. Since virtually all meteoriteshad been found to contain conductingmaterials,it had been found feasibleto use magnetic detection, coupled with automatic calculating machines. These compound detector-calculatorscould take a seriesof observationson a moving conductor,compute its courseand velocity,and determinewhethera collisionwith theMonifor wasimminent in a tenth of the time it would have taken human observersmerely to ascertainthe position of the body. The calculatoritself, built by InternationalBusinessMachines, could relayits informationto the autopilotin the eventa collisionthreatened,and the latter machine could then correct the course to avoid the possible danger.The determinationof the courseand velocity of any singlebody was perfect, but when two or more conductorsfell within the range of the due to the impossibilityof detectors,approximationsbecamenecessary, solvingthe problem of three bodies.The courseand velocity of asmany as five bodiescould be calculatedin the time necessaryfor escape. As the Monitor finally passed,with increasingvelocity,throughthe lastof and the planetbeganto takeon a globularappearance, Earth'satmosphere, noticeda slight roughnessin the rockets."Hell," he thought, "not Feathers " His four thousandmilesout and that damnedmotor is cutting up already. eyesstoleover to Schwab, seatedbehind his navigator'sdesk, and then to chair. Buchanan,who wasdozing in his deep-cushioned Schwabstaredbackat him with a knowing leer.He noddedhis headvery slowly up and down. Finally he opened his mouth, drawing in a deep breath. "Well," he slowly draggedout, "you boyswantedto be heroes.Now it'scoming." Feathersshookhis headand glancedat the skin pyrometers.Now that they wereclear of Earth'sshadow,the Sun side of the Monitor wasbeginning to heatup, in spiteof the mirror-like sheenof its chromium plating and the best insulationthat man could provide. Featherspicked up the mike. Mueller answeredfor the engine room. "Hello, Mueller," he said,recognizinghis voice,"tell Campbellto turn her forty-fivedegreeseveryfive minutes from now on. That milk will go sour if it getswarmedup." He hung up, then jerkedhis headtowardsthe board as

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the red detectorlight flashedthe warning that a pieceof conductingmaterial large enough to damagethe Monitor had come within its range. With a rattle and a whir the calculatorspunched and sortedthe cards.But in six secondsa greenlight blinked the assurancethat the body the detectorshad located would not intercept the Monitor's course. Schwabgloweredin Feathers'direction. Now that the spaceshipwasaway from Earth, disciplinewaslessformal than ever."CaP," he said in a sour tone, "how'd you like to run into a few Perseidsa little in advanceof their time?" Feathersseemedmore cheerful than he had been all night. "How'd you like to quit grousing?"he chuckled."Your wife will think you're a hero!" Schwab'sface got no cheerier,but he remained silent. The phone rang. Feathers,who had left the chair at the board and was 'Thke it, Buck, I'm busy." Buchanan drinking at the water cooler, called: picked up the mike and slipped on the headphone. "Yeah?'he ground into the mike. "Oh, no, not sobad up here. How does it sounddown there?. . . Is that so?. . . Well, wait a minute, I'll askPete. Hey, Cap," h. calledto Feathers,"Campbell sayshe hasthe throttle on No. 7 cut all the way back, but she'sstill overmetering.He'shad to cut firing speeddown four per cent to keep up as at thirty-six per second." Featherscame from the water cooler. "l'll take it. . . . Hello, Willy? What's the story?. . No, it isn't too bad. Leaveit in till I call you. Save those others." He glanced around after he hung up, eyebrowsraised in question. Schwab,still practicallyrelievedof his duties by the absenceof Moonlets, had time to grousesome more. "That chamber will be cut out in ten minutes, I'll bet you ten bucks." As though to prove his statement,the roughnessincreasedperceptibly. As Feathersreached for the phone, it suddenlybecamea jarring seriesof smashes,and beforehe had dialled Campbell, the bridge crew felt the ailing chamber cut out of the circuit. "Christmas," breathedBuchanan, "that one sure let go in a hurry. Two more secondsof that and I deck would have smackedus in the pants." Feathersnow had Campbell on the phone. "What d'ya think, Willy?" he asked.Campbell'sreply was optimistic again, but Feathers,more than a little concernedwith the early and sudden breakdown,askedagain, "Do you think things are starting to fall apart?"A minute later he snappedthe mike backon the hook and saidto Schwaband Buchanan, "Campbell says that wasNo. 7. It wasworn worsethan the rest.He didn't expectit to last. I guessthe othersare going along better than he had hoped." The flashing of the detector light interrupted further conversation.All eyeswereon the deadgreensignalon the board, waiting for it to fash "safe."

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But after eight secondsthe Monitor lurched as gasolineand oxygen were poured to the steeringrocketsby the automatic pilot. Buchanan, who had iusthad time to getto his chair from the charttable,but not enoughto snap his safetybelt, wasthrown out, skiddedacrossthe rubber floor, to wind up againstthe ventilatoropening. He sworewith vigour.The rubberfoor had rubbeda good-sizedpieceof skin offhis cheekbone.After a quick glanceat the detectorlight, and seeing that it was now green, he hurried to the first-aidkit to repair his slightly scrambledfeatures.Schwab, after noting the deviation from the original coursewhich had occurredin escapingthe meteoroid,pouredpowerinto the steeringrocketsand correctedthe course.Glancing at the return slip from the calculator,sinceBuchananwasstill engagedin fixing the abrasion on his cheek, he remarked:"Some rock, Buck. Mass, one hundred tons; velocity,forty-sixmilesper second;course,sixty-fourdegreesfrom a tangent at eighty-threedegreeson the Earth'ssurface." He lookedup for a moment. 'Well," he announcedslowly,"that wasn'tan asteroidgonewrong, anyway. A good seventydegreesfrom the plane of the ecliptic. What do you think, Pete;could it have been a Perseid?" Featherspursedlips. "Let'ssee,"he mused,"they comefrom Perseus,but the radiant movesabout one degreea week. Where would that be now Buck?" he askedthe computer. Buchanan returned to the calculator and punched its keysfor three minutes in silence.Finally he spoke."That's about three degreesfrom their solarcourseand about six degreesfrom the angleat which the Perseidshit the atmosphereof Earth. And the velocity is almost exactly right. Well, I'll say it's a Perseid.After all, a few straggle through hereall the time betweenMarch 20th and late in September.We justhit the centralmassthe lOth, I lth and l2th of August." He lookedup at Feathersas he finished speaking. The captain left the control board and walked over to the chart table. "Say,Schwab,do you think they will get any thicker?Isn't the front of that storm due in a few hours?" The navigatorsnortedin disgust.He glancedover at his Manual but did not pick it up. Suddenly his head snappederect. "(Jm, I don't know. Ordinarily I'd saythat that rockwasoneof the regularonesthat sailthrough here all summer, and that we wouldn't be likely to encountermuch heavy stufffor the restof the trip, but I just thought of somethingthat I bet Hines and that whole flock of astronomersnever figured on. " He picked up the Manual, but did not open it. Still carryingthe volume, he walkedoverto the boardphoneanddialledthe bunk room on B deck."Give me Clement," he said, and a minute later, "Hello, Clem. Say,do you rememberthe associated comet of the Perseids? . . . Yeah, well, what do they call that

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thing?" There was a pause,then, "Hm-m-m, that'sit, I remember now. Think the dopeon it will be in the Manual?. . . Yeah,well, if it isn't I'll try that, too. . . . You bet. Sleeptight. " Slinging the mike backon the hook, he facedFeathers."Listen, Pete,"he ,rrrpp.d, "maybe there'sgoing to be trouble. Those Perseidsseem to be with the unnamed comet, 1862, III, and it may be coinciding associated this year with the heavysectionof the Perseidstream." Featherslooked at him, frowning, "What do you mean, Schwab?"he asked.The navigator stoodup and movedoverto the telescopemounting. As he snappedoff the dust covershe spoke. "Back in 1867, I think it was, someold bird noticed that the November Leonids revolvedin an orbit identical with that of Temple'sComet. Since then quite a few cometshave been associatedwith meteor streams.This particularone doesn'tagreevery well, and usuallyisn't listedasan associated comet." With the telescopebroken out, he returnedto the navigator's table and snapped severalvolumes out of the acceleration-proofbook holder. After severalminutes, during which the detectorlit up twice, only to showthe greenlight both times, he roseagainand went to the telescope. He pressedthe motor contactsand swungthe eyepiece."Yeah," he grunted, "here it is." He left the telescopechair and returnedto his navigator'sseat. "Pete," he said, "we may be in for it." He Swunghis chair around and facedthe captain."That comet, 1862,lll, hasa periodof a little betterthan one hundred and tweng-one years,and the Perseidsare stretchedout in a long ellipsemuch like the comet'sorbit, and havea period of one hundred and five and a half years.This comet and the Perseidsare coinciding in the vicinity of the Earth for the first time in severalcenturies.It may seriously " Schwab staredat Feathers,who staredback in accentuatethe showers. silence. "Hell, Schwab,"he finally said, "I don't seewhat differenceit'll make. That detector-calculatorwill solvefive body problemsand shoveus away from bigger groups. How close do you figure the bodieswill be to each other?" Schwableafedthrough the Manual. "Well," he replied, "in that famous 1833showerthey figured the bodiesto be about fifteen miles apart. At our velocity that meansthey'd be a solid mass.I don't suppose,though, that Perseidswould get that thick, but even a hundred miles betweenbodiesis closeat this speed." Silencegreetedhis announcement.The detectorflashedred, and then, after a few seconds'rattle from the calculator,greenagain. Feathersbit his lips and read the board instrumentsautomaticallythrough squintedeyes. He snappeda look at the chronometer.Fifty-eight minutes.That wasabout

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seventhousandmiles. He bowedhis head, steepedin thought, then turned slowly to facethe bared-toothedSchwab."Do you think they'retoo thick to go through, Schwab?" The navigatorlooked bitterly at him for a long time before replying. "What am I supposedto say?"he asked,at last. "You won't turn back now. Of coursewe can makeit. This trip is a breezefor guyslike us. Why, we'll never notice thoselittle pebbles!"Feathersdidn't pressthe point. What Schwab had said was true. The navigatorsuddenly began again. "By everythingholy,that guy Hines won't get his ten bucksif I do getback!What the hell, Pete,"he said, facingFeathersagain, "we'll make it o.K. It'sjust that you strong men get me sore." BeforeFeatherscould speakagain, a soft-tonedgong announcedthe end of the first watch. He remainedsilent until Pease,the mate, Clement, navigator'smate, and Prentiss,computer'smate, filed from the lift. "Seven thousandmiles out," he gritted to Pease."The rocketsare behaving too well, and Schwabsayswe'regoing to havea meteorstorm like you've never seen.Seewhat you can do with it, Andy." Peasegrinned his replyand took Feather's placeat the board. "No trouble at all, Pete," he chuckled."fust watch me run this boat." Prentiss moved over to the calculator and whistled when he saw Buchanan'sreturn slips and the notation on Schwab'snavigation log. Clement, alwaysquiet, took his navigator'splace in silence.

Scarcelyhad the lift door shut on the first watch and Clement got his belt snappedacrosswhen the detectorlight flared brightly and the calculator burst into furious activity. Again the green light stayeddead, while the steeringrocketsthrew long flamesto one side. For three searingseconds they iettedfiercelyto port, and then gavetheir characteristicending cough. Prentissannouncedquietlyin his reservedvoice. "Three largebodies,total mass, one hundred and thirty tons, moving as a group. We apparently missedthe closestby half a mile." Peaseierkederect. "What?" he roared."Half a mile! At this velocitywe didn't havea tenth of a secondto spare." He shookhis head with a determinedgrimness."For Pete'ssake,how fast were they going, Prentiss?" 'A little better than forty-five miles a second,the slip says,"he replied, "but they were pretty well straddled,must have been a hundred and fifty miles apart. We just made the gradethat time. " But he smiled ashe got up and walkedover to the calculator."This babv is a sweetheart."he went on.

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"Did you seethe way it handled that approximation?Why, with that old machine, we would have breezed right through that cluster before the figures were halfway through." Peasejabbedat the phone dial, and after a few momentsspokeinto the mike. "Hello, Cap?Say,did you feel that ierk?. . . Yeah,that'sright. Three Stillwanttokeepgoing,eh? ofthemthistime. . . . Sure,Perseidsallright. picking up speedfast. It's 1.07 far, we're so but 9,000 . . No, it'sabout now. . . O.K., chief." He hung up and swungback to the board, muttering to himself to the effectthat the boyson the Moon surepickedone hell of a time to havean accident."Hey, Prentiss,"he said, without looking up from the controls, "can't you extend the range of those detectorsa little? Theseswarmsare too damnedbig to get around, and that calculatorhasn't got enough senseto pick a path between more than two hunks of iron." The computer'smate wassilent for a while. Then he spokeslowly. "We might possiblyswingthe field of the horizontaldetectorssomewhatinto the vertical and rig them in serieswith the vertical detectors.That would leave us lessprotectedfrom meteoroidstravelling at right anglesto our course, but sinceour major fear is only twenty degreesfrom vertical, it seemsto me that the chanceis worth it. You'dbetteraskOtto or Mueller about switching those fields, though. That may be a long iob." Peasewas spinning the phone dial in an instant. As he waited for the engineroom to answer,he shotoverhis shoulderto Prentiss:"No, it doesn't takea minute. . . . Hello, Otto? Scram up here. We want you to play with the detectorfields." Without waiting for a replyhe slammedthe mike on to the hook and spokeagain to Prentiss."Come on you probability expert, figure out how much we ought to deflect thosehorizontal fields to get the maximum amount of coverage,and get on the ball!" "What do you think I am, chief?"he replied."l haveto havea greatdeal more data, especiallysomefigureson the probablefrequencyand numbers of the Perseidbodies." Peasescowledbackat him, "Make it up, do something,you must havean idea.What doesthe Manual say?Can't you get somefigureson the number of separateobjectsto expect?" Nettled by the mate's sharpness,Prentissansweredwith some heat: "Ordinarily, sir, this wouldn't be an impossibleproblem. We have some figures,of course,on the densityof Perseidbodiesat the height of the storm, but if Schwab'shypothesisis correct, we know absolutelynothing about what to expect. The presenceof that comet will make a great deal of difference,I should judge." Peaseglaredat him and snapped,"Say,haven't you got any brains?fust out of spaceschooland you can't figure that out! What the hell difference

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doesthat comet make?This is the Perseidstorm, isn't it?,' Prentissswungaroundto facePeasedirectly."I wasin hopes,sir," he said sardonically,"that I would not be forcedto explain this relativelysimple matter to you." He pausedto let his disrespectmake itself apparent,and before the smouldering Peasecould find a fit retort, went on, "lt is the measuredopinion, sir, of Earth'smostcompetentastronomers, that certain comets,while passingcloseto the Sun, haveleft behind them portionsof their matter. Occasionallythis matter follows the sameorbit as the parent comet, asin the caseof the Leonidsand Temple'scomet. In other casesthe orbits differ. When Earth, in its path around the Sun, runs into the extendedpiecesbrokenawayfrom the comet, a meteorshowerresults.The Perseids, asSchwabhaspointedout here,havean orbit rathersimilar to the comet 1862,III, but of a differentperiod.Apparentlythat attenuatedstring of matter wasbroken awayfrom the comet aeonsago, Every so often the densestpart of the string of Perseidmatter and the 1862 comet are in conjunctionat the time Earth runs into the densestpartof the Perseids. This is one of the times, and we may be visitedby additionalamountsof matter breakingawayfrom dearold 1862,III. I hope it is clear,sir, and alsohope that you seewhy it is nextto impossibleto form any judgmenton how many bodiesto expect!"He spunhis chair around,with his backto the astonished and slightly dampenedPease. Checkingthe hot reply on his lips, the mate wavedhis hand and said: "O.K., O.K. I get it. But can't you do anythingwith that?You can makea pretty good guess,can't you?" Prentiss,still at the board,answered,"l'm workingon it now.Give me a little time and I'll have somethingfor you." As though to prevent a single moment'scalm, the controlroom crew suddenlyfelt the rocketsgo rough. For five secondsthe slamming became increasinglysevereas one chamber began to overmeter.In spite of the inchesof spongerubber insulation in its mounting, and the compound springson which it wasswung,the control boardbeganto jitter. The needle on the dials began to dance, and the E deck third quadrantpyrometer snappedviolentlybackand forth beforewinding up againstthe peg. Again before the mate could reach the phone the slamming stopped.Clement shookhis head. "Dizzy, pal?"crackedPease,squintinghis eyesanxiouslyin the navigator'sdirection. "I'm O.K., chief," he replied,mumbling slightly."That wassomeslam, though." He shookhis headagain.Prentisssattight-lippedat the calculator and resumedhis work. Suddenlyhe suckedair betweenhis teeth. "That wassomewallop, chief," he said."lt shookthis thing up so much

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that the figuresI put in herecameout." He clearedthe board and startedhis problem ove, again. As he swung his swivel chair to speak,the lift door opened and Otto steppedout. Peasesnappedhim a glance over his shoulderas he startedto rip the damagedpyrometerapart for repairs."Was that you knocking at the door just then, Otto?" he gritted. The ganglaughedfor a second,but stilledwhen Otto leaned againstthe chart table and vomited. 'Ach," he gasped,"yor shouldride in that lift ven a chamberit letsgo. Mein Gott, vot a bouncing you get." Pulling a bandannafrom his engineer'sdungareeshe wiped his face,and spokethen to Pease."Vot issit ve are doing mit the detectors,nun?" he garbled. "Got it yet, Mr. Number Man?" called Pease,looking over at Prentiss. "l have an answer,"he said, "but I'd like to check the guessworkin it againstyour opinions. How many more groupsof more than two bodiesdo you think we are likely to meet between now and 3:45?" Peaseansweredquickly: "Why, hell, if we met three more' I'd saythe sky was full of rocks. What about you, Clem?" mateshookhis head. "I don't know.Haven'tany idea," he The navigator's said vaguely. Peaseand Prentissboth lookedat him anxiously."Well," saidPrentiss,"l basedmy calculations on ten more. I know that'sa lot, but I'm frankly worried by Schwab'sopinion that they will be thicker than we've everseen them." "Hm-m-m," musedPease."Figuring it that way, how much should we tip those fields?"Prentisspicked up the return sheetfrom the calculator. "On the assumptionI havementioned,and giventhe datain the Ephemeris about bolides approachingat right anglesto our course, the maximum coveragecan be obtainedby tilting the horizontal fields fifty degrees.This extendsour detector range twelve per cent." Peasescowledagain. "What, only twelve per cent?" Prentiss,by now thoroughly out of patience,snappedback:"l wasunder the impressionthat even you would realize that the amount of power required varieswith the cube of the distanceof detection." Peaseignoredhis tone. "O.K., Otto," he said;"get to work on it. How long will it take?" The German grinned. "Fife minutes und ve haff it, chief!" No soonerhad he completedthe work than the detectorlight blinked its warning signal again. The now familiar clatter of the calculator followed, and in a few seconds,anotherblast from the steeringrockets.This shove awayfrom dangerwasthe longestand most pronouncedyet experiencedby the crew.

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Prentisspunchedthe calculatorin silence."Two more, chiefl" he said, "only twelvetons." He paused,frowned, and then said, "Wait a minute. There'ssomethingscrewyhere.This calculatorshouldbe ableto compute us a coursebetweenany two moving bodies.We shouldn'thavegonefor that long ride just then." Pease's facereflectedhis alarm at this announcement."ls thereanything wrong with that mowing machine?"he queried."lf that thing quits on us, we're sunk. We can wave good-byeto the boys at No. 2!" Shakinghis headPrentissreplied:"l don't know.It may havebeenshaken up a little when that last chamberwent bad. I'll run a few test problems through it." Furthersilencefollowedwhile the calculatorrattled."lt seems O.K., chiefl but theseare pretty simple problems." Peasewasworkingthe phoneagain."Hello, Crp," he calledinto it. "The calculator may be on the fritz. You better come up." Feathersappearedin short order. After Peaseexplainedthe shift of the detectorfields, which Feathersgavehis nodding approval,Prentissquietly relatedthe partial failure of the detectorcalculator. Featherslookedaroundthe control room a moment in silence.Then he spokeslowly:"Well, I guessyou'vedonethe bestyou can. I imaginethat the calculatorwasa little shakenup by that last iolt. It'sprobablyO. K. by now. We certainlydon't dareto try repairsif it is badlydamaged.Nobodyhereis enoughof a technician." With a brusque:"On your toes, gang,"he took the lift back to his bunk. No sensestandingthereand letting the rocketsslam you on the head when you could be resting.He'd need it the next hour. The mate went to the watercooler,but vaultedback into his chair at the boardwhen the detectorlight flashed.For eighteenagonizingseconds the bridgecrew waited,eachman holding his breath.With a sickeninglurch theMonifordashedoffto one side,for eight belly-tearingsecondsthe quartz bull's-eyes setin the port wall fared with eye-searing intensityasthe steering rocketsthrew their fiercely driven jets to that side. Prentisspunched buttons. "One hundred and ninety-two feet per secondper secondfor eight seconds,"he read."That'sdamnedneara mile and a quarter.Someshove." He went back to punching his machine. "Four bodies,"he spokeagain, "threethousandtwo hundredtons,forty-sixmilesper second.Missby about one thousandtwo hundredfeet." More punching. 'At our presentvelocity we had exactlythreeone-hundredths secondleeway.I'm surprisedwe didn't seethem." The silencethat greetedhis calm statementwasalmost noisy. Peasestaredfixedly at the computer for a moment. 'Are you sure that thing is O. K. ? Three one-hundredthsof a secondis entirely too closefor Mrs. Pease's little boy, entirelytoo close!"Prentissnoddeda silentverification of the calculator'sfinding. Now it was Pease's turn to begin to have

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doubtsabout the relativemeritsof being a live cowardor a deadhero. Still, asthe detectorremainedsilent, he beganto breathemore easily.The restof the control-room crewseemedto feel with him that a chapterof the trip had come to a close, asthough the escapefrom such a closecall signalledthe end of the gauntletof meteoroidsthey had to run. But the red light destroyed the illusion with its suddenflare. Peasesworeand bangedhis fist down on the board ashe watchedfor the greenlight that stayeddead. Another high accelerationshovebrought blood from Clement'snose. He let it run while he workedfuriously over the coursecorrectioncontrols."Damn, I didn't even have time to correct the first blast before we scram out from under another. What is this?" he askeda little querulously' Snappinga look at the chronometerthe mate saidsomethingunder his breathand reachedfor the phone. "Hello, Cap?"he gritted into it assoonas "Listen, the waywe'reusingsteeringfuel, we'll neverset he raisedFeathers. this thing into the landing cradle on the Moon. You know how that autopilot lanJsus, just hasall the ietsgoinghalf the time, swingingus backand spokeagain. . Sure,that'swhat I think." He pausedwhile Feathers iorth. "O.K.," he finally answered,"I'll call him right away."Insteadof hanging up he dialled the engine room. "Hello, McCleod? The chief saysto . Yeah,that'sright, quit discor,r,ectthe steeringrocketsfrom the rotator. fuel. . . . I know it, steering low on spinning her awayfrom the Sun, we're that milk will iust have to go sour. . . . Yeah, yeah, O.K." At l:31 the detectoragain indicatedconductorswithin its range. The calculator clacked for ten seconds,for fifteen, twenty. After twenty-five secondsof rattling, its noisesubsidedto a grindinghum. Prentissburstinto motion ashe snappedone switchafterthe other in an attemptto clearup the trouble. As he worked,the light turned green, indicating that the Perseids voice washarsh. "Has shequit, had passedby. He cut the switch. Pease's Prentiss?"he croaked. The computer'smate did not turn around to answer,but said, in his reservedtone:"lt lookslike a seriousjam to me. Every operationhasbeen suspended.I doubt whether we can repair it before we land." He beganto strip the mechanismof its dust coversand calledto Clement to break out the instrument tools. Peaseremained at the board while the computer'sand navigator'smates bent over the intricate entrails of the calculator. Prentissstood up. "Do you know, we may get farther thinking aboutthis thing than by poking into it," he said."Let'ssee,the wayall this trouble startedwasthat the slamming of that overmeteringchamber shook some figures out. What do you say,Clem, do you supPosethat all that's wrong is the verniersettingson the selectordisks?" The navigatorsquinted his eyesand bowed his head in concentration.

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Finally he spoke."Gosh, Prentiss,I don't know. I can't seemto get what you're driving at." PrentisslookedbackatPease, who returnedhis stare.WasClementalittle punchy-punchyfrom thoselasttwo rocketbeatings?"O. K., Clem, " prentiss said, "nevermind, I think that'sit. Anyway,I'll takea look." He went backto the calculatorasClement returnedto his seat,and startedto resetone of the fifteen verniers. Wthout any warning the calculator'sclatter suddenlyrecommenced. The card that had been punched from the detector'sdata wassnappedinto the auto-pilotbeforePrentisscould do morethan snatchhis handfrom the flailing mechanism.As he attemptedto straightenup the starboardsteering rocketsexplodedinto gargantuanactivity. Prentisswassmashedagainstthe top of the calculatorand bent double over it with the suddenand e.,or-o,rs acceleration. Clementfaintedalmostatonceandwasjammeddown into his chair. Pease,unprepared,was likewisesmashedagainstthe side of the board chair. He struggledto lift his arm againstthe enormousweightthat seemed to pressagainstit, and found to his horror that he could barely move it. "Eleven G" his eye recordedon the control board accelerometer,"three hundred and fifty feet per secondper second." With sensesreeling in his desperateeffort to maintain consciousness ashis chesttried to collapseand his heart almost stoppedbeating, he succeededin obtaining a purchase with his legswhich enabledhim to pry his body forward. He strained, purple-faced,to lift his right arm with the aid of his left, to the point where he could reach the emergencycut-out. As the rocketscoughedtheir final note, his straining musclesthrew him violentlyagainsthis belt. Prentiss collapsedto the floor. Ignoring the still unconsciousClement, Peasesnappedoff his belt and rushedto Prentiss'side. He did not appearto be seriouslyinjured and revivedin a shorttime. The telling solarplexusblow dealthim by the top of the calculatorstill madeit difficult for him to talk. As Peaseroseto get him somewater,he noticedthat Clement had revivedand wasstandingbehind him, staringwide-eyedand open-mouthedat the still recumbentPrentiss. "Hry, you!" Peaseyelledat him, bringinghim to his senses , "getBuchanan up herequick. On the ball!" As he wasdrawingthe waterhe uttereda queer squeak:"Hey, Clem, straightenour courseout. That wassomepush. A few more minutes riding sidewaysat this velocity and we'll miss the Moon completely!" "O.K., chief," he replied,seemingto regainhis composure."How long weretheyburning that trip?" Pease walkedto the boardand read,"Eighteen seconds,and elevenG all the way.It'sdamnedneartwo minutessinceI cut

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passed asClementworked themout, too." An additionalforty-fiveseconds the problemout on a sliderule and cut in the steeringrockets."In one thelengthof time betweenthebeginningof the hundredandfifty seconds, blastandwhenI cut the correction,we hadgonejustexactlytwo hundred pointsevenmorebeforewestop,at threeG miles,andwe'll gothirty-seven I think I'll setup iust enough That'sjust sixty-sixseconds. deceleration. on theMoon.Hines'ideaof right the dot in on us to bring motion counter "|ust " anoptimumcoursewill haveto bescrapped.HelookedoveratPease, so we get that tractorthere,that'swhat counts,isn't it, chief?"he asked. "Oh, yeah?fust so you get me there,thatb all that counts.I'm past worryingaboutsomeotherdopes'toughluck. I'll matchanybodyasfar as beingon the spotgoes." Buchananarrivedto replacePrentiss,who wentbelow,andthen Pease Did thatlastburstcatchanyof you calledtheengineroom."Hi, McCleod? didn't show.It went off by I know the warning . ready? . Yeah, . the off wasfiddlingwith the calculator.. . . That'sright, accidentwhile Prentiss thesillythingblewup rightin ourfaces. . Sure,what'llyoutakeforour themike replyandslapped of makingit?"He laughedat McCleod's chances thatno onehadbeeninjuredbelow,heturnedto backon thehook.Satisfied saidthattheverniersettings Buchanan."Listen,Buck,"he said,"Prentiss jolting of the lastchamberthatlet go, andfrom by the hadbeenderanged what happenedit looksasthoughhe'sright. Think you can do anything with it?"

No one spoke, and the detector light was miraculously dead while Buchananexaminedthe calculator.Finally he laid down the insuliteprobe Prentisshad in his hand, straightenedup and said:"From all appearances, out, three of the verniers rocket the settings the shook the right idea. When just how much I don't know yet, but when on the selectordiskswereshifted, the machine wasoperatingat top speedon that five body approximation,it jammed. Prentissshut it off beforeany real damagewasdone. At leastwe can tinker it into sufficientshapeto get us to the Moon, but we'll be nearly an hour." Pease,who had beenanxiouslyawaitingthe verdict,grunted."Well," he saidto the floor, "an hour is betterthan nothing. Get to work on it. Don't anybodybother to figure out our chancesof lasting out the hour, either. I don't want to know how bad things are!" With the steeringrocketsout of operation,Peaseunsnappedhis belt and

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wentto thecalculatorto helpBuchananandClementwith theirwork.His activitieswereconfinedmostlyto handingBuchanantools,but that was betterthanwatchingthedetectorblink red,andthen,aftera delaythataged eachof them years,blink green. The phonerang.McCleodreportedthat Chamber5 wasovermetering slightlyandshowedinclinationsof gettingprogressively, but not suddenly, worse."what doyouthink,chiefl" heasked. "shouldI cutit outnow,while thevibrationain't sobad,andlet fivedo theworkof eight,or shallI leaveit in to help the othersa little?" Pease thoughtfast."Leaveit in till I call you, unlessit goessourthe way thoseothersdid. We'llwantthesmoothest ridewecangetwhenweslapthat calculatorbacktogether,so I'll call you to cut it out then." As he finished speaking the detectorlight flashed,but no calculatorclackedinto activity. The menall stopped workingandwaitedforthegreenlight to tell themthat the conductingmaterialhad passed.After twentybreathless secondsit blinked,but only momentarily,asthe everwatchfuldetectorlocatedanotherconductingbodysomewhere in the pathof the Monitor.Finallythe light turnedgreenfor thefull five-second period.Clementcollapsed to the foor asthoughhe died with the greenlight. Pease andBuchanandidn't movefor an instant,andClementregained his control."God," he mouthed,ashe struggled to his feet,"l can'tstand much moreof this. My nervesare shot." That wasno secret.He reeled slightlyashe walkedto the watercooler,spillingwaterashe triedto drink from the papercup. The soft-toned watchbell interruptedhim. '4h," he breathed,"savedby the bell." The detectorlight wasflashingagainasthe firstwatchstepped out of the lit. Feathers glancedaroundandthenordered: "Buck,youbetterstayon this watch.Prentiss mayhavea brokenrib. Youstickaroundtoo, Clem.We'll needall the manpowerwe can get on this calculator.Pease,you better scram.Bytheway,"headded,smiling,"didyouhavea nicetrick?"AsPease glaredback,Feathers laughed,"l don't guessyou think that'sfunny!" Peasespun aroundat the lift door, purple-faced. "No, I don't," he "Schwabhad moresensethan I realized.We werea bunchof snapped. damnedfoolsto try this!" He startedfor the lift onceagain,thenfacedthe 'And if you solemnFeathers. think it'sfun to watchthatdetectorlight, and knowyoucan'tdo a damnedthingaboutit, yoursenseof humouris even moredistortedthan I bargained for!" He slammedthe doorof the lift and droppedout of sight.Feathers turnedto the otherthree. *Well, gang," hesaid,"we'vegota little troubleon our hands,but there's no senselettingit getusdown.Thattractorisgoingto bedumpedin Mines City. It hasto be. Thereisn't any alternative.We'll neverknow if oneof

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thoserockshits us, sowhy worry?Say,Buck," he askedthe computer,"what do you think, shouldwe disconnectthe detectorlight?" Buchananfrowned and turned to Schwabfor an answer. The pavigatorscowledand said acidly, "Hell, no, I want to know when we've got a chance to get it. I'm not going to be denied the pleasureof gloating over the ten bucks I'll never pay Hines, that dirty skunk!" "Won't we evergetthere?That motor is sodamnedrough that my brainsare getting set to come out of my nose!" Looking up into the stern and .or,..i,t.d facesof the restof the bridge creq he giggled,and then laughed "Ho-ho, boys,"he cried, "this is a breeze!Somefun, eh?" good-naturedly. "Easy,boy," said Featherssoftly,and Clement'seyeswidenedas he sank into his chair. "That'd be tough," thought Feathers."Too bad if he gets punchy. He'd better quit this racketbeforehe getspermanently iniured." M.n of space,subjectedas they were to the incessantpounding of rocket motors, often developedtiny bloodclotson the lining of the brain, whose pressureon delicatecentresoften causedthem to manifestthe symptomsof punch-drunkenness;mumbling speech,inability to concentrate,poor motor responses,and all the rest. Feathers,Schwab and Buchanan returned to the calculator, leaving Clement sitting at his chart table. PresentlyFeathersstraightenedup for a moment to wipe the sweatfrom his eyes,and then pausedin mid-motion as he realizedthat there should havebeen no causefor it. He steppedover to the board, where the thermometerindicateda temperatureof eighty-three degreesin the control room. Now that the Monitor wasno longer rotating on its axisin orderto keeponesidefrom beinggreatlyheatedby the Sun, the refrigeratorswereinsufficientto keepthe temperaturedown. He saidnothing, but just after Schwab had phoned Campbell to cut out the rough chamber so that the final assemblycould be made, Buchanan easedhis aching backand said:"What'sgoing on here?It'sgettingashot asthe devil." He walkedto the board."Whew," he whistled,"nearlyninety.I didn't think those refrigeratorswould be equal to it. " The rocketssmoothedout somewhatasthe selectordiskswere replaced, and after the dust coversweresnappedon, Schwabsaidto Feathers:"What do you say,Cap, do I tell Campbell to cut her back in?" "Might aswell," he replied,"we'll seehow it goesfor a while. Tfy to save thoseother five aslong aswe can." Schwabcalled the engine room again, and the roughnessrecommenced, only to get rapidly worse. Rathers signalledwith his hand, and Schwab,who wasstill holding Campbell on the phone, said: "Cut it, Willy. Skipper saysit's too bad." Feathersreturnedto the control board and cut in the steeringrockets.He

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snappedacrosshis belt and said:"Reversal in six minutes,boys,Z:51a.m., the dispatchersaid.What about it, Schwab,will Clem'snew coursescrew that time up much?" Schwab shook his head, "No, chiefl" he answered,"l just ran the problemthrough to seehow the calculatorwasgoing, and the differenceis lessthan a tenth of a second.Not enough to bother about." Feathersmumbled his satisfaction and swungbackto the board, laying his right hand on the sternrocketswitch and watchingthe split-secondhand asit creptup to the zeropoint. With his left handhe snappedon the warning gong, and at precisely2. 5l cut the stern rocketsand snappedthe Monitor smoothly end over end with the steeringrockets.Again he performedthe delicate task of compensation,this time to the slightly altered course necessitated by the long dashawayfrom meteoroidswhen the calculatorhad jammed. As Feathersconcentratedhis fierce gazeon the amberand white lights on the translucent-ruledpanel, the detectorlight flashed.Without looking awayfrom the panel, he cut the detectorout, and finishedthe iob. Schwab watchedthe wholeprocedurethrough narrowedeyelids."Sweet,chief," he breathedas Feathersfinished and cut the detectorback in. He reachedfor the rocket switchesand the drumming of the rocketsrecommenced,but with a heavy smashingthat rackedevery man's body, pounded his brain againsthis skull, and turned his stomachto jelly. Rathersgot Campbellon the phone. "Cut that one out, Campbell, for Pete'ssake,it'sshakingthe panelright out of its mounting!" Campbell,down in the tail, spokeback."Captain,there'sonly five going now.We can only cut one more, and with a wholehour yet to go, I surehate to do it." "Cut it anyway.Tank or no tank," he ground, referring to the tractor, "we'vegot to be aliveto land this crock,and we'll all be gibberingidiotsin a few more minutes." As Campbell continued to protest there was a dull thudding crashfrom below "What wasthat, Willy?" shoutedFeathersinto the mike. "I don'tknow,Crp," he replied,"but it soundeda few decksaboveme. I'll bet that tractoris shifting! I'm going up!" BeforeFeatherscould replythe headsetclickedthe announcementthat Campbell had hung up. Feathers sat still as the lift whined the newsthat the Scotchmanwasascending.It went silentalmostimmediately,startedagain,then stopped.Twicemore it whined. Then the phone rang and Featherssnappedthe mike offthe hook. "Yeah?"he snapped.Schwaband Buchananregardedhim tensely."Oh, is that all?"They breathed."Hell, no. Tiy to shut it off. No, wait a minute,

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I'll comedown," he announcedasthe watchgongsounded3 a.m. He hung up and explained as he took off the headset, "Campbell saysthat the supportsto onemilk tank on E deckcrackedat the weld and droppedit to the deck. It split wide open. The tractor'ssitting pretty." Pease,coming up for his secondtrick, steppedout of the lift, and someof the errant milk ran out on to the rubber floor. The mate himself wasnearly covered with the white fluid. "What's happened to you?" Buchanan laughed. The mate swore."somebody'sup to something.I ring for the lift, and when the door slidesopen, it'ssix inchesdeepin this stuff, so I skid on the deck and land in it." He slippedagain as he tried to crossto the board. Schwab'sface brightenedas he gavevent to a hearty laugh. "Well, Andy," he chuckled, "much as I hate to have missedthat little scene,I still find myselfimmeasurablycheeredby the mental picture of you wallowing in milk. All good things come to him who waits." He laughed againasPeasestrippedoffhis dungareesand threw them in a wet pile by the ventilator. "Well, Andy," saidRathers from the lift cage,"at leastit'shot in here,you won't catch cold." He smiledas he let the door slide shut. Buchananand Schwabremained,sincethe injured Prentissand the demoralizedClement were both unfit for their tricks. When the lift door slid open at E deck, milk rushedinto it, washingover Campbell and Mueller stoodin the middle of the the topsof Feathers'shoes. third quadrant, where the lift door was, hands on hips. The Scot turned slowlyto the captainand releaseda blisteringstreamof profanity,calculated to curdle the milk. Feathersrepliedamiably,"Hi, Willy, what areyou going to do with this stuff?" "Do with it?" Campbell squealed."What the hell can you do with it? Even if we had an empty tank on this deck to pump it into, we don't have any pump." The lift whined away. Mueller spoke, "Looks like the supportsto the tank crystallized and crackedat the welds, sir. It might be a good idea to take a look at the other tank, too." As Campbell sloshedover to examine the supporting bracketsof the second two hundred and fifty gallon tank, the lift whined again, and McCleod steppedout. "Gosh," he exclaimed,"I might haveexpectedit of you, Willy!" Campbell'scontorted featuresrelaxedslightly. "ls our engine room floating with this stuff.?"he queried. '4y., and it ran down the stair-well,too. I decklooks His mate replied, beautiful from the throttle pedestal." Mueller, who had completedthe examination of the secondtank'ssup-

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ports,straightened up. "Lookslike this oneis cracked,too. We'dbetterweld a coupleof supportsin here."As Campbell noddedhis O.K., he left by the Iift to return in a few minuteswith the portablewelderin its dolly and four half-inch steelrods. McCleod reachedfor the rods."Here, Mueller, I'll take 'em," he said. "Wlly and I will have this done in no time." Featherssworewith quiet vigour ashe movedto the lift door preparatory to going to his bunk on B deck, sloshingthrough the milk, his oaths forming a softobbligatoto Campbelland McCleod, who weresulphuricin their opinionsof motorsthat shookshipsto pieces,doubly sulphuric with weldsthatcracked,andtriply sulphuricwith eachotherin their impatience. He shotthe lift to C deck. Only food in canshere. Nothing that the milk would hurt. He openedthe door and let the white liquid run out, and then roseto B deck, wherehe changedhis dungareesand rode up againto the control room. Peasewasat the board. "Hi, Crp," he called, "we haven't beencloseto onesinceyou'veleft, if you'venoticed.Only threewarnings.I guesswe'rethrough the worstof them." Featherssmiledand satdown next to the water cooler and sipped slowly from a paper cup. While a peacefulquiet wasslowly settling,the detectorlight went red, and the calculator clackednoisily, to be followed by the flash of the top rockets.The light stayedred and the calculatordid not pauseasthe detector located more conducting material beforethe first had passed.With a jerk that madeneckscrack,the steeringrocketssuddenlyreversed their blasting, iamming the crewagainsttheir beltswith an eight G shove.Still the light stayed red, while the Monifor dashed away from its course in a new direction.Pease,at the board,felt himselfblackingout asthe high acceleration continued past its thirtieth second.He vaguelyheard Feathersyell, abovethe screamof the rockets,"Cut them out, Pease,cut them out!" The mate struggledto obey, finally reachedthe switch and the rocketsdied. Schwab gloweredacrossthe control room, "What's the matter, chief, can't you take it? We'll get it sure, the sky is lousy with them!" Without replying, Featherssnappeda questionat Pease."How much fuel left, Andy?" he asked. The mate replied, "Wow, just fifty-three secondsat five G!" He turned "Say,Crp, you can't much morethan land her with wide-eyedto Feathers. that!" Again Feathersdid not reply. "I'll take over, Andy," he said. Pease changedseatswith him. Once behind the board, Featherslooked at the chronometerand read aloud: ").12. Thirty-three minutes till the Moon cuts off those Perseids.At the rate we were using steeringfuel, we never would havebeenableto land this crock. Might aswell gethit with a rock as

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smashthe Moon so hard that we cashin." He snappedthe detectorswitch. The light stayeddead. "Well," he commented,"l guesswe're through that swarm. If we're lucky, we'll last out." At 3.28 the flashingof the detectorsignalledthe locationof conducting material.The steeringrocketsfared within seconds,and afterthey coughed into silence,Feathersread:"Forty-four seconds!"He glancedinto the faces of the others."One more shot is all we dare to risk. That auto-pilot needs about forty secondsat five G to land us. Any lessthan that and we'll drop in from whereverwe run out." Quiet fell overthe control room. There wasan audiblesuckingof breaths as the detectorlight flared red-then green, to the accompanimentof expelledsighs.Eight minutesbeforethe deadline,when the Moon would cut acrossthe path of the Perseids,it flared red again, stayedred while the calculator rattled and clattered.The port and lower rocketsscreamedinto fiery action. Feathers,teeth bared, gripped the steeringrocket switch. He watchedthe fuel gauge-forty secondsleft, thirty-six-thirty-two. He cut the switch. The four sat immobile, waiting for the crash.The greenlight from the detectorcamelike the crashof a cymbal. Feathersraspedhoarsely: "Thirty-one secondsleft. I'll haveto leaveit off." He threw a secondswitch, and snappingthe intenseSchwaba twinkling glance,said,"Ten bucksor no ten bucks, Schwab,I'm cutting that light, too!" "339," the chronometerread. Six minutes more. Feathersbroke the silence."lf we lastfive minutesmore, we havea chance.I'm goingto try to getthis boat closeenoughto the landing cradleto let the auto-pilot swingus in with only thirty secondsof fuel." Featherssquintedin thought. "Buck," he saidslowly,"l want to stopthis buggyasneardeadaswe can with the tail rockets,right overthe landing cradle,and want to be approachingthe cradle at an angle of two degrees.The cradle'sramp slopesat six degrees,so we want to hit the Moon at eight degreesto a tangent. Accelerationat the surfaceis five and a third feet per secondper second.Figure out what our velocitywill haveto be if I can get this crockwithin one hundredand fifty feet of the cradle." While Buchananwasworkingthe problemout, the chronometerreached 7.4r, but the eventwasscarcelynoticed,for with onedangerpast,the crew knew that a second,and much more apparentone, still facedthem. Their to control chanceof reachingthe surfacealivedependedon Feathers'ability it from keep the Monifor with tail rocketsinsteadof steeringrockets,to slewing from its course as their velocity was braked with the incomplete batteryof rockets.Buchananspun his chair. "Here it is, chief," h. said. "You'll haveto do twenty-sevenhundred feet per secondto hit the cradleat two degreesfrom one hundred and fifty feet."

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Feathersshook his head. "That's too fast. That cradle only doesseventeen-fifty.What altitude will I haveto bring the crock to, to makethe cradle at that angle?" The calculator clacked. "one hundredand eighteenfeet, Crp, " Buchananreadtersely,recalling ashe did that the auto-pilot usually took over around a thousandfeet, witfi velocityslowedto arounda thousandfeetper second,a featnot sodangerous at higher altitudes. "Guesswe'll haveto try it. Bring her in straightand fast,tail first, break her speedwith the tail rockets,and then flip her overquick and drop her in with automaticcontrol for the lastten secondsor so. Schwab,it'sabout time we scrappedTirrner'sradio-silenceorder.Get Mines City on the set.Things are too tough. If they don't put Hendersonon when you indicate we're in trouble, askfor him." While Feathersbrokethe fall of the Monitorand guided her towardsthe desiredspot on the Moon, Schwabestablishedcontact with the powerful radio stationat Mines City, on the Moon'ssurface,and spokeinto the radio mike. "Mty D^y," he saidlaconically,givingthe traditionalEnglishversion of the internationalsignalfor aid, "M'aidez!" He wasinstantlyconnected with the superintendentof fight operations,Henderson."Justa moment," Schwab said to him, and called to Feathers:"Here'sHendersonfor you, chief, and all agog."Featherssnappedthe selectorswitch of his headsetand chest microphone and spoke. "Hello, Henderson?. . . Feathers.We're coming in in about seven minutes." He pausedasthe superintendentinterruptedhim. At lasthe cut in: "Hold it! We aren't down yet. Listen to me. We're about five hundred miles out yet, and deceleratingat thirty-sixper, but we'reso damnedshort on steeringfuel that we'll run out if we land on the radio beam, with the auto-pilot." Henderson's voicesqueakedin the earphonesagain."Yes,sir," Feathers responded."The tractor'sall right, chief, but I'm telling you, we're going to haveour troublesgettingdown." He lookedaround at the anxious facesof the bridge crew then beganagain, as Henderson'sreply wasbriefi "Look, chief, I'll haveto bring her in prettylow by myself,tail first, and use the auto-pilot for the last few secondsonly. Suit you?" Curt syllables snappedin his ears."What'sthe most speedyou can get out of that cradle?" he askedagain. "Oh, I see.Well, that meansI'll haveto bring this baby down to about a hundred feetbeforeI cut you in. Tell you what. I'll makea passat the ramp, and if we'regoing too fastaccordingto the radio beam, let me know, and I'll pull her up and over and try again till I make the grade. Only got enoughfuel for a coupleof shots,though, and I can only giveyour auto-pilot about ten secondsat five G."

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Hendersonthen spokefor somemoments, while Buchanan got to work on the calculator,convertingthe co-ordinatesthat Schwabwasreadingoff from his position at the low-powertelescope,into their courseand velocity figures.Finally Feathersconcluded:"You bettersavethat, Henderson.This trick isn't over yet. Wait till we set it down. Any more newsfrom No. 2?" Receivinga negativereply,he snappedthe set off for a moment and called Iayingit on thick, Schwab.You'll be a overto the navigator:"Henderson's switch, he snapped:"Tie in tight, hero!" Flipping overthe address-system quick look at the schedule,a grin, and rough!" a little One boys;this may be he said,half to himself:"Right on time. Hinessaidwe'd makeit at 4.07." Schwab and Buchanan, duties completed, sat with their eyesburning towardsFeathers'hands as they snappedback and forth acrossthe board, while Pease,who wasa competentpilot in his own right, went through the tortures of the damned as he had to sit and watch his superiormake the approach.His handsmadelittle jerkingmovementsashe involuntarily tried Alwaysa ticklish task,and calling for the fastest to correctFeathers'actions. and mostaccurateco-ordination,landingwas,underthe conditionsfacing Feathers,infinitely more difhcult. The surfacegrew amazingly close, and the Monitor was still travelling better than five thousand feet per second, tail first, as the whole trip following the reversalhad been made. Suddenly Featherscut in the port steeringrockets for a quick blast. The Monitor wasnow heading almost parallel with the surface,still tail first, all her downwardvelocity killed by of a lateral velocity of nearly the blastingof the tail rockets,but possessed three thousandfeet per secondthat Feathershad graduallybuilt up asthey had approachedthe surface.In another secondthe rocketsfired roughly, slammingall down tight into their seatsin a four G deceleration,and then, with that unbelievablequicknessthat he had, Featherssnappedthe spaceship end over end. He spokeinto the mike: "O.K., Henderson,here we come!" The Monitor sped towards the head of the landing ramp. Feathers' headsetcrackled;he sworeand snappedon the tail and steeringrockets.Up went the nose, and the ship climbed dizzily in a hundred-mile loop, snappingover as it nearedthe Moon'ssurfaceagain, so that the tail rockets might once more be usedas a brake.Again the speedwastoo greatfor the cradle,and an instantbeforethe Monifor passedthe speedingJuggernauton rails, Hendersonsignalledthem off. Feathersgruntedashe hung from his belt at the top of the huge loop. "This is it. Twelvesecondsfuel to go." The secondenormousloop completed,the spaceshipdashedacrossthe surfaceof the Moon, perilouslycloseto a rangeof low volcanichills, its shadowleaping acrossthe rough terrain with it. The tail rocketsstuttered

6E| / SPECIAL

FLIGHT

harshly,roughly braking the speedof the gleamingcraft. Feathersabruptly flipped her over,steadiedher momentarily with the steeringrocketsbefore gritting betweenhis teeth:"Sevensecondsof fuel. It'stwo to one againstus." He switchedon the automaticpilot as Henderson's voice snappeda breathless,"O.K., Pete!"into his headset.The spaceship saggeddown, almostto the cradle, under rocketsflaring, beforethey coughedtheir final note. The huge craft droppedthe remainingdistance,wreckinghalf the instruments on the panelasthe heavyship bouncedbackand forth beforethe magnetsof the cradle held her firm. Down the ramp the compositevehicle hurled, braking rocketsthrowing prodigioussilent-screaming jets of incandescent gasaheadof it, and came to rest at the end of the ramp. Figureswaddledfrom the AdministrationBuilding in distendedspacesuits,castingdead-blackshadowson the glaringpumice, climbed into the cab of the cradle, and shunted it acrossswitchesto the hangar, a great, hemisphericaldome of metal. Once inside,the enormousair lock closed; the dome lights high abovecame up and bathedthe interior of the hemispherewith a dull pallor. Huge overheadcranesloweredtheir magnetic grapples,pulling the Monitor erectfor unloading, as the increasing air pressuremade the spacesuitsof the docking crew go flabby. More figures aidedin settingthe telescopicpropsagainstthe hull to hold it erect.With air pressurefinally at normal, the variousair locks around the dome opened, and everypersonwho wasfree at the whole spaceportstreamedthrough the openingsand dashedtowardsthe frosting spaceship. Their shoutsof welcomeand praisequieteddown asthe lowestport of the spaceship remainedclosed,andthe secondspassed by slowly.At last,with a shower of hoarfrost flakes, Campbell crackedthe "back door," and the cheeringredoubledagain.The thin streamof milk that ran out and down the frost-whitened plates passedunnoticed, and the men were quickly rushedinto the flight superintendent's office. In the comparativequiet, Hendersonwasat lastableto speakto the men, while outsidethe space-portcrew wererushing through the taskof unloading the tractor.With the lastwell-wisherpushedout of the door, Henderson ran overto Feathers'side, graspedhis hand, and ashe shookit energetically, cried:"Oh, sweetlanding, Pete!One more passat that ramp and I'd have died of suspense!" Feathersgrinned feebly,but said nothing. The restof the creq now that the tension was relieved,were experiencinga like reaction.Most of them werelooking around for someplaceto sit down, feeling generallymiserable from the spacebeating they had taken. The bubbling Hendersonstartedsimilarly congratulatingthe restof the

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crew slappingone man on the back, shakinganother'shand. "ls everybody O.K.?" he asked,in general. Feathersstirred out of his lethargy. "Oh, yes. Better have a look at Prentiss,"he replied."He may havecrackeda rib. " He glancedaroundat the still-wet Pease,the soakingMcCleod and Campbell, the unenthusiastic, soberfacesof the creq and then to his own wet feet. "One more casualty," he announced,so that all could hear."Most of us got our feet wet. This spacetravel isn't safe.You might catch cold!"

Chnonopolis In the late 1950sI. G. Ballard beganto publishSF storiesof an entirely new type-cold, intellectual, sophisticated,and stylistically complex, treating science as a repository of symbols and images. Ballard quickly attracted admirers, and in the early 1960sa "new thing" wasproclaimed in England by theyoung editor and writer Michael Moorcock. Thus was the New Waveof the 1960sborn, taking Ballard as ifs model and representativewriter. With Moorcock as hisprophet, Ballard symbolizeda wholesalereactionagainstboth the conservative style and the atmosphere of technological optimism that permeatedCampbellian sciencefiction. As storiesabout the city of the future, it is interesting to compare "Chronopolis,' published in 1961, with *Forgetfulness,"published in 1937.

is trial had been fixed for the next day.Exactly when, of course, neither Newman nor anyone else knew. Probablyit would be during the afternoon,when the principalsconcerned,-judge, jury and prosecutor-managedto convergeon the samecourtroom at the sametime. With luck his defenseattorneymight alsoappearat the right moment, though the casewassuchan open and shut one that Newman hardly expectedhim to bother-besides,transport to and from the old penal complex wasnotoriouslydifficult, involvedendlesswaiting in the grimy depotbelow the prison walls. Newman had passedthe time usefully.Luckily, his cell facedsouth and sunlight traversedit for most of the day. He

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divided its arc into ten equal segments,the effectivedaylight hours, marking the intervalswith a wedgeof mortarprisedfrom the window ledge.Each segmenthe further subdivided into twelve smaller units. Immediatelyhe had a workingtimepiece,accurateto within virtually a minute (the final subdivisioninto fifths he made mentally). The sweepof white notches,curving down one wall, acrossthe foor and metal bedstead, and up the other wall, would havebeen recognizableto anyonewho stood with his backto the window, but no one everdid. Anyway,the guardswere too stupid to understand,and the sundialhad given Newman a tremendous advantageover them. Most of the time, when he wasn't recalibratingthe dial, he would pressagainst the grille, keeping an eye on the orderly room. "Brocken!" he would shoutout at seven-fifteenasthe shadowline hit the first interval. "Morning inspection!On your feet, man!" The sergeant would comestumbling out of his bunk in a sweat,rising the otherwardersas the reveille bell split the air. Later, Newman sangout the othereventson the daily roster:roll call, cell fatigues,breakfast,exercise,and soon aroundto the eveningroll just before dusk. Brockenregularlywon the block merit for the best-runcell deck and he relied on Newman to programthe day for him, anticipatethe next item on the roster,and warn him if anything went on for too long-in someof the other blocksfatigueswereusually over in three minutes while breakfast or exercisecould go on for hours, noneofthe wardersknowingwhen to stop, the prisonersinsisting that they had only just begun. Brocken never inquired how Newman organizedeverythingso exactly; once or twice a week, when it rained or was overcast,Newman would be strangely silent, and the resulting confusion reminded the sergeant forcefully of the merits of cooperation.Newman waskept in cell privileges and all the cigaretteshe needed.It wasa shamethat a datefor the trial had finally been named. Newman, too, wassorry.Most of his researchso far had been inconclusive. Primarily his problem wasthat, given a northward-facingcell for the bulk of his sentence,the taskof estimatingthe time might becomeimpossible. The inclination of the shadowsin the exerciseyardsor acrossthe towers andwallsprovidedtoo blunt a reading.Calibrationwould haveto be visual; an optical instrumentwould soon be discovered. What he neededwasan internaltimepiece,an unconsciouslyoperating psychicmechanismregulated,say,by his pulseor respiratoryrhythms. He had tried to train his time sense,running an elaborateseriesof teststo estimateits minimum in-built error, and this had been disappointingly large. The chancesof conditioningan accuratereflexseemedslim.

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However,unlesshe could tell the exacttime at any given moment, he knew he would go mad.

His obsession, which now facedhim with a chargeof murder,had revealed itself innocently enough. As a child, like all children, he had noticedthe occasionalancientclock tower, bearingthe samewhite circle with its twelve intervals.In the seedier areasof the city the round characteristicdials often hung over the cheap jewelry stores,rusting and derelict. "Justsigns,"his motherexplained."They don't meananything,like stars or rings." Pointlessembellishment,he had thought. Once, in an old furniture shop,they had seena clockwith hands,upside down in a box full of fire irons and miscellaneousrubbish. "Eleven and twelve," he had pointed out. "What doesit mean?" His mother had hurried him away,reminding herselfneverto visit that streetagain. "Nothing," shetold him sharply."It'sall finished." To herself she added experimentally:Five and twelve. Five fo twelve. Yes. Time unfoldedat its usualsluggish,half-confusedpace.They lived in a ramshacklehouse in one of the amorphoussuburbs, a zone of endless afternoons.Sometimeshe wentto school,until he wasten spentmostof his time with his mother queueing outside the closed food stores.In the eveningshe would play with the neighborhoodgangaroundthe abandoned railwaystation,punting a homemadeflatcaralongthe overgrowntracks,or breakinto one of the unoccupiedhousesand set up a temporarycommand post. He wasin no hurry to grow up; the adult world wasunsynchronizedand ambitionless.After his mother died he spentlong daysin the attic, going through her trunks and old clothes,playingwith the bric-)-brac of hatsand beads,trying to recoversomethingof her personality. In the bottom compartmentof her jewelrycasehe cameacrossa fat goldcasedobject, equippedwith a wrist strap.The dial had no handsbut the twelve-numberedface intrigued him and he fastenedit to his wrist. His father choked over his soup when he saw it that evening. "Conrad, my God! Where in heavendid you get that?" "ln Mamma'sbead box. Can't I keepit?" "No. Conrad, giveit to me! Sorry,son." Thoughtfully:"Let'ssee,you're fourteen. Look, Conrad, I'll explain it all in a coupleof years." With the impetusprovidedby this newtabootherewasno needto wait for his father'srevelations.Full knowledgecamesoon.The older boysknew the

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whole story,but strangelyenough it wasdisappointinglydull. "ls that all?" he kept saying."l don't get it. Why worry so much about clocks?We have calendars,don't we?" Suspectingmore, he scouredthe streets,carefully inspecting every derelict clock for a clue to the real secret. Most of the faceshad been mutilated, hands and numeralstorn off, the circle of minute intervals stripped away,leaving a shadowof fading rust. Distributed apparentlyat random all over the city, abovestores,banks,and public buildings, their realpurposewashard to discover.Sureenough,they measuredthe progress of time through hvelvearbitraryintervals.But this seemedbarelyadequate groundsfor outlawing them. After all, a whole varietyof timers were in generaluse:in kitchens,factories,hospitals,wherevera fixedperiodof time wasneeded.His fatherhad one by his bed at night. Sealedinto the standard small black box, and driven by miniature batteries,it emitted a high penetratingwhistle shortlybeforebreakfastthe next morning, woke him if he overslept.A clock wasno morethan a calibratedtimer, in many waysless useful, as it provided you with a steadystream of irrelevantinformation. What if it was half past three, as the old reckoning put it, if you weren't planning to start or finish anything then? Making his questionssound as naive as possible,he conducteda long, careful poll. Under fifty no one appearedto know anything at all about the historical background,and eventhe older peoplewerebeginning to forget. He alsonoticed that the lesseducatedthey werethe more they werewilling to talk, indicatingthat manual and lower-classworkershad playedno part in the revolutionand consequentlyhad no guilt-chargedmemoriesto repress. Old Mr. Crichton, the plumber who lived in the basementapartment, reminiscedwithout any prompting,but nothing he saidthrew any light on the problem. "Sure, therewerethousandsof clocksthen, millions of them, everybody had one. Watcheswe called them, strappedto the wrist, you had to screw them up everydry." "But what did you do with them, Mr. Crichton?" Conrad pressed. "Well, you just-looked at them, and you knew what time it was.One o'clock, or two or half past seven-that waswhen I'd go offto work." "But you go off to work now when you'vehad breakfast.And if you're late the timer rings." Crichton shookhis head. "l can't explain it to you, lad. You askyour father." But Mr. Newman was hardly more helpful. The explanationpromised for Conrad'ssixteenthbirthday never materialized.When his questions persistedMr. Newman, tired of sidestepping, shut him up with an abrupt:

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"fust stop thinking about it, do you understand?You'll get yourselfand the rest of us into a lot of trouble."

Stacey,the young English teacher,had a wry senseof humor, liked to shock the boys by taking up unorthodoxpositionson marriageor economics. Conrad wrote an essaydescribingan imaginarysocietycompletelypreoccupied with elaboraterituals revolvingaround a minute-by-minute observance of the passageof time. Staceyrefusedto play,however,and gavehim a noncommittal betaplus, after classquietly askedConrad what had prompted the fantasy.At first Conrad tried to back away,then finally came out with the questionthat containedthe central riddle. "Why is it againstthe law to have a clock?" Staceytosseda piece of chalk from one hand to the other. "ls it againstthe law?" Conrad nodded. "There'san old notice in the police station offering a bounty of one hundred poundsfor everyclock or wristwatchbrought in. I saw it yesterday.The sergeantsaid it was still in force." Staceyraisedhis eyebrowsmockingly."You'll makea million. Thinking of going into business?" Conradignoredthis. "lt'sagainstthe law to havea gun becauseyou might shootsomeone.But how can you hurt anybodywith a clock?" "Isn't it obvious?Youcan time him, knowexactlyhow long it takeshim to do something."

"Well?" "Then you can makehim do it

At seventeen,on a suddenimpulse, he built his first clock. Already his preoccupationwith time wasgiving him a markedleadoverhis classmates. One or two weremore intelligent, othersmore conscientious,but Conrad's ability to organizehis leisureand homeworkperiodsallowedhim to make the most of his talents.When the otherswerelounging around the railway yard on their way home Conrad had already completed half his prep, allocatinghis time accordingto its variousdemands. As soon as he finished he would go up to the attic playroom, now his workshop.Here, in the old wardrobesand trunks, he made his first experimental constructions:calibratedcandles,crude sundials,sandglasses, an elaborateclockworkcontraption developingabout half a horsepower that

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droveits handsprogressively fasterand fasterin an unintentionalparodyof Conrad'sobsession. His firstseriousclock waswater-powered, a slowlyleakingtank holdinga float that wooden drove the hands as it sank downwards. Simple but accurate,it satisfiedConrad for severalmonthswhile he carriedout his everwidening searchfor a real clock mechanism. He soon discoveredthat although there were innumerable table clocks, gold pocket watches,and timepiecesof everyvarietyrusting in junk shopsand in the backdrawersof most homes, none of them containedtheir mechanisms.These, together with the hands, and sometimesthe digits, had alwaysbeen removed.His own attemptsto build an escapementthat would regulatethe motion of the ordinary clockwork motor met with no success;everything he had heard about clock movementsconfirmed that they wereprecisioninstrumentsof exactdesignand construction.To satisfyhis secretambition-a portable timepiece,if possiblean actual wristwatch-he would have to find one, somewhere,in working order. Finally, from an unexpectedsource, a watch came to him. One afternoon in a cinema, anelderlyman sittingnextto Conradhad a suddenheart attack. Conrad and two membersof the audiencecarried him out to the manager's office. Holding one of his arms,Conradnoticedin the dim aisle light a glint of metal inside the sleeve.Quickly he felt the wrist with his fingers,identifiedthe unmistakablelens-shapeddisk of a wristwatch. As he carriedit home its tick seemedasloud asa deathknell. He clamped his hand around it, expectingeveryonein the streetto point accusinglyat him, the Time Policeto swoopdown and seizehim. In the attic he took it out and examinedit breathlessly, smotheringit in a cushion wheneverhe heard his father shift about in the bedroom below. Later he realizedthat its noisewasalmost inaudible. The watch wasof the samepatternashis mother's,though with a yellow and not a red face. The gold casewas scratchedand peeling, but the movement seemedto be in perfectcondition. He prized offthe rearplate, watchedthe frenzied flickering world of miniature cogsand wheelsfor hours,spellbound.Frightened of breakingthe main spring, he kept the watch only half wound, packed awaycarefully in cotton wool. In taking the watch from its ownerhe had not, in fact, beenmotivatedby theft; his first impulse had been to hide the watch before the doctor discoveredit feeling for the man's pulse. But once the watch was in his possession he abandonedany thoughtof tracingthe ownerand returningit. That otherswere still wearing watcheshardly surprisedhim. The water clock had demonstratedthat a calibratedtimepieceaddedanotherdimen-

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sion to life, organizedits energies,gavethe countlessactivitiesof everyday existencea yardstickof significance.Conrad spenthours in the attic gazing at the small yellow dial, watching its minute hand revolveslowly, its hour through the hand presson imperceptibly,a compasscharting his passage gray purposeless future. Without it he felt rudderless,adrift in a limbo of timelessevents.His fatherbeganto seem idle and stupid, sitting around vacantlywith no idea when anything wasgoing to happen. Soon he waswearingthe watch all day.He stitchedtogethera slim cotton sleeve,fitted with a narrow flap below which he could seethe face. He timed everything-the length of classes,football games,meal breaks,the hours of daylight and darkness,sleepand waking. He amusedhimself endlesslyby baffling his friendswith demonstrationsof this privatesixth sense,anticipating the frequencyof their heart beats,the hourly newscasts on the radio,boiling a seriesof identicallyconsistenteggswithout the aid of a timer. Then he gavehimself away. Stacey,shrewderthan any of the others,discoveredthat he waswearinga watch. Conrad had noticed that Stacey's English classeslastedexactlyfortyfive minutes;he let himself slideinto the habit of tidying his deska minute beforeStacey's timer pipped up. Once or twice he noticed Staceylooking at him curiously,but he could not resistthe temptation to impressStaceyby alwaysbeing the first one to make for the door. One day he had stackedhis booksand clipped awayhis pen when Stacey pointedly askedhim to read out a pr6cishe had done. Conrad knew the timer would pip out in lessthan ten seconds,and decidedto sit tight and wait for the usual stampedeto savehim the trouble. Staceysteppeddown from the dais, waiting patiently.One or two boys turned around and frowned at Conrad, who wascounting awaythe closing seconds. Then, amazed,he realizedthat the timer had failedto sound!Panicking, he first thought his watchhad broken,just restrainedhimself in time from looking at it. "ln a hurry, Newman?"Staceyaskeddryly. He sauntereddown the aisle to Conrad. Baffed, his face reddening with embarrassment,Conrad fumbled open his exercisebook, read out the pr6cis.A few minutes later, without waiting for the timer, Staceydismissedthe class. "Newman," he called out. "Here a moment." He rummaged behind the rostrum as Conrad approached."What happened then?" he asked."Forget to wind up your watch this morning?" Conrad saidnothing. Staceytook out the timer, switchedoffthe silencer and listenedto the pip that buzzed out.

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Don't worry'theTime Police "Wheredid yougetit from?Yourparents? yearsago." weredisbanded he lied. "I foundit face."lt wasmy mother's," ConradexaminedStacey's amongher things."Staceyheld out his hand and Conradnervouslyunstrappedthe watchand handedit to him. Str..y slippedit half out of its sleeve,glancedbrieflyat the yellowface. "Yourmother,you say?Hmh." 'Are you goingto reportme?"Conradasked. time evenfurther?" psychiatrist's "What, and wastesomeoverworked "lsn't it breakingthe law to weara watch?" living menaceto public security." "Well, you'renot exactlythe greatest Staceystartedfor the door, gesturingConradwith him. He handedthe Youand afternoon. you'redoingon Saturday watchback."Cancelwhatever I aretakinga trip." "Where?"Conradasked. "Backinto the past," Staceysaidlightly. "To Chronopolis,the Time City." of chromiumandfins.He mastodon hadhired aca\ a hugebattered Stacey the PublicLibrary. up outside picked him *ru.d jauntilyto Conradashe Conrad "Climb into the turret." He pointedto the bulgingbriefcase. slungonto the seatbetweenthem. "Haveyou had a look at thoseyet?" squareheopened Conradnodded.Astheymovedoffaroundthedeserted andpulledout a thick bundleof roadmaps."I've iustworked thebriefcase out thatthe city coversoverfivehundredsquaremiles.I'd neverrealizedit wasso big. Whereis everYbodY?" themain street,cut downinto a longtreeStaceylaughed.Theycrossed houses.Half of them wereempty,windows lined .u.nr" of semidetached wreckedand roofssagging.Even the inhabitedhouseshad a makeshift lashedto their crudewatertowerson homemadescaffolding appearance, gardens. front chimneys,pilesof logsdumpedin overgrown "Thirty million peopleoncelived in this city," Staceyremarked."Now the populationis little morethan two, andstill declining.Thoseof usleft hang on in what wereoncethe distalsuburbs,so that the city todayis effectiuelyan enormousring, five milesin width, encirclinga vastdead " centerforty or fifty milesin diameter. They wovein and out of variousbackroads,pasta small factorystill to endat noon' finally pickedup a runningalthoughworkwassupposed Conradtraced thatcarriedthemsteadilywestward. long,straightboulevard maps.They werenearingthe edgeof the acrosssuccessive their progress

7E

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annulus Staceyhad described.On the map it wasoverprintedin greenso that the central interior appeareda flat, uncharted gray, a massiveterra incognita. They passed the lastof the smallshoppingthoroughfares he remembered, a frontierpostof mean terracedhouses,dismal streetsspannedby massive steelviaducts.Staceypointedup at one asthey drovebelow it. "Partof the elaboraterailwaysystemthat onceexisted,an enormousnetworkof stations and junctionsthat carriedfifteen million peopleinto a dozengreatterminals every day." For half an hour they drove on, Conrad hunched againstthe window, Staceywatchinghim in the driving mirror. Gradually,the landscapebegan to change. The houseswere taller, with colored roofs, the sidewalkswere railedoffand fitted with pedestrianlightsand turnstiles.They had entered the inner suburbs, completely desertedstreetswith multilevel supermarkets,towering cinemas, and departmentstores. Chin in one hand, Conrad staredout silently.Lacking any meansof transporthe had neverventuredinto the uninhabited interior of the city, like the otherchildren alwaysheadedin the oppositedirectionfor the op.n country. Here the streetshad died twenty or thirty yearsearlier;plateglass shopfrontshad slipped and smashedinto the roadway,old neon signs, window framesand overheadwireshung down from everycornice,traiiing a raggedwebworkof disintegratingmetal acrossthe pavements.Staceydtoue slowly,avoidingthe occasionalbusor truck abandonedin the middle of the road, its tires peeling off their rims. Conradcranedup at the empty windows,into the narrowalleysand side streets,but nowherefelt any sensationof fearor anticipation.Thesestreets were merely derelict, as unhauntedas a half-emptydustbin. One suburbancentergavewayto another,to long interveningstretchesof congestedribbon developments. Mile by mile, the architecturealteredits character;buildingswerelarger,ten- or fifteen-storyblocks,clad in facing materialsof green and blue tiles, glassor copper sheathing. They were movingforwardin time ratherthan, asConradhad expected,backinto the pastof a fossilcity. Staceyworkedthe car through a nexusof side streetstoward a six-lane expressway that roseon concretebuttresses abovethe rooftops.They found a sideroadthat circledup to it, leveledout, and then pickedup speedsharply, spinning along one of the clear centerlanes. Conrad cranedforward. In the distance,two or three miles away,the rectilinear outlines of enormousapartmentblocks rearedthirty or forty storyshigh, hundredsof them lined shoulderto shoulderin apparently endlessranks, like giant dominoes.

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"We'reenteringthe centraldormitorieshere,"Staceytold him. On either side buildings overtoppedthe motorway,the congestionmounting so that someof them had been built right up againstthe concretepalisades. In a few minutes they passedbetweenthe first of the apartmentbatteries, the thousandsof identicalliving units with their slantingbalconiesshearing up into the sky,the glassin-falls of the aluminum curtain walling speckling in the sunlight. The smallerhousesand shopsof the outer suburbshad vanished.There wasno room on the ground level. In the narrow intervals betweenthe blocksthereweresmall concretegardens,shoppingcomplexes, ramps banking down into huge undergroundcar parks. And on all sidesthere were the clocks. Conrad noticed them immediately,at everystreetcorner, over everyarchway,three quartersof the way up the sidesof buildings, coveringeveryconceivableangle of approach. Most of them weretoo high off the ground to be reachedby anything less than a fireman'sladderand still retainedtheir hands.All registeredthe same t i m e : l 2 : 0 1. Conrad looked at his wristwatch,noted that it was iust 2:45 p.m. "They were driven by a master clock," Staceytold him. "When that stoppedthey all ceasedat the samemoment. One minute after midnight, thirty-sevenyears ago." The afternoonhad darkened,asthe high cliffs cut offthe sunlight, the sky of narrowverticalintervalsopeningand closingaroundthem. a succession Down on the canyon floor it was dismal and oppressive,a wildernessof divided and pressedon westward. concreteand frostedglass.The expressway gave way to the first office blocks the apartment miles more After a few buildings in the central zone. Thesewereeventaller, sixty or seventystorys wasfifty feet The expressway high, linked by spiralingrampsand causeways. with it, level were blocks office the floors of yet first the off the ground entrancebaysof mounted on massivestiltsthat straddledthe glass-enclosed lifts and escalators.The streetswerewide but featureless.The sidewalksof parallel roadwaysmergedbelow the buildings, forming a continuous concrete apron. Here and there were the remains of cigarettekiosks, rusting andarcadesbuilt on platformsthirty feetin the air. stairwaysup to restaurants Conrad, however,waslooking only atthe clocks.Neverhad he visualized so many, in placessodensethat they obscuredeachother. Their faceswere multicolored: red, blue, yellow, green. Most of them carried four or five hands.Although the masterhandshad stoppedat a minute pasttwelve, the subsidiaryhands had halted at varying positions,apparentlydictatedby their color. 'And the different "What were the extra hands for?" he asked Stacey. colors?"

BO / CHF|ONOPOLIS

"Time zones. Depending on your professionalcategoryand the consumer-shiftsallowed. Hold on, though, we're almostthere." They left the expressway and swung off down a ramp that fed them into the northeastcornerof a wide open plaza,eighthundredyardslong andhalf aswide, down the centerof which had oncebeenlaid a continuousstrip of lawn, now rank and overgrown.The plazawasempty,a suddenblock of free spacebounded by tall glass-facedcliffs that seemedto cany the sky. Staceyparked,andhe andConradclimbedout and stretchedthemselves. Togetherthey strolledacrossthe wide pavementtoward the strip of waisthigh vegetation.Looking down the vistasrecedingfrom the plazaConrad graspedfully for the first time the vastperspectivesof the city, the massive geometricjungle of buildings. Staceyput one foot up on the balustraderunning aroundthe lawn bed, pointed to the far end of the plaza,whereConrad sawa low-lying huddle of buildingsof unusualarchitecturalstyle,nineteenthcenturyperpendicular stained by the atmosphereand badly holed by a number of explosions. Again, however,his attention was held by the clock face built into a tall concretetower fust behind the older buildings.This wasthe largestclock dial he had everseen,at leasta hundredfeetacross,hugeblackhandshalted at a minute pasttwelve. The dial waswhite, the first they had seen,but on wide semicircularshouldersbuilt belowthe main facewerea dozensmaller faces,no more than twenty feet in diameter,running the full spectrumof colors.Each had five hands,the inferior three halted at random. "Fifty years ago:' Staceyexplained,gesturingat the ruins below the tower, "that collection of ancient buildings was one of the world'sgreatest legislativeassemblies. " He gazedat it quietly for a few moments, then turned to Conrad. "Enjoy the ride?" Conradnoddedfervently."It'simpressive, all right. The peoplewho lived heremust havebeengiants.What'sreally remarkableis that it looksasif they left only yesterday.Why don't we go back?" "Well, apartfrom the factthat therearen't enoughof us now,evenif there were we couldn't control it. In its heydaythis city was a fantastically complexsocial organism.The communicationsproblemsare difficult to imaginemerelyby looking at theseblank fagades.It'sthe tragedyof this city that there appearedto be only one way to solvethem." "Did they solvethem?" "Oh, yes,certainly.But theyleft themselves out of the equation.Think of the problems, though. Tiansporting fifteen million office workersto and from the center every day; routing in an endlessstreamof cars, buses, trains, helicopters;linking every office, almost every desk, with a videophone,everyapartmentwith television,radio, power,water;feedingand

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entertainingthis enormousnumberof people;guardingthem with ancillary services,pJi.., fire squads,medical units-it all hinged on one factor." Staceythrew a fist out at the great tower clock. "Time! Only by synchronizing everyactivity, everyfootstepforward or backward,everymeal, bus halt, and telephonecall, could the organism support itself. Like the cells in your body, which proliferateinto mortal cancersif allowedto grow in freedom, everyindividual here had to servethe overriding needsof the city or fatal bottlenecksthrew it into total chaos.You and I can turn on the tap any hour of the day or night, becausewe have our own private water cisterrrs,but what would happen here if everybodywashedthe breakfast disheswithin the sameten minutes?" They beganto walk slowly down the plazatowardthe clock tower. "Fifty yearsago, when the population was only ten million, they could iust providefor a potential peakcapacity,but eventhen a strikein one essential serviceparalyzedmost of the others;it took workerstwo or three hours to reachtheir offices, aslong again to queuefor lunch and get home. As the population climbed the first seriousattemptswere made to staggerhours; workersin certain areasstartedthe day an hour earlieror later than thosein and car number plateswerecoloredaccordingly, others.Their railwaypasses and if they tried to travel outside the permitted periodsthey were turned back. Soon the practice spread;you could only switch on your washing machine at a given hour, post a letter or take a bath at a specificperiod." "soundsfeasible,"Conradcommented,his interestmounting. "But how did they enforceall this?" "By a system of colored passes,colored money, an elaborate set of schedulespublishedeverydaylike TV or radioprograms.And, of course,by all the thousandsof clocksyou can seearound you here. The subsidiary handsmarkedout the number of minutesremainingin any activityperiod " for people in the clock'scolor category. blue-faced clock mounted on one of the pointed to a Staceystopped, buildings overlookingthe plaza."Let'ssay,for example,that a lower-grade executiveleaving his office at the allotted time, twelve o'clock, wants to have lunch, changea library book, buy someaspirin, and telephonehis his identityzoneis blue. He takesout his schedule wife. Like all executives, for the week, or looks down the blue-time columns in the newsPaper,and notesthat his lunch periodfor that day is twelve-fifteento twelve-thirty.He hasfifteen minutes to kill. Right, he then checksthe library. Time codefor today is given as three, that'sthe third hand on the clock. He looks at the nearestblue clock, the third hand saysthirty-sevenminutes past-he has twenty-threeminutes, ample time, to reachthe library. He startsdown the street,but finds at the first intersectionthat the pedestrianlights are only

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/ CHRC]NOPOLIS

shining red and greenand he can't get across.The area'sbeen temporarily zoned off for lower-gradewomen office workers-red, and manualsgreen." "what would happen if he ignoredthe lights?,,conrad asked. "Nothing immediately,but all blue clocksin the zoned areawould have returnedto zero, and no shopsor the library would servehim, unless he happenedto have,redor greencurrency and a forgedset of library tickets. Anyway,the penaltiesweretoo high to make the risk worthwhile, and the whole systemwasevolvedfor his convenience,no one else's.So, unable to reachthe library,he decideson the chemist.The time codefor the chemist is five, the fifth, smallesthand. It readsfifty-four minutespast:he has six minutesto find a chemistand make his purchase.This done, he still has five minutesbeforelunch, decidesto phonehis wife. Checkingthe phone codehe seesthat no periodhasbeenprovidedfor privatecallsthat day-or the next. He'll just haveto wait until he seeshei that evening.', "What if he did phone?" "He wouldn't be ableto gethis moneyin the coin box, and eventhen, his *if, assumingsheis a secretary, would be in a red time zoneand no longer in her office for that day-hence the prohibition on phone calls. It;ll meshedperfectly.Your time program told you when yol co,rld switch on your TV setand when to switch off. All electricapplianceswerefused, and if you strayedoutsidethe programmedperiodsyou'd havea hefty fine and repairbill to meet. The viewer'seconomicstatusobviouslydeterminedthe choice of program, and vice versa,so there was no qr.riion of coercion. Each day'sprogram listed your permitted activities:yo,, could go to the hairdresser's, cinema, bank, cocktail bar, at statedtimes, and if you went then you were sure of being servedquickly and efficiently." They had almost reachedthe far end of the plaza. Facing them on its tower wasthe enormousclock face, dominating its constellationof twelve motionlessattendants. "There werea dozen socioeconomiccategories:blue for executives,gold for professionalclasses,yellow for military and government officiaisincidentally, itb odd your parentsevergot hold of that wrishvatch,none of your family everworkedfor the government-green for manual workersand soon. Naturally,subtlesubdivisions werepossible.The lower-grade executive I mentionedleft his office at twelve,but a seniorexecutive,with exactly the same time codes, would leaveat eleven forty-five and have an extra fifteen minutes, would find the streetsclear beforethe lunch-hour rush of clerical workers." Staceypointed up at the tower."This wasthe Big Clock, the masterfrom which all otherswereregulated.CentralTime Control, a sortof Ministry of

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buildingsastheirlegislaTime, graduallytookoverthe old parliamentary were' effectively,the city's tive functionsdiminished.The programmers absoluterulers." poised atthebatteryof timepieces, continuedConradgazedup AsStacey to havebeensuspended, at l2:01. Somehowtime itselfseemed helplessly aroundhim the greatofficebuildingshung in a neutralintervalbetween andtomorrow.If onecouldonly startthe masterclockthe entire yesterday *o,rld probablyslide into gearand cometo life, in an instantbe "ity repeopled 'ThLy with its dynamicfostlingmillions. beganto waikbacktowardthecar.Conradlookedoverhisshoulder at the clockface,its giganticarmsuprighton the silenthour' "Why did it stop?"he asked. Staceylookedat him curiously."Haven'tI madeit fairlyplain?" "What do you mean?"Conradpulledhis eyesoff the scoresof clocks lining the plaza,frownedat Stacey. "Can you imaginewhatlife waslike for all but a fewof thethirty million here?" people ' all Blueandyellowclocks,he noticed,outnumbered ionrrd shrugged. the from had operated agencies others;obviouslythe majorgovernmental the sortof life we lead,"he than better but "Highly organized plazaarea. in thesightsaroundhim. "l'd ratherhavethe iepliedfinally,moreinterested arealwaysrationed, for onehoura daythan not at all. Scarcities teiephone aren'tthey?" "But this wasa wayof life in which everythingwasscarce.Don't you a point beyondwhich humandignityis surrendered?" think there's to beplentyof dignityhere.Lookat these Conradsnorted."Thereseems buildings,they'llstandfor a thousandyears.Tfy comparingthemwith my as asprecisely father.Any*.y, think of thebeautyof thesystem,engineered a watch." "That'sall it was,"Staceycommenteddourly."The old metaphorof the cog in the wheelwasnevermoretrue than here.The full sum of your columns,mailedto youonce wasprintedfor youin thenewspaper existence a monthfrom the Ministryof Time." pressed on in a Conradwaslookingoffin someotherdirectionandStacey slightlyloudervoice."EventuallXof course,revoltcame.It'sinteresting that in any industrialsocietythereis usuallyone socialrevolutioneach revolutionsreceivetheir impetusfrom procentury,and that successive highersociallevels.In the eighteenthcenturyit wasthe urban gressively in this revoltthe whiteproletariat,in the nineteenththe artisanclasses, flat, supporting modern collarofficeworker,living in his tiny so-called throughcreditpyramidsan economicsystemthat deniedhim all freedom

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of will or personality,chainedhim to a thousandclocks. . .,, He brokeoff. "What's the matter?" Conrad wasstaringdown one of the sidestreets.He hesitated,then asked in a casual voice: "How were theseclocks driven? Electrically?,, "Most of them. A few mechanically.Why?,' "l just wondered . . . how they kept them all going." He daw,clled at Stacey'sheels, checking the time from his wristwatchand glancing to his left. There were twenty or thirty clocks hanging from the buildings along the side street,indistinguishablefrom thosehe had seenall afternoon. Except for the fact that one of them wasworking! It wasmounted in the centerof a blackglassportico overan entranceway fifty yardsdown the right-hand side, about eighteen inches in diameter, with a faded blue face. Unlike the othersits handsregisteredthree-fifteen, the correcttime. Conrad had nearlymentionedthis apparentcoincidence to Staceywhen he had suddenlyseenthe minute hand moveon an interval. Withoutdoubtsomeonehad restartedthe clock;evenif it had beenrunning off an inexhaustiblebattery, after thirty-sevenyears it could never haue displayedsuch accuracy. He hung behind Stacey,who wassaying:"Every revolutionhasits symbol of oppression. ." The clock wasalmostout of view.Conrad wasabout to benddown and tie his shoelacewhen he sawthe minute hand jerk downward,tilt slightly from the horizontal. He followed Staceytoward the car, no longer botheringto listen to him. Ten yardsfrom it he turned and broke away,ran swiftly acrossthe roadway toward the nearestbuilding. "Newman!" he heard Staceyshout. "Come back!" He reachedthe pavement, ran between the great concrete pillars carrying the building. He pausedfor a moment behind an elevatorshaft, saw Staceyclimbing hurriedly into the car. The engine coughed and roared out, and Conrad sprintedon below the building into a rear alley that led back to the side street.Behindhim he heardthe car accelerati ng, adoorslamasit pickedup speed. When he enteredthe sidestreetthe car cameswingingoffthe plazathirty yardsbehind him. Staceyswervedoff the roadway,bumped up onto the pavementand gunned the car toward Conrad, throwing on the brakesin savagelurches, blasting the horn in an attempt to frighten him. Conrad sidestepped out of its way,almostfalling overthe bonnet, hurled himself up a narrow stairwayleadingto the first floor, and racedup the stepsto a short landing that endedin tall glassdoors.Through them he could seea wide balconythat ringedthe building. A fire escapecrisscrossed upwardto the

J. G. BALLARtr) / E}5

roof, giving way on the fifth floor to a cafeteriathat spannedthe streetto the office building opposite. Below he heard Stacey'sfeet running acrossthe pavement.The glass doorswerelocked. He pulled a fire extinguisherfrom its bracket,tossedthe heavycylinder againstthe centerof the plate. The glassslippedand crashed to the tiled fooi itr t sudden cascade,splashingdown the steps.Conrad steppedthrough onto the balcony, began to climb the stairway.He had ,.r.hed the third floor when he saw Staceybelow,craning upward. Hand over hand, Conrad pulled himself up the next two flights, swung over a bolted metal turnstile into the open court of the cafeteria.Tablesand chairs lay about on their sides, mixed up with the splinteredremains of desks thrown down from the upPer foors. The doors into the coveredrestaurantwere open, a large pool of water lying acrossthe foor. Conrad splashedthrough it, went over to a window and peereddown pastan old plasticplant into the street.Staceyseemedto have given up. Conrad crossedthe rear of the restaurant,straddledthe counter, and climbed through a window onto the open terrace running acrossthe street.Beyondthe rail he could seeinto the plaza,the double line of tire marks curving into the streetbelow. He had almost crossedto the oppositebalcony when a shot roared out into the air. There was a sharptinkle of falling glassand the sound of the explosionboomed awayamong the empty canyons. For a few secondshe panicked. He flinched back from the exposedrail, his eardrumsnumbed, looking up at the greatrectangularmassestowering abovehim on eitherside,the endlesstiersof windowslike the facetedeyesof giganticinsects.So Staceyhad beenarmed,almostcertainlywasa member of the Time Police! On his handsand kneesConrad scurriedalong the terrace,slid through the turnstiles and headedfor a half-open window on the balcony. Climbing through, he quickly lost himself in the building. He finally took up a position in a corner office on the sixth floor, the cafeteriajust below him to the right, the stairwayup which he had escaped directly opposite. All afternoon Staceydrove up and down the adjacentstreets,sometimes freewheelingsilentlywith the engineoff, at othersblazing through at speed. Thice he fired into the air, stoppingthe car afterwardto call out, his words lost among the echoesrolling from one streetto the next. Often he drove alongthe pavements,swervedaboutbelow the buildings asif he expectedto flush Conrad from behind one of the banks of escalators. Finally he appearedto drive offforgood, and Conrad turned his attention to the clock in the portico. It had movedon to six forty-five, almost exactly

AE / CHRONC]POLIS

the time givenby his own watch.Conrad resetthis to what he assumedwas the correct time, then sat back and waited for whoever had wound it to aPpear.Around him the thirty or forty other clockshe could seeremained stationary at l2:01. For five minutes he left his vigil, scoopedsomewateroff the pool in the cafeteria,suppressed his hunger,and shortlyafter midnight fell asleepin a cornerbehind the desk.

He woke the next morning to bright sunlight flooding into the office. standing up, he dusted his clothes, turned around to find a small grayhairedman in a patchedtweedsuit surveyinghim with sharpeyes.Slung in the crook of his arm was a large black-barreled*.rpon, it, hr--.r, menacinglycocked. The man put down a steel ruler he had evidently tapped against a cabinet,waited for Conrad to collect himself. "What areyou doing here?"he askedin a testyvoice.Conradnoticedhis pocketswerebulging with angularobjectsthat weigheddown the sidesof his jacket. "r . . . er . ." conrad searchedfor somethingto say.Somethingabout the old man convincedhim that this wasthe clock winder. Suddenlyhe decidedhe had nothing to loseby being frank, and blurted out, "l sawthe clock working. Down there on the left. I want to help wind them all up again." The old man watchedhim shrewdly.He had an alert birdlike face, twin folds under his chin like a cockerel's. "How do you proposeto do that?" he asked. Stuck by this one, Conrad said lamely, "l'd find a key somewhere. " The old man frowned. "one key?That wouldn't do much good." He seemedto be relaxing,and shookhis pocketswith a dull chink. For a few momentsneither of them saidanything. Then Conrad had an inspiration,baredhis wrist. "l havea watch," he said."lt'ssevenforty-five." "Let me see."The old man steppedforward,brisklytook Conrad'swrist and examinedthe yellow dial. "Movado Supermatic,"he saidto himself. "CTC issue."He steppedback, loweringthe shotgun,and seemedto be summingConradup. "Good," he remarkedat last."Let'ssee.Youprobably " need some breakfast. They madetheir wayout of the building, andbeganto walkquicklydown the street. "Peoplesometimescomehere,"the old man said."sightseersandpolice. I watchedyour escapeyesterday,you were lucky not to be killed." They

l J. G. BALLARtr / E7 swervedleft and right acrossthe empty streets,the old man darting between the stairwaysand buttresses.As he walked he held his hands stiffly to his sides,preventinghis pocketsfrom swinging.Glancing into them, Conrad saw that they were full of keys, large and rusty, of every design and combination. "I presumethat was your father'swatch," the old man remarked. lecture, and "Grandfather's,"Conrad corrected.He rememberedStacey's added, "He was killed in the plaza." The old man frownedsympathetically,for a moment held Conrad'sarm. They stoppedbelow a building, indistinguishablefrom the othersnearby, at one time a bank. The old man lookedcarefullyaroundhim, eyeingthe high cliff walls on all sides,then led the way up a stationaryescalator. His quarterswereon the secondfloor, beyonda mazeof steelgrillesand strongdoors,a stoveand a hammock slung in the centerof a largeworkshop. Lying about on thirty or forty desksin what had once been a typing pool, was an enormouscollection of clocks, all being simultaneouslyrepaired. Thll cabinetssurrounded them, loaded with thousandsof spareparts in neatly labeled correspondencetrays-escapements, ratchets, cogwheels, barely recognizablethrough the rust. The old man led Conrad over to a wall chart, pointed to the total listed against a column of dates. "Look at this. There are now 278 running continuously.Believeme, I'm gladyou'vecome.Ittakesme half my time to keep them wound." He made breakfastfor Conrad and told him somethingabout himself. His name wasMarshall. Once he had workedin Central Time Control asa programmer.He had survivedthe revoltand the Time Police,and ten years later returnedto the city. At the beginning of each month he cycled out to one of the perimetertownsto cashhis pensionand collectsupplies.The rest of the time he spentwinding the steadilyincreasingnumber of functioning clocks and searchingfor othershe could dismantle and repair. 'All theseyearsin the rain hasn't done them any good," he explained, "and there'snothing I can do with the electrical ones." Conrad wanderedoffamong the desks,gingerlyfeeling the dismembered timepiecesthat lay around like the nerve cells of somevastunimaginable robot. He felt exhilaratedand yet at the sametime curiously calm, like a man who hasstakedhis whole life on the turn of a wheel and is waiting for it to spin. "How can you make sure that they all tell the same time?" he asked Marshall, wondering why the questionseemedso important. Marshall gesturedirritably. "l can't, but what doesit matter?There is no such thing asa perfectlyaccurateclock. The nearestyou can get is one that

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hasstopped.Although you neverknow when, it is absolutelyaccuratetwice a day." Conrad went overto the window,pointedto the greatclock visiblein an intervalbetweenthe rooftops."lf only we could startthat, and run all the othersoff it. " "Impossible.The entire mechanismwasdynamited.Only the chimer is intact. Anyway,the wiring of the electricallydriven clocksperishedyears ago. It would take an army of engineersto reconditionthem.', Conrad looked at the scoreboardagain. He noticed that Marshall appearedto have lost his way through the years-the completion dateshe listed were seven and a half years out. Idly, Conrad ieflected on the significanceof this irony, but decidednot to mention it to Marshall.

For three months Conrad lived with the old man, following him on foot as he cycledabout on his rounds,carryingthe ladderand the satchelfull of keyswith which Marshall wound up the clocks, helping him to dismantle recoverableones and carry them back to the *orkshop. All day, and often through half the night, they worked together, repairing the movements,restartingthe clocks, and returning them to their original positions. All the while, however,Conrad'smind wasfixed upon the greatclock in its tower dominating the plaza. once a day he managedto sneakoff and makehis wayinto the ruinedTime buildings.As Marshallhad said,neither the clock nor its twelve satelliteswould ever run again. The movement houselookedlike the engineroom ofa sunkenship, a rustingtangleof rotors and drive wheels exploded into contorted shapes.Every *..k he would climb the long stairwayup to the topmostplatform two hundredfeet above, look out through the bell towerat the flat roofsof the office blocksstretching awayto the horizon. The hammersrestedagainsttheir trips in long ranks iust below him. Once he kickedone of the trebletrips playfully, senta dull chime out acrossthe plaza. The sound drove strangeechoesinto his mind. Slowlyhe beganto repairthe chimer mechanism,rewiringthe hammers and the pulley systems,trailing fresh wire up the greatheighl of the tower, dismantlingthe winchesin the movementroom below and ,enouatingtheir clutches. He and Marshall neverdiscussed their self-appointed tasks.Like animals obeyingan instinct they workedtirelessly,barelyawareof their own motives. When Conrad told him one day that he intendedto leaveand continue the

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/ E}9

work in anothersectorofthe city, Marshall agreedimmediately,gaveConrad asmany toolsashe could spareand badehim good-bye.

Six monthslater,almostto the day,the soundsof the greatclock chimed out acrossthe rooftopsof the city, marking the hours, the half hours and the quarterhours, steadilytolling the progressof the day.Thirty miles away,in the townsforming the perimeterof the city, peoplestoppedin the streetsand in doorways,listeningto the dim hauntedechoesreflectedthrough the long aislesof apartment blocks on the far horizon, involuntarily counting the slow final sequencesthat told the hour. Older people whisperedto each other: "Four o'clock, or was it five? They have startedthe clock again. It seemsstrangeafter theseyears." And all through the day they would pauseasthe quarterand half hours reachedacrossthe miles to them, a voice from their childhoodsreminding them of the orderedworld of the past.They beganto resettheir timersby the chimes, at night before they slept they would listen to the long count of midnight, waketo hear them again in the thin clear air of the morning. Somewent down to the police stationand askedif they could havetheir watchesand clocks back again.

After sentence,twenty years for the murder of Stacey,five for fourteen offensesunder the Time Laws, to run concurrently,Newman wasled away to the holding cells in the basementof the court. He had expectedthe sentenceand made no comment when invited by the iudge. After waiting trial for a yearthe afternoon in the courtroom was nothing more than a momentaryintermission. He made no attempt to defend himself against the charge of killing Stacey,partly to shield Marshall, who would be ableto continue their work unmolested,and partly becausehe felt indirectly responsiblefor the policeman'sdeath. Stacey'sbody, skull fractured by a twenty- or thirty-story fall, had been discoveredin the backseatof his car in a basementgaragenot far from the plaza. PresumablyMarshall had discoveredhim prowling around. Newman recalledthat one day Marshall had disappearedaltogetherand had been curiously irritable for the rest of the week. The last time he had seenthe old man had been during the three days beforethe police arrived. Each morning asthe chimes boomed out across the plaza Newman had seenhis tiny figure striding briskly down the plaza towardhim, wavingup energeticallyat the tower,bareheadedand unafraid.

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Now Newman wasfacedwith the problem of how to devise a clock that would chart his way through the coming twenty years.His fears increased when he was taken the next day to the cell block which housed the longterm prisoners-passinghis cell on the way to meet the superintendent he noticed that his window looked out onto a small shaft. iI. pu-ped his brains desperatelyas he stood at attention during the superintendent,s homilies,wonderinghow he could retain his sanity.Shortof counting the seconds,eachone of the 86,400 in everyday,he sawno possible meansof assessing the time. Lockedinto his cell, he satlimply on the narrowbed, too tired to unpack his small bundle of possessions. A moment'sinspectionconfirmed the uselessness of the shaft. A powerful light mounted halfway up maskedthe sunlight that slippedthrough a steelgrille fifty feet above. He stretchedhimself out on the bed and examinedthe ceiling. A lamp was recessedinto its center, but a second,surprisingly,appear."d to have been fitted to the cell. This wason the wall, , f.* feet abovehis head. He could see the curving bowl of the protective case, some ten inches in diameter. He waswonderingwhetherthis could be a readinglight when he realized that there was no switch. Swingingaround, he sat up and examinedit, then leapt to his feet in astonishment. It wasa clock!Hepressed his handsagainstthe bowl, readingthe circleof numerals, noting the inclination of the hands. 4:57, near-enough the presenttime. Not simply a clock, but one in running order! Wasthis some sort of macabrejoke, or a misguidedattempt at rehabilitation? His pounding on the door brought a warder. "What's all the noise about?The clockz What's the matter with it?,, He unlockedthe door and bargedin, pushing Newman back. "Nothing. But why is it here?They're againstthe law." "Is that what'sworryingyou." The wardeishtugged."well, you see,the rules are a little different in here. You lads havegot r lot of time aheadof you, it'd be cruel not to let you know where you stood. you know how to workit, do you?Good." He slammedthe door andboltedit fast,then smiled at Newman throughthe cage."lt! a long dayhere,son, asyou'll be finding out. That'll help you get through it. " Gleefully, Newman lay on the bed, his headon a rolledblanketat its foot, staringup at the clock. It appearedto be in perfectorder,electricallydriven, moving in rigid half-minute jerks. For an hour after the warder left he watchedit without a break,then beganto tidy up his cell, glancingoverhis shouldereveryfew minutes to reassurehimself that it wasstill there, still

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of iustice, The ironyof thesituation,thetotalinversion runningefficiently. delightedhim, eventhoughit would costhim twentyyearsof his life. He wasstill chucklingovertheabsurdityof it all twoweekslaterwhenfor the firsttime he noticedthe clock'sinsanelyirritatingtick . . .

Tnicenatops TFIANSLATED

BY DAVID

LEWIS

sciencefiction in lapan beganin the 1960s asan offshootof American sciencefrction, with conventionswhere fans gathered,-a majormagazine(Hayakawa's sF Magazine), and a waveof translationsfr_oyEnglish. Butwhatdivelopid was unlike theliteratuy g! the west,and more |ikethe irprnrrc sci-frfilms of the /,950s andearly 1960s, full of monsters and disasters. This story combinesihe frtcinationwith monsters and.1sensibility-akin to thatoflorge LuisBorgesor themagic realist2ol perhaps,?rly Bailard As rs ,ofr^on with lZpalleseSf; thereis notthe kindof narrativeforceorplot to'noU thestorytogetherthat weexpectin Westernliteratire. Instead therersa successro n of setpiecgs leadingup to a culminating image;in this case,one that hasstriking,perhapsevendiiturbing,political undertones.This is a-storvaboutwar.

he father and son were returning from cycling. They had setout togetheron a Sundayof deepeningautumn, headingfor the cycling coursealong the river. On the waybackthey had beenforcedto burrow through the exhaust and dust of the national highway before finally reachingthe residentialarea a mile from home. Their houselay beyond this slightly aging neighborhood,on the other side of the small hill, in the new subdivision. It was only a little past seven,but the autumn sun was sinkingquicklyanddarkness had begunto gatheraboutthem. The father and son stoppedtheir bikes beneath the yellow light of the streetlampsand breathedthe cool air in deeply. 'Are you okay,Dad?"


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ashigh asthis fence.That would makeit threemeters,uh-uh, eventaller." 'Aaah," saidthe fatheragain."l guessa rhino might get loosefrom the zoo sometimes.It's not impossible.But didn't you seetwo horns on that thing'shead?" "Horns?Yeah, it did look like two horns." "So it couldn't be a rhinoceros. " "So it was a cow after all? A bull?" "lt mustbe. Youdon't seemany of them anymore,but it'smy guessa bull got loosefrom somefarm or pasturenear here." "Yeah." "Well, if it keepson like that, there'sgoingto be onewhaleof an accident when it meetsa truck. " "Yeah." The fatherand son lookedbackdown the road. They listened.But aside from the cheerful night noiseswith their tales of domestic peaceand tranquility, there were no hints of anything amissin the town. Almost as though it neverhappened. The father shook his head. lf l'd beenalone, l'd havethought I washallucinating. After a long while the fatherand son pedaledsilentlyand hurried along the roadhome.The streetbeganitsgradualascent,andtheystoppedseveral times to rest. The town spreadout behind them. They turned and lookedback, but therewereno signsof anythingunusual,no accusingshadows,andnowhere a trembling of the earth, a rising plume of dust. "Dad, did you seethe tail?" the son askedsuddenly. "Mmmm, what about it?" "Didn't you seeit? A superfattail?" The fatherand sonreachedthe crestof the hill and passedthrough the last sparsecopseof trees. Suddenlytheir own subdivisionlay beforethem. The lightswereon in all the newhousesof the newtown, but somehowperhapsbecauseof the sharpglareof the scatteredmercury-vaporlampsthe homesseemedto hunch stockilyagainstthe earth. The mother had dinner ready for them. "Oh, come on now. Was it really that big?" Chopsticks in midair, the mother eyed the father and son acrossthe dinner table. "lt was! It wasso big I thought it wasa rhino." "Well, it's terrible if it's true. The whole town must be in an uproar."

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'Actuallytherewasn'tany at all. Eventhe runningnoisestopped, iust like that." "That'sright. It stoppedlike we'd neverhearda thing." "But that'simpossible.Oh, I seenow. That'swhy you two wereso in thenewsall of a sudden.And did theysayanythingaboutit on interested the news?" " "Not a thing. But it maybetoo early,too soon,for it to geton thenews. "Boy,it'sgottageton thenews!Look,it'sseven,eightmeterslongfor sure, and at leastthreemetershigh." Really,haveyoueverseenor evenheard "l think you'rejustexaggerating. joke, is it?You'renotplayinggameswith me?" isn't This a big? that a cow of "We are not. Anyway,we sawit for sure.Didn't we, Dad?" 'Absolutely.If that wasa coq it'd be a cinch there'dbe steaksfor five hundredpeopleor more." "Oh, stopit this instant!Youare ioking." The motherlaughedshrilly,andthefatherandsonlookedat eachother, strangelyvague. their expressions After a while the fatheralsolaughed,dryly,shortly. then that thing "Well, it hardlymatters.Therewasa little earthquake; threw wentzippingby.Sowegota goodshockout of it. Maybetheshadows usoff, madeit lookbiggerthanit was.All that'sreallycertainisthatit wasn't a dog or a pig or someanimallike that, but a reallybig rascal,right?" andbeganto workhis "Yeah."The sonnodded,still not quitesatisfied, chopsticks. screen.A skimpilycladEurasiangirl A varietyshowwason thetelevision wasweavingher armsand legsasshesang,almosthowled,in a strange, strainedvoice.The wife laughedshrillyagain. "What is it?" "The singer,shejust blewher nose!" "Her nose?" weren'tyou? "Oh, comeon! Youwerejusttellingme aboutit yesterday, too hard.I straining her nose when she's girl blows sometimes this Yousaid just thoughtI'd neverheardanythingsostupidin my life,but really nowshe blewher nose.I, oh, it'stoo funny!" The motherrolledwith laughteragain. The fatherand sonsmiledtightly and loweredtheir eyes.

The fatherstayedup nearlyhalf thatnight, drinking.His wifeandsonhad goneto bed,but he, somehow unableto sleep,roseand,puttinghis legsup

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to the electricheaterin the living room, proppedhimselfup on onearm and beganto drink leisurely awayat the whiskeyhe pouredlittle by little into his glass.The last newsof the day startedon the television,left on sinceearly evening,but, as expected,therewas no mention of the shadowthey had seen. Werethey really iust seeingthings? The alcohol seepedthrough every cell in his aching muscles,slowly tanning his exhaustedbody like leather.At leastthat washow it felt to the father as he continued to watch the shifting screen. At some point he dozed off. Someonewas blowing his nose. Gradually the noise grew rougher, increasingin violenceuntil it soundedlike bellows. This is no ioke. No singerbgoing to blow her noselike that. This is one heckof a dream. HalF asleep,half-awake,his mind spun idly. Eventuallythe noisewasjoined by a low moan, shameless and huge, as though echoing from inside a mammoth cave. No way. This isn't that singerbvoice. Whatb going on? His eyessnappedopen. A moan. A noise like a bellows. And the soundscontinued. He lookedat the televisionset.The stationwasalreadyoffthe air, and the screenheld a sandstormof crackinglight. He turned it off and listened. The noise wascoming from outside. The father peeredthrough a crack in the curtains. Scraggly potted plants filled the little garden, no larger than a cat's forehead.Beyondthe hedgeloomed a huge black shadow,with an eyethat glitteredpiercinglyin the dark. It did look a little like a rhinoceros. But the horn on its nosewasevensharperthan a rhino's, and beneathit the mouth curved like a raptor'sbeak, and from that mouth puffed violent white breathlike a steamlocomotive. The head wasfully a third the size of the body, resemblinga buffalo's. Two long hornsjutted out like spears,but the turned-up,helmetlikeshield betweenthe headand abdomenwaslike that of no other animal he had ever seen. A door opened. The father turned to find his son standing in the room. The boy had pulled his trouserson overhis paiamas,and he lookedsoberlyat his fatheras he pushedone arm into his sweater. "Is it there?"the son askedin a low voice.

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"Yes." The father jerked his jaw in the direction of the shadowoutside. The mammoth animal scratchedthe fence twice, three times with the tips of its horns, then slowly swungits sidetowardthem. It beganto walk. Like a heavy tank moving out for a night battle. The dark brown back, the hips, the thick, heavytail like a giant lizard's trailing down from thosehips, all thesepassedslowly through their field of vision. The quiver of musclebeneaththick skin. "That'snot a cow or rhino," saidthe son, his voicestickingin his throat. "It seemsto be a dinosaur.That's all I can think of. " "lf it's really a dinosaur,then I've seenit in my books.It'sa famousone. Not A//osaurus,not Sfegosdurtts-" "This one'sbeak is pointed, but its teeth don't look like much." "lt has a mouth like a beak?" "That's right." "Then \t\ Triceratops!Isn't that right, Dad! Triceratops.It means the three-horneddinosaur.The nosehorn and two on its forehead,that makes three, right!" "Then that's it. Triceratops." Triceratops,living and fighting and fighting again in an endlessstruggle for survival in the late Cretaceous,Mesozoic world seventymillion years before, domain of history'smost savagebeast, the carnivorous monster the most rex. Triceratops,that massiveherbivore,possessing Tyrannosaurus Tiiceratops, that triknown. animal ever powerful armament of any ceratops,was even now walking leisurelydown the road beforetheir very eyes. "Shall we go outside?" "Sure!" Fatherand son slippedthrough the entrancedoor of their home. It was chilly outside,but there was no wind. Ten metersawaythe small mountainsof triceratop'ships swayedsteadily forward, dragginga tail like a telephonepole. They couldn't seethe beast's facebeyondthe expansivesweepof the shield. But from triceratop'sposture they could well imagine its cautiousadvance,front legs crouched, head lowered, body in readinessfor the slightestsign of danger. At last triceratopsreachedthe end of the street.Before it stood a stone fence and to the left and right, walls of brick and stone. He'lI head back this way. Fatherand son drew back betweenthe gateposts,but in the next instant they stopped,rooted speechlessin their tracks. Tiiceratopsdid not stop.It put its headup againstthe stonewall and sank

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smoothlyinto thehardsurface.The shieldvanished, thefront legsandthe sliceof backbone abovethemvanished, thehipsandhindlegsvanished, the tail from baseto tip, inch by steadyinch, simplydisappeared.

Morningcame,andthe father,settingoffto work,andthe son,settingoff for school,both left the houseat the sametime. Thefatherandsonexchanged glances andwalkedto thestonefenceatthe end of the road.The wall stoodsolidly,blockingtheir way. They fingeredit, but foundnothingunusual. Norwastherea singlebreakin themortar-painted sides,thewindowglass of the housebeyondthe wall. "f've readaboutdimensional faultsandstuffIike that," the sonsaid. "Mmmm. But thoseareall justtheories." "Theories?" "When yousaythatsomething youcan'tprovemightbethis wayor that way,that'sa theory." "So therearen'tany dimensional faults?" "Well,someone justthoughtthemup. Theymightreallyexist,andthey mightnot. If youfiguretheyexist,thenthesurfaceof thiswallmustberight aboutthefaultline. Betweenourworldandtheworld ofTriceratops, seventy million yearsago.But reallyyoucantry explainingit justaboutanyway " you please. "For instance?" "For instance,you could think that our world andTiiceratops's world existsimultaneously. Instead of poppingin andout of a faultlineeverynow and then, we'rereallyboth hereall the time with fusta bit of a lag in between.That wouldexplainwhy wecansomehow lookthroughinto that other world, and they can look through to us. It'd be just that fine a " difference. "Huh?" "l started thinkingaboutit whentherewasa thick,warmanimalsmellin thehousethismorning.Andthisisn'tthefirsttime,youknow.It'sbeenlike this for at leasttwo or threemonthsnow.The peopleliving heremustbe experiencing the samething." "Tiiceratops went insidetheir house?" "You'vegot it now." "So can theyseeit, too?fustlike us?" "Maybe.Butyouknowhowpeople's headsare.Wetry to denythingsthat we think are impossible. It'sa kind of protectiveinstinct.So evenif we somehowdo seeit, or feel it, we usuallyjust shut it out automatically,

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choosenot to seeit, not to do it. If we seeit again,two, threetimesmaybe, 'Nerves.''Boy, then common sensecomesto the rescueand we laugh it off. what a cruzy idea!' And that'sthe end of it." 'And if it still doesn'tstop?" "Then peoplestop acceptingyou. You can't live a productivesocial life anymore." The boy shookhis head lightly from side to side, then laughed. "What's so funny?" "Nothing much. I wasjust thinking about Mom. I didn't tell her what I sawlast night. Can you guesswhat would happen to me if I did?" The father laughed, too. "Well, she'dsureput you on the rack.That is, if it wasn'tright after she'd just seenthe samething herself." "l guessI can't tell any of my friendsabout it, either." "Of course not. Now let'sget going. We can talk it over when we get home." The father and son startedwalking. Occasionallyspeakingand laughing happily together. And every time they met a neighbor: "Good morning!" "Good morning!" Scatteringhigh-spiritedgreetingsall about them.

The father and son often saw dinosaursafter that. Sometimes,glancing up at the sunset,they'd glimpse the shadowof a huge winged creaturelikePteranodon,weavingacrossthe sky.But the only earth-huggingdinosaursthey saw were triceratopses. Apparently the local habitat was best suited to Tiicerafops.The beast asleepin the garage,its headso perfectlyalignedwith the family car that it seemeda strangehorned automobile was snoring humorously away,the huge dinosaurpassingoverthe headof a small child crying fretfully by the roadside,all theseapparitionsweretriceratopses. Sometimesthe father and son would even see them-though only transparently-walking the sun-bathedroad in full daylight. Nor wasit only what they could see.The cloying animal smell, the low grunting. Running nonstopto the stationon ice-stretched,frigid mornings as they gaspedand choked on impossiblefower pollen. Listening to the distant,bassoonlike criesof a femaletriceratopsin heat, howling through the long night. Youand yourdad seemawfully closethesedays.Anything specialgoingon?

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There weredayswhen his mother would badgerhim, but the son simply grinned. "Nothing special,"wasall he'd say. It wason one of thosedays,yet anotherSundayeveningwhen they had gonecycling about the neighborhood,though not asfar ason the day they first met triceratops.After passingthrough the copseon the top of the hill and coming out abovetheir subdivision,the fatherand son cameto a stop, finding themselvesspeechless and unable to move. A triceratopshuddled superimposedover everyhousein the town, their skin-brilliant greenbeneaththe mercurylamps-gently risingandfalling with their breathing.Occasionallyone would open its eyesin a narrowslit, and everytime the lids raised,the pupils would glitter in brilliant rose, perhapsbecauseof rhodopsinpigment like that found in somespeciesof crocodile. It was a sceneof phantasmalbeauty,like the winking of giant fireflies. "Do you supposethe land over there'sthe sameas the town?" "Maybe they can seeus and feel us like we feel them. Maybe they'rejust trying to keepwarm." "You may be right." "lsn't it a weird feeling?Everyone'sgoing to work or leaving for school from a dinosaur'sbelly, and they'recoming home to the belly, eatingdinner, watching TV " "But that'show it is." "Hey, my room'sin its butt. " "Don't let it get to you." "But it'sreally peacefulsomehow,isn't it? They may look fierce, but I've neverseena triceratopsfighting." "They hardly ever run, either." "Yeah,that'sright. fust the one we sawthat first time, in the other town." "I wonder what he was running for." 'Anyway, it's peacefulenough today." "There'snothing better than peace."

The peacedid not last long. It wasa daywhen yellow sandblown from the continent filled the air and turned the sun the color of blood, a harsh, unpleasantday. It wasthe daythat the son, looking casuallytowardthe national highway from the hilltop while returning from a friend'shouse, sawa dozen dinosaursrunning on strangehind legs-like ostriches-long tails held high, kicking up cloudsof dust.


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"Those weretyrannosauruses for sure. Superfatbacklegsand little skinny And front oneslike decorations.Pointedmouths.Anyway,tyrannosauruses. they were really moving fast. They came running at least as far as the station." "We're just a little wayfrom the stationhere,but I didn't feel anything like tyrannosauruswhen I was coming home just now. Even the triceratops in the ga:rigejust opened his eyesa bit and staredat me like he always does." "But I really did seethem." "Maybe they ran right through town and went somewhereelse?" "But I wonderwhy they would do that. They went out of sight near the station." "Hmmm." The father crossedhis arms. "ln that casemaybe they're still milling around there somewhere.Or maybe-" "Let'sgo see," said the son. "You two are up to something again, aren't you?" The mother shoutedafter them. The father and son smiled, waved,and mounted their bicycles. They went as far as the station, but there was no trace of any tyrannosauruses.After watching the station plaza for a while, they turned leisurelyback home. A small creek flowed close to the station, completely covered with concrete.There wasa playgroundbuilt on top of it. The long, covereddrain formed a secondroad, stretching almost to their subdivision. "Let's go back this way." The father and son pedaled their bicycles slowly over the concrete plating. The tires bouncedheavily everytime they jumped a gap between the plates. Their front lights wavedwidely. Beforelong they becameawareof a strangenoise. It soundedlike rapid water and, an octavelower, the grunting of countlesspigs. Moments later they felt the earth begin to rumble. And suddenlythey lookeddown at their feet. And ran to the metal lid of an air vent. Theywererunning beneaththe metal meshof the lid, fiercelykicking up the water as they ran. Their wet hides glistened;their necks were outstretched.The pack of tyrannosauruses dashedfor the subdivisionlike a conveyorbelt, a never-endingstream. They had been following the watercourse.The group near the national

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highwayhad beenbut a singlepart, a fying column, and had mergedwith the main group at the station. "This is bad." It hardly matteredif they hurried, yet the father and son beganto pedal furiously. dancedup As they nearedthe subdivision,countlesstyrannosauruses geyserof looking like them, a through the concretesheetingahead of muddy water. All the houseson the slantingslopeof the subdivisionheavedup their roofs and began to move. The triceratopshad risen. The fighting began. Before their eyes, a triceratops, head lowered, charged forward and plungedsharphorns into the carotidarteryof an attackingtyrannosaurus. The carnivore,its blood fountaininginto the air like waterfrom a fire hose, fell back,lashedits long tail, and leapedhugely,gougingout the triceratop's eyeswith a single sweepof the key-shapedclaws on its forelegs. Three more tyrannosauruses swoopedonto the mammoth body of the triceratops,crumpled just six metersin front of their home. The huge reptilesplunged tazorteeth into the belly meat, alreadyrippedapartby their claws.The surroundingswere flooded in a murky river of blood. "lsn't that our triceratops?"cried the boy, his voice shaking. "You're right." A tyrannosaurushad fallen in front of the entranceway.The father and son warily watchedits huge bloodshoteyes,the convulsivecontractionsof its belly, as they wheeledtheir bikes up the driveway. The fighting lastedthroughout the night. Even at the height of the raucouslaughterof a televisedsingingcontest, the father and son could hear the war cries, could feel the thick hide splitting, the shrieksof the hour of death. By morning the combathad almostended,and the countlesscorpsesof triceratopses and tyrannosauruses, some still barely twitching the tips of their tails, somedraggingthe rippedtattersof their stomachs,lay tumbled acrossthe landscape. Almost without exception,the corpsesof triceratopses had their entrails dug out, their ribs laid bare, and their neck shieldschoppedinto ribbons. But mostof the tyrannosauruses showedonly deeppuncturewoundsin their necksand bellies,escapingutter destruction. There were even a few scatteredsurvivors.But none had escapedunscathed.All had lost the energyto keep on fighting.

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his flung-outleg half mincemeatfrom the thigh One tyrannosaurus, he had down,continuedto dragout andgobblethe gutsof the triceratops slaughtered. Behindhim sprawledthe bodyof one of his comrades,a gapinghole boredthroughits neck,its bodyclottedwith driedblood,while no more grazedsilentlyon the grass,bloodstill than five metersawaya triceratops seepingfrom one of its eyes. Everynow andthenthe tyrannosaurus wouldraiseits headandglarethough perhapsthis was only their fancy-balefully at the grazing triceratops. lf you eat that crud, why'dyou kill us? The fatherand sonalmostfelt they could hearthat voice. lf therebtoomuchto eat, why did you keepon butcheringus? unbloodiedeyeseemedto askthat back. The triceratops's The fatherand sonwatchedasthey walkedslowlyto the station.The corpsesthat weren'tdrippingwereat leasttolerable.But eventhey were lay heaped of a tyrannosaurus broughtup shortwherethe largeintestines the road,asif theyhadsprungwrithingfrom theanimal'storn-open across belly.After a moment'spausethey edgedby on the sideof the street. throughtheblood-smeared whiteslackspassed A womanin fashionable watchingfather hershoesclickingloudly,hereyessuspiciously landscape, and son. passed throughthat landscape, A microbusfilled with kindergarteners bearingits load of lively chatter. singinga studentpassed throughthat landscape, An elementary-school jingle. Skylarkdancingto the sky God is reigningin the sky The world, the world'sa trife.

TheManWho Lost the Sea There are those,among them Samuel R. Delany, who regard Theodore Sturgeon as the greatestSF writer o{ short frction. lames Blish called him "the bestconscious artist the field has yet produced." Kurt Vonnegut called him a fine writer by anyone'sstandards.Sturgeonb mostfertile period wasthe late 1940sand the 1950s,whenhe wrote the majority of his work, over a hundred storiesand four novels. Thereafter, he pubIishedonly occasionallyuntil his death in 1985, though he remained a reveredpublic frgure and constant social presence. It is diffrcult to overestimatethe impact of Sturgeon's charismatic bohemian personality or the force of his emotionally explosive storieson SF and on the mostcareful and ambitious writers from 1940 to the early ]980s. Perhapsit is fair to say that he is the force behind the fiction that characterized the American version of the New Wave of the late 1960s."The Man Who Lost the Sea" is a subtleand mature work from a man who as a writer, teacher,critic, and public speaker stoodfor higher literary standardsIn SF throughout his long carcer. As a body of work, his short fiction is unequaled.

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ayyou'rea kid, andonedarknight you'rerunning alongthe cold sand with this helicopter in your hand, saying very fast witchy-witchywitchy. You passthe sick man and he wantsyou to shoveoffwith that thing. Maybe he thinks you're too old to play with toys.So you squatnextto him in the sandand tell him it isn't a toy, it'sa model. You tell him look here,here'ssomethingmostpeopledon't know about helicopters.You takea bladeof the rotor in your fingersand showhim how it can movein the hub, up and down a little, back and forth a little, and twist a little, to change pitch. Youstartto tell him how this flexibilitydoesawaywith the gyroscopic effect, but he won't listen. He doesn'twant to think about flying, about helicopters,or about you, and he most especiallydoesnot want explanations aboutanything by anybody.Not now.Now, he wantsto think about the sea. So you go away. The sick man is buried in the cold sandwith only his head and his left arm showing.He is dressedin a pressuresuit and looks like a man from Mars. Built into his left sleeveis a combinationtime-pieceand pressure gauge,the gaugewith a luminousblue indicatorwhich makesno sense,the clock handsluminous red. He can hear the pounding of surf and the soft swift pulse of his pumps. One time long ago when he wasswimming he went too deepand stayeddown too long and cameup too fast,and when he came to it waslike this: they said, "Don't move, boy. You'vegot the bends. Don't even try to move." He had tried anyway.It hurt. So now,this time, he lies in the sandwithout moving, without trying. His head isn't working right. But he knows clearly that it isn't working right, which is a strangething that happensto peoplein shocksometimes. Sayyou werethat kid, you could sayhow it was,becauseonceyou woke up lying in the gym office in high schooland askedwhat had happened.They explainedhow you tried something on the parallel bars and fell on your head.Youunderstoodexactly,though you couldn't rememberfalling. Then a minute later you askedagain what had happenedand they told you. You understoodit. And a minute later . . . forty-onetimes they told you, and you understood.It wasjust that no matter how many times they pushedit into your head, it wouldn't stick there;but all the while you knew that your headwould startworkingagainin time. And in time it did. . . . Of course, if you werethat kid, alwaysexplainingthings to peopleand to yourself,you wouldn't want to bother the sick man with it now. Look what you've done already,making him send you awaywith that angryshrug of the mind (which, with the eyes,are the only things which will move just now). The motionlesseffort costshim a waveof nausea.He hasfelt seasickbeforebut he hasneverbeenseasick,and the formula for that is to keepyour eyeson the horizon and staybusy.Now! Then he'd betterget

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busy-now; for there'sone place especiallynot to be seasickin, and that's locked up in a pressuresuit. Now! landscape,sky.He So he busieshimselfasbesthe can, with the seascape, lieson high ground,his headproppedon a verticalwall ofblack rock.There is anothersuchoutcropbeforehim, whip-toppedwith white sandand with smoothflat sand.Beyondand down is valley,salt-flat,estuary;he cannotyet be sure.He is sureofthe line offootprints,which beginbehindhim, passto his left, disappearin the outcropshadows,and reappearbeyondto vanishat last into the shadowsof the valley. Stretchedacrossthe sky is old mourning-cloth, with starlightburning holes in it, and between the holes the black is absolute-wintertime, mountaintop sky-black. (Far off on the horizon within himself, he seesthe swell and crestof approachingnausea;he counterswith an undertow of weakness,which meetsand roundsand settlesthe wavebeforeit can break.Get busier.Now.) Burstin on him, then, with the X-15 model. That'll get him. Hey, how about this for a gimmick? Get too high for the thin air to give you any control, you havetheselittle jetsin the wingtips, see?and on the sidesof the empennage:bank, roll, yaw,whatever,with squirtsof compressed air. But the sick man curls his sick lip: oh, git, kid, git, will you?-that has nothing to do with the sea. So you git. Out and out the sick man forceshis view, etching all he seeswith a meticulousintensity,as if it might be his charge,one day,to duplicateall this. To his left is only starlitsea,windless.In front of him acrossthe valley, roundedhills with dim white epaulettesof light. To his right, the jutting cornerof the blackwall againstwhich his helmetrests.(Hethinksthe distant moundingsof nauseabecalmed,but he will not look yet.) So he scansthe sky,blackand bright, calling Sirius, calling Pleiades,Polaris,Ursa Minor, callingthat. . . that. . .WhX itmoves.Watchit: yes,itmoves!Itisa fleck of light, seemingto be wrinkled, fissured,rather like a chip of boiled caulifower in the sky.(Of course,he knowsbetterthan to trust his own eyes just now.) But that movement. As a child he had stood on cold sand in a frosty Cape Cod evening, watching Sputnik'ssteadysparkriseout of the haze(madly,dawninga little north of west);and after that he had sleeplessly wound specialcoils for his receiver,riskedhis life restringinghigh antennas,all for the briefcaptureof an unreadabletweetle-eep-tweetle in his earphonesfrom Vanguard, E*plorer, Lunik, Discoverer,Mercury. He knew them all (well, somepeople collect match-covers,stamps)and he knew especiallythat unmistakable steadysliding in the sky. This moving fleck wasa satellite,and in a moment, motionless,unin-

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strumentedbut for his chronometerand his part-brain,he will know which one. (He is gratefulbeyondexpression-withoutthat slidingchip of light, therewereonly thosefootprints,thosewanderingfootprints,to tell a man he was not alone in the world.) Sayyou werea kid, eagerand challengeableand morethan a little bright, you might in a day or so work out a way to measurethe period of a satellite with nothing but a timepieceand a brain;you might eventuallyseethat the shadowin the rocksaheadhad beentherefrom the first only becauseof the light from the rising satellite. Now if you check the time exactly at the moment when the shadowon the sandis equalto the height of the outcrop, and time it again when the light is at the zenith and the shadowgone, you will multiply this number of minutes by 8-think why, now: horizon to zenith is one-fourthof the orbit, give or takea little, and halfivayup the sky period.Youknow is half that quarter-and you will then knowthis satellite's all the periods-ninety minutes, two, two-and-a-halfhours;with that and the appearanceof this bird, you'll find out which one it is. But if you werethat kid, eageror resourcefulor whatever,you wouldn't jabberabout it to the sick man, for not only doeshe not want to be bothered with you, he'sthought of all that long since and is even now watching the shadowsfor that triangular split secondof measurement.Now! His eyes drop to the face of his chronometer:0400, near as makesno nevermind. He hasminutesto wait now-ten? . . . thirty? . . twenty-three?-while this babymoon eatsup its sliceof shadowpie;andthat'stoo bad, the waiting, for though the inner seais calm thereare currentsbelow,shadowsthat shift and swim. Be busy.Be busy.He must not swim near that greatinvisible ameba,whateverhappens:its first cold pseudopodis evennow reachingfor the vitals. youngfellow,not quite a kid any more, wantingto Being a knowledgeable help the sick man too, you want to tell him everythingyou know about that cold-in-the-gut,that reaching invisible surrounding implacableameba. Youknowall aboutit-listen, you wantto yell at him, don't let that touch of cold bother you. fust know what it is, that'sall. Know what it is that is touching your gut. You want to tell him, Iisten:

Listen, this is how you met the monsterand dissectedit. Listen, you were skin-divingin the Grenadines,a hundredtropical shoal-waterislands;you had a newblue snorkelmask,the kind with face-plateand breathing-tubeall in one, and new blue flipperson your feet, and a new blue spear-gun-all this new becauseyou'd only begun, you see;you werea beginner,aghast with pleasureat your easyintrusion into this underwaterotherworld.You'd

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been out in a boat, you werecoming back, you'd just reachedthe mouth of the little bay,you'd takenthe notion to swim the restof the way.You'dsaidas much to the boysand slippedinto the warm silky water.You brought your gun. Not far to go at all, but then beginnersfind wet distancesdeceiving.For the first five minutes or so it wasonly delightful, the sun hot on your back and the waterso warm it seemednot to haveany temperatureat all and you were flying. With your face under the water, your mask was not so much attachedas part of you, your wide blue flipperstrod awayyards,your gun rode all but weightlessin your hand, the taut rubber sling making an pluckedit in the sunlit green.In your ears occasionalhum asyour passage croonedthe breathymonotoneofthe snorkeltube, and through the invisible diskof plateglassyou sawwonders.The baywasshallow-ten, twelvefeetor so-and sandy,with greatgrowthsof brain-, bone-,and fire-coral,intricate wavingsea-fans,and fish-such fish! Scarletand greenand achingaztle, gold and roseand slate-colorstuddedwith sparksof enamel-blue,pink and peach and silver. And that thing got into you, that . . monster. There were enemies in this otherworld: the sand-coloredspotted seasnakewith his big ugly head and turned-down mouth, who would not retreatbut lay watching the intruder pass;and the mottled moraywith jaws like bolt-cutters;and somewherearound, certainly,the barracudawith his undershotfaceand teeth turned inward so that he must takeawaywhatever he might strike. There were urchins-the plump white sea-eggwith its thick fur of sharpquills and the black oneswith the long slenderspinesthat would breakoffin unwary fleshand festertherefor weeks;and file-fish and stone-fishwith their poisonedbarbsand lethal meat;and the stingareewho could drive his spikethrough a leg bone. Yet thesewere not monsters,and could not matter to you, the invader churning along abovethem all. For you wereabovethem in so many ways-armed, rational, comfortedby the closeshore(aheadthe beach,the rockson eachside)andby the presenceof the boat not too far behind. Yet you were . . . attacked. At first it wasuneasiness,not pressing,but pervasive,a contactquite as intimate as that of the sea;you weresheathedin it. And also therewasthe touch-the cold inward contact.Awareof it at last, you laughed:for Pete's sake,what'sthere to be scaredof? The monster,the ameba. You raisedyour headand lookedbackin air. The boathad edgedin to the cliff at the right; someonewas giving a last poke around for lobster.You wavedat the boat;it wasyour gun you waved,and emergingfrom the waterit gainedits latent ouncesso that you sanka bit, and as if you had no snorkle on, you tipped your head backto get a breath. But tipping your headback

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plungedtheendofthetubeunderwater;thevalveclosed;youdrewin a hard lungful of nothingat all. Youdroppedyourfaceunder;up camethe tube; which struckyou you got your air, and alongwith it a bullet of seawater insidethethroat.Youcoughedit out andfoundered,sobbingas somewhere you suckedin air, inflatingyour chestuntil it hurt, and the air you got seemedno good,no goodat all, a worthlessdevitalizedinert gas. Youclenchedyourteethandheadedfor thebeach,kickingstronglyand knowingit wasthe rightthing to do;andthenbelowandto theright you saw a greatbulk moundingup out of the sandfloorof the sea.Youknewit was onlythereef,rocksandcoralandweed,but thesightof it madeyouscream; youdidn'tcarewhatyouknew.Youturnedhardleftto avoidit, foughtby as if it wouldreachfor you,andyoucouldn'tgetair,couldn'tgetair,for all the hootingof your snorkeltube. You couldn'tbearthe mask, unobstructed suddenly,not for anothersecond,so you shovedit upwardclearof your mouthandrolledover,floatingon yourbackandopeningyourmouthto the skyand breathingwith a quackingnoise. It wasthen and therethat the monsterwell and truly engulfedyou, the mantling you round and about within itself-formless,borderless, illimitible ameba.The beach,mereyardsaway,andthe rockyarmsof the boat-theseyou could identifybut no longer bay,andthe not-too-distant for theywereall oneandthe samething . . . the thingcalled distinguish, unreachable. Youfoughtthatwayfor a time, on yourback,danglingthegun underand air into your behindyou and strainingto get enoughwarmsun-stained roil of your in the to swirl began chest.And in time someparticlesof sanity andtint it. Theairpumpingin andoutof yoursquaremind,andto dissolve grinnedfrightenedmouthbeganto be meaningfulat last,andthe monster relaxedawayfrom you. Youtookstock,sawsurf,beach,a leaningtree.Youfelt thenewscendof Only a dozenfirm your bodyasthe rollershumpedto becomebreakers. kicksbroughtyou to whereyou could roll overand doubleup; your shin struckcoralwith a lovelyagonyandyou stoodin foamandwadedashore. Yougainedthe wet sand,hard sand,and ultimatelywith two morepaces high-watermarkandlay in the dry sand, poweredby bravado,you crossed move. to unable Youlay in the sand,andbeforeyou wereableto moveor to think, you you werealiveandknew wereableto feela triumph-a triumph because all. thinking at much without that When yotrwereableto think, yourfirstthoughtwasof theBUn,andthe firstmoveyou wereableto makewasto let go at lastof the thing. Youhad you had not let it go before;withoutit you wouldnot nearlydiedbecause

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havebeenburdenedand you would not havepanicked.You had (you began to understand)kept it becausesomeoneelsewould havehad to retrieveiteasilyenough-and you could not havestoodthe laughter.You had almost died becauseThey might laugh at you. This wasthe beginningof the dissection,analysis,studyof the monster. It beganthen; it had never6nished. Someof what you had learnedfrom it was merely important;someof the rest-vital. You had learned,for example,neverto swim farther with a snorkelthan you could swim back without one. You learnednever to burden yourself with the unnecessary in an emergency:evena hand or a foot might be as expendableasa gun; pride wasexpendable,dignity was.You learnednever to dive alone, even if They laugh at you, even if you have to shoot a fish yourselfand sayafterward"we" shotit. Most of all, you learnedthat fear has many fingers, and one of them-a simple one, made of too great a concentrationof carbondioxidein your blood, asfrom too-rapidbreathing in and out of the sametube-is not reallyfear at all but feelslike fear,and can turn into panic and kill you. Listen, you want to say,listen, thereisn't anything wrong with such an experienceor with all the study it leadsto, becausea man who can learn enough from it could become fit enough, cautiousenough, foresighted, unafraid, modest,teachableenough to be chosen,to be qualifiedforYou losethe thought, or turn it away,becausethe sick man feelsthat cold touch deep inside, feels it right now, feels it beyond ignoring, aboveand beyondanything that you, with all your experienceand certainty,could explainto him evenif he would listen, which he won't. Make him, then; tell him the cold touch is somesimple explainablething like anoxia,like gladnesseven:some triumph that he will be able to appreciatewhen his head is working right again. Tiiumph? Herehe'salive after . . . whateverit is, and that doesn'tseemto be triumph enough,though it wasin the Grenadines,and that othertime, when he got the bends, savedhis own life, savedtwo other lives. Now, somehow,it'snot the same:thereseemsto be a reasonwhy just being alive afterwardisn't a triumph. Why not triumph? Becausenot twelve, not twenty, not even thirty minutes is it taking the satelliteto completeits eighth-ofan-orbit: fifty minutesare gone, and still there'sa slice of shadowyonder.It is this, this which is placingthe cold fingerupon his heart,and he doesn'tknowwhy, he doesn'tknow why, he wiII not know why; he is afraidhe shallwhen his head is working again. . . . Oh, where'sthe kid? Where is any way to busy the mind, apply it to

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something, anything else but the watchhand which outruns the moon? Here, kid: come over here-what you got there? If you werethe kid, then you'd forgiveeverythingand hunker down with your new model, not a toy, not a helicopter or a rocket-plane,but the big one, the one that looks like an overgrowncartridge. It's so big, even as a model, that evenan angrysickman wouldn't call it a toy.A giantcartridge, but watch: the lower four-fifths is Alpha-all muscle-over a million poundsthrust. (Snapit off, throw it away.) Half the restis Beta- all brainsit puts you on your way. (Snap it off, throw it away.) And now look at the polishedfraction which is left. Touch a control somewhereand see-see? it has wings-wide triangular wings. This is Gamma, the one with wings, on its back.The it is a moth with a sausage and on its backis a small sausage; (click! it comesfree)is Delta. Delta is the last,the smallest:Delta is sausage the way home. What will they think of next?Quite a toy. Quite a toy. Beat it, kid. The satelliteis almost overhead,the sliver of shadowgoing-going-almost goneand. .gone. Check: 0459. Fifty-nine minutes?giveor takea few.Times eight . . . 472 is, uh, 7 hours 52 minutes. . Sevenhours fifty-trvo minutes?Why, there isn't a satellite round earth with a period like that. In all the solar systemthere'sonly . . . The cold finger turns fierce, implacable. The eastis paling and the sickman turns to it, wanting the light, the sun, an end to questionswhose answerscouldn't be looked upon. The sea stretchesendlesslyout to the growinglight, and endlessly,somewhereout of sight, the surf roars.The paling eastbleachesthe sandyhilltops and throws the line of footprints into aching relief. That would be the buddy, the sick man knows,gonefor help. He cannot at the moment recall who the buddy is, but in time he will, and meanwhilethe footprintsmakehim lessalone. The sun'supper rim thrustsitself abovethe horizon with a flashof green, instantlygone.There is no dawn, just the greenflashand then a clearwhite blast of unequivocalsunup. The seacould not be whiter, more still, if it werefrozen and snow-blanketed.In the west,starsstill blaze, and overhead the crinkled satellite is scarcelyabashedby the growing light. A formless jumble in the valley below beginsto resolveitself into a sort of tent-city, or installationof somekind, with tubelikeand saillikebuildings.This would have meaning for the sick man if his head were working right. Soon, it would. Will. (Oh . . .) The sea, out on the horizon just under the rising sun, is behaving strangely,for in that place where properly belongsa pool of unbearable

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brightness,there is insteada notch of brown. It is as if the white fire of the sun is drinking dry the sea-for look, look! the notch becomesa bow and the bow a crescent,racing aheadof the sunlight, white seaaheadof it and behind it a cocoa-dry stain spreadingacrossand down toward where he watches. Besidethe finger of fear which lies on him, anotherfinger placesitself, and another,making readyfor that clutch, that grip, that ultimate insane squeeze ofpanic. Yetbeyondthat again,pastthat squeeze when it comes,to be savoredif the squeeze is only fearand not panic, liestriumph-triumph, and a glory. It is perhapsthis which constituteshis whole battle: to fit himself, preparehimselfto bearthe utmostthat fearcould do, for if he can do that, thereis a triumph on the otherside.But . . . not yet. Please,not yet awhile. Somethingflies(or flew,or will fly-he is a little confusedon this point) towardhim, from the far right wherethe starsstill shine. It is not a bird and it is unlike any aircrafton earth,for the aerodynamics arewrong. Wings so wide and so fragile would be useless,would melt and tear awayin any of earth'satmospherebut the outer fringes.He seesthen (becausehe prefersto seeit so)thatit is the kid'smodel, or part of it, and for a toy,it doesverywell indeed. It is the part calledGamma, and it glidesin, balancing,parallelsthe sand and holds away, holds awayslowing, then settles, all in slow motion, throwing up gracefulsheet-fountainsof fine sandfrom its skids.And it runs along the ground for an impossibledistance,letting down its weight by the ounce and stingily the ounce, until lookout until a skid look out fits itself into a bridgedcrevasse Iookout,Iook out!andstill movingon, it settlesdown to the struts.Gamma then, tired, digs her wide left wingtip carefullyinto the racingsand,digsit in hard; and asthe wing breaksofl Gamma slews, sidles,slidesslowly,pointing her other triangulartentlike wing at the sky, and broadsidecrushesinto the rocks at the valley'send. As sherolls smashingover,therebreaksfrom her broadbackthe sausage, the little Delta, which somersaultsawayto break its back upon the rocks, and through the broken hull, spill smashedshardsof graphite from the moderatorof her power-pile.Inok outl L,ookoufl and at the sameinstant from the finally checkedmassof Gamma thereexplodesa doll, which slides and tumblesinto the sand,into the rocksand smashedhot graphitefrom the wreck of Delta.

The sick man numbly watchesthis toy destroyitself:what will they think of next?-and with a gelid horror praysat the doll lying in the ragingrubble of

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the atomicpile:don't staythere,mctn-get away!getaway!thatbhot,you know?But it seemslike a night anda dayandhalf anothernightbeforethe runsawayup the to its feetand, clumsyin its pressure-suit, doll staggers lies undera slow falls, slips, outcrop, climbsa sand-topped valleyside, of cold ancientsanduntil, but for an arm and the helmet,it is cascade buried. The sunis high now,high enoughto showtheseais not a sea,but brown plain with the frost burnedoff it, as now it burnsawayfrom the hills, diffusingin air andblurringtheedgesof thesun'sdisk,sothatin a veryfew minutesthereis no sunat all, but only a glarein the east.Then the valley the in a diorama,reveals andlike an arrangement belowlosesits shadows, no installation, this, below:no tent-city form and natureof the wreckage hulk of Delta.(Alpha but thetruerealruin of Gammaandthe eviscerated Delta,Deltawasthe but bird, a was wasthemuscle,Betathebrain;Gamma wayhome.) theline of footprints,to andby thesickman, above And from it stretches which had buriedhim there. to the bluff, and gonewith the sandslide Whosefootprints? He knowswhose,whetheror not he knowsthathe knows,or wantsto or whatsatellitehas(giveor takea bit)a periodlikethat(wantit not. He.knows exactly?-it's7.66hours).He knowswhatworldhassucha night,andsuch a frostyglare by day. He knowsthesethings as he knowshow spilled will pourthe crashandmutterof surfinto a man'searphones. radioactives Sayyouwerethatkid: say,instead,at last,thatyouarethe sickman, for why of all things,even theyarethe same;surelythen you canunderstand (leaving)radiation calculated radiation with sick shocked, shattered, while (lying of in thewreckage radiationpastall bearing computed(arriving)and Delta)youwouldwantto think of thesea.Fornofarmerwhofingersthesoil with love and knowledge,no poet who singsof it, artist, contractor, beautyof a field evenchild burstinginto tearsatthe inexpressible engineer, of daffodils-noneof theseis asintimatewith Earthasthosewho live on, Soof thesethingsyoumustthink;with anddrift in itsseas. livewith, breathe theseyoumustdwelluntil youarelesssickandmorereadyto facethetruth. The truth, then, is that the satellitefadinghereis Phobos,that those and footprintsareyourown,thatthereis no seahere,thatyouhavecrashed and arekilledandwill in a momentbedead.The coldhandreadyto squeeze still your heart is not anoxiaor evenfear, it is death.No*, if thereis somethingmoreimportantthan this, now is the time for it to showitself. The sickmanlooksat theline of his ownfootprints,whichtestifythathe thatthereis no wayback, below,which states is alone,andat thewreckage andat the whiteeastandthe mottledwestandthe palingflecklikesatellite

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above.Surfsoundsin his ears.He hearshis pumps.He hearswhatis left of hisbreathing.The coldclampsdownandfoldshim roundpastmeasuring, pastall limit. Then he speaks, criesout:thenwith joy hetakeshistriumphat theother sideof death,asonetakesa greatfish,asonecompletes a skilledandmighty task,rebalances at the endof somegreatdaringleap;andashe usedto say "we shota fish" he usesno "1": "God," he cries,dyingon Mars,"God, we madeit!"

On the lnsideTnack TFIANSLATED ElY JOE F. RANDOLPH WITH KAFIL MICHAEL ARMEFI

Sciencefrction in German hasa rich and long tradition developedin the nineteenthand early twentiethcenturies, beforeit tookhold againafter World but miny yearcpassed thelowestcommercialform, WarII. Whenit-did,it assumed the clich€d biweekly seriesadventure, ghePeny Rhodan novellas,startingin 196l and continuing today,Although worksare translatedinto German, many English-language contemporaryCerman SF ambitious few truly arethere Frankeand, recently, Herbert those, only of and writers, translatedinto En' much work had have Wolfgangleschke glish A- recent signof hope rs thrs story by Klrl Michael magazinewriter,andphotographer. Armer, a businessman, "On the InsideTiack' showsa commandof the conventions of SF storytellingandoffers,in a Europeansetting,a pleasant by an alien consciousness. twiston theold ideaof possession in this volume, thisstoryis story But like the Scandinavian SF thana harbingerof EnglishJanguage of reflection morea a new German consciousness.

uly 9, 6:00p.u. As alwayson beautifulsummerdays, RobertForster'sheart was burdenedwith bitterness. Colorsweretoo bright. Peopleweretoo carefree.On yearspainfully dayslike this he felt the weightof his seventy andbroodinganger bearingdown.New layersof depression

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formedon the shellthat separated him from the outsideworld. Todayit wasworsethan ever.The weatherand sceneryhad the unreal perfection of a picturepostcard thatyougetin themail justwhenyoudo not want it. The skywasso high, the blue so deepthat life seemedto hold nothingbut promise.Everyhope,no matterhow elusive,seemedto be within the realmof possibility. If you wereyoungenough.white yachts wereleisurelyskimmingoverthe watersof the Chiemseeunderan afternoonbteeze,almostasweightlessly ascloudsscuddingacross the sky.The multihuedsailsof wind surfers,vivid specks reminiscent of impressionist paintings,slippedin andout betweenthe yachts.Cattleweregrazingon a peninsula iuttingout intothelake.Thetinnytinklingof cowbells provided an unobtrusivebut constantscorefor the travelogueunfoldingbefore Frirster's eyes.In the background,snow-capped peakscrowningthe BavarianAlpsglistened beneaththesunin boldrelief.Thatwasthekindof dav it was. "Shit," Frirstersaid. He likedthewayit soundedsomuchthathe repeated it, "What a loadof Goddamned shit." The youngwomansittingnextto him on the lakesidebenchlookedat him askance. He glaredbackat her.Why shouldhecarewhatshethought? To her he wasnothingbut an eccentricold coot, anyway. "Don't you like peopletalkingto themselves?" He chuckled.,,1do. At leastthat wayI'm talkingto someoneI like." Shegot up andleft. Shehadgood-looking legsanda nicelittle ass.Like Barbara,whentheywereyoung,oh, so many,manyyearsago.They had beenin a tiny coveon oneof thosesecluded Greekislands.Shecameout of theturquoise-colored waterof theAegeansea,hersveltebodycovered with beadsof watersparklingin the sun, Aphroditereborn,goddess of love, priestess of their secrethoneymoonrites. Sheseemedimmortal in her gloriousyouth.Thirty yearslatershecommittedsuicide.What hadgone wrong?And why, for heaven's sake,why? Fcirster's handtightenedaroundhis canewhilehetriedto blink awaythe mistfrom his eyes.Lookat yourself.What a sentimental old fool youhave become.No styleor dignity.fustloungingaroundinsultingotherpeople. He waswrenchedfrom his reverieby Samson's deep-throated growling. The big St.Bernardhadwokenup andwaslookingaroundbleary-sy.d.FI. seemedto be confused.After a coupleof seconds he let out a startlingly human sighand put his headbackdown on his paws. "well, bigfella,dreamingof thegoodolddaysagain?" He pattedthedog on theback,surprised atthedegree ofaffection wellingup in him. Howthin Samson's coathadgotten.And his facewasalmostwhite.The St. Bernard

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was more than elevenyearsold, which was tantamount to seventy-seven human years.The poorguy is evenolder than I am, F6rsterthought. They weretwo oldstersin a world filled with smartyoung peoplewho nevergavea thought to the fact that they too would one day be stoopedand tired. "Relics, that'swhat we are, Samson,"he said. "Relics of the worsttype. Of no interestto historiansor learnedbiographers,only somethingfor file thirteen. Let'sgo before they sweepus up and away." When he reachedfor the leashhe had wrappedaround a metal leg on the bench, the St. Bernard suddenly iumped up and startedbarking as if With legstrembling, he stoodin front of Forsterasif confronting possessed. a dangerousenemy, his bloodshoteyeswide-open. to his feet, frightenedand thoroughlyconfused.All of a F6rsterstaggered suddenhe felt seasick.It wasweird. What wasgoing on here?Something was pulling and tugging at his body as if forces were operating on him So this is what it is like when you die! How strangelHis without anesthesia. kneesgaveway. He sank back down on the bench. Suddenly,everythingwas as before. "Easy," Fdrster told the dog automatically,"easy"-he hesitatedfor a fraction of a second,trying to remember-"Samson." A spasticallybent hand movedacrosshis field of vision. He experienceda moment of pure, intensehorror when he realizedthat it washis own hand moving of its own accord.He watchedhis hand perform strangelyintricate gestures asif doing someThai templedance.It seemedto him that this was not real, he wasmerelywatchingit on a monitor. Watching it with detached scientificinterest. Have I lost my mind? Forsterwonderedin the unnatural calm accompanying a stateof shock. "No," answeredan alien voice inside his head. So Frirster'sfirst contactwith the extraterrestrialwascut extremelyshort, becausehe passedout right then and there.

luly9,6:20nrvl. After a few minutesForstercameto. His eyeswereriveted to a small white cloud hanging motionlessin the sky, like the enigmatic remainsof a smokesignal. There wasthat thundering stillnessin his head that occurs after an explosion, or after the last passionatecrescendoof a symphony when so many feelings are competing in your chest that you cannot tell them apart. The shock of being overwhelmed. He tried to remembereverythingthe voice had saidto him in the lastfew minutes. 'An "So you'rean extraterrestrial," E.T. in my brain." He he saidslowly.

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chuckledin his usualfashion."That'struly amazing.Sciencefiction in a live performance, in everysenseof the word." As he got no answer,he shrugged andturnedhis attentionbackto the lakeside idyll he hatedso. It wasan alienlandscape populatedby young healthyhumanoids. He hadnothingin commonwith them-had not hal for many yearsnow. "well then," he said."welcometo the brotherhood of aliens." He felt a twingeof bewilderment. 'Aren'tyou an Earthperson?" the voiceasked. "l wasfor manyyears,"Fcirster replied."ButnowI'm old.old peopleare the extraterrestrial aliensin thisworld.We'reso isolated that*. *ight m well be living on anotherplanet.Otherpeopleknowthat we areout there somewhere, buttheycouldn'tcareless.Lifegoeson withoutus.Wehaveno moresayaboutwhathappens. We'rejustonlookers, outcasts on our own world.That'swhy we'reboth alienson this planet." "I see," saidthe voiceaftera shortpause. "The only difference betweenus," saidFcirster, workinghimselfinto a rage,"is this.Meetingup with an extraterrestrial is usuallya first-contact story,but growingolderis moreoften than not a last-contact story." "You arebitter." "Yeah,that I am. Growingold'sno fun." "Butyoucangeta lot of mileage outof theseyears. You'rewell-ofl you're , educated,you live in beautifulsurroundings. You shouldbe happy. " "Yeah,I shouldbe,but I'm not.Andthatdrivesmeup thewall.I'd liketo be happy,but I'm not succeeding. Something's out of whackwith me. I'm suchan asshole thatI can'tbehappy,evenonce." He startedcrying."Here, look at me," he saidin despairwhile wiping his facewith a big blue handkerchief."l neverusedto cry, but nowadays I get all watery-eyed whenever I seea youngcouplewith a baby,because theyremindmeof my youngerdays. " He foldedhis handkerchief "l'm veryslowly,veryprecisely. sorry." "That'sall right," the aliensaid.

luly 10,9:30A.M. Althoughit wasstill prettyearlyin the day,heatwas alreadybeatingdownon the CafdPanorama lakeside terrace,whereForster washavingbreakfast. Everyfewseconds a refreshing breezecooledhim off. Forster,nevertheless, wassweating.The beachumbrellaswerebadlyarranged,casting shadows on theaisles whiletablesstoodin blazingsunlight. Fdrsterwassittingaloneat his table,asusual.He hadtriedto pushthe

KARLMICHAELAFIMER/ 1 1g umbrellainto a betterposition,but he wastoo weak.The shadehad not budged.Nobodymadea moveto help him. When he wentto pick up his coffeecup, he noticedhis handviolently shaking.He madean effortto steadyit. After all, he wasbeingwatched. "Don't mind me," the voicesaid. F0rsterthoughtaboutit. "But I know you'rethere,"he said. "You're book.Youcan makea insideme. You'reusingmy brain like a reference marionetteout of my body.No matterwhatI do, you'rewatchingme over 'Don't mind me' is a bunchof bullshit." my shoulder.That'swhereyour "l don'ttakethatkindof crapfromsomecountrybumpkinlikeyou!"The hand voicesuddenlygotloud andforceful."Watchwhatyousay."Forster's It hand. his other on shookandsloshedthe hot coffeeout of the cup and hurt. "You'reundermy control,getit? Sobehaveyourself.|ustlookat your dog. It knowshow to obey." YoudamnedbastardJForsterthought, filled with seethinghate. You l'm not aSt.Bernard.I'm notyourdog.I won't damnedouterspacebastard. be treatedlike that! " the alien retortedmockinglyand clammedup. "Bow-wow, 'All right," Ftirsterdirectedhis message inward."l flew luly 10,9:50a,.pt termsagain." speaking offthe handlea little. I didn'tmeanit. Let'sbe on He got no answer. suddenlyrealizedthathedid notknowthename "Hey,you . ." Fcirster him. "Comeon." of the entitypossessing The alien remainedmute. 'Aw,thegalacticsuperbrain's pouting.Howatavistic.I thoughtyouwere smarterand moreobjectivethan that." Fcirstersenseda weakemotionhe could not classifueventhough it from the alien. seemedfamiliar to him. But that wasthe only response touch of regret.He missedthe voiceof the Fcirsterfelt an astonishing furious invader. Arguing was still better than no communication whatsoever. Afterseveral minuteshefinallygaveup.All alone He listenedattentively. again. once "Well, kissmy assthen," he mumbled.He motionedto the waiter,who seemednot to notice-as usual.Everythingwasbackto normal. up in the air and He droppedhis handthathadbeenstickingawkwardly laid it on his otherhand. It wasa verystableposition,his handsdid not shakethat wav.He leanedbackand lookedout overthe lakewherea swan

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wasgliding by. The two straightlines forming its V-shapedwakesparkledon the calm green water. The swan acted very proud. It was a young swan.

luly 10,7:30 nivl. Fcirsterwasexhausted.All day long he, ratherthe alien controllinghim, had beencalling, conferring,wheelinganddealing.Hour after hour, F
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didn't you?I doubtwe advanced, and intellectually brains,scientifically I haveto do it ascoolly, And do business. to here came merely are. We returns.So don't get high quickly,and efficientlyas possibleso that I it iustcostsmetime." to methatyou'retoo old andtired,because bellyache quickly,andfficiently, Forsterthought.Strange,thiscouldhave CooIIy, ago. Sellingblike boxing, hisformer bossdecades comefrom Berghduser, Fiirster.Whoeverb faster,moreresistant,and morepowerfulwins.Yes,Mr. I No, Barbara.Not today.I'm tootired. Havefifteencustomers Berghciuser. haveto caII on. He noticedthat the alien had beenquietfor a while. "l don't want to rub you the wrong way,"the alien finally said. "No, no," Forstersaid."That'sall right.It wasvery. . . downto earth." He shookhis head and even smiled. "It's unbelievable.You have the blues.I can spotit a mile away.Too much routineand too far salesman's blues from home.The salesman's The alien'svoiceagaingot hard and authoritarian. "That'll beenoughof that. I'll be in touchtomorrowat sevenon thedot. Seeyou then." "Yep,"Fcirstersaid."Good night," he addedaftera shortpause. dishasideandbelched Forsterpushedtheemptydessert luly 11,2:00p.ivl. discreetly. ashe had not in a longtime. "That wasgood."He felt full andsatisfied language, partlyin thealien's business, doing been he had All morninglong hadbeen he but partlyin Germanor English.It hadbeenverystrenuous, nU.awith strangedelight.He wasbusyagain,andin a certainwayhe even had a goal. He had not felt like this in years. he saidto thewaiterscurryingpasthim. He did "I'd likea cappuccino," a newtoneof authorityin hisvoicethewaiter was there but not sayit loudly, to. responded "Sibito, signore." "Well, well! Yourold selfagain,old man?" Forstersomuchthat in thealien'svoiceshocked The overtaggressiveness he could get out only a feeble,defensive"Well, yes." said irritably. Then came a "Wow, fantastic!"the extraterrestrial maelstromof emotionin whoseswirlingconfusiononly onefeaturestood out-hysteria. Forsterpaid no attentionto it. He wasfurious.What right did this intrudinginterloperhaveto spoilhis mood?For the firsttime in yearshe had a hint of lust for life, and this bastardwastrying to mar it for him!

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"Still the salesman's blues?"he taunted. "You're damned right!" the alien exploded."My God, how I hate it. Lousyplanet,lousybusiness,lousypeople.I can't hackit anymore!Things wereneverthis bad until I teamedup with you. A Sirian neurotic and an Earth neurotic-what a terrific team. Justwhy do I do it to myself?" Forsterwasupset. It wasnot so much the emotional outburstper sethat stirredhim up, but ratherthe vague,almostsubliminal knowledgethat the alien wasa mirror image of his own behavior.The signalswereextremely clear-self-pity and aggression.Envious of happy people becauseyou yourself were unhappy. Forsterdid not like that mirror image. "lt's alreadytough enough, but you make me a completeoutsideron my own team," the alien fumed. "Every Earth personwho'sbeentakenoverby outerspacers shouldparticipatein meetingsthat are held in their respective countriesto coordinateactivities.I'm one of the few who couldn't attend because. . ." He hesitatedfor a moment, but Forsterknew what wascoming anyway and instinctivelyheld his breath. "Becauseyou're too old and decrepit.The long trip'stoo risky for you to undertake.That'sa bad joke. I'm stranded.Strandedin a dying man." Fcirstersaid nothing for a long time. "Why," he finally whispered,..do you saysuch things?That'smaliciousand cruel." Acting on a whim, he ordereda bottle of red wine. The alien did not interfere. When F
luly 1I , 3:30e rvl.when Fcirsteropenedthe door, Samsonwaslying in front of him. Therewassomuch pain in the animal'seyesthat it had an effectlike ecstasy. "samson!" Forsteryelled. "what's the matter with you, boy?" He got on his kneesand put his hand on the dog'shead. At the same instant, as if the St. Bernard had expendedhis last ounce of energyto experienceone last touch from his master, Samsondied. "This is too much," Fdrsterwheezed."It can't be true." Mulling over the next few minutes the following day,he wonderedhow many tearsthere were in a wrinkled old man like him.

luly 11,6:00 nna. The pen jerkedacrossthe paperand drew a wavy line resemblingmountainswith sharppeaksand deepvalleys.Another device emitted beepingsoundswhich were pretty regular, but not completelyso.

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body to Fdrster's tapeholdingthe electrodes One of the piecesof adhesive of tube devicein thecornerhummedandshooka test itched.An analyzing Dracula' blood, an efficientnew-generation Forster's Forstersubmittedto the monthlycheckupwith stoicindifference.He thepokingatandprobingin his hardlynoticedthehumiliatingprocedures, The plasticcoveron his underwear. body.He layon his backwearingonly to beclutchinghim tightly theexaminingtablestickingto hisbodyseemed like a hungry octopus. Nobodybut Forsterwasin theroom.No doctoror nursestoodwatchover thesedaysunlesssomethingwent wrong'-Youwere routineprocedures to a multitudeof machines,andDr. Electronixperformedthe connected examination. Everythingin the room waswhite, bright, and clean.If the reportsof to people*ho *ere clinicallydeadandthenrevivedweretrue,youseemed light. hori up at the momentof deathandmovetowarda dazzlinglybright From thrt ,rpect the examiningroom with its humming, featureless An anteroomto to be a simulatorfor deathcandidates. seemed brightness death. The thought passedquickly.Forsteragain staredat the ceiling imHe ftaanothingon his mind, he wasiustwaitingfor something' passively. The E.T. did likewise.They weretwo alienson Earth, isolatedtogether. in the universe anddepression Twoblackholesinto which all the sadness poured. as of age,F6rsterthought luly 11, 1l:00nrvl.It wasoneof thefewprivileges 'h. sleep. little you require that pour.dhimselfa secondglassof Drambuie, with all your free foo Ura that you could not starton any npwenterprises time. easychair.Hewaslooking Hewassittingin thelivingroomin hisfavorite with silverleaves through the window at the trees,swayingsilhouettes He waswide-awake, moon. shimmeringin the chalk-whitelight of a full slightlydrunk, and up to his kneesin memories' "Clairede Lune'" Actingon a whim, he put a recordon. Debussy's thoughts Ftirster's room, the While the romanticpianosoundspermeated fromhislife fashedbeforehis mind'seyeandwent beganto wander.Scenes out again. home.During his schooldaysa long A foylessyouthin a strict,loveless ashe now knew.An irascible ,eriesof ptrzzlingdiseases-psychosomatic, Completedisorientation, year college. at first The father.Failute,weakling. which graduallygavewayto a feelingof freedom.Then the outbreakof

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WorldWarII. Out of thelecturehall andup to thefront.Sixyearsin which he stoppedthinking.Nothingbut fight, advance,retreat.He did not hate anybody, but hekilledothermento keepthemfromkillinghim. Somehow he stayedalive.He wasthe only oneof his companyof l2b mento survive the war. Sometimes hestilldreamed aboutshellshittingandblowingup foxholes and hurling brokenbodiesthroughthe air. Bodieswithoutfaces,without limbs,but still alive.Cannonfodderfor insatiable warlords. He dreamed aboutthe icy coldof the Russian steppes, snowredwith bloodfor kilometers,the leatherbeltstheychewedon because theyhad nothingto eat.He dreamedaboutthe SiberianPow campwhereire spentfour-years. The Russians treatedthem badly,but he could not blamethem for it at all. Whenhewasfinallyreleased andaftertenyearsreturnedto civilianlife, a shadow layoverhim. He wasnot neuroticor psychotic, ro, but heseldom laughedand seemed singularlydistant.He actedlike someone who had beensubiected to electroshock therapytoo oftenandwhowasnowwaiting for the next jolt with tenseanticipation. Fcirster's flow of memories wasinterruptedwhenthe musicstopped.He flinched,drifting betweenrealityand memoriesfor an instant.th.n h. foundhimselfbackin reality. Therewasa thunderingsilencein the room-and in his thoughts.The alienwaskeepingquiet.Nevertheless, Fcirsterwassurethat he waslistening intently. *Well, haveyou obtainedany interestinginformation about life on Earth?"he askedsarcastically. "Yeah,that I have," the extraterrestrial said. He seemedto want to add something,eventhoughhe then fell silentagain."Maybeyou shouldputon anotherrecord," he saidaftera while. "That'll do ussomegood.That music was very lovely." Frirsternodded.He got up and put on Fredericchopin's Nocturne No. 2 in E-flat Maior. With musiccamememories.At the beginningof the fifties he got acquaintedwith Barbara.They got married, and sh. -rd. him very h.ppy. His climb up the corporateladderbegan.He made a good deal of money.The big breakkept eluding him, though. He lackedcharisma,his bossessaid. That did not bother Fcirster.He was leading a wonderful life with Barbaraand the kids. But the shadowstill followed him and neverleft. He washtppy, but it wasa second-handhappinessbecauseit camefrom the circumstancesand not from the heart. He kept telling himself: You have everythingyou want. You should be hrppy. But it did not work. He finally resignedhimself to that. At leasthe was contented. The record player shut off with a soft click.

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"How beautiful,"the alien said."How wonderfullybeautiful.I believe playmesomemoreof musicis thebestthingthisplanethasto offer.Please " it. The extraterrestrial's voice was so soft and urgent that Fdrsterunhesitatinglypulled anotherrecordoff the shelf. "Lonely,huh?"he said. "Who isn't?"the alienreplied. Fcirster lookedacross thedarkroomto the cornerSamsonalwaysusedto sleepin. "Yeah,who isn't?" in theNight." Barbarahad The needlewasput on therecord."Strangers lovedthatmelody.Howmanytimeshadtheydancedto its sounds!Forster could not dance,but when he and Barbarawere together,he could. " He hadheardthistunefor thefirsttime lateonenight "MidnightCowboy. in his hotelroom. Oh, thoselonelynightsin a hotelwhile he wason the shakingtheemptyglass road.Beingthelastpersonat thebar.Undecidedly in his hand.Onemore!Sorry,sir,we'reclosingnow.Oh, yeah,wellthen, andrestless goodevening.Goodevening,sir.Thenlyingon thebedsweaty you.Soft not quiet. But is asleep. it is Everybody room. Outside in hisdark musicpurredfrom theradio,comfortingall whohadno otherconsolation. Helpme makeit throughthe night. Lyingin the darklisteningto musicis in yourloneliness. nice. Thoughtsflow quietly.Thereis a bittersweetness While you arethinkingoveryour life, you slowlyfall asleep. quiteclearly.It seemed of theextraterrestrial Fdrsternowfeltthepresence as if the alien had movedcloser. "MoonlightSerenade." Shehad favoritemelodies. Alsooneof Barbara's good The dancer. wayshe Shewasa it from everyhotelorchestra. requested did thetangodrovemencrazy.Forsterenjoyedit thebesthecould.But that wasall in the pastnow.Barbarawasdeadand gone.And it takeshvo to tango. felt exactlythe sameway. He felt miserable.And the extraterrestrial UncertainquakingemotionsstruckFdrster,quiteobviouslythe telepathic crying. of passionate equivalent Fdrsterdid not knowwhatto do. "Now it wasn'tall thatbad,"he said No, not really."MoonlightSerenade" remindedhim of histenth helplessly. Theyweredancingon theterraceof a luxuryhotelon weddinganniversary. The sea splendor. the C6tedAzur. Starstwinkledin their Mediterranean rippledacross. wasa darkmirrorthata phosphorescent wavecrestsometimes A colorfullyilluminatedfountainsplashed nearby.In the background, the palatialhotel wasshimmeringin the darkness like a fairy-talecastle.Up in theirroom.And therelittle Sandrawassleeping happilyandcontentedly hedancedwith Barbaraon andon andon. His feethardlyseemed to touch

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the floor. Tonighthe wasCary Grant, and BarbarawasGraceKelly. Yes. "lt wasn'treallyall thatbad,"Forstermuttered. "No, notthatbadat all," he repeated,rathersurprised,and fell asleep. The ghostof a smilewasoutlinedon his lips.

unit in theconference roomwasset luly 12,3:00nv. Theair-conditioning on high.Cold.White walls,whiteleatherandchromefurniture.Cold.A guy in a pinstripesuit with eyeslike marbles.Cold. smartlydressed The negotiations with Dr. Hellman-the nameof thesmilingbusinessman enjoyinghimself-had reached Forsterhad not underan impasse. stooda wordof theconversation he hadbeencarryingon in someforeign language, but it wasalsounmistakably clearto him that it had stopped dead. He felt angeranddesperation risingin him, emotions thatwerenot his own but radiatedfrom the otherwisehermeticallysealedmind of the extraterrestrial. At first,Forsterwasamusedby thehelplessness of theall-powerfulalien. But thentheechoof thealien'sfrustration gotsoloudandsosimilarto his owndepression thatspontaneous germinated solidarity in him. He wanted to helphisextraterrestrial tenantsomehow. Nobodyshouldbesohumbled. When the alien lost controloverFcirster during his emotionalcrisis, Forsteractedwithoutthinking. He simplygot up and wentto the door. Tho separate thingshappened. He hearda kind of hysterical laughterin his headlinkedto a feelingof release. Dr. Hellmanjumpedup andrushedafterhim, spewing out a streamof words.Obviously, his bargainingpositionwasnot so goodashe madeit appear. It so happenedthat the alien wasthen ableto closethe dealto his satisfaction. Whentheylefttheofficebuildingandwentinto theheaton the street,the extraterrestrial " saidquitecalmly,"Thanks,Robert. That wasthe first time the alien had calledForsterbv name.

luly 12, 1I:30 nv. That night, too, Fcirsterplayedwhatevercameto mind- Tchaikovsky, Gershwin,medieval madrigals, Africantribalchants, andlotsof Mozart.The roomwasalmostdark,theproblems of theworldfar away.Everythingwaspleasant. AsFcirster waslookingfor a newpieceof music,hecaughtsightof a stack

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of recordsthat wereoffto one sideon the shelf,separatefrom the others.He smiled. "Here, this wassomethingdifferent at one time," he said. "The Rolling '2,000 Light-Yearsfrom Home.' That's for you. And there, the Stones. 'When Beatles. I'm 64.' That'sfor me." Yet when he picked up the record, his hand began trembling, and he realizedhe had madea bad mistake.Suddengrief floodedout his thoughts. Nothing was pleasantanymore. "What's wrong?"the alien asked. "My kids," Forstersaid."I must'vebeenthinking aboutmy kids.I bought theserecordsfor them backthen. My God, how long ago that was.Almost twenty years, Sandraand Richard . . " Sandrawastheir first child. How he had dotedon that tiny tot! When her miniature hand closedaround his outstretchedfinger for the first time, that was possiblythe loveliestmoment in his whole life. Her faint gurgling sounds,which had filled the housewith magic harmony. Her first words, her first clumsy stepsundeniably ending in a plop on her diaper-cushioned behind. And how fascinatingit had been to watch that little kid exploring her world. How shelaughedand marveledat things he himself no longer noticed. In thosedayshe had learneda lot from Sandra,a new unpretentiousness,a new opennessto the many small wondersin life. How uncomplicated it was to be h.ppy. In time, Sandrahad kidsherself.Shehad marrieda guy Forstercould not stand,who lived in Berlin. I can't come, Dad. Heinz hasso much to do. And with the kids it'ssohard to get away,and it'ssucha long trip. Someother time, perhaps.Yeah, someother time, Sandra.Click. I would not mind your telling me lies aslong asyou wereat leasthtppy. But you are not. Oh, Sandra. So much love that will never be returned. And Richardwasstrangerstill. As a kid, he had alwaysbeena bit chubby and awkward,but unbelievablyfriendly and eventempered,a chubby-faced angelnobodycould sayno to. Most of all, Forsterrecalledtwo episodesthat for somereasonhad stayedin his mind. They wereat the zoo. Richard was three yearsold. For the first time in his life he had gottenan ice cream cone and paid for it with the money his father had counted out beforehand.He wasso proud of his accomplishmentthat he forgot to eat his ice cream. He staredand staredat it-his very own first ice cream-and the coloredballs weremeltingand drippingandsmearinghis handsandhis blissfullysmiling face. A year later, on a bitterly cold Sundayin December, Richard came into his study with his broken toy truck and said, "Put it back together, Daddy.You can do it. You can do anything." Frirstersawthe blind trust in the boy'sface,and sweatbrokeout on him becausehe knew he could not fix

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the toy. It was a moment of both such intense pride and pain that it still moved him deeply after all theseyears. Richard was now a successfuldental surgeon, slim, suntanned,dynamic. He had a perfecthouseand a perfectwife. Everythinghe did was perfect. He wasevenperfectlyunhappy.His birthday and Christmascards alwaysarrived punctually. Forsternoticed that he wasstill standingin front of the recordplayerand washolding the album in his hand. "When l'm 64." Life is guaranteedto take the worst of all possible turns. Forster'slaw of autobiographical flashbacks. With a hopelessgesture he sat down. A life filled with struggleand striving-for this wretchedresult?That was a cruel joke. Suddenly,the alien'svoice, which he had completely forgotten about, wasin his headagain. It wastenderand filled with sympathysuchasForster had not experiencedfor an eternity. "You'rea goodman, RobertFcirster.I like you a lot." The alien thought for a moment. "Your memoriesalwayssurpriseme over and over.Our lives haveso many parallels.Battling againstthe worstodds, giving your best, and endingup asa winner with a feelingof loss.I'm familiar with that." A kaleidoscopeof incomprehensiblealien scenesflashedthrough Forster's mind, memoriesof a distantplanet."Funny how life in the universefollows universalrules." Ftirster felt the sincerewarmth in the words of the alien, who did not seemto him as strangenow as he once had. The extraterrestrial's concern was as startling as a surprisevisit to someonesick in bed and just as comforting. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks, uh . . ." "Sassacan,"the alien said. "sassacan's the name."

luly 13, 7:00 A.M. An early-morningpeacestill lay overthe land. The sun had just risenoverthe treetops.Its down-slopinglight castgrotesquely long shadowsand made dewdropssparkle.The lake wascalm; only a couple of fishermenwererowing acrossthe waterthrough the haze. In the cool, fresh air wafting acrossthe balcony, the rattling of Forster'sbreakfastdishes soundedlouder and happierthan usual. "Now we're friends," Sassacan said. "That happensvery rarely on my missions.Generallyspeaking,I'm regardedasan oppressor, an occupation force. Here on earth it seemsto be just the same way. But you're an exception." "l am?"

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"Yeah. Despite your personalproblemsyou've been unusually openminded. Most peoplereacthystericallywhen I . . . come to them. From the first secondon, you were completely cool, calm, and collected." "Maybe becauseI'm old. I've seena lot in my day.I know nothing'simpossible.What could still surpriseme?"Fcirstertook anothersip of coffee."You madeit easyfor me. Yourespectedme - aftera while. Most ofyou outerspace typesseemto be very aggressive. Why do you act differently?" "We're not all castfrom the samemold. We come from differentplanets, sowe behavein differentways.You know,we Sirianshad a horrible war not too long ago. That experiencehasmadeus morepeacefulthan other races." "l see.Yes,war changesone." For a moment, Fdrster'sthoughtsstarted wandering.Dying men writhing in blood and mud. Dead children in ruins, their armstorn off like discardeddolls. Small, unimportantbodies, which did not count in the larger schemeof things. Oh, God. "You dwell a lot on those things, Robert." "Yeah. They've changedmy life." "You also think about Barbarafrequently,"Sassacan said, changing the subject. "I simply can't forgether." Forsterstaredat his coffeespoonas if it were an exotic insect. "Though she'sbeen dead for ten yearsnow." "Ten years?"Sassacan said."I didn't think it had beenthat long ago. She's so . . presentin your thoughts." "You didn't think so?"F
Iuly 13, 6:00 ervl.Lastnight a thunderstormhad blown up and cleaned and cooledthe air. Fcirsterenjoyedhis constitutionalon the lakeside

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promenademuch more than he had during the lastfew weeks.The weather wasmild, you could seeasfar asthe most distant mountain peaks.And he had a friend. Fcirsterand Sassacan watchedthe souvenirvendorsdismantletheir stands with postcardsand silly plastic mementos.Swimmers and surferswere landingon the beachand packingup their things.Handsomeyoungpeople with well-proportionedbodiesso deeplytannedthat their lips seemedpale on dark faces.They got into their Broncos,Pajeros,Jeeps,Rabbit convertibles and spedawayto some other pressingengagement.Eager hedonists alwayson the go. To Forsterthey still seemedmore alien than Sassacan, but he did not hate them anymore. 'A beautiful day today,"he said. "Yes," Sassacan said. Snatchesof sound from a carnival drifted acrossthe lake. Fcirsterwas listeningto the oompahpahof a brassband. "You wanna listen to music again this evening?" "Oh, yeah," Sassacan said. "Very much." "How about an organ concert Fcirsterstopped,irritated somehow. 'Anything wrong?" "l have to go back tomorrow," Sassacan's voice was as emotionlessas a vocoder."The job'sfinished. The traveling salesmantravelson. You know how it is." "But," Forsterstammered,"right now?" He could not talk anymore. Blood roaredin his ears.His heartbeatlike a hammer.Now that I havehad a tasteof hope! "Life'sa sadist,"Sassacan said. Forstersaid nothing. He ploppeddown on a bench, older and lonelier than ever before,shiveringin the warm sunlight.

luly 14, 3:30 p.x,r.Fdrsterslammed the telephonereceiverdown on its cradlewith intensesatisfaction.He had just canceledhis weeklydoctor's appointment. "Make your money off of some other old idiot, doctor. I'm still not so infirm that I haveto sit around in your consultingroom all the time. I'll let you know when I need you." He sniggered.I'll let you know when I need you. That wasa good one. Took that smart-assauthority figure down a peg or two. In every respectit had been a remarkableday. At breakfastin the Caf6 Panoramaa slim young man satdown at his table. He seemedbewildered and distressed.Somehowthey got to talking. It turned out that the young man had inheriteda companythat washighly respected, but with the flood

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of cheapimportsfrom the Far Eastcould not competeanymore.With modernproductionequipmenthe would againbe ableto land contracts, but he did not haveenoughreadycash,andbankswouldnot extendhim any credit.In a few weeksthe firm would go bankrupt. "That'ssimple,youngman,"Fdrstersaid."Whatyouneedis a sale-andfactorybuildleaseback contract.It goeslike this.Yousellyour expensive ingsto a leasingcompany.Yougeta lot of moneyfor them. At the same time, yourentthebuildingsbackfrom theleasingcompany.That wayyou can stayin thereand continueproduction,and you turn your hidden into readymoney.Youinvestthis moneyandgetyour firm on its reserves feet again.When you'vemadeenoughprofit, you buy backthe factory " buildingsaftera coupleof years. The youngman chokedandpanteduntil his facewasdarkred. "That's incredible!"he gasped."That'sit! How can I everthank you?" "lt wasa pleasurefor me. "That'sall right," Forstersaidoffhandedly. you'll viewold peoplein a little differentlight. A lot Fromnowon, perhaps card you see."He passed his business of yearsmeansa lot of experience, the table."Justgiveme a call if you run into problems." across "l mostcertainlywill," the youngman saidhappilyandhastilygot up. Sohe wasnot quitea doddering watchedhim with amusement. F
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The Labradorgot looseand ran through the lobby barking and terrified, eyesbulging. He looked as aggressive as a dangerousbeast. Fcirsterwasthe only one who acted.As the dog spedby him, he grabbed the leashand shoutedsharply,"Sit!" The dog wasso well trained that it obeyedinstantly in spite of its terror. Fdrsterpattedthe dog reassuringly."Easy there, Samsonboy, easy.Everything'sall right. Thke it easy." Panic graduallyfadedfrom the dog'seyes.Meanwhile, his masterhad walked over besideFcirster. "Thanks," she said calmly. Fdrsterturned to her and knewat oncethis wasa specialmoment in his life. Barbarawasthereagain.Of course,it wasnot Barbara,but shewould have looked like that at sixty. Short, silver-gray,almost-metallic-looking hair in a page-boycut, grayeyesthat reactedwith amusementto his stare,a beaming face that hid its years,plus a radiatingyouthful vitality. Plain expensiveclothes. "That wasextraordinarilyquickthinking on your part," shesaid."l really must thank you, Mr. . . ." F0rsterkeptstaringat her.The wayshelooked,the wayshetalked.It wasa miracle.He suddenlyrealizedthat all the yearshe had beenweigheddown with angerand depression, he had beenwaiting for just sucha moment as this, as a candlewaits for the match to light it. He realizedthat he had not answeredher question."Forster,"he said. "Robert Forster." "l'm KatharinaErhard." Shesmiled.'Are you a reporter?Youseemto be quite inquisitive. " "oh, no, excuseme, I-" with mild astonishmenthe observedhow he put his arm on her shoulderand spontaneously said,"You'redripping wet. Thkeoffyour coat, and then let'sgo to the bar. A little whiskey'll warm you up." She smiled again and said yes, and then they were sitting in the dark wood-paneled bar and talkingand talking.There wasa faint smellof wood, leather,and tobaccoin the air mixed with the fragranceof her expensive perfume. F6rster was happy.

luly 14,9:A0eu. From the east,night spreadacrossthe sky.In the west,the day took its leavewith bizarre-lookingcloud sculpturesscuddingacrossa horizon festoonedin gold, red, and purple. Fcirsterstoodon the terraceof the HerrenchiemseeCastle and gazedupon

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the splendorof the park as it slowly slipped into twilight. Water in the big fountain createdgracefullydancing, regularly changing figures. Bright lightfell on the terracefrom the hall of mirrors behind Fdrster.Hundredsof torches were burning inside there, and expectantly cheerful people in evening clothes waited for the castleconcert to begin. And Katharina waswaiting for him. He thought about the trip on the paddlesteamerwhich had brought them acrossthe lake to the islandwhere Castle was located. They stood at the railing, quiet, Ihe Herrenchiemsee The evening wind smelled of algae. Fdrster thoughts. full of their heads listenedto the asthmaticchuggingof the old steamer.How many things he saw smelled, and felt that he had not noticed in the past few years. It wasthe most natural thing in the world for his hand to closeover hers and for him to kiss her. Their lips touched with the soft, wonderful that you could only find in very small children who have just tenderness discoveredthe graceof giving. Then they went back into the passenger room, where they drank a glassof champagneand celebratedthe grand reopening of Fdrster'slife.

"l'm veryhappy,"Sassacan said,"that I can end my stayon Earth on sucha lovely day and htppy note. I'm leaving you now, Robert." Frirsternodded. This moment had to come. It was a sad moment. "Sassacan," he said. "I'd like to sayso much to you, that I hardly know where to-" "No need to," Sassacan said. "You know I'm looking through you." 'p.o"Oh, sure," Forsterlaughed."What an unbelievablestory.Of all ple,'an extraterrestrial helps me getback to the land of the living." 'All "You've helped yourself," Sassacan I've done is interrupt your said. routine just as you've interrupted mine. We've learned a lot from each other." "Yeah. Too bad you have to go now." "You do have Katharina now." "Luckily. I don't know if otherwiseI could really bear losing you." A head."Hey, wait a minute! Katharina . thought flashedthrough Fcirster's the young man with the bankrupt company . . . Katharina looking like Barbara.A whole bunch of coincidencesfor a singleday.And the fact that just aftera few minutes I put my arm around Katharina.That'snot my way. You arrangedeverything and pulled the marionettestringsa bit. Right?" "Maybe, maybenot," Sassacan replied."No matter.You'rehtppy, and it makesmy leavingeasier." "You bastard,"Forstersaid."l like you. Goddamn it, but I do like you."

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"l like you, too, Robert.So long. Keepmoving." "So long, Sassacan. " And thanksfor everything. Then Fcirster wasall aloneagain.Lostin thought,he staredat the park, whichnowlayin full darkness. Hislipsmoved,mumblingsoundless words. Then he turnedaroundand walkedto the brightlyilluminatedhall of mirrors.At thedoorhe castonemoreglanceoverhis shoulderup at thesky. you are. Goodluck, Sassacan, wherever The starswereslowlycomingout.

The Golem Avram Davidson is one of the mostdistinguished contemporary writers and editors of sciencefrction and fantasy.He frrst becameprominent in the 1950sasa writer of shortmagazine fiction and it is upon this that his reputation rests.Peter S. Beaglecompareshim to lohn Collier, Saki,and RoaldDahl, concluding that "none of these,even Collier, comes near to matching either Avram'sgifts of language or his understated compassion."This story takesone of the standarddevices,the robot, from its rootsin folklore to thepresentand humorously puts it in its place.

he gray-facedperson came along the street where old I M. and Mrs. Gumbeinerlived. Itwas afternoon,itwas I autumn, the sun was warm and soothingto their ancient bones.Anyone who attendedthe moviesin the twenties or the early thirties hasseenthat streeta thousandtimes. Past thesebungalowswith their half-doubleroofs Edmund Lowe walkedarm-in-arm with Leatrice foy and Harold Lloyd was chasedby Chinamen wavinghatchets.Underthesesquamous palm treesLaurel kicked Hardy and Woolseybeat Wheeler upon the head with codfish. Across these pocket-handkerchief-sizedlawnsthe juvenilesof the Our Gang Comedies pursuedone anotherand were pursuedby angry fat men in golf knickers.On this samestreet-or perhapson someother one of five hundred streetsexactly like it. Mrs. Gumbeiner indicated the gray-facedperson to her husband. T

1

"You think maybehe'sgot somethingthe matter?"sheasked."He walks kind of funny, to me." "Walks like a golem," Mr. Gumbeiner said indifferently. The old woman was nettled. "Oh, I don't know," she said. "I think he walkslike your cousin." The old man pursedhis mouth angrilyandchewedon his pipestem.The gray-facedpersonturned up the concretepath, walked up the stepsto the porch, sat down in a chair. Old Mr. Gumbeiner ignoredhim. His wife staredat the stranger. "Man comesin without a hello, goodbye,or howareyou,sits himself down and right away he'sat home. . . . The chair is comfortable?"she asked."Would you like maybe a glasstea?" She turned to her husband. "Saysomething,Gumbeiner!" shedemanded."What are you, made of wood?" The old man smiled a slow,wicked, triumphant smile. "Why should I sayanything?" he askedthe air. "Who am I? Nothing, that'swho." The strangerspoke. His voice was harsh and monotonous. "When you learnwho-or, rather,what-l am, the fleshwill meltfrom your bonesin terror." He baredporcelainteeth. "Nevermind aboutmy bones!"the old woman cried. "You'vegot a lot of nervetalking about my bones!" "You will quakewith fear," said the stranger.Old Mrs. Gumbeiner said that shehopedhe would live solong. Sheturned to her husbandonceagain. "Gumbeiner, when are you going to mow the lawn?" 'All mankind-" the strangerbegan. "Shah! I'm talking to my husband . . . He talks eppls kind of funny, Gumbeiner, no?" "Probably a foreigner," Mr. Gumbeiner said, complacently. "You think so?"Mrs. Gumbeinerglancedfeetingly at the stranger."He's got a verybadcolorin his face,nebbich.l supposehe cameto Californiafor his health." "Disease,pain, sorrow love, grief-all are nought to-" Mr. Gumbeiner cut in on the stranger'sstatement. "Gall bladder,"the old man said."Guinzburg down at the shulelooked exactlythe samebeforehis operation.Tho professorsthey had in for him, and a private nurse day and night. " "l am not a human being!" the strangersaid loudly. "Three thousandsevenhundred fifty dollarsit costhis son, Guinzburg

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toldme.'Foryou,Poppa,nothingis tooexpensive-onlygetwell,'theson told him." "I am nota humanbeing!" 'Ai, is thata sonforyou!"theoldwomansaid,rockingherhead.'A heart 'All right, all right, I heard of gold,puregold."Shelookedat the stranger. youthefirsttime. Gumbeiner!I askedyoua question. Whenareyougoing to cut the lawn?" "On Wednesday, oddermaybeThursday,comesthe fapaneser to the neighborhood. To cut lawnsis his profession. My profession is to be a glazier-retired." "Between meandall mankindis an inevitable hatred,"thestranger said. "When I tell you what I am, the fesh will melt-" "Yousaid,you saidalready,"Mr. Gumbeinerinterrupted. "ln Chicagowherethe winterswereas cold and bitter asthe Czar of Russia's heart," the old womanintoned,"yon had strengthto carry the frameswith theglasstogetherdayin anddayout. But in Californiawith the goldensun to mow the lawn when your wife asks,for this you haveno strength.Do I call in the fapaneser to cookfor you supper?" "Thirty yearsProfessor Allardycespentperfectinghis theories.Electronics,neuronics-" "Listen, how educatedhe talks,"Mr. Gumbeinersaid, admiringly. "Maybehe goesto the Universityhere?" "lf he goesto the University,maybehe knowsBud?"his wife suggested. "Probablythey'rein the sameclassand he cameto seehim aboutthe homework,no?" "Certainlyhemustbein thesameclass.Howmanyclasses arethere?Five in ganzen:Bud showedme on his programcard."Shecountedoff on her fingers."Television Appreciationand Criticism, Small Boat Building, SocialAdjustment, TheAmericanDance. . . TheAmericanDance-nu, Cumbeinsl-" 'A "Contemporary Ceramics,"herhusband said,relishingthesyllables. fine boy,Bud. A pleasureto havehim for a boarder." 'After thirty yearsspentin thesestudies,"the stranger,who had continuedto speakunnoticed,wenton, "he turnedfrom thetheoretical to the pragmatic.In ten years'time he had madethe mosttitanicdiscovery in history:he mademankind, all mankind,superfuous:he mademe." "What did Tillie write in her lastletter?"askedthe old man. The old womanshrugged. "What shouldshewrite?The samething. Sidneywashomefrom the Army,Naomihasa newboy friend-"

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"He made mel." "Listen, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is," the old woman said; "maybe you in fftis country you don't interupt from is different, but came where peoplethe while they'retalking. . . . Hey. Listen-what do you mean, he made you? What kind of talk is that?" The strangerbared all his teeth again, exposingthe too-pink gums. "ln his library,to which I had a more completeaccessafter his sudden and as yet undiscovereddeath from entirely natural causes,I found a completecollection of storiesabout androids,from Shelley'sFrankenstein through eapek'sR. U.R. to Asimov's-" "Frankenstein?"said the old man, with interest."There used to be placeon HalsteadStreet:a Litvack, Frankensteinwho had the soda-wcsser nebbich." "What are you talking?"Mrs. Gumbeiner demanded."His name was Frankenfhal, and it wasn'ton Halstead,it was on Roosevelt." "-clearly shownthat all mankind hasan instinctiveantipathytowards androidsand there will be an inevitablestrugglebetweenthem-" "Of course,of course!"Old Mr. Gumbeinerclickedhis teethagainsthis pipe. "l am alwayswrong, you are alwaysright. How could you standto be married to such a stupid personall this time?" "l don't know," the old woman said. "SometimesI wonder,myself. I think it must be his goodlooks." Shebeganto laugh. Old Mr. Gumbeiner blinked, then beganto smile, then took his wife'shand. "Foolishold woman," the strangersaid;"why do you laugh?Do you not know I have come to destroyyou?" "What!" old Mr. Gumbeiner shouted."Close your mouth, you!" He dartedfrom his chair and struckthe strangerwith the flat of his hand. The head struck againstthe porch pillar and bouncedback. stranger's "When you talk to my wife, talk respectable,you hear?" Old Mrs. Gumbeiner,cheeksverypink, pushedher husbandbackin his chair. Then she leaned forward and examined the stranger'shead. She clicked her tongue as shepulled asidea flap of gray,skin-likematerial. "Gumbeiner, look! He'sall springsand wires inside!" "I told you he wasa golem,but no, you wouldn't listen," the old man said. "You said he walkedlike a golem." "How could he walk like a golem unlesshe was one?" 'All right, all right. . . . You broke him, so now fix him." "My grandfather,his light shines from Paradise,told me that when MoHaRal-Moreynu Ha-RavLow-his memoryfor a blessing,madethe

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golemin Prague,threehundred?four hundredyearsago?he wroteon his foreheadthe Holy Name." 'And thegolemcutthe Smilingreminiscently, theoldwomancontinued, rabbi'swoodandbroughthis waterandguardedthe ghetto." 'And onetime only he disobeyed the RabbiLow,andRabbiLtlw erased theShemHa-Mephorash from thegolem's foreheadandthegolemfell down like a deadone.And theyput him up in the atticof theshuleandhe'sstill theretodayif theCommunistenhaven'tsenthim to Moscow. . This is not justa story,"he said. "Avaddanot!" saidthe old woman. "l myselfhaveseenboth theshuleand the rabbi'sgrave,"her husband said,conclusively. "But I think thismustbea differentkindgolem,Gumbeiner. See,on his forehead: nothingwritten." "What'sthe matter,there's a law I can'twritesomethingthere?Whereis that lump clayBud broughtus from his class?" The old man washedhis hands,adjustedhis little blackskullcap,and slowlyand carefullywrotefour Hebrewletterson the grayforehead. "Ezra the Scribehimselfcouldn'tdo better,"the old woman said, admiringly."Nothinghappens," sheobserved, lookingat thelifeless figure sprawledin the chair. "Well, afterall, am I RabbiLow?"her husbandasked,deprecatingly. "No," heanswered. Heleanedoverandexamined mechanism. theexposed "This springgoeshere. . . thiswirecomeswith thisone . . ." The figure moved."But this one goeswhere?And this one?" "Let be,"saidhiswife.The figuresatup slowlyandrolleditseyesloosely. "Listen,RebGo/em,"theold man said,wagging his finger."Payattention to whatI say-you understand?" "Understand . ." "lf you wantto stayhere,you got to do like Mr. Gumbeinersays." "Do-like-Mr.-Gumbeiner-says . "Thatbthe wayI like to heara golemtalk. Malka, giveherethe mirror from the pocketbook. Look, you seeyour face?Youseeon the forehead, what'swritten?If you don't do like Mr. Gumbeinersays,he'll wipe out what'swrittenandyou'll be no morealive." "No-more-alive . . ." "Thatb right. No*, listen. Underthe porch you'll find a lawnmower.Thke And cut the lawn. Then come back. Go." "Go . . " The figure shambleddown the stairs.Presentlythe sound of the lawnmowerwhirred through the quiet air in the streetjust like the street

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wherefackieCoopershedhugetearson WallaceBeery's shirtandChester Conklinrolledhis eyesat Marie Dressler. "So whatwill you writeto Tillie?"old Mr. Gumbeinerasked. "WhatshouldI write?"oldMrs.Gumbeinershrugged: "l'll writethatthe weatheris lovelyout hereandthat we areboth, Blessed be the Name,in goodhealth." The old man noddedhis headslowly,andtheysattogetheron the front porch in the warmafternoonsun.

TheNew Pnehistony TFIANSLATEtr)

BY tr)AMON

KNIGHT

world hasno indigenous Like lapan, the Spanish-speaking tradition of sciencefrction. But in the Hispanic countries, especiallyin SouthAmerica, theschoolof magicrealism has hid significantimpact on world literature sincethe 1960s. a Colombian,wasfrrst Thisstory,by RendRebetez-Cortes, approachto_ a speculative represents published in 1972 and -the fantasticpresentand future, It is as near a relativeof fiction asonefinds in Spanishliteraturetoday,One science suspectsthatDamonKnight, thetranslator,choseto workon thispiece becauseit engagesin ironic dialoguewith much of of thesatiricalSF of the 1950s,in whichsometrivial aspect position in into a central is extrapolated contemporarysociety of a future world. "The NewPrehistory"is whatthedefenders of fiction-SF shorn prefer speculative to call Iiterary SF gimmicksandgadgefs,SF that still evokesthesameconcerns as that hokeystuff we readas teenagers.

I t beganwhenmy friendMetropoulosioinedthelongticket I line in front of the Mayer Cinema. I had neverliked I standingin line for anything;I waitedto oneside.Eating andthe people cornchips,I watchedthewomenwho passed into it oneby onelike blobsof who joinedthe line, pressed mercury. scrapThe line movedslowlyforward,with a monotonous

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ing of feeton pavement.When I glancedat my friend'sface,I sawthat it was expressionless, slack-jawed.His eyeswereglassywith boredom, his arms dangled like an ape's,his feet shuffled slowly. I felt a sudden chill; somehowI knew what wasabout to happen. A fat lady had grown tired of waiting, eventhough shewasonly twenty placesor so from the ticket window. Shetook a step,another,a third; the line curved with her. Sheturned her head indignantly,tried to breakfree; sheran, and the line stretchedafter her like a greatbow bending-then it straightened again, draggingthe poor woman back in spite of her struggles. Now panic spread;they wereall trying to breaklooseat once. The long line undulatedin wild contortions,asif shakenby a gigantichiccup. People werestruggling,screaming,and shouting.Tempersgrewheated;therewasa flurry of blows. Around the newborn monstera crowd wasgathering.That wasanother custom in the cities, congregatingto look at things: cranes, wrecking machines, blasting crews.Airplanes. Military parades.Political rallies. Crowds looking at billboards.Crowds looking at anything. Myself, I had alwayshated crowdsand lines of people. Not that I was antisocial,not at all; it was simply that I dislikedhumanity in the mass. Never had I dreamedthat things would take such a turn, or that I would witnessthis transformation.

The peoplein line soonrealizedtherewasnothing they could do, or at least that there wasno point in fighting among themselves.Thttered,bleeding, and crestfallen,at last they were still; an ominous silencefell over them. Then, little by little, like the soundof rushingwater,therecamethe swelling voice of incredulity and terror. It was obviousthat thesepeoplecould not pull themselvesapart; something had bound them tightly together. Something that in the first few moments had been no more than a breath had rapidly changed into a viscousbut tangible substance;very soon it had become a transparent gelatin,then a fexible cartilagelike thatof Siamesetwins.A forceunknown to mankind, latentin natureuntil now,had beenunleashed,a psychological cancer that was gluing men together as if they were atoms of new elementsin formation. A restlessness cameoverthe line. Like a huge centipedewakingup, the monsterslowly began to move down the street,hundredsof arms waving desperately.At the head of the column wasa red-eyedman whosemouth wasawry in a painful rictus. He wasfollowedby a girl who had been proud of her beauty;now, disheveled,her makeup dissolvedby tears, she moved

/ 143 RENE REBETEZ.CC]FTTES like a sleepwalker.Then came a boy, his face pale with terror, then Metropoulos, my old friend, one more vertebraof the monstrousreptile. He passedwithout hesitating,deaf to my voice, his gazefixed on the ground and his feet moving to the marching rhythm. Gradually the movementgrewfaster,more erraticand frenzied.The long queuewaslike a string of carnival dancers,twisting and turning, performing a demonic congain the street.Then, aftera few frantic turns, the reptile sankto the pavement;eachsegmentof its body washeaving,and a continual stertoroussoundechoedin the half-openmouths, the nostrilslike fluttering wings, the wild eyes. It lastedonly a moment;the reptilegot up again.In it werea few deadand uselessvertebrae.Dragging them along, the monsterbroke into its zigzag run again and disappeareddown the street.

I had managedto get into the openingof a narrow doorway;from its shelterI watched the toqpid crowd. Once more I knew what was going to happen. They wereawakeninggraduallyfrom the nightmare left behind by the great human serpent:now they were becoming awareof their own condition. They had turned into a gigantic amoeba; a thick protoplasm that had spurted out between them had bound them together like the cells of a honeycomb.There was not a single shout. Only a few faint groansand a came from the crowd. murmur of helplessness The human serpentstill seemedto know which wasits head and which its tail, but the crowd-amoebashowedan immediatedesireto spreadin all directions.The human masschangedits shapefrom one instantto another in a grotesqueand repellantmanner:a convulsedmacroscopicamoebathat stumbled and bounced painfully againstthe walls. A new being, gigantic and mindless,that moved down the streetafter its predecessor.

I don't remember how many days and nights I wanderedthose streets. Thousandsof monstersof all sizeswere roaming in the city. The lines at bakeriesand busstopshad producedlittle reptilesof ten or sovertebraeeach; the samefor the lines at banks and confessionals.Larger ones had come from the lines at phone booths, movies,theaters,and other public places. The amoebascame from street crowds and public gatherings;they were spreadingeverywhere. The strange ligature that had fastenedthe people together was really unbreakable.I sawone man who tried to cut it; the attempt ended in his painful death. The links that died by accident hung like dead leaves,

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withoutbreakingthe human chain. I sawa busloadof peoplethat had turned into a singlemass.Unableto get out of the bus, they began destroying it. Wholebuildingswerebeingdemolished by amoeba-crowds imprisoned inside.A shoutingthronghadformeditselfinto an immense clottedmassthatsweptawayobstacles, filling thestreets likea river:thatone camefrom a politicalrally. The few personswho were still separatescurriedlike rats to avoid touchingthe new organisms. All the same,most of them werebeing absorbed.

I don't want to know anything about that. I don't want to find myself transformedinto somethingshapeless like an amoebaor a glob of spittle, nor to becomethe last segmentof a giganticworm. I cling to my human identity, my own individual and separatepersonality.I am a man, not a limb or an organ. Nevertheless,I know the battleis alreadylost. Beforemy eyeshumanity is beingtransformedinto a nightmare.I try to be impartial and tell myself that perhapsit is for the best,that this suddenmutationwill bring with it a fundamentaladvancefor humanity. But it'suseless;thesenew forms of life repel me. They haverenouncedforeverthe old wayof life. It is impossiblefor them to live in rooms as they did before, to use elevators,sit in chairs, sleepin beds,travelin carsor planes.Obviouslytheycan't return to their jobs,go to offices,mind stores,operatein clinics, act in theaters.Everythingmust be reorganizedto suit the new conditions. After the early days of fear and confusion, the new composite beings abandonedthe cities. Unable to get into kitchens, pantries,and refrigerators, they swarmedout into the country. The sight of these reptilesand giant amoebasroaming the pasturesor lurking in the woods is enough to turn my stomach. I think they have forgotten what they were. They eat insatiably:fruit, roots-and they eat animals alive. They haven't botheredto build shelters.One kind sleeps coiledup like a hugeboa arounda fire;the otherkind, in a ball on the bare earth. I don't know if thev rememberthat they were once men.

So much time haspassed,I havelost all perceptionof it. The evolution of the new beingshasbeendemoniacallyswift. They no longertry to add new links to their giganticbodies;instead,when they meeta singleperson,they

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kill him. I have been living in the ruins of the cities, hiding from their multiple gazeandtheir keensenseof smell, but I ventureout now and then to spy on them. haschangedenormously;now they areanotherthing. Their appearance making love in a nearbyfield. A few daysagoI surprisedtrvo serpent-beings Itwas grotesqueand indescribable,a contortedself-flagellation.Now I know that each one of these beings has a common organism, an integrated physiologicalfunction, a single nervoussystem, a unified and powerful mind. It wasdifficult for me to acceptthis, becausein the old dayswhen people wereindividuals,thosewho liked to form themselvesinto lines or crowdsin the streetwere alwaysmediocrities,morons. Intelligent peoplewould not havebeencaughtup in suchfoolishness.They havebeendestroyed,or else, like me, they are wanderingin the ruins. But I havemet no one elsehere. In spite of everything, I acknowledgethe strengthof the new creatures, the technical masterythey are beginning to show.With the speedof their thousandhandsand their thousandfeet, they are raisingstrangenarrow or circular edifices,making and transportingmaterialsin the twinkling of an eye. They have made immense capes,with openings for their multiple heads,to protectthemselvesfrom the cold. SometimesI heartheir chorusof a thousandvoiceschanting strangeguttural songs. I suspectthedayis notfar offwhen theywill build their own airplanesand limousines,aslong as railway cars, or rounded and flat like flying saucers. The time will come, too, I have no doubt, when they will play golf. But I don't want to know anything about that. I alwayshatedcrowdsand lines of people. I cling to my human identity, to my own individual and separatepersonality.It's not that I'm antisocial; not at all, I repeat. But massesof humanity are distastefulto me. Never did I dream that things would take such a turn, or that I would witnessthis transformation. I sit among the ruins. In the distanceI can hear a giganticchorus:the voice of the new prehistory,A new cycle is beginning.

A Meetingwith Medusa Arthur C. Clarkeis the colossus of contemporaryBritishSE Active sincethe 1940s,he is, with Bradburyand Asimou, Sturgeon,Heinlein, and Herbert, a classicand definitive modernSF writer. His novels,including Childhood'sEnd, The City andthe Stars,2001:A SpaceOdyssey, Rendezvous with Rama,andmanyothers,aswellashis shortstories, have established him asthepoet of technologicaloptimismin our time. He hasbeenactivein thefreldfor nearlyfrftyyears,and iy spiteof I G, Ballard'sprominence,remains,unchanged, tle mostpopularliving British SF author,a positionhi hats held since the 1950s.Recentlyhe endoweda prize to be awardedannuallyto the bestSF novel publishedin Britain. His storiescombinethe gritty detail of everydaysciencein action with thepoetic visionof OIaf Stapledonand the challenging optimistic internationalism of the later works of H. G. Wells,Clarkebtwo great precurcors. 'A Meeting with Medusa,"publishedin 1972,is his last shortstory; sincethen he haspublishedonly novels,all internationalbestsellers.This stoiyisgurnfess entialClarke,a ta]eof the mysteryand wonderof spaceexploration.A contemporaryclassic,it won the NebulaAwardof the Science Fiction Writersof America as bestnovella of the vear.

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he Queen Elizabeth wasover three miles abovethe Grand Canyon, dawdling along at a comfortablehundred and eighty, when Howard Falcon spottedthe camerapladorm closing in from the right. He had

it-nothing elsewasclearedto fy at thisaltitude-but he beenexpecting wasnot too happyto havecompany.Althoughhe welcomedany signsof publicinterest,healsowantedasmuchemptyskyashecouldget.Afterall, of a mile he wasthe first man in historyto navigatea ship three-tenths long... Sofar,this firsttestflighthadgoneperfectly;ironicallyenough,theonly problemhad beenthe century-oldaircraftcarrierChairmanMao, borOnly one rowedfrom theSanDiegoNavalMuseumfor supportoperations. wasstill operating,andthe old battlewagon's of Mao'sfour nuclearreactors Luckily,wind speedat sealevelhadbeen knots. thirty barely top speedwas lessthanhalfthis,soit hadnotbeentoodifficultto maintainstillair on the fight deck.Thoughtherehad beena few anxiousmomentsduringgusts, when the mooringlineshad beendropped,the greatdirigiblehad risen If all went smoothly,straightup into the sky,asif on an invisibleelevator. well,QueenElizabethlVwouldnotmeetChairmanMao againforanother week. gavenormalreadings. Everythingwasundercontrol;all testinstruments He the rendezvous. go watch and upstairs to CommanderFalcondecided handedover to his secondofficer,and walkedout into the transparent tubewaythat led throughthe heartof the ship.There,asalways,he was of the largestsinglespaceeverenclosedby by the spectacle overwhelmed man. The ten sphericalgascells,eachmorethan a hundredfeetacross,were rangedonebehindtheotherlike a line of giganticsoapbubbles.The tough plasticwassoclearthathe couldseethroughthewholelengthof the anay, morethana third of a mile mechanism, andmakeout detailsof theelevator maze, from his vantagepoint. All aroundhim, like a three-dimensional wasthe structuralframeworkof the ship-the greatlongitudinalgirders runningfrom noseto tail, thefifteenhoopsthatwerethecircularribsof this and whosevaryingsizesdefinedits graceful,streamcolossus, sky-borne lined profile. At this low speed,therewaslittle sound-merelythe softrushof wind creakof metalasthepatternof stresses andan occasional overtheenvelope

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changed.The shadowless light fromtherowsof lampsfaroverhead gavethe wholescenea curiouslysubmarine quality,andto Falconthiswasenhanced by the spectacle of the translucentgasbags. He had onceencountered a jellyfish,pulsingtheirmindless squadron of largebut harmless wayabovea shallowtropicalreef,andtheplasticbubbles thatgaveQueenElizabethher lift often remindedhim of these-especially when changingpressures madethem crinkleand scatternew patternsof reflectedlight. Hewalkeddowntheaxisof theshipuntil hecameto theforwardelevator, betweengascellsone and two. Riding up to the Observation Deck, he noticedthatitwasuncomfortably hot, anddictateda briefmemoto himself on his pocketrecorder.The Queenobtainedalmosta quarterof her buoyancy fromtheunlimitedamountsof wasteheatproducedby herfusion powerplant.On this lightlyloadedfight, indeed,only six of the ten gas cellscontainedhelium; the remainingfour werefull of air. Yetshestill carriedtwo hundredtonsof waterasballast.However,runningthe cellsat high temperatures did produceproblemsin refrigerating theaccess ways;it wasobviousthat a little moreworkwould haveto be donethere. A refreshing blastof coolerair hit him in the facewhenhe steppedout onto the ObservationDeck and into the dazzlingsunlight streaming throughtheplexiglass roof.Half a dozenworkmen,with an equalnumber of superchimpassistants, werebusilylayingthe partly completeddance floor,whileotherswereinstallingelectricwiringandfixingfurniture.It was a sceneof controlledchaos,and Falconfound it hard to believethat everythingwouldbe readyfor the maidenvoyage, only four weeksahead. Well,thatwasnothisproblem,thankgoodness. HewasmerelytheCaptain, not the CruiseDirector. Thehumanworkers wavedto him, andthe"simps"flashed toothysmiles, ashewalkedthroughtheconfusion,into thealreadycompleted Skylounge. This washis favoriteplacein thewholeship,andhe knewthatonceshewas operatinghe would neveragainhaveit all to himself.He would allow himselfjust five minutesof privateenjoyment. He calledthe bridge,checkedthat everythingwasstill in order,and relaxedinto one of the comfortableswivelchairs.Below,in a curvethat delightedthe eye,wasthe unbrokensilversweepof theship'senvelope.He wasperchedat the highestpoint, surveyingthe wholeimmensityof the Iargest vehicleeverbuilt. Andwhenhehadtiredof that-all thewayout to thehorizonwasthefantastic wilderness carvedbytheColoradoRiverin half a billion yearsof time. Apartfrom thecameraplatform(it hadnowfallenbackandwasfilming from amidships)he had the skyto himself.It wasblue and empty,clear downto the horizon.In his grandfather's day,Falconknew,it wouldhave

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with vaportrailsandstainedwith smoke.Bothhadgone:the beenstreaked it, thatspawned with theprimitivetechnologies hadvanished aerialgarbage of this agearcedtoo far beyondthe transportation and the long-distance for any sightor soundof it to reachEarth. Once again,the stratosphere belongedto thebirdsandtheclouds-and nowto Queen loweratmosphere ElizabethIV. hadsaidat thebeginningof the twentieth It wastrue, astheold pioneers century:this wasthe only wayto travel-in silenceandluxury,breathing the air aroundyou and not cut off from it, nearenoughto the surfaceto beautyof land and sea.The subsonicietsof the watchthe everchanging seatedten abreast,could not packed of passengers hundreds with 1980s, evenbeginto matchsuchcomfortand spaciousness. andeven wouldneverbean economicproposition, Of course , theQueen quarter of a world's the few of a only if herprojectedsistershipswerebuilt, wouldeverenjoythissilentglidingthroughthesky.Buta billion inhabitants globalsocietycould affordsuchfolliesand indeed prosperous secureand Therewereat leasta neededthem for their noveltyand entertainment. a thousand incomeexceeded million men on Earth whosediscretionary passengers. for lack not would year, the so newdollarsa Queen beeped.The copilotwascallingfrom the pocketcommunicator Falcon's bridge. ..O.K. for rendezvous, Captain?We'vegotall thedataweneedfrom this run, and the TV peoplearegettingimpatient-" Falconglancedat the cameraplatform,nowmatchinghis speeda tenth of a mile away. "O.K.," he replied."Proceedasarranged.I'll watchfrom here." He walkedbackthroughthe busychaosof the ObservationDecksothat he could havea betterview amidships.As he did so, he could feel the changeof vibrationunderfoot;by the time he had reachedthe rearof the lounge,the shiphadcometo rest.Usinghis masterkey,he let himselfout onto the small externalpladormflaringfrom the end of the deck;half a them dozenpeoplecould standhere,with only low guardrailsseparating ground, thousands of from the vastsweepof the envelope-andfrom the feetbelow.It wasan excitingplaceto be, andperfectlysafeevenwhenthe shipwastravelingat speed,for it wasin thedeadair behindthehugedorsal it wasnot intendedthat the Deck.Nevertheless, blisterof the Observation to it; the viewwasa little too vertiginous. passengers would haveaccess The coversof theforwardcargohatchhadalreadyopenedlike gianttrap doors,and the cameraplatformwashoveringabovethem, preparingto of Alongthis route,in theyearsto come,wouldtravelthousands descend. the would rare occasions on passengers andtonsof supplies.Only Queen

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drop down to sealevel and dock with her floating base. A suddengustof crosswind slappedFalcon'scheek,and he tightenedhis grip on the guardrail.The Grand Canyon wasa bad placefor turbulence, thoughhe did not expectmuch at this altitude.Without any realanxiety,he focusedhis attentionon the descendingplatform,now abouta hundredand fifty feet abovethe ship. He knew that the highly skilled operatorwho was flying the remotelycontrolledvehicle had performedthis simple maneuver a dozen times already; it was inconceivablethat he would have any difficulties. Yet he seemedto be reactingrathersluggishly.That lastgust had drifted the platform almostto the edgeof the open hatchway.Surelythe pilot could havecorrectedbeforethis . . . Did he havea control problem?It wasvery unlikely; theseremoteshad multiple-redundancy,fail-safetakeovers,and any number of backup systems.Accidentswere almost unheard of. But there he went again, off to the left. Could the pilot be drunk? Improbablethough that seemed,Falconconsideredit seriouslyfor a moment. Then he reachedfor his microphoneswitch. Once again, without warning, he wasslappedviolentlyin the face. He hardlyfelt it, for he wasstaringin horrorat the cameraplatform.The distant operatorwasfightingfor control, trying to balancethe crafton its jets-but he was only making mattersworse. The oscillationsincreased-twenty degrees,forty, sixty, ninety . . . "Switch to automatic,you fool!" Falconshouteduselessly into his microphone. "Your manual control'snot working!" The platform fipped overon its back.The jetsno longersupportedit, but droveit swiftly downward.They had suddenlybecomealliesof the gravity they had fought until this moment. Falcon neverheardthe crash,though he felt it; he wasalreadyinside the ObservationDeck, racing for the elevatorthat would takehim down to the bridge.Workmenshoutedat him anxiously,askingwhat had happened.It would be many months before he knew the answerto that question. fustashe wassteppinginto the elevatorcage,he changedhis mind. What if therewasa powerfailure?Betterbe on the safeside, evenif it took longer and time was the essence.He began to run down the spiral stairway enclosingthe shaft. Halfway down he pausedfor a second to inspect the damage. That damnedplatform had goneclearthrough the ship, rupturing two of the gas cellsas it did so. They werestill collapsingslowly,in greatfalling veilsof plastic.He wasnot worried about the lossof lift-the ballastcould easily takecareof that, aslong aseight cellsremainedintact. Far more seriouswas the possibility of structural damage. Already he could hear the great

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underitsabnormalloads.It aroundhim groaningandprotesting latticework properlydistributed,the it was lift; unless have sufficient wasnot enoughto ship would breakher back. A. *tt just resuminghis descentwhen a superchi*p,shriekingwith shaft,movingwith incrediblespeed, fright, cameracingdownthe elevator handoverhand,alonglhe outsideof the latticework.In its terror,the poor attempt in an unconscious beasthadtornoffits companyuniform,perhaps to regainthe freedomof its ancestors. with asswiftlyashecould,watcheditsapproach Falcon,still descending potentially dangerous powerful and somealarm.A distraughtsimp wasa its conditioning.As it overtookhim, it if fearovercame animal,especially startedto call out a stringof words,but theywereall iumbledtogether,and "boss." wasa plaintive,frequentlyrepeated theonlyonehecouldrecognize Evennow,Falconrealized,it lookedtowardhumansfor guidance.He felt sorryfor the creature,involvedin a manmadedisasterbeyondits comprehension, and for which it boreno resPonsibility. him, on theothersideof thelattice;therewasnothing opposite It stopped if it wished.Nowits to preventit from comingthroughtheopenframework facewasonly inchesfrom his, andhe waslookingstraightinto the terrified eyes.Neverbeforehad he beenso closeto a simp, and ableto studyits featuresin such detail. He felt that strangemingling of kinship and whentheygazethusinto the mirror of discomfortthat all menexperience time. to havecalmedthecreature.Falconpointedup the seemed His presence Deck, and saidveryclearlyand prethe shaft,backtoward Observation it gavehim a cisely:"Boss-boss-go." To his relief,the simpunderstood; grimacethat might havebeena smile,andat oncestartedto racebackthe wayit hadcome.Falconhadgivenit thebestadvicehe could.If anysafety remainedaboardtheQueen,it wasin thatdirection.But hisdutylay in the other. He had almostcompletedhis descentwhen, with a soundof rending pitchednosedown,andthe lightswentout. But he could metal,thevessel throughtheopenhatch still seequitewell, for a shaftof sunlightstreamed years agohe hadstoodin a great andthe hugetearin the envelope.Many wincathedralnavewatchingthe light pouringthroughthe stained-glass fagstones. the ancient radiance on pools multicolored of dowsandforming The dazzlingshaftof sunlightthroughthe ruinedfabrichigh aboveremindedhim of thatmoment.He wasin a cathedralof metal,fallingdown the sky. When he reachedthe bridge,and wasablefor the first time to look outside,he washorrifiedto seehowclosethe shipwasto theground.Only

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three thousandfeet below werethe beautiful and deadly pinnaclesof rock and the red riversof mud that werestill carvingtheir waydown into the past. There wasno levelareaanywherein sightwherea ship aslargeasthe Queen could come to rest on an even keel. A glance at the displayboard told him that all the ballasthad gone. However,rateof descenthad been reducedto a few yardsa second;they still had a fighting chance. Without a word, Falcon easedhimself into the pilot'sseatand took over such control as still remained.The instrumentboard showedhim everything he wished to know; speechwas superfluous.In the background,he could hear the CommunicationsOfficer giving a running reportover the radio. By this time, all the news channelsof Earth would have been preempted, and he could imagine the utter frustration of the program controllers.One of the most spectacularwrecksin history wasoccurringwithout a singlecamerato recordit. The lastmomentsof the Queenwould neverfill millions with awe and terror, as had those of the Hindenburg, a century and a half before. Now the ground was only about seventeenhundred feet away, still coming up slowly.Though he had full thrust, he had not daredto useit, lest the weakenedstructurecollapse;but now he realizedthat he had no choice. The wind wastaking them towarda fork in the canyon, wherethe river was split by a wedgeof rock like the prow of somegigantic,fossilizedship of stone.If shecontinuedon her presentcourse,theQueenwould straddlethat triangularplateauand cometo restwith at leasta third of her lengthjutting out over nothingness;she would snap like a rotten stick. Far away,abovethe soundof straining metal and escapinggas,camethe familiar whistle of the jets as Falcon opened up the lateral thrusters.The ship staggered,and beganto slewto port. The shriekof tearing metal was now almost continuous-and the rate of descenthad startedto increase ominously.A glanceat the damage-control boardshowedthat cell number five had just gone. The ground wasonly yardsaway.Even now, he could not tell whetherhis maneuver would succeedor fail. He switched the thrust vectorsover to vertical, giving maximum lift to reducethe force of impact. The crashseemedto last forever.It wasnot violent-merely prolonged, and irresistible.It seemedthat the whole universewasfalling about them. The sound of crunching metal came nearer,as if somegreatbeastwere

eatingits waythroughthe dying ship. Then floor andceilingclosedupon him like a

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"Why do you want to go to ]upiter?" 'As Springersaid when he lifted for Pluto-'because it's there."' "Thanks. Now we've got that out of the way-the real reason." Howard Falcon smiled, though only those who knew him well could have interpretedthe slight, leatherygrimace. Websterwasone of them; for morethan twentyyearsthey had sharedtriumphs and disasters-including the greatestdisasterof all. "Well, Springer'sclich6 is still valid. We've landed on all the terrestrial planets,but none of the gasgiants.They are the only real challengeleft in the solarsystem." 'An expensiveone. Have you worked out the cost?" 'As well asI can; hereare the estimates.Remember,though-this isn't a one-shotmission, but a transportationsystem.Once it'sprovedout, it can be usedoverand overagain. And it will open up not merelyfupiter, but all the giants." Websterlooked at the figures, and whistled. "Why not start with an easierplanet-Uranus, for example?Half the gravity,and lessthan half the escapevelocity.Quieter weather,too-if that's the right word for it. " Websterhad certainly done his homework.But that, of course,waswhy he washead of Long-RangePlanning. "There'svery little saving-when you allow for the extradistanceand the logisticsproblems.For fupiter, we can use the facilitiesof Ganymede. Beyond Saturn, we'd have to establisha new supply base." Logical, thought Webster;but he wassure that it wasnot the important reason.Jupiterwaslord of the solarsystem;Falconwould be interestedin no lesserchallenge. "Besides,"Falcon continued, "fupiter is a major scientificscandal.It's more than a hundred yearssince its radio stormswere discovered,but we still don't know what causesthem-and the Great Red Spot is as big a mysteryas ever.That'swhy I can get matching funds from the Bureau of Astronautics.Do you know how many probesthey havedropped into that atmosphere?" 'A couple of hundred, I believe." "Threehundred and twenty-six,overthe last fifty years-about a quarter of them total failures.Of course,they'velearneda hell of a lot, but they've barely scratchedthe planet. Do you realize how big it is?"

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"More than ten timesthe sizeof Earth." "Yes,yes-but do you knowwhatthat reallymeans?" Falconpointedto the largeglobein the cornerof Webster's office. "Look at India-how smallit seems.Well, if you skinnedEarth and spread it outon thesurface offupiter,it wouldlookaboutasbigasIndiadoes here." There wasa long silencewhile Webstercontemplated the equation: is to Earth as Earth is to India. Falconhad-deliberately,of fupiter course-chosenthe bestpossibleexample. . . Wasit alreadyten yearsago?Yes,it musthavebeen.The crashlayseven yearsin the past(thatdatewasengraved on his heart),andthoseinitial tests had takenplacethreeyearsbeforethe first and last flight of the Queen Elizabeth. Tenyearsago,then,Commander (no, Lieutenant) Falconhad invited him to a preview-a three-day drift acrossthe northernplainsof India, withinsightof theHimalayas. "Perfectly safe,"hehadpromised. "lt will get you awayfrom the office-and will teachyou what this wholething is about." Websterhad not been disappointed.Next to his first journeyto the Moon, it hadbeenthe mostmemorable experience of his life. And yet,as Falconhadassured him, it hadbeenperfectlysafe,andquiteuneventful. Theyhadtakenofffrom Srinagarjustbeforedawn,with thehugesilver bubbleof theballoonalreadycatchingthefirstlight of the Sun.The ascent had beenmadein total silence;therewerenoneof the roaringpropane burnersthat had lifted the hot-airballoonsof an earlierage.Ail ihe heat theyneededcamefromthelittlepulsed-fusion reactor,weighingonlyabout two hundredand twenty pounds,hangingin the open mouth of the envelope.While they wereclimbing,its laserwaszappingten timesa second,ignitingthemerestwhiffof deuteriumfuel. Oncetheyhadreached altitude,it wouldfireonlya fewtimesa minute,makingup for theheatlost throughthe greatgasbagoverhead. And so,evenwhiletheywerealmosta mile abovetheground,theycould heardogsbarking,peopleshouting,bellsringing.Slowlythe vast,Sunsmittenlandscape expanded aroundthem.Twohourslater,theyhadleveled out at threemilesandweretakingfrequentdraughts of oxygen.Theycould relaxandadmirethe scenery; the on-boardinstrumentation wasdoingall the work-gatheringthe informationthat would be requiredby the designersof the still-unnamedliner of the skies. It wasa perfectday.The southwest monsoonwouldnotbreakfor another month,andtherewashardlya cloudin thesky.Time seemed to havecome to a stop;they resented the hourly radioreportswhich interruptedtheir

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reverie.And all around,to the horizonandfar beyond,wasthat infinite, of villages,fields, with history-a patchwork drenched ancientlandscape, temples,lakes,irrigationcanals. . With a realeffort,Websterbrokethe hypnoticspellof that ten-year-old flight-and it hadmade him to lighter-than-air memory.It hadconverted thatcouldbecircled in a world sizeof India,even him realizetheenormous to himself,|upiteris to Earth within ninetyminutes.And yet,he repeated asEarth is to India . ,,Granted the fundsareavailyourargument,"he said,"andsupposing Why shouldyoudo better anotherquestionyouhaveto answer. able,there's robotprobesthathave thanthe-what is it-three hundredandtwenty-six alreadymadethe triP?" and asa pilot' "l am betterqualifiedthan theywere-as an observer, lighter-than-air of asa pilot. Don't forget-I've moreexperience Especially world." the in anyone flight than ;You could still serveascontroller,and sit safelyon Ganymede." "But thatbiustthe point!They'vealreadydonethat. Don't you remember what killed the QueenT" "Go on." Websterknewperfectlywell; but he merelyanswered: "Timelog-time lagl That idiot of a platformcontrollerthoughthe was througha switched usinga localradiocircuit.But he'dbeenaccidentally sateliite-oh,maybeit wasn'thisfault,but heshouldhavenoticed.That'sa timelagfor theroundtrip. Eventhenit wouldn'thavemattered half-second flyingin calmair. It wastheturbulenceovertheGrandCanyonthatdid it. for that- it hadalreadytipped Wh; thepladormtipped,andhecorrected roadwith a half-second bumpy a over a car theotherway.Evertriedto drive delayin the steering?" "No, and I don't intendto try. But I can imagineit." "Well, Ganymedeis a million kilometersfrom fupiter.That meansa No, youneeda controlleron the spot-to round-tripdelayof sixseconds. Mind if I use Let meshowyousomething. real time. in handleemergencies this?" " "Go ahead. desk;theywere picked up a postcardthat waslying on Webster's Falcon on Earth, but this one showeda 3-D viewof a Martian almostobsolete stamps.He heldit with exoticandexpensive andwasdecorated landscape, vertically. dangled so that it "This is an oldtrick,but helpsto makemy point.Placeyourthumband fingeron eitherside,not quitetouching.That'sright." Websterput out his hand,almostbut not quitegrippingthe card. "Now catchit. "

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Falconwaitedfor a fewseconds; then,withoutwarning,he let go of the card.Webster's thumb and fingerclosedon emptyair. "l'll do it again,justto showthere's you see?" no deception. once again,the falling cardhad slippedthroughWebster,s fingers. "Now you try it on me." This time, Webster grasped the cardanddroppedit withoutwarning.It hadscarcelymovedbeforeFalconhadcaughtit. Webster almostimagined he could heara click, so swiftwasthe other'sreaction. "When theyput me togetheragain,"Falconremarkedin an expression_ lessvoice,"thesurgeons madesomeimprovements. This is oneoithemandthereareothers.I wantto makethe mostof them.fupiteris the place whereI can do it." Webster staredfor longseconds at thefallencard,absorbing the improbablecolorsof theTiivium CharontisEscarpment. Then he saidquietiy:"l understand. How long do you think it will take?" "With yourhelp,plustheBureau,plusall thescience foundationwecan dragin-oh, threeyears. Then ayearfortrials-we'll haveto sendin atleast two testmodels.So, with luck-five years." "That'saboutwhatI thought.I hopeyougetyourluck;you'veearnedit. But there'sone thing I won't do." "What'sthat?" "Next time you go ballooning,don't expectmeaspassenger."

3. TheWorldol theGods The fall from JupiterV to Jupiteritselftakesonly threeand a half hours.Few men could haveslepton so awesomea journey. Sleepwasa weaknessthat Howard Falcon hated, and the little he still required brought dreamsthat time had not yet been able to exorcise.But he could expectno rest in the threedaysthat lay ahead,and must seizewhat he could during the long fall down into that ocean of clouds, some sixty thousandmiles belo*. As soon as Kon-Tikf had enteredher transferorbit and all the computer checksweresatisfactory, he preparedfor the lastsleephe might everknow.It seemedappropriatethat at almost the same moment |upiter eclipsedthe brightand tiny Sun ashe sweptinto the monstrousshadowofthe planet. For a few minutesa strangegoldentrvilight envelopedthe ship;then a quarterof the sky becamean utterly black hole in space,while the restwasa blaze of stars.No matter how far one traveledacrossthe solar system, they never changed;thesesameconstellationsnow shoneon Earth, millions of miles away.The only noveltiesherewerethe small, pale crescentsof Callisto and

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doubtless therewerea dozenothermoonsup therein the sky, Ganymede; but theywereall muchtoo tiny,andtoo distant,for theunaidedeyeto pick them out. "Closingdownfor two hours,"he reportedto the mothership,hanging almosta thousandmiles abovethe desolaterocksof Jupiter! in the radiationshadowof the tiny satellite.If it neverservedany otheruseful purpose,fupiter V wasa cosmicbulldozerperpetuallysweepingup the chargedparticlesthat madeit unhealthyto lingercloseto Jupiter.Its wake wasalmostfreeof radiation,andtherea shipcouldparkin perfectsafety, while deathsleetedinvisiblyall around. fadedswiftlyout Falconswitchedon thesleepinducer,andconsciousness asthe electricpulsessurgedgentlythroughhis brain.While Kon-Tikifell towardfupiter,gainingspeedsecondby secondin that enormousgravitaand Theyalwayscamewhenheawoke; tionalfield,hesleptwithoutdreams. with him from Earth. he had broughthis nightmares Yethe neverdreamedof the crashitself,thoughhe oftenfound himself thespiral ashedescended againfaceto facewith thatterrifiedsuperchimp, Noneof the simpshad survived; stairwaybetweenthe collapsinggasbags. thosethatwerenotkilledoutrightweresobadlyinjuredthattheyhadbeen "euthed."He sometimes why he dreamed only of this wondered painlessly doomedcreature-which he had nevermet beforethe lastminutesof its he had lost aboardthe dying life-and not of the friendsand colleagues Queen. The dreamshe fearedmostalwaysbeganwith his first return to conTherehad beenlittle physicalpain;in fact,therehad beenno sciousness. and silence,and did not even of anykind. He wasin darkness sensation And-strangestof all-he couldnotlocatehislimbs. seemto bebreathing. he did not know He could moveneitherhis handsnor his feet, because wherethey were. The silencehad beenthe first to yield. After hours,or days,he had afterlong thought,he becomeawareof a faint throbbing,andeventually, deducedthatthiswasthebeatingof his own heart.That wasthe firstof his manymistakes. of light, ghostsof pressures Thentherehadbeenfaintpinpricks,sparkles had returned,and limbs.One by one his senses upon still-unresponsive pain had come with them. He had had to learn everythinganew recapitulatinginfancyandbabyhood.Thoughhis memorywasunaffected, and he could understand wordsthat werespokento him, it wasmonths beforehe wasableto answerexceptby the flickerof an eyelid.He could rememberthe momentsof triumph when he had spokenthe first word, turnedthe pageof a book-and, finally,learnedto moveunderhis own

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power.That wasa victory indeed,and it had takenhim almosttwo yearsto preparefor it. A hundredtimeshe had enviedthat deadsuperchimp,but he had beengivenno choice.The doctorshad madetheir decision-and now, twelveyearslater, he waswhereno human being had evertraveledbefore, and moving fasterthan any man in history. Kon-Tiki was just emergingfrom shadow,and the Joviandawn bridged the skyaheadin a titanic bow of light, when the persistent buzz of the alarm draggedFalcon up from sleep.The inevitablenightmares(he had been trying to summon a nurse, but did not even havethe strengthto push the button)swiftlyfadedfrom consciousness. The greatest-andperhapslastadventureof his life wasbeforehim. He called Mission Control, now almostsixty thousandmiles awayand falling swiftly below the curve of fupiter, to report that everythingwas in order.His velocityhad just passedthirty-onemiles a second(that wasone for the books)andin half an hour Kon-Tikiwouldhit the outerfringesof the atmosphere,as he startedon the most difficult re-entryin the entire solar system.Although scoresof probeshad survivedthis flaming ordeal, they had been tough, solidly packedmassesof instrumentation,able to withstandseveralhundred gravitiesof drag. Kon-Tiki would hit peaksof thirty g's,and would averagemore than ten, beforeshecame to restin the upper reachesof the Jovian atmosphere.Very carefully and thoroughly, Falcon beganto attachthe elaboratesystemof restraintsthat would anchor him to the wallsof the cabin. When he had finished,he wasvirtually a part of the ship'sstructure. The clock wascounting backward;one hundred secondsto re-entry.For betteror worse,he wascommitted. In a minute and a half, he would graze the fovian atmosphere,and would be caught irrevocablyin the grip of the giant. The countdownwasthree secondslate-not at all bad, consideringthe unknowns involved. From beyondthe walls of the capsulecame a ghostly sighing,which rosesteadilyto a high-pitched,screamingroar. The noise wasquite differentfrom that of a re-entryon Earth or Mars; in this thin atmosphere of hydrogenand helium, all soundsweretransformeda couple of octavesupward. On Jupiter,eventhunder would havefalsettoovertones. With the rising screamcame mounting weight;within seconds,he was completelyimmobilized. His field of vision contracteduntil it embraced only the clock and the accelerometer; fifteen g, and four hundredand eighty secondsto go . . . He neverlost consciousness; but then, he had not expectedto. Kon-Tiki's trail through the fovian atmospheremust be really spectacular-by this time, thousandsof miles long. Five hundred secondsafter entry, the drag

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. Then weightvanishedalmost began to taper off: ten g, five g, two completely.He wasfalling free, all his enormousorbital velocity destroyed. There wasa suddenjolt asthe incandescentremnantsof the heat shield wereiettisoned.It had done its work and would not be neededagain;fupiter could have it now. He releasedall but two of the restrainingbuckles,and waitedfor the automaticsequencerto startthe next, and mostcritical, series of events. He did not seethe first drogueparachutepop out, but he could feel the slight jerk, and the rateof fall diminished immediately.Kon-Tikihad lost all her horizontalspeedand wasgoing straightdown at almosta thousandmiles an hour. Everythingdependedon what happenedin the next sixty seconds. There went the second drogue. He looked up through the overhead window and saw,to his immense relief, that clouds of glittering foil were billowing out behind the falling ship. Like a great flower unfurling, the thousandsof cubic yardsof the balloon spreadout acrossthe sky,scooping up the thin gasuntil it wasfully inflated. Kon-Tiki'srateof fall droppedto a few miles an hour and remainedconstant.Now therewasplenty of time; it would take him daysto fall all the way down to the surfaceof |upiter. But he would get there eventually,even if he did nothing about it. The balloon overheadwasmerelyactingasan efficientparachute.It wasproviding no lift; nor could it do so, while the gasinside and out wasthe same. With its characteristicand ratherdisconcertingcrack the fusion reactor startedup, pouring torrentsof heat into the envelopeoverhead.Within five minutes, the rateof fall had becomezero;within six, the ship had startedto rise. According to the radar altimeter, it had leveled out at about two hundred and sixty-sevenmiles abovethe surface-or whateverpassedfor a surfaceon fupiter. Only one kind of balloon will work in an atmosphereof hydrogen,which -and that is a hot-hydrogenballoon. As long asthe is the lightestof all gases fuser kept ticking over, Falcon could remain aloft, drifting acrossa world that could hold a hundred Pacifics.After traveling over three hundred million miles, Kon-Tiki had at last begun to justify her name. Shewasan aerial raft, adrift upon the currents of the |ovian atmosphere.

Though a wholenew world waslying around him, it wasmorethan an hour beforeFalconcould examinethe view.First he had to checkall the capsule's systemsand testits responseto the controls.He had to learn how much extra heatwasnecessary to producea desiredrateof ascent,and how much gashe must vent in orderto descend.Aboveall, therewasthe questionof stability. He must adjust the length of the cablesattachinghis capsuleto the huge,

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pear-shaped balloon, to damp out vibrationsand get the smoothestpossible ride. Thus far, he was lucky; at this level, the wind was steady,and the Doppler reading on the invisible surfacegavehim a ground speedof two hundred seventeenand a half miles an hour. For fupiter, that wasmodest; winds of up to a thousand had been observed.But mere speedwas, of course,unimportant;the real dangerwasturbulence.If he ran into that, only skill andexperience and swift reactioncould savehim -and thesewere not mattersthat could yet be programedinto a computer. Not until he wassatisfiedthat he had got the feel of his strangecraft did Falcon pay any attentionto Mission Control'spleadings.Then he deployed the boomscarrying the instrumentationand the atmosphericsamplers.The capsulenow resembleda rather untidy Christmas tree, but still rode smoothlydown the fovian windswhile it radioedits torrentsof information to the recorderson the ship miles above. And now, at last, he could look around . His first impressionwasunexpected,and evena little disappointing.As far asthe scaleof thingswasconcerned,he might havebeenballooningover an ordinary cloudscapeon Earth. The horizon seemedat a normal distance;there was no feeling at all that he was on a world eleventimes the diameter of his own. Then he looked at the infrared radar, sounding the layersof atmosphere beneathhim-and knewhow badly his eyeshad been deceived. That layer of clouds apparentlyabout three miles awaywas really more than thirty-sevenmiles below.And the horizon, whosedistancehe would haveguessedat about one hundred and twenty-five,wasactually eighteen hundred miles from the ship. The crystallineclarity of the hydrohelium atmosphereand the enormous curvature of the planet had fooled him completely.It was even harder to iudge distanceshere than on the Moon; everythinghe sawmust be multiplied by at leastten. It was a simple matter, and he should have been preparedfor it. Yet somehow,it disturbed him profoundly. He did not feel that Jupiter was huge, but that hehadshrunk-to a tenth of his normal size.Perhaps,with time, he would grow accustomed to the inhuman scaleof this world; yet as he staredtowardthat unbelievablydistanthorizon,he felt asif a wind colder than the atmosphere aroundhim wasblowing through his soul. Despiteall his arguments,this might neverbe a placefor man. He could well be both the first and the last to descendthrough the clouds of fupiter. The skyabovewasalmostblack, exceptfor a few wispsof ammonia cirrus perhapstwelvemiles overhead.It wascold up there, on the fringesof space, butboth pressure andtemperatureincreased rapidlywith depth.Atthe level

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whereKon-Tikiwasdrifting noq it wasfifty below zero,andthe pressure Sixty-fivemilesfartherdown,it wouldbe aswarmas wasfiveatmospheres. aboutthesameasat thebottomof oneof equatorialEarth,andthepressure the shallowerseas.Idealconditionsfor life . . . A quarterof thebrieffoviandayhadalreadygone;thesunwashalfivayup belowhad a curious the sky,but the light on the unbrokencloudscape mellowquality.Thatextrathreehundredmillion mileshadrobbedtheSun of all itspower.Thoughtheskywasclear,Falconfoundhimselfcontinually day.When night fell, the onsetof thinkingthat it wasa heavilyovercast would be swift indeed;thoughit wasstill morning,therewasa darkness senseof autumnaltrvilightin the air. But autumn,of course,wassomehere. thing that nevercameto fupiter.Therewereno seasons Kon-Tikihadcomedownin theexactcenterof theequatorialzone-the out to the leastcolorfulpartof the planet.The seaof cloudsthat stretched horizonwastinteda palesalmon;therewerenoneof theyellowsandpinks andevenredsthat bandedfupiterat higheraltitudes.The GreatRedSpot of of all of the planet'sfeatures-laythousands itself-most spectacular there,but thesouth milesto thesouth.It hadbeena temptationto descend wasunusuallyactive,with currentsreachingovernine tropicaldisturbance hundredmilesan hour.It wouldhavebeenaskingfor troubleto headinto that maelstromof unknownforces.The GreatRedSpotand its mysteries would haveto wait for future expeditions. The Sun, movingacrossthe skytwiceasswiftlyasit did on Earth, was nownearingthezenithandhadbecomeeclipsedby thegreatsilvercanopy at a still driftingswiftlyandsmoothlywestward of theballoon.Kon-Tikiwas anda half, but only the radargaveany steadytwo hundredandseventeen indicationof this. Wasit alwaysascalm here?Falconaskedhimself.The who had talkedlearnedlyof the foviandoldrums,and had prescientists dictedthat the equatorwouldbe the quietestplace,seemedto knowwhat theyweretalkingabout,afterall. He had beenprofoundlyskepticalof all who andhad agreedwith oneunusuallymodestresearcher suchforecasts, "There would there areno expertson |upiter."Well, hadtold him bluntly: be at leastone by the end of this day. If he managedto surviveuntil then. 4. TheUoices ol thel|eep That firstday,the Fatherof the Godssmiledupon him. Itwas ascalm and peacefulhereon fupiter asit had been, yearsago, when he wasdrifting with Websteracrossthe plains of northern India. Falcon had time to masterhis

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new skills, until Kon-Tiki seemedan extensionof his own body. Such luck wasmore than he had daredto hopefor, and he beganto wonderwhat price he might have to pay for it. The five hoursof daylight werealmostover;the cloudsbelow werefull of shadows,which gavethem a massivesolidity they had not possessed when the Sun washigher. Color wasswiftly draining from the sky,exceptin the westitself, wherea band of deepeningpurple lay along the horizon. Above this band wasthe thin crescentof a closermoon, pale and bleachedagainst the utter blacknessbeyond. With a speedperceptibleto the eye, the Sun went straightdown overthe edgeof fupiter, over eighteenhundred miles away.The starscame out in their legions-and therewasthe beautiful eveningstarof Earth, on the very frontier to twilight, reminding him how far he wasfrom home. It followed the Sun down into the west. Man's first night on Jupiter had begun. With the onsetof darkness,Kon-Tifristartedto sink. The balloon wasno longer heated by the feeble sunlight and was losing a small part of its buoyancy.Falcondid nothing to increaselift; he had expectedthis and was planning to descend. The invisible cloud deck wasstill over thirty miles below,and he would reachit about midnight. It showedr'tpclearly on the infrared radar,which alsoreportedthat it containeda vastarruyof complexcarboncompounds,as well as the usual hydrogen, helium, and ammonia. The chemistswere dying for samplesof that fuffy, pinkish stuff; though some atinospheric probes had already gathereda few grams, they had only whetted their appetites.Halfthe basicmoleculesof life werehere, floating high abovethe surfaceof Jupiter.And where there wasfood, could life be far away?That wasthe questionthat, after more than a hundred years,no one had been able to answer. The infrared wasblockedby the clouds, but the microwaveradarsliced right through and showedlayerafter layer,all the way down to the hidden surfacealmosttwo hundredand fifty milesbelow.That wasbarredto him by enormous pressuresand temperatures;not even robot probes had ever reachedit intact. It lay in tantalizing inaccessibilityat the bottom of the radar screen,slightly fuzzy, and showinga curious granular structurethat his equipmentcould not resolve. An hour after sunset,he dropped his first probe. It fell swiftly for about sixty miles, then began to foat in the denseratmosphere,sending back torrentsof radio signals,which he relayedto Mission Control. Then there was nothing elseto do until sunrise, exceptto keep an eye on the rate of descent,monitor the instruments, and answeroccasionalqueries.While she was drifting in this steadycurrent, Kon-Tiki could look after herself.

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]ust beforemidnight, a woman controllercameon watch and introduced Ten minuteslater shecalledagain, her herselfwith the usualpleasantries. voice at once seriousand excited. "Howard! Listen in on channel forty-six-high gain." Channel forty-six?There were so many telemeteringcircuits that he knew the numbersof only thosethat werecritical; but as soon as he threw the switch, he recognizedthis one. He waspluggedin to the microphoneon the probe,floating morethan eighty miles below him in an atmospherenow almost as denseas water. At first, therewasonly a soft hissof whateverstrangewinds stirreddown in the darknessof that unimaginable world. And then, out of the background noise, there slowly emergeda booming vibration that grew louder and louder,like the beatingof a giganticdrum. It wasso low that it wasfelt asmuch asheard, and the beatssteadilyincreasedtheir tempo, though the pitch never changed. Now it was a swift, almost infrasonic throbbing. Then, suddenly,in mid-vibration, it stopped-so abruptly that the mind could not accept the silence, but memory continued to manufacture a ghostly echo in the deepestcavernsof the brain. It was the most extraordinarysound that Falcon had ever heard, even among the multitudinous noisesof Earth. He could think of no natural phenomenonthat could havecausedit; nor wasit like the cry of any animal, not even one of the great whales . . . It came again, following exactly the same pattern. Now that he was from first faint throb preparedfor it, he estimatedthe length of the sequence; to final crescendo,it lasted just over ten seconds. And this time there wasa real echo, very faint and far away.Perhapsit came from one of the many reflecting layers, deeper in this stratified perhapsit wasanother,moredistantsource.Falconwaitedfor a atmosphere; secondecho, but it never came. Mission Control reactedquickly and askedhim to drop anotherprobe at once. With two microphonesoperating, it would be possibleto find the approximatelocation of the sources.Oddly enough, none of.Kon-Tiki'sown external mikes could detect anything exceptwind noises.The boomings, whateverthey were, must have been trapped and channeledbeneath an atmosphericreflecting layer far below. They were coming, it was soon discovered,from a clusterof sources about twelvehundred miles away.The distancegaveno indication of their power;in Earth'soceans,quite feeblesoundscould travelequallyfar. And as for the obviousassumptionthat living creatureswereresponsible,the Chief Exobiologistquickly ruled that out. "I'll be very disappointed,"said Dr. Brenner,"if there are no micro-

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organismsor plantshere. But nothing like animals, becausethere'sno free oxygen. All biochemical reactionson fupiter must be low-energyonesthere'sjust no way an active creature could generateenough power to function." Falconwonderedif this wastrue; he had heardthe argumentbefore,and reservedjudgment. "In any case,"continued Brenner,"some of those sound wavesare a hundred yardslong! Even an animal as big as a whale couldn't produce them. They must have a natural origin." Yes,that seemedplausible,and probablythe physicistswould be able to come up with an explanation.What would a blind alien make, Falcon wondered,of the soundshe might hearwhen standingbesidea stormysea, or a geyser,or a volcano, or a waterfall?He might well attribute them to some huge beast. About an hour beforesunrisethe voicesof the deepdied away,and Falcon beganto busyhimself with preparationfor the dawn of his secondday.KonTifti was now only three miles abovethe nearestcloud layer;the external pressurehad risen to ten atmospheres,and the temperaturewasa tropical thirty degrees.A man could be comfortablehere with no more equipment than a breathingmaskand the right gradeof heliox mixture. "We've somegood newsfor you," Mission Control reported,soon after dawn. "The cloud layer'sbreakingup. You'll have partial clearing in an hour-but watch out for turbulence." "I've alreadynoticedsome,"Falconanswered."How far down will I be able to see?" 'At leasttwelvemiles, down to the secondthermocline. That cloud deck is solid-it neverbreaks." And it'sout of my reach,Falcontold himself;the temperaturedown there must be over a hundred degrees.This wasthe first time that any balloonist had ever had to worry, not about his ceiling, but about his basement! Ten minutes later he could see what Mission Control had already observedfrom its superiorvantagepoint. There wasa changein color near the horizon, and the cloud layer had become raggedand humpy, as if somethinghad torn it open. He turned up his little nuclearfurnaceand gave Kon-Tiki anotherthree miles of altitude, so that he could get a betterview. The sky below was clearing rapidly, completely, as if something was dissolvingthe solid overcast.An abysswas opening before his eyes.A moment later he sailedout over the edgeof a cloud canyon about twelve miles deep and six hundred miles wide. A new world lay spreadbeneathhim; fupiter had strippedawayone of its many veils. The secondlayerof clouds, unattainablyfar below,wasmuch

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darkerin color than the first. It was almost salmon pink, and curiously mottled with little islandsof brick red. They wereall oval-shaped,with their Iong axespointing east-west, in the directionof the prevailingwind. There werehundredsof them, all aboutthe samesize, and they remindedFalcon of puffy little cumulus clouds in the terrestrialsky. He reducedbuoyancy,and Kon-Tiki began to drop down the face of the dissolvingcliff. It was then that he noticed the snow. White flakeswereforming in the air and drifting slowly downward.Yetit wasmuch too warm for snow-and, in any event,therewasscarcelya trace of wateratthis altitude. Moreover,therewasno glitter or sparkleaboutthese flakesasthey went cascadingdown into the depths.When, presently,a few landed on an instrument boom outsidethe main viewing port, he sawthat they werea dull, opaquewhite-not crystallineat all-and quite largeseveralinchesacross.They lookedlike wax, and Falconguessed that this was preciselywhat they were. Some chemical reactionwastaking place in the atmospherearound him, condensingout the hydrocarbonsfloating in the Jovian air. About sixty miles ahead, a disturbancewas taking place in the cloud layer.The little red ovalswerebeing jostledaround, and werebeginning to form a spiral-the familiar cyclonic patternsocommon in the meteorology of Earth. The vortex was emerging with astonishingspeed;if that was a storm ahead, Falcon told himself, he was in big trouble. And then his concern changed to wonder-and to fear. What was developing in his line of fight was not a storm at all. Something enormous-something scoresof miles across-was rising through the clouds. The reassuringthought that it, too, might be a cloud-a thunderhead boiling up from the lower levels of the atmosphere-lasted only a few seconds.No; this was so/id. It shoulderedits way through the pink-andsalmon overcastlike an iceberg rising from the deeps. An icebergfloating on hydrogen?That was impossible,of course;but perhaps it was not too remote an analogy. As soon as he focused the telescopeupon the enigma, Falcon saw that it was a whitish, crystalline mass,threadedwith streaksof red and brown. It must be, he decided, the samestuff as the "snowflakes"falling around him-a mountain range of wax. And it wasnot, he soonrealized,assolid ashe had thought;aroundthe edgesit was continually crumbling and reforming . . . "l know what it is," he radioedMission Control, which for the last few minuteshad been askinganxiousquestions."lt's a massof bubbles-some kind of foam. Hydrocarbonfroth. Get the chemistsworking on . . lust a minute!" "What is it?" called Mission Control. "What is it?"

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He ignoredthe franticpleasfrom spaceand concentrated all his mind upon the imagein the telescope field. He had to be sure;if he madea mistake,he would be the laughingstock of the solarsystem. Thenhe relaxed,glancedattheclock,andswitchedoffthenaggingvoice from fupiterV "Hello,MissionControl," hesaid,veryformally."ThisisHowardFalcon aboardKon-Tiki.EphemerisTime nineteenhourstwenty-oneminutes fifteenseconds. Latitudezerodegrees five minutesNorth. Longitudeone hundredfive degrees forty-twominutes,SystemOne. "Tell Dr. Brennerthat thereis life on fupiter.And it\ big.

"I'm very htppy to be provedwrong," Dr. Brennerradioedbackcheerfully. "Nature alwayshassomethingup her sleeve.Keepthe long-focuscameraon target and give us the steadiestpictures you can." The things moving up and down thosewaxenslopeswerestill too far away for Falconto makeout many details,and they must havebeenvery largeto be visible at all at such a distance.Almost black, and shapedlike arrowheads,they maneuveredby slow undulationsof their entire bodies,so that they looked rather like giant manta rays, swimming above some tropical reef. Perhapsthey were sky-bornecattle, browsing on the cloud pasturesof fupiter, for they seemedto be feedingalong the dark, red-brownstreaksthat ran like dried-upriver bedsdown the fanks of the foating cliffs. Occasionally, one of them would dive headlong into the mountain of foam and disappearcompletely from sight. Kon-Tiki wasmoving only slowly with respectto the cloud layerbelow;it would be at leastthreehoursbeforeshewasabovethoseephemeralhills. She wasin a racewith the Sun. Falconhopedthat darknesswould not fall before he could get a goodview ofthe mantas,ashe had christenedthem, aswell as the fragile landscapeover which they flapped their way. It was a long three hours. During the whole time, he kept the external microphoneson full gain, wonderingifhere wasthe sourceof thatbooming in the night. The mantaswerecertainly largeenough to haveproducedit; when he could get an accuratemeasurement,he discoveredthat they were almosta hundred yardsacrossthe wings.That wasthree times the length of the largestwhale-though he doubted if they could weigh more than a few tons. Half an hour beforesunset,Kon-Tiki wasalmostabovethe "mountains."

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"No," saidFalcon, answeringMission Control'srepeatedquestionsabout the mantas,"they're still showing no reactionto me. I don't think they're intelligent-they look like harmlessvegetarians.And even if they try to chaseme, I'm sure they can't reachmy altitude." Yethe wasa little disappointedwhen the mantasshowednot the slightest interestin him as he sailedhigh abovetheir feeding ground. Perhapsthey had no way of detecting his presence.When he examined and photographedthem through the telescope,he could seeno signsof any sense organs.The creaturesweresimply huge blackdeltas,rippling overhills and valleysthat, in reality,werelittle more substantialthan the cloudsof Earth. Though they looked solid, Falcon knew that anyonewho steppedon those white mountains would go crashingthrough them as if they were made of tissuepaper. At close quartershe could seethe myriads of cellules or bubblesfrom which they were formed. Some of thesewere quite large-a yard or so in diameter-and Falcon wonderedin what witches' cauldron of hydrocarbons they had been brewed.There must be enough petrochemicalsdeep down in the atmosphereof Jupiterto supply all Earth'sneedsfor a million years. The shortdayhad almostgonewhen he passedoverthe crestof the waxen hills, and the light wasfading rapidly along their lower slopes.There were no mantason this westernside,and for somereasonthe topographywasvery different.The foam wassculpturedinto long, levelterraces,like the interior of a lunar crater. He could almost imagine that they were gigantic steps leading down to the hidden surfaceof the planet. And on the lowestof thosesteps,just clearof the swirling cloudsthat the mountain had displacedwhen it came surgingskyward,wasa roughly oval mass,one or two miles across.It wasdifficult to see,sinceit wasonly a little darkerthan the gray-whitefoam on which it rested.Falcon'sfirst thought wasthat he waslooking at a forestof pallid trees,like giant mushroomsthat had never seenthe Sun. Yes,it mustbe a forest-he could seehundredsof thin trunks, springing from the white waxy froth in which they were rooted. But the treeswere packedastonishinglyclosetogether;there wasscarcelyany spacebetween them. Perhapsit wasnot a forest,after all, but a singleenormoustree-like one of the giant multi-trunked banyansof the East. Once he had seena banyan tree in fava that was over six hundred and fifty yards across;this monsterwas at leastten times that size. The light had almost gone. The cloudscapehad turned purple with refractedsunlight, and in a few secondsthat, too, would havevanished.In the last light of his secondday on fupiter, Howard Falcon saw-or thought

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of the he saw-somethingthatcastthegravest doubtson his interpretation white oval. him, thosehundredsof thin Unlessthe dim light had totallydeceived like frondsof trunkswerebeatingbackandforth, in perfectsynchronism, kelp rockingin the surge. And the treewasno longerin the placewherehe had first seenit.

"Sorry about this," saidMission Control, soonaftersunset,"but we think Source Beta is going to blow within the next hour. Probability seventy percent." Falconglancedquickly at the chart. Beta-Jupiter latitudeone hundred and forty degrees-wasovereighteenthousandsix hundred miles awayand well below his horizon. Even though major eruptions ran as high as ten megatons,he was much too far away for the shock wave to be a serious danger.The radio storm that it would triggerwas,however,quite a different matter. The decameteroutburststhat sometimesmadefupiter the mostpowerful radiosourcein the wholeskyhad beendiscovered backin the 1950s,to the utter astonishmentof the astronomers. Now, morethan a century later,their real causewas still a mystery.Only the symptomswere understood;the explanationwas completely unknown. The "volcano" theory had best stood the test of time, although no one imaginedthat this word had the samemeaningon Jupiterason Earth. At frequentintervals-often severaltimesa day-titanic eruptionsoccurredin the lower depthsof the atmosphere,probablyon the hidden surfaceof the planet itself. A greatcolumn of gas, more than six hundred miles high, would start boiling upward as if determinedto escapeinto space. Againstthe most powerful gravitationalfield of all the planets,it had no chance.Yet sometraces-a mere few million tons-usually managedto reach the fovian ionosphere;and when they did, all hell broke loose. The radiationbelts surrounding|upiter completelydwarf the feebleVan Allen belts of Earth. When they are short-circuitedby an ascending column of gas,the resultis an electricaldischargemillions of times more powerful than any terrestrialfash of lightning; it sendsa colossalthunderclapof radionoisefloodingacrossthe entire solarsystemand on out to the stars. It had been discoveredthat theseradio outburstscame from four main areasof the planet. Perhapsthere were weaknesses there that allowed the fires of the interior to break out from time to time. The scientistson Ganymede, largestof fupiter'smany moons, now thought that they could

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predictthe onsetof a decameterstorm;their accuracywasabout asgood asa weatherforecaster's of the early 1900s. Falcondid not know whetherto welcomeor to feara radiostorm;it would certainlyadd to the valueof the mission-if he survivedit. His coursehad beenplannedto keepasfar aspossiblefrom the main centersofdisturbance, especiallythe most active one, Source Alpha. As luck would have it, the threateningBetawasthe closestto him. He hopedthat the distance,almost three-fourthsthe circumferenceof Earth, was safeenough. "Probabilityninety percent,"saidMissionControl with a distinctnoteof 'And urgency. forget that hour. Ganymede saysit may be any moment." The radio had scarcelyfallen silentwhen the readingon the magnetic field-strengthmeter startedto shootupward. Beforeit could go offscale, it reversedand beganto drop asrapidly asit had risen. Farawayand thousands of miles below,somethinghad given the planet'smolten core a titanic jolt. "There she blows!" called Mission Control. "Thanks, I alreadyknow. When will the storm hit me?" "You can expectonset in five minutes. Peakin ten." Far around the curve of Jupiter, a funnel of gasas wide as the Pacific Ocean wasclimbing spacewardat thousandsof miles an hour. Already the thunderstormsof the lower atmospherewould be raging around it-but they were nothing comparedwith the fury that would explodewhen the radiationbelt wasreachedand begandumping its surpluselectronsonto the planet. Falconbeganto retractall the instrumentboomsthat wereextended out from the capsule.There were no other precautionshe could take. It would be four hours beforethe atmosphericshockwavereachedhim-but the radio blast, travelingat the speedof light, would be here in a tenth of a second,once the dischargehad been triggered. The radio monitor, scanningback and forth acrossthe spectrum,still showednothing unusual, just the normal mush of backgroundstatic.Then Falcon noticed that the noise level was slowly creeping upward. The explosionwas gatheringits strength. At sucha distancehe had neverexpectedto seeanything. But suddenlya flickerasof far-offheatlightning dancedalongthe easternhorizon. Simuljumped out of the main switchboard,the taneously,half the circuit breakers lights failed, and all communicationschannelswent dead. He tried to move, but wascompletelyunable to do so. The paralysisthat grippedhim wasnot merelypsychological;he seemedto havelost all control of his limbs and could feel a painful tingling sensationoverhis entirebody. It wasimpossiblethat the electric field could havepenetratedthis shielded cabin. Yet there was a flickering glow over the instrument board, and he could hear the unmistakablecrackleof a brush discharge.

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With a seriesof sharpbangs,the emergencysystemswent into operation, and the overloadsreset themselves.The lights fickered on again. And Falcon'sparalysisdisappearedas swiftly as it had come. After glancing at the board to make sure that all circuits were back to normal, he moved quickly to the viewing ports. There was no need to switch on the inspection lamps-the cables supportingthe capsuleseemedto be on fire. Lines of light glowing an electricblue againstthe darknessstretchedupwardfrom the main lift ring to the equatorof the giant balloon; and rolling slowly along severalof them were dazzling balls of fire. The sight was so strangeand so beautiful that it was hard to read any menacein it. Few people, Falcon knew,had everseenball lightning from suchclosequarters-and certainlynone had survivedif they wereriding a hydrogen-filledballoon back in the atmosphereof Earth. He remembered the flaming death of the Hindenburg, destroyedby a straysparkwhen she docked at Lakehurst in 1937; as it had done so often in the past, the horrifying old newsreelfilm flashedthrough his mind. But at leastthat could not happen here, though there was more hydrogen abovehis head than had everfilled the lastof the Zeppelins.It would be a few billion years yet, before anyone could light a fire in the atmosphereof Jupiter. With a soundlike briskly frying bacon, the speechcircuit came back to life. "Hello, Kon-Tiki-are you receiving?Are you receiving?" The wordswerechoppedand badly distorted,but intelligible. Falcon's spirits lifted; he had resumedcontact with the world of men. "I receiveyou," he said."Quite an electricaldisplay,but no damage-so far." "Thanks-thought we'd lost you. Pleasechecktelemetrychannelsthree, seven,twenty-six.Also gain on cameratwo. And we don't quite believethe readingson the external ionization probes. . ." Reluctantly Falcon tore his gazeawayfrom the fascinatingpyrotechnic displayaround Kon-Tiki, though from time to time he kept glancingout of the windows. The ball lightning disappearedfirst, the fiery globesslowly expandinguntil they reacheda critical size, at which they vanishedin a gentleexplosion.But evenan hour later, therewerestill faint glowsaround all the exposedmetal on the outsideof the capsule;and the radio circuits remainednoisy until well after midnight. The remaininghoursof darkness werecompletelyuneventful-until just beforedawn. Becauseit came from the east,Falcon assumedthat he was seeingthe first faint hint of sunrise. Then he realized that it was twenty minutes too early for this-and the glow that had appearedalong the

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horizon was moving toward him even as he watched. It swiftly detached itself from the arch of starsthat markedthe invisibleedgeof the planet, and he sawthat it wasa relativelynarrowband,quitesharplydefined.The beam of an enormoussearchlightappearedto be swingingbeneaththe clouds. Perhapssixty miles behind the first racing bar of light came another, parallel to it and moving at the samespeed.And beyondthat another,and another-until all the sky flickeredwith alternatingsheetsof light and darkness. By this time, Falcon thought, he had been inured to wonders,and it seemedimpossiblethat this displayof pure, soundlessluminosity could presentthe slightestdanger.But it wasso astonishing,and so inexplicable, that he felt cold, nakedfeargnawingat his self-control.No man could look upon such a sight without feeling like a helplesspygmy in the presenceof forces beyond his comprehension.Was it possiblethat, after all, fupiter carriednot only life but also intelligence?And, perhaps,an intelligence that only now wasbeginning to reactto his alien presence? "Yes,we seeit," said Mission Control, in a voice that echoedhis own awe. "We've no idea what it is. Standby, we're calling Ganymede." The displaywasslowly fading; the bandsracing in from the far horizon were much fainter, as if the energiesthat poweredthem were becoming exhausted.In five minutes it was all over; the last faint pulse of light flickeredalong the westernsky and then wasgone. Its passingleft Falcon with an overwhelming senseof relief. The sight was so hypnotic, and so disturbing,that it wasnot goodfor any man'speaceof mind to contemplate it too long. He was more shakenthan he cared to admit. The electrical storm was somethingthat he could understand;but flris wastotally incomprehensible. Mission Control wasstill silent. He knew that the information banksup on Ganymedewerenow being searchedasmen and computersturned their minds to the problem. If no answercould be found there, it would be necessaryto call Earth; that would mean a delay of almost an hour. The possibilitythat evenEarth might be unableto help wasonethat Falcondid not care to contemplate. He had neverbeforebeen so glad to hear the voice of Mission Control as when Dr. Brenner finally came on the circuit. The biologist sounded relieved,yet subdued-like a man who has just come through somegreat intellectualcrisis. "Hello, Kon-Tiki. We've solvedyour problem, but we can still hardly believe it. "What you've been seeing is bioluminescence,very similar to that producedby microorganismsin the tropical seasof Earth. Herethey'rein

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not the ocean,but the principleis the same." the atmosphere, "Butthepattern,"protested Falcon,"wassoregular-so artificial.And it washundredsof milesacross!" onlya smallpartof it. "lt wasevenlargerthanyouimagine;youobserved The wholepatternwasoverthreethousandmileswide and lookedlike a pastyouat aboutsixsweeping revolvingwheel.Youmerelysawthespokes, . ." . tenthsof a mile a second "A secondl" Falconcouldnot helpinteriecting."No animalscouldmove that fast!" by theshock "Of coursenot. Let meexplain.What yousawwastriggered wavefrom SourceBeta,movingat the speedof sound." "But what aboutthe pattern?"Falconinsisted. but identical "That'sthe surprisingpart. It'sa very rarephenomenon, wheelsof light-except that they'rea thousandtimessmaller-havebeen in the PersianGulf andthe IndianOcean.Listento this:British observed Gulf, May 1880,I l:30 PM.-'an enorIndiaCompany\Patna,Persian to mousluminouswheel,whirling round,the spokesof which appeared brushthe ship along.The spokeswere200 or 300 yardslong . . . each onefromtheGulf of aboutsixteenspokes.. . .'And here's wheelcontained 'The apintenselybright luminescence Omar, datedMay 2), 1906: proached usrapidly,shootingsharplydefinedlight raysto thewestin rapid of a warship.. . . Totheleft likethebeamfrom thesearchlight succession, asfar as thatreached of us,a giganticfierywheelformeditself,with spokes one could see.The wholewheelwhirled aroundfor two or threemindugup aboutfivehundred utes.. . .'The archivecomputeron Ganymede cases.It would haveprintedout the lot if we hadn'tstoppedit in time." "l'm convinced-butstill baffled." "l don'tblameyou.The full explanation wasn'tworkedout until latein thattheseluminouswheelsaretheresultsof thetwentiethcentury.It seems occurin shallowwaterswheretheshock andalways earthquakes, submarine bars, wavescanbe refectedandcausestandingwavepatterns.Sometimes -the'Wheels of Poseidon,' they'vebeencalled. rotatingwheels sometimes andphotoexplosions The theorywasfinallyprovedby makingunderwater graphingthe resultsfrom a satellite.No wondersailorsusedto be superstitious.Who would havebelieveda thing like this?" So that wasit, Falcontold himself.When SourceBetablewits top, it gasof in all directions-throughthecompressed musthavesentshockwaves and Meeting itself. of body the solid through theloweratmosphere, |upiter thosewavesmusthavecanceledhere,reinforcedthere;the crisscrossing, wholeplanetmusthaverung like a bell. of wonderandawe;hewould did notdestroythesense Yettheexplanation

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neverbe ableto forgetthoseflickeringbandsof light, racingthroughthe Hefelt thathewasnot merely unattainabledepthsof thefovianatmosphere. on a strangeplanet,but in somemagicalrealmbetweenmyth andreality. This wasa worldwhereabsolutelyanythingcouldhappen,andno man could possiblyguesswhat the future would bring. And he still had a wholedayto go.

Whenthetruedawnfinallyarrived,it broughta suddenchangeof weather. werefalling so Kon-Tikiwasmovingthrough ablizzard;waxensnowflakes aboutthe worry to began thicklythatvisibilitywasreducedto zero.Falcon Then he noticedthat on the envelope. weightthatmightbe accumulating Kon-Tikib quickly disappeared; windows the rny flrk.s settlingoutside as they swiftly continual outpouringof heat was evaporatingthem as arrived. If he had beenballooningon Earth, he wouldalsohaveworriedabout the possibilityof collision.At leastthat wasno dangerhere;any fovian mountainswereseveralhundredmilesbelowhim. And asfor the floating islandsof foam,hitting themwouldprobablybe like plowinginto slightly hardenedsoapbubbles. he switchedon thehorizontalradar,which until nowhad Nevertheleis, only the verticalbeam,givinghis distancefrom beencompletelyuseless; the invisiblesurface,hadthusfar beenof anyvalue.Then he had another surprise. a hugesectorof the skyaheadweredozensof largeand across Scattered brilliant echoes.They were completelyisolatedfrom one anotherand a phrasethe in space.Falconremembered apparentlyhung unsupported hadusedto describeoneof thehazardsof theirprofession: earliestaviators of whatseemed "cloudsstuffedwith rocks."That wasa perfectdescription to lie in the track of.Kon-Tiki. sight;then Falconagainremindedhimselfthat It wasa disconcerting it was Perhaps nothingreallysolidcouldpossiblyhoverin thisatmosphere. In any case,the nearestecho phenomenon. somestrangemeteorological miles. twenty-five wasabouta hundredand He reportedto MissionControl,which could provideno explanation. But it gavethe welcomenewsthat he would be clearof the blizzardin anotherthirty minutes. It did not warn him, however,of the violentcrosswind that abruptly grabbedKon-Tikiand sweptit almostat right anglesto its previoustrack.

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Falconneededall his skill and the maximum useof what little control he had over his ungainly vehicle to preventit from being capsized.Within minutes he was racing northward at over three hundred miles an hour. Then, as suddenlyas it had started,the turbulenceceased;he was still moving at high speed,but in smooth air. He wonderedif he had been caught in the fovian equivalentof a jet stream. The snowstormdissolved;and he sawwhat fupiter had beenpreparingfor him. Kon-Tiki had entered the funnel of a gigantic whirlpool, some six hundredmilesacross.The balloonwasbeingsweptalonga curving wall of cloud. Overhead,the sun wasshining in a clearsky;but far beneath,this great hole in the atmospheredrilled down to unknown depths until it reacheda misty floor where lightning flickeredalmost continuously. Though the vesselwasbeing draggeddownwardsoslowlythat it wasin no immediatedanger,Falconincreasedthe flow of heatinto the envelopeuntil Kon-Tiki hoveredat a constantaltitude. Not until then did he abandonthe fantasticspectacleoutsideand consideragain the problem of the radar. The nearestecho wasnow only abouttwenty-fivemilesaway.All ofthem, he quickly realized,weredistributedalongthe wall of the vortex,and were moving with it, apparentlycaught in the whirlpool like Kon-Tiki itself. He aimedthe telescopealongthe radarbearingand found himself lookingat a curious mottled cloud that almost filled the field of view. It wasnot easyto see,being only a little darkerthan the whirling wall of mist that formed its background.Not until he had been staringfor several minutes did Falcon realizethat he had met it once before. The firsttime it had beencrawlingacrossthe drifting mountainsof foam, and he had mistakenit for a giant, many-trunkedtree. Now at lasthe could appreciateits real sizeand complexityand could give it a bettername to fix its image in his mind. It did not resemblea tree at all, but a jellyfish-a medusa,such as might be met trailing its tentaclesas it drifted along the warm eddiesof the Gulf Stream. This medusawas more than a mile acrossand its scoresof dangling tentacleswerehundredsof feet long. They swayedslowly backand forth in perfectunison,takingmorethan a minute for eachcompleteundulationalmostas if the creaturewasclumsily rowing itself through the sky. The other echoeswere more distant medusae.Falcon focusedthe telescopeon half a dozenand could seeno variationsin shapeor size.They all seemedto be of the same species,and he wonderedjust why they were drifting lazily around in this six-hundred-mileorbit. Perhapsthey were feeding upon the aerial plankton suckedin by the whirlpool, as Kon-Tiki itself had been.

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"Do you realize, Howard," said Dr. Brenner, when he had recovered from his initial astonishment,"that this thing is about a hundred thousand timesaslargeasthe biggestwhale?And evenif it'sonly a gasbag,it must still weigh a million tons! I can't evenguessat its metabolism.It must generate megawattsof heat to maintain its buoyancy." "But if it's just a gasbag,why is it such a damn good radar reflector?" "I haven't the faintest idea. Can you get any closer?" Brenner'squestionwas not an idle one. If he changed altitude to take advantageof the differing wind velocities, Falcon could approach the medusaascloselyashe wished.At the moment, however,he preferredhis presenttwenty-five miles and said so, firmly. "l seewhat you mean," Brenneranswered,a little reluctantly."Let'sstay where we are for the present." That "we" gave Falcon a certain wry amusement;anextrasixtythousandmiles madea considerabledifferencein one'spoint of view. For the next two hours Kon-Tiki drifted unevenfully in the gyre of the greatwhirlpool, while Falcon experimentedwith filters and cameraconirast, trying to get a clear view of the medusa.He began to wonder if its elusivecoloration was some kind of camouflage;perhaps,like many animals of Earth, it wastrying to loseitselfagainstits background.That wasa trick used by both hunters and hunted. In which categorywasthe medusa?That wasa questionhe could hardly expecttohaveansweredin the shorttime thatwasleftto him. Yetiustbefore noon, without the slightestwarning, the answercame . Like a squadron of antique iet fighters, five mantas came sweeping through the wall of mist that formed the funnel of the vortex. They were flying in a V formation directly towardthe pallid graycloud of the medusa; and therewasno doubt, in Falcon'smind, that they wereon the attack.He had been quite wrong to assumethat they were harmlessvegetarians. Yeteverythinghappenedat sucha leisurelypacethat it waslike watching a slow-motionfilm. The mantasundulatedalong at perhapsthirty miles an hour; it seemedagesbeforethey reachedthe medusa,which continued to paddle imperturbably along at an even slower speed.Huge though they were, the mantaslooked tiny besidethe monsterthey were approaching. When they flappeddown on its back, they appearedabout aslargeasbirds landing on a whale. Could the medusadefend itself?Falcon wondered.He did not seehow the attackingmantascould be in dangeraslong asthey avoidedthosehuge clumsy tentacles.And perhapstheir host wasnot evenawareof them; they could be insignificant parasites,toleratedas are fleasupon a dog. But now it wasobviousthat the medusawasin distress.With agonizing

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slowness,it beganto tip overlike a capsizingship. After ten minutesit had tilted forty-fivedegrees; it wasalsorapidlylosingaltitude. It wasimpossible not to feel a senseof pity for the beleagueredmonster,and to Falcon the sightbroughtbitter memories.In a grotesqueway,the fall of the medusawas almost a parody of the dying Queenblast moments. Yet he knew that his sympathieswere on the wrong side. High intelligence could develop only among predators-not among the drifting browsers of eitherseaor air. The mantaswerefar closerto him than wasthii monstrousbag of gas.And anyway,who could really sympathizewith a creaturea hundred thousandtimes largerthan a whale? Then he noticed that the medusa'stacticsseemedto be having some effect.The mantashad been disturbedby its slow roll and were flapping heavilyawayfrom its back-like gorgingvulturesinterruptedat mealtime. But they did not move very far, continuing to hover a few yardsfrom the still-capsizingmonster. There wasa sudden,blinding flashof light synchronizedwith a crashof staticoverthe radio. One of the mantas,slowlytwistingend overend, was plummeting straightdownward.As it fell, a plume of Llack smoketrailed behind it. The resemblance to an aircraftgoing down in flameswasquite uncanny. In unison, the remaining mantasdived steepryawayfrom the medusa, gainingspeedby losingaltitude.They had, within minutes,vanishedback into the wall of cloud from which they had emerged.And the medusa,no longerfalling, beganto roll backtowardthe horizontal.Soonit wassailing along once more on an even keel, as if nothing had happened. "Beautiful!" said Dr. Brenner,after a moment of stunned silence."It's developedelectricdefenses,like someof our eelsand rays.But that must havebeenabouta million volts!Can you seeany organstlratmight produce the discharge?Anything looking like electrodes?', "No," Falcon answered,after switching to the highest power of the telescope."But here'ssomethingodd. Do you seethis prtt.rni Check back on the earlierimages.I'm sure it wasn'tthere before." A broad, mottled band had appearedalong the side of the medusa.It formeda startlinglyregularcheckerboard, eachsquareof which wasitself speckledin a complex subpatternof short horizontal lines. They were spacedat equal distancesin a geometricallyperfect anay of rows and columns. "You'reright," saidDr. Brenner,with somethingvery much like awein , his voice."That'sjustappeared.And I'm afraidto tell you what I think it is." "Well, I haveno reputationto lose-at leastasa biologist.ShallI givemy guess?"

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"Go ahead." "That'sa largemeter-bandradio arruy.The sortof thing they usedbackat the beginning of the twentieth century." ,'I was aftaid you'd saythat. Now we know why it gavesuch a massive echo." "But why has it iust aPPeared?" "Probably an aftereffectof the dischatge." "l've just had another thought," said Falcon, rather slowly. "Do you supposeit\ listening to us?" l'On this frequency?I doubt it. Those are meter-no, decameteran' tennas- judging by their size. Hmm . . that'san idea!" Dr. Brenner fell silent, obviously contemplating some new line of thought. Presentlyhe continued:"I bet they'retuned to the radio outbursts! That's something nature never got around to do on Earth . . . We have animalswith sonarand evenelectricsenses,but nothing everdevelopeda radio sense.Why bother where there was so much light? "But it's different here. Jupiter is drenchedwith radio energy.It's worth while usingit-maybe eventappingit. That thing could be a floatingpower plant!" A new voice cut into the conversation. "Mission Commander here. This is all very interesting, but there'sa much more important matter to settle.ls it intelligent? If so, we've got to considerthe First Contact directives." "Until I camehere," saidDr. Brenner,somewhatruefully, "I would have sworn that anything that could make a shortwaveantennasystemmusf be intelligent. Now, I'm not sure.This could haveevolvednaturally.I suppose it's no more fantasticthan the human eye." "Then we have to play safe and assumeintelligence. For the present, therefore, this expedition comes under all the clauses of the Prime directive." There was a long silencewhile everyoneon the radio circuit absorbed the implications of this. For the first time in the history of spacefight, the rules that had been establishedthrough more than a century of argument might have to be applied. Man had-it was hoped-profited from his but also his own selfmistakeson Earth. Not only moral considerations, interestdemandedthat he should not repeatthem among the planets.It could be disastrousto treat a superiorintelligenceasthe American settlers had treated the Indians, or as almost everyone had treated the Africans . . . The first rule was:keepyour distance.Make no attempt to approach,or even to communicate, until "they" have had plenty of time to study you.

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Exactlywhatwasmeantby "plentyof time," no onehadeverbeenable to decide.It wasleft to the discretionof the man on the spot. A responsibility of which he had neverdreamedhad descended upon HowardFalcon.In thefewhoursthatremainedto him on he might fupiter, becomethe first ambassador of the human race. Andthatwasan ironysodeliciousthathealmostwishedthesurgeons had restoredto him the powerof laughter.

It wasgrowingdarker,but Falconscarcelynoticed as he strainedhis eyes toward that living cloud in the field of the telescope.The wind that was steadilysweepingKon-Tiki around the funnel of the great whirlpool had now broughthim within twelvemilesof the creature.Iihe got much closer than six, he would take evasiveaction. Though he felt certain that the medusa'selectric weaponswere short-ranged,he did not wish to put the matter to the test. That would be a problem for future explorers,and he wished them luck. Now it wasquite dark in the capsule.That wasstrange,becausesunset wasstill hours away.Automatically,he glancedat the horizontallyscanning radar, as he had done every few minutes. Apart from the medusahe was studying,there was no other object within about sixty miles of him. Suddenly, with startling power, he heard the sound that had come booming out of the fovian night-the throbbing beat that grew more and more rapid, then stoppedin mid-crescendo.The whole capsulevibrated with it like a pea in a kettledrum. Falcon realizedtwo things almost simultaneouslyduring the sudden, achingsilence.Tifs time the soundwasnot coming from thousandsof miles away,over a radio circuit. It was in the very atmospherearound him. The secondthoughtwasevenmore disturbing. He had quite forgottenit was inexcusable,but there had been other apparentlymore important thingson his mind-that mostof the skyabovehim wascompletelyblanked out by Kon-Tiki'sgas-bag.Being lightly silveredto conserveits heat, the great balloon was an effectiveshield both to radar and to vision. He had known this, of course;it had beena minor defectof the design, toleratedbecauseit did not appearimportant. It seemedvery important to HowardFalconnow-as he sawthat fenceof gigantictentacles,thickerthan the trunks of any tree, descendingall around the capsule.

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thePrimedirective!Don't alarm He heardBrenneryelling:"Remember drumanswerthatoverwhelming it!" Beforehe couldmakean appropriate sounds. all other drowned beatstartedagainand The signof a reallyskilledtestpilot is how he reactsnot to foreseeable .rn.rg.n.ies, but to onesthat nobodycouldhaveanticipated.Falcondid for morethana secondto analyzethesituation.In a lightningnot hesitate swift movement,he pulledthe rip cord. That wordwasan archaicsurvivalfrom the daysof the first hydrogen but merely balloons;on Kon-Tikf, therip corddid not tearopenthegasbag, At oncethe a setof louversaroundtheuppercurveof theenvelope. operated fall swiftly to began lift, her of deprived Kon-Tiki, httgasstartedto rushout; Earth's. in this gravityfield two and a half timesasstrongas whippingupwardand glimpseof greattentacles Falconhada momentary or away.He hadjusttime to notethattheywerestuddedwith largebladders andthattheyendedin multitudes ,r.r, pr.rumablyto givethembuoyancy, a boltof lightninghalf expected plant. He liketherootsof a of thin feelers but nothinghappened. thickened astheatmosphere wasslackening Hisprecipitouirateof descent dropped Kon-Tikihad parachute. When actedasa andthedeflatedenvelope abouttwomiles,hefeltthatit wassafeto closethelouversagain.Bythetime buoyancyandwasin equilibriumoncemore' he had lost he had restored nearhissafetylimit. anothermile of altitudeandwasgettingdangerously windows,thoughhe did not He peeredanxiouslythroughthe overhead of theballoon.But hehad bulk expectto seeanythingexcepttheobscuring duringhis descent,andpart of the medusawasjust visiblea sideslipped co,rpleof milesabovehim. It wasmuchcloserthanheexpected-andit was still comingdown, fasterthan he would havebelievedpossible. "l'm O.K.-but it's He shouted: MissionControlwascallinganxiously. still comingafterme. I can'tgo any deeper." That wasnot quitetrue. He couldgo a lot deeper-aboutonehundred trip,'andmostof the journey andeightymiles.But it wouldbe a one-way would be of little interestto him. waslevelingoff, notquite Then,to hisgreatrelief,hesawthatthemedusa thisstrangeintruder it haddecidedto approach a mile abovehim. Perhaps hot. uncomfortably layer it, too, foundthisdeeper with caution;or perhaps centigrade,and Falconwondered wasoverfifty degrees The temperature could handlematters. system life-support how much longerhis Dr. Brennerwasbackon the circuit, still worryingabout the Prime directive. he cried,withoutmuchcon"Remember-itmayonly be inquisitive!" viction."Tfy not to frightenit!"

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Falconwasgettingrathertired of this adviceand recalleda TV discussion he had once seenbetweena spacelawyerand an astronaut.After the full implicationsof the Prime directive had been carefully spelledout, the increduloussPacerhad exclaimed:"Then if therewasno alternative,I must sit still and let myself be eaten?"The lawyerhad not even crackeda smile when he answered:"That's an excellentsumming up." It had seemedfunny at the time; it was not af ali amusingnow. And then Rlcon sawsomethingthat madehim evenmore unhappy.The medusawasstill hoveringabouta mile abovehim-but one of its tentacles wasbecoming incredibly elongated,and wasstretchingdown toward KonTifri, thinning out at the sametime. As a boy he had on.. seenthe funnel of a tornadodescendingfrom a stormcloud overthe Kansasplains.The thing coming toward him now evokedvivid memoriesof that black, twisting snakein the sky. "l'm rapidlyrunning out of options,"he reportedto Mission Control. "l now have only a choice between frightening it-and giving it a bad stomach-ache.I don't think it will find Kon -Tiki very digestible,if that's what it has in mind. " He waitedfor commentsfrom Brenner,but the biologistremainedsilent. "Very well. It'stwenty-sevenminutes aheadof time, but I'm startingthe ignition sequencer.I hopeI'll haveenoughreserveto correctmy orbit later." He could no longer seethe medusa;once more it wasdirecily overhead. But he knew that the descendingtentaclemust now be u.ry .lore to the balloon. It would take almost five minutes to bring the reactorup to full thrust . . . The fuserwasprimed. The orbit computer had not rejectedthe situation aswholly impossible.The air scoopswereopen, readyto gulp in tonsof the surroundinghydrohelium on demand. Even under optimum conditions, this would havebeen the moment of truth-for there had been no way of testinghow a nuclearramiet would reallyworkin the strangeatmosphereof fupiter. Very gently something rocked Kon-Tiki. Falcon tried to ignore it. Ignition had been plannedat six miles higher, in an atmoiphereof less than a quarter of the density and thirty degreescooler. 'rbo bad. What wasthe shallowestdive he could get awaywith, for the air scoopsto work?when the ram ignited, he'd be headingtoward fupiter with two and a half g'sto help him get there. Could he possiblypull out in time? A large, heavyhand pattedthe balloon. The whole vesselbobbedup and down, like one of the Yo-yo'sthat had just becomethe crazeon Earth. of course,Brennermight be perfectlyright. perhapsit wasjust trying to be friendly.Maybe he shouldtry to talk to it overthe radio. Which shouldit

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be: "Prettypussy"?"Down, Fido"?or "Thkeme to your leader"? The tritium-deuteriumratio wascorrect.He was readyto light the match. candle,with a hundred-million-degree aroundtheedgeof theballoon slithering came tentacle of the tip The thin trunk, andbythe an somesixtyyardsaway.It wasaboutthesizeof elephant's Therewere to be almostassensitive. delicatewayit wasmovingappeared Brenner Dr. that sure He was questing mouths. like little palpsat its end, would be fascinated. aboutasgooda timeasany.Hegavea swiftscanof theentire This seemed ignitioncount,brokethe safety controlboard,startedthe final four-second the ;nrusoN switch. seal,and pressed explosionandan instantlossof weight.Kon-Tikiwas a sharp Therewas falling freely,nosedown. Overhead,the discardedballoon was racing upward,draggingtheinquisitivetentaclewith it. Falconhadno time to see at that momentthe ramiet actuallyhit the medusa,because ifthe gasbag fired and he had othermattersto think about. A roaringcolumn of hot hydroheliumwaspouringout of the reactor nozzles,swiftlybuildingup thrust-but towardfupiter,not awayfrom it. He could not pull out yet, for vectorcontrolwastoo sluggish.Unlesshe couldgaincompletecontrolandachievehorizontalflight within the next and fiue ,econds,thl vehiclewould dive too deeplyinto the atmosphere would be destroyed. likefifty-he manseemed fiveseconds With agonizingslowness-those agedto flattenout, thenpull the noseupward.He glancedbackonly once ,rd .rught a final glimpseof the medusa,many milesaway.Kon'Tiki\ from itsgrasp,for he couldseeno escaped hadapparently gasbag discarded signof it. Now he wasmasteronce more-no longerdrifting helplesslyon the windsof fupiter,but ridinghis owncolumnof atomicfirebackto thestars. He was.otrfid.nt that the ramjet would steadilygive him velocityand altitude until he had reachednear-orbitalspeedat the fringesof the Then, with a briefburstof purerocketpower,hewouldregain atmosphere. the freedomof space. enigmaof the Halfivayto orbit,he lookedsouthandsawthetremendous GreatRedSpot-that floatingislandtwicethe sizeof Earth-coming up beautyuntil the computer overthe horizon.He staredinto its mysterious ahead. to rocketthrustwasonly sixtyseconds warnedhim that conversion He tore his gazereluctantlyaway. "Someothertime," he murmured. "What'sthat?"saidMissionControl. "What did you say?" "It doesn'tmatter,"he replied.

1A?_ / A MEETINC3 WITH

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"You're a hero now, Howard," said webster, "not just a celebrity.you've giventhem somethingto think about-injected someexcitementinto their lives.Not one in a million will actuallytravelto the Outer Giants, but the whole human racewill go in imagination.And that'swhat counts.,' "I'm glad to have made your job a little easier. " Websterwas too old a friend to take offenseat the note of irony. yet it surprisedhim. And this was not the first changein Howard that he had noticed since the return from Jupiter. The Administratorpointed to the famoussign on his desk, borrowed from an impresarioof an earlierage:ASToNTsH r'rs! "l'm not ashamedof my iob. New knowledge,new resources-they're all very well. But men also need novelty and excitement. Spacetravel has becomeroutine; you've made it a greatadventureonce more. It will be a long time befole we get fupiter pigeonholed.And maybe longer still long, beforewe understandthosemedusae.I still think that one knewwhereyour blind spot was. Anyway, have you decided on your next move? Saturn, Uranus,Neptune-you name it." "l don't know.I've thoughtaboutSaturn,but I'm not reallyneeded there. It'sonly one gravity,not two and a half like Jupiter.So men can handle it. " Men, thought webster.He said"men. " He'sneverdone that before.And when did I lasthear him usethe word "we"? He'schanging,slippingaway from us . 'Well," he saidaloud, risingfrom his chair to concealhis slightuneasiness, "let's get the conferencestarted. The camerasare all set up and everyone'swaiting. You'll meet a lot of old friends." He stressedthe last word, but Howard showedno response.The leather maskof his facewasbecomingmoreand moredifficult to read.Instead,he rolled back from the Administrator'sdesk,unlocked his undercarriageso that it no longerformeda chair, and roseon his hydraulicsto his full seven feet of height. It had been good psychologyon the part of the surgeonsto give him that extra twelve inches,to compensatesomewhatfor all that he had lost when the Queen had crashed. Falconwaiteduntil Websterhad openedthe door, then pivotedneatlyon his balloon tires and headedfor it at a smoothand silenitwenty miles an hour. The displayof speedand precisionwasnot flauntedarrogantly;rather, it had becomequite unconscious. Howard Falcon, who had once been a man and could still passfor one

AFITHUFI C. CLARKE

/ 1E|3

for thefirsttime of achievement-and, overa voicecircuit,felt a calmsense in years,somethinglike peaceof mind. Sincehis returnfrom fupiter,the nightmareshad ceased.He had found his roleat last. H. no* knewwhy he had dreamedaboutthat superchimpaboardthe doomedQueenElizabeth.Neither man nor beast,it wasbetweentwo worlds;and so washe. on thelunarsurface.The life-support He alonecouldtravelunprotected had replacedhis fragilebodyfuncthat systeminsidethe metalcylinder tionedequallywell in spaceor underwater.Gravityfieldsten timesthat of Earthwerean inconv.ni.r,.., but nothingmore.And no gravitywasbestof a l l. . . The human racewasbecomingmoreremote,the tiesof kinshipmore bundlesof untenuous.Perhapstheseair-breathing,radiation-sensitive theyshould hadno rightbeyondtheatmosphere; stablecarboncompounds stickto their naturalhomes-Earth,Moon, Mars' wouldbemachines,notmen-and he of space Somedaytherealmasters of his destiny,he tooka somberpridein his wasneither.Alreadyconscious unique loneliness-the first immortal midway betweentwo ordersof creation. betweenthe old andthe newHe would, afterall, be an ambassador; of metalwho mustone creatures betweenthe creaturesof carbonand the them. daysupersede Both wouldhaveneedof him in the troubledcenturiesthat lay ahead.

TheValleyof Echoes TRANSLATED BY FRANK ZEFIO In the first issueof the first sciencefiction magazine, editor U"gg Ggrnlback yamed Edgar AIIan poe, lul"es Veine, and H. c. welk as the forefathers of the grri, in the united states, \rance, and England. This asiertion points up the Lo"p and_vigorousFrenih tradition from at keist the century before verne until the present.since the 1950s,modern s'F hasbeen signifrcantand influential in France,'but the most pop ul ar authorsh ave-generaIIy been E ngl i sh-speaki ng wr i ters read in translation;for many years, ,q. E. vai vogt (particularly in translatiol by Boris vian) remained the-"osi'popular y1d-respgctgdsF writer, to be supplantedin recentyeirs by Philip K. .Dick. still, much sF'originates in France-for instlnce the popular Planet of the Apes by pierre Boulle. of the contemporary French sF'writirs, none is more distinguished than Gdrard Klein, an SF editor for a French publisher, who hashad several novelsand storiestranslated into English, perhaps more work than any other of his contemporaries."The valley of Echoes,"with itsenergetic shifts i1 person and tense, showssome of the stylistic d-evicesthat characterizeFrench SF and distinguish ii from the English and American, which is almostiniariably written in thJpast fenseand mostoften in the third person.French sF rs morc self-consciguslylitelar.y tlay Amirican sF usually is.And yet this story, intimately linked with the atmosphere'of theVirn tian stories o{ Leigh Brackett and Ray Bradbury, is selfconsciouslyin the American genre.

eEnenD KLEIN / 1et5 time we ventureda little beyondthe pink mountains of Tula, the I orri, of crystal,and for dayson end we passedbetweeninnumerable I dunes.The Martian sky wasalwayslike itself, very Pure, a very dark andwith admirablepink efflorescences blue with an occasionalhint of.gray,

-Fhis

at sunriseand sunset. Our tractorsperformedquite satisfactorily.We were venturing into regionsthat had hardly been exploredthus far, at leastby land, and we were The first Lrronably sureof being the fiist to negotiatethesedesolatePasses. for was searching men, at any rate;for what we were more or lessvaguely sometraceof an.ancientcivilization.It hasneverbeen admittedon Earth It has that Mars is not only a dead world, but a world eternally deserted. empires, defunct long beenhopedthat we would discoversomeremainsof of the mythical mastersof the red planet' o, p".rhrpsthe fallen descendants and Too -rny storieshavebeen told about Mars for ten yearsof scientific fruitless explorationon this point to undo all the legends' posBut neither Ferrier nor La Salle nor I particularly believedin the disilluslightly sibility of so fantastican encounter.we weremature and the wind sionedmen, and we had left the Earth someyearsbeforeto escape was This planet' native our of insanity which at that time wassweeping sometimes We somethingthat we did not like to talk about, asit pained us. had just thought ii was due to the immense solitude of a speciesthat that confrontedthe universe,that hopedto receive achievedself-awareness, silentand a response,evena fatal one, to its challenge.But spaceremained the planetsdeserted. the We were descending,then, toward the south, in the direction of had Martian equator.The maps were still impreciseat this time, and we be done not could which been assignedto make certain geologicalreports from an airplane.As a psychologist,I wasonly moderatelyqualified for this task,but I airo knewhow to drive a tractorand how the instrumentsworked, and men were scarceon Mars. The worstthing wasthe monotony that prevailedthroughout thesedays. peopleon Earth, .o*fottably installedbehind their desks,write things ,boit us that bring tearsof compassionto the eyesof thousandsof readers; they speakof our heroisrnand the adventurethat lies in wait for us at each step,of the eternally renewedsplendorsof unknown worlds' I have never encounteredsuch things. We know danger,but it doesn'trise up from the dunes;it is insidious,a leak in our breathingapparatusor a corresponding defect in our tractorsor in our radio posts.It is, aboveall, the danger of boredom. Mars is a desertedworld. Its horizons are short, curtailed. And thereare more inspiringscenesthan that of an immenseplain of graysand and scatteredlichens. The landscapeis not terrible in itself. But what one

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doesfeel, with poignant acuteness,is the awareness of thesethousandsof kilometers,all alike, stretchingout in all directionsasfar asyou can see and farther still, kilometerswhich slowly passbeneathyour treadswhile you remain immobile. It'sa little asif you weresureof finding in tomorrowthe exact replica of yesterday. And then you drive. For hours. Like a machine. And you are the machine, you are the tractor,you creepalong betweenthe dunesfor hours on end, you avoid the heapsof stones,slowly modelledby the wind and themselvesdestinedto becomesand, and from time to time you lift your eyesto the skyand, through flinching lids, perceivethe stars'sparklingin mid-day, which at first surprisesand then boresyou mortally, so that you would give anything for theseeyesof the night to finally .ior.. Then you think of what you will do on Earth, when you return to it: you haveheardthe news;it is bad, alwaysbad: no eventoccurson Earth that is not aberrant:thesearethe "lnsaneYears,"they say,and the desireto go back down there turns to a kind of loathing; nauseagrips you. Always,you drive. Without hopingfor anything.Atthe end of a certain time, you seethings rising up from amongthe dunes.you brakeabruptly to avoidthem, but thereis neveranything there.There are alsothosewho fall asleep.The othersnotice it becausethe tractorsuddenlylosesits way;then they shakethe driver or take the wheel themselues.Tiris providesa little recreation. As for me, it depends.SometimesI makeup stories.Storiesthat takeplace on Mars or in spaceor on anotherworld, but neveron Earth. I prefernot to think of Earth. La Salleis like myself.For Ferrier,it'sworse,he can't stop thinking about it for a minute. I ask myself where this will lead him. He'sa geologist.I havewatchedhim dig in the sandand hold up some tiny shell, the ancientabodeof a creaturelong sincewithered,carriedaway by the softwinds of Mars. Neveroncehashe Jir.ou.r.d a more achievedfossil, the remainsof a larger, more powerful (and more fragile) creature.I have seenhim battlingthe evidence.I haveseenhim ,*..p hi, eyesoverthe hills of Mars, silentlythinking that it will onedaybe necessary to turn overthese millions of tonsof sandin the hopeof discovering,at the'heartof the planet, the bleachedfetusof a forgottenspecies.I don't ttrint he talksenough. It is not goodfor a man saynothingon Mars. Nor in space.He remainsmute, !o asif the millions andmillions of poundsof sandweitheddown on him. Like La Salle and myself, he sought in spacea wayout, a meansof escaping Earth, but he expectedsomethingelseof it. He washopingto encounterin it somethingother than himself; he thought to encounterthe total stranger, he believed he would read on the cliffs of Mars the history of a world

GE R A FD K LE IN / 1a7

absolutelynew for Earth. No doubt he had listenedattentively,in his childhood,to the storiesof the man in the moon' Otherwise,he wasiust like La Salleand myself.Therearethings'you onefine see,which we couldnot bearunlesswe weresureof discovering, day,aroundthe bendof spaceor betweentwo hills, a glisteningcity and ia"rf beings.But La SalleandI, weknowthatthisdreamis not for today,or evenfor tomorrow,while Ferriercan no longerwait. Therearethreeof us, andthat'san awkwardnumberfor playingcards. weread.Wealsolistento theradiofromtimeto time.Butabove Sometimes on oxygen.It is a wayof projecting all, wesleep.It is a wayof economizing in time. We neverdream' ourselves When eveningcomes,we descendfrom the tractor'we unpackour We forwardthe to take certainmeasurements. We p-roceed apparatus. underits transtranquilly ,.*lts. We starithecatalyticstove;it functions flower.Weeat'We parentbell glass,glowingredin thedusklikea hothouse u'furl the parasJ-tit. itti"g that servesus asa tent, which preventsthe mortalcoldof Marsfrom freezingusto thebone,andwetry onceagainto nearlyall day,yousee,lulledby sleep.But it'sno use-we'vebeensleeping thelolting of thetractor,eachtakinghis turn at thewheel;andwhennight chafesuS'westifle,we'resuddenlythirsty,andwelie comes,our respirator therewith our eyesopen,staringatthemilky domeof thetent,takingin the theplasticby thewind, blownagainst irritatingfaintgr.rhingof sandtrains the patterof insectfeet. duringthesenights,thatweponderon whatsPace it happens, Sometimes might havebeen, on what theseplanetsmight havebeen.The thought and .oi-,., to us that man, oneday,will endowMarswith an atmosphere the all than taller thatcitieswill risehere,fabulous, andforests, with oceans will unitethisplanetandotherworlds,and citiesof Earth,thatspaceships in space,always thatthefrontiersof theunknownwill besituatedelsewhere is pushedback beyondthe visiblehorizon. Our anguish easedby the iho,rght,andweknowthatmantodayis steeringa falsecoursein askingof this flanet whatit cannotgive,in turningtowardsthe past,in desperately siftingthroughthesieveof memoryin hopesof findingoncemorethetraces thatit is in thefuturethat of anincientdownfall.Wefeelthen,tremulously, mustthrowourselves. we that an answerlies,andthat it is into the future natureof our situation. takestockof theparadoxical And weoccasionally in themaddreams included are We future. the past and Weareat oncethe going thewayof infants are past we deadinthenotdistant and of generations y.t to be born.Anonymous,we weremyths;forgotten,we will be legends. of thecold.The extremetenuiVof Wedo not goabroadat nightbecause

1 8El / THE

VALLEY

c]F ECHC]ES

the atmospheremakes for great differencesof temperature. But in the morning, around nine o'clock, we set out again. Todaywe entereda zone of gray sand,then discovereda stretchlittered with flat black stones,Aeolian pebbles,strangelyfashionedat times, and finally reachedthe extremeborder of the tedJish stretch that touchesthe Martian equatorat certain points. Eroded mountainsrise gently over the horizon. The duneshavethinned out and dispersed.The *orn mesasthat circumscribethe eye shelterthis plain from the wind. Our trackscome to breachthe hazardousirregularityof the desert.They will surviveus. The surfaceof the planet descendedgently, as if we were plunging into the bosomof somedried-upsea,into the illusory depthsof ,n imaginary littoral. And suddenly,we sawsurgeup andgrow on thl horizon translucent needlesof rock, so thin and so high, with suchsharpcontours,that we did not believeour eyes.Ferrier,who wasdriving, gavea cry. He pressed the accelerator,and the suddenirresistible of the tractorthrew La Salle iolt and myself from our seats. "It's incredible." "What a fantasticpeak." "No, it's a cliff." But it wasnone of all this, aswe sawlater on in the day.It wasa massif, probablycrystalline,an accidentthat had spurted;n ai.s past from the entrails of the planet, or perhaps even falien from the sky, and some inconceivabletremor had cleavedit, so that it had the rpp.rrrnce, on this immutable plain, of a chipped yet tremendouslysharpiooth. -Mrrr,,' "This is the first time I've everseenan acuteangleorr saidRrrier. "That's not erosion.Neither wind nor sandhave managed to cut into this rock. Maybe it's just a giant crystal that has gro*n slowly, gradual a concentrationof like atoms, or perhaps. . . " We looked at each other. There wasone word on our lips. Artefacf. Was this, at last, the evidencefor which Earth had wait.d ,o long? There is nothing worse, I think, than being deceivedby"an object. Becauseone cannot reproachit. We had suddenly put our tiust in Mars. Like children. And we were deceived.It was not an artefact. But we did not want to acceptwhat that meant. It had been crazytohope. But we couldn't help it.

we spent the night at the foot of the crystalline mountains, and we experiencedevenmore difhculty in getting to sleepthan on previousdays.

eEnano KLETN/ 1eg We wereboth disappointedandsatisfied.Our journeyhad not beenin vain, and yet its secretgoal was completely unfulfilled. When morning came and the temperaturebecameendurable, we adiusted our respiratorsand went out. We had decidedto explorethe rocky massif,to leavethe tractor behind us and to carry only a light baggageof suppliesand instruments. The crystallinecliffs werenot overlyescarped.They containedfaultsand openingswhich permittedus to ascend.The rockwasthe color of ink, with hereand therea murky transparencywhich reminded us of thoseblocksof ice that wanderin space,the relicsof incredibly ancientoceans,fragments of shatteredice packs,debris, finally, of pulverized planets. We weretrying to reachthe largestfault, hoping to thus discoverthe very depths of the massif and to understandits structure. Perhapsa lake of mercury awaitedus there, or engravedrocks,or evensomecreature,a door to another dimension, the traces of previousvisitors, for this rock had survivedfor millions of yearsthe slowburial by sandthat lies in wait for all things on Mars. It had escapedthe tide of dust that fows overthe surfaceof the redplanet, and the movementofthe dunesthatare incessantlyshiftedby the light winds,and in a way it wasa witnessto pastages,epochsin which men did not dareasyet to lift their facesto the sky;evenlessdid they dream that one day they would voyage,weary, through theseconstellations. But when it came,the thing took us unawares.La Salle,who waswalking ahead,criedout. We heardhim clearlyand hurled ourselves headlongafter him. Ferrier,who wasfollowing us, urgedme ahead.Roundinga block, we saw La Salle, who seemedto be giving some obiect his utmost attention. "Listen," he saidto us. We heardnothing at first; then, aswe advancedanotherstep,from those borderlinesthat separatesilencefrom sound, we heard a gnashingnoise arise. We remainedimmobile. And this wasneitherthe voiceof the wind, nor its singing,nor eventhe light clatterof a stoneor the crackingof rock split by the frost. Itwas a steadyssh-sshing,like the accumulatednoiseof millions of superimposedsignals. The air of Mars is too thin for our earsto perceivethe soundsthat it transmits.Moreover,our eardrumswould nothavewithstoodthe difference of pressurewhich existsbetweenthe external milieu and our respiratory system.Our earsareentirelymasked,and minusculeamplifiersallow us to hearthe soundof our voicesand to makeout the noisesof Mars. And this, I can vouch for it, wasdifferent from anything that I had heard ,tp to that moment on the red planet. It wasnothing human, and nothing mineral.

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I moved my headslightly, and suddenlyI perceivedsomethingelsethat dominatedthis ssh-sshing, reducedit to an insignificantand endlessbackgroundnoise.I perceiveda voice,or ratherthe murmur of a million voices, the tumult of an entire race, uttering unbelievable,incomprehensible words,wordsI could nevertranscribewith any of the phoneticsignscurrent on Earth. "They're there," La Sallesaidto me, his eyesshining. He took a stepor two forward, and I sawhim hastilychangethe settingof his earphones.I followedhim and did the same,for the murmur had becomea tempest,the insectvoiceshad beentransformedinto a stridentand intolerablehowling, a muffled and terrifying roar. We wereprogressingalong a narrow fault betweentwo cliffs of rock. And us in successive, eddyingwaves.We weredrunk on it. We the soundassailed sensed,we knew that at lastwe wereabout to find what we had come to see on Mars, what we had in vain implored spaceto give us. Contact with another life. For as the sound grew louder, we did not have the slightestdoubt, not once. We were not easy men to deceive, nor were we liable to let our imaginationrun wild. This incrediblerichnessin the modulation of the sound could only be the doing of live beings. It mattered little that we understoodnothing; we had faith that Earth could solveproblemsof this of sort, by its minds and its machines.We were merely the ambassadors Earth. At the lastturn in the fault, the valley finally appeared.It resembledthe basinof a dried-uplake, closedin by tall smoothcliffswhich becamemore escarpedthe higher they rose.The oppositeend of the valleynarrowedand endedin a rocky bottleneck,finally coming up againsta terminal wall. There existedno other road that led to this valley exceptthe one that we had taken, unlessone wereto let oneselfdrop from the sky.It wasan arena rather than a valley, moreover:a vast oblong arena. And deserted. voicesassailedus. And yet theseincomprehensible It was a lake, you see, invisible, a lake of soundsand of dust, an impalpabledust that the yearshad laid down in this refuge,a dust fallen from the stars,borneby the wind, in which nothinghad left itstraces,a dust in which those who were calling to us had been swallowedr'tp,perhaps, buried. "Hello!" La Sallecried, his voice breaking. He wanted to answer,he hoped for a silenceof astonishment,but the arenawasempty and the densewavesof soundcamebreakingin on us one afterthe other.Wordswhispered,wordspronounced,phrasesdrawn out in a singlebreath, sprungfrom invisiblelips.

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"Where areyou?Oh, whereareyou?" La Sallecried in a mournful voice. What he was hearing was not enough for him, he wished to see these unknown messengers, he hoped to seerise up from this lake of dust who knows what hideous or admirable forms. His hands were trembling and mine as well, and at my back I heard the short, hissing breath of Ferrier. "Hello," cried an incredibly weakvoice from the other end of the valley. It wasthe voice of La Salle. It stoodout, minutely, againstthe sonorous backgroundof innumerablevoices;it wasa bit of wreckagecarried to our shore. "They are answeringus," La Sallesaid to me, without believingit. And his voicearosefrom a thousandplacesin the valley,an insect'svoice, shrill, murmurous, shattered,diffracted. "Hello, hello, hello," it said. "Where are you, where are you-you-you-you-you An echo, I thought.An echo.And La Salleturnedagaintowardme, and I readin his eyesthat he had understood,and I felt the hand of Ferrierweigh on my shoulder.Our voices, our mingled noiseswere groundedin the sound-matterthat filled the valley,and createdtricksof interference,returning to us asif reflectedin strangemirrors of sound, transformed,but not at all weakened.Wasit possiblethat such a valleyexistedon Mars, a valley of echoes,a valley wherethe transparentand thin air of Mars carriedforever the soundsreflectedby crystal walls? Did thereexistin the entire universea placewherethe fossilswerenot at all mineral, but sounds?Werewe, at last, hearingthe voicesof the ancient inhabitantsof Mars, long after the sandshad worn awayand engulfed the lastvestiges of their passing? Or wasit, indeed,the evidenceof othervisitors come from worldsof which we werestill ignorant?Had they passedby here yesterday,or a million yearsago?Were we no longer alone? Our instrumentswould tell us later and perhapsthey would succeedin unraveling this skein of waves,undo these knots, and extract from this involuntarymessagesome illuminating sense. The valley was utterly desertedand dead. A receptacle.The whole of Mars wasnothing but a receptaclethat receivedour tracesonly to annihilate them. Except for this spot, except for this valley of echoesthat would doubtlesscarry the sound of our voices through the agesto our distant perhapsnot human. successors, Ferriertook his hand from my shoulder,shovedme asideand pushedLa Salle away,and began to run towardsthe center of the valley. "Listen to them," he cried, "listen to them." His boots sank into the impalpabledust, and it roseabout him in an eddying. And we heard thesevoicesbreakingabout our ears,in a tempest that he had raised.I saw him running and I understoodwhat the sirens

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were,thesevoicesthat whisperedin his ears,that calledto him, that he had hopedfor all thesepastyearsand vainly searchedfor, and he plungedinto this sonorousseaand sankinto the dust.I wishedthat I could be bv his side, but I was incapableof making a move. The voiceshammeredagainstmy eardrums. "The fool," said La Salle in a sadvoice. "Oh, the poor fool." Ferriershouted.Ferriercalled, and the immutable, the ancientvoices answeredhim. He imbibed the voices.He drank them, devouredthem, stirredthem with his dementedgestures. And, slowly,theysubsided.He had disturbedsomeinstableequilibrium, destroyeda subtlemechanism.His bodywasa screen.He wastoo heavy,too materialfor thesethin voicesto endurehis contact. The voicesgrew weak. I felt them very slowly leaveme, I felt them go away,in a lastvibrationI heardthem shrivelup and die. And finally Ferrier fell silent. And in my earphonesI made out a last whispering. A kind of farewell. The silence.The silenceof Mars. When Ferrierfinally turned around, I saw,despitethe distance,despite the cloud of dust that graduallysettled,through his disorderedrespirator, tearsthat ran down his cheeks. And he put his handsto his ears.

TheFifth Head of Cenbenus GeneWo]fecameinto prominencein the 1970sasa writer's writer,then burstinto theforefrontof SFin the]980swith his four-volumework The Book of the lfew Sun, which won maior awardsand critical acclaim. His shortfiction is the most impressivesinceTheodoreSturgeon's. "The Fifth Headof Cerberus,"Iatercollectedin a bookof the sametitle, is one of three storieswith the samesetting. Literate, mysterious,profoundly strange, Wolfe'sstory was publishednearthe beginningof hiscareer.It could nothave beenpublishedduring Campbell'stime, beforesciencefrction wasbroadenedin its literary range.It should be contrastedto suchpost-NewWavestoriesaslohn Varley's"The Phantomof Kansas"and FrederikPoh]'s"The Cold at the StarbowiEnd."

When the ivy-todis heavywith snoq And the owlet whoopsto the wolf below, That eatsthe she-wolf's young. - SamuelThylorColeridge The Rimeof theAncientMariner

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fhen I was a boy my brother David and I had to go to bed early I t I f whetherwe weresleepyor not. In summer particularly,bedtime U y often came beforesunset;and becauseour dormitory wasin the eastwing of the house, with a broad window facing the central courtyard and thus looking west,the hard, pinkish light sometimesstreamedin for hours while we lay staringout at my father'scrippled monkeyperchedon a flaking parapet, or telling stories, one bed to another, with soundless gestures. Our dormitorywason the uppermostfloor of the house,and our window had a shutterof trvistediron which we wereforbiddento open. I supposethe theorywasthat a burglarmight, on somerainy morning (thisbeingthe only time he could hopeto find the roof, which wasfitted out asa sortof pleasure garden,deserted),let down a rope and so enter our room unlessthe shutter wasclosed. The object of this hypotheticaland very courageousthief would not, of course,be merelyto stealus. Children, whetherboysor girls, wereextraordinarily cheapin Port-Mimizon;andindeedI wasoncetold that my father, who had formerly traded in them, no longer did so becauseof the poor market.Whetheror not this wastrue, everyone-or nearlyeveryone-knew of someprofessionalwho would furnish what waswanted,within reason,at a low price. Thesemen made the children of the poor and the carelesstheir study,and shouldyou want, say,a brown-skinned,red-hairedlittle girl, or onewho wasplump, ot who lisped,a blond boy like David or a pale,brownhaired, brown-eyedboy such as I, they could provide one in a few hours. Neither, in all probability,would the imaginaryburglar seekto hold us for ransom, though *y fatherwasthought in somequartersto be immensely rich. There were severalreasonsfor this. Those few peoplewho knew that my brother and I existedknew also, or at leasthad been led to believe, that my father cared nothing at all for us. Whether this wastrue or not, I cannot say;certainly I believedit, and my father nevergaveme the least reasonto doubt it, though at the time the thought of killing him had never occurredto me. And if these reasonswere not sufficiently convincing, anyone with an understandingof the stratum in which he had become perhapsthe most permanentfeature would realizethat for him, who was alreadyforced to give large bribes to the secretpolice, to once disgorgemoney in that way would leavehim open to a thousandruinous attacks;and this may have been-this and the fear in which he was held-the real reasonwe were

I

tl

never stolen. The iron shutteris (for I am writing now in my old dormitory room) hammeredto resemblein a stiffand overlysymmetricalwaythe boughsof a

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willow. In my boyhoodit wasovergrownby a silvertrumpet vine (sincedug up) which had scrambled.tp the wall from the court below, and I usedto wish that it would closethe window entirely and thus shut out the sun when we weretrying to sleep;but David, whosebed wasunder the window was foreverreachingup to snapoffbranchessothathe could whistlethroughthe hollow stems,making a sort of panpipe of four or five. The piping, of course, growing louder as David grew bolder, would in time attract the attentionof Mr. Million, our tutor. Mr. Million would enterthe room in perfectsilence,his wide wheelsgliding acrossthe unevenfoor while David pretended sleep. The panpipe might by this time be concealedunder his pillow, in the sheet,or evenunderthe mattress,but Mr. Million would find it. What he did with thoselittle musicalinstrumentsafterconfiscatingthem from David I had forgotten until yesterday;although in prison, when we werekept in by stormsor heavysnow I often occupiedmyself by trying to recall it. To havebroken them, or droppedthem through the shutter onto the patio below would havebeencompletelyunlike him; Mr. Million never brokeanything intentionally,and neverwastedanything. I could visualize perfectlythe half-sorrowingexpressionwith which he drew the tiny pipes out (the face which seemedto float behind his screenwas much like my father's)and the wayin which he turned and glidedfrom the room. But what becameof them? Yesterday, as I said (this is the sort of thing that givesme confidence),I remembered.He had been talking to me herewhile I worked,and when he left it seemedto me-as my glance idly followed his smooth motion throughthe doorway-that something,a sortof flourishI recalledfrom my earliestdays,wasmissing.I closedmy eyesand tried to rememberwhat the appearance had been, eliminating any skepticism,any attemptto guessin advancewhat I "must" haveseen;and I found that the missingelementwasa brief fash, the glint of metal, over Mr. Million's head. Once I had establishedthis, I knew that it must havecome from a swift upwardmotion of his arm, like a salute,ashe left our room. For an hour or moreI could not guessthe reasonfor that gesture,and could only supposeit, whateverit had been, to havebeen destroyedby time. I tried to recall if the corridor outsideour dormitory had, in that really not so distantpast,held someobjectnow vanished:a curtain or a windowshade,an applianceto be activated,anything that might accountfor it. There was nothing. I went into the corridor and examined the floor minutely for marks indicating furniture. I looked for hooks or nails driven into the walls, pushingasidethe coarseold tapestries.Craning my neck, I searchedthe ceiling. Then, afteran hour, I lookedat the door itselfand sawwhat I had

1

not seenin the thousandsof times I had passedthrough it: that like all the doorsin this house,which is very old, it had a massiveframe of wooden slabs,and that one of these,forming the lintel, protrudedenoughfrom the wall to make a narrow shelf abovethe door. I pushedmy chair into the hall and stoodon the seat.The shelfwasthick with dust in which lay forty-sevenof my brother'spipes and a wonderful miscellanyof other small objects.Objectsmany of which I recalled,but from the recesses someof which still fail to summon any flickerof response of my mind. . . The small blue eggof asongbird,speckledwith brown. I supposethe bird must have nested in the vine outside our window, and that David or I despoiledthe nestonly to be robbedourselvesby Mr. Million. But I do not recall the incident. And thereis a (broken)puzzlemadeof the bronzedvisceraof somesmall animal, and-wonderfully evocative-one of those large and fancifully decoratedkeys,sold annually,which during the year of its currencywill to certain rooms of the city library after hours. Mr. admit the possessor Million, I suppose,must have confiscatedit when, after expiration,he found it doing duty as a toy; but what memories! My father had his own library, now in my possession;but we were forbiddento go there. I havea dim memory of standing-at how earlyan ageI cannotsay-before that hugecarveddoor.Of seeingit swingback,and the crippled monkeyon my father'sshoulderpressingitself againsthis hawk face,with the black scarfand scarletdressinggown beneathand the rows and rows of shabbybooksand notebooksbehind them, and the sick-sweet smell of formaldehydecoming from the laboratorybeyond the sliding mirror. I do not rememberwhat he saidor whetherit had been I or anotherwho had knocked,but I do recallthat afterthe door had closed,a woman in pink whom I thought very pretty stoopedto bring her faceto the level of my own and assuredme that my fatherhad written all the booksI had just seen,and that I doubted it not at all.

My brother and I, as I have said, were forbidden this room; but when we were a little older Mr. Million used to take us, about twice a week, on expeditionsto the city library.Thesewereverynearlythe only timeswe were allowedto leavethe house,and sinceour tutor dislikedcurling the jointed lengthof his metalmodulesinto a hire cart, and no sedanchair would have withstoodhis weight or containedhis bulk, theseforaysweremade on foot. For a long time this routeto the library wasthe only part ofthe city I knew.

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Three blocksdown SaltimbanqueStreetwhereour housestood,right at the Rue dAsticot to the slavemarket and a block beyondthat to the library. A child, not knowingwhat is extraordinaryand what commonplace,usually lights midway betweenthe two, finds interestin incidentsadults consider beneathnotice and calmly acceptsthe most improbableoccurrences.My brotherand I werefascinatedby the spuriousantiquesand bad bargainsof the Rue dAsticot, but often boredwhen Mr. Million insistedon stopping for an hour at the slavemarket. It wasnot a largeone, Port-Mimizon not beinga centerof the trade,and the auctioneersand their merchandisewere frequently on a most friendly basis-having met severaltimespreviouslyasa succession of ownersdiscovthe ered same fault. Mr. Million never bid, but watched the bidding, motionless,while we kickedour heelsand munched the fried breadhe had bought at a stall for us. There weresedanchairmen, their legsknotted with muscle,and simperingbath attendants; fighting slavesin chains,with eyes dulled by drugs or blazing with imbecile ferocity;cooks,houseservants,a hundred others-yet David and I usedto begto be allowedto proceedalone to the library. This library wasa wastefullylargebuilding which had held government officesin the old French-speaking days.The park in which it had oncestood had died ofpetty corruption, and the library now rosefrom a clutter of shops and tenements.A narrow thoroughfareled to the main doors,and once we wereinside,the squalorof the neighborhoodvanished,replacedby a kind of peelinggrandeur.The main deskwasdirectlybeneaththe dome, and this dome, drawingup with it a spiralingwalkwaylined with the library'smain collection, floatedfive hundred feet in the air: a stony skywhoseleastchip falling might kill one of the librarianson the spot. While Mr. Million browsedhis waymajesticallyup the helix, David and I racedaheaduntil we wereseveralfull turns in advanceand could do what we liked. When I wasstill quiteyoungit would oftenoccurto me that, since my father had written (on the testimony of the lady in pink) a roomful of books, someof them should be here;and I would climb resolutelyuntil I had almost reachedthe dome, and there rummage. Becausethe librarians werevery lax about reshelving,thereseemedalwaysa possibilityof finding what I had failed to find before.The shelvestoweredfar abovemy head,but when I felt myself unobservedI climbed them like ladders,steppingon bookswhen therewasno room on the shelvesthemselvesfor the squaretoes of my small brown shoes,and occasionallykicking booksto the floor where they remained until our next visit and beyond, evidence of the staffs reluctanceto climb that long, coiled slope. The upper shelveswere, if anything, in worsedisorderthan thosemore

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convenientlylocated,and onegloriousdaywhen I attainedthe highestof all I found occupyingthat lofty, dustyposition(besidesa misplacedastronauby someGerman) only a lorn copy of tics text, The Mile-Long Spaceship, Monday or Tuesdayleaning against a book about the assassinationof Tfotsky,and a crumbling volume of VernorVinge'sshortstoriesthat owedits presencethere,or so I suspect,to somelong-deadlibrarian'smistakingthe faded Y. Vinge on the spine for "Winge." I neverfound any booksof my father's,but I did not regretthe long climbs to the top of the dome. If David had comewith me, we racedup together,up and down the slopingfloor-or peeredover the rail at Mr. Million's slow progress while we debatedthe feasibilityof putting an end to him with one castof some ponderouswork. If David preferredto pursue interestsof his own farther down I ascendedto the very top where the cap of the dome curved right over my head;and there, from a rustediron catwalknot much wider than one of the shelvesI had beenclimbing (andI suspectnot nearly so strong),openedin turn eachof a circle of tiny piercings-piercingsin a wall of iron, but so shallow a wall that when I had slid the corroded coverplatesout of the way I could thrust my head through and feel myself truly outside,with the wind and the circling birds and the lime-spotted expanseof the dome curving awaybeneathme. To the west,sinceit wastallerthan the surroundinghousesand markedby the orangetreeson the roof, I could make out our house.To the south, the mastsof the shipsin the harbor,and in clearweather- if it wasthe right time of day-the whitecaps of the tidal race Sainte Anne drew between the peninsulascalledFirst FingerandThumb. (And once,asI verywell recall, while looking southI sawthe greatgeyserof sunlit waterwhen a starcrosser down.)To eastand north spreadthe city proper,the citadeland the splashed grand market and the forestsand mountains beyond. But sooneror later, whetherDavid had accompaniedme or gone off on his own, Mr. Million summonedus.Then we wereforcedto go with him to oneof the wingsto visit this or that sciencecollection.This meantbooksfor lessons.My father insistedthat we learn biology,anatomy,and chemistry thoroughly,and underMr. Million's tutelage,learnthem we did-he never consideringa subject mastereduntil we could discusseverytopic mentioned in everybook cataloguedunder the heading. The life scienceswere my own favorites,but David preferredlanguages,literature,and law;for we got a smattering of these as well as anthropology,cybernetics,and psychology. When he had selectedthe booksthat would form our study for the next few daysand urged us to choosemore for ourselves,Mr. Million would retire with us to somequiet corner of one of the sciencereadingrooms,

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wheretherewerechairs and a tableand room sufficientfor him to curl the iointedlengthof his bodyor align it againsta wall or bookcasein a waythat leftthe aislesclear.To designatethe formal beginningofour classhe usedto begin by calling roll, my own name alwayscoming first. I would say,"Here," to show that he had my attention. 'And David." "Here." (David hasan illustratedThlesfrom the Odysseyopen on his lap whereMr. Million cannot seeit, but he looksat Mr. Million with bright, feignedinterest.Sunshineslantsdown to the tablefrom a high window,and showsthe air aswarmwith dust.) "l wonder if either of you noticed the stone implements in the room through which we passeda few moments ago?" We nod, each hoping the other will speak. "Were they made on Earth, or here on our own planet?" This is a trick question,but an easyone. David says,"Neither one. They're plastic." And we giggle. Mr. Million sayspatiently,"Yes,they're plastic reproductions,but from wheredid the originalscome?"His face,sosimilarto my father's,but which I thought of at this time as belongingonly to him, so that it seemeda frightening reversalof nature to seeit on a living man insteadof his screen, was neither interested,nor angry,nor bored; but coolly remote. David answers,"From SainteAnne." SainteAnne is the sisterplanetto our own, revolvingwith us about a common centeraswe swingaround the sun. "The sign said so, and the aboriginesmade them-there weren't any aboshere." Mr. Million nods,andturns his impalpablefacetowardme. "Do you feel thesestoneimplementsoccupieda centralplacein the livesof their makers? Sayno." ttNo.tt

"Why not?" I think frantically, not helped by David, who is kicking my shins under the table. A glimmering comes. "Thlk. Answer at once. "It's obvious,isn't it?" (Alwaysa good thing to saywhen you're not even sure"it" is evenpossible.) "ln the first place,they can't havebeenvery good tools, so why would the abos have relied on them? you might say tfr.y neededthoseobsidianarrowheadsand bone fishhooksfor gettingfood, but that'snot true. They could poisonthe waterwith the juicesof certainplants, and for primitive peoplethe mosteffectivewayto fish is probablywithweirs, or with nets of rawhide or vegetablefiber. Justthe sameway, trapping or driving animalswith fire would be moreeffectivethan hunting; rnJ rny*ry

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stonetools wouldn't be neededat all for gatheringberriesand the shootsof edibleplantsand things like that, which wereprobablytheir mostimportant foods-those stonethingsgot in the glasscaseherebecausethe snaresand netsrottedawayand they'reall that'sleft, sothe peoplethat maketheir living that way pretendthey were important." "Good. David?Be original,please.Don't repeatwhat you'veiustheard." David looksup from his book, his blue eyesscornfulof both of us."lf you could haveaskedthem, they would havetold you that their magic and their religion, the songsthey sang,and the traditionsof their peoplewerewhat wereimportant.They killed their sacrificialanimalswith flails of seashells that cut like razors,and they didn't let their men fatherchildren until they had stoodenough fire to cripple them for life. They mated with treesand drownedthe children to honor their rivers.That waswhat wasimportant." With no neck, Mr. Million's face nodded. "Now we will debatethe humanity of thoseaborigines.David negativeand first." (I kick him, but he haspulled his hard, freckledlegsup beneathhim, or hiddenthem behindthe legsof his chair,which is cheating.)"Humanity," he saysin his most objectionablevoice, "in the historyof human thought implies descentfrom what we may convenientlycall Adam; that is, the original Terrestrialstock,and if the two of you don't seethat, you're idiots." I wait for him to continue, but he is finished. To give myself time to think, I say,"Mr. Million, it'snot fair to let him call me namesin a debate. Tell him that'snot debating,it's fighting, isn't it?" David." (Davidis alreadypeekingat Mr. Million says,"No personalities, Polyphemusthe Cyclopsand Odysseus,hoping I'll go on for a long time. I feel challengedand decideto do so.) I begin, "The argument which holds descent from Terrestrial stock pivotalis neithervalid nor conclusive.Not conclusivebecauseit is distinctly of someearlier possiblethatthe aboriginesof SainteAnne weredescendants wave of human expansion-one, perhaps,even predatingThe Homeric Greeks." Mr. Million saysmildly, "l would confinemyselfto argumentsof higher probability if I were you." glossupon the Etruscans,Atlantis, and the tenacity and I nevertheless expansionisttendenciesof a hypotheticaltechnologicalculture occupying Gondwanaland.When I have finished Mr. Million says,"Now reverse. David, affirmative without repeating." My brother,of course,hasbeenlooking at his book insteadof listening, and I kick him with enthusiasm,expectinghim to be stuck;but he says, "The abosare human becausethey'reall dead." "Explain."

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"lf they werealive it would be dangerousto let them be human because they'daskfor things,but with them deadit makesit more interestingif they were, and the settlerskilled them all." And so it goes.The spotof sunlight travelsacrossthe black-streaked red of the tabletop-traveled acrossit a hundred times. We would leavethrough one of the side doors and walk through a neglectedareawaybetweentwo wings.There would be empty bottlesthereand wind-scatteredpapersof all kinds, and oncea deadman in bright ragsoverwhoselegswe skippedwhile Mr. Million rolled silently around him. As we left the areawayfor a narrow street,the buglesof the garrisonat the citadel (soundingso far away)would call the troopersto their eveningmess.In the Rue dAsticotthe lamplighter would be at work, and the shopsshut behind their iron grilles.The sidewalks magicallyclear of old furniture would seembroad and bare. Our own Saltimbanque Street would be very different, with the first revelersarriving. White-haired, heartymen guiding very young men and boys, men and boys handsomeand muscular but a shadeoverfed;young men who made diffident jokes and smiled with excellentteeth at them. Thesewerealwaysthe early ones,and when I wasa little older I sometimes wonderedif they wereearly only becausethe white-haired men wishedto havetheir pleasureand yet a good night'ssleepaswell, or if it werebecause they knew the young men they were introducing to my father'sestablishment would be drowsyand irritableaftermidnight, like children who have been kept up too late. BecauseMr. Million did not want us to usethe alleysafter dark we came in the front entrance with the white-haired men and their nephewsand sons.There was a garden there, not much bigger than a small room and recessedinto the windowlessfront of the house.In it werebedsof fernsthe sizeof graves;a little fountain whosewaterfell upon rodsof glassto make a continual tinkling, and which had to be protectedfrom the streetboys;and, with his feetfirmly planted,indeedalmostburiedin moss,an iron statueof a dog with three heads. It was this statue, I suppose,that gaveour house its popular name of Maison du Chien, though theremay havebeen a referenceto our surname as well. The three headswere sleeklypowerful with pointed muzzlesand ears. One was snarling and one, the center head, regardedthe world of gardenand streetwith a look of tolerantinterest.The third, the one nearest the brick path that led to our door, was-there is no other term for itfrankly grinning; and it wasthe custom for my father'spatronsto pat this headbetweenthe earsasthey came up the path. Their fingershad polished the spot to the consistencyof black glass.

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This, then, wasmy world at sevenof our world'slong years'and perhapsfor half a year beyond. Most of my dayswerespentin the little classroomover which Mr. Million presided,and my eveningsin the dormitory where David and I playedand fought in total silence.They werevariedby the trips to the library I havedescribedor, very rarely,elsewhere.I pushedasidethe leavesof the silver trumpet vine occasionallyto watch the girls and their benefactorsin the court below, or heard their talk drifting down from the roof garden,but the things they did and talkedof wereof no greatinterestto me. I knew that the tall, hatchet-facedman who ruled our houseand was called "Maitre" by the girls and servantswasmy father.I had known for as long as I could rememberthat there wassomewherea fearsomewomanthe servantswere in terror of her-called "Madame," but that she was neither my mother, nor David's, nor my father'swife. That life and my childhood, or at leastmy infancy,endedone evening after David and I, worn out with wrestlingsand silent arguments,had gone to sleep.Someoneshookme by the shoulderand called me, and it wasnot Mr. Million but one of the servants,a hunched little man in a shabbyred jacket."He wantsyou," this summonerinformed me. "Get up." I did, and he sawthat I waswearingnightclothes.This I think had not been coveredin his instructions,and for a moment during which I stood " he saidat last-"Comb andyawned,he debatedwith himself."Get dressed, your hair." I obeyed,putting on the black velvettrousersI had worn the day before, but (guidedby someinstinct)a new cleanshirt. The room to which he then conductedme (through tortuous corridorsnow emptied of the lastpatrons; and others,musty,filthy with the excrementof rats,to which patronswere never admitted) was my father'slibrary-the room with the great carved door beforewhich I had receivedthe whisperedconfidencesof the woman in pink. I had neverbeeninsideit, but when my guiderappeddiscreetlyon the door it swungback,and I found myselfwithin, almostbeforeI realized what had happened. My father,who had openedthe door, closedit behind me;and leavingme standingwhereI was,walkedto the most distantend of that long room and threw himselfdown in a huge chair. He waswearingthe red dressinggown and black scarfin which I had most often seenhim, and his long, sparse hair wasbrushedstraightback. He staredat me, and I rememberthat my lip trembled as I tried to keep from breaking into sobs. "Well," he said,afterwe had lookedat one anotherfor a long time, "and there you are. What am I going to call you?" I told him my name, but he shookhis head. "Not that. You must have

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anothername for me-a privatename. You may chooseit yourselfif you like." I saidnothing. It seemedto me quite impossiblethat I shouldhaveany name other than the two wordswhich were, in somemystic senseI only respectedwithout understanding,my ndme. "l'll choosefor you then," -y fathersaid."You are Number Five. Come here, Number Five." I came,andwhen I wasstandingin front of him, he told me, "Now we are going to play a game. I am going to show you some pictures, do you understand?And all the time you are watching them, you must talk. Talk about the pictures.If you talk you win, but if you stop, even for just a second,I do. Understand?" I said I did. "Good. I know you're a bright boy. As a matter of fact, Mr. Million has sentme all the examinationshe hasgivenyou andthe tapeshe makeswhen he talkswith you. Did you know that?Did you everwonderwhat he did with them?" I said, "l thought he threw them away,"and my father,I noticed, leaned forward as I spoke,a circumstanceI found flatteringat the time. "No, I havethem here." He presseda switch. "Now remember,you must not stop talking." But for the first few moments I was much too interestedto talk. Therehad appearedin the room, asthoughby magic,a boy considerably youngerthan I, and a paintedwoodensoldieralmostaslargeasI wasmyself, which when I reachedout to touch them provedasinsubstantialasair. "Say something," my fathersaid."What areyou thinking about,Number Five?" I wasthinking aboutthe soldier,of course,and so wasthe youngerboy, who appearedto be about three. He toddledthrough my arm like mist and attemptedto knock it over. They wereholograms-three-dimensionalimagesformed by the interferenceof hvo wave fronts of light-things which had seemedvery dull when I had seenthem illustratedby flat picturesof chessmenin my physics book; but it was some time before I connectedthose chessmenwith the phantomswho walkedin my father'slibraryat night. All this time my father was saying, "Thlk! Say something! What do you think the little boy is feeling?" "Well, the little boy likesthe big soldier,but he wantsto knock him down if he can, becausethe soldier'sonly a toy, really, but it's bigger than he is . . ." And so I talked,and for a long time, hoursI suppose,continued. The scenechangedand changedagain.The giantsoldierwasreplacedby a

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pony, a rabbit, a meal of soup and crackers.But the three-year-oldboy iemained the central figure. When the hunched man in the shabbycoat came again, yawning, to take me back to my bed, my voice had worn to a huskywhisperand my throat ached.In my dreamsthat night I sawthe little boy scamperingfrom one activity to another,his personalityin someway confused with my own and my father'sso that I was at once observer, observed,and a third Presenceobservingboth. The next night I fell asleepalmostat the moment Mr. Million sentus up only long enoughto congratulatemyselfon to bed, retainingconsciousness doing so. I woke when the hunched man enteredthe room, but it wasnot *. *hotn he rousedfrom the sheetsbut David. Quietly, pretendingI still slept(for it had occurred to me, and seemedquite reasonableat the time, that if he wereto seeI wasawakehe might takeboth of us), I watchedasmy brotherdressedand struggledto impart somesortof orderto his tangleoffair hair. When he returned I was sound asleep,and had no oPportunity to questionhim until Mr. Million left usalone,ashe sometimesdid, to eatour breakfast.I had told him my own experiencesas a matter of course, and what he had to tell me wassimplythat he had had an eveningverysimilarto mine. He had seen holograms,and apparentlythe same:the wooden soldier,the pony. He had beenforcedto talk constantly,asMr. Million had so often made us do in debatesand verbalexaminations.The only way in which his interview with our father had differedfrom mine, as nearly as I could determine,appearedwhen I askedhim by what name he had been called. He looked at me blankly, a piece of toasthalf raisedto his mouth. I asked again,"What name did he call you by when he talked to you?" "He called me David. What did you think?" With the beginning of theseinterviewsthe pattern of my life changed, the adjustmentsI assumedto be temporarybecoming imperceptiblypermanent, settling into a new shape of which neither David nor I were consciouslyaware.Our gamesand storiesafterbedtime stopped,and David lessandlessoftenmadehis panpipesof the silvertrumpetvine. Mr. Million to be allowedusto sleeplaterand we werein somesubtlewayacknowledged more adult. At about this time too, he beganto takeus to a parkwherethere was an archery range and provisionfor variousgames.This little park, which wasnot far from our house,wasborderedon one sideby a canal. And there,while David shotarrowsat a goosestuffedwith strawor playedtennis, I often satstaringat the quiet, only slightlydirty water;or waitingfor one of the white ships-great ships with bows as sharp as the scalpel-billsof kingfisherrrnd four, five, or even sevenmasts-which were' infrequently, towed up from the harbor by ten or twelve spansof oxen.

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In the summerof my eleventhor twelfthyear-I think the twelfth-we werepermittedfor thefirsttimeto stayaftersundownin thepark,sittingon display.The first slopedmarginof thecanalto watcha fireworks thegrassy, itselfhalfa mile above hadno soonerexhausted preliminaryflightof rockets waterand vomited, rushed to the ill. He David became the city than plunginghis handshalf up to the elbowsin muckwhilethe redandwhite starsburnedin gloryabovehim. Mr. Million tookhim up in hisarms,and when poor Davidhad emptiedhimselfwe hurriedhome. provednot muchmorelastingthanthetaintedsandwichthat His disease it, but whileour tutorwasputtinghim to bedI decidednot hadoccasioned to becheatedof the remainderof thedisplay,partsof which I hadglimpsed aswemadeour wayhome;I wasforbidden betweenthe interveninghouses the roof afterdark, but I knewverywell wherethe neareststairwas.The that prohibitedworld of leafand shadowwhile thrill I felt in penetrating it affectedme gold purple andblazingscarletovertopped of and fire-fowers liketheaftermathof a fever,leavingmeshortof breath,shaking,andcoldin the midst of summer. Therewerea greatmanymorepeopleon theroofthanI hadanticipated, the men withoutcloaks,hats,or sticks(all of which they had left in my that in costumes employees, andthegirls,my father's father's checkrooms), or of twistedwirelikebirdcages, in enclosures theirrougedbreasts displayed only when someone of greatheight(dissolved gavethem the appearance theirwearers'faces gowns refected skirts whose stoodverycloseto them),or andbustsasstill waterdoesthetreesstandingnearit, sothattheyappeared, likethequeensof strangesuitsin a tarot in the intermittentcoloredflashes, deck. I wasseen,of course,sinceI wasmuch too excitedto concealmyself I had theyassumed but no oneorderedme back,andI suppose effectively; beenpermittedto comeup to seethe fireworks. Thesecontinuedfor a long time. I rememberone patron, a heavy, stupid-lookingman who seemedto be someoneof imporsquare-faced, tance,whowassoeagerto enjoythecompanyof hisprot6gde-whodid not want to go insideuntil the displaywasover-that, sincehe insistedon on the privacy,twentyor thirty bushes andsmalltreeshadto be rearranged parterreto makea little grovearoundthem.I helpedthewaiterscarrysome to duckintothestructureasit was of thesmallertubsandpots,andmanaged completed.Here I could still watch the explodingrocketsand "aerial bombs"throughthe branches,and at the sametime the patronand his nymphedu bois,whowaswatchingthema gooddealmoreintentlythan I. My motive,aswell as I can remember,wasnot pruriencebut simple interested,but the curiosi$.I wasat that agewhen we are passionately

passionis one of science.Mine wasnearlysatisfiedwhen I wasgraspedby the shirt by someonebehind me and drawn out of the shrubbery. When I wasclear of the leavesI wasreleased,and I turned expectingto seeMr. Million, but it wasnot he. My captorwasa little gray-hairedwoman in a black dresswhoseskirt, as I noticed evenat the time, fell straightfrom her waist to the ground. I supposeI bowedto her, sinceshewasclearly no servant,but shereturnedno salutationat all, staringintentlyinto my facein a waythat made me think shecould seeaswell in the intervalsbetweenthe burstinggloriesasby their light. At last,in what musthavebeenthe finaleof the display,a greatrocket rose screamingon a river of flame, and for an instantsheconsentedto look up. Then, when it had explodedin a mauve orchid of unbelievablesize and brilliance, this formidablelittle woman grabbedme again and led me firmly toward the stairs. While we wereon the levelstonepavementof the roof gardenshedid not, as nearly as I could see,walk at all, but ratherseemedto glide acrossthe surfacelike an onyx chessmanon a polishedboard;and that, in spiteof all thathashappenedsince,is the wayI still rememberher:asthe BlackQueen, a chessqueen neither sinisternor beneficent,and Black only as distinguishedfrom some White Queen I was neverfated to encounter. When we reachedthe stairs,however,this smoothgliding becamea fluid bobbing that brought trvo inchesor more of the hem of her black skirt into contactwith eachstep,asif her torsoweredescendingeachasa small boat might a rapids-now rushing, now pausing,now almost backing in the crosscurrents. Shesteadiedherselfon thesestepsby holding on to me and graspingthe arm of a maid who had beenwaitingfor us at the stairheadand assisted her from the otherside.I had supposed, while we werecrossingthe roofgarden, that her gliding motion had been the result, merely, of a marvelously controlledwalk and good posture,but I now understoodher to be in some wayhandicapped;and I had the impressionthat without the help the maid and I gaveher she might have fallen headfirst. Once we had reachedthe bottom of the stepsher smooth progresswas resumed.Shedismissedthe maid with a nod and led me down the corridor in the directionoppositeto that in which our dormitory and classroomlay until we reacheda stairwellfar toward the back of the house,a corkscrew, seldom-usedflight, very steep,with only a low iron banisterbetweenthe stepsand a six-storydrop into the cellars.Here shereleasedme and told me crisply to go down. I went down severalsteps,then turned to seeif shewas having any difficulty. She was not, but neither was she using the stairs.With her long skirt

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watchingme, hangingasstraightasa curtain shewasfoating, suspended, in the centerof the stairwell.I wassostartledI stopped,which madeher jerk her headangrily, then beganto run. As I fled around and around the spiral sherevolvedwith me, turning toward me alwaysa faceextraordinarilylike my father's,one hand alwayson the railing. When we had descendedto the secondfloor sheswoopeddown and caughtme aseasilyasa cat takescharge where I had of an errant kitten, and led me through rooms and passages neverbeen permittedto go until I wasasconfusedasI might havebeen in a strangebuilding. At last we stoppedbeforea door in no way differentfrom any other. Sheopenedit with an old-fashionedbrasskey with an edgelike a saw and motioned for me to go in. The room wasbrightly lit, and I wasable to seeclearly what I had only sensedon the roof and in the corridors:that the hem of her skirt hung two inchesabovethe floor no matterhow shemoved,and that therewasnothing between the hem and the floor at all. She waved me to a little footstool coveredwith needlepointand said, "Sit down," and when I had done so, glided acrossto a wing-backedrockerand satfacingme. After a moment she asked,"What's your name?"and when I told her shecockedan eyebrowat me, and startedthe chair in motion by pushinggently with her fingersat a 'And what doeshe floor lamp that stoodbesideit. After a long time shesaid, you?" call "He?" I was stupid, I suppose,with lack of sleep. She pursed her lips. "My brother." I relaxeda little. "Oh," I said,"you're my auntthen. I thought you looked like my father. He calls me Number Five." For a moment shecontinued to stare,the cornersof her mouth drawing down asmy father'soften did. Then shesaid, "That number'seither far too low or too high. Living, thereare he and I, and I supposehe'scounting the simulator. Have you a sister,Number Five?" Mr. Million had been having us read David Copperfield,and when she said this she reminded me so strikingly and unexpectedlyof Aunt Betsey Tiotwood that I shoutedwith laughter. "There'snothing absurdabout it. Your fatherhad a sister-why shouldn't you? You have none?" "No ma'am, but I have a brother.His name is David." "Call me Aunt feannine. Does David look like you, Number Five?" I shook my head. "His hair is curly and blond insteadof like mine. Maybe he looks a little like me, but not a lot. " "l suppose,"my aunt said under her breath,"he usedone of my girls." "Ma'am?"

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"Do you know who David'smother was, Number Five?" "We're brothers,so I guessshe would be the sameas mine, but Mr. Million saysshe went awaya long time ago." "Notthe sameasyours,"*y aunt said."No. I could showyou a pictureof your own. Would you like to seeit?" She rang a bell, and a maid came curtsying from some room beyond the one in which we sat; my aunt whisperedto her,and shewentout again.When my aunt turnedbackto me 'And sheasked, what do you do all day,Number Five, besidesrun up to the roof when you shouldn't?Are you taught?" I told her aboutmy experiments (l wasstimulatingunfertilizedfrogs'.ggt to asexualdevelopmentand then doublingthe chromosomes by a chemical treatmentso that a further asexualgenerationcould be produced)and the dissectionsMr. Million wasby then encouragingme to do, and while I talked,happenedto drop someremarkabouthow interestingit would be to performa biopsyon oneof the aboriginesof SainteAnne if any werestill in existence,sincethe firstexplorers'descriptions differedsowidely,and some pioneersthere had claimed the aboscould changetheir shapes. 'Ah," my aunt said, "you know about them. Let me testyou, Number Five. What is Veil'sHypothesis?" We had learned that severalyearsbefore, so I said, "Veil's hypothesis supposes the abosto havepossessed the ability to mimic mankind perfectly. Veil thought that when the shipscamefrom Earth the aboskilled everyone and took their placesand the ships, so they'renot dead at all, we are." "You mean the Earth people are,"my aunt said. "The human beings." "Ma'am?" "If Veil wascorrect,then you and I areabosfrom SainteAnne, at leastin origin; which I supposeis what you meant. Do you think he was right?" "l don't think it makesany difference.He saidthe imitation would have to be perfect, and if it is, they'rethe sameaswe wereanyway." I thought I wasbeing clever,but my aunt smiled, rockingmore vigorously.It wasvery warm in the close, bright little room. "Number Five, you're too young for semantics,and I'm afraid you've been led astrayby that word perfectly.Dr. Veil, I'm certain, meant to useit looselyratherthan as preciselyasyou seemto think. The imitation could hardly havebeenexact,sincehuman beingsdon't possess that talentand to imitate them perfectlythe aboswould have to lose it. " "Couldn't they?" "My dear child, abilitiesof everysort must evolve.And when they do theymustbe utilized or they atrophy.If the aboshad beenableto mimic so well asto losethe powerto do so,thatwould havebeenthe endof them, and no doubt it would havecome long beforethe first shipsreachedthem. Of

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coursethere'snot the slightestevidencethey could do anything of the sort. They simply died offbeforethey could be thoroughlystudied,and Veil, who wantsa dramaticexplanationfor the crueltyand irrationalityhe seesaround him, has hung fifty pounds of theory on nothing." to This last remark,especiallyas my aunt seemedso friendly,aPPeared me to offer an ideal opportunity for a questionabout her remarkablemeans of locomotion, but as I wasabout to frame it we were interrupted, almost from two directions.The maid returnedcarrying a large simultaneously, book bound in tooled leather,and shehad no soonerhandedit to my aunt than therewasa tap at the door. My aunt saidabsently,"Get that," and since the remark might as easily have been addressedto me as to the maid I satisfiedmy curiosity in another form by racing her to answerthe knock. Two of my father'sdemi-mondaineswerewaiting in the hall, costumed and painted until they seemedmore alien than any abos, statelyas Lomwith greenand yelloweyesmadeto bardypoplarsand inhuman asspecters, look the sizeof eggs,and inflated breastspushedalmostshoulderhigh;and though they maintained an inculcated composureI was pleasantlyaware that they werestartledto find me in the doorway.I bowedthem in, but asthe maid closedthe door behind them my aunt saidabsently,"In a moment, girls, I want to show the boy here something, then he'sgoing to leave." The "something"wasa photographutilizing, asI supposed,somenovelty techniquewhich washedawayall colorsavea light brown. It wassmall, and from its generalappearanceand crumbling edgesvery old. It showeda girl of twenty-fiveor so, thin and asnearlyasI could judge rathertall, standing besidea stockyyoung man on a pavedwalkwayand holding a baby. The walkway ran along the front of a remarkablehouse, a very long wooden house only a story in height, with a porch or verandathat changed its architectural style every twenty or thirty feet so as to give almost the impressionof a number of exceedinglynarrow housesconstructedwith their sidewallsin contact.I mention this detail, which I hardly noticedat the time, becauseI haveso often sincemy releasefrom prison tried to find sometrace of this house.When I was first shown the picture I was much more interestedin the girl's face, and the baby's.The latter was in fact scarcelyvisible,he beingnearlysmotheredin white-woolblankets.The girl had largefeaturesand a brilliant smilewhich held a suggestionof that rarely seencharm which is at once careless,poetic, and sly.GyPty,wasmy first thought, but her complexionwassurelytoo fair for that. Sinceon this world we areall descendedfrom a relativelysmall groupof colonists,we are rather a uniform population,but my studieshad given me somefamiliarity with the original Terrestrialraces,and my secondguess,almosta certainty,was Celtic. "Wales,"I saidaloud. "Or Scotland.Or Ireland."

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"what?" my aunt said. one of the girls giggled;they were seatedon the divan now,their long, gleaminglegscrossedbeforethem like the varnished staffs of fags. "lt doesn't matter." My aunt lookedat me acutelyand said, "You'reright. I'll sendfor you, and we'll talk about this when we'veboth more leisure. For the presentmy maid will take you to your room." I remembernothing of the long walk the maid and I must havehad back to the dormitory, or what excusesI gaveMr. Million for my unauthorized absence.Whateverthey wereI supposehe penetratedthem, or discovered the truth by questioningthe servants,becauseno summonsto return to my aunt'sapartment came, although I expectedit daily for weeksafterward. That night-I am reasonablysureit wasthe samenight-l dreamedof the abosof SainteAnne, abosdancing with plumes of fresh grasson their headsand armsand ankles,abosshakingtheir shieldsof wovenrushesand their nephrite-tippedspearsuntil the motion affectedmy bed and became, in shabbyred cloth, the armsof my father'svaletcometo summon me, ashe did almost everynight, to his library. That night, andthis time I am quite certainit wasthe samenight, that is, the night I first dreamedof the abos, the pattern of my hours with him, which had come over the four or five years past to have a predictable sequenceof conversation,holograms,free association,and dismissalchanged.Followingthe preliminarytalk designed,I feel sure,to put me at ease(at which it failed,asit alwaysdid), I wastold to roll up a sleeveand lie down upon an old examining table in a cornerof the room. My fatherthen made me look at the wall, which meant at the shelvesheapedwith ragged notebooks.I felt a needlebeing thrust into the inner part of my arm, but my headwasheld down and my faceturned away,so that I could neithersit up nor look at what he wasdoing. Then the needlewaswithdrawn, and I was told to lie quietly. After what seemeda verylong time, during which my fatheroccasionally spreadmy eyelidsto look at my eyesor took my pulse,someonein a distant part ofthe room beganto tell a very long and confusinglyinvolvedstory.My father made notesof what wassaid, and occasionallystoppedto askquestions I found it unnecessaryto answer,since the storytellerdid it for me. The drug he had givenme did not, asI had imaginedit would, lessenits hold on me asthe hourspassed.Insteadit seemedto carry me progressively further from reality and the mode of consciousness bestsuitedto preserving the individualityof thought. The peelingleatherof the examinationtable vanishedunder me, and wasnow the deck of a ship, now the wing of a dove beatingfar abovethe world; and whetherthe voice I heard reciting wasmy

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higher, own or my father'sI no longercared.It waspitchedsometimes from the be speaking to times I felt myself at lower,but then sometimes depthsof a chestlargerthanmy own,andhisvoice,identifiedassuchbythe mightseemthehigh,treblecries of his notebook, softrustlingof thepages asI heardthemin summerwhenI thrust of theracingchildrenin thestreets my headthroughthe windowsat the baseof the librarydome. to With that night my life changedagain.The drugs-for thereseemed wasthe usualonethere andalthoughthe effectI havedescribed be several, to lie still,but ranup anddown werealsotimeswhenI foundit impossible frightening for hoursas I talked,or sankinto blissfulor indescribably dreams-affectedmy health. I often wakenedin the morning with a thatkeptme in agonyall day,andI becamesubiectto periodsof headache Mostfrighteningof all, whole andapprehensiveness. extremenervousness sothat I foundmyselfawakeand disappeared, sectionsof dayssometimes reading,walking,and eventalking,with no memoryat all of dressed, sinceI hadlain mutteringto theceilingin my anythingthathadhappened before. night father'slibrarythe but in somesenseMr. I hadhadwith Daviddid not cease, The lessons It wasI, now,who insistedon Million'sroleand mine werenow reversed. whentheywereheld at all; and it wasI who chosethe holdingour classes questioned DavidandMr. Million about subfectmatterand,in mostcases, or the parkI remainedin bed the library at were they it. But oftenwhen reading,andI believethereweremanytimeswhenI readandstudiedfrom valetcamefor in my beduntil my father's thetime I foundmyselfconscious me again. with our father,I shouldnotehere,sufferedthe same David'sinterviews asmy ownandatthesametime;but sincetheywerelessfrequentchanges andtheybecamelessandlessfrequentasthehundreddaysof summerwore on thewhole awayto autumnandat lastto thelongwinter-and heseemed him was notnearlyas on to thedrugs,theeffect reactions to havelessadverse great. If at any singletime, it wasduringthis winterthat I cameto the endof and childhood.My newill healthforcedme awayfrom childishactivities, I wascarryingout on smallanimals,andmy the experiments encouraged of the bodiesMr. Million suppliedin an unendingstreamof dissections openmouthsandstaringeyes.Too, I studiedor read,asI havesaid,for hourson end;or simplylaywith my handsbehindmy headwhileI struggled I hadheardmyself for wholedaystogether,thenarratives to recall,perhaps enoughevento remember givemy father.NeitherDavidnor I couldever askedus, but I have build a coherenttheoryof the natureof the questions stillcertainscenes fixedin my memorywhichI am sureI haveneverbeheld

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in fact, and I believetheseare my visualizationsof suggestions whispered while I bobbed and dove through those altered statesof consciousness. My aunt, who had previouslybeen so remote, now spoketo me in the corridors and even visited our room. I learned that she controlled the interior arrangementsof our house, and through her I wasable to have a small laboratoryof my own setup in the samewing. But I spentthe winter, as I havedescribed,mostly at my enamel dissectingtable or in bed. The white snowdriftedhalf up the glassof the window,clingingto the barestems of the silvertrumpet vine. My father'spatrons,on the rareoccasionsI saw them, came in with wet boots, the snow on their shouldersand their hats, puffing and red-facedasthey beattheir coatsin the foyer.The orangetrees were gone, the roof garden no longer used, and the courtyard under our window only late at night when half a dozen patronsand their protdgdes, whoopingwith hilarity and wine, foughtwith snowballs-an activityinvariably concludedby strippingthe girlsandtumbling them nakedin the snow.

Springsurprisedme, asshealwaysdoesthoseof us who remain mostof our livesindoors.One day,while I still thought, if I thought aboutthe weatherat all, in terms of winter, David threw open the window and insistedthat I go with him into the park-and it wasApril. Mr. Million went with us, and I rememberthat as we steppedout the front door into the little gardenthat opened into the street, a garden I had last seen banked with the snow shoveledfrom the path, but which wasnow bright with early bulbs and the chiming of the fountain, David tappedthe iron dog on its grinnin gmuzzle 'And and recited: thence the dogMith fourfold head brought to these realmsof light." I made sometrivial remark about his having miscounted. "Oh, no. Old Cerberushasfour heads,don't you knowthat?The fourth's her maidenhead,and she'ssuch a bitch no dog can takc it from her." Even Mr. Million chuckled,but I thought afterward,looking at David'sruddy good health and the foreshadowingof manhood alreadyapparentin the set of his shoulders,that if as I had alwaysthought of them, the three heads represented Maitre, Madame,and Mr. Million, that is, my father,my aunt (David'smaidenhead,Isuppose), and my tutor, then indeeda fourth would have to be welded in place soon for David himself. The park must havebeen a paradisefor him, but in my poor health I found it bleakenoughand spentmostof the morning huddledon a bench, watching David play squash.Toward noon I was joined, not on my own bench, but on anothercloseenoughfor thereto be a feelingof proximity, by a dark-haired girl with one ankle in a cast. She was brought there, on

GENEWOLFE / 213 crutches, by , sort of nurse or governesswho seatedherself, I felt sure deliberately,betweenthe girl and me. This unpleasantwoman was, howfor her chaperonageto succeedcompletely.Shesat ever,too straightbacked while the girl, with her injured leg thrust out bench, on the edge of the beforeher, slumpedbackand thus gaveme a goodview of her profile, which wasbeautiful; and occasionally,when sheturned to make some remark to the creaturewith her, I could study her full face-carmine lips and violet eyes,a round rather than an oval face, with a broad point of black hair dividing the forehead;archly delicateblack eyebrowsand long, curling lashes.When a vendor, an old woman, came selling Cantoneseegg rolls (longerthan your hand, and still sohot from the boiling fat that they needed to be eaten with great caution as though they were in some way alive), I and, aswell asbuying one for myself, senther with madeher my messenger to the girl and her attendantmonster. delicacies two scalding The monster,of course,refused;the girl, I wascharmedto see,pleaded; her huge eyesand bright cheekseloquently proclaiming argumentsI was unfortunately just too far awayto hear but could follow in pantomime: it would be a gratuitousinsult to a blamelessstrangerto refuse;shewashungry and had intendedto buy an eggroll in any event-how thriftlessto obiect when what shehad wishedfor wasrenderedfree!The vendingwoman, who clearlydelightedin her role asgo-between,announcedherselfon the point of weepingat the thought of being forcedto refund my gold (actuallya bill of small denominationnearlyasgreasyasthe paperin which her wareswere wrapped, and considerablydirtier), and eventuallytheir voicesgrew loud enough for me to hear the girl's, which was a clear and very pleasing contralto. In the end, of course,they accepted;themonsterconcededme a frigid nod, and the girl winked at me behind her back. Half an hour later when David and Mr. Millon, who had been watching him from the edgeof the court, askedif I wantedlunch, I told them I did, thinking that when we returnedI could takea seatcloserto the girl without being brazenabout it. We ate, I (at leastsoI fear)very impatiently,in a clean little caf6closeto the flower market;but when we camebackto the park the girl and her governesswere gone. We returnedto the house,and about an hour afterwardmy fathersentfor me. I went with some trepidation, since it was much earlier than was customaryfor our interview-before the first patronshad arrived, in fact, while I usually sawhim only afterthe lasthad gone. I neednot havefeared. He beganby askingabout my health, and when I saidit seemedbetterthan and even it had beenduring mostof the winter he began,in a self-conscious pompousway,as different from his usual fatiguedincisivenessascould be imagined, to talk about his businessand the need a young man had to

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preparehimself to earn a living. He said, "You are a scientificscholar,I believe." I saidI hoped I wasin a small way,and bracedmyselffor the usual attack upon the uselessness of studyingchemistryor biophysicson a world like ours wherethe industrialbasewasso small, of no help at the civil service examinations,does not even prepareone for trade, and so on. He said instead,"l'm gladto hearit. To be frank, I askedMr. Million to encourage you in that asmuch ashe could. He would havedoneit anywayI'm sure;he did with me. Thesestudieswill not only be of greatsatisfaction to you, but will . . " he paused,clearedhis throat, and massaged his faceand scalp with his hands,"be valuablein all sortsof ways.And they are,asyou might say,a family tradition." I said, and indeedfelt, that I wasvery hrppy to hear that. "Have you seenmy lab? Behind the big mirror there?" I hadn't, though I had known that sucha suite of roomsexistedbeyond the sliding mirror in the library,and the servantsoccasionallyspokeof his "dispensary"wherehe compoundeddosesfor them, examinedmonthly the girls we employed,and occasionallyprescribedtreatmentfor "friends"of patrons,men recklessly imprudentwho had failed(asthe wisepatronshad not) to confine their customto our establishmentexclusively.I told him I shouldvery much like to seeit. He smiled. "But we are wanderingfrom our topic. Scienceis of great value, but you will find, as I have, that it consumesmore money that it produces.Youwill want apparatus andbooksand many otherthings,aswell asa livelihoodfor yourself.We havea not unprofitablebusinesshere,and though I hope to live a long time-thanks in part to science-you are the heir, and it will be yours in the end . . . (So I was older than David!) ". . every phase of what we do. None of them, believe r€, are unimportant." I had been so surprised,and in fact elated,by *y discoverythat I had misseda part of what he said. I nodded,which seemedsafe. "Good. I wantyou to beginby answeringthe front door.One of the maids hasbeen doing it, and for the first month or so she'll staywith you, since there'smoreto be learnedtherethan you think. I'll tell Mr. Million, and he can make the arrangements. " I thankedhim, and he indicatedthat the interviewwasoverby opening the door of the library. I could hardly believe,asI went out, that he wasthe sameman who devouredmy life in the earlyhoursofalmosteverymorning.

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in statuswith theeventsin thepark.I I did notconnectthissuddenelevation nowrealizethatMr. Million whohas,quiteliterally,eyesin thebackof his headmusthavereportedto my fatherthat I had reachedthe ageat which to parentalfiguresbegin,half desiresin childhoodsubliminallyfastened to gropebeyondthe family. consciously, In anyeventthatsameeveningI tookup my newdutiesandbecamewhat Mr. Million calledthe "greeter"and David (explainingthat the original senseof the word wasrelatedto portal)the "porter"of our house-thus by theiron executed in a practicalwaythefunctionssymbolically assuming carriedthemout, a dogin our frontgarden.The maidwhohadpreviously shewasnot only oneof because girl namedNerissawho hadbeenselected of themaidsaswell, a largetheprettiestbut oneof thetallestandstrongest broaderthan mostmen's, boned,long-faced,smilinggirl with shoulders dutieswerenotonerous, promised, to help. Our had rny father remained,as sincemy father'spatronswereall men of somepositionand wealth,not of exceptunderunusualcircumstances givento brawlingor loudarguments house already intoxication;and for the most part they had visitedour dozens,and, in a few cases,evenhundredsof times.We calledthem by nicknamesthat wereusedonly here(of which Nerissainformedme sotfo yoceastheycameup thewalk),hungup theircoats,anddirectedthem-or conductedthem-to the variouspartsof the establishment. if necessary Nerissaflounced(a formidablesight, as I observed,to all but the most patrons),allowedherselfto be pinched,tooktips, heroicallyproportioned duringslackperiods,of thetimesshehadbeen talked to me afterward, and of scale,andthemoney "calledupstairs" of someconnoisseur at therequest shehadmadethatnight. I laughedat jokesandrefusedtipsin sucha wayas Most to makethe patronsawarethat I wasa part of the management. patronsdid not needthe reminder,and I wasoften told that I strikingly *y father. resembled in this wayfor only a short When I had beenservingasa receptionist time, I think on only the third or fourth night, we hadan unusualvisitor. Hecameearlyoneevening,but it wastheeveningof sodarka day,oneofthe lastreallywintry days,that the gardenlampshad beenlit for an hour or thatpassed on thestreetbeyond,though carriages more,andtheoccasional the door when he they could be heard,could not be seen.I answered askedhim politelywhathe knocked,andaswe alwaysdid with strangers, wished. He said,"I shouldlike to speakto Dr. AubreyVeil." I am afraidI lookedblank. "This is 666 Saltimbanque?" It wasof course;andthe nameof Dr. Veil, thoughI couldnot placeit,

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toucheda chime of memory.I supposed that oneof our patronshad usedmy father'shouse as an adressed'accommodation,and since this visitor was clearlylegitimate,and it wasnot desirableto keepanyonearguing in the doorwaydespitethe partial shelteraffordedby the garden,I askedhim in; then I sentNerissato bring uscoffeesothat we might havea few momentsof privatetalk in the darklittle receivingroom that openedoff the foyer.It wasa room very seldomused,and the maids had been remissin dustingit, as I sawassoonasI openedthe door. I made a mental note to speakto my aunt about it, and as I did I recalledwhere it was that I had heard Dr. Veil mentioned. My aunt, on the first occasionI had ever spokento her, had referredto his theorythat we might in fact be the nativesof SainteAnne, having murderedthe original Terrestrialcolonistsand displacedthem so thoroughly as to forget our own past. The strangerhad seatedhimself in one of the musty,gilded armchairs. He worea beard,veryblackand morefull than the currentstyle,wasyoung, I thought, though of courseconsiderablyolderthan I, and would havebeen handsomeif the skin of his face-what could be seenof it-had not beenof so colorlessa white as almost to constitute a disfigurement.His dark clothing seemedabnormallyheavy,like felt, and I recalledhaving heard from somepatron that a starcrosser from SainteAnne had splasheddown in the bay yesterday, and askedif he had perhapsbeen on board it. He looked startledfor a moment, then laughed."You'rea wit, I see.And living with Dr. Veil you'd be familiar with his theory.No, I'm from Earth. My name is Marsch." He gaveme his card,and I readit twice beforethe meaningof the delicatelyembossedabbreviations registered on my mind. My visitorwasa scientist,a doctor of philosophyin anthropology,from Earth. I said,"I wasn'ttrying to be witty. I thoughtyou might reallyhavecome from SainteAnne. Here, mostof us havea kind of planetaryface,exceptfor the gypsiesand the criminal tribes,and you don't seemto fit the pattern." He said, "r've noticed what you mean. You seemto have it yourself." "I'm supposedto look a greatdeal like my father." 'Ah," he said. He staredat me. Then, 'Are you cloned?" "Cloned?"I had readthe term, but only in conjunctionwith botany,and as has happenedto me often when I have especiallywanted to impress someonewith my intelligence,nothing came. I felt like a stupid child. "Parthenogenetically reproduced,so that the new individual-or individuals,you can havea thousandif you want-will havea geneticstructure identicalto the parent. It'santi-evolutionary,so it'sillegal on Earth, but I don't supposethings are as closelywatchedout here." "You'retalking about human beings?" He nodded.

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"l've neverheardof it. ReallyI doubt if you'd find the necessarytechnology here. We're quite backwardcomparedto Earth. Of course, ffiY father might be able to arrangesomethingfor you." "I don't want to have it done." Nerissacame in with the coffee then, effectivelycutting off anything further Dr. Marsch might have said. Actually, I had addedthe suggestion about my fathermore from force of habit than anything else,and thought it very unlikely that he could pull offany suchbiochemical tour de force,br:i. therewasalwaysthe possibility,particularly if a largesum wereoffered.As it was,we fell silentwhile Nerissaarrangedthe cups and poured,and when "Quite an unusualgirl." His eyes, shehad goneMarschsaidappreciatively, I noticed, were a bright green, without the brown tones most green eyes have. I waswild to askhim about Earth and the new developmentsthere, and it had already occurred to me that the girls might be an effective way of keepinghim here,or at leastof bringing him back. I said,"You shouldsee some of them. My father has wonderful taste." "l'd rather see Dr. Veil. Or is Dr. Veil your father?" "Oh, no." "This is his address,or at leastthe addressI was given. Number 666 Saltimbanque Street, Port-Mimizon, Departement de la Main, Sainte Croix." He appearedquite serious,and it seemedpossiblethat if I told him fatly that he wasmistakenhe would leave.I said, "l learnedabout Veil'sHypothesisfrom my aunt. She seemedquite conversantwith it. Perhapslater this eveningyou'd like to talk to her about it. " "Couldn't I seeher now?" "My aunt seesvery few visitors.To be frank, I'm told shequarreledwith my fatherbeforeI wasborn, and sheseldomleavesher own apartments.The report to her there, and she manageswhat I supposeI must housekeepers call our domestic economy,but it's very rare to seeMadame outside her rooms, or for any strangerto be let in. " 'And why are you telling me this?" "So that you'll understandthat with the bestwill in the world it may not be possiblefor me to arrange an interview for you. At least, not this evening." "You could simply askher if sheknowsDr. Veil'spresentaddress,and if so what it is." "l'm trying to help you, Dr. Marsch. ReallyI am." "But you don't think that'sthe best way to go about it?" "No."

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"In other wordsif your aunt weresimply asked,without being given a chanceto form her own judgmentof me, shewouldn't giveme information even if she had it?" "lt would help if we wereto talk a bit first. There are a greatmany things I'd like to learn about Earth." Foran instantI thoughtI sawa soursmileunderthe blackbeard.He said, "SupposeI askyou first . . ." He wasinterrupted-again-by Nerissa,I supposebecauseshewantedto seeif we requiredanything further from the kitchen. I could havestrangled her when Dr. Marsch halted in midsentenceand said instead,"Couldn't this girl askyour aunt if she would seeme?" I hadto think quickly.I hadbeenplanningto go myselfand,aftera suitable wait, return and saythat my aunt would receiveDr. Marsch later,which would havegiven me an additionalopportunityto questionhim while he waited.Buttherewasatleastapossibility(no doubt magnifiedin my eyesby my eagerness to hearof newdiscoveries from Earth)that hewould not waitor that, when and if he did eventuallyseemy aunt, he might mention the incident.IfI sentNerissaI wouldat leasthavehim to myselfwhilesheran her errand,andtherewasan excellentchance- or atleastsoI imagined- thatmy aunt would in fact havesomebusinesswhich shewould want to conclude beforeseeinga stranger.I told Nerissato go, and Dr. Marsch gaveher oneof his cardsafter writing a few wordson the back. "NoW" I said, "what was it you were about to ask me?" "Why this house, on a planet that has been inhabited lessthan two hundred years,seemsso absurdlyold." "It wasbuilt a hundredand forty yearsago, but you must havemany on Earth that are far older." "I supposeso. Hundreds.Butfor everyone of them thereareten thousand that havebeenup lessthan a year.Here, almosteverybuilding I seeseems nearly as old as this one." "We'veneverbeencrowdedhere,and we haven'thad to teardown. That's what Mr. Million says.And thereare fewerpeopleherenow than therewere fifty yearsago." "Mr. Million?" I told him aboutMr. Million, andwhen I finishedhe said,"It soundsasif you'vegot a ten nine unboundsimulatorhere,which shouldbe interesting. Only a few have everbeen made." 'A ten nine simulator?" 'A billion, ten to the ninth power.The human brain hasseveralbillion synapses,of course;but it's been found that you can simulate its action pretty well . ."

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It seemedto me that no time at all had passedsinceNerissahad left, but shewasback.Shecurtsiedto Dr. Marschand said,"Madamewill seeyou." I blurted, "Now?" "Yes," Nerissasaid artlessly,"Madame said right now." "l'll take him then. You mind the door." I escortedDr. Marsch down the dark corridors,taking a long route to havemoretime, but he seemedto be arrangingin his mind the questionshe wishedto askmy aunt, as we walked pastthe spottedmirrors and warped little walnut tables,and he answeredme in monosyllableswhen I tried to questionhim about Earth. At my aunt'sdoor I rappedfor him. Sheopenedit hersell the hem of her blackskirthangingemptily overthe untroddencarpet,but I do not think he noticedthat. He said,"l'm reallyvery sorryto botheryou, Madame' and I only do so becauseyour nephewthought you might be able to help me locate the author of Veil's Hypothesis'" My aunt said,"l am Dr. Veil, pleasecomein," and shut the door behind him, leaving me standingopen-mouthed in the corridor.

I mentioned the incident to Phaedriathe next time we met, but she was more interestedin learning about my father'shouse.Phaedria,if I havenot usedher name beforenoq wasthe girl who had satnearme while I watched David play squash.Shehad been introducedto me on my next visit to the park by no one lessthan the monsterherself,who had helped her to a seat besideme and, miracle of miracles,promptly retreatedto a point which, though not out of sight, wasat leastbeyondearshot.Phaedriahad thrust her broken ankle in front of her, halfwayacrossthe graveledpath, and smiled a mostcharmingsmile."Youdon't objectto my sittinghere?"Shehad perfect teeth. " "l'm delighted. "You're surprised,too. Your eyesget big when you're surprised,did you know that?" "I am surprised.I've come here looking for you severaltimes, but you haven'tbeen here." "We've come looking for you, and you haven't been here either, but I supposeone can't really spenda greatdeal of time in a park. "I would have,"I said,"If I'd knownyou werelookingfor me. I went here asmuch asI could anyway.I wasafraidthatshe . . ." I ierkedmy headatthe monster, "wouldn't let you come back. How did you persuadeher?" "I didn't," Phaedriasaid. "Can't you guess? Don't you know anything?" I confessedthat I did not. I felt stupid, and I was stupid, at leastin the

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thingsI said,because somuch of my mind wascaughtup not in formulating answersto her remarksbut in committing to memorythe lilt of her voice, the purple of her eyes,eventhe faint perfumeof her skin and the soft, warm touch of her breath on my cool cheek. "So you see,"Phaedriawassaying,"that'show it is with me. when Aunt Uranie-she's only a poor .ourin of mother's,really-got home and told him about you he found out who you are, and here I am.', "Yes," I said, and shelaughed. Phaedriawasone of thosegirls raisedbetweenthe hopeof marriageand the thought of sale.Her father'saffairs,assheherselfsaid, were"unsettled." He speculatedin ship cargoes,mostlyfrom the south-textiles and drugs. He owed, mostof the time, largesumswhich the lenderscould not hopelo collectunlesstheywerewilling to allow him moreto recoup.He might die a pauper,but in the meanwhilehe had raisedhis daughterwith everydetailof educationand plasticsurgeryattendedto. If, when she reachedmarriageable age he could afford a good dowry, she would link him with some wealthyfamily. If he werepressedfor money instead,a girl so rearedwould bring fifty times the price of a common streetchild. Our family, of course, would be ideal for either purpose. "Tell me about your house," shesaid. "Do you know what the kidscall it? 'The cave canem,'or sometimesjust'The cave.'The boysall think it'sa big thing to havebeenthere,and they lie about it. Most of them haven't." But I wantedto talk about Dr. Marsch and the sciencesof Earth, and I was nearly as anxious to find out about her own world, "the kids" she mentionedso casually,her schooland family, as shewasto learn about us. Also, although I waswilling to detail the servicesmy father'sgirls rendered their benefactors,thereweresomethings, such as my aunt'sfloating down the stairwell, that I wasadverseto discussing.But we bought eggrolis from the sameold womanto eatin the chill sunlightand exchrng.d.tnfidences and somehowparted not only loversbut friends, promising to meet again the next day. At sometime during the night, I believeat almostthe sametime that I returned-or to speakmore accuratelywasreturnedsinceI could scarcely walk-to my bed after a sessionof hours with my father, the weather changed. The musked exhalation of late spring or early summer crept through the shutters,and the fire in our little grate seemedto extinguiih itself for shamealmostat once. My father'svaletopenedthe window for me and therepouredinto the room that fragrancethat tells of the melting of the lastsnowsbeneaththe deepestand darkestevergreenson the north sidesof mountains.I had arrangedwith Phaedriato meetat ten, and beforegoing to my father'slibraryI had posteda noteon the escritoirebesidemy bed,asking

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that I be awakenedan hour earlier;and that night I sleptwith the fragrance in my nostrilsand the thought-half-plan, half-dream-in my mind that by some means Phaedriaand I would elude her aunt entirely and find a desertedlawn where blue and yellow flowersdotted the short grass. When I woke, it wasan hour pastnoon, and rain drovein sheetspastthe window.Mr. Million, who wasreadinga book on the far sideof the room, told me that it had beenraining like that sincesix, and for that reasonhe had not troubled to wake me. I had a splitting headache,as I often did after a long sessionwith my father,and took one of the powdershe had prescribed to relieve it. They were gray,and smelled of anise. "You look unwell," Mr. Million said. "l washoping to go to the park." "l know." He rolled acrossthe room toward me, and I recalledthat Dr. Marsch had called him an "unbound" simulator. For the first time sinceI had satisfiedmyselfabout them when I wasquite small, I bent over(at some cost to my head) and read the almost obliteratedstampingson his main cabinet.There wasonly the nameof a cyberneticscompanyon Earth and, in FrenchasI had alwayssupposed,his name:M. Million-"Monsieur" or "Mister" Million. Then, asstartlingasa blow from behindto a man musing in a comfortable chair, I rememberedthat a dot was employed in some 'A algebrasfor multiplication. He saw my change of expressionat once. 'An English billion or a thousandmillion word core capacity,"he said. French milliard, the M being the Roman numeral for one thousand, of course. I thought you understoodthat some time ago." "You are an unbound simulator.What is a bound simulator, and whom are you simulating-my father?" "No." The facein the screen,Mt. Million's faceasI had alwaysthought of it, shookits head."Call me, call the personsimulated,at least,your greatgrandfather.He-l-am dead. In orderto achievesimulation, it is necessary to examine the cells of the brain, layer by layer, with a beam of acceleratedparticlesso that the neural patternscan be reproduced,we say 'core imaged,' in the computer.The processis fatal." I askedafter a moment, 'And a bound simulator?" "lf the simulation is to have a body that looks human the mechanical body mustbe linked-'bound'-to a remotecore,sincethe smallestbillion word core cannot be made even approximatelyas small as the human brain." He pausedagain, and for an instanthis facedissolvedinto myriad sparklingdots,swirlinglike dustmotesin a sunbeam."l am sorry.For once you wish to listen but I do not wish to lecture. I wastold, a very long time ago,justbeforethe operation,that my simulation-this-would be capable of emotion in certain circumstances.Until todayI had alwaysthought they

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lied." I would havestoppedhim if I could, but he rolled out of the room beforeI could recoverfrom my surprise. For a long time, I supposean hour or more, I sat listening to the drumming of the rain and thinking about Phaedriaand about what Mr. Million had said, all of it confusedwith my father'squestionsof the night before,questionswhich had seemedto stealtheir answersfrom me sothat I wasempty, and dreamshad come to flicker in the emptiness,dreamsof fencesand walls and the concealingditchescalled ha-has,that contain a barrier you do not seeuntil you are about to tumble on it. Once I had dreamedof standingin a pavedcourt fencedwith Corinthian pillarssoclose setthat I could not force my body betweenthem, although in the dream I wasonly a child of threeor four. After trying variousplacesfor a long time, I had noticedthat eachcolumn wascarvedwith a word-the only onethat I could rememberwascarapace-andthat the pavingstonesof the courtyard weremortuary tabletslike thosesetinto the floorsin someof the old French churches,with my own name and a differentdate on each. This dreampursuedme evenwhen I triedto think of Phaedria,andwhen a maid brought me hot water-for I now shavedtwice a week- I found that I wasalreadyholdingmy razorin my hand, and had in factcut myselfwith it so that the blood had streakedmy nightclothes and run down onto the sheets.

The next time I sawPhaedria,which wasfour or five daysafterward,shewas engrossed by a new projectin which sheenlistedboth David and me. This wasnothing lessthan a th'eatricalcompany,composedmostly of girls her own age, which was to presentplays during the summer in a natural amphitheaterin the park. Since the company,as I have said, consisted principallyof girls, male actorswereat a premium, and David and I soon found ourselves deeplyembroiled.The playhad beenwritten by a committee of the cast,and-inevitably-revolved aboutthe lossof political power by the originalFrench-speaking colonists.Phaedria,whoseanklewould not be mendedin time for our performance,would playthe crippleddaughterof the Frenchgovernor;David, her lover(a dashingcaptainof chasseurs); and I, the governorhimself-a part I acceptedreadilybecauseit wasa much better one than David's, and offered scope for a great deal of fatherly affectiontoward Phaedria. The night of our performance,which wasearly in fune, I recallvividly for two reasons.My aunt, whom I had not seensinceshehad closedthe door behind Dr. Marsch, notified me at the lastmoment that shewishedto attend and that I wasto escorther. And we playershad grown soafraid of havingan

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empty housethat I had askedmy father if it would be possiblefor him to sendsomeof his girls-who would thus lose only the earliestpart of the evening,when therewasseldommuch businessin any event.To -y great surprise(l supposebecausehe felt it would be good advertising)he consented,stipulating only that they shouldreturn at the end of the third act if he sent a messengersayingthey were needed. BecauseI would haveto arrive at leastan hour earlyto makeup, it wasno more than late afternoon when I called for my aunt. She showedme in herself, and immediately askedmy help for her maid, who was trying to wrestlesomeheavyobject from the upper shelfof a closet.It provedto be a folding wheelchair, and under my aunt'sdirection we set it up. When we had finishedshesaidabruptly,"Give me a handin, you two," andtakingour armsloweredherselfinto the seat.Her black skirt, lying emptily againstthe leg boardsof the chair like a collapsedtent, showedlegsno thicker than my wrists;but also an odd thickeniirg, almost like a saddle,below her hips. Seeingme staringshesnapped,"Won't be needingthat until I comeback,I suppose.Lift me up a little. Standin back and get me under the arms." I did so, and her maid reachedunceremoniouslyunder my aunt'sskirt and drew out a little leather padded device on which she had been resting. "Shall we go?" my aunt sniffed. "You'll be late." I wheeled her into the corridor, her maid holding the door for us. Somehow,learning that my aunt'sability to hang in the air like smokewas physically,indeed mechanically,derived, made it more disturbing than ever.When sheaskedwhy I was so quiet, I told her and addedthat I had been under the impressionthat no one had yet succeededin producing working antigravity. 'And you think I have?Then why wouldn't I use it to get to your play?" "I supposebecauseyou don't want it to be seen." "Nonsense.It'sa regularprostheticdevice. You buy them at the surgical stores." Shetwistedaroundin her seatuntil shecould look up at me, her face solike my father's,and her lifelesslegslike the sticksDavid and I usedaslittle boyswhen, doing parlor magic, we wishedMr. Million to believeus lying prone when we were in fact crouchedbeneathour own supposedfigures. "Puts out a superconductingfield, then induces eddy currents in the reinforcing rods in the floors. The flux of the induced currentsopposethe machine'sown flux and I float, more or less.Lean forward to go forward, straightenup to stop. You look relieved." "l am. I supposeantigravityfrightenedme." "l usedthe iron banisterwhen I went down the stairswith you once. It has a very convenientcoil shape." Our play went smoothly enough, with predictablecheersfrom members

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of the audiencewho were, or at leastwishedto be thought, descendedfrom the old French aristocracy.The audience,in fact, wasbetter than we had dared hope, five hundred or so besidesthe inevitablesprinkling of pickpockets,police, and streetwalkers. The incident I most vividly recallcame towardthe latterhalf of the first act, when for ten minutesor so I satwith few linesat a desk,listeningto my fellow actors.Our stagefacedthe west,and the settingsun had left the sky a welter of lurid color: purple-redsstriped gold and flame and black. Againstthis violentground, which might have been the massedbannersof hell, therebeganto appear,in onesand twos, like the elongatedshadowsof fantasticgrenadierscrenelatedand plumed, the heads,the slendernecks,the narrow shoulders,of a platoon of my father'sdemi-mondaines; arriving late, they weretakingthe lastseatsat the upper rim of our theater,encircling it like the soldieryof some ancient, bizarre governmentsurrounding a treasonousmob. They satat last,my cue came,and I forgotthem; and that is all I can now rememberof our first performance,exceptthat at one point somemotion of mine suggested to the audiencea mannerismof my father's,and therewasa shoutof misplacedlaughter-and that at the beginningof the secondact, SainteAnne rose with its sluggishriversand greatgrassymeadowmeres clearlyvisible,floodingthe audiencewith greenlight; and at the closeof the third I saw my father'scrookedlittle valet bustling among the upper rows, and the girls, green-edgedblack shadows,filing out. We producedthree more playsthat summer, all with somesuccess,and David and Phaedriaand I becamean acceptedpartnership,with Phaedria dividing herselfmore or lessequally betweenus-whether by her own inclination or her parents'ordersI could neverbe quite sure. When her ankle knit shewasa companion fit for David in athletics,a better playerof all the ball and racketgamesthan any of the othergirlswho cameto the park; but shewould asoften drop everythingand come to sit with me, whereshe sympathizedwith (thoughshedid not actuallyshare)my interestin botany and biology,and gossiped,and delightedin showingme off to her friends since my readinghad given me a sort of talent for puns and repartee. It wasPhaedriawho suggested,when it becameapparentthat the ticket money from our first play would be insufficient for the costumesand scenerywe covetedfor our second,that at the closeof future performances the castcirculateamong the audienceto take up a collection;and this, of course,in the pressand bustleeasilylent itself to the accomplishmentof petty thefts for our cause.Most people, however,had too much senseto bring to our theater,in the evening, in the gloomy park, more money than was requiredto buy ticketsand perhapsan ice or a glassof wine during intermission;sono matterhow dishonestwe werethe profit remainedsmall,

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and we, and especiallyPhaedriaand David, were soon talking of going forward to more dangerousand lucrative adventures. At about this time, I supposeas a result of my father'scontinuedand intensifiedprobingof my subconscious, a violentand almostnightly examination whosepurposewasstill unclearto me and which, sinceI had been accustomedto it for so long, I scarcelyquestioned,I becamemore and more subjectto frightening lapsesof consciouscontrol. I would, so David and Mr. Million told me, seemquite myself though perhapsrathermore quiet than usual, answeringquestionsintelligently if absently,and then, suddenly, come to myself, start,and stareat the familiar rooms, the familiar faces,among which I now found myself, perhapsafter the mid-afternoon, without the slightestmemory of havingawakened,dressed,shaved,eaten, gone for a walk. Although I loved Mr. Million as much as I had when I wasa boy, I was neverable, after that conversationin which I learnedthe meaning of the familiar letteringon his side, quite to re-establishthe old relationship.I was alwaysconscious,as I am consciousnow that the personalityI loved had perishedyearsbeforeI wasborn; and that I addressed an imitation of it, fundamentally mathematicalin nature, respondingas that personality might to the stimuli of human speechand action.I could neverdetermine whetherMr. Million is really awarein that sensewhich would give him the right to say,as he alwayshas, "l think," and "I feel." When I askedhim about it he could only explain that he did not know the answerhimself, that having no standardof comparisonhe could not be positivewhetherhis own mental processesrepresentedtrue consciousnessor not; and I, of course, could not know whether this answer representedthe deepest meditation of a soul somehow alive in the dancing abstractionsof the simulation,or whetherit wasmerelytriggered,a phonographicresponse, by -y question. Our theater,as I have said, continued through the summer and gaveits lastperformancewith the falling leavesdrifting, like obscure,perfumedold lettersfrom somediscardedtrunk, upon our stage.When the curtain calls were over we who had written and actedthe playsof our seasonwere too disheartenedto do more than removeour costumesand cosmetics,and drift ourselves,with the lastof our departingaudience,down the whippoorwillhauntedpathsto the city streetsand home. I wasprepared,asI remember,to take up my duties at my father'sdoor, but that night he had stationedhis valet in the foyerto wait for me, and I wasushereddirectly into the library, wherehe explainedbrusquelythat he would haveto devotethe latter part of the eveningto businessand for that reasonwould speakto me (ashe put it) early.He lookedtired and ill, andit occurredto me, I think for the firsttime,

that he would one day die-and that I would, on that day,becomeat once both rich and free. What I saidunderthe drugsthat eveningI do not, of course,recall,but I rememberasvividly asI might if I had only this morning awakened from it, the dream that followed. I wason a ship, a white ship like one of thosethe oxenpull, so slowly the sharpprowsmake no wakeat all, through the green waterof the canalbesidethe park. I wasthe only crewman,and indeedthe only living man aboard.At the stern, graspingthe huge wheel in such a flaccidway that it seemedto supportand guide and steadyhim ratherthan he it, stoodthe corpseof a tall, thin man whoseface,when the rolling of his head presentedit to me, wasthe face that floated in Mr. Million's screen. This face,asI havesaid, wasvery like my father's,but I knew the deadman at the wheel was not he. I wasaboardthe shipa long time. We seemedto be runnin gfree,with the wind a few points to port and strong.When I went aloft at night, mastsand sparsand riggingquiveredand sangin the wind, and sail upon sailtowered above me, and sail upon white sail spreadbelow me, and more masts clothed in sailsstoodbeforeme and behind me. When I workedon deckby day,spraywet my shirt and left tear-shapedspotson the plankswhich dried quickly in the bright sunlight. I cannotremembereverhavingreallybeenon sucha ship,but perhaps, asa verysmall child, I was,for the soundsof it, the creakingof the mastsin their sockets,the whistling of the wind in the thousandropes,the crashing of the wavesagainstthe wooden hull were all as distinct, and as real, as much themselves, asthe soundsof laughterand breakingglassoverheadhad been when, as a child, I had tried to sleep;or the buglesfrom the citadel which sometimes,then, woke me in the morning. I wasaboutsomework, I do not know justwhat, aboardthis ship.I carried bucketsof water with which I dashedclotted blood from the decks,and I pulled at ropeswhich seemedattachedto nothing-or rather,firmly tied to immovableobjectsstill higher in the rigging. I watchedthe surfaceof the seafrom bow and rail, from the mastheads,and from atop a large cabin amidships,but when a starcrosser, its entry shieldsblinding-brightwith heat, plunged hissing into the seafar off I reportedit to no one. And all this time the deadman at the wheelwastalking to me. His head hung limply, asthough his neck werebroken, and the jerkingsof the wheel he held, as big wavesstruck the rudder, sent it from one shoulderto the other,or backto stareat the sky,or down. But he continuedto speak,and the few wordsI caught suggestedthat he waslecturing upon an ethical theory whosepostulatesseemedevento him doubtful. I felt a dreadof hearingthis talk and tried to keep myself as much as possibletoward the bow, but the

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wind at times carriedthe wordsto me with greatclarity, and wheneverI Iookedup from my work I found myself much nearerthe stern, sometimes in fact almosttouching the dead steersman,than I had supposed' After I had beenon this ship a long while, sothat I wasverytired and very lonely,one of the doorsof the cabin openedand my aunt cameout, floating quite upright about two feet abovethe tilted deck. Her skirt did not hang verticallyasI had alwaysseenit, but whippedin the wind like a streamer,so that she seemedon the point of blowing away.For some reasonI said, "Don't get closeto that man at the wheel, Aunt. He might hurt you." She answered,as naturally as if we had met in the corridor outside my bedroom,"Nonsense.He'sfar pastdoing anyoneany good, Number Five, or any harm either. It's my brother we have to worry about." "Where is he?" "Down there." Shepointed at the deck asif to indicatethat he wasin the hold. "He'strying to find out why the ship doesn'tmove." I ran to the side and looked over, and what I sawwas not water but the night sky. Stars-innumerable starswere spreadat an infinite distance below me, and asI lookedat them I realizedthat the ship, asmy aunt had said, did not make headway or even roll, but remained heeled over, motionless.I lookedback at her and shetold me, "lt doesn'tmove because he hasfastenedit in placeuntil he findsout why it doesn'tmove," and at this point I found myselfsliding down a rope into what I supposedwasthe hold of the ship. It smelledof animals.I had awakened,though at first I did not know it. My feettouchedthe foor, and I sawthat David and Phaedriawerebeside me. We werein a huge, loftlike room, and asI lookedat Phaedria,who was very pretty but tenseand biting her lips, a cock crowed. David said, "Where do you think the money is?" He wascarrying a tool kit. And Phaedria,who I supposehad expectedhim to saysomethingelse,or in answerto her own thoughts, said, "We'll have lots of time, Marydol is watching." Marydol was one of the girls who appearedin our plays. "lf she doesn't run away.Where do you think the money is?" "Not up here. Downstairsbehind the office." Shehad been crouching, but sherosenow and beganto creepforward. Shewasall in black, from her ballet slippersto a black ribbon binding her black hair, with her white face andarmsin strikingcontrast,andher carminelips an error,a bit of colorleft by mistake. David and I followed her. Crateswere scattered,widely separated,on the floor; and as we passed them I sawthat they held poultry, a singlebird in each. It wasnot until we were nearly to the ladder which plunged down a hatch in the floor at the

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oppositecornerof the room that I realizedthat thesebirdsweregamecocks. Then a shaftof sun from one of the skylightsstrucka crateand the cock rose and stretchedhimself, showingfierce red eyesand plumage as gaudyas a macaw's."Come on," Phaedriasaid, "the dogsare next," and we followed her down the ladder. Pandemonium broke out on the floor below. The dogswerechainedin stalls,with dividerstoo high for them to seethe dogson either sideof them and wide aislesbetweenthe rowsof stalls.They wereall fighting dogs,but of everysizefrom ten-pound terriersto mastiffs largerthan small horses,bruteswith headsasmisshapenasthe growthsthat appearon old treesand jawsthat could severboth a man'slegsat a mouthful. The din of the barkingwasincredible,a solidsubstance that shookus aswe descendedthe ladder,and at the bottom I took Phaedria'sarm and tried to indicate by signs-since I was certain that we were whereverwe were without permission-that we shouldleaveat once. Sheshookher headand then, when I was unable to understandwhat she said even when she exaggeratedthe movementsof her lips, wrote on a dusty wall with her moistenedforefinger,"They do this all the time-a noisein the streetanything." Accessto the floor below was by stairs, reachedthrough a heavy but unbolteddoor which I think had beeninstalledlargelyto excludethe din. I felt betterwhen we had closedit behind us eventhough the noisewasstill very loud. I had fully come to myself by this time, and I should have explainedto David and Phaedriathat I did not know whereI wasor what we weredoing there,but shameheld me back.And in any eventI could guess easilyenoughwhat our purposewas.David had askedabout the location of money,and we had often talked-talk I had consideredat the time to be morethan half empty boasting-about a singlerobberythat would free us from the necessityof further petty crime. Where we wereI discoveredlater when we left; and how we had come to be thereI piecedtogetherfrom casualconversations. The building had been originally designedasa warehouse,and stoodon the Rue desEgoutscloseto the bay.Its ownersuppliedthoseenthusiastswho stagedcombatsof all kinds for sport,and wascreditedwith maintainingthe largestassemblage of these creaturesin the Department. Phaedria'sfather had happenedto hear that this man had recentlyput someof his most valuablestockon ship, had takenPhaedriawhen he calledon him, and, sincethe placewasknown not to open its doors until after the last Angelus, we had come the next day a little after the secondand enteredthrough one of the skylights. I find it difficult to describewhat we sawwhen we descendedfrom the foor of the dogsto the next, which wasthe secondfloor of the building. I had seenfightingslavesmany timesbeforewhen Mr. Million, David, and I

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had traversedthe slavemarketto reachthe library;but nevermore than one or two together,heavily manacled. Here they lay, sat, and lounged everywhere, and for a moment I wonderedwhy they did not tear one anotherto pieces,and the three of us aswell. Then I sawthat eachwasheld by a short chain stapledto the floor, and it wasnot difficult to tell from the scrapedand splinteredcircles in the boards just how far the slavein the center could reach. Such furniture as they had, straw pallets and a few chairs and benches,waseithertoo light to do harm if thrown or verystoutlymadeand spikeddown. I had expectedthem to shout and threatenus as I had heard they threatenedeach other in the pits before closing, but they seemedto understandthat aslong astheywerechained,they could do nothing. Every head turned toward us aswe came down the steps,but we had no food for them, and afterthat first examinationthey werefar lessinterestedin us than the dogshad been. "They aren'tpeople,arethey?"Phaedriasaid.Shewaswalkingerectlyas a soldieron paradenow,and looking at the slaveswith interest;studyingher, it occurred to me that shewastaller and lessplump than the "Phaedria" I pictured to myself when I thought of her. She was not just a pretty, but a beautiful girl. "They're a kind of animal, really,"she said. From my studiesI wasbetterinformed, and I told her that they had been human asinfants-in somecasesevenaschildren or older-and that they differedfrom normal peopleonly asa result of surgery(someof it on their brains)andchemicallyinducedalterationsin their endocrinesystems.And of course in appearancebecauseof their scars. "Your father doesthat sort of thing to little girls, doesn't he? For your house?" David said,"only oncein a while. It takesa lot of time, and mostpeople prefer normals, even when they prefer pretty odd normals." "l'd like to seesome of them. I mean the ones he'sworked on." I wasstill thinking of the fighting slavesaround us and said,"Don't you know aboutthesethings?I thought you'd beenherebefore.Youknew about the dogs." "oh, I've seenthem before,andthe man told me aboutthem. I supposeI was just thinking out loud. It would be awful if they were still people." Their eyesfollowed us, and I wonderedif they could understandher. The ground floor wasvery differentfrom the onesabove.The walls were paneled,therewereframed picturesof dogsand cocksand of the slavesand curiousanimals. The windows, opening toward EgoutsStreetand the bay, were high and narrow and admitted only slender beams of the bright sunlightto pick out of the gloom the arm aloneof a rich red-leather chair, a squareof maroon carpetno biggerthan a book, a half-full decanter.I took

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threestepsinto this room and knew that we had beendiscovered.Striding toward us was a tall, high-shoulderedyoung man-who halted, with a startledlook, iustwhen I did. He wasmy own reflectionin a gilt-framedpier glass,and I felt the momentarydislocationthat comeswhen a stranger,an unrecognizedshape,turns or moveshis headand is somefamiliar friend glimpsed, perhapsfor the first time, from outside. The sharp-chinned, grim-lookingboy I had seenwhen I did not knowhim to be myselfhad been myself as Phaedriaand David, Mr. Million and my aunt, saw me. "This is wherehe talksto customers,"Phaedriasaid."lf he'strying to sell somethinghe hashis peoplebring them down oneat a time soyou don't see the others,but you can hearthe dogsbark evenfrom waydown here,and he took Papaand me upstairsand showedus everything." David asked,"Did he show you where he keepsthe money?" "ln back. Seethat tapestry?It'sreallya curtain, becausewhile Papawas talkingto him, a man camewho owedhim for somethingand paid, and he went through there with it. " The door behindthe tapestryopenedon a small office,with still another door in the wall opposite.There wasno sign of a safeor strongbox.David brokethe lock on the deskwith a pry bar from his tool kit, but therewasonly the usual clutter of papers,and I wasabout to open the seconddoor when I heard a sound, a scrapingor shuffling, from the room beyond. For a minute or more none of us moved. I stood with my hand on the latch. Phaedria,behind me and to my left, had been looking under the carpetfor a cachein the floor-she remainedcrouched,her skirt a black pool at her feet. From somewherenearthe brokendeskI could hear David's breathing.The shuffing cameagain,and a boardcreaked.David saidvery softly,"It's an animal." I drew my fingersawayfrom the latch and looked at him. He wasstill 'An gripping the pry bar and his face was pale, but he smiled. animal tetheredin there, shifting its feet. That'sall." I said, "How do you know?" 'Anybody in therewould haveheard us, especiallywhen I crackedthe desk.If it werea personhe would havecome out, or if he wereafraid he'd hide and be quiet." Phaedriasaid, "l think he'sright. Open the door." "Before I do, if it isn't an animal?" David said, "lt is." "But if it isn't?" I sawthe answeron their faces;David grippedhis pry bar, and I opened the door. The room beyondwaslargerthan I had expected,but bareanddirty.The

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only light camefrom a singlewindowhigh in the fartherwall. In the middle of the floor stooda big chest,of darkwood bound with iron, and beforeit lay what appearedto be a bundle of rags.As I steppedfrom the carpetedoffice the ragsmovedand a face,a facetriangular asa mantis's,turned towardme. Its chin washardly more than an inch from the foor, but under deepbrows the eyeswere tiny scarletfires. "That mustbe it, " Phaedriasaid. Shewaslooking not at the facebut at the iron-bandedchest. "David, can you break into that?" "l think so," David said,but he, like me, waswatchingthe raggedthing's eyes."What about that?" he said after a moment, and gesturedtoward it. BeforePhaedriaor I could answer,its mouth openedshowinglong, narrow teeth, gray-yellow."Sick," it said. None of us, I think, had thought it could speak. It was as though a mummy had spoken.Outside,a carriagewent past,its iron wheelsrattling on the cobbles. "Let'sgo," David said. "Let'sget out." Phaedriasaid, "lt's sick. Don't you see,the owner'sbrought it down here where he can look in on it and take care of it. It's sick." 'And he chainedhis sick slaveto the cashbox?"David cockedan eyebrow her. at "Don't you see?It'sthe only heavything in the room. All you haveto do is go overthereand knock the poor creaturein the head. If you're afraid, give me the bar and I'll do it myself." "l'll do it." I followed him to within a few feet of the chest.He gesturedat the slave imperiously with the steel pry bar. "You! Move awayfrom there." The slavemade a gurgling soundand crawledto one side,dragginghis chain. He waswrappedin a filthy, tatteredblanketand seemedhardly larger than a child, though I noticed that his handswere immense. I turned and took a steptowardPhaedria,intending to urge that we leave if David were unable to open the chestin a few minutes. I rememberthat before I heard or felt anything I saw her eyesopen wide, and I was still wondering why when David'skit of tools clatteredon the floor and David himself fell with a thud and a little gasp.Phaedriascreamed,and all the dogs on the third foor began to bark. All this, of course,took lessthan a second.I turned to look almostas David fell. The slavehad dartedout an arm and caught my brother by the ankle,andthen in an instanthad thrown offhis blanketandbounded-that is the only way to describeit-on top of him. I caught him by the neck and jerked him backward,thinking that he would cling to David and that it would be necessary to tear him away,but

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the instanthe felt my handshe fung Davidasideandwrithedlike a spiderin my grip. He had four arms. I sawthem flailing ashe tried to reachme, and I let go of him and jerked back,asif a rat had beenthrustat my face.That instinctiverepulsionsaved me; he drovehis feet backwardin a kick which, if I had still been holding him tightly enoughto givehim a fulcrum, would havesurelyrupturedmy liver or spleenand killed me. Insteadit shot him forwardand me, gaspingfor breath,back. I fell and rolled, and wasoutsidethe circle permittedhim by his chain; David had already scrambledaway,and Phaedriawas well out of his reach. For a moment, while I shudderedand tried to sit up, the threeof us simply staredat him. Then David quotedwryly: 'Arms

and the man I sing, who forc'd by fate, And haughty|uno'sunrelentinghate, Expell'd and exil'd, left the Tiojan shore." Neither Phaedrianor I laughed,but Phaedrialet out her breathin a long sigh and askedme, "How did they do that?Get him like that?" I told her I supposedthey had transplantedthe extrapair aftersuppressing his body'snatural resistanceto the implanted foreign tissue, and that the operationhad probably replacedsomeof his ribs with the donor'sshoulder structure."l've been teachingmyself to do the same sort of thing with mice-on a much lessambitiousscale,of course-and the strikingthing to me is that he seemsto have full use of the graftedpair. Unlessyou've got identicaltwins to work with, the nerveendingsalmostneverjoin properly, and whoeverdid this probablyhad a hundred failuresbeforehe got what he wanted. That slavemust be worth a fortune." David said,"l thoughtyou threwyour mice out. Aren't you workingwith monkeysnow?" I wasn't, although I hoped to; but whether I wasor not, it seemedclear that talkingaboutit wasn'tgoingto accomplishanything.I told David that. "l thought you were hot to leave." I had been, but now I wantedsomethingelsemuch more. I wantedto perform an exploratoryoperationon that creaturemuch more than David and Phaedriahad ever wanted money. David liked to think that he was bolderthan I, and I knewwhen I said, "You may want to get away,but don't use me as an excuse,brother,"that that would settleit. 'All right, how are we going to kill him?" He gaveme an angry look. Phaedriasaid, "It can't reach us. We could throw things at it." 'And he could throw the onesthat missedback."

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While we talked,the thing, the four-armedslave,wasgrinning at us. I wasfairly sureit could understandat leasta part of what we weresaying,and I motionedto David and Phaedriato indicatethatwe shouldgo backinto the room wherethe deskwas.When we werethere I closedthe door. "I didn't want him to hear us. If we had weaponson poles,spearsof somekind, we might be ableto kill him without gettingtoo close.What could we usefor sticks?Any ideas?" David shookhis head, but Phaedriasaid, "Wait a minute, I remember something."We both lookedat her and sheknitted her brows,pretendingto searchher memory and enjoying the attention. "Well?" David asked. She snappedher fingers."Window poles.You know, long things with a little hook on the end. Rememberthe windows out there wherehe talks to customers? They're high up in the wall, and while he and Papaweretalking one of the men who worksfor him brought one and openeda window.They ought to be around somewhere. " We found two after a five-minute search.They lookedsatisfactory: about six feet long and an inch and a quarterin diameter,of hard wood. David flourished his and pretendedto thrust at Phaedria,then askedme, "Now what do we use for points?" The scalpel I alwayscarried was in its casein my breastpocket, and I fastenedit to the rod with electricaltape from a roll David had fortunately carriedon his belt insteadof in the tool kit, but we could find nothing to makea secondspearhead for him until he himself suggested brokenglass. "You can't breaka window," Phaedriasaid, "they'd hear you outside. Besides,won't it just snap off when you try to get him with it?" "Not if it's thick glass.Look here, you two." I did, and saw-again-my own face.He waspointing towardthe large mirror that had surprisedme when I came down the steps.While I looked his shoe struck it, and it shatteredwith a crash that set the dogs barking again.He selecteda long, almoststraight,triangularpieceand held it up to the light, where it fashed like a gem. "That'sabout asgood asthey usedto make them from agateand jasperon SainteAnne, isn't it?"

By prior agreementwe approachedfrom oppositesides.The slaveleapedto the top of the chest,and from there, watchedus quite calmly, his delp-set eyesturning from David to me until at last,when we wereboth quite close, David rushedhim. He spun aroundasthe glasspoint grazedhisribsand caughtDavid'sspear by the shaftand jerkedhim forward. I thrust at him but missed.and beforeI

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could recoverhe had dived from the chestand wasgrapplingwith David on the far side. I bent overit and jabbeddown at him, and it wasnot until David screamedthat I realizedI had driven my scalpelinto his thigh. I sawthe blood, bright arterialblood, spurtup anddrenchthe shaft,and let it go and threw myself over the chest on top of them. He wasreadyfor me, on his backand grinning, with his legsand all four armsraisedlike a deadspider's. I am certainhe would havestrangledme in the next few secondsif it had not beenthat David, how consciouslyI do not know,threw onearm acrossthe creature'seyesso that he missedhis grip and I fell betweenthose outstretchedhands.

There is not a greatdeal more to tell. He jerkedfree of David, and pulling me to him, tried to bite my throat;but I hookeda thumb in one of his eye socketsand held him off. Phaedria,with more couragethan I would have creditedher with, put David'sglass-tipped spearinto my free hand and I stabbedhim in the neck-I believeI severedboth jugularsand the trachea beforehe died. We put a tourniqueton David'slegand left without eitherthe money or the knowledgeof technique I had hoped to get from the body of the slave.Marydol helped us get David home, and we told Mr. Million he had fallen while we wereexploringan empty building - though I doubt that he believedus. There is oneotherthing to tell aboutthat incident-l meanthe killing of the slave-although I am temptedto go on and describeinsteada discovery I made immediately afterward that had, at the time, a much greater infuence on me. It is only an impression,and one that I have,I am sure, distortedand magnifiedin recollection.While I wasstabbingthe slave,my facewasvery nearhis and I saw(l supposebecauseof the light from the high windowsbehindus)my own facereflectedanddoubledin the corneasof his eyes,and it seemedto me that it wasa facevery like his. I havebeen unable to forget, sincethen, what Dr. Marsch told me about the productionof any number of identicalindividualsby cloning, and that my fatherhad, when I wasyounger,a reputationasa child broker.I havetried sincemy releaseto find sometraceof my mother;the woman in the photographshownme by my aunt;but that picturewassurelytakenlong beforeI wasborn-perhaps even on Earth. The discoveryI spokeof I made almostas soon as we left the building whereI killed the slave,and it wassimplythis:that it wasno longerautumn, but high summer.Becauseall four of us-Marydol had joined us by that time-were so concernedabout David and busy concoctinga story to explainhis injury, the shockwassomewhatblunted, but therecould be no

GENE WOLFE / 235 doubt of it. The weatherwaswarm with that torpid, damp heatpeculiar to summer.The treesI rememberednearlybarewerein full leafand filled with orioles.The fountain in our gardenno longerplayed,asit alwaysdid after the dangerof frost and burst pipeshad come, with warmedwater:I dabbled my hand in the basinaswe helpedDavid up the path, and it wasascool as dew. My periodsof unconsciousactionthen, my sleepwalking,had increased to devour an entire winter and the spring, and I felt that I had lost myself. When we enteredthe house, an ape which I thought at first was my father'ssprang to my shoulder. Later Mr. Million told me that it was my own, one of my laboratoryanimalsI had made a pet. I did not know the little beast,but scarsunderhis fur and the twist of his limbs showedhe knew me. (l havekept Popoeversince,and Mr. Million took care of him for me while I was imprisoned.He climbs still in fine weatheron the gray and crumbling wallsof this house;andashe runsalongthe parapetsand I seehis hunched form againstthe sky,I think, for a moment, that my father is still alive and that I may be summonedagainfor the long hoursin his librarybut I forgivemy pet that.)

My fatherdid not call a physicianfor David, but treatedhim himself;and if he wascuriousaboutthe mannerin which he had receivedhis injury he did not showit. My own guess-for whateverit may be worth, this late-is that he believedI had stabbedhim in somequarrel.I saythis becausehe seemed, afterthis, apprehensive wheneverI wasalonewith him. He wasnot a fearful man, and he had been accustomedfor yearsto deal occasionallywith the worstsort of criminals;but he wasno longerat easewith me-he guarded himself. It may havebeen, of course,merelythe resultof somethingI had said or done during the forgotten winter. Both Marydol and Phaedria,aswell asmy aunt and Mr. Million, came frequentlyto visit David, so that his sickroombecamea sort of meeting placefor us all, only disturbedby *y father'soccasionalvisits.Marydol was a slight, fair-haired,kindheartedgirl, and I becamevery fond of her. Often when shewasreadyto go home I escortedher, and on the waybackstopped at the slavemarket,asMr. Million and David and I had oncedone sooften, to buy fried breadand the sweetblack coffeeand to watch the bidding. The facesof slavesare the dullest in the world; but I would find myself staring into them, and it wasa long time, a month at least,beforeI understoodquite suddenly,when I found what I had been looking for-why I did. A young male, a sweeper,wasbroughtto the block. His faceaswell ashis back

had been scarredby the whip, and his teeth werebroken;but I recognized him: the scarredfacewasmy own or my father's.I spoketo him and would havebought and freedhim, but he answeredme in the servileway of slaves and I turned awayin disgustand went home. That night when my fatherhad me brought to the library-as he had not for severalnights-I watchedour reflectionsin the mirror that concealed the entranceto his laboratories.He lookedyoungerthan he was;I older.We might almosthavebeenthe sameman, andwhen he facedme and I, staring over his shoulder,sawno image of my own body, but only his arms and mine, we might have been the fighting slave. I cannot saywho first suggested we kill him. I only rememberthat one evening, as I preparedfor bed after taking Marydol and Phaedriato their homes,I realizedthat earlierwhen the threeof us, with Mr. Million and my aunt, had sat around David'sbed, we had been talking of that. Not openly, of course. Perhapswe had not admitted even to ourselves what it waswe werethinking. My aunt had mentionedthe money he was supposed to havehidden;and Phaedria,then, a yachtluxuriousasa palace; David talked about hunting in the grand style, and the political power money could buy. And I, saying nothing, had thought of the hours and weeks,and the months he had taken from me; of the destructionof my self,which he had gnawedat night after night. I thought of how I might enter the library that night and find myselfwhen next I woke an old man and perhapsa beggar. Then I knewthat I must kill him, sinceif I told him thosethoughtswhile I lay druggedon the peelingleatherof the old tablehe would kill mewithout a qualm. While I waitedfor his valetto come I made my plan. There would be no investigation,no deathcertificatefor my father.I would replacehim. To our friendswould patronsit would appearthat nothing had changed.Phaedria's be told that I had quarreledwith him and left home. I would allow no one to seeme for a time, and then, in make-up,in a dim room, speakoccasionally to somefavoredcaller.It wasan impossibleplan, but at the time I believedit possibleand even easy.My scalpelwasin my pocketand ready.The body could be destroyedin his own laboratory. He read it in my face. He spoketo me as he alwayshad, but I think he knew. There were flowers in the room, something that had never been before, and I wonderedif he had not known even earlier and had them broughtin, asfor a specialevent.Insteadof telling me to lie on the leathercoveredtable, he gesturedtowarda chair and seatedhimself at his writing desk."We will have companytoday,"he said. I looked at him.

GENEWOLFE/ 837 "You'reangrywith me. I've seenit growingin you. Don't you know who . ." He wasaboutto saysomethingfurtherwhentherewasa tap at the door, in a andwhenhecalled,"Comein!" it wasopenedby Nerissa,whoushered to seehim; andstill more andDr. Marsch.I wassuqprised demi-mondaine surprisedto seeone of the girls in my father'slibrary.Sheseatedherself for the night. besideMarschin a waythat showedhe washer benefactor "Have you enjoying been "Good evening,Doctor," my fathersaid. yourself.2" Marschsmiled,showinglarge,squareteeth. He woreclothingof the cut now, but the contrastbetweenhis beardand the most fashionable and asever."Both sensually skinof his cheekswasasremarkable colorless height of the giantess twice "l've girl, a a naked seen hesaid. intellectually," a man, walkthrougha wall." " I said,*That'sdonewith holograms. "I He smiledagain. know.And I haveseena greatmanyotherthingsas well. I wasgoingto recitethem all, but perhapsI would only boremy audience.I will contentmyselfwith sayingthat you havea remarkable you knowthat." establishment-but My fathersaid,"It is alwaysflatteringto hearit again." 'And now arewe goingto havethe discussion we spokeof earlier?" sherose,kissedDr. Marsch,and My fatherlookedatthedemi-mondaine; shutbehindher with a soft door swung library The heavy room. the left click.

Like the soundof a switch,or old glassbreaking. I havethoughtsince,manytimes,of that girl asI sawher leaving:the dress long legs,the backless high-heeledplatformshoesand grotesquely dippingan inch belowthecoccyx.The barenapeof herneck;herhair piled andthreadedwith ribbonsandtiny lights.Assheclosedthedoor andteased shewasending,thoughshecouldnothaveknownit, theworldsheandI had known. "She'llbe waitingwhen you comeout," my fathersaidto Marsch. 'And if she'snot, I'm sureyou can supplyothers. " The anthropologist's greeneyesseemed to glowin thelamplight."But now,howcanI helpyou?" "Youstudyrace.Couldyoucall a groupof similarmenthinkingsimilar thoughtsa race?" 'And women,"Marschsaid,smiling. 'And here,"my fathercontinued,"hereon SainteCroix, youaregathering materialto takebackwith you to Earth?"

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"l am gatheringmaterial,certainly.Whether or not I shall return to the mother planet is problematical." I must havelookedat him sharply;he turned his smiletowardme, and it became,if possible,evenmorepatronizingthan before."You'resurprised?" "I've alwaysconsideredEarth the centerof scientificthought," I said."l can easilyimagine a scientistleavingit to do field work, but . ." "But it is inconceivablethat one might want to stayin the field?" "Considermy position.You are not alone-happily for me-in respecting the mother world'sgray hairs and wisdom. As an Earth-trainedman I've beenoffereda departmentin your universityat almostany salaryI care to name, with a sabbaticalevery secondyear. And the trip from here to Earth requirestwenty yearsof Newtoniantime. Only six months subjectively for me, of course,but when I return, if I do, my educationwill be forty yearsout of date. No, I'm afraid your planet may haveacquiredan intellectuallumin ary." My father said, "We're strayingfrom the subject, I think. " Marsch nodded,then added,"But I wasaboutto saythat an anthropologistis peculiarlyequippedto makehimselfat homein any culture-even in sostrangea oneasthis family hasconstructedaboutitself.I think I may call it a family, sincetherearetwo membersresidentbesidesyourself.You don't object to my addressingthe pair of you in the singular?" He lookedat me as if expectinga protest,then when I said nothing, "l meanyour sonDavid-that, and not brother,is his realrelationshipto your continuing personality-and the woman you call your aunt. She is in reality daughterto an earlier-shall we say'version'?-of yourself." "You'retrying to tell me I'm a clonedduplicateof my father,and I see both of you expectme to be shocked.I'm not. I've suspectedit for some time." My father said, "I'm glad to hear that. Frankly,when I wasyour agethe discoverydisturbedme a greatdeal. I came into my father'slibrary-this room-to confront him, and I intendedto kill him." 'And Dr. Marsch asked, did you?" "l don't think it matters-the point is that it wasmy intention.I hopethat having you here will make things easierfor Number Five." "Is that what you call him?" "lt's more convenientsince his name is the sameas my own." "He is your fifth clone-producedchild?" "My fifth experiment?No." My father'shunched, high shoulderswrapped in the dingy scarletof his old dressinggown made him look like some savagebird; and I rememberedhaving read in a book of natural history of onecalledthe red-shouldered hawk. His pet monkey,grizzlednow with age,

GENE WOLFE / E3g had climbed onto the desk."No, more like my fiftieth, if you must know. I used to do them for drill. You people who have never tried it think the techniqueis simplebecauseyou'veheardit can be done, but you don't know how difficult it is to preventspontaneousdifferences.Every genedominant in myself had to remain dominant, and peopleare not garden peas-few things are governedby simple Mendelian pairs." Marsch asked,"You destroyedyour failures?" I said, "He sold them. When I was a child I used to wonder why Mr. Million stoppedto look at the slavesin the market. Since then I've found out. " My scalpelwas still in its casein my pocket;I could feel it. "Mr. Million," my fathersaid, "is perhapsa bit more sentimentalthan I-besides, I don't like to go out. Yousee,Doctor, your suppositionthat we areall truly the sameindividualwill haveto be modified.We haveour little " variations. Dr. Marsh was about to reply,but I interruptedhim. "Why?" I said. "Why David and me? Why Aunt Jeanninea long time ago?Why go on with it?" "Yes," *y father said, "why? We askthe questionto askthe question." "l don't understandyou." "l seek self-knowledge.If you want to put it this way, we seek selfknowledge.You are here becauseI did and do, and I am here becausethe individual behind me did-who washimself originatedby the one whose mind is simulatedin Mr. Million. And one of the questionswhoseanswers we seekis why we seek.Butthere is morethan that." He leanedforward, and the little apelifted its white muzzleand bright, bewilderedeyesto stareinto his face."We wish to discoverwhy we fail, why othersriseand change,and we remain here." I thought of the yachtI had talkedabout with Phaedriaand said, "l won't stayhere." Dr. Marsch smiled. My father said, "I don't think you understandme. I don't necessarily mean here physically,but here,socially and intellectually.I havetraveled, and you may, but . ." "But you end here," Dr. Marsch said. "We end at this level!" It wasthe only time, I think, that I ever sawmy father excited. He wasalmost speechless as he wavedat the notebooksand tapesthat thronged the walls. 'After how many generations?We do not achievefame or the rule of eventhis miserablelittle colony planet. Something must be changed, but what?" He glared at Dr. Marsch. "You arenot unique," Dr. Marschsaid,then smiled."That soundslike a truism, doesn't it? But I wasn't referring to your duplicating yourself. I meantthat sinceit becamepossible,backon Earth during the lastquarterof

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thetwentiethcentury,it hasbeendonein suchchainsa numberof times. We haveborroweda term from engineering to describeit, and call it the process of relaxation-abadnomenclature, but thebestwe have.Do vou knowwhat relaxation in the engineering senseis?" ttNo.tt

"There are problemswhich are not directly soluble,but which can be solvedby a succession of approximations.In heat transfer,for example,it may not be possibleto calculateinitially the temperatureat everypoint on the surfaceof an unusuallyshapedbody.But the engineer,or his computer, can assumereasonabletemperatures,seehow nearly stablethe assumed valueswould be, then make new assumptionsbasedon the result. As the levelsof approximationprogress,the successive setsbecomemore and more similaruntil thereis essentiallyno change.That is why I saidthe two of you are essentially one individual." "What I wantyou to do," my fathersaidimpatiently,"is to makeNumber Five understandthat the experimentsI haveperformedon him, particularly the narcotherapeutic examinationshe resentsso much, arenecessary. That if we areto becomemore than we havebeenwe must find out . . ." He had been almost shouting,and he stoppedabruptly to bring his voice under control. "That is the reasonhe wasproduced,the reasonfor David too-l hoped to learn something from an outcrossing." "Which wasthe rationale,no doubt," Dr. Marschsaid,"for the existence of Dr. Veil aswell, in an earliergeneration.But asfar asyour examinations of your youngerself are concerned,it would be just as useful for him to examineyou." "Wait a moment," I said. "You keepsayingthat he and I are identical. That'sincorrect.I can seethat we'resimilar in somerespects,but I'm not really like my father." "There are no differencesthat cannot be accountedfor by age. You are what?Eighteen?And you"-he lookedtowardmy father-"I shouldsayare nearly fifty. There are only two forces,you see, which act to differentiate betweenhuman beings:they are heredityand environment,nature and nurture. And sincethe personalityis largelyformed during the first three yearsof life, it is the environmentprovidedby the home which is decisive. Now everypersonis born into somehome environment, though it may be sucha harshonethat he diesof it. And no person,exceptin this situationwe call anthropologicalrelaxation,providesthat environmenthimself-it is furnished for him by the precedinggeneration." "just becauseboth of us grew up in this house. . ." "Which you built and furnishedand filled with the peopleyou chose.But wait a moment. Let'stalk about a man neitherof you haveeverseen,a man

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born in a placeprovidedby parentsquite differentfrom himselfi I mean the ." first of you I was no longer listening. I had come to kill my father, and it was necessarythat Dr. Marsch leave.I watchedhim ashe leanedforward in his chair, his long, white handsmaking incisivelittle gestures,his cruel lips moving in a frameof blackhair; I watchedhim and I heardnothing. It was as though I had gone deaf or as if he could communicate only by his thoughts,and I, knowing the thoughtswere silly lies had shut them out. I said, "You are from SainteAnne." sentence. He lookedat me in surprise,halting in the midst of a senseless "l havebeenthere, yes.I spentseveralyearson SainteAnne beforecoming here." "You wereborn there.Youstudiedanthropologytherefrom bookswritten on Earth twenty yearsago. You are an abo, or at leasthalf abo. But we are men." Marsch glancedat my father,then said, "The abosare gone. Scientific opinion on Sainte Anne holds that they have been extinct for almost a century." "You didn't believethat when you came to seemy aunt." "I've neveracceptedVeili; Hypothesis.I calledon everyoneherewho had publishedanything in my field. Really,I don't havetime to listen to this." "You are an abo and not from Earth." And in a short time mv father and I were alone.

Most of my sentenceI servedin a labor camp in the ThtteredMountains. It was a small camp, housingusually only a hundred and fifty prisonerssometimeslessthan eighty when the winter deathshad been bad. We cut wood and burned charcoal and made skis when we found good birch. Above the timberline we gathereda saline mosssupposedto be medicinal and knotted long plans for rock slidesthat would crush the stalking machines that were our guards-though somehowthe moment never came, the stonesneverslid. The work was hard, and theseguardsadministered exactlythe mixture of severityand fairnesssomeprison board had decided upon when they were programmed, and the problem of brutality and favoritismby hirelings wassettledforever,so that only well-dressedmen at meetingscould be cruel or kind. Or sothey thought. I sometimestalkedto my guardsfor hoursabout Mr. Million, and once I found a pieceof meat, and oncea cakeof hard sugar, brown and gritty as sand, hidden in the corner where I slept. A criminal may not profit by his crime, but the court- soI wastold much

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later-could find no proofthatDavidwasindeed-y father's son,andmade my aunt his heir. Shedied,anda letterfrom an attorneyinformedme that by herfavorI hadinherited"alargehouse in thecityof Port-Mimizon,together with the furnitureandchattels appertaining thereto."And thatthishour., "located at 666Saltimbanque, is presently underthe careof a robotservitor. " Since the robotservitors underwhosedirectionI foundmyselfdid not allow me writing materials,I could not reply. Time passed on thewingsof birds.I founddeadlarksat thefeetof northfacingcliffs in autumn, at the feetof south-facing cliffs in spring. I receiveda letterfrom Mr. Million. Most of my father'sgirls had left duringtheinvestigation of hisdeath;theremainder hehadbeenobligedto sendawaywhen my aunt died, finding that as a machinehe could not enforcethe necessary obedience. Davidhadgoneto the capital.Phaedria hadmarriedwell. Marydolhadbeensoldby herparents. The dateon his letterwasthreeyearslaterthanthedateof my trial, but how longthe letter hadbeenin reachingme I couldnot tell. The envelopehadbeenopened and resealed manytimesandwassoiledandtorn. A seabird, I believe a gannet,camefutteringdownintoourcampaftera storm,too exhausted to fy. We killed and ate it. One of our guardswentberserk,burnedfifteenprisoners to death,and foughttheotherguardsall nightwith swordsof whiteandbluefire. He was not replaced. I wastransferred with someothersto a campfarthernorthwhereI looked downchasmsof redstonesodeepthat if I kickeda pebblein, I couldhear therattleof itsdescent growto a roarof slippingrock-and hearthat,in half a minute, fadewith distanceto silence,yet neverstrikethe bottomlost somewhere in darkness. I pretended thepeopleI hadknownwerewith me. When I satshielding my basinof soupfrom the wind, Phaedriasatupon a benchnearbyand smiledandtalkedaboutherfriends.Davidplayedsquashfor hourson the dustygroundof our compound,sleptagainstthewall nearmy own corner. Marydolput herhandin minewhileI carriedmy sawinto themountains. In time theyall grewdim, but evenin the lastyearI neversleptwithout tellingmyself,justbeforesleep,that Mr. Million wouldtakeusto the city libraryin themorning;neverwokewithoutfearingthatmy father's valethad comefor me.

Then I wastold that I wasto go, with threeothers,to anothercamp.We carriedour food,andnearlydiedof hungerandexposure on theway.From

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therewe weremarched.toa third camp wherewe werequestionedby men who werenot prisonerslike ourselvesbut free men in uniforms who made notesof our answersand at last orderedthat we bathe, and burned our old clothing, and gaveus a thick stew of meat and barley. I remembervery well that it wasthen that I allowed myselfto realize, at last, what thesethings meant. I dipped my breadinto my bowl and pulled it out soakedwith the fragrant stock, with bits of meat and grains of barley clinging to it; and I thought then of the fried bread and coffeeat the slave marketnot assomethingof the pastbut assomethingin the future, and my hands shook until I could no longer hold my bowl and I wanted to rush shouting at the fences. In two moredayswe, six of us now wereput into a mule cart that droveon winding roadsalwaysdownhill until the winter that had beendying behind us wasgone, and the birchesand firs weregone, and the tall chestnutsand oaksbesidethe.roadhad spring flowersunder their branches. The streetsof Port-Mimizon swarmedwith people. I would have been lostin a momentif Mr. Million had not hired a chair for me, but I madethe bearersstop, and bought (with money he gave me) a newspaperfrom a vendor so that I could know the date with certainty at last. My sentencehad been the usual one of two to fifty years,and though I had known the month and year of the beginning of my imprisonment, it had been impossibleto know, in the camps,the number of the current year which everyonecounted and no one knew. A man took fever and in ten days,when he waswell enoughagainto work, saidthat two yearshad passed or had never been. Then you yourself took fever. I do not recall any headline,any article from the paperI bought. I readonly the dateat the top, all the way home. It had been nine years. I had beeneighteenwhen I had killed my father.I wasnow twenty-seven. I had thought I might be forty.

The flakinggraywallsof our housewerethe same.The iron dog with his three wolf-headsstill stoodin the front garden,but the fountain wassilent, and the beds of fern and mosswere full of weeds.Mr. Million paid my chairmen and unlocked with a key the door that wasalwaysguard-chained but unbolted in my father'sday-but as he did so, an immenselytall and lanky woman who had been hawking pralinesin the streetcame running toward us. It wasNerissa,and I now had a servantand might have had a bedfellow if I wished, though I could pay her nothing.

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And now I must,I suppose, explainwhy I havebeenwritingthis account, which hasalreadybeenthe laborof days;and I mustevenexplainwhy I explain.Verywellthen.I havewrittento disclose myselfto*yr.|f, andI am writingnow because I will, I know,sometimereadwhatI am nowwriting and wonder. Perhaps by the time I do, I will havesolvedthe mysteryof myself;or perhapsI will no longercareto knowthe solution. It hasbeenthreeyearssincemy release. This house,whenNerissaandI re-entered it, wasin a veryconfusedstate,my aunt havingspenther last days,soMr. Million told me, in a searchfor my father's supposed hoard. Shedidnotfindit, andI donotthinkit isto befound;knowinghischaracter betterthanshe,I believehespentmostof whathisgirlsbroughthim on his experiments and apparatus. I neededmoneybadlymyselfat first, but the reputationof thehousebroughtwomenseekingbuyersandmenseeking to buy.It is hardlynecessary, asI toldmyselfwhenwebegan,to do morethan introducethem, and I havea goodstaffnow.Phaedrialiveswith us and workstoo;thebrilliantmarriage wasa failureafterall. LastnightwhileI was workingin my surgeryI heardheratthelibrarydoor.I openedit andshehad the child with her. Someday they'll want us.

The Chaste Planet Oneof the mostprominentcontemponryAmericanwriter-s, lohn (tpdike hai writtenonly one rciencefiction story,"The with thegrowingrespecta' ChasteP]anet."In recentdecades, bility of SE many major literary figureshaveoccasionally attemptedtheform, often with interestingresulls SaulBel' Iow, ifiarge Piercy,William Hiorstberg,Don DeLillo, and MargareiAtwood have wriften novelJengthSE and Doris five-volumeseriesCanopus Lesiinghasproducedthemassive in Argos:Archives.Theseliteraryfrgureswi_llcertainlyhave frction,as science signifrcantimpacton thefuture of science iction hashad an impact on them. What hasbeen estabto bea sciencefiction writerto ]ishedis thatit is not necessary haveto write SF or useifs tropes.Nordo writersnecessarily deny that they have done so, as Vonnegutonce did, to preservetheir literary reputations.

I n 1999, spaceexplorersdiscoveredthat within the warm, perfectly I turbulent, semi-liquid immensity of fupiter a I pleasantlittle planettwirled, with argonskiesand sparkling seasof molten beryllium. The earthlingswho first arrivedon the shoresof this new world were shockedby the unabashed nakednessof the inhabitants. Not only were the inhabitants naked-their bodies cylindrical, slightly curved, and longitudinally ridged,like white pickles,with six toothpick-thin

limbs stuck in for purposesof locomotion, and a kind of tasseledseventh concentratingthe neural functions-but there appearedto be no sexual differentiation among them. Indeed, there was none. Reproductiontook placeby an absenteeprocessknown as "budding," and thl inhabitantsof Minerva (so the planet was dubbed, by a classics-minded official of the Sino-AmericanSpaceAgency)thoughtnothing of it. Evidently,wherevera mathematicalsufficiencyof overlappingfootsteps(or jabs,for tireir locomotion left marks rather like thoseof ski polesin crusty snow) impressedthe poroussoil of interminglednickelandasbestos, a new pickleoidform slowly sprouted,or "budded." Devoidboth ofparentageandof progenitivedesires, this new creature,when the threeMinervan years(five of ou, *eeks)of its maturationperiod brought it to full size (approximatelyeighteenof our inches),eagerlyshookthe nickel from its rootsand assumedits placein the fruitful routinesof agriculture, industry,trade, and governmlnt that on Minerva, as on Earth, superficiallydominatedlife. The erotic interestsof the explorersand, as argon-breathingapparatus became perfected, of the ambassadorsand investigatorsand mercantile colonistsfrom our own planetoccasioned amazementand misunderstanding amongthe Minervans.The earlyattemptsat rapewerescarcelymore of a successthan the later attempts,by someof the new world'seconomically marginalnatives,to prostitutethemselves. The lackof satisfactory contact, however,did not preventthe expatriateearthlingsfrom falling in love with the Minervans, producing the usual debris of sonnets,sleepless nights, exhaustiveletters,iealousfits, and superchargeddreams.The little pickleshapedpeople,though no Pocahontasor Fayawayemergedamong them to assuagethe aliens'wonderfulheat, werefascinated:How could the brief, mechanical event described(not so unlike, the scientistsamong them observed,the accidentalpreparationof their own ground for "budding") generatesuchgiant expendituresof neuralenergy?"We live for love," they wereassured."Our spaceships, our skyscrapers, our stockmarketsare but deflectionsof this basicdrive. Our clothes,our meals,our arts,our modes of transportation,even our wars, are made to servethe causeof love. An earthling infant takesin love with his first suck, and his dying gaspis clouded by this passion.All elseis sham, disguise,and make-wlrk." The human coloniescameto includefemales.This subspecies wassofter and morebulbous,its aggressions more intricateand its auramorecomplacent; the Minervans neverovercametheir distastefor women, who seemed bonelessand odorousand parasiticafterthe splendidfirst impressionmade by the early spaceexplorerscarapacedin flashingsheetsof aluminum foil. Thesefemaleseven more stronglypaid homageto the power of love: "For onetrue momentof it, a life is well lost. Give us love, or giveus death.Our

t:r: dyingisbuta fleckwithinthecontinuous, "".rr;;Ht.":7: Lovemovesthestars,whichyoucannotsee.It movesthebirds,whichyou do not have,to song." The Minervansweredumbfounded;they could beneaththeir swirling,argon-brightskies, imagineno force,no presence moreabsolutethan death-for which the wordin their languagewasthe " sameasfor "silence. would and characteristically, Then the human females,disagreeably 'And you?"they would asktheir little naked turn the tablesof curiosity. auditors."What is it thatmakesyoutick?Tell us.Theremustbesomething hidden,or elseFreudwasa local oracle.Tell us, whatdo you dreamof, when your six eyesshut?"And a blue-greenblush would stealoverthe epidermsof the Minervans,and theywouldtitter warty,ridged,colorless andon theirslenderstifflimbsscamper andrustlelikea patchof artichokes, of burrowsuntil theconcealment andnotemergefromtheirelaborate away, asrapidandrecurrentastheblinkingof night-night, to earthlingsenses, an eyelid.

The firstcluearosefrom the sonnets thelovelornspacemen usedto recite. Thoughthewords,however therecitation translated, cameout asnonsense, ihelf held the Minervans'interest,and seemedto excitethem with its rhythms.Students of thepioneerjournalsalsonotedthat,by morethanone account,beforeprostitutionwasabandoned as unfeasiblethe would-be from out courtesans offered of thedepthsof themselves a shy,strangulated crooning,a sortof pitch-speech analogous to Chinese.Then robotteleviewers weresufficientlyminiaturizedto maneuver throughtheMinervans' elaborateburrows.Among the dim, shakyimagesbeamedback from underground(the staticfrom the nickel wasterrific)weresomeof rods arrangedroughlyin sequence of size,and of otherrods,possiblyhollow, flaredat one end or laterallypunctured.The televiewer had stumbled,it turnedout, uponan unguarded brothel;the objectswere,of course,crude Minervanequivalents of xylophones, trumpets,and flutes.The ultimate reachesof many privateburrowscontainedsimilar objects,discreetly tuckedwherethenewlybuddedwouldnotfindthem,aswellasproto-harps, quasi-violins, percussive andcertainconstructions in purpose.When the crawlingteleviewers were fitted with audio components,the domestic tunnels,and evensomechambersof the commercialcomplexes,were revealed asteemingwith a constant,furtivemusic-a conceptforwhichthe only Minervanword seemedto be the sameastheir wordfor "life." Concurrentwith thesediscoveries, a team of SASAalienistshad persuadeda numberof Minervansto submitto psychoanalysis. The patternof

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dreamwork,with its loadedsymbolizationof ladders,valves,sine curves, and hollow,polishedforms, aswell asthe subjects'tendency underdrugsto deform their speechwith melodiousslippage,and the criiical caseof one Minervan (nicknamedby the psychiatricstaffDora)who sufferedfrom the obsessive maladyknown as"humming," pointedto the sameconclusionas the televiewers' visual evidence:the Minervans on their sexless,muffled planetlived for music, of which they had only the mostprimitive inkling. In the exploitativerush that followed this insight, tons of nickel were tradedfor a song.Spieswereenlistedin the Earth'sservicefor the bribeof a plasticharmonica;entirecabinetsandcorporationboardswerecorruptedby the promiseof a glimpseof a clarinet-fingering diagram,or by the playingof an old 7}-r.p.m. "Muskrat Ramble." At the first public broajcast of a symphony,Brahms'Fourth in E Minor, the audienceof Minervanswent into convulsionsof ecstasy asthe stringsyieldedthe themeto the oboe,and would doubtlesshaveperisheden massehad not the sound engineermercifully lifted the needleand switchedto the Fred waring ,rrrng.*ent of 'American Patrol." Even so, many Minervans, in that epoch of violated innocence,died of musical overdose,and many more wrote confessional articles,formedliberationalpolitical parties,and engaged,with sometimes disappointingresults,in group listening. What music meantto the Minervans,it wasbeyondthe ken of earthlings to understand.That repetitivemix of thuds, squeaks, and tintinnabulation, an art so mechanical that Mozart could scribbleoff some of the best betweenbilliard shots,seemedperhapsto them a vibration implying all vibrations,a resolutionof the most inward, existentialantagonisms,a synthesizinginterface-it has been suggested-betweenthe nonconductivity of their asbestos earth and the high conductivityof their argon sky. There remainedabout the Minervans'musicality,even after it had been thoroughlyexploitedand rapaciouslyenlarged,somethingfastidious,balanced,and wary.A confusedancientmyth gavemusic the resonanceof the forbidden. In their Heaven,a place describedas mercifully dark, music occurredwithout instruments,as it wereinaudibly.An elderlyMinervan, wishing to memorializehis life, would rememberit almostexclusivelvin terms of music he had heard. or had made.

When the first Minervanswererocketedto Earth (an odysseydeservingits own epic: the outward flight through the thousandsof miles of soupy hydrogenthat comprisedfupiter'sthick skull; the breakthroughinto space and first sight of the stars,the black universe;the backwardglance at the gaseousstripesand raging red spot dwindling behind them; the parabolic

,r. t::::ff:' wherein fall throughthe solarsystem,

; t,,

brightness, mistook Venus for their destination, their invaders' home, instead of the watery brown spherethat expandedbeneath them), the visitorswereshockedby the ubiquitouspublic presenceof music. Leaking from restaurantwalls, beamed into airplanesas they landed and automobiles as they crashed,chiming from steeples,thundering from parade grounds, tingling through apartment walls, carried through the streetsin small black boxes,violating even the peaceof the desertand the forest, where drive-ins featured blue musical comedies, music at first overwhelmed, then delighted,then disgusted,and finally bored them. They removedthe ear stopplesthat had initially guardedthem from too keen a doseof pleasure;surfeit muffed them; they ceasedto hear.The Minervans had discoveredimpotence.

The BlindPilot TFIANSLATED

ElY DAMON

KNIGHT

Nathalie-charlesHenneberg,whois Russian,mether AIsatian-Germanhusbandin syria whenhe wasin theFrench &rg,-5" Legion. They beganwriting SF rn French in the 1950s, anduntil hisdeathin 1959thiy signedtheircollaborationswith hisname,muchlike thefamois Americanteamof Henry Kuttnerand c. L. Mooreafter their marriage.contemporaryFrench sF wascultivatedin the 1950sbv the yagazingFiction,ryitiallya translation of The Magazineof Fantasy& ScienceFiction, whichpepperedits cont6n3with new French stories."The Blind Pilot" was translatedand appeared rn The Magazineof Fantasy& ScienceFictionrn 1960,theyearafter itsFrenchappearance, andin 13French scienceFiction Stories(1965),-the frrst suchbook to be publishedin English. Nathaliewenton to becomea prolific novelist,the "mostread"FrenchSF writerin Francein the 1960s,. accordingto Knight. This story bearsan uncanny resemb]ance in atmosphereto the early worksof the Amerlcan writer RogerZelazny, which it predates.

he shop was low and dark, as if designedfor someone who no longer knew day from night. Around it hung a I I scentof wax and incense,exoticwoods,and rosesdried in darkness. It wasin the cellarof oneof the oldestbuildingsof the old radioactivedistrict, and you had to walk down several stepsbeforeyou reacheda grille of venerian sandalwood.A cone of Martian crystal lighted the sign: THE BLrNDprt-or. The man who came in this morning, followedby a robot porter with a chest, was a half-crazyold voyager,like many T

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who had gazedon the nakedblazingof the stars.He wasbackfrom the Aselli-aileast, if not from there,from the SouthernCross;his facewasof graven,from lying too long in a cabinat the mercyof the wax, ravaged, ultraviolets,and in the blackiungleof the planets' The cofferwashewnfrom a heartwoodhard asbrass,poroushereand there.He hadit setdownon thefloor,andthesidesvibratedimperceptibly' asif a greatcaptivebeewerestrugglinginside. "LoJkhere,';hesaid,givinga rapon thelid, "l wouldn'tsellthattherefor a million credits,but I'm needingto refloatmyself,till I getmy Pay.They tell meyou'rean honestYahoo.I'll leavethisherein pawnandcomebackto get it in six days.What'll you giveme?" At thebackof theshop,a youngmanraisedhishead.He wassittingin an old armchairstiff with floweredbrocade.He lookedlike oneof thosefine who had handsof steel,and werenot ashamedto be cavaliers Velasquez beautiful:but a blackbandagecoveredthe upperpart of his face. coldly,"and I don't takelive animalsas "I'm no Yahoo,"he answered " pledges. the newcomer. "Blind!You'reblind!" stammered " "You sawmy sign. 'Accident?" " "Out in the Pleiades. "Sorry,shipmate!"said the traveler.But alreadyhe was scheming: "How'd you knowtherewasan animal in there?" "I'm blind-but not deaf." The wholeroom wastingling with a crystallinevibration.Suddenlyit stopped.The travelerwipedgreatdropsof sweatfrom his forehead. "Shipmate," hesaid,"thatain'treallyananimal.I'm holdingontothat.I don'twantto sellit to nobody.And if I don'thaveanymoneytonight,it'sthe jug for me. No morespacevoyages, no moreloot, no morenothing.I'm an HZ, to be suspended." "l getit," answered the quietvoice."How much?" "Will you reallygiveme-?" choked. almost The other "Not a thing, I don'tgiveanythingfor nothing, andI toldyoubeforeI'm in yourcricketin a cage.But I canlet youhavefivethousand not interested In sixdays,whenyoucomeback credits,no more,on yourshippingpapers. to get them, you'll pay me five hundredcreditsextra.That'sall." "You'reworsethan a Yahoo!" bya jerkwho wascaused "No. I'm blind." Headdedgrimly,"My accident hadn'tinsuredhis rocket.I don'tlike ierks." "But," saidthe adventurer, shufflinghis feet, "how can you checkmy papers?"

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"My brother's overthere.Comeon out, Jacky.', A sharp little grin appearedin the shadows.Out betweena lunar harmoniumin a meteorite,anda darkTerrestrial cloth on which a flayed martyrhadbled,camea cripplemountedon a littlecarriage-legless, with stumpsof arms,propellinghimselfwith theaid of two hooks'a"malicious little old man of twelve. "Mutant," saidthe blind man curtly. "But he makesout, with his prosthetics.Papersin order, lacky?" "Sure,North. And dirtierthan a dustrag.,' "That only meansthey'veseengooduse.Give him his five thousand " credits. The blind man pressed a button.A cabinetopened,revealinga sortof dumb-waiter.In the top half therewasa little built-in strongbix; in the bottomcroucheda Foramenchimera,the mostbloodthirstyof beasts, half cat, half harpy. The travelerjumpedback. The cripplerolledhimselfoverto thestrongbox,grabbedup a bundleof creditsand blewon the monster's nose.It purredaffectionately. "You see,the money'swell guardedhere,"saidNorth. "Can I leavemy chestwith you, anyhow?"askedthe travelerhumbly.

Sothechestremained.Usingthedumb-waiter, thecripplesentit up to the small apartmentthat the two brotherssharedin the penthouseof the building. Accordingto its owner,the creaturethat was "not really an animal" wasin hibernation;it had no needof food. The porouswood allowedenoughair to pass.But the box hadto be keptin a darkplace."lt livesin the greatdeeps,"he had explained; "it can'tstanddaylight." The buildingwasreallyveryold, with a lot of elevators andclosets. The mutantsandcripplesof the lastwar,who livedtherebecause it wascheap, accommodated themselves to it. North draggedthe chestinto the strong room nextto his study. That evening,the freemoviein the buildingwasshowingan old stereo film, not evensensorial,aboutthe conquestof the Pleiades,and facky announcedthat he wantedto seeit. Aboutto leave,he askedhis brother, "Youdon't suppose that animalwill getcold in there?" "What areyou talkingabout?It'sin hibernation." 'Anyhow," saidfackyspitefully,"we'renotgettingpaidto keepit in fuel." The movielastedtill midnight,and whenfackycamebacktherewasa full moon.The boytestifiedlaterthat he had beena little overexcited. A white glimmer fooded the upperlanding,and he sawthat the French

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with study,weremasked windowsof the"garret,"astheycalledhisbrother's on precaution North had takenthis extra a blackcloth. fackysupposed accountof the animal; he pushedhimselfforwardwith his hooks,and andtherewasnokeyin thelock. knockedon thedoor,but no oneanswered, He told himselfthenthat maybeNorth hadgonedownsixstoriesto the barin thebuilding,andhedecidedto wait.He saton thelanding;thenight wasmild, andhewouldnothavetradedtheair atthatheightfor anyamount in The silverstarfloatedoverhead of conditionedandfilteredatmosphere. "it shining that after all, means something the blacksky.fackymusedthat goingon justthesamefor x years,thatmoonthat'sseensomanyold kings, The catsthat yowlat night mustfeel it; poets,andall thoselovers'stories. buildings,therewereonly robotdogs. andthedogstoo." In thelower-class he wasonly twelve.But mutants real all, for a dog-after longed facky living animals. couldn'town Andthen... (On the magnetictape wherefacky'sdepositionwastaken down, it seemedthat at that momentthe boy beganto choke.The recordingwas interrupted,andthenextreelbegan:"Thanksfor thecoffee.It wasgoodand bitter.") He hadheardan indefinablesound,veryfaint . . . justthe soundof the It greq andgrew.. . . At the sametime (thoughhe oceanin a seashell. sky,thecolorof pearl,and couldn'tsayhow),therewereimages.A nacreous he greencrystalwaves,with crestsof sparklingsilver.fackyfelt no surprise; someonein the building opposite had just left the stereotheater.Perhaps camera-andthe vibrations,the waves,were had turnedon a sensorial impinginghereby accident. But the melodyswelled,andthe boy sankunderthe greenwaves.They and fish. . . . Carriedalongby the currents,the little stankof seaweed cripplefelt light andfree.Banksof rustlingdiatomspartedfor him; a blue phosphorescence haloedthe medusas and starfish,and pearlyblue anejellyfish,fackyfelt a nettlemonesformeda forest.Grazedby a transparent like burning.The shadowof a hammerhead sharkwentby,andscattered a twinkling cloud of smelt. Fartherdown, the shadowgrewdenser,more gapedin a coralreef.The tentacleof an opaqueand mysterious-caverns octopuslashedthe water,and the crippleshuddered. He foundhimselfthrownbackagainstthe hull of a ship,half buriedin the sand.A little blackand gold siren,garlandedwith barnacles,smiled underthe prow;andhe fell, transported, againsta breachthatspilledout a piratetreasure, coffersfull of barbaricjewels.Heapsof boneswerewhitening at the bottomof the hold, anda skullsmiledwith emptysockets. This must be an amateurfilm, fackythought:a little too realistic.He freed

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himself,pushedawayashard ashe could urithhis hooks,roseto the surface at last-and almost cried out. The sky abovehim wasnot that of Earth. North had told him how that otherdarkoceanlooked-the sub-ether.The starswerenakedanddazzling. Reefs,that wereburning meteors,sprangup out of the void. And the plar,.ls seemedto whirl nearenoughto touch-one wasruby,anotherorante, still anothera tranquil blue; Saturn dancedin its airy ring. facky thrust his hooks out beforehim to push awaythosetorches.In so doing, he slippedand rolledacrossthe landing.The door openeda second later-he hadn't had time to fall threesteps,but this time he wasn'tdiving alone:besidehim, in the hideouslyreddenedwater,whirledanddancedthe body of a disjointedpuppet, with gullied featuresin a face of wax. Jackyraisedhis head.North stoodon the sill, terrible,paleasa statueof old ivory; the black bandagecut his face in two. He called, "Who's there? Answerme, or I'll call the militia!" His voice was loud and angry. North, who alwaysspokeso softly to facky. . . . "It'sme, fack," saidthe boy,trembling. "l wascoming back,and I missed a step. ("1 told a lie," said|acky later,to the militiamen who werequestioning him. And he staredinto their eyeswith a look of open defiance."That's right, sure, I told a lie. BecauseI knew he'd kill me.")

The nextmorning therewasno blood and no corpseon the landing. Only a smell of seaweed.. . . facky was filling the coffee cups, in the back of the shop, while the televisionnews broadcastwas on. Toward the end, the announcer mentionedthatthe body of a drownedman had beentakenfrom the harbor.The deadman'sfaceappearedon the tiny screenat the moment North cameinto the shop. "Hey, look at that!" called the cripple. "Your five thousandcreditsare done for." "What's that?" askedhis brother, picking up his china cup and his buttered bread with delicate accuracy. "The characterwith the pet, what'shis name?Oh, yes,JoashDu Guastwhata monicker!They'vejust fishedhim out of the channel. Guesswhat, they don't know who he is: somebodyswipedhis wallet." 'A dead loss," said the older. "You're certain he'sthe one?" "He'sstill on the screen.He isn't a pretty sight." An indefinable expressionpassedover North's mobile features."You'd

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think he wasrelieved,"fackytold himself. Aloud, he asked,"What do we do with the animal?" "Does it bother you?" askedNorth, a little too negligently. "Me, old man," saidthe cripplein a clownishtone, imitating a famous fat actor, "as long as there'sno wrinkles in my belly! Where did he come from, this Joash?" "He talked about the Aselli," said North, reachingwith a magician's 'And a lot of other things, too. What are deftnessfor anotherslice of bread. you up to this morning? Got any work to do?" "Not much! The Stimpson order to send out. A crate of lunar bells coming in. I ought to go to the ReeducationCenter, too." "Okay, I seeyou've got a full morning. Can you bring me a copy of the weekly news disc?" "Sure." But facky didn't go to the ReeducationCenter that morning, nor to his customers.With his carriageperchedon the slidewalk,he rodeto Astronaua building amongothers,andhad somedifficulty getting tics Headquarters, upstairsin the elevator,amid the students'jibes. Someof them asked,"You want to do the broadiump in a rocket?"And others,"He thinks thesearethe good old days,when everybodywashunting for round-bottomsto sendto the Moon!" It was not really spiteful, and Jackywas used to it. He felt a touch of nostalgia,not for himself but for North. He knew North would nevercome hereagain. The walls werecoveredwith celestialcharts; microfilm shelvesrosefrom one floor to the next, and in all the glasscases there were modelsof spaceshipengines,from the multi-stagerocketsand sputniks, all the way up to the great ships that synthesizedtheir own fissionables.fackyarrived all out of breath in front of the robot card sorter, and handed it his card. "The Aselli," spat the robot. 'Asellus Borealis?Asellus Australis? Gamma Cancri or Delta Cancri?" "There'snothing else out there?" "Yes, Alphard, longitude twenty-sixdegreesnineteen minutes. Alpha Hydrae." "Hydra, that'san aquaticmonster?Is it a waterplanet?Readme the card." "There is little to tell," crackledthe robot. "The planet is almost unexplored, its surfacebeing composedof oceans.No regular relationswith Earth." "Fauna?Flora?" "Without evidenceto the contrary,thoseof oceansin general." "lntelligent life?" The robot made afacerwith its ball bearings."Without evidenceto the

contrary, none. Nor any human beings. Nothing but sea lions a'd " manatees. "Manatees?what are they?"asked facky,suddenlyapprehensive. "Herbivoroussirenianmammalsthat live on Earth, along the shoresof Africa and America. Manateessometimesgrow aslong asthree meters,and frequent the estuariesof rivers." "But-'sirenians'?" 'A genus of mammals, relatedto the cetaceans,and comprisingthe dugongs,manatees,and so on." eyebrowswent up and he cried, "l thought it camefrom 'siren'!" Jacky's "So it does," saidthe robotlaconically."Fabulousmonsters,half woman, half bird or fish. With their sweetsinging, they lured voyagersonto the reefs.. . ." "Where did this happen?" "On Earth, whereelse?"saidthe robot, offended."Betweenthe isle of Capri and the coastof Italy. Young man, you don't know quite what you mean to ask." But facky knew. On his return, ashe expected,he found the shopclosedand a note tacked to the door: "The pilot is out. " facky hunted in his pocketsfor the key, slippedinside.All wascalm and ordinary,exceptfor that smellwhich ruled now like the mistressof the house, the smell that you breathe on the beaches,in little coves,in summer:seaweed, shells,fish, perhapsa little tar. |ackysetthe table, setto work in the kitchenette,and prepareda nice little snack,lobstersaladand ravioli. Secretiveand spiteful, imprisonedamong the yeilowing antiquesof the shop,the young cripple really loved them all. When everythingwas ready-fresh flowersin the vases,the ravioli hot, ice cubesin the glasses-fackyrang threetimes, accordingto custom.No one answered.Everything wasa pretextfor a secretlanguagebetweenthe two mutilated brothers,who adoredeach other. The first strokeof the bell meant:"The meal is ready,his lordshipmay comedown"; the second:"l'm hungry"; and the third: "l'm hungry, hungry, hungry!" The fourth had almost the senseof "Have you had an accident?" fackyhesitateda moment, then pressedthe button. The silencewasdeep amongthe crystallizedplantsand the gelnsof sevenplanets.Did this mean that North was really away?The cripple hoisted himself into the dumbwaiter and rode up to the penthouse. On the upper landing, the scenthad changed;it had flowerednow into unknown spices,and it would havetakena more expertobserverthan facky to recognizethe aromaticsof the fabulouspast:nard, aloes,and benzoin,

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the bitter thyme of Sheba'sBalkis, the myrrh and olibanum of Cleopatra. In the midstof all this, the musicwasreal,almostpalpable,like a pillar of light, and fackyaskedhimself how it could be that the others,on the floors below didn't hear it.

North Ellis closedthe door behind him, turned the key and shot the bolt. His blind man'shands,strongand slender,executedthesemovementswith machine-likeprecision,but he waspanting a little, and in spiteof old habit, had almostmissedthe landing. He wasso hard pressed. . . but he had to foreseeeverything.|ackymust neverenterthis room. Jacky. . . Restinghis backagainstthe door, North thought for a moment that he shouldhavesent fackyto Europe. Their aunt, their mother'ssister,lived somewherein a little village with a musical name. He felt responsiblefor |acky. He sweptawaythesepreoccupationslike deadleaves,and walkedtoward the dark corner where the chestlay under a black cloth. His fingerscrept over the porous wood, which scentedhis palms. "You'rethere," he said in a cold, harshvoice. "You'vebeen waiting for me, you!" The being that crouchedat the heartof the shadowsdid not immediately answer,but the concentric wavesof the music swelledout. And the man who had tumbled to earth with broken wings, awaited neither by his mother, dead of leukemia, nor by a red-haired girl who had laughed, turning her primrose face besidea white neck . . . the blind pilot felt himself neither deprivednor unhappy. "You're beautiful, aren't you? You'revery beautiful! Your voice . . ." "What else would you like to know?" respondedthe waves,growing stronger. "You are sightless,I faceless.I told you, yesterdaywhen you openedthe strong room: I am all that streamsand sings.The glittering cascades,the torrentsof ice that breakon the columbines,the refection of the multiple moons on the oceans.. . . And I am the ocean. Let yourself float on my wave.Come. . . ." "You made me kill that man yesterday. " "What is a man?I speakto you of tumbling abysses, dark and luminous by turns, of the crucibleswherenew life is forged,and you answerme with the death of a spaceman!Anyhow, he deservedit: he captured me, imprisonedme, and would have come back to separateus!" "Separateus . ." said North. "Do you think that'spossible?" "No-if you follow me." The central melody grew piercing. It waslike a spire, or a bridge over a

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limitless space.And the unconsciouspart of the human soul dartedout to encounterthat harmony.The wheelingabyssopened,it waspeopledwith trembling nebulas,with diamondsand rosesof fire. . . . North toppled into it. . . . It was strangeto recognize,in this nth dimension,the crowdsof starshe had encounteredin realvoyages-theglacialscintillationof Polaris, the scatteredpearlsof Orion'sBelt. North marveledto find himself again in this night, weightlessand free, without spacesuitor rocket. fets of photons borehim on immensewings.The garret,the mutants'building,the Earth? He could havelaughedat them. The BorealDragon twistedits spiralsin a sprayof stars.He crossedin one bound an abyssstreamingwith fireBerenice'sHair-and cut himself on the blue sapphireof Vegain the Lyre. He was not climbing alone:the living music wound him in its rings. "Do you think to know the Infinite?" said the voice enfolded in the harmonies. "Poor Earthlings, who claim to have discoveredeverything! Becauseyou'vebuilt heavymachinesthat breakall equilibrium, that burst into flame and fall, and martyr your vulnerablehuman flesh?. . Come, I'll show you what we can see, we obscure and immobile ones, in the abysses,since what is on high is also down below. . . ." The starspiralsand the harmoniessurgedup. In the depthsof his night, North gazedupon thosethings that the pilots, constrainedby their limited periscopicscreens,neversaw:oceansof rubies,furnacesof emeralds,dark stars,constellationscoiled like luminous dragons.Meteoriteswerea rain of motionlessstreaks.Novascameto meethim; they explodedand shatteredin siderealtornadoes,the giantsand dwarfsfell again in incandescentcascades.Space-timewas nothing but a flaming chalice. "Higher! Faster!"sangthe voice. All that passedbeyond the vertigo and tipsinessof the flesh. North felt himself tumbled, dissolvedin the astralfoam; he wasnothing but an atom in the infinite. . . . "Higher! Faster!" Wasit at that moment, among the dusty arcs,far down at the bottom of the abyss,at the heartof his being,that he felt that icy breath,that sensation of horror? It was more than unclean. It was as if he had leapedover the and the centuries,passedbeyondall human limits-and endedat abysses this. At nothingness,the void. He wasdown at the bottom of a well, in utter darkness,and his mouth wasfull of blood. Rhythmic blowswereshaking that closeduniverse.Tiying to raisehimself, he felt under his handsthe porous,wrinkled wood. A childish voice wascrying, "North! Oh, North! Don't you hear me? Let me in, let me in!" North came backto himself, numbed, weakas if he had bled to death.

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out in the Pleiades. Fora little, he thoughthimselfin thewreckedstarship, the door.He had toward He hoistedhimselfup on his elbowsandcrawled strengthenoughleft to drawthe bolt, turn the key,andthenhe faintedon the sill. "It was thosetrips, you know . . ." facky looked up at the Spatial Militiamenwhoweretakingtheirturn oppositehim. Theywerenot hardtheyhad givenhim a sandwichanda big quilt. But how much hearted; "l neverknewwhenNorthstartedgettingunhappy. couldtheyunderstand? Me, I neverwenton a trip fartherawaythanthecoast.Eversincehe'sbeen to be socalm! I thoughthe waslike me. When I blind, he alwaysseemed to Sometimes, wasaroundhim, I felt good,I neverwantedto goanywhere. try to see put my eyes, and I'd bandage around as him, a try andbethesame operator,and everythingin soundsinsteadof colors.Sure,theswitchboard thenightwatchman(nottherobot,theotherone),theysaidthiswasno life for two boys.But North wasblind and I wascrippled.Who would have wantedus?" would The Chief of Militia reflectedthat Jackywasmistaken:someone certainlyhavewantedNorth.But sayingnothingof this,hewenton asking questions. out of a pile . . . The nextdaywascloudy;Northpulledan old spacesuit to Jacky of scrapiron andbeganto polishtheplates,whistling.He explained that he wasgoingto put it at the entranceof the shop.Towardnoon,facky he wastold that the boardof directorsof a certainfamous tooka message; sanatoriumwerereluctantto accepta boardermutatedto that extent.He their excuses accepted and hung up, silently.So that waswhat it wasall about:Northwantedto getrid of him. He wascrazy*it wasasif he had goneblindall overagain!Duringa miserable lunch,theideacameto him to put theapartment's telephone line out of commission: thatway,theouter worldwouldleavethemalone.Butfirsthewantedto callup Dr. Evers,their familydoctor,andthetelephone did not respond. fackyrealizedthat North had forestalled him. Afterthat,hemadehimselfsmall,rolledhiscarriage behindsomecrates, installed and himselfon a shelfof the bookcase. It washis favoritehiding place.Therewerestill in the shopsomevolumesboundin blondleather, almostgolden,which smelledof incenseor cigars,with yellowingpages andthecuriousprintingof thetwentieth century.Theyhadquaintpictures, not evenanimated.Without havingto look for it, he stumbledupon the marvelous storyof the navigator who sailedthewine-darksea.The sailwas purple,andthe hull of sandalwood. Off the mythological coasts, a divine singingarose,invitingthe sailorsto moredistantflights.The reefswere fringedwith pearls;the whitemoonrosehigh abovethe fabulousmoun-

tains. Ulyssesstoppedup their earswith wax and tied himself to the mast. But he himself heard the songsof the sirens. "North," the boy askedlater,forgettingall caution, "is theresucha thing as sirens?" "What?" askedthe blind man, with a start. "l mean, the sailorsin the olden days,they said-" "Crud, " saidNorth. "Thoseguyswentout oftheir heads,sailingacrossthe oceans.fust think, it took them longerbetweenCrete, a little island,and Ithaca, than it takesus to get to Jupiter.They went shortof food, and their shipswerewalnut shells.And on top of everythingelse,for months on end they'dseenobodyexceptafew shipmates,aschappedand hairy astheywere. Well, they'dstarttogo offtheir rockers,andthe firstwomanpiratewasCirce or Calypsoto them, and the first cetaceanthey met wasan oceanprincess." 'A manatee,"said facky. "That's right, a manatee. Have you ever seen one?" "No. " "Sure, that'sright, I don't think there is one in the zoo. Maybe in the exotic specimens.Thkedown the fourth book from the left, on the'Nat. Sciences'shelf. Pagesevenhundred ninety-two. Got it?" The pagewasfreshly dog-eared;North must havebeen leafing through the book, without beingableto readit. Well, it wasa big beastwith a round headand mustaches, and a thick oily skin. The femalewasgiving suckto a little tar-baby.They all had seriousexpressions. facky was overcomewith mad laughter. "Ridiculous,isn't it?" North askedin an unrecognizable voice,harshand "To broken. think so many guys have dived into the water on account of that! I think they must havebeen sick." But that evening,he offeredfackya ticket to the planetariumand a trip to the amusementpark. facky refusedpolitely; he was content to stayon his shelf. Again he plunged into the volume bound in blond leather,discovering for the first time that life has alwaysbeen mysteriousand that destiny wearsmany masks.The isleswith the fabulousnamesf ickeredpastto the rhythm of strophes;the heroessailedfor the conquestof the Golden Fleece, or perhapsthey led a pale well-belovedout of Hades. Some burned their wings in the sun and fell. . . . North walked around cat-footed, closing the shutters, arranging the planetaryknickknacks.He disappeared soquietly that fackywasnot awareof it, and it was only when the boy wanted to askhim for some information about sailing ships that his absencebecamea concretefact. Suddenly afraid, fackyslippedto the floor, and discoveredthat his carriagehad also

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disappeared.He crawled then, with the aid of his hooks, among the scatteredpiecesof iron, and it wasthen that he stumbled over a horrible viscousthing: the wet billfold of foashDu Guast. The five thousandcredits were still inside. After that, his fear had no limit, and facky crawledinstinctively toward the door, which he found shut;then to the dumb-waiter,wherehe heardthe Foramen chimera, caged, mew pleasantly."lt won't work, old lady," he breathedat it. "They've locked us both up together." He licked a little blood out of the cornersof his mouth, and thought hard. He would haveto be quick. To be sure, he could hammer on the door, but the streetwasdesertedat night, the normalswereall getting readyto watch their telesets,or someother kind of screen-and therewasno useknocking on the walls:the shopwassurroundedby empty cellars.And the telephone wasdead. fackythen did what any imprisonedboy of his agewould havedone (but from him, it demandeda superhumaneffort): he clamberedup the curtains,managedto openthe windowwith his hook, and jumped out. He was hurt, falling on the pavement.

"That damn kid!" thought North ashe openedthe door of the garret. . "Sirens!" His handsweretrembling. A waveof aromatics,alreadyfamiliar, came into his night and surroundedhim: he had breathedthem on other worlds. He understoodwhat wasrequiredof him, and he let himselfgo, abandoned himselfto the furiousmaelstromof soundsand smells,to the tide of singing and perfumes.His useless,mutilated body lay somewhereout of the way,on a shelf. "Look at me," saidthe music."l am in you, andyou areme. They tried in vain to keepyou on Earth, with chains of falsehood.You are no longer of Earth, sincewe live one life together.YesterdayI showedyou the abyssesI know. Showme the starsyou havevisited:memory by memory, I shall take them. In that way,perhaps,shall we not find the world that callsus?Come. I shall choosea planet, like a pearl." He sawthem again, all of them. Alpha Spicae,in the constellationof the Virgin, is a frozenglobe,whose atmosphereis so rich in watervaporthat a rocketsticksin the ground like a needleof frost. Under a distant green sun, this world scintillateslike a million-faceteddiamond, and its ice cap spreadstowardthe equator.On the ground, you are snaredin a net of rainbowsand green snoq a snow that

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smellslike benzoin (all the pilots know that stellar illusion). On Alpha Spicae,a lost explorergoesmad in a few hours. North was irresistiblydrawn away,and shortly recognizedthe magnetic planetof the Ditch in Cygnus.That one,too, he had learnedto avoidon his voyages: itwas followedin itsorbitby the thousands ofsiderealcorpsesit had pilots captured.The bravest followedit in their coffinsof sparklingice; for that sphere,no largerthan the Moon, is composedof pure golden ore. They passedlike a waterspoutacrossa lake of incandescentcrystalAltair. Anothertrap lay in wait for them in the constellationOrion, where the giganticdiamondof Betelgeuse flashed;a phantasmagoria of deceptive images,a spiderwebof lightnings.The orb which coweredbehind these mirageshad no name, only a nickname:Sundew.Spacepilots avoidedit like the Pit. "Higher!" sangthe voice, madeup now of thousandsof ethericcurrents, millions of astralvibrations."Farther!" But here, North beganto struggle.He knew now where shewasdrawing him, and what incandescent hell he would meet on that path, becausehe had alreadyexperiencedit. He knew of a peculiar planet with silvery-violet skies,out in the mysteriousconstellationof Cancer.It wasthe most beautiful he had everglimpsed,the only one he had loved like a woman, because its oceansremindedhim of a pair of eyes.Ten dancingmoonscrownedthat Alpha Hydrae, which the ancientnomadscalled Al-Phard. It wasa deep watery world, with frothing waves:an odor of sea-salt,of seaweed,of ambergrisdriftedoverits surface.A perpetualultrasonicmusic jumbledall The oxygencontent attemptsatcommunication,and repulsedthe starships. of Alpha Hydrae'satmospherewasso high that it intoxicatedliving beings and burned them up. The rocketsthat succeededin escapingthe attraction of Al-Phard carriedback crewsof the blissfuldead. It was in trying to escapeits grip that an uncontrolled machine, with North aboard, had once headedtoward the Pleiadesand crashedon the surfaceof an asteroid. Heavyblows shookthe templesof the solitary navigator.The enormous sun of Pollux leapedout of space,exploded,fell to ruin in the darkness,with Procyon and the Goat; the whole Milky Way trembled and vibrated. The human soullost in that torrentof energy,the soul that struggled,despaired, foundered,was only an infinitesimal atom, a sound-or the echo of a sound, in the harmony of the spheres.

"This is it," saidJacky,wiping his bloodymouth. "Honest,this is it, Inspector.There'sthe windowI jumpedout of. . . ."

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glass,and Jackydid not mentionhow There it was,with its smashed by painfulthefall hadbeen.His forearmsslashed, he hadhungsuspended his hooks.On the pavement,he had lost consciousness. Comingto later, undera fine drizzleof rain, he had,he said,"crawledandcrawled."Fewof autoshadevensloweddownfor thatcrushedhumancaterpillar. thepassing "Oh, Marilyn,did you seethatfunnylittle round-bottom?"-"ltmustbe oneof thosemutantcripples,don'tstop.Galla. . . ."-"Sprce! Are they stillcontagious?" Robots-a |ackybit hislips.Finally,a truckhadstopped. robots from the picked sanitationdepartment-had crewof him up. He beganto cry,seeinghimselfalreadythrownontothejunk-heap.By chance, the driverwashuman;he heard,and took him to the militia post. "l don't hearanything,"saidthe inspector aftera momentof silence. "The othersin the blockdidn't hearanythingeither!"breathedfacky. "l think he mustbe veryunhappy,or elsedrunk. . . . Are thereultra" sonics,maybe?Look, the dogsare restless. Certainly,thehandsome GreatDanesof the SpecialServicewereacting theyweregoingaroundin circlesandwhining. strangely: 'A quarrelbetweenmonsters," thoughtInspectorMorel."fustmy luck a mutantstumpof a kid, a spacepilot with the D.T's, anda siren!They'll laughin my facedownat headquarters!" But, asfackycriedandbeaton thedoor,he gavethe orderto breakit in. The boy crawledtowardthe dumb-waiter;one of the militiamenalmost fired on the chimera,which had leapedfrom its cabinet,purring. "That'snothing,it'sonly a big catfrom Foramen!"fackywailed."Come on, pleasecomeon, I'm goingup the shaft." "l wasneverin sucha madhouse before,"thoughtthe inspector.There werethings in everycorner-robotsor idols,with threeheadsor seven hands.Thereweretalkingshells.Oneof themenshouted,feelinga mobile creepertwine itselfin his hair. They oughtto forbidthe import of these parlor tricks into an honestTerrestrialport. Not surprisingthat the lad upstairsshouldhavegoneoff his nut, the inspectortold himself. When themilitia reached thetopmostlandingof thebuilding,fackywas stretchedout in front of the closeddoor,bangingit desperately with his hooks.Whetheron accountof ultrasonics or not, the menwerepale.The enormousharmonythat filled the garretwashereperceptible,palpable. Morel called,but no oneanswered. "He'sdead?"askedfacky."lsn't he?" They sensed a living, evil presence inside. Moreldisposed his menin pairs,oneon eithersideof thedoor.A ferretfacedlittle locksmithslippedup andbeganto workon the bolt. When he wasfinished,themilitiamenweresupposed to breakthedoordownquickly

and rushinside,while Morel coveredthem, if the needarose,with heatgun in hand. But it wasblackinsidethe garret;someonewould haveto carry a powerful flashlight and play it back and forth. "Me," said Jacky.He was white as a sheet,trembling all over. "lf my brother'sdead,Inspector,you shouldlet me go in. Anyhow, what risk would I take? You'll be right behind me. And I promise not to let go of the flashlight,no matter what." The inspectorlookedat the leglesschild. "You might get yourselfshot," he said. "You neverknow what weaponstheseextra-terrestrials are going to use.Or what they'rethinking, or what they want. That thing . . . maybeit singsthe way we breathe." "l know," saidJacky.He neglectedto add, "That'swhy I askedto carry the flashlight. So as to get to it first." The inspectorhandedhim the flashlight.He seizedit firmly with one of his hooks.And the first sharpray,like a sword,cut through the keyholeinto the attic. They all felt the crushingtensionlet go. Released, with frothing tongues, the dogs lay down on the floor. It was as if a tight cord had suddenly snapped.And abruptly,behind the closeddoor, somethingbroke with a stunningcrash. At the sameinstant,the landingwasfloodedwith an intolerablesmellof burned flesh. Down in the street,ant-like pedestriansscreamedand ran. The building wasburning. An objectfalling in flameshad buried itselfin the roof. . . . Fire trucks were called. The militiamen broke down the door, and Morel stumbled over a horriblemassof flesh,calcined,crushed,which no longerboreany resemblance to North. A man who had fallen from a starship,acrossthe stellar void, might havelookedlike that. A man who had leapedinto a vacuum without a spacesuit. . . a half-disintegrated manikin. North Ellis, the blind pilot, had sufferedhis last shipwreck. Overcomeby nausea,the militiamen backedaway.Jackyhimselfhad not movedfrom the landing. He clung to the flashlight,and the powerfulbeam of light untiringly searched,sweptthe dark cave.The symphonythat only his earshad heardgrewfainter,then lost itself in a tempestof discordant sounds.The invisible being gaveone last sharp wail (in the street,all the windows broke and all the lights went out). Then there was silence. fackysatand lickedhis bloodylips. Inside, in the garret,the militiamen were pulling down the black draperies,breakingfurniture. One of them shouted, "There'snothing here!"

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fackydroppedtheflashlight,raisedhimselfon his stumps."Lookin the chest!In the strongroom, to the side-" " "Nothingin here.Nothingin the chest. "Waita minute,"saidtheyoungest of themilitiamen,"thereit is-on the floor." Thentheydragged herout, herroundheadbobbed,andJackyrecognized glossy thick, skin andthe fippers.Shehad died,probably,at the first the touchof the light, but her corpsewasstill pulsingin a dull rhythm.An ultrasonicmachine?No. Tho redslitsweptbloodytears.. . . The sirensof AlphaHydraecannotbearthe light.

TheMenWho Murdered Mohammed Alfred Besterbegan to write SF and fantasyin the late 1930s and then Ieft the freld, returning in the early 1950s.He is the author of two of the mostimportant SF novelsof the 1950sThe Demolished Man, winner of the frrst Hugo Award for bestnovel in 1953,a virtuoso work combining mysteryplotting and flashy stylistic and orthographic tricks in a SF setting, and The StarsMy Destination, a literary tour-de-force that became one of the models of innovation for the New Wavewriters. Still, his maior influence wasfelt through his short stories.At the time of his death in 1987, he had become an e]der statesmanreveredby younger writers suchasSamuel R. Delany, Michael Moorcock, and William Cibson. "The Men Who Murdered Mohammed" is from the hand of an aggressiveinventor obsessed with psychological tricksin literature. It is characterizedby Bester'senergyand almostfrantic wit.

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here was a man who mutilatedhistory.He toppledempiresand Because of him, Mount Vernonshouldnot be a uprooteddynasties. nationalshrine,andColumbus,Ohio,shouldbecalledCabot,Ohio. Becauseof him the name Marie Curie shouldbe cursedin France,and no one should swearby the beard of the Prophet.Actually, theserealitiesdid not happen, becausehe wasa mad professor;or, to put it anotherway, he only succeededin making them unreal for himself. No*, the patient reader is too familiar with the conventional mad professor,undersizedand overbrowed,creatingmonstersin his laboratory which invariablyturn on their makerand menacehis lovelydaughter.This storyisn't about that sort of make-believeman. It'sabout Henry Hassel,a genuine mad professorin a classwith such better-knownmen as Ludwig Boltzmann (seeIdeal Gas Law), facquesCharlesand Andr6 Marie Ampbre

(r77r-r836).

Everyoneought to know that the electricalamperewasso namedin honorof Ampdre.LudwigBoltzmannwasa distinguished Austrianphysicist,asfamousfor his research on black-body radiationason IdealGases. Youcan look him up in VolumeThreeof the Encyclopaedia Bitannica, BALI to BRAI. facques AlexandreC6sarCharleswasthe firstmathematicianto becomeinterested in flight, andhe inventedthehydrogenballoon. Thesewerereal men. Theywerealsorealmadprofessors. Ampbre,for example,wason hisway to an importantmeetingof scientists in Paris.In his taxihe gota brilliant idea(ofan electrical nature,I assume) andwhippedout a pencilandjotted the equationon thewall of the hansomcab.Roughly,it was:dH : ipdl/rz in whichp istheperpendicular distance fromP to thelineof theelementdl; or dH : i sin @ dlhz.This is sometimes knownasLaplace's Law,although he wasn'tat the meeting. Anyway,thecabarrivedat theAcad6mie.AmpErejumpedout, paidthe driverandrushedintothemeetingto tell everybody abouthisidea.Thenhe realizedhedidn'thavethenoteon him, remembered wherehe'dleftit, and hadto chasethroughthestreets of Parisafterthetaxito recoverhis runaway equation.Sometimes I imaginethat'show Fermatlost his famous"Last Theorem,"althoughFermatwasn'tat themeetingeither,havingdiedsome two hundredyearsearlier. or take Boltzmann.Giving a coursein AdvancedIdeal Gases,he peppered hislectures with involvedcalculus,whichheworkedout quickly and casuallyin his head.He had that kind of head.His students had so muchtroubletryingto puzzleout the math by earthat theycouldn'tkeep up with thelectures,andtheybegged Boltzmannto workout his equations on the blackboard. ..'.

Boltzmannapologized andpromisedto bemorehelpfulin thefuture.At the nextlecturehe began,"Gentlemen,combiningBoyle'sLaw with the Law of Charles,we arriveat the equationpv : po vo (l + at). Now, - (x)dxX(a),thenpv : RT and f (x,y,z)dV : O. It'sas obviously, if "S "Sb simpleastwo plustwo equalsfour." At this point Boltzmannremembered hispromise.Heturnedto theblackboard, conscientiously chalked2 + 2 4, and then breezedon, casuallydoingthe complicated calculusin his head. who discovered Charles's facquesCharles,the brilliant mathematician (sometimes Law knownasGay-Lussac's Law),whichBoltzmannmentioned in hislecture,hada lunaticpassion to becomea famouspaleographer-that is, a discoverer of ancientmanuscripts. I think that beingforcedto share creditwith Gay-Lussac may haveunhingedhim. He paida transparent swindlernamedVrain-Lucas200,000francsfor purportedly holograph letters writtenbyfuliusCaesar, Alexander theGreat, andPontiusPilate.Charles,a manwhocouldseethroughanygas,idealor not, actuallybelievedin theseforgeries despitethe factthat the maladroit Vrain-Lucashad written them in modernFrenchon modernnotepaper bearingmodernwatermarks. Charleseventried to donatethem to the Louvre. whopaida highprice No*, thesemenweren'tidiots.Theyweregeniuses A genius for theirgeniusbecause therestof theirthinkingwasother-world. path. Unfortunately, is someonewho travelsto truth by an unexpected to pathsleadto disaster in everyday life. This is whathappened unexpected in professor University HenryHassel, of AppliedCompulsionat Unknown the year1980. NobodyknowswhereUnknownUniversityis or whattheyteachthere.It hasa facultyof sometwo hundredeccentrics,and a studentbodyof two until theywin Nobel misfits-the kind that remainanonymous thousand of You prizesor becometheFirstMan on Mars. canalwaysspota graduate U.U. whenyou askpeoplewheretheywentto school.If yougetan evasive schoolyouneverheardof," youcan replylike:"State,"or "Oh, a freshwater bet they went to Unknown.SomedayI hopeto tell you moreaboutthis sense. which is a centerof learningonly in the Pickwickian university, Psychotic in the his from office home Hassel started Anyway,Henry Psenter earlyoneafternoon,strollingthroughthePhysicalCulturearcade. It is not true that he did this to leerat the nudecoedspracticingArcane in the Eurythmics;rather,Hassellikedto admirethe trophiesdisplayed arcadein memoryof greatUnknownteamswhich had won the sort of Octhat Unknownteamswin-in sportslike Strabismus, championships three (Hassel champion singles Frambesia hadbeen elusionandBotulism.

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yearsrunning.)He arrivedhomeuplifted,andburstgailyinto thehouseto discoverhis wife in the armsof a man. Thereshewas,a lovelywomanof thirty-five,with smokyredhair and almondeyes,being heartilyembracedby t personwhosepocketswere hamanda patella-reflex apparatus microchemical stuffedwith pamphlets, was of U.U., in fact.The embrace so mer-a typicalcampuscharacter that neitherof the offendingpartiesnoticedHenry Hassel concentrated glaringat them from the hallway. Now,rememberAmpbreand Charlesand Boltzmann.Hasselweighed one hundredand ninety pounds.He wasmuscularand uninhibited.It his wifeandher wouldhavebeenchildi;playfor him to havedismembered lover,andthussimplyanddirectlyachievethegoalhe desired-theendof hismindjustdidn't wasin thegeniusclass; hiswife'slife. ButHenryHassel operatethat way. Hasselbreathedhard, turnedand lumberedinto his privatelaboratory andremoved likea freightengine.He openeda drawerlabeledDUoDENUu labeled, moreinterestingly He openedotherdrawers, a .4i-caliberrevolver. (such was minutes half one In seven and exactly apparatus. andassembled his rage),he put togethera time machine(suchwashis genius). the time machinearoundhim, seta dial for Hasselassembled Professor a button.The machinemadea 1902,pickedup the revolverandpressed in He reappeared noiselike defectiveplumbingand Hasseldisappeared. on fune 3,1902,wentdirectlyto No. l2l8 WalnutStreet,a Philadelphia red-brickhousewith marblesteps,and rangthe bell. A man who might havepassedfor the third Smith Brotheropenedthe door and lookedat HenryHassel. "Mr. fessup?" Hasselaskedin a suffocated voice. "Yes?" "You are Mr. fessup?" "l am.tt

"Youwill havea son,Edgar?EdgarAllan fessup-sonamedbecause of your regrettable admirationfor Poe?" The third SmithBrotherwasstartled."Not thatI knowof," he said."l'm not marriedyet." "Youwill be," Hasselsaidangrily."l havethemisfortuneto bemarriedto yourson'sdaughter.Greta.Excuseme." He raisedtherevolverandshothis wife'sgrandfather-to-be. "Shewill haveceased to exist,"Hasselmuttered,blowingsmokeout of the revolver."I'll be a bachelor.I may even be married to somebody else.. . . GoodGod! Who?" Hasselwaitedimpatientlyfor theautomaticrecallof thetimemachineto

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snatchhim backto his own laboratory. He rushedinto his living room. Therewashis redheaded wife, still in the armsof a man. Hasselwasthunderstruck. "Sothat'sit," hegrowled.'A familytraditionof faithlessness. Well,we'll seeaboutthat. We havewaysand means. " He permittedhimselfa hollow laugh,returnedto his laboratory, andsenthimselfbackto the year1901, wherehe shotand killed Emma Hotchkiss,his wife'smaternalgrandmother-to-be. He returnedto hisownhomein hisowntime.Therewashis redheaded wife, still in the armsof anotherman. "But r knowthe old bitch washergrandmother," Hasselmuttered."you couldn'tmissthe resemblance. What the hell'sgonewrong?" Hassel wasconfused anddismayed, butnotwithoutresources. Hewentto hisstudy,haddifficultypickingup thephone,but finallymanaged to dial the MalpracticeLaboratory.His fingerkeptoozingout of the dial holes. "Sam?"he said."This is Henrv." "Who?" "Henry." "You'll haveto speakup." "HenryHassel!" "Oh, goodafternoon,Henry." "Tell me all abouttime." "Time?Hmmm . . ." The Simplex-and-Multiplex Computercleared itsthroatwhileit waitedfor thedatacircuitsto link up. 'Ahem.Time. (l) Absolute.(2) Relative.(3) Recurrent.(1) Absolute:period,contingent, -" duration,diurnity,perpetuity "Sorry,Sam.Wrongrequest. Go back.I wanttime, reference to successionof travelin." Samshiftedgearsandbeganagain.Hassel listenedintently.He nodded. "Uh grunted. He huh. Uh huh. Right.I see.Thoughtso.A continuum, eh?Actsperformedin pastmustalterfuture.Then I'm on the right track. But act mustbe significant,eh?Mass-action effect.Tiivia cannotdivert existingphenomena streams. Hmmm. But howtrivialis a grandmother?" "What areyou tryingto do, Henry?" "Kill my wife,"Hasselsnapped. He hungup. He returnedto his laboratory.He considered, still in a jealousrage. "Got to do something significant,"he muttered."WipeGretaout. Wpe it all out. All right, by God! I'll show'em." Hasselwentbackto the year1775,visiteda Virginiafarm and shota youngcolonelin the brisket.The colonel's namewasGeorgeWashington, madesurehewasdead.Hereturned andHassel to hisowntimeandhisown home.Therewashis redheaded wife, still in the armsof another.

ALFFTEDBESTEFI / 271 "Damn!" saidHassel.He wasrunning out of ammunition. He openeda fresh box of cartridges, went back in time and massacredChristopher Columbus, Napoleon, Mohammed and half a dozen other celebrities. "That ought to do it, by God!" said Hassel. He returned to his own time, and found his wife as before. His kneesturned to water;his feet seemedto melt into the floor. He went back to his laboratory,walking through nightmare quicksands. "What the hell is significant?"Hasselaskedhimself painfully. "How much doesit taketo changefuturity? By God, I'll really changeit this time. I'll go for broke." He traveledto Parisat the turn of the twentieth century and visited a MadameCurie in an atticworkshopnearthe Sorbonne."Madame," he said in his execrableFrench, "I am a strangerto you of the utmost, but a scientist entire.Knowingof your experimentswith radium-Oh? Youhaven'tgot to radium yet? No matter. I am here to teach you all of nuclear fission." He taught her. He had the satisfactionof seeingParisgo up in a mushroom of smoke before the automatic recall brought him home. "That'll "Guhhh!" The last was teach women to be faithless," he growled. . wrenchedfrom his lips when he sawhis redheadedwife still-But no need to belabor the obvious. Hasselswamthrough fogsto his study and satdown to think. While hei; thinking I'd betterwarn you that this is not a conventionaltime story.If you imaginefor a moment that Henry is going to discoverthat the man fondling his wife is himself,you'remistaken.The viperis not Henry Hassel,his son, a relation, or evenLudwig Boltzmann ( I 844- I 906). Hasseldoesnot makea circle in time, ending wherethe storybegins-to the satisfactionof nobody and the fury of everybody-for the simplereasonthat time isn't circular, or linear, or tandem, discoid, syzygous,longinquitous, or pandicularted. Time is a private matter, as Hasseldiscovered. "Maybe I slipped up somehow,"Hasselmuttered. "l'd better find out." He fought with the telephone,which seemedto weigh a hundred tons, and at last managedto get through to the library. "Hello, Library?This is Henry." "Who?" "Henry Hassel." "Speakup, please." "HENRY HASSEL!"

"Oh. Good afternoon,Henry." "What have you got on GeorgeWashington?" Library clucked while her scannerssorted through her catalogues. "George Washington,first presidentof the United States,wasborn in-"

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"Firstpresident? Wasn'the murderedin l77S?" "Really,Henry.That'san absurdquestion.Everybody knowsthatGeorge Wash-" "Doesn'tanybodyknow he wasshot?" "By whom?" "Me." "When?" "In 177r." "How did you manageto do that?" "l've got a revolver. " "No, I mean,how did you do it two hundredyearsago?" "l've got a time machine. " "Well,there's no recordhere,"Librarysaid."He'sstill doingfine in my files.Youmusthavemissed." "l did not miss.What aboutChristopher Columbus? Any recordof his deathin 1489?" "But he discovered the New World in 1492." "He did not. He wasmurderedin 1489." "How?" "With a forty-fiveslug in the gizzard." "Youagain,Henry?" "Yes. " "There's no recordhere,"Libraryinsisted. "You mustbe onelousyshot." "l will not losemy temper, " Hasselsaidin a trembling voice. "Why not, Henry?" "Because it'slost already,"he shouted.'All right! What aboutMarie Curie?Did sheor did shenot discover the fissionbombwhich destroved Parisat the turn of the century?" "Shedid not. EnricoFermi-" "Shedid." "Shedidn't." "l personally " taughther.Me. HenryHassel. "Everybodysaysyou'rea wonderfultheoretician, but a lousyteacher, Henry.You-" "Go to hell, you old biddy.This hasgot to be explained. " "Why?" "I forget.Therewassomethingon my mind, but it doesn'tmatternow. What would you suggest?" "Youreallyhavea time machine?" "Of courseI've got a time machine." "Then go backand check."

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Hasselreturnedto the year 1775,visitedMount Vernon,and interrupted the spring planting. "Excuseme, colonel," he began. The bi! man lookedat him curiously."You talk funny, stranger,"he said' "Where you from?" "Oh, a freshwaterschool you neverheard of." "You look funny too. Kind of misty, so to speak." "Tell me, colonel, what do you hear from ChristopherColumbus?" "Not much," Colonel Washington answered."Been dead two, three hundred years." "When did he dre?" "Year fifteen hundred some-odd,near as I remember." "He did not. He died in 1489." "Got your dateswrong, friend. He discoveredAmerica in 1492." "Cabot discoveredAmerica. SebastianCabot." "Nope. Cabot came a mite later." "I haveinfallible proof!" Hasselbegan,but brokeoff asa stockyand rather stout man, with a faceludicrously reddenedby rage, approached.He was wearingbrggy grayslacksand a tweedjackettwo sizestoo small for him. He wascarrying a .45 revolver.It wasonly afterhe had staredfor a moment that Henry Hasselrealizedthat he waslooking at himself and not relishingthe sight. "My God!" Hasselmurmured. "lt's me, coming backto murder Washington that first time. If I'd made this secondtrip an hour later, I'd have found Washingtondead.Hey!" he called."Not yet. Hold offa minute. I've got to straightensomething out first." Hasselpaid no attentionto himself; indeed,he did not appearto be aware of himself. He marchedstraightup to Colonel Washingtonand shothim in the gizzard.Colonel Washingtoncollapsed,emphatically dead. The first murderer inspectedthe body, and then, ignoring Hassel'sattempt to stop him and engagehim in dispute, turned and marched off, muttering venomouslyto himself. "He didn't hear me," Hasselwondered."He didn't evenfeel me. And why don't I remember myself trying to stop me the first time I shot the colonel?What the hell is going on?" Considerablydisturbed,Henry HasselvisitedChicagoand droppedinto the Chicago University squashcourts in the early 1940s.There, in a slippery mess of graphite bricks and graphite dust that coated him, he locatedan Italian scientistnamed Rrmi. "RepeatingMarie Curie'swork, I see,dottore?"Hasselsaid. Fermi glanced about as though he had heard a faint sound. "RepeatingMarie Curie'swork, dottoreT"Hasselroared.

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Fermi looked at him strangely."where you from dmico?" , "State." "State Department?" "|ust State.It'strue, isn't it, dottore,that Marie Curie discoverednuclear fissionback in nineteenought ought?" "No! No! No!" Fermi cried. "We are the first, and we are not there yet. Police!Police!Spy!" "This time I'll go on record," Hasselgrowled.He pulled out his trusty .45, emptiedit into Dr. Fermi'schest,and awaitedarrestand immolationin newspaper files.To his amazement,Dr. Fermi did not collapse.Dr. Fermi merely exploredhis chesttenderly and, to the men who answeredhis cry, said, "lt is nothing. I felt in my within a suddensensationof burn which may be a neuralgiaof the cardiacnerve,but is most likely gas." Hassel was too agitated to wait for the automatic recall of the time machine. Instead he returned at once to Unknown University under his own power.This shouldhavegiven him a clue, but he wastoo possessed to notice.It wasat this time that I (l9ll-1975) first sawhim-a dim figure trampingthroughparkedcars,closeddoorsandbrick walls,with the light of lunatic determinationon his face. He oozed into the library, preparedfor an exhaustivediscussion,but could not make himself felt or heard by the catalogues.He went to the Malpractice Laboratory,where Sam, the Simplex-and-MultiplexComputer,hasinstallationssensitiveup to 10,700angstroms.Samcould not see Henry, but managed to hear him through a sort of wave-interference phenomenon. "Sam," Hasselsaid, "l've made one hell of a discovery." "You'realwaysmakingdiscoveries, Henry," Samcomplained."Yourdata allocation is filled. Do I have to start another tape for you?" "But I need advice. Whoi; the leading authority on time, referenceto successionof travel in?" "That would be IsraelLennox, spatialmechanics,professorof, Yale." "How do I get in touch with him?" "You don't, Henry. He'sdead. Died in'75." "What authority haveyou got on time, travel in, living?" "Wiley Muqphy." "Murphy? From our own Tiauma Department?That'sa break.Where is he now?" 'As a matter of fact, Henry, he went over to your house to ask you something." Hasselwent home without walking, searchedthrough his laboratoryand studywithout finding anyone,and at lastfloatedinto the living room, where

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his redheadedwife was still in the arms of anotherman. (All this, you understand,had taken place within the spaceof a few momentsafter the construction of the time machine; such is the nature of time and time travel.)Hasselclearedhis throat once or twice and tried to tap his wife on the shoulder.His fingers went through her. "Excuseme, darling," he said."Has Wiley Murphy beenin to seeme?" Then he looked closer and saw that the man embracing his wife was Murphy himself. "Murphy!" Hasselexclaimed."The very man I'm looking for. I've had the most extraordinaryexperience."Hasselat once launched into a lucid which went somethinglike this: descriptionof his extraordinaryexperience, .,Murphy,u - v - (u%- u%)(u"* u* * yr)butwhenGeorgeWashington F(x)y+ dx and Enrico Fermi F(,r%)dxdtone half of Marie Curie, then what about Christopher Columbus times the squareroot of minus one?" Murphy ignored Hassel, as did Mrs. Hassel. I fotted down Hassel's equationson the hood of a passingtaxi. "Do listen to me, Murphy," Hasselsaid. "Greta dear,would you mind leaving us for a moment? I-For heaven'ssake, will you two stop that " This is serious. nonsense? Hasseltried to separatethe couple. He could no more touch them than make them hear him. His face turned red again and he becamequite cholericashe beat at Mrs. Hasseland Murphy. It waslike beatingan Ideal Gas. I thought it best to interfere. "Hassel!" "Who's that?" "Come outside a moment. I want to talk to you." He shot through the wall. "Where are you?" "Over here." "You'resort of dim." "So are you." "Who are you?" "My name'sLennox. IsraelLennox." "Israel Lennox, spatial mechanics, professorof, Yale?" "The same." "But you died in'75." "I disappeared in'75." "What d'you mean?" "I inventeda time machine." "By God! Sodid I, " Hasselsaid."This afternoon.The ideacameto me in a flash-l don't know why-and I've had the most extraordinaryexperience. Lennox, time is not a continuum."

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'No?" "lt'sa seriesof discreteparticles-likepearlson a string." "Yes?" "Eachpearlisa'Now.'Each'Now'has itsownpastandfuture.Butnone of them relateto any others.Yousee?if a : a1 * a2i* xax(b,)-,' "Nevermind the mathematics, Henry.,' "It'sa form of quantumtransferof energy.Time is emittedin discrete corpuscles or quanta.We can visit eachindividualquantumand make changeswithin it, but no changein any one corp,rr.l. affectsany other corpuscle.Right?" "Wrong," I saidsorrowfully. "what d'youmean,'wrong'?"he said,angrilygesturingthroughthe cleaveof a passingcoed."Youtakethe trochoidequationsand-" "Wrong,"I repeated firmly. "Will you listento me, Henry?', "Oh, go ahead,"he said. "Haveyounoticedthatyou'vebecomeratherinsubstantial? Dim? Spectral?Spaceand time no longeraffectyou?" "Yes?" "Henry,I hadthe misfortune to construct a time machinebackin'75." "So yousaid.Listen,whataboutpowerinput?I figureI'm usingabout 7.3 kilowatts per-" "Nevermind the powerinput, Henry.On my first trip into the past,I visitedthe Pleistocene. I waseagerto photograph the mastodon,the giant groundsloth, and the saber-tooth tiger.While I wasbackingup to get a mastodonfully in the field of viewat f16.3at %oothof a second.or on the LVS scals-" "Nevermind the LVS scale,"he said. "While I wasbackingup, I inadvertently trampledand killed a small Pleistocene insect." 'Aha!" saidHassel. "l wasterrifiedby the incident.I hadvisionsof returningto my worldto find it completelychangedasa resultof this singledeath.Imaginemy surprisewhenI returnedto my worldto find that nothinghad changed. " "Oho!" saidHassel. "l becamecurious.I went backto the Pleistocene and killed the mastodon.Nothingwaschangedin l97r.I returnedto the Pleistocene and slaughtered thewildlife-still with no effect.I rangedthroughtime,killing and destroying,in an attemptto alterthe present. " ..odd "Then you did it iust like me," Hasselexclaimed. we didn't run into eachother." "Not odd at all."

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"l got Columbus." "I got Marco Polo." "l got Napoleon." "I thought Einstein was more important." "Mohammed didn't changethings much-l expectedmore from him." "I know. I got him too." "What do you mean, you got him too?" Hasseldemanded' "l killed him September16, 599. Old Style." "Why, I got Mohammed fanuarY5, 598." "I believeyou." "But how could you have killed him after I killed him?" "We both killed him. " "That's impossible." "My boy," I said, "time is entirely subiective.It's a privatematter-a personalexperience.There is no suchthing asobiectivetime, iust asthereis no such thing as obiectivelove, or an obiectivesoul." "Do you mean to saythat time travel is impossible?But we'vedone it. " "To be sure, and many others,for all I know.But we eachtravel into our own past,and no other person's.There is no universalcontinuum, Henry. There are only billions of individuals, each with his own continuum; and one continuum cannot affect the other. We're like millions of strandsof spaghettiin the same pot. No time travelercan ever meet another time travelerin the pastor future. Each of us must travel up and down his own strandalone." "But we're meeting each other now." "We're no longer time travelers,Henry. We've become the spaghetti sauce." "Spaghettisauce?" "Yes. You and I can visit any strand we like, becausewe've destroyed ourselves." "I don't understand." "When a man changesthe past he only affectshis own past-no one else's.The pastis like memory.When you erasea man'smemory,you wipe him out, but you don't wipe out anybodyelse's.You and I haveerasedour past.The individual worldsof the othersgo on, butwe haveceasedto exist." "What d'you mean, 'ceasedto exist'?" 'With each act of destructionwe dissolveda little. Now we're all gone. We'vecommitted chronicide. We'reghosts.I hope Mrs. Hasselwill be very hrppy with Mr. Murphy. . . . Now let'sgo overto the Acaddmie.Ampbre is telling a greatstory about Ludwig Boltzmann."

Painpuppets Tianslatedby itsauthor from the Dutch, this storydealswith one of the grand themesof modern sfl the future of love. since AhdousHuxley'sBraveNew world, the natureof love and sexin the technological future has been a subject of speculation.In thiscollection we haveexamplesof this'theme in lohn Varleyb"The Phantom of Kansas"ind Brian Aldiss's 'A Kind of Artistry," both more elaboratethan "Pairpuppets," but no_morepointed or ironic. "Pairpuppets"is-rotibly t plotted story, in the manner of, say, Robirt Sheckley, inhuenced by and written in imitation of American SE Dutch SF has developed in recent decadesin constant reference to American SF and only under the influence of translationsof the contemporary flowering of SF in English.

I t'sthe end of our mutual servicetime," Eric saidsoftlyto "and I'm not glad." I himself, I He was standingat the window and looking out over the polder far below him. The carefully calculateddisorderof renovatedmills and sham farms held lessattractionfor him than usual. He knew that he wason the brink of a new period in his life. Far away,on the lines of the horizon, he sawthe contoursof the gigantic machinesthat emitted a faint and incessanthumming as the only evidenceof their otherwise inscrutableactivity;theyglimmeredfaintly like a weakimitation of a reluctantsunset."Like secretsignalsfrom outerspace invaders,"Eric thought. He shookhis headas if to drive out the waspishbuzzing of continuouswhining thoughtsin his brain.

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"Why do I think of aliens?" He knew He oncehadbeenon an instructiontour of thePowerstations. that therewasno living creaturein the immenseroomswherethe comOnly the contented putersdrewtheir flashingruneson the glassscreens. purringof tamenuclearforcescouldbe heard,like a smilein sound.They ttonght into movementthe innumerablepivots, axles,and iunctions of life weredistributedthroughthe throughwhich all the vital necessities country. by thesightof the of a vaguesenseof fearcaused Eric becameconscious with the artificleverlyintegrated filled with rowsof factories vastexpanse quickly. however, He recovered, cial landscape. It wasalmosttime for his appointmentwith his girl friendTina. Her of an imminentvisitfilledhim with lust,slightlydulledby weakvibrations to known were her bqdy of boredom.The delights almostimperceptible pleasure him to the lastdetails,asif theywerethe resultsof a programmed "Fixed habits receptors. to his carnal tuned tape and punched on a pattern, of our end arebad for passion,"he thought."lt reallyseemsto markthe servicetime. I shouldbe gladto geta newpartner,but I'm not." He had agreedwith Tina to performthe mating from behind this in foreplayof halfan hour,aswasexplained evening,with hand-and-mouth in former knew that Eric Fomication. Handbook the of chapter thethird for in unbridledfrenzywithout timesthedrivefor pairinghadbeendischarged anytraining.Much miseryhadbeentheresult.Nowgoodmatingmanners werealreadytaughtto childrenat the end of their anal phase. afterthe his initial experience Eric remembered With a certainsadness He'd had the luck themselves. had manifested maturity sexual signs of first to a wise,motherlyinitiator.His delightsthen musthave to be assigned in bolkt of cultic equaledthe religiousthrills of ancientsaintsasdescribed had melted his thoughts when orgasm the feverof lore. He remembered awayin the heat of passion.His body had been engulfedby t white that givinghim thesensation of becomingonewith everything hollowness, polite mating and skilled painfully in his himself existed.He nowremained boutswith Tina. Shearrivedat the appointedmoment.Eric pouredher a glassof wine, inspectingher carefullywhile shewasdrinking, as if it weretheir first meeting. Shewassuppleand plump, with darkhair. Her eyeswerebig, almost black.Shehad an upturnednoseanda wide,full mouth. Her teethwere large,healthy,andperfectlyshaped.Eric likedwomenwith an evensetof teeth. Tina and he wereof the sameage.

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Eric knew that in former times peoplemet in ahaphazardway,falling in lovewithout systemor sense,accordingto the lawsoichance, piaythings of their hormones'whims. He alsoknewihat this kind of highermadness had resultedin endlessconflicts,leadingpeopleinto the ,nri., of legalmatrimony' which madecouplesunhappyand children neurotic,and in the end disruptedsocietyasa whole.Tina and he had beenbroughttogetherin the only correctway.Out of all the peoplewithin a certain ,rdiu, tley werethe most suited to each other. The boy'sas well as the girl's consciousand unconsciousdesires,outer appearance, intelligence,tastes,and emotional patternshad been matched by one of the computers in the polder. This guaranteeda mutual understandingin the most fundamentalaspectsof personality.Tina wasthe ideal matefor him. He raisedhis glassand drank to her health. Shesmiledand returnedhis toast.It wasa perfectpreparation for things to come. Suddenly Eric felt more bored than he hld ihought possible.He undressedher and tried to feign impatient passion,even to make tearsin her paperone-dayunderwear.When they werelying next to eachotherthey startedto performthe movementsthey both knewfrom their manual of instructions.Simultaneouslywith the deeperexcitement,Eric felt the boredom growing ever stronger. It was, perhaps,becausethey'd come to the end of their lovetime. For a shortmomenthe consideredmarryingTina, asthe culmination andending of their probation years. But they were both still too young for a final domiciliation, too far awayfrom the mid-thirties,usuallysetfor marriage. He had to go on with the carefullyplannedpartnerships,at first looseand short,which would graduallyincreasein durationand stability,till, finally, he had reachedthe stagein which marital ties offeredthe bestwarrant for lastingharmony. Yes,his affairwith Tina wascoming to an end. That might be the reason why she was more exactingthan usual. Eric was alreadyon the brink of exhaustion,wantingto rest,when Tina wasstill pushingon with unabated lust. He compliedwith her passionwith a feeling of bitterness.When she waslying at his side, panting with obvioussatisfaction,his thoughtswere alreadywith the newwoman who would be assigned to him. It worriedhim that he would againbe obligedto takeher personalwishesand odditiesinto account. There was alwaysa period of mutual adaptationbetween new mating partners.Sometimesit was a thrilling experience.Now the idea irritated Eric. Tina got up from the bed. Shedressedslowlywith the well-knowntired gestures,which weresupposedto indicatethat shehad been so completely satisfiedthat shehardly had the strengthto lift her arms.But therewerelines of bitternessaround her mouth and shewasbreathingfiercely,an obvious

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beneath indicationto Eric of how much unusedenergyshehad to repress He languor.She,too,wasnothappywith thesituation. kissed hersimulated him to herselflongenoughagainst Shepressed herwhenshesaidgood-bye. long last it didn't but away, herself that shehadto tear givethe impression enoughto conveyreal attachment.

The next mating companion wasmore adaptedthan Tina had been to the weary irony Eric had developedduring the last year. She showedmuch humor. She was subdued and sometimesshy, modest in her manifest desires,but developeda fiercesenseof domination when Eric had prepared her extensivelyfor the final thrust in bed. Her signs of satisfactionwere overwhelmingbut they didn't giveEric the elationhe would'veexperienced in a former period. Her unbridled discharge of lust had an aspect of so Eric couldn't trust his own abilitiesasa skilled calculatedexaggeration, lover. She left him after a week. For the first time Eric learnedthat even computers could make mistakes.On this occasionthe matching of the many items of information from the two candidatesmust have been imperfect. He acceptedthe fact with resignationbut a feeling of failure still to his melancholy. sharpness gnawedat him, addinga touch of disagreeable Among the personaloddmentsthe young woman had left behind was a IS A loY FoREVER,flaming fiercelycoloredpamphlet. e cooo PAIRPUPPET lettersscreamedfrom the cover.Eric wantedto throw it awaywith the rest. 'A pairpupp€t,"he thought. "Good for the common peoplewho preferto be fobbed off with a custom-made dream, rather than to cope with the circumscribedpleasuresof nature." Yet he read on. He now realizedthat the woman who had{eft him had preferredthe perfectionsof a pairpuppetto his limited abilities. It shocked him. In the circlesof the artistic-mindedintellectualsto which he belonged, vulgarity of this kind wastill now unknown. Pairpuppetsweregood 'A for peoplewithout imagination. pairpuppetis the idealbed companion. The latestissuehas been installedwith a thermostat,which regulatesthe temperatureofthe skin accordingto the degreeof excitement.The moisture of the skin and orifices,togetherwith the movements(adaptedto the special requirementsof the buyer) and the appropriatesound, are built in with a remarkably high degree of authenticity. Our pairpuppets can only be distinguishedfrom the naturalproductby their perfectpairing technique." There wasalsoa scientific reportfrom the National ConsumersOrganization. Men and women had paired with the puppets under laboratory

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conditions.Their complaintshad been carefully investigated,and their delightshad beenmeticulouslyanalyzedbythe extremelysensitiveinstruments placedin the bodiesof the volunteers.Their dreamsalso had been analyzed,in orderto detectthe primevaltypesof their desire.Their ideal imageswerecomparedwith the four standardtypesof pairpuppetsavailable for eachsex. It appearedthat they indeed represent.ain.la.al prototypes. Their subtle powersof adaptationto the movementsof their human pair companionswere describedas extremelysatisfying.The soundsthey iroduced had been shrewdly composedfrom the range of cries and groans tapedduring the experiments. The disdainwith which Eric had at first read the bookletsoon gaveway to an uneasylibidinal fantasizing. When he went to sleephe had decidedto at leasthave a iook in at the showroom. The dream he still rememberedthe following morning greatlystrengthened his decision. The salesmanreceivedhim with the smooth eagerness he had expected. In the showroom there were many people. "How'sbusiness?"Eric asked. "We can hardly satisfythe demand." From the tone of bewildermentin the salesman's voiceEric could hearthat he meantit. "The useof pairpuppets seemsto havesuddenly becomethe fashion.We usedto have clients only from certain circles, but now it seemsthat people in generalare becoming fed up with people.And if I may sayso, sir, pairpuppetsare, indeed,much better.Sincethe latestmodelshavecome out, the experience with a pairpuppethaschangedfrom a coarsepleasureto a refineddelight." He talkedwith the pepped-upoptimism of a sloganmanufacturer,but at the sametime therewasmuch genuineenthusiasmin his voice. Eric found it extremelydifficult to makehis choice. There werefour typesin eachsex, able to satisfythe most common needs.There weresubjugatedand domineering women; cool beauties,who came slowly to their orgiastic frenzy, and unassumingmotherfigureswith warm breaststhat gavea soft refugefor a man's head. For women there were broad-shoulderedathletesand soft childlike types;cruel loversand tender devotees. "Thesebasicformscan be deliveredin differentsizesand skin color,"the salesmanexplained.'And for thosewho are not satisfiedwith the usual modesof pairing, thereare someirregulartypes,hunchbacksfor instance. They, ofcourse, aremuch moreexpensive,butthere'snot much demandfor them. In general,our eight typesseemto be satisfactory. " "I don't find it easyto choose." "That'snot unusual, sir. But why don't you take the whole range. For variation.That'smuch cheaper,too. I've alreadysold a lot of series.Some

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eventakethe wholesetof eight.As a freegift we supplya book customers techniques'" with unparalleled aboutgroup-pairing andwho desirewasswiftlyaroused whose redhead big rather a Eric chose of gaveeasilyand abundantly,without requiringa long demonstration came puppet who packa small,shy carnrl skills.He alsolet the salesman tenderness' much exacted slowlyto her climax and When he camehomehe carefullylockedhis apartment.

He calledhis bestfriend, Eberhard,with whom he had maintaineda deep understandingeversincecollege;though they didn't meet too often. They made an appointment.The first thing Eric saw when he arrived at his friend'shome was a couple of switched-offpairpuppetsin a corner of the living room, a sign that Eberhard too had taken to the new fashion. His friend had also changedthe arrangementof the furnishings. His polyester walls with changing lighfsculptures-creative panels, as the inventor called them-had been exchangedfor a wainscot of rough pinewood. There wasa markedsmell of resinaround, so strongthat it could only have been appliedby spraying. "l like it as a change," Eric said, when he had downedhis first drink. 'A little bit rough. You could evencall it old-fashioned,if it were not so unusual that it might now be called new-fashioned." Eric was astonished. "Where've you been all the time?" "Mostly at home. I couldn't think of a betterplaceto be. I've paireda lot. Then you don't have such a strong need to leaveyour home." Eric saw that his friend wanted to answer.But Eberhard checkedhis speech. 'And now you're bored?"he askedat last, with such studiednonchalance that Eric becamesuspicious. "Yes. How d'you know?" "lt's the generalfeeling. You would'veknown it too, if you hadn't locked yourselfup so selfishly.It'salreadybeengoingon for a long time, but when it startednobodyhad the courageto confessit. Peoplearestartingup the old forms of communication again, making appointments with friends; in the street.Human beingsare organizingparties;eventalkingto strangers funny things. They're never satisfied." He pouredhis visitorand himselfanotherdrink. "The common man still 'And, possible,a differenttype for if wantshis pairpuppet,"he continued.

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every season.But among the more sophisticatedpeoplethere is alreadya markedresistance.The intelligentsiawant to return to nature.,, "The mannerismsof today'stastemakerswill become the manners of tomorrow'smasses,"Eric said."which meansthat pairpuppetswill be out and we'll have to go back to nature." He downed another drink. When he at last took his leavehe was in a floating stateofrecklessinsouciance.Outside, the autumn manifesteditself in a pungent, spicyscentpermeatingthe freshair that alreadyhad a tinge of winter'scold. Eric had hardly gonea few yardswhen a girl approachedhim. He looked at her, at first with amazement,then with pl.asut.. In the beginning he doubted whethershemeant to contacthim, but when he sawtf,at shewas looking behind her, he knew that shewasdeliberatelytrying to attracthis attention. He turned and followed her. She looked attractivefrom behind; small, dark, with narrow and yet well-shapedlegs. Proportionally she couldn't comparewith the perfectlybuilt pairpuppets,but shewasa living creature, young and probablyfull of lust. Then, suddenly,he understoodwhy shewascontactinghim so obviously and yet without the professionalskill characteristicof the type of women who in former times had roamed the streetsfor business.She had done it becausehe wasa living man and becauseshe probablyhad developedas much distastefor her pairpuppetsas Eric had for his own perfect lust obiects.He followed her. He becamesoft with sensuousappetiteand soon he had overtakenher. she smiled when he addressedher."l assumeyou wanted me to follow yots?" She was young enough to have preservedthe beauty of youth and yet sufficiently advancedin age for a ripenessin experience.This kind of woman attractedEric most of all. Shetook him by the hand and pulled him after her. Suddenlyhe fell in love with her, He had been usedto the perfectstreamlineof delight for too long and now he realizedhow much genuinelove he had missed.All his repressed affectionbroke out and he became dizzyfrom the strongattachment that broke loose within him. "What's your name?" She didn't answer.She waswalking fasterand faster,almost running. Now he could confirm his first impressionthat she wasn't beautiful. She had an irregular face, her nosewastoo long, and her mouth wastoo large. When she smiled he saw that her front teeth were crooked. But ihe combination of irregular featuresattractedhim more strongly than the smoothprinciplesafter which his pairpuppetshad been manufactured.He

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thana hindrancethat herskinwastoo darkand foundit moreof a pleasure too coarseandthattherewerepigmentspotson herforehead.At any rate, shewasnatural. She Outsidethecity shepulledhim intoa dryditch.Theydidn'tundress. like They mounted other adolescents hurry. each much of a wasin too whoseimmediatelustis too strongfor themorerefineddelightsof preparawithoutcaringfor each torydelay.Theypairedlikeanimals,swiftly,grossly, other'sneeds. for Eric, aspowerfulasthefirsttime. experience It wasan overwhelming had In a certainsenseit wasthe firsttime. Now he knewthat pairpuppets In the long run, only pairingwith an beena transientmisconception. imperfecthuman beingcould givetrue satisfaction. Tenderlyhe lookedat the womanlying nextto him. Shehadclosedher eyes.Shewasbreathingsoftly.He touchedher. Sheopenedher mouth. "l'm Elly," shesaidin a warm and yet businesslike tone. "l am the improvedversionof the pairpuppet.I am an experimental specimen.Will you be so kind as to give me your critical remarkswith regardto my You behavior.They arebeingtapedandtheywill be carefullyconsidered. may leaveme whereI am. I'm able to return to the factorywithout " assistance.

TwoDooms Cyril M. Kornbluth was already n published writer as a teenagerin the late 1930s.A member of the Futurians,he remained eclipsedby the dominance ofCampbe]l'sAstounding, along with mostof his peers,until the beginning of the 1950s,when major new SF magazinessuchas Galaxy and The Magazineof Fantasy& ScienceFiction beganto publish his dark, ironic fictions. In collaboration with Frederik Pohl, he wrote a seriesof satirical SF novels, including the classic The SpaceMerchants. He was becoming one of the most respectedand accomplished SF writers when he died suddenly of a heart attack at age 35 in 1958. *Two Dooms," published posthumously that year, is a political story setin an a]ternate universe, one in which Germany has won World War II. This deviceprovides the basisfor a number of significant works, including Philip K. Dick!; award-winning The Man in the High Castle,Keith Robertsb"Weihnachtsabend" (included in thisanthology),and Brad Linaweaver's"Moon of Ice. "

I t wasMry, not yet summerby five weeks,but the afternoon heat under the corrugatedroofs of Manhattan Engineer I I District'sLos Alamos Laboratorywasdaily lessbearable. Young Dr. Edward Roylandhad lost fifteen poundsfrom an aheadymeagerframeduring his nine-monthhitch in the desert. He wonderedeverydaywhile the thermometercrawledup to its 5:45peakwhetherhe hadmadea mistakehe would regret the restof his life in acceptingworkwith the Laboratoryrather than lettingthe local draft boardhavehis carcass anddo what

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wereglamorously they pleasedwith it. His Universityof Chicago classmates Brussels; one of them, a firstfrom to Saipan collectingribbonsand wounds ratemathematiciannamed Hatfield, would do no more first-ratemathematics. He had gonedown, burning, in an Eighth Air ForceMitchell bomber ambushedover Lille. 'And what, Daddy, did you do in the war?" "Well, kids, it'sa little hard to explain.They had this stupidatomicbomb project that never came to anything, and they tied up a lot of us in a Godforsakenplace in New Mexico. We figured and we calculatedand we fooled with uranium and someof us got radiation burns and then the war was over and they sent us home." Royland was not amusedby this prospect.He had heat rash under his arms and he waswaiting, not patiently,for the Computer Sectionto send him his figureson Phase56c, which was the (god-damnchildish) code designationfor Element AssemblyTime. Phase56c was Royland'sown particular baby.He wasunder Rotschmidt,supervisorof WsepoN Dnstcl Tnncr III, and Rotschmidt was under Oppenheimer, who bossedthe works.Sometimesa GeneralGrovescamethrough, a fine figure of a man, and once from a window Roylandhad seenthe venerableHenry L. Stimson, Secretaryof War, walking slowly down their dustystreet,leaning on a caneand surroundedby young staffofficers.That'swhat Roylandwasseeing of the war. Laboratory!It had soundedinviting, cool, bustlingbut quiet. So every morning thesedayshe was blastedout of his cot in a barrackscubicle at sevenby "Oppie'swhistle," fought for a showerand shavewith thirty-seven otherbachelorscientistsin eight languages,bolteda bad cafeteriabreakfast, andwentthroughthe barbed-wiredRestrictedLine to his "office"-another matchboard-walledcubicle, smaller and hotter and noisier, with talking and typing and clack of adding machinesall around him. Under the circumstanceshe was doing good work, he supposed.He wasn'thrppy aboutbeingrestrictedto his one tiny problem,Phase56c,but no doubt he washappierthan Hatfield had been when his Mitchell got it. Under the circumstances. . . they included a weird haywire arrangement for computing.Insteadof a decentdiflbrentialanalyzermachinethey had a human seaof office girls with Burroughs'deskcalculators;the girls screamed"Banzail" and charged on differential equationsand swamped them by sheervolume; they clicked them to death with their little adding machines.Roylandthought hungrily of Conant'shuge, beautiful analog differentiatorup at M . I. T ; it wasprobablytied up by whateverthe mysterious "Radiation Laboratory" there was doing. Royland suspectedthat the "Radiation Laboratory" had as much to do with radiation as his own

EAA / TWc] DC]OMS "Manhattan Engineer District" had to do with Manhattan engineering. And the world wassupposedto be trembling on the edgethesedaysof a New Dispensationof Computing that would obsoleteeven the M.l.T machine-tubes, relays,and binary arithmeticat blinding speedinsteadof the suavelyturning cams and the smoothly extruding rods and the elegant scribedcurvesof Conant'smasterpiece.He decidedthat he wouldn't like that; he would like it even lessthan he liked the little office girls clacking away,pushinglank hair from their dewedbrowswith undistractedhands. He wiped his own brow with a sodden handkerchiefand permitted himself a glanceat his watch and the thermometer.Five-fifteenand 103 Fahrenheit. He thought vaguelyof getting out, of fouling up just enough to be releasedfrom the project and drafted. No; there wasthe post-warcareerto think of. But one of the big shots,Teller, had been irrepressible; he had rambledoutsideof his assigned missionagainandagainuntil Oppenheimer let him go; now Tellerwasworkingwith Lawrenceat Berkeleyon something that had reputedlygone sour at a reputedquarterof a billion dollarsA girl in khaki knockedand entered."Your material from the Computer Section, Dr. Royland.Check them and sign here, please." He countedthe dozen sheets,signedthe clipboardedform sheheld out, and plunged into the material for thirty minutes. When he satbackin his chair, the sweatdrippedinto his eyesunnoticed. His handswereshakinga little, though he did not know that either. Phase 56c of WnepoN DnsIcN Tnncr III was finished, over, done, successfully accomplished.The answerto the question"Can Ury slugsbe assembled into a critical masswithin a physicallyfeasibletime?" wasin. The answer was "Yes." Royland was a theory man, not a Wheatstoneor a Kelvin; he liked the numbersfor themselves and had no specialpassionto grabfor wires,mica, and bits of graphiteso that what the numberssaid might immediatelybe given flesh in a wonderful new gadget.Neverthelesshe could visualize at oncea workableatomicbomb assemblywithin the frameworkof Phase56c. You haveso many microsecondsto assembleyour critical masswithout it boiling awayin vapor;you usethem by blowing the subassemblies together with shapedcharges;lots of microsecondsto spareby that method; practically foolproof. Then comesthe Big Bang. Oppie'swhistleblew;it wasquitting time. Roylandsatstill in his cubicle. He shouldgo, of course,to Rotschmidtand tell him; Rotschmidtwould probablyclap him on the back and pour him a jigger of Bols Genevafrom the tall clay bottle he kept in his safe. Then Rotschmidt would go to Oppenheimer. Before sunsetthe project would be redesigned!Tnacr I,

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Tnncr II, Tnncr I! and Tnncr V would be shut down and their people crammed into Tnacr III, the one with the paydirt! New excitementwould boil through the project;it had been torpid and souringfor three months. Phase 56c was the first good news in at leastthat long; it had been one damned blind alley after another. General Groves had looked sour and dubiouslast time around. Desk drawers were slamming throughout the corrugated, sun-baked building; doorswereslammingshut on cubicles;down the corridor,somebody roaredwith laughter,strainedlaughter.PassingRoyland'sdoor somebody cried impatiently:"-aber wds kan Man tnn?" Roylandwhisperedto himself: "You damnedfool, what are you thinking of?" Buthe knew-he wasthinking of the Big Bang,the Big Dirty Bang, and of torture. The judicial torture of the old days,incredibly cruel by today's lights, stretchedthe whole body,or crushedit, or burned it, or shatteredthe fingersand legs.But eventhat old judicial torture carefullyavoidedthe most sensitivepartsof the body, the generativeorgans,though damageto these, or a real threatof damageto these,would haveproducedquick and copious confessions. You haveto be more or lesscrazyto torture somebodythat way; the saneman doesnot think of it as a possibility. An M.P corporaltried Royland'sdoor and looked in. "Quitting time, professor,"he said. "Okay,"Roylandsaid.Mechanically,he lockedhis deskdrawersand his files, turned his window lock, and set out his waste-paperbasketin the corridor. Click the door; another day, another dollar. Maybe the project wcs breakingup. They did now and then. The huge boner at Berkeleyprovedthat. And Royland'sbarrackswaslight two physicistsnow;their cubiclesstoodempty sincethey had beendraftedto M.l.T for some anti-submarine thing. Groves had nof looked hrppy last time around; how did a general make up his mind anyway?Give them three months, then the ax?Maybe Stimsonwould run out of patienceand cut the loss, close the District down. Maybe ED.R. would say at a Cabinet meeting, "By the way,Henry, what everbecameof-?" and that would be the end if old Henry could sayonly that the scientistsappearto be optimistic of eventualsuccess,Mr. President,but that asyet thereseemsto be nothing concreteHe passedthrough the barbedwire of the Line under scrutiny of an M.P lieutenant and walked down the barracks-edgedcompany street of the maintenancetroopsto their motor pool. He wanteda jeepand a trip ticket; he wanteda long desertdrive in the twilight; he wanteda dinner of friioles and eggplantwith his old friend CharlesMiller Nahataspe,the medicine

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man of the adjoining Hopi reservation. Royland'shobbywasanthropology; he wantedto get a little drunk on it-he hoped it would clear his mind.

Nahataspewelcomedhim cheerfullyto his hut; his million wrinklesall smiled. "You want me to play informant for a while?" he grinned. He had beento Carlislein the 1880'sand had beenlaughingat the white man ever since;he admitted that physicswas funny, but for a real joke give him cultural anthropologyevery time. "You want some nice unsavorystuff about our institutionalizedhomosexuality?Should I cook us a dog for dinner? Have a seaton the blanket, Edward." "What happenedto your chairs?And the funny picture of McKinley? And-and everything?"The hut was bare exceptfor cooking pots that simmered on the stone-curbedcentral hearth. "l gavethestuffaway,"Nahataspesaidcarelessly. "You gettired of things." Roylandthought he knewwhat that meant. Nahataspebelievedhe would die quitesoon;theseparticularIndiansdid not believein dyingencumbered by possessions. Manners, of course,forbadediscussingdeath. The Indian watchedhis faceand finally said:"Oh, it'sall right for youto talk about it. Don't be embarrassed." Royland askednervously:"Don't you feel well?" "l feel terrible.There'sa snakeeatingmy liver. Pitch in and eat. Youfeel pretty awful yourself, don't you?" The hard-learnedhabit of securitycausedRoylandto evadethe question. "You don't mean that literally about the snake,do you Charles?" "Of courseI do," Miller insisted.He scoopeda steaminggourd full of stewfrom the pot and blew on it. "What would an untutoredchild of nature know about bacteria,viruses,toxins, and neoplasms? What would I know about break-the-sky medicine?" Roylandlookedup sharply;the Indian wasblandlyeating."Do you hear any talk about break-the-skymedicine?" Royland asked. "No talk, Edward. I've had a few dreamsabout it. " He pointedwith his chin toward the Laboratory."You fellows over there shouldn't dream so hard; it leaksout." Roylandhelped himself to stewwithout answering.The stewwasgood, far betterthan the cafeteriastuff, and he did not haveto guessthe sourceof the meat in it. Miller saidconsolingly:"lt'sonly kid stuff,Edward.Don't getsoworkedup about it. We havea long dull storyabout a hornedtoad who ate somelocoweedand thought he wasthe SkyGod. He got angryand he tried to breakthe

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to faceall the other skybut he couldn'tsohe slunkinto his holeashamed he to break theskyat all." But never knew tried died. they animalsand "Do you haveanystories about In spiteof himselfRoylanddemanded: againandhisvoice whodidbreakthesky?"Hishandswereshaking anybody almosthysterical.Oppieandthe restof them weregoingto breakthe sky, kick humanityright in the crotch,and unleasha prowlingmonsterthat wouldgoup anddownby nightanddaypeeringin all thewindowsof all the houses in theworld,leavingno sanemaneverunterrifiedfor hislife andthe hell, madesureof that! livesof hiskin. Phase56c,God-damnit to blackest Well done,Royland;you earnedyour dollartoday! Decisively theold Indiansethisgourdaside.He said:"Wehavea saying is a deadpaleface, for thattheonlygoodpaleface but I'll makean exception you,Edward.I'vegotsomestrongstufffromMexicothatwill makeyoufeel better.I don't like to seemy friendshurting." "Peyote?I've tried it. Seeinga few coloredlightswon't makeme feel " better,but thanks. "Not peyote,thisstuff.It'sGod Food.I wouldn'ttakeit myselfwithouta month of preparation; otherwisethe Godswould scoopme up in a net. That'sbecause my peopleseeclearly,andyour eyesareclouded."He was busilyrummagingthrougha clay-chinked wickerboxashespoke;he came up with a covereddish."Youpeoplehaveyoursightclearedjusta little by the God Food,so it'ssafefor you." Roylandthoughtheknewwhattheold manwastalkingabout.It wasone of Nahataspe's biggestjokesthat Hopi childrenunderstood Einstein'srelativity assoonastheycouldtalk-and therewassometruth to it. The Hopi language-andthought-had no tenses no conceptof timeandtherefore as-an-entity; it had nothinglike the Indo-European speech's subjects and predicates, andtherefore no built-in metaphysics of causeandeffect.In the Hopi languageand mind all thingswerefrozentogetherforeverinto one greatrelationship, a crystallinestructureof space-time eventsthat simply werebecause theywere.So muchfor Nahataspe's " people"seeingclearly. But Roylandgavehimselfandanyotherphysicistcreditfor seeingasclearly whentheywereworkinga four-dimensional problemin the xY Z space variables andthe T time variable. He could havespoiledthe old man'sjokeby pointingthat out, but of coursehe did not. No, no, he'd get a jag and maybea bellyachefrom Nahataspe's herb medicineand then go home to his cubicle with his problemunresolved: to kick or not to kick? The old manbeganto mumblein Hopi, anddrewa tatteredcloth across thedoorframeof hishut;it shutoutthelastraysof thesettingsun,longand

29? / TWO DOOMS slanting on the desert,pink-red againstthe adobe cubes of the Indian settlement. It took a minute for Royland'seyesto accommodateto the flickeringlight from the hearthand the indigo squareof the ceiling smoke hole. Now Nahataspewas"dancing,"doing a crouchedshufflearoundthe hut holding the covereddish beforehim. Out of the cornerof his mouth, without interruptingthe rhythm, he saidto Royland:"Drink somehot water now." Roylandsippedfrom one of the potson the hearth;so far it wasmuch like peyoteritual, but he felt calmer. Nahataspeuttered a loud scream, added apologetically:"Sorry, Edward," and crouchedbeforehim whipping the cover off the dish like a headwaiter.So God Foodwasdriedblackmushrooms,miserable,wrinkled little things. "You swallow them all and chase them with hot water," Nahataspesaid. obediently Roylandchokedthem down and gulped from the jug; the old man resumedhis dance and chanting. A little old self-hypnosis, Roylandthoughtbitterly.Grab someimitation sleepandforgetaboutold 56c,asif you could. He could seethe big dirty one now a hell of a fireball, maybeover Munich, or Cologne, or Tokyo, or Nara. Cookedpeople,fusedcathedralstone,the bronze of the big Buddha running like water, perhaps lapping around the ankles of a priest and burning his feet off so he fell prone into the stuff. He couldn't see the gamma radiation, but it would be there, invisible sleetdoing the dirty unthinkablething, coldlyburning awaythe sexof men andwomen,cutting shortso many fansof life at their pointsof origin. Phase56ccould snuffout a family of Bachs,or five generationsof Bernoullis, or seeto it that the great Huxley-Darwin crossdid not occur. The fireball loomed, purple and red and fringed with greenThe mushroomswerereachinghim, he thoughtfuzzily.He could really seeit. Nahataspe, crouchedandtreading,movedthroughthe fireballjustas he had the last time, and the time beforethat. Ddii vu, extraordinarily strong,strongerthan everbefore,grippedhim. Roylandknew all this had happenedto him before,and rememberedperfectlywhat would come next; it was on the very tip of his tongue, as they sayThe fireballsbeganto dancearound him and he felt his strengthdrain suddenly out; he was lighter than a feather;the breezewould carry him away;he would be blown like a dust mote into the circle that the circling fireballsmade. And he knew it waswrong. He croakedwith the lastof his energy,feeling himself slip out of the world: "Charlie! Help!" Out of the corner of his mind as he slipped awayhe sensedthat the old man waspulling him now underthe arms,trying to tug him out of the hut,

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crying dimly into his ear:"You shouldhavetold me you did not seethrough smoke!You seeclear; I never knew; I nev-" And then he slipped through into blacknessand silence.

Roylandawokesick and fuzzy; it wasmorning in the hut; therewasno sign of Nahataspe.Well. Unlessthe old man had gottento a phoneand reported to the Laboratory,therewerenow jeepsscouringthe desertin searchof him and all hell wasbreakingloosein Securityand Personnel.He would catch someof that hell on his return, and avertit with his newsabout assembly time. Then he noticed that the hut had been cleaned of Nahataspe'sfew remainingpossessions, evento the door cloth. A pang went through him; had the old man died in the night? He limped from the hut and looked around for a funeral pyre, a crowd of mourners.They were not there; the adobecubesstooduntenantedin the sunlight, and more weedsgrew in the singlestreetthan he remembered.And his ieep,parkedlastnight againstthe hut, was missing. There wereno wheeltracks,and uncrushedweedsgrewtall wherethe jeep had stood. Nahataspe'sGod Food had been powerful stuff. Royland'shand crept uncertainlyto his face. No; no beard. He looked about him, looked hard. He made the effort necessaryto see details.He did not glanceat the hut and becauseit wasapproximatelythe sameasit had alwaysbeen, concludedthat it wasunchanged,eternal.He looked and saw changes everywhere.Once-sharp adobe corners were rounded;protruding roof beamswere bleachedbone-white by how many yearsof desertsun?The woodenframing of the deepfortress-likewindows had crumbled;the third building from him had waveringsootstainsabove its window bolesand its beamswere charred. He wentto it, numbly thinking: Phase56cat leastis settled.Not old Rip's baby now.They'll know me from fingerprints,I guess.One year?Ten?Ifeel the same. The burned-out house was a shambles.In one corner were piled dry human bones.Royland leaned dizzily againstthe doorframe;its charcoal crumbledand streakedhis hand. ThoseskullswereIndian-he wasanthropologistenoughto know that. Indian men, womenand children, slain and piled in a heap. Who kills Indians?There should have been some sign of clothes, burned rags,but there were none. Who strips Indians naked and kills them?

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Signsof a dreadful massacrewere everywherein the house.Bulletpocks in the walls,high and low. Savage nicksleft by bayonets-andswords? Dark stainsof blood;it had run two incheshigh and left its mark. Metal glintedin a ribcageacrossthe room. Swaying,he walkedto the bone-heapand thrust his hand into it. The thing bit him like a tazorblade;he did not look at it as he plucked it out and carried it to the dusty street.With his backturned to the burned househe studiedhis find. It wasa pieceof swordbladesix inches long, hand-honedto a perfectedgewith a couple of nicks in it. It had stiffeningribs and the usual blood gutters.It had a perceptiblecurve that would fit into only one shape:the Samuraiswordof Japan. Howeverlong it had taken, the war was obviously over. He went to the villagewell and found it chokedwith dust.It waswhile he staredinto the dry holethat he first becameafraid. Suddenlyit all wasreal; he was no more an onlooker but a frightened and very thirsty man. He ransackedthe dozen housesof the settlementand found nothing to his purpose-a child'sskeletonhere, a couple of cartridgecasesthere. There wasonly one thing left, and that wasthe road, the sameearth track it had alwaysbeen, wide enoughfor one jeep or the rump-sprungstation wagonof the Indian settlementthat once had been. Panic invited him to run; he did not yield. He sat on the well curb, took off his shoesto meticulouslysmoothwrinklesout of his khaki G.l. socks,put the shoeson, and retiedthe laceslooselyenoughto allow for swelling,and hesitateda moment. Then he grinned, selectedtwo pebblescarefullyfrom the dustand poppedthem into his mouth. "BeaverPatrol,forwardmarch," he said,and beganto hike. Yes,he wasthirsty;soonhe would be hungry and tired; what of it? The dirt road would meet state-maintainedblacktop in three miles and then there would be traffic and he'd hitch a ride. Let them argue with his had got asfar asNew Mexico, fingerprintsif they felt like it. The Japanese had they?Then God help their home islandswhen the counterblowhad on. Conceivably, come.Americanswerea ferociouspeoplewhen trespassed there was not a fapaneseleft alive. . . . He beganto constructhis storyashe hiked. In largepartsit wasa repeated "l don'tknow." He would tell them:"l don't expectyou to believethis, somy feelingswon't be hurt when you don't. fust listen to what I sayand hold everythinguntil the EB.l. has checkedmy fingerprints.My name is-" And so on. It was midmorning then, and he would be on the highway soon. His nostrils, sharpenedby hunger, picked up a dozen scentson the desert breeze:the spiceof sage,a whiff of acetylenestink from a rattlerdozing on for a the shadedsideof a rock, the throat-tighteningreek of tar suggested

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rnomenton the air. That wouldbe the highway,perhapsa recenthotpatch on a chuckhole.Then a startlingtangof sulfurdioxidedrownedthem out and passed on, leavinghim stungand snifflingand gropingfor a handkerchiefthatwasnot there.What in God'snamehadthatbeen,andwhere from?Withoutceasing to trudgehe studiedthehorizonslowlyandfounda smokepall to the far westdimly smudgingthe sky.It lookedlike a small city's,or a fair-sizedfactory's,pollution.A city or a factorywhere"in his time"-he formedthe thoughtreluctantly-therehad beennone. Thenhewasatthehighway.It hadbeenimproved;it wasa two-lanerstill, but it wasnicelygradednow,built up by perhaps threeinchesof graveland tar beyondits old level,and lavishlyditchedon eitherside. If he hada coin hewouldhavetossedit, but youwentfor weekswithout spendinga centat LosAlamosLaboratory; Uncletookcareof everything, from cigarettes to tombstones. He turnedleft andbeganto walkwestward towardthat skysmudge. I am a reasonable animal, he wastelling himself,and I will accept whatevercomesin a spirit of reason.I will controlwhat I can and try to understand the restA faintsirenscream beganbehindhim andbuilt up fast.The reasonable animaliumpedfor theditch andhuggedit for dearlife. The sirenhowled closer,andmotorsroared.At theear-splitting climaxRoylandput his head up for oneglimpse,thenfell backintotheditchasif a grenade hadexploded in his middle. The convoyroaredon, down thecenterof the two-lanehighway,straddling the white line. Firstthe threelittle reconcarswith the twin-mount machineguns,eachfilled brimful with threehelmetedfapanese soldiers. Then the high-profiled,armoredcarof state,six-wheeled, with a probably ceremonialgun turretastern- nickel-plated gunbarrels areimpractical andthefapanese admiralin thefore-and-aft hattakinghislordlyeasebeside a rawboned,hatchet-faced SS officerin gleamingblack.Then, diminuendo,two morelittle reconjobs.. . . "We'velost,"Roylandsaidin his ditch meditatively. "Ceremonial tanks with glass windows-welosta longtimeago."Hadtherebeena RisingSun insigniaor washe now imaginingthat? He climbed out and continuedto trudgewestwardon the improved blacktop.Youcouldn'tsay"l rejectthe universe,"not whenyou wereas thirstyashe was. He didn't eventurn whenthe put-puttingof a west-bound vehiclegrew loud behindhim andthen u.ty louJ *h.n it stoppedat his side. "Zeegail,"a curiousvoicesaid."What areyou doing here?,' The vehiclewasiustasoddin its own wayastheceremonial tank.It was

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minimum motor transportation,a kid'ssledon wheels,poweredby a noisy little air-cooledoutboardmotor. The driversatwith no more comfort than a cleat to back his coccyx against, and behind him were two twenty-fivepound flour sacksthat took up all the remaining room the little buckboard provided.The driver had the leatherySouthwesternlook; he wore abaggy blue outfit that wasobviouslya uniform andobviouslyunmilitary. He had a nametapeon his breastabovethe incomprehensiblerow of dull ribbons: MARTFIELD, E., l2IBB24, P/7 NQOTD4). He saw Royland'seyeson the tapeand saidkindly: "My name is Martfield-PaymasterSeventh,but there'sno need to use my rank here. Are you all right, my man?" "Thirsty," Royland said. "What's the NQOTD4) [or?" "You can read!" Martfield said, astounded."Those clothes-" "Somethingto drink, please,"Roylandsaid. For the moment nothing elsematteredin the world. He satdownon the buckboardlike a puppetwith cut strings. "Seehere,fellow!" Martfield snappedin a curious,strangledway,forcing the wordsthrough his throat with a stagy,conventionaleffort of controlled anger."You can standuntil I invite you to sit!" "Have you any water?"Royland askeddully. With the samebark "Who do you think you are?" "l happen to be a theoreticalphysicist-" tiredly arguing with a dim imitation of a drill sergeant. seventh-carbon-copy "Oh-hohl" Martfield suddenlylaughed.His stiffnessvanished;he actually reachedinto his baggy tunic and brought out a pint canteenthat gurgled.He then forgot all about the canteenin his hand, roguishlydug Royland in the ribs and said: "I should have suspected.You scientists! Somebodywassupposedto pick you up-but he wasanotherscientist,eh? Ah-hah-hah-hah!" Roylandtook the canteenfrom his hand and sipped.So a scientistwas supposed to be an idiot-savant,eh?Nevermind now;drink. Peoplesaidyou were not supposedto fill your stomach with water after great thirst; it soundedto him like one of thosepuritanical rulespeoplemake up out of nothing becausethey sound reasonable.He finished the canteenwhile Martfield, PaymasterSeventh,looked alarmed, and wishedonly that there were three or four more of them. "Got any food?" he demanded. Martfield cringed briefly."Doctor, I regretextremelythat I havenothing with me. Howeverif you would do me the honor of riding with me to my quarters- " "Let's go," Royland said. He squattedon the flour sacksand awaythey chuggedat a good thirty miles an hour; it was a fair little engine. The

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PaymasterSeventh continued deferential, apologizing over his shoulder becausethere was no windscreen,later dropped his cringing entirely to explainthat Roylandwasseatedon flour- "white four, understand?"An over-the-shoulderwink. He had a friend in the bakery at Los Alamos. Severalbuckboardspassedthe otherwayasthey traveled.At eachencounter therewasa peeringexaminationof insigniato decidewho saluted.Once they met a sketchilyenclosedvehiclethat furnishedits driver with a low seat Seventh insteadof obliginghim to sit with legsstraightout, and Paymaster Martfield almostdislocatedhis shouldersalutingfirst. The driver of that one was a Japanesein a kimono. A long curved sword lay acrosshis lap. Mile after mile the smell of sulfur and sulfidesincreased;finally there rose before them the towersof a Frasch Processlayout. It looked like an oilfield, but insteadof ground-laidpipelinesand bass-drumstoragetanks there were foothills of yellow sulfur. They drove between them-more salutesfrom baggily uniformed workerswith shovelsand yard-longStilson wrenches.Off to the right werethings that might havebeen SolvayProcess towersfor sulfuric acid, and a glitteringhorror of a neo-Romanadministration-and-labsbuilding. The Rising Sun banner flutteredfrom its central flagstaff. Music surgedas they drove deeperinto the area;first it wasa welcome counterirritantto the pop-popof the two cyclebuckboardengine, and then a nuisanceby itself. Royland looked, annoyed, for the loudspeakers,and saw them everywhere-on power poles, buildings, gateposts.Schmaltzy Strausswaltzesbathedthem like smog, made thinking just a little harder, made communication just a little more blurry evenafteryou had learnedto live with the noise. "I miss music in the wilderness,"Martfield confidedover his shoulder. He throttled down the buckboard until they were just rolling; they had passedsomeline unrecognizedby Roylandbeyondwhich onedid not salute everybody- just the occasionalJapanese walking by in businesssuit with blueprint-roll and sliderule, or in kimono with sword.It wasa German who nailed Royland, however:a classicjack-bootedGerman in black broadcloth, black leather,and plenty of silver trim. He watchedthem roll for a moment after exchangingsaluteswith Martfield, made up his mind, and said:"Halt." The PaymasterSeventhslappedon the brake, killed the engine, and popped to attention besidethe buckboard. Royland more or lessimitated him. The German said, stiffly but without accent: "Whom have you brought here, Paymaster?" 'A scientist,sir. I pickedhim up on the road returningfrom Los Alamos with personalsupplies.He appearsto be a mineralsprospectorwho misseda

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rendezvous,but naturally I have not questionedthe Doctor." The German turned to Royland contemplatively."So, Doctor. Your " name and specialty. "Dr. Edward Royland,"he said. "l do nuclearpowerresearch."If there was no bomb he'd be damned if he'd invent it now for thesepeople. "So?That is very interesting,consideringthat thereis no such thing as nuclearpowerresearch.Which camp are you from?" The German threw an asideto the PaymasterSeventh,who wasliterally shakingwith fearat the turn things had taken. "You may go, Paymaster.Of courseyou will report yourself for harboring a fugitive." 'At once, sir," Martfield said in a sick voice. He moved slowly away pushing the little buckboardbeforehim. The Strausswaltz oom-pah'd its last chord and instantly the loudspeakersstruck up a hoppity-hoppityfolk dance, heavy on the brass. "Come with me," the German said, and walked off, not even looking behind to seewhetherRoylandwasobeying. This itself demonstratedhow wasto succeed.Roylandfollowedat his heels, unlikely any disobedience which of coursewere garnishedwith silver spurs.Roylandhad not seena horse so far that day. A )apanesestoppedthem politely inside the administrationbuilding, a office-managertype in a graysuit. "How nice to seeyou rimless-glasses, again, Major Kappel! Is there anything I might do to help you?" The German stiffened."I didn't want to bother your people,Mr. Ito. This fellow appearsto be a fugitive from one of our camPs;I wasgoing to turn him over to our liaison grouPfor examinationand return." Mr. Ito looked at Royland and slappedhis face hard. Royland, by the insanityof sheerreflex,cockedhis fist asa red-bloodedboy should,but the German'sreflexesoperatedalso. He had a pistol in his hand and pressed againstRoyland'sribs before he could throw the punch. 'All right," Royland said, and put down his hand. Mr. Ito laughed."You areat leastpartly right, Maior Kappel;he certainly is not from one of our camps!But do not let me delayyou further. May I hope for a report on the outcome of this?" Lof .orrrr., tVtt.Ito," saidthe German. He holsteredhis pistolandwalked on, trailed by the scientist.Roylandheard him grumble somethingthat soundedlike "Damned extraterritoriality!" They descendedto a basementlevel where all the door signswere in German, and in an office labeled WIssnNscHAFTSLIcHESICHERHEITSLrArsoNRoyland finally told his story. His audiencewas the maior, a fat officer deferentiallyaddressedas Colonel Biederman, and a beardedold civilian, a Dr. Piqueron,called in from anotheroffice. Roylandsuppressed

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only the matter of bomb research,and did it easilywith the old security habit. His improvisedcover story made the Los Alamos Laboratorya researchcenter only for the generationof electricity. The three heard him out in silence.Finally, in an amusedvoice, the colonel asked:"Who wasthis Hitler you mentioned?" For that Royland was not prepared.His jaw dropped. Major Kappel said:"Oddly enough, he struck on a name which does figure, somewhatinfamously,in the annalsof the Third Reich. One Adolf Hitler wasan early Partyagitator,but as I recall it he intrigued againstthe Leaderduring the War of Tiiumph and wasexecuted." 'An ingeniousmadman," the colonel said. "sterilized, of course?" "Why, I don't know. I supposeso. Doctor, would you-?" Dr. Piqueronquickly examinedRoylandand found him all there,which astonishedthem. Then they thought of looking for his camp tattoo number on the left bicep, and found none. Then, thoroughly upset,they discovered that he had no birth number abovehis left nipple either. 'And," Dr. Piqueronstammered,"his shoesare odd, sir-l iust noticed. Sir, how long sinceyou've seensewn shoesand braidedlaces?" "You mustbe hungry,"the colonelsuddenlysaid."Doctor, havemy aide get somethingto eat for-for the doctor." "Major," said Royland,"l hope no harm will come to the fellow who picked me up. You told him to report himself." "Have no fear, er, doctor," saidthe major. "Such humanity! You are of German blood?" "Not that I know of; it may be." "lt must be!" said the colonel. A platterof hashand a glassof beerarrived on a tray. Roylandpostponed everything.At lasthe demanded:"Now. Do you believeme?There must be fingerprintsto prove my story still in existence. " "l feel like a fool," the major said. "You still could be hoaxingus. Dr. Piqueron, did not a German scientistestablishthat nuclear power is a theoreticaland practicalimpossibility,that one alwaysmust put more into it than one can take out?" Piqueronnoddedand said reverently:"Heisenberg.Nineteen fifty-three, during the War of Tfiumph. His group was then assignedto electrical weaponsresearchand producedthe blinding bomb. But this fact doesnot invalidatethe doctor'sstory;he saysonly that his group wasattempting to produce nuclear power." "We'vegot to researchthis," saidthe colonel. "Dr. Piqueron,entertain this man, whateverhe is, in your laboratory." Piqueron'slaboratorydown the hall wasa placeof astoundingsimplicity,

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evencrudeness. The sinks,reagents,and balancewerecapableonly of simplequalitative andquantitative analysis; variousworksin progress testified that they werenot evenstrainedto their modestlimits. Samplesof sulfuranditscompounds wereanalyzedhere.It hardlyseemed to call for a "doctor"of anything,and hardlyevenfor a human being.Machinery shouldbe continuouslytestingthe productsastheyflowedout; variations shouldbe scribedmechanicallyon a movingtape;automaticcontrols shouldat leaststopthe processes andsignalan alarmwhenvariationwent beyondlimits;at mostit mightcorrectwhatever wasgoingwrong.But here sat Piqueroneveryday,titrating, precipitating,and weighing,entering resultsby hand in a ledgerand telephoningthem to the works! Piqueronlookedaboutproudly.'As a physicistyouwouldn'tunderstand all this, of course,"he said."ShallI explain?" "Perhapslater,doctor,if you'dbe goodenough.If you'd first help me orientmyself-" toldhim abouttheWarof Tliumph(1940-1955) SoPiqueron andwhat cameafter. In 1940the realm of der Fuehrer(Herr Goebbels,of course-that strapping blondfellowwith theheroicjawandeagle's eyewhomyoucansee in the picturethere)wassimultaneously invadedby the andtreacherously misguidedFrench,the sub-humanSlavs,andthe perfidious British.The attack,for which the shockedGermanscoinedthe nameblitzkrieg,was timedto coincidewith an internaleruptionof sabotage, well-poisoning, with assassination by the Zigeuneriuden, or Jewspies, of whomlittle is now known;thereseemto be noneleft. By Nature'sineluctable law,the Germanshad necessarily to be testedto the utmost so that they might fully respond.ThereforeGermanywas overrunfrom EastandWest,andHolyBerlinitselfwastaken;but Goebbels into the mountainfastness to await andhis courtwithdrewlike Barbarossa their day.It cameunexpectedly soon.The deludedAmericanslauncheda in 1945. million-manamphibious attackon thehomelandof thefapanese in American The Japanese resisted with almostTeutoniccourage.Not one twentyreachedshorealive,and not one in a hundredgot a mile inland. Particularlylethalwerethe womenandchildren,who lay in camouflaged when pitshuggingartilleryshellsandaircraftbombs,whichtheydetonated enoughinvadersdrewnearto makeit worthwhile. The secondinvasionattempt,a monthlater,wasmadeup of second-line troops scrapedup from everywhere,including occupationduty in Germany. "Literally,"Piqueronsaid,"thefapanese did not knowhowto surrender, sotheydid not. They couldnot conquer,but theycouldanddid continue

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consumingmanpowerof the alliesand their own suicidalresistance, The womanpowerand childpower-a shrewdbargainfor the ]apanese! war;theywatchedwith refused to becomeinvolvedin thefapanese Russians in wereengaged apishdelightwhiletwo futureenemies,astheysupposed, mutual destruction. 'A third assault wavebrokeon Kyushuandgainedtheislandat last.What lay ahead? Only anotherassaulton Honshu,the main island,homeof the Emperorand the principalshrines.It was 1946;the volatile,childlike Americanswerewar-wearyand mutinous;the bestof them weregoneby an leadersofferedthe Russians the Anglo-American then. In desperation economicsphereembracingthe China coastand Japanas the price of " participation. grinnedandassented; The Russians theywouldtakethat-at leastthat. for the springof 1947;theywouldtakeKorea Theymounteda hugeassault and leapoff from therefor northernHonshuwhile the Anglo-American forcesstruckin thesouth.Surelythis wouldprovideat lasta symbolbefore might without shamebow down and admit defeat! which the fapanese And then, from the mountainfastnesses, camethe radiovoice:"Germans!YourLeadercallsuponyou again!"Followedthe HundredDaysof itselfandexpelledthe GloryduringwhichtheGermanArmy reconstituted occupationtroops-by then, children without combatexperience,and leavened by not-quite-disabled veterans.Followedthe seizureof the airfields;the Luftwaffein business again.Flollowed the drive,almosta dress parade,to the ChannelCoast,gobblingup immensemunition dumps awaitingshipmentto thePacificTheater,millionsof warmuniforms,good boots,mountainsof rations,pilesof shellshnd explosives that lined the Frenchroadsfor scoresof miles,thousands two-and-a-half-ton of trucks, andlakesof gasoline to fuelthem.The shipyards of Europe,from Hamburg to Toulon,hadbeenturningout, furiously,invasionbarges for the Pacific. In April of 1947theysailedagainstEnglandin their thousands. Halfuay around the world, the British Navy was poundingTokyo, Nagasaki, Kobe,Hiroshima,Nara.Threequartersof the wayacrossAsia the RussianArmy marchedstolidlyon;Ietthedecadent Britishpickletheir own fish;thegloriousmotherland at lastwasgainingherlong-sought, longdenied,warm-water seacoast. The British,tiredwomenwithouttheirmen, childrenfatherless theseeightyears,old folksdeathlyweary,worriedabout their sons,werebravebut theywerenot insane.They accepted honorable peaceterms;they capitulated. With the Westernfront securefor the first time in history,the ancient Driveto the Eastwasresumed; the immemorialstruggleof Teutonagainst Slavwenton.

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His spectaclesglittering with rapture, Dr. Piqueron said: "We were worthy in thosedaysof the Teutonic Knightswho seizedPrussiafrom the sub-men!On the ever-glorious Thenty-firstof May, Moscow was ours!" Moscow and the monolithic statemachinery it controlled,and all the roadsand rail lines and communication wires which led only to-and from-Moscow. Detroit-built tanksand trucksspedalongthoseroadsin the fine, bracingspringweather;the Red Army turned one hundred and eighty degreesat lastand counter-marched halfivayacrossthe Eurasianlandmass, and at Kazan it broke exhaustedagainstthe Frederik Line. Europe at lastwasOne and German. BeyondEurope lay the dark and swarmingmassesof Asia, mysteriousand repulsivefolk whom it would be betterto handlethrough the non-German,but chivalrous,fapanese.The werereinforcedwith shippingfrom Birkenhead,artilleryfrom the Japanese Putilov Works, jet fightersfrom Ch6teauroux,steelfrom the Ruhr, rice from the Po valley, herring from Norway,timber from Sweden, oil from Romania, laborersfrom India. The American forceswere driven from Kyushuin the winter of 1948,andbloodily backacrosstheir chain of island stepping-stones that followed. Surrenderthey would not; it wasa monstrousaffront that shield-shaped North America dared to lie there betweenthe German Atlantic and the fapanesePacificthreateningboth. The affront waswiped out in 1955. For one hundred and fifty yearsnow the Germansand the Japanese had uneasilyeyedeachother acrossthe banksof the Mississippi.Their orators werefond of referringto that river asa vastfrontier unblemishedby a single fortification. There was even some interpenetration;a Japanesecolony fishedout of NovaScotiaon the veryrim of GermanAmerica;a sulfur mine which waspart of the Farbensystemlay in New Mexico, the very heartof fapaneseAmerica-this was where Dr. Edward Roylandfound himself, being lecturedto by Dr. Piqueron,Dr. GastonPierrePiqueron,true-blue German. "Here, of course," Dr. Piqueron said gloomily, "we are so damned provincial.Little ceremonyandlessmanners.Well, it would be too much to expect them to assignCerman Germans to this dreary outpost, so we " French Germans must endure it somehow. "You're all French?" Royland asked,startled. "FrenchCermans,"Piqueronstiffy correctedhim. "ColonelBiederman happensto be a French German also; Major Kappel is-hrrmph-an Italian German." He sniffedto show what he thought of that. The Italian German enteredat that point, not in time to shut off the question:'And you all come from Europe?"

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did," Dr. Piqueron They lookedat him in bafflement."My grandfather guard theirempireusedto Romanlegions said.Roylandremembered;so Romansbornandraisedin Britain,or on theDanube,Romanswhowould neverin their livesseeItaly or Rome. Major Kappelsaidaffably:"Well,thisneedn'tconcernus.I'm afraid,ffiY He clappedRoyland dearfellow,that your little hoaxhasnot succeeded." nowmaywehave nicely; merrilyon theback."I admityou'vetrickedusall the facts?" The missing "His storyis false?The shoes? Piqueronsaid,surprised: somechemistry!" to understand geburtsnummer? And he appears 'Ah-h-h-but he saidhis specialtywas physics, in doctor!Suspicious itself!" "Quite so. A discrepancy. But the rest-?" 'As to his birth number,who knows?As to his shoes,who cares? I took noteswhile he wasentertainingus andhavechecked someinconspicuous thoroughly.Thereu/dsno ManhattanEngineeringDistrict.Therewctsno or Fermi, or Bohr.Thereis no theoryof relativity,or Dr. Oppenheimer, Uraniumhasoneuseonly-coloringglass of massandenergy. equivalence asan isotopebut it hasnothingto do is such a thing pretty There orange. a with chemistry;it is the name usedin RaceSciencefor a permissible variationwithin a sub-race.And what haveyou to sayto that, my dear fellow?" with which Maior Roylandwonderedfirst, suchwasthe positiveness Kappelspoke,whetherhe had slippedinto a universeof differentphysical Peru properties andhistoryentirely,onein which fuliusCaesardiscovered andtheoxygenmoleculewaslighterthanthehydrogenatom.He managed to speak."How did you find all that out, Maior?" "Oh, don'tthinkI did a skimpyjob."Kappelsmiled."l lookedit all up in the big encyclopedia." Dr. Piqueron,chemist,noddedgraveapprovalof the major'sdiligence and thoroughgraspof the scientificmethod. "You still don't want to tell us?"Major Kappelaskedcoaxingly. "I can only standby whatI said." "It'snot my job to persuade you;I wouldn'tknowhow Kappelshrugged. you off forthwithto a work camp." to begin.But I can and will ship "What-is a workcamp?"Roylandunsteadily asked. "Good heavens,man, a camp whereone works!You'reobviouslyan He did not and you'vegot to be gleichgeschaltet." ungleichgeschaltling speakthesewordsasif theywereforeign;theywereobviouslypart of the Americanworkingvocabulary. meantto Royland everyday Gleichgeschaltet

3O4 / TWc] DOOMS somethinglike "coordinated,brought into tune with." So he would be brought into tune-with what, and how? The Maior went on: "You'll get your clothesand your bunk and your chow, and you'll work, and eventuallyyour irregular vagabondishhabits will disappearandyou'll be turned looseon the labor market.And you'll be damnedglad we took the trouble with you." His facefell. "By the way,I was too late with your friend the Paymaster.I'm sorry. I sent a messengerto Disciplinary Control with a stop order.After all, if you took us in for an hour, why should you not have fooled a Pay-Seventh?" "Too late? He\ dead?For picking up a hitchhiker?', "l don't know what that lastword means,"saidthe Mafor. "lf it'sdialect 'vagabond,' for the answeris ordinarily'yes.'The man, afterall, was apaySeventh;he could read. Either you're keepingup your hoax with remarkable fidelity or you'vebeen living in isolation.Could that be it? Is therea tribe of you somewhere?Well, the interrogatorswill find out; that'stheir

iob." "The Dogpatch legend!" Dr. Piqueronburst out, thunderstruck."He may be an Abnerite!" "By Heaven," Ma jor Kappelsaidslowly,"that might be it. what a feather in my cap to find a living Abnerite." "Whose cap?"demandedDr. Piqueron coldly. "l think I'll look the Dogpatchlegendup," saidKappel,headingfor the door and probablythe big encyclopedia. "So will I," Dr. Piqueronannouncedfirmly. The last Roylandsaw of them they were racing down the corridor, neck and neck. Very funny. And they had killed simple-mindedPaymaster Martfield for picking up a hitchhiker. The Nazis alwayshad been pretty funny-fat Hermannpretendinghe wasyoung Seigfried.As blond asHitler, asslim as Goering, and astall asGoebbels.Immature guttersnipes who hadn't been able to hang a convincing frame on Dimitrov for the Reichstagfire; the world had roaredat their bungling. Huge, cornypartyrallieswith let's-playdetectives nonsenselike touchingthe local flagsto that hallowedbanneron which the martyredHorstWesselhad had a nosebleed. And they had rolled over Europe, and they killed people. . . . One thing wascertain:life in the work camp would at leastbore him to death.He wassupposed to be an illiteratesimpleton,sothingswereexcused him which were not excusedan exaltedPay-Seventh.He pokedthrough a closet in the corner of the laboratory-he and Piqueron were the same sizeHe found a natty changeof uniform and what must be a civilian suit: somewhatbaggypantsand a sort of tunic with the neat, sensibleRussian

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hereit was:iustas collar.Obviouslyit wouldbe all rightto wearit because in chinosanda flannel it wasall wrongfor him to be dressed obviously, him, but Martfieldhadbeen made this what know exactly shirt.Hedid not doneto deathfor pickingup a man in chinosanda fannel shirt. Royland intotheciviliansuit,stuffedhisownshirtandpantsfarbackonthe changed enoughfrom those top shelfof the closet;this wasprobablyconcealment clowns.He walkedout, andup thestairs,andthroughthe busy murderous into the industrialcomplex.Nobodysalutedhim andhe saluted and lobby, laboranobody.He knewwherehe wasgoing-to a good,soundJapanese tory wheretherewereno Germans. studentsat the Universityand admired Roylandhad knownfapanese andgoodhumor thembeyondwords.Their brains,frugality,doggedness, peoplehehadever themostsensible madethem,asfarashewasconcerned, known.Toio andhis warlordswerenot, asfar asRoylandwasconcerned, andpoliticians.The but justmoredamnfoolsoldiers essentially fapanese checkagainstavailhim, calmly listen to courteously would real|apanese ablefactsMr. Ito andhis slapin the face. He rubbedhis cheekand remembered Mr. Ito wasa damnfoolsoldierand politician-and Well, presumably for the German'sbenefitin a touchyborderareafull of demonstrating j urisdictionalquestions. At any rate,he would notgo to a laborcampandbustrocksor refinish wouldgo decided hewasgleichgeschaltet;he furnitureuntil thoseimbeciles mad in a month. Roylandwalkedto theSolvaytowersandfollowedtheglasspipescontainingtheiroutputof sulfuricacidalongthegrounduntil hecameto a bottling menworkedsilentlyfilling greatwicker-basketed shedwherebeetle-browed carboysand heavingthem outside.He followedothermen who levered shed.Out themup ontohandtrucksandrolledthemin onedoorof a storage truckswhich thedoorattheotherendmoremenloadedthemontoenclosed weredrivenup from time to time. shedbehinda barricade Roylandsettledhimselfin a cornerof thestorage swearat his driversandthe of carboysandlistenedto the truckdispatcher carboyhandlersswearat their carboys. "Get the god-damnFriscoshipmentloaded,stupid!I don't careif you gottago, we gottaget it out by midnightl" Soa fewhoursafterdarkRoylandwasridingwest,withoutmuchair, and in the dangerous companyof onethousandgallonsof acid. He hopedhe had a carefuldriver.

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A night, a day,and anothernight on the road.The truck neverstopped exceptto gasup;thedriverstookturnsandatesandwiches at thewheeland dozedoffshift.It rainedthesecondnight.Royland,craftilyandperhaps a little crazily,lickedthe dropsthat ran downthe tarpaulinflapcoveringthe rear.At the firstcrackof dawn,hunchedbetweentwo wickercarcasses, he sawtheywererollingthroughirrigatedvegetable fields,andthewaterin the ditcheswastoomuchforhim. Heheardthetransmission shiftdownto slow for a curve,swarmedoverthe tailgate,and droppedto the road.He was weakand limp enoughto hit like a sack. Hegotup, ignoringhisbruises, andhobbledto oneof thebrimmingfivefootditches; hedrank,anddrank,anddrank.Thistimepuritanicalfolklore provedright; he lost it all immediately,or what had not beengreedily absorbed by hisshriveled stomach.He did not mind;it wasblissenoughto stretch. Thefieldcropwastomatoes, almostdeadripe.Hewasstarved forthem;as he sawthe rosybeauties he knewthat tomatoeswerethe only thing in the worldhecraved. Hegobbled onesothatthejuicerandownhischin;heatethe nexttwodelicately, lettinghis teethbreakthecrispness of theirskinandthe beautifultasteravishhistongue.Thereweretomatoes asfarastheeyecould see,oneithersideof theroad,thegreenof thevinesandthereddotsof theripe fruit graphed bythecheckerboard of silveryditchesthatcaughtthefirstlight. Nevertheless, he filledhis pockets with thembeforehe walkedon. Roylandwashappy. Farewellto theGermansandtheirsordidhashandmurderous ways.I-ook at thesebeautifulfields!The fapanese arean innatelyartisticpeoplewho bring beautyto everydetail of daily life. And they makedamn good physicists, too. Confinedin theirstonyhome,crampedashe hadbeenin thetruck,theygrewtwistedandpainful;whyshouldtheynot havereached out for moreroomto grow,andwhatotherwayis thereto reachbut to make war?He couldbe veryunderstanding aboutany peoplewho had planted thesebeautifultomatoesfor him. A darkblemishthe sizeof a man attractedhis attention.It lay on the marginof oneof the swirlingfive-footditchesout thereto his right. And then it rolledslowlyinto the ditch with a splash,floundereda little, and proceeded to drown. In a hobblingrun Roylandbrokefrom the roadandacross the field. He did not knowwhetherhe waslimberenoughto swim.As he stoodpanting near on theedgeof theditch, peeringinto thewater,a headof hair surfaced flung grabbed the hair-and him. He himselfdown,stretched wildly,and yethaddetachment enoughto feela pangwhenthe tomatoesin his tunic pocketsmashed.

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" hemutteredto himself,yankedtheheadtowardhim, tookhold "Steady, with his otherhandandlifted. A surprisedfaceconfrontedhim andthen went blank and unconscious. cursedfeebly,and Forhalf an hour Royland,weakashe was,struggled, to get that bodyout of the water.At lasthe plungedin himself, sweated overthemudslickbank.He thecarcass andshoved foundit onlychest-deep, did not knowby thenwhetherthe man wasaliveor deador muchcare.He knewonly that he couldn'twalk awayand leavethe iob half finished. Oriental,surelyChineserather The bodywasthatof a fat, middle-aged though Roylandcould not saywhy he thoughtso. His than Japanese, clothesweresoakedragsexceptfor a leatherwalletthe sizeof a cigarbox bluewhichhe woreon a widecloth belt. Its solecontentwasa handsome glazedporcelainbottle. Roylandsniffedat it and reeled.Somekind of gulp of the stuff. He sniffedagain,andthentooka conservative super-gin? from hishand. While hewasstill coughinghefeltthebottlebeingremoved guiding accurately still closed, eyes When he lookedhe sawthe Chinese, the neckof the bottleto his mouth. The Chinesedrankand drankand drank,then returnedthe bottleto the walletand finally openedhis eyes. "Honorable sir,"saidthe Chinesein flat, CaliforniaAmericanspeech, yourhonor"you havedeignedto savemy unworthylife. May I supplicate ablename?" 'Ah, Royland.Look,takeit easy.Don't try to getup; youshouldn'teven talk." Somebodyscreamedbehind Royland:"There has been thieving of of theevines!Chilanddeestruction Therehasbeensmasheeng tomatoes! the be-fore fappa-neese!" dren,you will beeweet-ness Christ, now what? Now a skinnyblackman, not a Negro,in a dirty loincloth,andbeside fiveskinnyblackloinclothedoffspringin descending him like a pan-pipes TheChinesegroaned, pointing,andthreatening. order.All werecapering, pulled out a soggywadof hand, and robes with one in his tattered fished "Begone, pestilentialbarbarbills.He peeledoneoff, heldit out, andsaid: My master andI giveyoualms,nottribute." Tian-Shang. iansfrombeyond grabbed the bill andkeened:"EenThe Dravidian,or whateverhe was, for the terribledommage!The fappa-nee5s-" suffee-cient The Chinesewavedthem awayboredly.He said:"lf my masterwill to help me arise?" condescend Roylanduncertainlyhelpedhim up.The manwaswobbly,whetherfrom or the terrific belt of alcoholhe'd takentherewasno the near-drowning to the road, followedby shrieksto be careful knowing.They proceeded aboutsteppingon the vines.

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on the road,the Chinesesaid:"My unworthynameis Li po. Will my masterdeignto indicatein which directionwe areto travel?" "What'sthis masterbusiness?" Roylanddemanded. "lf you'regrateful, swell,but I don'town you." "My masterispleased to jest,"saidLi Po.Politely, face-saving andthirdpersoning Roylanduntil hell wouldn'thaveit, he explained thatRoyland, havingmeddledwith theCelestial decreethatLi Poshould,whiledrunk, roll intotheirrigationditchanddrown,nowhadLi Poon hishands,for the CelestialOneshad washedtheirsof him. 'As my masterof coursewill recollectin a momentor two." Understandingly, heexpressed hissympathy with Royland's misfortunein acquiringhim asan obligation,especially sincehehada heartyappetite,wasknownto bedishonest, andsuffered from faintingfits and spasms when confrontedwith work. "l don't knowaboutall this," Roylandsaidfretfully."Wasn'tthereanother Li Po?A poet?" "Your servantprefersto veneratehis namesake as one of the greatest drunkards the FloweryKingdomhaseverknown,"theChineseobserved. And a momentlaterhe bentover,clippedRoylandbehindthekneessothat he toppledforwardand bumpedhis head,and performedthe sameobeisancehimself,moregracefully.A vehiclewentsputteringandpoppingby on the roadastheykowtowed. "l humblyobserve Li Posaidreproachfully: thatmy masteris unawareof theetiquetteour nobleoverlords exact.Suchnegligence costtheheadof my insignificantelderbrotherin his twelfthyear.Wouldmy masterbe pleased to explainhow he can havereached his honorable yearswithoutlearning what babesin their cradlesaretaught?" Roylandanswered with thewholetruth. Li Popolitelybegged clarification from time to time, anda sketchof his mentalhorizonsemerged from his questioning. That "magic"hadwhiskedRoylandforwarda centuryor morehedid notdoubtfor an instant,but hefoundit difficultto understand why the properfung shui precautionshad not been taken to averta disastrous outcometo the God Foodexperiment.He suspected, from a description of Nahataspe's hut, thata simplewall at rightanglesto thedoor wouldhavekeptall reallyimportantdemonsout. When Roylanddescribed his escape from Germanterritoryto fapanese, andwhy he hadeffectedit, he wasveryblandandblank.Roylandjudgedthat Li Poprivatelythought him not verybrightfor havingleft any placcto comehere. And Roylandhopedhe wasnot right. "Tell me whatit'slike," he said. "This realm,"saidLi Po,"underour benevolent is andnobleoverlords, thehavenof all whoseskinisnotthebleached-bone huewhichindicates the undyingcurseof the CelestialOnes.Hither flock men of Han like my

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thatwemaytill unworthysell andthesonsof Hind beyondtheTian-Shang weascend"' when us newsoilandraiseup sons,andsonsof sonsto venerate Do bones? "aboutthebleached "Whatwasthatbit," Roylanddemanded, not?" they do or they shoot,ah, white men on sighthere, thevillagewhereI unworthily "Weareapproaching Li Posaidevasively: poetandstoryteller' occasional shui, serveasfortunetellei,doctorof fung Let my masterhaveno fearabouthis color.This humbleonewill roughen andartisticlie or two, andpasshis skin,tell a circumstantial his master's masteroff asmerelYa lePer." After a weekin Li Po'svillageRoylandknewthat life wasgoodthere' The of abouttwo hundredsoulson the placewasa wattle-and-clayiettlement trnk of an irrigationditcL largeenoughto be dignifiedby lhe nameof ,,canal. " It wassituatednobodyknewjustwhere;Roylandthoughtit mustbe Valley.The soilwasthick andrich andborefuriouslythe the SanFernando yearround.A hugekindof radishwastheprincipalcrop.It wastoocoarseto that it wasfeedfor chickens te eatenby *ar,; the villagersunderstood the stuff, fed it througha harvested up north. At any ratethey somewhere Everyfewdaysa theshreds. andshade-cured shredder, greathand-powered wouldloadtonsof the i.p6.r. odo* castewouldcomeby in a truck,they Presumablythe forever. stuf onto it, andwavetheir giant radishgoodbye then atethe chickens. chickensate it, and the fapanese andfunerals.The rest Thevillagersatechickentoo,but onlyat weddings to a which theycultivated,a quarter-acre of the time they atevegetables family,the wayothercraftsmenfacetdiamonds.A singlecabbagemight receive,duringitsninetydaysfromplantingtomaturity,onehundredwork son, daughter,eldestgrandchild, hoursfrom grand-other,grandfather, the entirefamily line Theoretically and on down to the smallesttoddler. to death,fortherearenotonehundredenergyhoursin a shouldhavestarved thin andcheerfuland theydid not. They merelystayed somehow cabbage; hard-workingandfecund. to be that seemed TheyspokeEnglishby Imperialdecree;the reasoning asto paint the ImperialChrythey wereas unworthyto speakfapanese santhemumSealon their houses,and that to let them cling to their old anddialectswouldhavebeenpoliticallyunwise. languages and,to Royland's fn.V werea mixedlotof Chinese,Hindus,Dravidians, thereweresuch known not had he andoutcaste surprise,low-caste fapanese; Ugetsulongagosaid, things.Villagetraditionhadit thata samurainamed poit tittgatthedrunktankof a HongKongiail, "I'11havethatlot," and"that to Americain a of thesevillagerstransported iot" had beenthe ancestors

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foul hold practicallyas ballastand settledhereby the canal with ordersto startmakingtheir radishquota.The placewasat any ratecalled The Ugetsu Village, and if someof the descendants wereteetotallers,otherslike Li po gavecolor to the legend of their starting point. After a week the cheerful pretensethat he wasa suffererfrom Housen,s diseaseevaporatedand he could washthe mud offhis face.He had merelyto avoid the uppercastefapaneseand especiallythe samuraf. This was not exactlya stigma; in general it was a good idea for everybody to avoid the samurai. In the villageRoylandfound his firstloveand his first religion both false. He had settleddown; he wasgetting usedto the Oriental ,"ork rhythm of slow,repeated,incessanteffort;it did not surprisehim any longer that he could count his ribs.When he atea bowl of atti.rlly rrrrng.d vegJtables, the red of pimiento P_layed off againstthe yellow of parsnip, a slice of pickled beetadding visual and olfactorytang to the pictuie, ne fett full enough;he was full enough for the next day'sfeeblerotk in the field. It waspleasant enoughto playslowlywith a woodenmattockin the rich soil;did not people oncebuy sandsotheir childrenmight do exactlywhat he did, and envytheir innocent absorption?Royland was innocently absorbed,then, and the radishtruck had collectedsix timessincehis arrival, when he began to feel stirringsof lust. On the edgeof starvation(but who knew this?"Fo, .u.rybody was)his mind was dulled, but not his roins. They burned, and he lookedabout him in the fields,and the first girl he sawwho wasnot repulsive he fell abysmallyin love with. Bewildered, he told Li Po, who was also ugetsu Village'sgo-between. The storyteller was delighted; he waddled off to seek information and returned. "My master'schoice is wise. The slaveon whom his lordly eye deignedto restis knownasVashti,daughterof Hari Bose,the distiller. Sheis his seventhchild and so no greatdowry can be expected shall askfor [I fifteen kegstoddy, but would settlefor seven],but rll thi, humble village knowsthat sheis a skilledandwilling workerin the hut asin the fields.I fear shehasthe customarylamentableHindu talentfor concoctingcurries,but a dozengoodbeatingsat the mostshouldcauseher to reserveit to appropriate -occasions,such ds visitsfrom her mother and sisters. " S-o,accordingto the sensiblecustomof Ugetsu,Vashticamethat night to the hut which Roylandsharedwith Li Po, and Li Po visitedwith croniesby his master's puzzling request.He beggedhumbly to point out that it would be dark in the hut, so this talk of lackingprivacywasinexplicableto saythe least.Royland made it an order, and Li po did not really object, so he obeyedit. Itwas a damnablystrangenight, during which Roylandlearnedall about

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art form. Vashti,if she India'snationalsportand mosthighly developed On the contrary, no complaints. made side, foundhim weakon thetheory to when Roylandwokeshewasdoing somethingor other his feet. "With feet?"He askedwhatshewas "More?"he thoughtincredulously. big "Worshipping my lord husband-to-be's shereplied: doing.Submissively woman." toe. I am a piousand old-fashioned paint andprayedto it, andthenshefixed red with his toe painted Soshe breakfast-curry,andexcellent.Shewatchedhim eat,andthen modestly from the bowl. Shehandedhim his clothes,which she lickedhis leavings whilehe still slept,andhelpedhim into themaftershehelped hadwashed "It'snot possible!It mustbe a him wash.Roylandthoughtincredulously: show,to sellmeon marryingher-as if I hadto besold!"His heartturnedto him to pause,turn from dressing custardashe sawher,withouta moment's polishinghis woodenrake. He askedthat day in the field, roundabout fashion,andlearnedthatthis wasthekind of servicehe couldlookforward to for the restof his life aftermarriage.If the womangotlazyhe'dhaveto beather,but this seldomhappenedmorethan everyyearor so. We have goodgirls herein UgetsuVillage. wasin somewaysbetteroffthan anybody Soan UgetsuVillagepeasant a millionaire! "his less than was who time" from dullnesswassuchthathedid not realizethiswastruefor only His starved half the UgetsuVillagepeasants. up on him in similarfashion.He wentto thepart-time Religionsneaked he wasa little boredwith Li Po'scurrentafter-dinner Thoistpriestbecause to the have satlike all the othersand listenedpassively He could saga. but the beautiful and Emperor, interminabletale of the gloriousYellow wicked PrincessEmerald, and the virtuous but plain PrincessMoon that he wentto the priestof Taoandgot hooked Blossom;it justhappened hard. The kindlyold man, a toolmakerby day,droppeda fewpearlsof wisdom -daze,Roylanddid notperceive to bepearlsof which, in his foggystarvation Roylandhowto meditate.It worked nonsense, andshowed undemonstrable throughinto a two-hundredright smack bunged Royland first time. the Enlightenproofstateof samadhi-theEasternversionof self-hypnotized ment-that madehim feelwonderfulandall-knowingandlefthim without in college,thetypeof people whenit woreoff. He haddespised, a hangover coursesand so had takennonehimself;he did not who took psychology by this very exceptasjust demonstrated knowa thing aboutself-hypnosis andkept religious offensively days he was gentleman. For several nice old tryingto talkto Li PoabouttheEighfold Way,andLi Pokeptchangingthe subject.

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It took murder to bring him out of love and religion. At twilight they wereall sitting and listeningto the storytelleras usual. Roylandhad been there just one month and for all he knew would be there forever.He soonwould havehis bride officially; he knew he had discovered The Tiuth About the Universeby way of Tho meditation; why should he change?changing demandeda furious outburstof energy, and,he did not haveenergyon that scale.He meteredout his energydayrna one had "ight; to saveso much for tonight'slove play,and then one had to ,ru. ,o much for tomorrow'splanting. He was a poor man; he could not afford to change. Li Po had reacheda ratherinterestingbit wherethe Yellow Emperor was declaiminghotly: "Then sheshalldie! Whoeverdaretransgress Our divine will-" A flashlight beganto play over their faces.They perceivedthat it wasin the hand of a samurai with .kimono and r*oid. Everybody hastily kowtowed,but thesamuraishoutedirritably (all samurai wereirritable,ail the time): "Sit uP, you fools! I want to seeyour stupid faces.I hear there'sa peculiar one in this flea-bittendungheapyou call a village." well, by now Royland knew his duty. He rose and with downcasteyes asked:"ls the noble protectorin searchof my unworthy self?" "Hat" thesamurai roared."lt'strue! A big nose!"He hurledthe flashlight away(all samurai werenobly contemptuousof the merelymaterial),tt.ta his scabbardin his left hand, and sweptout the long curvedswordwith his right. Li Po steppedforward and said in his most enchantingvoice: "If the Heaven-bornwould only deignto heeda word from this humble-" what he must have known would happen happened.with a contemptuous backhandsweepof the blade the samuraibeheaded him and Li Po'sdebtwas paid. The trunk of the storyteller stood for a moment and then fell stiffly forward. The samurai stoopedto wipe his blade clean on Li po'sragged robes. Royland had forgotten much, but not everything.With the villagers scatteringbeforehim he plunged forward and tackledthe samurailow and hard. No doubt the samurai wasa Brown Belt judo master;if so he had nobodybut himselfto blamefor turning his back.Royland,not remembering that he was barefoot, tried to kick the samuraib facein. He broke his worshipfulbig toe, but its untrimmed horny nail removedthe left eyeof the warrior and after that it wasno contest.He neverlet the samurai get up off the ground; he took out his other eye with the handle of a rake and then killed him an inch at a time with his hands, his feet, and the clownish rustic'straditionalweapon,a flail. It took easilyhalf an hour, and for the

C. M. KOFINBLUTH/ 313 final twenty minutes the samurai wasscreamingfor his mother. He died when the last light left the westernsky,and in darknessRoylandstoodquite alone with the two corpses.The villagerswere gone. He assumed,or pretended,that they were within earshotand yelled at them brokenly:"l'm sorry,Vashti.I'm sorry,all of you. I'm going. Can I make you understand? "Listen.Youaren'tliving. This isn't life. You'renot makinganythingbut babies,you're not changing, you're not growing up. That'snot enough! You'vegot to readand write. You can't passon anything but babystorieslike the YellowEmperorby word of mouth. The villageis growing. Soon your fields will touch the fields of SukoshiVillage to the west, and then what happens?You won't know what to do, so you'll fight with SukoshiVillage. "Religion. No! It'sjust gettingdrunk the wayyou do it. You'resetup for it by being half-starvedand then you go into samadhi andyou feel better so you think you understandeverything. Nol You'vegot to do things. If you don't grow up, you die. All of you. "Women. Thatbwrong. It'sgoodfor the men, but it'swrong. Half of you Women arepeopletoo, but you usethem like areslaves,do you understand? animalsand you'veconvincedthem it'sright for them to be old at thirty and discarded for the next girl. For God's sake, can't you try to think of yourselvesin their place? "The breeding,the crazybreeding-it's got to stop.You frugal Orientals! But you aren't frugal; you're crazydrunken sailors.You'resquanderingthe whole world. Every mouth you breedhasgot to be fed by the land, and the land isn't infinite. "l hopesomeof you understood.Li Powould have,a little, but he'sdead. "I'm going awaynow. You'vebeen kind to me and all I've done is make trouble. I'm sorry." He fumbled on the ground and found thesamuraibflashlight.With it he buckboardcar. He hunted the village'soutskirtsuntil he found the fapanese's dirt track from the down startedthe motor with its crank and noisily rolled the village to the highway.

Roylanddroveall night, still westward.His knowledgeof southernCalifornia'sgeographywasinexact,but he hopedto hit Los Angeles.There might be a chance of losing himself in a great city. He had abandonedhope of like Iimmy Ichimura; counterpartsof his old classmates findingpresent-day lost? The soldierthey have shouldn't lost Why had out. obviously they power to the soldierpoliticians had won the war by happenstance,so all politicians!Reasoningunder the greatnatural law posfhocergopropterhoc,

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Toio and his crowd had decided:fanatic feudalism won the war; therefore fanaticfeudalismis a good thing, and it necessarily followsthat the more fanaticaland feudalit is, the bettera thing it is. So you had SukoshiVillage, and Ugetsu Village; Ichi Village, Ni Village, San Village, Shi Village, dotting that part of Greatfapanformerlyknown asNorth America, breedLg with the good old fanatic feudalism and so feudally averseto new thought and innovationsthat it made you want to screamat them-which he had. The singleweakheadlightof his buckboardpassedfew otherson the road; a decentfeudal village is self-contained. Damn them andtheir suicidalcheerfulness! It wasa pleasanttrait; it wasa fool in a canoeapproachingthe rapidssaying:"chin up! Everything's going to be all right if we just keepsmiling." The car ran out of gaswhen falsedawn first beganto pale the skybehind him. He pushedit into the roadsideditch andwalkedon;by full light he was in a tumbledown, planless,evil-smelling,paper-and-galvanized-iron city whosenamehe did not know.Therewasno likelihoodof ni- beingnoticed as a "white" man by anyonenot specificallylooking for him. A month of outdoor labor had browned him, and a month of artisticallycomposed vegetableplateshad left him gaunt. The city wascarpetedwith awakeninghumanity. Its narrow streetswere Ptutd with sprawled-outmen, women, and children beginningto stir and hawkup phlegmand rub their rheumy eyes.An opensewer-latrine running down the centerof eachstreetwascasuallyused,ostrich-fashion-the ur.ri hid their own eyeswhile in action. Every mangled variety of English rang in Royland'sears as he trod betweenbodies. There had to be somethingmore, he told himself. This wasthe shabby industrialoutskirts,the lowestmarginal-laborarea.Somewherein the city there was beauty,science,learning! He walkedaimlesslyploddinguntil noon, and found nothing of the sort. Thesepeoplein the citieswerefood-handlers,food-trad.rs, food-transporters. They took in one another'swashingand sold one another chop suey. They made automobiles(Yes!There were one-family automobilefactories which probablymade six buckboardsa year,filing all metal partsby hand out of bar stock!)and orangecratesand baskets and coffins;abacuses, nails, and boots. The MysteriousEasthasdoneit again,he thoughtbitterly.The IndiansChinese-fapanese won themselves a nice sparsearea.They could havelaid things out neatlyand made it pleasantfor everybodyinsteadof for a minute speckof aristocracy which he wasunableevento detectin this human soup . . ..but they had done it again.They had bred irresponsiblyjust asfastas

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theycould until the land wasfull.Only faminesandpestilencecould "help" them now. He found exactlyone building which owned someclear spacearound it and which would survivean earthquakeor a flickedcigarettebutt. It wasthe German Consulate. I'll give them the Bomb, he said to himself. Why not? None of this is mine. A"d for the Bomb I'll exacta price of somecomfort and dignity for as long as I live. Izt them blow one another up! He climbed the consulate steps. To the black-uniformedguard at the swastika-trimmedbronze doorshe said:"Wenn die Lichtstarkeder voneinerFldchekommendenStrahlungdem CosinusdesWinkelszwischenStrahlrichtungund F lachennormalenproportional ist, so nennen wir die Flcicheeine volkommenstreunde Fkiche." Lambert's Law, Optics I. All the Goethe he rememberedhappened to rhyme, which might have made the guard suspicious. "I don't Naturallythe German cameto attentionand saidapologetically: speakGerman. What is it, sir?" "You may take me to the consul," Roylandsaid, affectingboredom. "Yes,sir. At once, sir. Er, you're an agent of course,sir?" Roylandsaid witheringly:"Sicherheit,bitte!" "Yessir.This wav,sir!"

The consulwasa considerate,understandinggentleman.He wassomewhat true tale, but saidfrom time to time: "I see;I see.Not surprisedby Royland's impossible.Pleasego on." Royland concluded: "Those people at the sulfur mine were, I hope, unrepresentative.One of them at leastcomplainedthat it wasa drearysort assignment.I am simplygamblingthat thereis intelligencein of backwoods your Reich. I ask you to get me a real physicist for twenty minutes of You, Mr. Consul, will not regretit. I am in a positionto turn conversation. overconsiderableinformation on - atomic power." So he had not beenable to sayit after all; the Bomb was still an obscenekick below the belt. "This has been very interesting,Dr. Royland,"saidthe consul gravely. "You referredto your enterpriseasa gamble.I too shall gamble.What haveI to loseby putting you en rapporf with a scientistof ours if you proveto be a plausiblelunatic?" He smiledto softenit. "Very little indeed.On the other hand, what haveI to gain if your extraordinarystoryis quite true?A great deal. I will go along with you, doctor. Have you eaten?" The relief wastremendous.He had lunch in a basementkitchen with the Consulateguards-a huge lunch, a rathernastylunch of stewedlungen

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with a flouredgr_avy, andcupaftercupof coffee.Finallyoneof theguardslit up an ugly little spindle-shaped cigar,the kind Roylandhad only seen beforein the caricatures of GeorgeGrosz,and asan afterthoughtoffered oneto him. He drankin the ranksmokeand managednot to cough.It stunghis mouth and cut the greasyaftertaste of the stewsatisfactolily. On. of the blessings of the Third Reich, one of its grosspleasures. Ti,.y werejust people,after all-a certaincensorious, tusybodygpe of plrro. with altogether too muchpower,but theywerehuman.ny r"r,icr,he meant,he supposed, membersof WesternIndustrialCulturelike him. Afterlunchhewastakenby truckfromthecity to an airfieldbyoneof the guards.The planewassomewhat biggerthan aB-29he hadon.! seen,and lackedpropellers. He presumedit wasoneof the "jets"Dr. piqueronhad mentioned.His guardgavehis dossier to a Luftwaffesergeant at thefoot of therampandsaidcheerfully: "Happylandings, fellow.ItI ail goingto beall right." "Thanks,"he said."I'll remember you, corporalcollins. you'vebeen veryhelpful."Collinsturnedaway. Royland climbedtherampintothebarreloftheplane.A bucket-seat job, andmostof the seatswerefilled. He droppedinto oneon the verynarrow aisle.His neighborwasin rags;his faceshowedsignsof an old beating. when Roylandaddressed him he simplycringedr*ry andbeganto sob. The Luftwaffesergeant cameup, entered,and slammedthe-door.The "iets"beganto wind up, makingan unbelievable racket;furtherconversation wasimpossible. While the planetaxied,Roylandpeeredthroughthe windowless gloomathisfellow-passengers. Theyall loo[edpoorandpoorly. God, weretheysoquicklyandquietlyairborne? They*.r.. Evenin the bucketseat,Roylandfell asleep. He wasawakened, hedid not knowhowmuchlater,by thesergeant. The man wasshakinghis shoulderand askinghim: 'Any jooleryhid awayz Watches? Got somenice freshwaterto sellto peoplethat wannabuy it. " Roylandhad nothing,and would not takepart in the miserablelittle racketif hehad.Heshookhisheadindignantlyandthemanmovedon with a grin. He wouldnot lastlong!-petty chiselers wereleaksin the efficient dictatorship; theywererapidlydetectedand stoppedup. Mussolinimade thetrainsrun on time,afterall. (Butnaggingly Roylanirecalled mentioningthisto a Northwestern UniversityEnglishprofessor, oneBevans. Bevans had coldly informedhim that from l93l to 1936he had lived under Mussoliniasa studentandtouristguide,andtherefore hadextraordinary opportunities for observing whetherthetrainsranon timeor not,andcould

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underMussolini definitelystatethattheydid not;that railwaytimetables ashumorousfiction.) werebestregarded with a pale, And anotherthoughtnaggedat him, a thoughtconnected physical chemist facenamedBloom.Bloomwasa youngrefugee scarred TnacrcI, and he wassomewhat workingon WnRpoNSDnvsLopMENT Royland,on Tnncr III, usedto seelittleof him andcould crazy,perhaps. havedonewith evenless.You couldn't sayhello to the man without it about turninginto a lectureon the horrorsof Nazism.He hadwild stories "gaschambers" man couldbelieve, and crematoria which no reasonable He claimed of theGermanmedicalprofession. andwasa blanketslanderer that traineddoctors,certifiedmen, usedhuman beingsin experiments heasked fatally.Once,to try andbringBloomto reason, whichterminated thesewere,but the monomaniachad had that what sort of experiments workedout: piffling nonsenseabout revivingmortally frozen men by puttingnakedwomeninto bedwith them!The manwasprobablysexually deranged to believethat;he naivelyaddedthatonevariablein the seriesof wasto usewomenimmediatelyaftersexualintercourse, experiments one hour aftersexualintercourse, et cetera.Roylandhadblushedfor him and violentlychangedthe subject. Butthatwasnot whathewasgropingfor.NeitherwasBloom'scrazystory aboutthe womanwho madelampshades from the tattooedskin of concentrationcamp prisoners; therewerepeoplecapableof suchthings,of course,but underno regimewhatever do theyriseto positionsof authority; theysimplycan'tdotheworkrequiredin positioRs of authoritybecause their insanity gets in the way. "Know your enemy,"of course-but making up pointlesslies?At least Bloom was not the consciousprevaricator.He got lettersin Yiddish from friendsand relationsin Palestine,and thesewereladen with the latestwild " rumors supposedto be basedon the latest word from "escapees. Now he remembered.In the cafeteriaaboutthreemonthsagoBloom had been sipping tea with somewhatshaking hand and rereadinga letter. Roylandtried to passhim with only a nod, but the skinnyhand shotout and held him. Bloom looked up with tears in his eyes:"It's cruel, I'm tellink you, Royland,it'scruel. They're not givink them the right to scream,to strikea futile blow, to sayinkprayersKiddushha Shemlike a few shouldwhen he is dyink for Consecrationof the Name! They trick them, they saythey go to farm settlements,to labor camps,so four-fiveof the stinkink bastardscan handle a whole trainload fews. They trick the clothes off of them at the camPs,they sayinkthey delousethem. They trick them into room says

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showerbathover the door and then is too late to sayinkprayers;thengoeson the gas." Bloom had letgo of him and put his headon the tablebetweenhis hands. Royland had mumbled something,patted his shoulder,and walked on, shaken.For oncethe neurotic little man might havegot somestraightfacts. That was a very circumstantialtouch about expeditingthe handling of prisonersby systematiclies-always the carrot and the stick. Yes,everybodyhad been so god-damnagreeablesincehe climbed the Consulatesteps!The friendly door guard, the Consul who nodded and remarkedthat his story was not an impossibleone, the men he'd eaten with-all that quiet optimism. "Thanks. I'll remember you, Corporal Collins. You'vebeenveryhelpful." He had felt positivelybenigntowardthe corporal, and now rememberedthat the corporal had turned around very quickly after he spoke.To hide a grin? The guard wasworking his way down the aisleagain and noticed that Roylandwasawake."Changedyour mind by now?"he askedkindly."Got a goodwatch, maybeI'll find a pieceof breadfor you. You won't needa watch where you're going, fella." "What do you mean?" Roylanddemanded. The guard said soothingly: "Why, they got clocks all over them work camps,fella. Everybodyknowswhat time it is in them work camps.You don't need no watchesthere. Watchesjust get in the way at them work camps." He went on down the aisle,quickly. Roylandreachedacrossthe aisleand, like Bloom, grippedthe man who plane satoppositehim. He could not seemuch of him; the hugewindowless waslit only by half a dozenstingybulbsoverhead."What areyou herefor?" he asked. The man saidshakily:"I'm a LaborerTho, see?A Two. Well, my father he taughtme to read,see,but he waiteduntil I wasten and knewthe score? See?So I figuredit wasa family tradition, so I taught my own kid to read becausehe wasa pretty smart kid, ya know? I figured he'd have somefun readinglike I did, no harm done, who'sto know,ya know?But I shouldof waited a coupleyears,I guess,becausethe kid wastoo young and got to bragginghe could read, ya know how kids do? I'm from St. Louis, by the way.I shouldof saidfirst I'm from St. Louis a trackmaintenanceman, see, soI hoppeda stringof returningemptiesfor SanDiegobecauseI wasscared like you get." He took a deep sigh. "Thirsty," he said. "Got in with some Chinks, nobody to trouble ya, ya stayoutta the way,but then one of them cops-like seenme and he took me to the Consul placelike they do, ya know?Had me

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scared,theyalwaystoleme illegalreadingtheybumpyaoff, but theydon't, ya know?Two yearsworkcamp,how aboutthat?" Yes,Roylandwondered.How aboutit? The planedecelerated sharply;hewasthrownforward.Couldtheybrake "jets" with those by reversing the streamor werethe enginesjustthrottling down?He heardgurglingand thudding;hydraulicfluid to the actuators lettingdownthelandinggea:.The wheelsbumpeda momentlaterandhe bracedhimself;the planewasstill and the motorscut off seconds later. Their Luftwaffesergeantunlockedthe door and bawledthrough it: "Shovethat goddamramp,willya?"The sergeant's assurance haddropped fromhim;helookedlikea veryscared man.Hemusthavebeena verybrave one,really,to havelet himselfbe lockedin with a hundreddoomedmen, protectedonly by an eight-shotpistoland a chain of systematic lies.

They wereherdedout of the planeontoa runwayof whatRoylandimmediatelyidentifiedastheChicagoMunicipalAirport.The samereekwafted from the stockyards; the row of airlinebuildingsat the easternedgeof the field wasancientand patchedbut unchanged; the hangars,though,were nowsomethingthatlookedlike inflatedplasticbags.A goodtrick. Beyond the buildingssurelylay the drearyred-brickand painted-siding wastesof Cicero,Illinois. Luftwaffemenwereyappingat them:"Formup, boys;makea line! Work meansfreedom!Looktall!" Theyshuffedandwereshovedinto columnsof fours.A snappy majorette in shinysatinpanties andwhitebootspranced out of anadministration buildingtwirlingherbaton;a noisymarchblaredfrom louversin her tall fur hat. Anothergoodtrick. "Forwardmarch,boys,"sheshrilledat them."Wouldn'ty'all justliketo followme?"Seductive smileanda wiggleof the rump;a fudasewe.She struttedoff in time to the music;shemusthavebeenwearingear-stopples. They shuffledafterher.At the airportgatetheydroppedtheir blue-coated Luftwaffeboysandpickedup a waitingescortof a dozenblack-coats with skullson their high-peaked caps. They walkedin time to the music,hypnotizedby it, throughCicero. Cicerohadbeenbombedto hellandnotrebuilt.Tohissurprise Royland felt a pangfor the vanishedPolesandSlovaks of Al'sold bailiwick.Therewere GermanGermans,FrenchGermans,and evenItalianGermans,but he knewin hisbonesthattherewereno Polishor Slovakian Germans. . And Bloomhad beenright all along. Deathlywearyaftertwo hoursof marching(themajorettewasindefatig-

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able) Royland looked up from the broken pavementto see a cockeyed wonderbeforehim. It wasa Castle;it wasa Nightmare;it wasthe Chicago Parteihof.The thing abuttedLakeMichigan; it coveredperhapssixteencity blocks.It frowned down on the lake at the eastand at the tumbled acresof bombed-outChicago at the north, west,and south. It wasmade of steelreinforcedconcretegrainedand groovedto look like medievalmasonry.It waswalled, moated,portcullis-ed,towered,ramparted,crenellated.The death's-head guardslooked at it reverentlyand the prisonerswith fright. Roylandwantedonly to laugh wildly. It wasa Disneyproduction.It wasas funny as Hermann Goering in full fig, and probablyas deadly. With a mumbo-jumbo of passwords, heils,and salutesthey wereadmitted, and the majorettewent away,no doubt to takeoffher bootsand groan. The most bedeckedof the death's-heads lined them up and saidaffably: "Hot dinnerandyour bedspresently,my boys;firsta selection.Someof you, I'm afraid, aren't well and should be in sick bay.Who's sick?Raiseyour hands,please." A few hands crept up. Stoopedold men. "That'sright. Stepforward,please. " Then he went down the line tapping a man here and there-one fellow with glaucoma,anotherwith terrible varicose soresvisible through the tattered pants he wore. Mutely they steppedforward. Royland he looked thoughtfully over. "You're thin, my boy," he observed."Stomach pains? Vomit blood? Thrry stools in the morning?" "Nossir!" Roylandbarked.The man laughedand continueddown the line. The "sick bay" detail wasmarchedoff. Most of them wereweeping silently;they knew.Everybodyknew; everybodypretendedthat the terrible thing would not, might not, happen. It was much more complex than Roylandhad realized. "NoW" saidthe death's-head affably,"we requiresomecompetentcement workers-" The line of remaining men went mad. They surgedforward almost touching the officer but neversteppingover an invisibleline surrounding him. "Me!" someyelled."Me! Me!" Anothercried:"l'm good with my hands,I can learn,I'm a machinisttoo, I'm strongandyoung,I canlearn!" A heavymiddle-agedonewavedhis handsin the air andboomed:"Grouting and tile-setting!Grouting and tile-setting!"Roylandstoodalone,horrified. They knew.They knew this wasan offer of real work that would keepthem alive for a while. He knew suddenlyhow to live in a world of lies. The officer lost his patiencein a moment or two, and whips came out. Men with their facesbleedingstruggledbackinto line. "Raiseyour hands,

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you cementpeople,and no lying, please.But you wouldn't lie, would you?" He pickedhalf a dozen volunteersafterquestioningthem briefly,and one of his men marchedthem off. Among them wasthe grouting-and-tileman, who looked pompously pleasedwith himself; such was the reward of diligenceand virtue, he seemedto be proclaiming;pooh to thosegrasshoppers back there who neglectedto Learn A Tiade. "No*," said the officer casually,"we requiresomelaboratoryassistants." The chill of death stole down the line of prisoners.Each one seemedto shrivel into himself, become poker-faced,imply that he wasn't really involvedin all this. Royland raisedhis hand. The officer looked at him in stupefactionand then coveredup quickly."Splendid,"he said."Stepforward,my boy.You," he pointedat anotherman. "You havean intelligentforehead;you look asif you'd make a fine laboratoryassistant.Stepforward." "Please,no!" the man begged.He fell to his kneesand claspedhis hands in supplication."Pleaseno!" The officertook out his whip meditatively;the man groaned,scrambledto his feet, and quickly stoodbesideRoyland. When there were four more chosen, they were marched off acrossthe concreteyard into one of the absurdtowers, and up a spiral staircaseand down a corridor, and through the promenadeat the backof an auditorium wherea woman screamedGerman from the stageat an audienceof women. And through a tunnel and down the corridorof an elementaryschoolwith emptyclassrooms full of small deskson eitherside.And into a hospitalarea where the fake-masonrywalls yielded to scrubbedwhite tile and the fake flagstonesunderfootto compositionflooring and the fakepinewoodtorches in bronze bracketsthat had lighted their way to fluorescenttubes. At the door marked RnsssNwrssENscHnrrthe guard rapped and a frosty-facedman in a laboratory coat opened up. "You requisitioneda demonstrator,Dr. Kalten," the guard said. "Pick any one of these." Dr. Kalten looked them over. "Oh, this one, I suppose,"he said. Royland. "Come in, fellow." The Race Science Laboratory.of Dr. Kalten proved to be a decent medicalsetupwith an operatingtable, intricatechartsof the racesof men and their anatomical, mental, and moral makeups. There was also a phrenologicalheaddiagramand a horoscopeon the wall, and an arrangement of glittering crystalson wire which Royland recognized.It was a model of one Hans Hoerbiger'scrackpottheory of planetaryformation, the Welteislehre. "Sit there,"the doctorsaid,pointingto a stool."First I've got to takeyour pedigree.By the way,you might aswell know that you're going to end up dissected for my demonstrationin RaceScienceIII for the Medical School,

32? / TWO DOOMS and your degreeof cooperationwill determinewhetherthe dissectionis performed under anaesthesiaor not. Clear?" "Clear, doctor." "Curious-no panic. I'll wagerwe find you'rea proto-HamitoidalhemiNordic of at least degreefive . . . but let'sget on. Name?" "Edward Royland." "Birthdate?" "]uly second,nineteentwenty-one. " The doctor threw down his pencil. "lf my previousexplanationwas inadequate,"he shouted,"let me add that if you continueto be difficult I may turn you over to my good friend Dr. Herzbrenner.Dr. Herzbrenner happensto teach interrogationtechniqueat the GestapoSchool. Doyou-now-understand?" "Yes,doctor. I'm sorry I cannot withdraw my answer. " Dr. Kalten turned elaboratelysarcastic."How then do you accountfor your remarkablestateof preservationat your ageof approximatelya hundred and eighty years?" "Doctor, I am twenty-threeyearsold. I have traveledthrough time. " "Indeed?"Kalten wasamused.'And how wasthis accomplished?" Roylandsaidsteadily:'A spell wasput on me by a satanicJewishmagician. It involvedthe ritual murder and desanguinationof sevenbeautiful Nordic virgins." Dr. Kalten gapedfor a moment. Then he pickedup his pencil and said firmly: "You will understandthat my doubtswerelogicalunderthe circumstances.Why did you not give me the sound scientific basisfor your surprisingclaim at once?Go ahead;tell me all about it. " He wasDr. Kalten'sprize;he wasDr. Kalten'streasure.His peculiarities of speech,his otherwiseinexplicableabsenceof a birth numberoverhis left nipple, when they got aroundto it the gold filling in one of his teeth, his uncanny knowledgeof Old America, all now had a simple scientific explanation.He wasfrom 1914.What wasso hard to graspaboutthat?Any soundspecialistknewaboutthe lostJewishcabalamagic,golemsand such. His story was that he had been a student Race Scientistunder the pioneeringmasterWilliam D. Pully. (A noisywhackwho usedto barnstorm the chaw-and-gallus belt with the backingof DeutchesNeuesBuro; sure enough they found him in Volume VII of the standardlntroduction to a Historical Handbook of RaceScience.)The fewish fiends had attempted to ambushhis masteron a lonely road;Roylandpersuadedhim to switchhats and coats;in the darknessthe substitutionwasnot noticed. Later in their stronghold he was identified, but the Nordic virgins had already been ritually murderedanddrainedof their blood, and it wouldn't keep.The dire

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fatedestinedfor the masterhad beenvisiteduponthe disciple. Dr. Kaltenlovedthatbit. It tickledhim pinkthatthesub-men's "revenge" on theirenemyhadbeento precipitate him into a worldpurgedof thesubmen entirely,wherea Nordic might breathefreely! Kalten,except fordiscreet consultations withsuchpeopleasOld America specialists, adentistwhowasstupefied bythegoldfilling,andadermatologist whoestablished thattherewasnot andneverhadbeena geburtsnummer on thesubjectexamined, wasplayingRoylandcloseto hisvest.Aftera weekit became apparent thathewasreserving Royland fora grandunveilingwhich wouldclimaxthe readingof a paper.Roylanddid not wantto be unveiled; thereweretoo manyholesin his story.He talkedwith animationaboutthe beauties of Mexicoin the spring,ih fair mesas, cactus,andmushrooms. Couldtheymakea shorttrip there?Dr. Kaltensaidtheycouldnot. Royland wasbecomingrestless? Lethim study,learn, profitbythematchless arsenal of thesciences available herein ChicagoParteihof.Dearold Chicagoboasted distinguished exponents of theWorldIceTheory,theHollowWorldTheory, Dowsing,Homeopathic Medicine,CurativeFolkBotanyThe lastdid soundinteresting. Dr. Kaltenwaspleased to takehis prizeto theMedicalSchoolandintroducehim asa protdgd to Professor Albiani,of Folk Botany. Albianiwasa bearded gnomeout of theArthur Rackhamillustrations for DasRheingold.He lovedhis subject."MotherNature,the all-bounteous one!Wanderthefields,youngman,andwith a seeing eyein an hour'sstroll you will find the ergotthat aborts,the dill that coolsfever,the tansythat strengthens the old, the poppythat soothesthe freful teethingbabe!" "Do you have any hallucinogenicMexican mushrooms?" Royland demanded. "We may,"Albiani said, surprised.They browsedthroughthe Folk Botanymuseumandporedoverdriedvegetation underglass.FromMexico therewerepeyote,thebuttonsandtheroot,andtherewasmarihuana,root, stem,seed,and stalk.No mushrooms. "They maybe in the storeroom," Albiani muttered. All the restof the day Roylandmuckedthroughthe storeroomwhere specimens werewaitingfor exhibitspaceon somerotationplan.He wentto Albiani and said,a little wild-eyed:"They'renot there." Albiani had been interested enoughto look up the mushroomsin questionin the reference books."See?"he saidhappily,pointingto a handsomecolor plateof the mushroom:growing,mature,sporing,and dried. He read:" '. . superstitiously calledCod Food,"' andtwinkled throughhis beardat the joke. "They'renot there,"Roylandsaid.

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annoyedat last,said:"Theremight be someuncatalogued The professor, in the basement.Really,we don't haveroom for everythingin our limited displayspace-just the interestingitems." Roylandpulled himself togetherand charmedthe location of the department'sbasementstoragespaceout of him, togetherwith permissionto inspect it. And, left alone for a moment, ripped the color plate from the professor's book and stowedit away. That night Roylandand Dr. Kalten walkedout on one of the innumerabletower-topsfor a final cigar.The moon washigh and full; its light turned the crateredterrainthat hadbeenChicagointo anothermoon. The sageand his disciplefrom anotherday leanedtheir elbowson a crenellatedrampart two hundred feet aboveLake Michigan. "Edward," saidDr. Kaltefl, "l shall readmy papertomorrowbeforethe Chicago Academyof RaceScience."The wordswerea challenge;something waswrong. He went on: "l shall expectyou to be in the wingsof the auditorium, and to appearat my commandto answera few questionsfrom me and, if time permits, from our audience." "l wish it could be postponed,"Roylandsaid. "No doubt." "Would you explain your unfriendly tone of voice, doctor?"Royland demanded."l think I've beencompletelycooperativeand haveopenedthe way for you to win undying fame in the annalsof RaceScience." "Cooperative,yes. Candid-l wonder?You see, Edward, a dreadful thought struck me today.I have alwaysthought it amusingthat the )ewish attackon ReverendPully shouldhavebeen for the purposeof precipitating him into the future and that it shouldhavemisfired." He took something out of his pocket:a small pistol. He aimed it casuallyat Royland."TodayI beganto wonderwhy they shouldhavedone so. Why did they not simply murder him, as they did thousands,and disposeof him in their secret and crematoria,and permit no mention in their controlled newspapers magazinesof the disappearance? "NoW the blood of seven Nordic virgins can have been no cheap commodity.One pictureswith easeNordic men patrollingtheir precious enclaves of humanity,eyesrovingovereverypassingface,noting who bears the stigmataof the sub-men, and following thosewho do most carefully 'accidental' indeed lest race-defilementbe committed with a look or an touch in a crowdedstreet.Neverthelessthe thing wasdone; your presence hereis proof of it. It must havebeendone at enormouscost;hired Slavsand Negroesmusthavebeenemployedto kidnapthe virgins,and many of them must have fallen before Nordic rage. "This merely to silenceone small voice crying in the wilderness?I-

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think-not. I think, EdwardRoyland,or whateveryour realname may be, that Jewisharrogancesentyou, a few yourself,into the future asa greeting from the fewry of that day to what it foolishly thought would be the triumphant fewryof this. At any rate,the public questioningtomorrowwill be conductedby my friend Dr. Herzbrenner,whom I have mentioned to you. If you haveany little secrets,theywill not remainsecretslong. No, no! Do not movetowardme. I shall shootyou disablinglyin the kneeif you do. " Roylandmovedtowardhim andthe gun went off;therewasan agonizing hammer blow high on his left shin. He pickedup Kalten and hurled him, screaming,overthe parapettwo hundredfeet into the water.And collapsed. The pain was horrible. His shinbone was badly crackedif not broken through. There was not much bleeding;maybe there would be later. He neednot fear that the shotand screamwould rousethe castle.Such sounds were not rare in the Medical Wing. He draggedhimself,injured legtrailing, to the doorwayof Kalten'sliving quarters;he heavedhimself into a chair by the signalbell and threw a rug over his legs.He rang for the diener and told him very quietly: "Go to the medical storeroomfor a leg U-brace and whateveris necessaryfor a cast, please.Dr. Kalten has an interestingidea he wishesto work out." He should have askedfor a syringe of morphine-no he shouldn't. It might affect the time distortion. When the man camebackhe thankedhim andtold him to turn in for the night. He almostscreamedgetting his shoeoff; his trouserleg he cut away.The gauzehad arrived just in time; the wound was beginning to bleed more copiously.Pressureseemedto stop it. He constructeda sloppywalking cast on his leg. The directionson the severalfive-poundcansof plasterhelped. His leg wasgettingnumb; good. His castprobablypinchedsomemaior nerve,and a weekin it would causepermanentparalysis;who caredabout that? He tried it out and found he could get acrossthe floor inefficiently.With a strong-enoughbannisterhe could get downstairsbut not, he thought, up them. That was all right. He wasgoing to the basement. God-damning the medievalNazisand their cornball castleeveryinch of the way,he went to the basement;therehe had a windfall. A dozendrunken SS men wereliving it up in a cornerfar from the censoriouseyesof their companycommander;they wereplaying a gamewhich might havebeen called Spin the Corporal. They sawRoylandlimping and wept sentimental tearsfor poor ol' doc with a bum leg;they carriedhim two winding milesto the storeroomhe wanted, and shot the lock off for him. They departed, begginghim to call on ol' Company K any time, "bes'fellasin Chicago,

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doc. Ol' Bruno here can tear the arm off a Latvik shirker with his bare hands,honest,doc! fus'thewayyou twist a drumstickoff a turkey.Youwan' us to get a Latvik an' show you?" He got rid of them at last,clickedon the light, and beganhis search.His legwasnow ice cold, painfully so. He rummagedthroughthe uncatalogued botanicalsand found after what seemedlike hours a crate shipped from falasca.Roylandopenedit by beatingits cornersagainstthe concretefloor. throughthe clearmaterialof onehe It yieldedand spilledplasticenvelopes; sawthe wrinkled blackthings. He did not evencomparethem with the color platein his pocket.He torethe envelopeopen and crammedthem into his mouth, and chewedand swallowed. Maybetherehad to be a Hopi dancingand chanting,maybetheredidn't haveto be. Maybeonehad to be calm, if bitter,andfreshfrom adayof hard work at differential equations which approximated the Hopi mode of thought. Maybe you only had to fix your mind savagelyon what you desired,as his was fixed now Last time he had hated and shunnedthe Bomb; what he wanted wasa world without the Bomb. He had got it, all right! . . . his tongue was thick and the fireballswere beginning to dance around him, the circling circles.

CharlesMiller Nahataspewhispered:"Close. Close. I wasso frightened." Roylandlay on the floor of the hut, his leg unsplinted,unfractured,but aching horribly. Drowsily he felt his ribs; he was merely slendernow no longer gaunt. He mumbled: "You wereworking to pull me back from this side?" "Yes.You, you were there?" "l was there. God, let me sleep." He rolled over heavily and collapsedinto completeunconsciousness. When he awakenedit wasstill dark and his painsweregone. Nahataspe wascrooning a healing songvery softly.He stoppedwhen he sawRoyland's medicine," he said. eyesopen. "Now you know about break-the-sky "Better than anybody.What time is it?" "Midnight." "l'll be going then." They claspedhandsand looked into each other's eyes. The jeepstartedeasily.Four hoursearlier,or possiblytwo monthsearlier, he had been worried about the battery.He chuggeddown the settlement roadand knewwhat would happennext. He wouldn't wait until morning;a meteoritemight kill him, or a scorpionin his bed. He would go directlyto

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Rotschmidtin his apartment,defuVrouw Rotschmidtandwakeher man up to tell him about56c,tell him we havethe Bomb. Wehavea symbolto offerthefapanese noq something to whichtheycan surrender,and will surrender. Rotschmidtwouldbe philosophical.He wouldprobablysighaboutthe Bomb:'Ah, do we everact responsibly? Do we everknowwhat the consequences of our decisions will be?" And Roylandwouldhaveto try to avoidanswering him verysharply:"Yes. This oncewe damnwell do."

Taleof the ComputerThat Foughta Dnagon TFIANSLATEtr) BY MICHAEL

KANtr)EL

'This really is the Golden Age of Arthur C. Clarke said, sciencefiction. There are dozensof authorsat work todaywho can match all but thegiants of the past(andprobably one who can do even that, despite the handicap of being translated from Polish)." Stanislaw Lem standsalone on the Polish landscapelike Clarke'ssentinel rn 2001, a contemporary giant in a land with no indigenous Str tradition. Aware of Eastern European and Westernliterature and influenced by both, he is uniquely himself. His mostimportant intellectual achievement, the huge Summa Technologiae(1964), has never been translatedinto English, but sincethe late 1960s everyyear hasbrought more of his work into this language, and his reputation continues to grow A medical doctor, scientist,andpolymath whosefirstSF novel waspublishedin 1951,Lem is now the authorof more than two dozenbooksof frction and a body of criticism that is especially scornfu] of commercial American SI which hasmade him a controversial Literaryfigure. His novelsare denseand intellectual, but his shortstoriesare sometimeswitty and light, with thesenous underpinnings supporting a pleasing architecture of storytell-

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ing, something Lem eschewsin his longer works. 'Thle of the Computer That Foughta Dragon," from Mortal Engines,is one of hismore delightful pieces.

ing PoleanderPartobon, ruler of Cyberia, was a great warrior, and being an advocateof the methodsof modern strategy,aboveall elsehe prizedcybernetics asa military art. His kingdomswarmedwith thinking machines,for Poleanderput them everywherehe could; not merely in the astronomicalobservatories or the schools,but he orderedelectricbrains mounted in the rocksupon the roads,which with loud voicescautioned pedestrians againsttripping;alsoin posts,in walls,in trees,sothatonecould askdirectionsanywherewhen lost;he stuckthem onto clouds,sothey could announcethe rain in advance,he addedthem to the hills and valleys-in short, it was impossibleto walk on Cyberia without bumping into an intelligentmachine.The planetwasbeautiful,sincethe King not only gave decreesfor the cyberneticperfectingof that which had long been in existence, but he introducedby law entirely new ordersof things. Thus for example in his kingdom were manufactured cyberbeetlesand buzzing cyberbees,and evencyberflies-thesewould be seizedby mechanicalspiderswhen they grewtoo numerous.On the planetcyberbosksof cybergorse rustledin the wind, cybercalliopes and cyberviolssang-but besidesthese civilian devicesthereweretwice as many military, for the King wasmost bellicose.In his palacevaultshe had a strategiccomputer,a machine of uncommon mettle;he had smalleronesalso, and divisionsof cybersaries, enormouscybermaticsand a whole arsenalof everyother kind of weapon, including powder.There wasonly this one problem, and it troubled him greatly,namely,that he had not a singleadversaryor enemyand no one in any way wished to invade his land, and therebyprovide him with the opportunity to demonstratehis kingly and terrifying courage,his tactical genius,notto mentionthe simplyextraordinaryeffectiveness of his cybernetic weaponry.In the absence ofgenuineenemiesandaggressors the King had his engineers build artificialones,andagainstthese he did battle,andalways won. Howeverinasmuchasthe battlesand campaignsweregenuinelydreadful, the populacesufferedno little injury from them. The subjectsmurmured when all too many cyberfoeshad destroyedtheir settlementsand towns,when the syntheticenemypouredliquid fire upon them; they even daredvoice their discontentwhen the King himself, issuingforth as their delivererand vanquishingthe artificial foe, in the courseof the victorious attackslaid waste to everything that stood in his path. They grumbled

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even then, the ingrates,though the thing wasdone on their behalf. Until the King weariedof the war gameson the planetanddecidedto raise his sights.Now it wascosmicwarsand salliesthat he dreamedof. His planet had a largeMoon, entirelydesolateandwild;the King laid heavytaxesupon his subjects,to obtain the funds neededto build wholearmieson that Moon and havetherea new theaterof war. And the subjectsweremore than happy to pay,figuring that King Poleanderwould now no longerdeliverthem with his cybermatics,nor test the strengthof his arms upon their homesand heads.And so the royal engineersbuilt on the Moon a splendidcomputer, which in turn wasto createall mannerof troopsandself-firinggunnery.The King lost no time in testingthe machine'sprowessthis way and that; at one for point he orderedit-by telegraph-to executea volt-vaultelectrosault: him, that that had told he wantedto seeif it wastrue, what his engineers machinecould do anything.If it can do anything,he thought,then let it do a flip. Howeverthe text of the telegramunderwenta slight distortionand the machine receivedthe orderthat it wasto executenot an electrosault,but an electrosaur-and this it carriedout as bestit could. Meanwhile the King conductedone more campaign, liberating some provincesof his realm seizedby cyberknechts;he completelyforgot about the order given the computer on the Moon, then suddenlygiant boulders came hurtling down from there;the King wasastounded,for one evenfell on the wing of the palaceand destroyedhis prize collectionof cyberads, which are dryadswith feedback.Fuming, he telegraphedthe Moon computer at once, demandingan explanation.It didn't replyhowever,for it no longerwas:the electrosaurhad swallowedit and made it into its own tail. lmmediately the King dispatchedan entire armed expedition to the Moon, placingat its headanothercomputer,alsovery valiant, to slaythe dragon, but there was only some flashing, some rumbling, and then no more computer nor expedition;for the electrodragonwasn't pretend and wasn't pretending,but battled with the utmost verisimilitude, and had moreoverthe worstof intentionsregardingthe kingdom and the King. The cyberinesand lieutenant King sentto the Moon his cybernants,cyberneers, but it too one cyberalissimo, sent he even end the very cybernets,at accomplishednothing; the hurly-burly lasteda little longer,that was all. The King watchedthrough a telescopeset up on the palacebalcony. The dragongrew the Moon becamesmallerand smaller,sincethe monsterwasdevouringit piecemealand incorporatingit into its own body.The King sawthen, and his subjectsdid also,that thingswereserious,for when the ground beneaththe feet of the electrosaurwasgone, it would for certain hurl itself upon the planet and upon them. The King thought and thought, but he sawno remedy,and knew not what to do. To sendmachineswasno

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good,for theywouldbe lost, and to go himselfwasno better,for he was afraid.Suddenly theKingheard,in thestillness of thenight,thetelegraph chattering from his royalbedchamber. It wasthe King'spersonal receiver, solidgoldwith a diamondneedle,linkedto theMoon;theKingjumpedup andran to it, the apparatus meanwhilewenttap-tap,tap-tap,andtapped out this telegram: THE DRAGoN sAys noLEANDER pARToBoN BETTER SLEAR OUT BECAUSE HE THE DRAGON INTENDS TO OCCUPY THN THRONE!

The King took fright, quakedfrom headto toe, and ran, justashe was,in his ermine nightshirtand slippers,down to the palacevaults,wherestood the strategymachine, old and very wise. He had not as yet consultedit, sinceprior to the riseand upriseof the electrodragon they had arguedon the subjectof a certainmilitary operation;but now wasnot the time to think of that-his throne, his life was at stake! He pluggedit in, and as soon as it warmed up he cried: "My old computer!My goodcomputer!It'sthis wayand that, the dragon wishesto depriveme of my throne, to castme out, help, speak,how can I defeatit?!" "Uh-uh," said the computer."First you must admit I was right in that previousbusiness,and secondly,I would have you addressme only as Digital Grand Vizier, though you may also say to me: 'Your Ferromagneticity'!" "Good, good, I'll nameyou Grandvizier, I'll agreeto anythingyou like, only saveme!" The machine whirred, chirred, hummed, hemmed, then said: "It is a simple matter. We build an electrosaurmore powerful than the one locatedon the Moon. It will defeatthe lunar one, settleits circuitry once and for all and therebyattain the goal!" "Perfect!" replied the King. 'And can you make a blueprint of this dragon?" "lt will be an ultradragon,"saidthe computer.'And I can makeyou not only a blueprint, but the thing itself,which I shall now do, it won't takea minute, King!" And true to its word, it hissed,it chugged,it whistledand buzzed, assemblingsomethingdown within itself, and alreadyan object like a giant claw,sparking,arcing, wasemergingfrom its side, when the King shouted: "Old computer! Stop!" "Is this how you addressme? I am the Digital Grand vizier!" 'Ah, of course," said the King. "Your Ferromagneticity,the electrodragonyou are making will defeatthe otherdragon,granted,but it will surelyremain in the other'splace,how then arewe to get rid of it in turn?!" "By making yet another,still more powerful," explainedthe computer.

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'No,

no! In that casedon't do anything,I begyou, what goodwill it be to more and more terrible dragonson the Moon when I don't want any have there at all?" 'Ah, now that'sa different matter," the computer replied. "Why didn't you sayso in the first place?You seehow illogically you expressyourself? One moment . . . I must think." And itchurred and hummed, andchuffedandchuckled,and finally said: "We makean antimoon with an antidragon,placeit in the Moon'sorbit (heresomethingwent snap inside),sit around the fire and sing:Oh I'm a robotfull of fun, water doesn'tscclreme none,l divesright in,l givesa grin, tra Ia the livelong day!" "You speakstrangely,"saidthe King. "What doesthe antimoon haveto do with that song about the funny robot?" 'Ah, "Whatfunny robot?"askedthe computer. no, no, I madea mistake, blown a tube." The King began somethingfeelswrong inside,I must have to look for the trouble, finally found the burnt-out tube, Put in a new one, then askedthe computer about the antimoon. "What antimoon?" askedthe computer,which meanwhilehad forgotten what it said before."l don't know anything about an antimoon . . one moment, I have to give this thought." It hummed, it huffed, and it said: "We createa generaltheory of the slayingof electrodragons,of which the lunar dragon will be a specialcase,its solutiontrivial." "Well, createsuch a theory!" said the King. "To do this I must first createvariousexperimentaldragons." 'A "Certainly not! No thank you!" exclaimedthe King. dragonwantsto depriveme of my throne, just think what might happen if you produceda swarm of them!" "Oh? Well then, in that casewe must resortto other means.We will usea strategic variant of the method of successiveapproximations.Go and telegraphthe dragonthat you will give it the throne on the condition that it perform three mathematicaloperations,really quite simple . . ." The King went and telegraphed,and the dragon agreed. The King returned to the computer. "Now" it said,"hereis the first operation:tell it to divide itselfby itself!" The King did this. The electrosaurdivided itselfby itself,but sinceone electrosaurover one electrosauris one, it remained on the Moon and nothing changed. "ls this the bestyou can do?!"criedthe King, running into the vaultwith such hastethat his slippersfell off. "The dragondivided itself by itself, but sinceone goesinto one once, nothing changed!"

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"That'sall right, I did that on purpose,the operationwasto divert 'And nowtell it to extractitsroot!"The King attention,"saidthecomputer. to the Moon, andthe dragonbeganto pull, push,pull, push, telegraphed until it crackledfrom the strain,panted,trembledall over,but suddenly somethinggave-andit extractedits own root! The King went backto the computer. "The dragoncrackled,trembled,evengrounditsteeth,but extracted the "What now, my doorway. me still!" he shoutedfrom the rootandthreatens old . . . I mean,YourFerromagneticity?!" "Be of stoutheart,"it said."Now go tell it to subtractitselffrom itself!" sentthe telegram,and the The King hurriedto his royalbedchamber, dragonbeganto subtractitselffrom itself,takingawayitstail first,thenlegs, then trunk, and finally,when it sawthat somethingwasn'tright, it hesicontinued,it tookaway tated,but from itsown momentumthe subtracting wasno its headandbecamezero,in otherwordsnothing:the electrosaur more! "The electrosaur is no more," criedthe joyful King, burstinginto the "Thank you, old computer. . manythanks. . . you haveworked vault. hard . . you haveearneda rest,so now I will disconnectyou." "Not sofast,my dear,"the computerreplied."I do the job andyouwant That's me,andyouno longercall meYourRrromagneticity?! to disconnect yes, not nice,notniceat all! NowI myselfwill changeinto an electrosaur, you, rule better than you most from kingdom, and certainly the anddrive for youalwaysconsultedme in all the moreimportantmatters,thereforeit wasreallyI who ruledall along,and not you . . ." flaming And huffing, puffing, it beganto changeinto an electrosaur; werealreadyprotrudingfrom its sideswhenthe King, breathelectroclaws lesswith fright, torethe slippersoff his feet, rushedup to it and with the slippersbeganbeatingblindlyat itstubes!The computerchugged,choked, it read andgot muddledin its program-insteadof the word"electrosaur" "electrosauce," and beforethe King'svery eyesthe computer,wheezing heapof moreandmoresoftly,turnedinto an enormous,gleaming-golden which, still sizzling,emittedall its chargein deep-blue electrosauce, leavingPoleander sparks, to staredumbstruck at onlya great,steamingpool o f g r a v y .. . With a sigh the King put on his slippersand returnedto the royal bedchamber. Howeverfrom that time on he wasan altogetherdifferent king:theeventshehadundergone madehis naturelessbellicose,andto the endof his dayshe engaged exclusively in civilian cybernetics, andleft the militarykind strictlyalone.

TheGreenHills of Eanth Robert A. Heinlein was the star of the prewar Campbell Golden Age in Astounding, but after the war he broke with Campbell and published his work in the higher-paying slick magazines/rfteCollier\ and The SaturdayEvening Post.At the same time, he moved to Hollywood to attempt the first American SF movie, DestinationMoon . It is signifrcantthat what Heinlein was sending to the sft'cl<swas a continuing developmentof hisfuture history series,the samematerial he had been selling to the pulps. The importance of Heinlein's breakout from the pulp ghetto into respectablemagazinescannot be underrated in establishingthe literary respectabilityof sciencefiction in the United States.By the early 1950sHeinlein was the most popular SF writer in the world, his works the epitome of the contemporary genre. And he achieved this position by converting the marketplace, not by changing his work or attitudes. His optimism and faith in technology-especially spacetravel-set the tone for much of the SF published from the late 1940sto the mid-1960s. Hein]ein's later breakthrough, to mass best-sellerstatus, followed a real change in the atmosphereand influences in his novels late in the 1960s. This resulted {rom the slowgrowing successof his astonishingcult classrq Strangerin a Strange Land, which did not become a bestseller until five years after its publication. Probably the major literary progenitor of Heinlein's later work is the GeorgeBernard Shawof Back to Methuselah, brilliant but very long-winded, concerned with death and immortality, aging and sexuality. The

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Iater novels,from I Will FearNo Evil ffirougfiTime Enoughfor Love,The Numberof the Beast,andToSail Beyondthe Sunset,areat onceexperimentalandself-indulgent(Heinleinbrookedno editing).And, it shou]dbe noted,theywereenormouslypopular, bestsellersimmediatelyuponpubby Heinlein'searlier worksarc now Iication. The traditionsestablished remain centralto muchof EnglishJanguage and by other writers on carried sciencefiction.

his is the storyof Rhysling,the Blind Singerof the Spaceways-but not the officialversion.You sanghis wordsin school: "l prayfor one lastlanding On the globethat gaveme birth; Let me rest my eyeson the feecy skies the cool, greenhills of Earth." And the

Or perhapsyou sangin French,or German.Or it might havebeen Esperanto,while Terra'srainbowbannerrippledoveryour head. doesnot matter-it wascertainlyan Earthtongue.No one The language has evertranslated"Creen Hills" into the lisping Venerianspeech;no Thisisours.We it in thedrycorridors. andwhispered Martianevercroaked to synthetic crawlies from Hollywood everything have exported Earth of daughters her sons and but thisbelongssolelyto Terra,andto radioactives, whereverthey maybe. Wehaveall heardmanystoriesof Rhysling.Youmayevenbe oneof the of his or acclaim,by scholarlyevaluations manywhohavesoughtdegrees, TheGrandCanal, and other publishedworks-Songsof the Spaceways, Poems,High and Far,and "UP SHIPI" althoughyou havesunghis songsand readhis verses,in Nevertheless, schoolandout yourwholelife, it is at leastan evenmoneybet-unlessyou are a spacemanyourself-that you have nevereven heardof most of Rhysling'sunpublishedsongs,such items as Sincethe PusherMet My PantsOn, Skipper, or Cal, KeeqYour Cousin,ThatRed-HeadedVenusburg A SpaceSuit Built for Two. Nor can we quotethem in a family magazine.

Rhysling'sreputationwasprotectedby a carefulliteraryexecutorand by the happy chance that he was never interviewed.Songsof the Spaceways appearedthe weekhe died;when it becamea bestseller,the publicity stories about him werepiecedtogetherfrom what peoplerememberedabout him plus the highly coloredhandoutsfrom his publishers. The resultingtraditional picture of Rhysling is about as authenticas George Washington'shatchet or King Alfred'scakes. 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 scratchedcontinually,adding nothing to his negligiblebeauty. Van der Voort'sportrait of him for the Harriman Centennial edition of his works showsa figure of high tragedy,a solemn mouth, sightlesseyes concealedby black silk bandage.He was never solemn! His mouth was alwaysopen, singing,grinning, drinking, or eating.The bandagewasany rag, usuallydirty. After he lost his sighthe becamelessand lessneatabout his person.

"Noisy" Rhyslingwasa jetman, secondclass,with eyesas good as yours, when he signedon for a loop trip to thefovianasteroids in the R. S. Goshawk. The crew signedreleases for everythingin thosedays;a Lloyd'sassociate would havelaughedin your faceat the notion of insuringa spaceman.The SpacePrecautionaryAct had neverbeen heard of, and the Company was responsible only for wages,if andwhen. Halfthe shipsthatwentfurtherthan Luna City nevercame back. Spacemendid not care;by preferencethey signedfor shares,andany oneof them would havebet you that he could iump from the 200th floor of Harriman Towerandgroundsafely,ifyou offeredhim three to two and allowedhim rubberheelsfor the landing. Jetmenwerethe mostcarefreeof the lot and the meanest.Comparedwith them the masters,the radarmen, and the astrogators(therewere no supers nor stewards in thosedays)weregentlevegetarians. Jetmenknewtoo much. The otherstrustedthe skill of the captainto get them down safely;jetmen knewthat skill wasuseless againstthe blind and fitful devilschainedinside their rocket motors. The Goshawkwas the first of Harriman's ships to be convertedfrom chemical fuel to atomic power-piles- or ratherthe first that did not blow up. Rhyslingknewherwell; shewasan old tub that had pliedthe Luna City run, Supra-NewYorkspacestationto Leyportand back,beforeshewasconverted fordeepspace.He hadworkedthe Luna run in herandhadbeenalongon the firstdeepspacetrip, Drywateron Mars-and back,to everyone's surprise. He shouldhavemadechief engineerby the time he signedfor the fovian

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loop trip, but, after the Drywater pioneer trip, he had been fired, blacklisted,andgroundedat Luna City for havingspenthis time writing a chorus and severalversesat a time when he shouldhavebeen watching his gauges. The song wasthe infamous The Skipperis a Father to his Crew, with the uproariouslyunprintable final couplet. The blacklistdid not botherhim. He won an accordionfrom a Chinese barkeepin Luna City by cheatingat one-thumb and thereafterkeptgoing by singingto the minersfor drinksandtipsuntil the rapidattritionin spacemen causedthe Company agentthereto give him anotherchance.He kept his nose clean on the Luna run for a year or two, got back into deep space, helpedgive Venusburgits original ripe reputation,strolledthe banksof the at the ancientMartian GrandCanal when a secondcolonywasestablished trip to Titan. capital, and froze his toes and earson the second Things movedfastin thosedays.Once the power-piledrive wasaccepted the number of shipsthat put out from the Luna-Terra systemwaslimited only by the availabilityof crews.Jetmenwerescarce;the shieldingwascut to a minimum to saveweight and few married men cared to risk possible exposureto radioactivity.Rhysling did not want to be a father,so jobs were alwaysopen to him during the golden daysof the claiming boom. He the system,singingthe doggerelthat boiled up in his crossedand recrossed head and chording it out on his accordion. The masterof the Coshawkknew him; Captain Hicks had been astrogator on Rhysling'sfirst trip in her. "Welcome home, Noisy," Hicks had 'Are you sober,or shall I sign the book for you?" greetedhim. "You can't getdrunk on the bug iuice they sell here,Skipper." He signed and went below,lugging his accordion. Ten minuteslater he wasback."Captain," he stateddarkly,"that number two jet ain't fit. The cadmium dampersare warped." "Why tell me? Tell the Chief. " "l did, but he saysthey will do. He'swrong." The captaingesturedat the book. "scratchout your nameandscram.We raiseship in thirty minutes." Rhysling looked at him, shrugged,and went below again.

clunkerhad to blast It is a long climb to the fovian planetoids;a Hawk-class for three watchesbefore going into free flight. Rhysling had the second watch. Damping wasdoneby hand then, with a multiplying vernierand a dangergauge.When the gaugeshowedred, he tried to correctit-no luck. Jetmendon't wait; that'swhy they are jetmen. He slappedthe emergency discoverand fishedat the hot stuff with the tongs.The lights went out, he

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went right ahead.A jetmanhasto know his powerroom the wayyour tongueknowsthe insideof your mouth. He sneaked a quicklook overthe top of the leadbafflewhenthe lights wentout. The blue radioactive glowdid not helphim any;he jerkedhis headbackand went on fishingby touch. Whenhewasdonehecalledoverthetube,"Numbertwoiet out. And for crissake get me somelight downhere!" Therewaslight-the emergency circuit-but not for him. The blue radioactive glow wasthe lastthing his optic nerveeverresponded to.

'As Time

and Spacecomebendingbackto shapethis star-specked scene, The tranquiltearsof tragicjoy still spreadtheir silversheen; Along the GrandCanal still soarthe fragileTowersof Tiuth; Their fairy gracedefendsthis placeof Beauty,calm and couth. "Bone-tiredthe racethat raisedthe Towers,forgottenaretheir lores; Long gonethe godswho shedthe tearsthat lap thesecrystalshores. Slowbeatsthe time-wornheartof Mars beneaththis icy sky; The thin air whispers voicelessly that all who live mustdie"Yetstill the lacySpiresof Tiuth singBeauty's madrigal And sheherselfwill everdwell alongthe Grandcanal!" -from TheCrandCanal,by permission of Lux Tianscriptions, Ltd., Londonand Luna City On the swingbacktheysetRhyslingdownon Marsat Drywater;the boys passed the hat andthe skipperkickedin a half month'spay.That wasall finish-iust anotherspacebum who hadnot hadthegoodfortuneto finish it offwhenhis luckranout. He holedup with theprospectors andarcheologistsat How-Far? for a monthor so,andcouldprobablyhavestayed forever in exchange for his songsandhis accordion playing.But spacemen die if they stayin one place;he hookeda crawleroverto Drywateragainand thenceto Marsopolis. The capitalwaswell into its boom; the processing plantslined the GrandCanalon both sidesand roiledthe ancientwaterswith the filth of the runoff. This wasbeforethe Tli-PlanetTleatyforbadedisturbingcultural relicsfor commerce;half the slender,fairyliketowershad beentorn

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buildingsfor to adaptthemaspressurized down,andothersweredisfigured Earthmen. andno onedescribed NowRhyslinghadneverseenanyof thesechanges again,he visualizedit asit had themto him; whenhe "saw"Marsopolis for trade.His memorywasgood.He stood been,beforeit wasrationalized wherethe ancientgreatof Marshad takentheir on the riparianesplanade outbeforehisblindedeyes-iceblueplain spreading its beauty easeandsaw the of waterunmovedby tide, untouchedby breeze,andreflectingserenely sharp,bright starsof the Martian sky,and beyondthe waterthe lacy and flying towersof an architecturetoo delicatefor our rumbuttresses bling, heavyplanet. The resultwasGrandCanal. The subtlechangein his orientationwhichenabledhim to seebeautyat Marsopoliswherebeautywasnot now beganto affecthis wholelife. All womenbecamebeautifulto him. He knewthemby their voicesandfitted to a It isa meanspiritindeedwhowill speak to thesounds. theirappearances given their had who scolds gentle friendliness; in than blind man other their voicesto Rhysling. husbandsno peacesweetened It populatedhis world with beautifulwomenand graciousmen. Dark Hair, Death Songof aWoodbCoIt, and his other Bereniceb Sfar Pcssing, men of space,werethe direct the womenless lovesongsof the wanderers, by tawdrytruths.It unsullied were his conceptions fact that the of result even to verse,andsometimes changedhisdoggerel mellowedhisapproach, to poetry. He hadplentyof timeto think now,timeto getall thelovelywordsiustso, beatof andto worrya verseuntil it sangtruein his head.The monotonous let SongWhen the field is clear,the reportsall seen, When the lock sighsshut, when the lightswink green, When the check-offsdone,when it'stime to pray, When the Captainnods,when sheblastsawayHear the jets! Hear them snarl at your back When you're stretchedon 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.

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Feel her rise! Feel her drive! Straining steel,come alive, On her jets! -came to him not while he himself wasa jetman but later while he was hitch-hiking from Mars to Venus and sitting out a watch with an old shipmate. At Venusburghe sanghis new songsand some of the old, in the bars. Someonewould start a hat around for him; it would come back with a minstrel'susual takedoubledor tripled in recognitionof the gallantspirit behind the bandagedeyes. It wasan easylife. Any spaceport washis home and any ship his private carriage.No skippercaredto refuseto lift the extramassof blind Rhysling and his squeezebox; he shuttledfrom Venusburgto Leyport to Drywater to New Shanghai,or back again, as the whim took him. He neverwent closerto Earth than Supra-NewYorkSpaceStation.Even when signingthe contractfor Songsof thespacewayshe made his mark in a cabin-class liner somewhere betweenLuna City and Ganymede.Horowitz, the original publisher, was aboard for a second honeymoon and heard Rhysling sing at a ship'sparty. Horowitz knew a good thing for the publishing trade when he heard it; the entire contentsof Songsweresung directly into the tape in the communications room of that ship before he let Rhysling out of his sight. The next three volumeswere squeezedout of Rhysling at Venusburg,where Horowitz had sent an agent to keep him liquored up until he had sung all he could remember. UP SHIPI is not certainlyauthenticRhyslingthroughout.Much of it is Rhysling's,no doubt, andlet Songis unquestionablyhis, but most of the verseswere collected after his death from people who had known him during his wanderings. TheCreen Hills of Earth grewthrough twentyyears.The earliestform we know aboutwascomposedbeforeRhyslingwasblinded, during a drinking bout with someof the indenturedmen on Venus.The verseswereconcerned mostlywith the thingsthe labor clientsintendedto do backon Earth if and when they evermanagedto paytheir bountiesand therebybe allowedto go home. Someof the stanzaswerevulgar, somewerenot, but the choruswas recognizablythat of Green Hills. We know exactlywhere the final form of Green Hills came from, and when. There wasa ship in at VenusEllis Islewhich wasscheduledfor the direct i,r*p from thereto Great Lakes,Illinois. Shewasthe old Falcon,youngest of the Hawk classand the first ship to applythe Harriman Tiust'snew policy

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servicebetweenEarth citiesand any colonywith express of extra-fare scheduledstops. his own songhad Rhyslingdecidedto ride her backto Earth. Perhaps just hisnativeOzarks see to hankered he gottenunderhisskin-or perhaps onemoretime. Rhyslingknewthisbut it The Companyno longerpermitteddeadheads; neveroccurredto him that the ruling might applyto him. He wasgetting Not andjusta little matterof factabouthis privileges. old, for a spaceman, along in space, landmarks the senile-hesimplyknewthathe wasoneof Ridge.He walkedin the with Halley'sComet,the Rings,and Brewster's home in the first empty at himself made and crew'sport, went below, couch. acceleration TheCaptainfoundhim therewhilemakinga lastminutetourof his ship. "What areyou doing here?"he demanded. "Draggingit backto Earth,Captain."Rhyslingneededno eyesto seea four stripes. skipper's iiou can'tdragin thisship;youknowtherules.Shakea legandgetout of here.Weraiseshipat once."The Captainwasyoung;he hadcomeup after activetime, but Rhyslingknewthetype-five yearsat Harriman Rhysling's Hall with only cadetpracticetripsinsteadof solid,deepspaceexperience. nor spirit;spacewaschanging. The two men did not touchin background an old man a trip home." "NoW Captain,you wouldn'tbegrudge to listen."l can't of thecrewhadstopped The ofhcerhesitated-several 'SpacePrecautionary Act, ClauseSix:No oneshallenterspacesaveas do it. of or asa payingpassenger vessel, a licensedmemberof a crewof a chartered pursuantto thisact.' asmaybe issued undersuchregulations sucha vessel " you get and out you go. Up -Rhysling lolledback,his handsunderhis head."lf I've got to go, I'm damnedif I'11walk.Carry me." Havethis man The Captainbit his lip and said, "Master-at-Arms! removed." struts."Can'trightly The ship'spolicemanfixedhis eyeson theoverhead do it, Captain.I've sprainedmy shoulder."The other crew members, presenta momentbefore,had fadedinto the bulkheadpaint. "Well, get a workingPartY!" "Ayr, aye,sir." He, too, wentawaY. Rhyslingspokeagain."Now look, Skipper-let'snot haveany hard feelingsabout this. You'vegot an out to carry me if you want to-the 'Distressed " clause. Spaceman' you're spaceman; my eye!You'reno distressed " 'Distressed Spaceman', the around I know who you are;you'vebeenbumming a space-lawyer.

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systemfor years.Well, you won't do it in my ship.That clausewasintended to succormen who had missedtheir ships,not to let a man dragfreeall over space." "well, now,Captain, can you properlysayI haven'tmissedmy ship?I've neverbeen backhome sincemy lasttrip asa signed-oncrew member.The law saysI can have a trip back." "But that wasyearsago. You'veusedup your chance." "Have I now?The clausedoesn'tsaya word about how soona man hasto take his trip back;it just sayshe'sgot 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." Rhyslingcould feelthe man'sglare,but he turnedandstompedout of the compartment.Rhyslingknew that he had usedhis blindnessto placethe Captainin an impossibleposition,but this did not embarrass Rhysling- he ratherenjoyedit. Ten minuteslaterthe sirensounded,he heardthe orderson the bull horn for Up-Stations.When the soft sighing of the locks and the slight pressure changein his earslet him know that take-offwasimminent he got up and shuffleddown to the powerroom, ashe wantedto be nearthe jeh when they blastedoff. He neededno one to guide him in any ship of the Hawk class. Tioublestartedduring the firstwatch.Rhyslinghad beenloungingin the inspector's chair, fiddling with the keysof his accordionandtrying out a new versionof Creen Hills. "Let me breatheunrationedair again Where there'sno lack nor dearth" And "something,something,something'Earth"'-it out right. He tried again.

would not come

"Let the sweetfresh breezesheal me As they rove around the girth Of our lovely mother planet, Of the cool green hills of Earth." That wasbetter, he thought. "How do you like that, Archie?" he asked over the muted roar. "Prettygood. Give out with the wholething." Archie Macdougal,Chief Jetman,was an old friend, both spacesideand in bars;he had been an apprenticeunder Rhysling many yearsand millions of miles back. Rhyslingobliged,then said,"Youyoungsters havegot it soft. Everything

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automatic.When I wastwistingher tail you had to stayawake." " They fell to talkingshopandMacdougal "Youstill haveto stayawake. showedhim the direct responsedampingrig which had replacedthe manualverniercontrolwhich Rhyslinghad used.Rhyslingfelt out the until hewasfamiliarwith thenewinstallation. controlsandaskedquestions as occupation It washisconceitthathewasstill a jetmanandthathispresent a troubadourwassimplyan expedientduring one of the fusseswith the companythat any man couldget into. heremarked, "I seeyoustillhavetheoldhanddampingplatesinstalled," his agilefingersflitting overthe equipment. 'All exceptthe links.I unshippedthembecause theyobscurethe dials." "You oughtto havethem shipped.You might needthem." "Oh, I don'tknow.I think-" Rhyslingneverdid findoutwhatMacdougal thoughtfor it wasat that momentthe troubletoreloose.Macdougal that burnedhim down wherehe caughtit square,a blastof radioactivity stood. Rhyslingsensedwhat had happened.Automaticreflexesof old habit cameout. He slappedthe discoverandrangthe alarmto the controlroom links.He hadto grope theunshipped Thenheremembered simultaneously. until he found them, while trying to keepas low as he could to get him asto maximumbenefitfromthebaffes.Nothingbut thelinksbothered location.The placewasaslight to him asanyplacecouldbe;heknewevery spot,everycontrol,the wayhe knewthe keysof his accordion. "Powerroom! Powerroom!What'sthe alarm?" 'hot."' He couldfeelit on his "Stayout!" Rhyslingshouted."The placeis faceand in his bones,like desertsunshine. anyone,for having The links he got into place,aftercursingsomeone, tryingto reduce Then he commenced needed. he the wrench rack failedto job hedecidedthat Presently thetroubleby hand.It wasa long andticklish. the jet wouldhaveto be spilled,pile and all. First he reported."Control!" "Control ayeayel" " "spilling iet three-emergency. "Is this Macdougal?" "Macdougalis dead.This is Rhysling,on watch.Standby to record." the Skippermayhavebeen,but he dumbfounded Therewasno answer; Hehadtheshipto consider, couldnot interferein a powerroomemergency. and crew.The doorshad to stayclosed. and the passengers at whatRhyslingsent The Captainmusthavebeenstill moresurprised for record.It was:

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"We rot in the molds of Venus, We retch at her tainted breath. Foul are her flooded jungles, Crawling with unclean death." Rhyslingwent on cataloguingthe SolarSystemashe worked,"-harsh brightsoil of Luna-" , " - Saturn'srainbowrings-" , ,,-the frozennight of Titan-", all the while openingand spillingthe jet and fishingit clean. He finishedwith an alternatechorus"We've tried each spinning spacemote And reckonedits true worth: Thke us back again to the homesof menOn the cool, green hills of Earth." -then, almostabsentmindedlyrememberedto tack on his revisedfirst verse: "The arching sky is calling Spacemenback to their trade. AII hands! Stand by! Free falling! And the lights below us fade. Out ride the sonsof Terra, Far drivesthe thundering iet, Up leapsthe race of Earthmen, Out, far, and onwardyet-" The shipwassafenow and readyto limp homeshyone jet. As for himself, Rhyslingwasnot so sure. That "sunburn" seemedsharp,he thought. He wasunableto seethe bright, rosyfog in which he workedbut he knew it was there.He went on with the businessof fushing the air out through the outer valve, repeatingit severaltimes to permit the level of radioactionto drop to somethinga man might standunder suitablearmor. While he did this he sentone more chorus,the lastbit of authenticRhyslingthat evercould be: "We pray for one last landing On the globe that gaveus birth; Let us rest our eyeson fleecy skies And the cool, greenhills of Earth."

GhostV Of the new young SF writersof the early 1950s,Robert and enduring sheckleywai the first to achievewidespread internaiionalpopularity and the only one to maintain his Ieadingpositionon the basisof his shortfiction, He remains of theclever,graceful,ryi{y, "plgtte!" on,oitfr, greatmasters a goodbit of itspun-chfrom theplot derives that kind the story, turnedto thenovelwith increasing Sheckley end. the twiit at throughoutthe1960s,with such 1950s and late in the success Inc., work asImmortality, JourneyBeyondTomorrow,and work is still his short influential most his but Mindswap, He hasa anthologized. often and translated frction, iiaay none and to second SF of clichds images and ihe commandof ma\tryiry common the plight of the of perception an ironic to get by'in tt e t iglrty complicatedhigh-techworld of the fu{ure.'"ChostV"-isa cleverparodyof theproblem-solving aswellasa highly entertainingpsychologistoryof the 1940s, with a verylight touch. cal tale, all done

e'sreadingour sign now," Gregorsaid, his long bony face pressedagainstthe peepholein the ofhce door. "Let me see,"Arnold said. Gregorpushedhim back. "He'sgoing to knock-no, he's changedhis mind. He'sleaving." Arnold returnedto his deskand laid out anothergameof solitaire. Gregor kept watch at the peephole. They had constructedthe peepholeout of sheerboredom three monthsafterforming their partnershipand rentingthe office. During that time, the AAA Ace PlanetDecontamina-

tion Servicehad had no business-in spiteof being first in the telephone book. Planetarydecontaminationwasan old, established line, comft.t.ty monopolizedbytwo largeoutfits.It wasdiscouragingfor a small new firm run by two young men with big ideasand a lot of unpaid-forequipment. "He'scoming back," Gregorcalled."Quick-look busyand important!" Arnold swepthis cardsinto a drawerand just finishedbuttoning his lab gown when the knock came. Their visitor was a short, bald, tired-lookingman. He staredat them dubiously. "You decontaminateplanets?" "That is correct, sir," Gregor said, pushing awaya pile of papersand shakingthe man'smoist hand. "I am Richard Gregor.This is my partner, Doctor Frank Arnold." Arnold, impressively garbedin a white lab gown and blackhorn-rimmed glasses, noddedabsentlyand resumedhis examinationof a row of ancient. crusted test tubes. "Kindly be seated,Mister-" "Ferngraum." "Mr. Ferngraum.I think we can handle just about anything you require," Gregorsaidheartily."Flora or faunacontrol, cleansingatmosphere, purifying watersupply,sterilizingsoil, stabilitytesting,volcanoand earthquake control-anything you need to make a planet fit for human habitation." Ferngraumstill lookeddubious."l'm going to levelwith you. I've got a problem planet on my hands." Gregor nodded confidently. "Problemsare our business. " "l'm a freelancereal-estatebroker," Ferngraumsaid. "you know how it works-buy a planet,sell a planet,everyonemakesa living. UsuallyI stick with the scrubworldsand let my buyersdo their decontaminating.But a few monthsago I had a chanceto buy a real quality planet-tooklt right out from under the nosesof the big operators. " Rrngraum mopped his foreheadunhappily. "lt's a beautiful place," he continuedwith no enthusiasmwhatsoever. 'Average temperature of seventy-onedegrees.Mountainous, but fertile. Waterfalls,rainbows,all that sort of thing. And no fauna at all." "Soundsperfect," Gregor said. "Microorganisms?" "Nothing dangerous." "Then what'swrong with the place?" Ferngraumlooked embarrassed."Maybe you heard about it. The Governmentcataloguenumber is RfC-5. But everyoneelsecallsit'Ghost V"' Gregorraisedan eyebrow."Ghost" wasan odd nicknamefor a planet, but

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he had heardodder.After all, you had to call them something.There were range,many of them insunswithin spaceship of planet-bearing thousands habitableor potentiallyinhabitable.And therewereplentyofpeoplefrom the civilizedworldswho wantedto colonizethem. Religioussects,political minorities,philosophicgroups-or justplainpioneers,outto makea freshstart. "l don't believeI've heard of it," Gregorsaid. Ferngraumsquirmeduncomfortablyin his chair. "l shouldhavelistened to my wife. But no - I wasgonnabe a big operator.Paidten timesmy usual price for Chost V and now I'm stuck with it. " "But what'swrong with it?" Gregor asked. "lt seemsto be haunted," Ferngraumsaid in despair. Ferngraumhad radar-checkedhis planet, then leasedit to a combine of farmersfrom Diion VI. The eight-manadvanceguardlandedand, within a day, began to broadcastgarbledreportsabout demons, ghouls, vampires, dinosaursand other inimical fauna. When a reliefship camefor them, all weredead.An autopsyreportstated that the gashes,cuts and marks on their bodiescould indeed have been madeby almostanything, evendemons,ghouls,vampiresor dinosaurs,if such existed. Ferngraum was fined for improper decontamination. The farmers droppedtheir lease.But he managedto leaseit to a group of sun worshipers from Opal II. The sun worshiperswere cautious.They senttheir equipment, but only three men accompaniedit, to scout out trouble. The men set up camp' unpackedand declaredthe placea paradise.They radioedthe home group to comeat once-then, suddenly,therewasa wild screamand radiosilence. A patrol ship went to Ghost ! buried the three mangled bodies and departedin five minutes flat. 'And that did it," Ferngraumsaid."Now no onewill touch it at any price. Spacecrewsrefuseto land on it. And I still don't know what happened." He sigheddeeplyand looked at Gregor. "lt's your baby, if you want it. " Gregor and Arnold excusedthemselvesand went into the anteroom. Arnold whoopedat once, "We've got a job!" "Yeah,"Gregorsaid, "but what a iob." "We wantedthe tough ones,"Arnold pointedout. "lf we lick this, we'rq. basis." established-to saynothing of the profit we'll makeon a Percentage "You seemto forget," Gregorsaid, "I'm the one who hasto actually land on the planet. All you do is sit here and interpret my data." "That's the way we set it up," Arnold reminded him. "l'm the research department-you're the troubleshooter.Remember?" Gregor remembered.Ever since childhood, he had been sticking his

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neckout while Arnoldstayedhomeandtold him why he wasstickinghis neckout. "l don'tlike it," he said. "Youdon't believein ghosts,do you?" 'No, of coursenot." "Well, we canhandleanythingelse.Faintheartne'erwon fair profit." Gregorshruggedhis shoulders. They wentbackto Ferngraum. In half an hour,theyhadworkedout theirterms-a largepercentage of future development profitsif they succeeded, a forfeiture.lrur. if thev failed. Gregorwalkedto the doorwith Ferngraum."By the way,sir,',he asked, "how did you happento cometo us?" "No one elsewould handleit," Fbrngraumsaid, lookingextremely pleased with himself."Goodluck."

Three dayslater,Gregorwasaboarda ricketyspacefreighter,boundfor Ghost V He spenthis time studyingreportson the two colonization attemptsand readingsurveyaftersurveyon supernatural phenomena. Th.y didn'thelpat all. No traceof animallife hadbeenfoundon Ghost V And no proof of the existenceof supernaturalcreatureshad been discovered anywherein the galaxy. Gregorpondered this, thencheckedhis weapons asthefreighterspiraled intotheregionofGhostV Hewascarryingan ais.nallargeerJughto starta smallwar and win it. If he could find somethingto shootat . . . The captainof the freighterbroughthis shipto within severalthousand feet of the smiling greensurfaceof the planet, but no closer.Gregor parachuted his equipmentto the siteof the lasttwo camps,shookhands with the captainand 'chutedhimselfdown. He landedsafelyandlookedup. The freighterwasstreaking into spaceas thoughthe furieswereafterit. He wasaloneon GhostV Aftercheckinghisequipmentforbreakage, heradioedArnoldthathehad landedsafely.Then, with drawnblaster,he inspectedthe sun worshipers' camP. Theyhadsetthemselves up at the baseof a mountain,besidea small, crystal-clear lake.The prefabswerein perfectcondition. No stormhadeverdamaged them, because GhostV wasblessed with a beautifullyevenclimate.But they lookedpatheticallylonely. Gregormadea carefulcheckof one.Clotheswerestill neatlypackedin

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cabinets,pictureswerehung on the wall and therewasevena curtain on one window. In a cornerof the room, a caseof toyshad been openedfor the arrival of the main party'schildren. A water pistol, a top and a bag of marbleshad spilled on to the floor. Evening wascoming, so Gregor draggedhis equipment into the prefab and made his preparations.He rigged an alarm systemand adjustedit so finely that evena roachwould setit off. He put up a radaralarm to scanthe immediatearea. He unpackedhis arsenal,laying the heavyrifles within easyreach,but keepinga hand-blasterin his belt. Then, satisfied,he ate a leisurelysupper. Outside,the eveningdriftedinto night. The warm anddreamyland grew dark. A gentlebreezeruffled the surfaceof the lakeand rustledsilkily in the tall grass. It was all very peaceful. The settlersmust have been hysterical types, he decided. They had probably panicked and killed each other. After checkinghis alarm systemone last time, Gregorthrew his clothes on to a chair, turned off the lights and climbed into bed. The room was illuminated by starlight,strongerthan moonlighton Earth. His blasterwas under his pillow. All was well with the world. He had just begun to doze off when he becameawarethat he was not alone in the room. That wasimpossible.His alarm systemhadn't goneoff. The radarwas still humming peacefully. Yeteverynervein his body wasshriekingalarm. He easedthe blasterout and looked around. A man was standingin a cornerof the room. There was no time to consider how he had come. Gregor aimed the blasterand said, "Okay, raiseyour hands," in a quiet, resolutevoice. The figure didn't move. Gregor'sfinger tightened on the'trigger, then suddenly relaxed. He recognizedthe man. It washis own clothing, heapedon a chair, distorted by the starlightand his own in/agination. He grinned and loweredthe blaster.The pile of clothing began to stir faintly. Gregor felt a faint breezefrom the window and continued to grin. Then the pile of clothing stood up, stretcheditself and began to walk toward him purposefully. Frozen to his bed, he watched the disembodiedclothing, assembled roughly in manlike form, advanceon him. When it washalfivayacrossthe room and its empty sleeveswerereaching for him, he beganto blast.

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And kepton blasting, {or the ragsand remnantsslitheredtowardhim asif filled with a life of their own. Flaming bitsof cloth crowdedtowardhis face and a belt tried to coil aroundhis legs.He had to burn everythingto ashes before the attack stopped. When it wasover,Gregorturned on everylight he could find. He brewed a pot of coffee and poured in most of a bottle of brandy. Somehow,he resistedan urge to kick his uselessalarm systemto pieces.Instead,he radioed his partner. "That'svery interesting,"Arnold said, afterGregorhad broughthim up 'Animation! to date. Very interestingindeed." "l hoped it would amuseyou." Gregoransweredbitterly.After several shotsof brandy,he was beginningto feel abandonedand abused. *Did anythingelsehappen?" 'Not yet." "Well, takecare.I've got a theory.Haveto do someresearchon it. By the way,somecrazy bookie is laying five to one againstyou." "Really?" "Yeah. I took a piece of it. " "Did you bet for me or againstme?" Gregor asked,worried. "Foryou, ofcourse,"Arnoldsaidindignantly."We'repartners,aren'twe?" They signedoff and Gregor brewedanother pot of coffee. He was not planning on any more sleepthat night. It was comforting to know that Arnold had bet on him. But, then, Arnold wasa notoriouslybad gambler.

By daylight, Gregorwasable to get a few hours of fiful sleep.In the early afternoon he awoke, found some clothes and began to explore the sun worshipers'camp. Towardevening, he found something.On the wall of a prefab,the word "Tgasklit" had been hastilyscratched.Tgasklit It meant nothing to him, but he relayedit to Arnold at once. He then searchedhis prefabcarefully,setup more lights, testedthe alarm systemand rechargedhis blaster. Everythingseemedin order.With regret,he watchedthe sun go down, hoping he would live to see it rise again. Then he settledhimself in a comfortablechair and tried to do someconstructivethinking. There was no animal life here-nor were there any walking plants, intelligentrocksor giantbrainsdwellingin the planet'score.GhostV hadn't even a moon for someoneto hide on. And he couldn't believein ghostsor demons.He knewthat supernatural happeningstendedto breakdown, under detailedexamination,into emi-

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nently natural events.The onesthat didn't breakdown-stopped. Ghosts just wouldn't standstill and let a nonbelieverexaminethem. The phantom of the castlewas invariably on vacationwhen a scientistshowedup with camerasand tape recorders. That left another possibility.Supposesomeonewanted this planet, but price?Couldn't this someonehide here, wasn'tpreparedto payFerngraum's frighten the settlers,kill them if necessaryin order to drive down the price? That seemedlogical. You could evenexplainthe behaviorof his clothes that way. Static electricity,correctlyused, couldSomethingwasstandingin front of him. His alarm system,as before, hadn't gone off. Gregorlookedup slowly.The thing in front of him wasabout ten feettall and roughlyhuman in shape,exceptfor its crocodilehead.It wascoloreda bright crimson and had purple stripesrunning lengthwiseon its body. In one claw, it was carrying a large brown can. "Hello," it said. "Hello," Gregorgulped. His blasterwason a tableonly two feet away.He wondered,would the thing attack if he reachedfor it? "What's your name?" Gregor asked,with the calmnessof deep shock. "l'm the Purple-stripedGrabber,"the thing said. "l grab things." "How interesting." Gregor'shand began to creep toward the blaster. "l grabthings namedRichard Gregor," the Grabbertold him in its bright, 'And ingenuousvoice. I usuallyeatthem in chocolatesauce." It held up the brown can and Gregorsawthat it waslabelled"Smig'sChocolate-An Ideal Sauceto Use with Gregors,Arnolds and Flynns." Gregor'sfingers touched the butt of the blaster.He asked,"Were you planning to eat me?" "Oh, y€s," the Grabbersaid. Gregor had the gun now. He flipped off the safetycatch and fired. The radiant blastcascadedoffthe Grabber'schestand singedthe floor, the walls and Gregor'seyebrows. "That won't hurt me," the Grabberexplained."l'm too tall." The blasterdroppedfrom Gregor'sfingers.The Grabberleanedforward. "l'm not going to eat you noq" the Grabbersaid. "No?" Gregor managedto enunciate. "No. I can only eatyou tomorrow on May first. Thosearethe rules.I just came to ask a favor" "What is it?" The Grabbersmiledwinningly. "Would you be a good sportand eata few apples?They flavor the flesh so wonderfully." And, with that, the stripedmonstervanished.

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With shaking hands,GregorworkedtheradioandtoldArnoldeverything that had happened. "Hmm," Arnoldsaid."Purplc-striped Grabber, eh?I thinkthatclinches it. Everythingfits." "What fits?What is it?" "First,do asI say.I wantto makesure." ObeyingArnold'sinstructions, Gregorunpackedhis chemicalequipmentandlaidouta numberof testtubes,retortsandchemicals. He stirred, mixed,addedandsubtracted asdirectedandfinallyput themixtureon the stoveto heat. "Now" Gregorsaid,comingbackto theradio,"tell mewhat's goingon." "Certainly.I lookedup theword'Tgasklit.'It's opalian.It means'manytoothedghost.'Thesunworshipers werefromOpal.Whatdoesthatsuggest to you?" "Theywerekilledby a hometownghost,"Gregorrepliednastily."lt must havestowedawayon their ship.Maybetherewasa curseand-" "Calm down," Arnold said."Therearen'tany ghostsin this. Is the solutionboiling yet?" ttNo.

tt

"Tell me when it does.Now let'stake your animatedclothing. Does it remind you of anything?" Gregor thought. "Well," he said, "when I was a kid-no, that's " ridiculous. "Out with it," Arnold insisted. "When I wasa kid, I neverleft clothing on a chair. In the dark, it always looked like a man or a dragonor something.I guesseveryone's had that experience.But it doesn'texplain-" "Sure it does!Rememberthe Purple-stripedGrabbernow?" "No. Why should I?" "Becauseyou inventedhiml Remember?We must have been eight or nine, you and me and|immy Flynn. We inventedthe mosthorriblemonster you could think of-he wasour own personalmonsterand he only wanted to eatyou or me or fimmy-flavored with chocolatesauce.But only on the first of every month, when the report cardswere due. You had to use the magic word to get rid of him." Then Gregorrememberedand wonderedhow he could everhaveforgotten. How many nights had he stayedup in fearful expectationof the Grabber?It had made bad report cardsseemvery unimportant. "ls the solution boiling?" Arnold asked. "Yes,"said Gregor,glancingobedientlyat the stove. "What color is it?"

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sort of greenishblue. No, it's more blue than-" "Right. You can pour it out. I want to run a few more tests,but I think we'vegot it licked." "Got what licked?Would you do a little explaining?" "lt's obvious.The planethasno animal life. There areno ghostsor at least none solid enough to kill off a party of armed men. Hallucination wasthe answer,so I looked for somethingthat would produce it. I found plenty. Asidefrom all the drugson Earth, thereare about a dozen hallucinationforming gasesin the Catalogueof Alien TraceElements.There are depressants,stimulants, stuff that'll make you feel like a geniusor an earthworm or an eagle. This particular one correspondsto Longstead42 in the catalogue.It'sa heavy,transparent,odorlessgas,not harmful physically.It's an imaginationstimulant." "You mean I was just having hallucinations?I tell you-" "Not quite that simple," Arnold cut in. "Longstead42 worksdirectlyon the subconscious.It releasesyour strongestsubconsciousfears, the childhood terrors you've been suppressing.It animatesthem. And that'swhat you've been seeing." "Then there'sactually nothing here?"Gregor asked. "Nothing physical.But the hallucinationsare real enoughto whoeveris having them." Gregor reached over for another bottle of brandy. This called for a celebration. "lt won't be hard to decontaminateGhost !" Arnold went on confidently. "We can cancel the Longstead42 with no difficulty. And thenwe'll be rich, partner!" Gregor suggesteda toast, then thought of something disturbing. "lf they're just hallucinations,what happenedto the settlers?" Arnold wassilentfor a moment. "Well," he saidfinally, "Longsteadmay havea tendencyto stimulate the mortido-the death instinct. The settlers must have gone crazy.Killed each other." 'And no survivors?" "Sure,why not?The lastonesalivecommittedsuicideor diedof wounds. Don't worry aboutit. I'm charteringa ship immediatelyand coming out to run thosetests.Relax. I'll pick you up in a day or two." Gregorsignedoff. He allowedhimself the restof the bottle of brandythat night. It seemedonly fair. The mysteryof GhostV wassolvedand they were going to be rich. Soon fte would be able to hire a man to land on strange planetsfor him, while he sathome and gaveinstructionsover a radio.

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Heawokelatethenextdaywith a hangover. Arnold'sshiphadn'tarrivedyet, sohepacked hisequipment andwaited.Byevening,therewasstill no ship. He satin the doorwayof theprefabandwatcheda gaudysunset,thenwent insideand madedinner. The problemof the settlers still botheredhim, but he determinednot to worry aboutit. Undoubtedlytherewasa logicalanswer. After dinner,he stretched out on a bed. He had barelyclosedhis eyes when he heardsomeonecoughapologetically. "Hello," saidthe Purple-striped Grabber. His own personalhallucinationhad returnedto eat him. "Hello, old chap,"Gregorsaidcheerfully,withouta bit of fearor worry. "Did you eatthe apples?" "Dreadfullysorry.I forgot." "Oh, well." TheGrabber "l brought triedto conceal hisdisappointment. the chocolate sauce."He held up the can. Gregorsmiled."You can leavenow" he said."l know you'rejust a figmentof my imagination. Youcan'thurt me." "I'm notgoingto hurtyou," theGrabber said."l'm justgoingto eatyou." He walkedup to Gregor.Gregorheld his ground,smiling,althoughhe wishedthe Grabberdidn't appearsosolidand undreamlike.The Grabber leanedoverand bit his arm experimentally. He jumpedbackandlookedat his arm. Thereweretoothmarks on it. Bloodwasoozingout-real blood-ftis blood. The colonists had beenbitten,gashed, torn and ripped. At thatmoment,Gregorremembered anexhibitionof hypnotismhehad onceseen.The hypnotisthad told the subjecthe wasputting a lighted cigaretteon his arm. Then he had touchedthe spotwith a pencil. Within seconds, an angryredblisterhadappeared on thesubject's arm, because hebelieved hehadbeenburned.If yoursubconscious thinksyou're dead, you're dead. If it ordersthe stigmataof toothmarks,they are there. He didn't believein the Grabber. But his subconscious did. Gregortriedto run for the door.The Grabbercut him off. It seizedhim in its clawsandbentto reachhis neck. The magicword!What wasit? Gregorshouted," Alphoisto?" "Wrongword,"saidthe Grabber."Please don't squirm." "Regnastikio?" "Nope.Stopwrigglingand it'll be overbeforeyou-" "Voorshpellhappilo!"

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The Grabberlet out a scream of painandreleased him. It boundedhigh into the air andvanished. Gregorcollapsed into a chair.That hadbeenclose.Tooclose.It would be a particularlystupidwayto die-rent by his own death-desiring subconscious, slashed by hisownimagination, killedby hisownconviction. It wasfortunatehe had remembered the word. Now if Arnold would only hurry . . . He hearda low chuckleof amusement. It camefrom theblackness of a half-opened closetdoor,touchingoffan almostforgottenmemory.Hewasnineyearsoldagain,andtheShadowerhis Shadower-was a strange,thin, grislycreaturewho hid in doorways, sleptunderbedsand attackedonly in the dark. "Tirrn out the lights,"the Shadower said. "Not a chance,"Gregorretorted,drawinghisblaster.Aslongasthelights wereon, he wassafe. "You'dbetterturn them off." "No!" "Verywell. Egan,Megan,Degan!" Threelittle creatures scampered into theroom.Th.y racedto thenearest light bulb, fung themselves on it andbeganto gulp hungrily. The room wasgrowingdarker. Gregorblastedat them eachtime theyapproached a light. Glassshattered,but the nimble creatures dartedout of the way. And then Gregorrealizedwhat he had done.The creaturescouldn't actuallyeat light. Imaginationcan'tmakeany impression on inanimate matter.He had imaginedthat the room wasgrowingdarkandHe hadshotout his light bulbs!His owndestructive had subsconscious trickedhim. Now the Shadowersteppedout. Leapingfrom shadowto shadow,he cametowardGregor. The blasterhad no effect.Gregortriedfranticallyto think of the magic word-and terrifiedly rememberedthat no magic word banishedthe Shadower. He backedaway,the Shadower advancing,until he wasstoppedby a packingcase.The Shadower toweredoverhim and Gregorshrankto the floor andclosedhis eyes. His handscamein contactwith something cold.He wasleaningagainst thepackingcaseof toysfor thesettlers' children.And hewasholdinga water pistol. Gregorbrandished it. The Shadower backedaway,eyeingthe weapon with apprehension.

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Quickly, Gregorran to the tap and filled the pistol. He directeda deadly streamof water into the creature. The Shadowerhowled in agonyand vanished. Gregorsmiled tightly and slippedthe empty gun into his belt. A waterpistolwasthe right weaponto useagainstan imaginarymonster.

It wasnearly dawn when the ship landedand Arnold steppedout. Without wastingany time, he setup his tests.By midday,it wasdoneandthe element definitely establishedas Longstead42. He and Gregorpackedup immediately and blastedoff. Once they were in space,Gregor told his partner everything that had happened. "Pretty rough," said Arnold softly,but with deep feeling. Gregorcould smile with modestheroismnow that he wassafelyoff Ghost V "Could have been worse," he said. "How?" "Supposefimmy Flynn were here. There was a kid who could really dream up monsters.Rememberthe Grumbler?" 'All I rememberis the nightmaresit gaveme," Arnold said. They were on their way home. Arnold jotted down some notes for an article entitled "The Death Instinct on Ghost V: An Examination of Subconscious Stimulation,Hysteria,and MassHallucinationin Producing PhysicalStigmata."Then he wentto the control room to setthe autopilot. Gregor threw himself on a couch, determinedto get his first decent night'ssleepsincelandingon GhostV He had barelydozedoffwhen Arnold hurried in, his face pastywith terror. "l think there'ssomethingin the control room," he said. Gregorsat up. "There can't be. We're off the-" There was a low growl from the control room. "Oh, my God!" Arnold gasped.He concentratedfuriously for a few seconds."l know. I left the airlocks open when I landed. We're still breathingGhost V air!" And there, framed in the open doorway,wasan immense gray creature with red spotson its hide. It had an amazing number of arms, legs, tentacles,clawsand teeth, plus two tiny wingson its back.It walkedslowly toward them, mumbling and moaning. They both recognizedit as the Grumbler. Gregordashedforward and slammedthe door in its face. "We shouldbe safein here," he panted."That door is airtight. But how will we pilot the ship?"

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"We won't," Arnold said."We'll haveto trust the robot pilot-unless we can figure out someway of gettingthat thing out of there." They noticedthat a faint smokewasbeginningto seepthroughthe sealed edgesof the door. "What'sthat?" Arnold asked,with a sharpedgeof panic in his voice. Gregorfrowned. "You remember,don't you?The Grumbler can get into any room. There'sno way of keepinghim out." "l don't rememberanything about him," Arnold said. "Does he eat people?" "No. As I recall, he just manglesthem thoroughly." The smokewasbeginningto solidifyinto the immensegrayshapeof the Grumbler. They retreatedinto the next compartmentand sealedthe door. Within seconds,the thin smokewas leakingthrough. "This is ridiculous," Arnold said, biting his lip. "To be hauntedby an imaginarymonster-wait! You'vestill got your waterpistol, haven'tyou?" "Yes,but-" "Give it to me!" Arnold hurried over to a watertank and filled the pistol. The Grumbler had takenform againand waslumbering towardsthem, groaningunhappily. Arnold raked it with a stream of water. The Grumbler kept on advancing. "Now it'sall comingbackto me," Gregorsaid.'A waterpistolnevercould stop the Grumbler." They backedinto the next room and slammedthe door. Behind them was only the bunkroom with nothing behind that but the deadly vacuum of space. Gregorasked,"Isn't theresomethingyou can do about the atmosphere?" Arnold shookhis head. "lt's dissipatingnow. But it takesabout twenty hours for the effectsof Longsteadto wear off." "Haven't you any antidote?" ttNo.

tt

Once again the Grumbler was materializing, and neither silently nor pleasantly. "How can we kill it?" Arnold asked."There must be a way.Magic words? How about a wooden sword?" *l Gregor shook his head. remember the Grumbler now," he said unhappily. "What kills it?" "lt can't be destroyedby waterpistols,cap guns, firecrackers, slingshots, stink bombs,or any otherchildhood weapon.The Grumbler is absolutely unkillable."

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"That Flynn andhis damnedimagination!Why did we haveto talk about him? How do you get rid of it then?" "l told you. You don't. It fust has to go awayof its own accord." The Grumbler wasfull sizenow. Gregorand Arnold hurried into the tiny bunkroom and slammedtheir last door. "Think, Gregor,"Arnold pleaded."No kid inventsa monsterwithout a defenseof some sort. Think!" "The Grumbler cannot be killed," Gregorsaid. The red-spottedmonsterwas taking shapeagain. Gregor thought back over all the midnight horrors he had ever known. He must have done somethingas a child to neutralizethe power of the unknown. And then-almost too late-he remembered.

Under autopilot controls,the ship flashedEarthwardwith the Grumbler as completemaster.He marchedup and down the empty corridorsand floated through steel partitionsinto cabins and cargo compartments,moaning, groaningand cursing becausehe could not get at any victim. The ship reachedthe solarsystemand took up an automaticorbit around the moon. There was Gregorpeeredout cautiously,readyto duck back if necessary. no sinistershuffling, rlo moaning or groaning, no hungry mist seeping under the door or through the walls. 'All clear," h. called out to Arnold. "The Grumbler'sgone." Safewithin the ultimate defenseagainstnight horrors-wrapped in the blanketsthat had coveredtheir heads-they climbed out of their bunks. "l told you the water pistol wouldn't do any good," Gregorsaid. Arnold gavehim a sickgrin andput the pistolin his pocket."l'm hanging on to it. If I evergetmarriedandhavea kid, it'sgoingto be his firstpresent." "Not for any of mine," said Gregor. He patted the bunk affectionately. "You can't beat blanketsover the head for protection."

The Phantomof Kansas In thelate 1970slohn Varley,a colorfuland inventivewriter who wasimmenselyand immediatelypopular, burst into print nearlyat theheightof his talentswith a numberof short stories,the bestof which werecollectedrn The Persistence of Vision. Unfortunatelyfor readers,hisfiction slowedto a bare trickle in the 1980s,whenhe devotedmostof his effortsto revisingscriptsin Hollywood. "The Phantomof Kansas"is from that initial meteorshowerof storiesin which Varley manipulatedtheconventions of SF with the unconscious ease of thenatural. Thestoryis a forestof tiny clustersofextrapo]ative ideassurroundingthe central theme-the nature of identity. Varley eschewstight formal structurein favor of energyand continualwondersand surprises. The storyls sef in thesamefutureas his frrstnovel,The OphiuchiHotline, and a numberof his otherearly stories,a methodborrowed from theearly"FutureHistory"of RobertA.Heinlein. Thisis only the mostprominentof Heinlein'scharacteristics thatled IsaacAsimov in the late 1970sto hail Varlevas "the new Heinlein.'

TiustAssociation. Their I do my bankingattheArchimedes security is first-rate, their service is courteous, and they I I havetheir own medicofacilitythat doesnothingbut take recordings for their vaults. And they had beenrobbedtwo weeksago.

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It wasa breakfor me. I had beenapproachingmy regularrecordingdate and dreadingthe chunk it would takefrom my savings.Then thesethieves break into my bank, steal a huge amount of negotiablepaper, and in an excessof enthusiasmthey destroyall the recordingcubes.Everylastone of them, crunched into tiny shardsof plastic. Of coursethe bank had to replacethem all, and very fast, too. They weren't stupid; it wasn'tthe first time someonehad usedsuch a bank robberyto facilitatea murder. So the bankhad to recordeveryonewho had an account,and do it in a few days.It must have cost them more than the robbery. How that schemeworks, incidentally,is like this. The robbercouldn't care lessabout the money stolen.Mostly it's very risky to passsuch loot, anyway.The programswritten into the money computersthesedaysare enoughto foil all but the most exceptionalrobber.You haveto let that kind of moneylie for on the orderof a centuryto haveany hopeof realizinggains on it. Not impossible,of course,but the policetypeshavefound out thatfew criminals are temperamentallyable to wait that long. The robber'sreal motive in a casewhere memory cubeshavebeen destroyedis murder, not robbery. Every so often someonecomes along who must commit a crime of passion.There areveryfew left open, and murder is the mostawkwardof all. It just doesn'tsatisfythis type to kill someoneand seethem walkingaround six months later.When the victim suesthe killer for alienationof personality-and collectsup to 99 percentof the killer'sworldly goods-it's just twistingthe knife. So if you reallyhate someone,the temptationis greatto reallykill them, foreverandever,justlike in the old days,by destroyingtheir memory cube first, then killing the body. That'swhat the ATA feared,and I had rateda privatebodyguardoverthe last weekaspart of my contract. It wassort of a statussymbol to showyour friends,but otherwiseI hadn't been much impresseduntil I realizedthat ATA wasgoing to payfor my next recordingaspart of their crashprogramto coverall their policy holders.They had contractedto keepme alive forever, so even though I had been scheduledfor a recordingin only three weeks they had to pay for this one. The courtshad ruled that a lost or damaged cube must be replacedwith all possiblespeed. So I should have been very happy. I wasn't, but tried to be brave. I wasshowninto the recordingroom with no delayand told to strip and lie on the table.The medico, a man who lookedlike someoneI might havemet severaldecadesago,busiedhimself with his equipmentasI tried to control my breathing. I wasgrateful when he pluggedthe computer lead into my occipital socketand turned off my motor control. Now I didn't have to worry about whetherto askif I knew him or not. As I grow older, I find that's

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more of a problem. I must have met twenty thousandpeopleby now and talked to them long enough to make an impression.It getsconfusing. He removedthe top of my headand preparedto takea multiholo picture me, of a chemicalanalogof everythingI eversawor thoughtor remembered or iust vaguely dreamed. It was a blessedrelief when I slid over into unconsciousness. The coolnessand sheenof stainless steelbeneathmy fingertips.There is the smell of isopropyl alcohol, and the hint of acetone. Themedicobshop.Childhood memoriestumble overme, triggeredby the smells. Excitement, change, my mother standingby while the medico carvesawaymy broken finger to replaceit with a pink new one. I lie in the darknessand remember. And there is light, a hurting light from nowhere,and I feel my pupil contract as the only movement in my entire body. "She'sin," I hear.But I'm not, not really.I'm justlying herein the blessed dark, unable to move. It comesin a rush, the repossession of my body.I traveldown the endless nervesto bang up hard againstthe insidesof my handsand feet, to whirl throughthe poolsof my nipplesand tingle in my lips and nose.Now I'm in. I satup quickly into the restrainingarmsof the medico. I struggledfor a secondbefore I was able to relax. My fingerswere buzzing and cramped with the clamminessof hyperventilation. "Whew," I said, putting my head in my hands. "Bad dream. I thought . . ." I looked around me and sawthat I was naked on the steel-toppedtable with severalworried faceslooking at me from all sides.I wanted to retreat into the darknessagain and let my insidessettledown. I saw my mother's face, blinked, and failed to make it disappear. "Carnival?" I askedher ghost. "Right here,Fox," shesaid,and took me in her arms.It wasawkwardand unsatisfyingwith her standingon the foor and me on the table.There were wires trailing from my body. But the comfort was needed.I didn't know where I was. With a chemical rush as precipitousas the one just before I awoke, the people solidified around me. "She'sall right now," the medicosaid,turning from his instruments.He smiledimpersonallyat me ashe beganremovingthe wiresfrom my head.I did not smileback.I knewwhereI wasnow, just assurelyasI had everknown anything. I rememberedcoming in here only hours before. But I knew it had been more than a few hours. I've read about it: the disorientationwhen a new body is awakenedwith transplantedmemories. And my motherwouldn't be hereunlesssomethinghad gonebadlywrong.

I had died. I wasgivena mild sedative,help in dressing,and my mother'sarm to lead me down plush-carpetedhallwaysto the office of the bank president.I was still not fully awake.The halls wereachingly quiet but for the brush of our feet acrossthe wine-coloredrug. I felt like the pressurewas fluctuating wildly, leavingmy earspopped and muffled. I couldn't seetoo far away.I wasgratefulto leavethe vanishingpoints in the hall for the paneledbrowns of wood veneerand the coolnessand echoesof a white marble floor. The bank president,Mt. Leander,showedus to our seats.I sankinto the purplevelvetandlet it wraparoundme. Leanderpulled up a chair facingus and offeredus drinks. I declined. My head wasswimming alreadyand I knew I'd have to pay attention. Leanderfiddledwith a dossieron his desk.Mine, I imagined.It had been freshlyprintedout from the terminal at his right hand. I'd met him briefy before;he wasa pleasantsortof person,chosenfor this public-relationsjob for his willingnessto wearthe sortof old-manbodythat inspiresconfidence and trust. He seemedto be about sixty-five. He was probably more like twenty. It seemedthat he wasnevergoing to get aroundto the briefing so I askeda question.One that was very important to me at the moment. "What's the date?" 'And "lt's the month of November," he said, ponderously. the year is

)42." I had been dead for two and a hali years. "Listen," I said,"I don't wantto takeup any moreof your time. Youmust havea brochureyou can giveme to bring me up to date.If you'll justhand it over, I'll be on my way. Oh, and thank you for your concern." He wavedhis hand at me as I startedto rise. "l would appreciateit if you stayeda bit longer.Yoursis an unusualcase, Ms. Fox. I . . . well, it'sneverhappenedin the history of the Archimedes " Tiust Association. "Yes?" "You see,you've died, asyou figured out soon after we woke you. What you couldn't haveknown is that you'vedied morethan oncesinceyour last recording." "More than once?" So it wasn'tsuch a smart question;so what was I supposedto ask? "Three times." "Three?" "Yes, three separatetimes. We suspectmurder."

Theroomwasperfectly silentfora while.^,,J::tr." thatdrink.Hepouredit for me,andI drained it.

,nojr;-.

"Perhapsyour mothershouldtell you moreaboutit," Leandersuggested. "She'sbeen closer to the situation. I was only made awareof it recentlv. Carnival?"

I found my way back to my apartmentin a sort of daze.By the time I had settledin againthe drug waswearingoffand I couldfacemy situationwith a clear head. But my skin wascrawling. Listening in the third person to things you've done is not the most pleasantthing. I decided it was time to face some facts that all of us, including myself,do not like to think about.The firstorderof businesswas to recognizethat the things that weredone by thosethree previouspeople werenot doneby me.l wasa new person,fourth in the line of succession. I had many things in common with the previousincarnations,including all my memoriesup to that day I surrenderedmyselfto the memory recording machine. But the me of that time and placehad been killed. Shelastedlongerthan the others.Almost ayea\ Carnivalhad said.Then her body was found at the bottom of Hadley Rille. It was an appropriate placefor her to die; both sheand myselfliked to go hiking out on the surface for purposesof inspiration. Murder wasnot suspected that time. The bank, upon hearingof myno, her-death, starteda clone from the tissuesampleI had left with my recording.Six lunationslater,a copyof me wasinfusedwith my memories and told that she had just died. She had been shaken,but seemedto be adjustingwell when she, too, waskilled. This time therewasmuch suspicion.Not only had shesurvivedfor less than a lunation after her reincarnation,but the circumstanceswere unusual. She had been blown to piecesin a tube-train explosion.She had been the only passengerin a two-seatcapsule.The explosionhad been causedby a homemadebomb. There was still the possibilitythat it was a random act, possiblyby political terrorists.The third copy of me had not thought so. I don't know why. That is the most maddeningthing about memory recording:being unable to profit by the experiencesof your former selves.Each time I was killed, it moved me back to squareone, the day I was recorded. But Fox 3 had reasonto be paranoid. Shetook extraordinaryprecautions to stayalive.More specifically,shetried to preventcircumstances that could lead to her murder. It workedfor five lunations. Shedied asthe result of a

fight, that much wascertain. It wasa very violent fight, with blood all over the apartment. The police at first thought she must have fatally iniured her attacker,but analysisshowedall the blood to have come from her body. So where did that leaveme, Fox 4? An hour's careful thought left the in murderpicturegloomyindeed.Consider:eachtime my killer succeeded ing me, he or shelearnedmore about me. My killer must be an experton Foxesby now, knowing things about me that I myselfdo not know. Such as how I handle myself in a fight. I gritted my teeth when I thought of that. Carnival told me that Fox 3, the canniestof the lot, had takenlessonsin selfdefense.Karate,I think shesaid.Did I havethe benefitof it? Of coursenot. If I wantedto defendmyself I had to startall over, becausethoseskills died with Fox 3. werewith my killer. The killer startedoffwith the No, all the advantages advantageof surprise-since I had no notion of who it was-and learned more about me everytime he or she succeededin killing me. What to do? I didn't evenknow whereto start. I ran through everyoneI knew, looking for an enemy, someonewho hated me enough to kill me againand again.I could find no one. Most likely it wassomeoneFox I had met during that year she lived after the recording. The only answerI could comeup with wasemigration.fustpull up stakes and go to Mercury, or Mars, or evenPluto. But would that guaranteemy safety?My killer seemedto be an uncommonly persistentPerson.No, I'd have to face it here. where at least I knew the turf.

It wasthe next daybeforeI realizedthe extentof my loss.I had been robbed of an entire symphony. For the lastthirty yearsI had beenan Environmentalist.I had justdrifted into it while it was still an infant art form. I had been in chargeof the weathermachinesat the Ti'ansvaaldisneyland,which wasnew at the time and the biggestand most modern of all the environmentalparksin Luna. A few of us had startedtinkering with the weatherprograms,first for our own amusement.Later we invited friends to watch the stormsand sunsetswe concocted.Beforewe knew it, friendswere inviting friendsand the Tfansvaal people began selling tickets. I graduallymadea namefor myself,andfound I could makemoremoney being an artistthan being an engineer.At the time of my last recordingI had been one of the top three Environmentalistson Luna. Then Fox I went on to composeLiquid lce. From what I read in the reviews,two yearsafter the fact, it wasseenas the high point of the art to

in thePennsylva.,, O,*;;;;" ,"J; date.It hadbeenstaged made hundred It me rich. thousand. three The moneywasstill in my bankaccount,but thememoryof creatingthe symphonywasforeverlost. And it mattered. Fox I had writtenit, from beginningto end.Oh, I recalledhavinghad somevagueideasof a wintercomposition,thingsI'd think aboutlaterand put together.But thewholecreativeprocess hadgoneon in theheadof that otherpersonwho had beenkilled. How is a personsupposedto copewith that?For one bitter momentI my memorycube.If I callingthebankandhavingthemdestroy considered The thoughtof a Fox5 risingfrom diedthistime, I'd ratherdiecompletely. It wasalmosttoo muchto bear.Shewouldlackeverything that table SofarI'd hadlittletimeto thatFoxI, 2, 3,andme,Fox4, hadexperienced. add to the personalitywe all shared,but eventhe bad timesare worth saving. It waseitherthat, or havea newrecordingmadeeveryday.I calledthe bank,did somefiguring,andfoundthat I wasn'twealthyenoughto afford takenoncea weekI that.Butit wasworthexploring.If I hada newrecording could keepat it for abouta yearbeforeI ran out of money. I decidedI'd do it, for aslongasI could.And to makesurethatno future Foxwouldeverhaveto gothroughthisagain,I'd haveonemadetoday.Fox 5, if shewaseverborn, wouldbe born knowingat leastasmuchasI knew now.

I felt betteraftertherecordingwasmade.I foundthatI no longerfearedthe that medico's office.That fearcomesfrom the commonmisapprehension onewill wakeup from therecordingto discover thatonehasdied.It'sa silly thingto believe,but it comesfromthedistaste weall havefor reallylooking at the facts. you'llseethatthethree-dimenIf you'llconsider humanconsciousness, sionalcross-section of a human beingthat is you canonly risefrom that tableand go aboutyour business. It can happenno otherway.Human is linear,alonga timelinethathasa beginningandan end.If consciousness you die aftera recording,you die, foreverandwith no reprieve.It doesn't matterthat a recordingof you existsand that a new personwith your memories to a certainpoint canbecreated; youaredead.Lookedat from a fourth-dimensional viewpoint,what memoryrecordingdoesis to grafta newpersonontoyourlifelineat a point in thepast.Youdo not retracethat lifelineandmagicallybecomethatnewperson.I, Fox4, wasonly a relative of thatlong-agopersonwhohadhadhermemories recorded. And if I died,

it wasforever.Fox 5 would awakenwith my memoriesto date, but I would be no part of her. She would be on her own. Why do we do it? I honestlydon't know.I supposethat the human urge to live foreveris so strong that we'll graspat even the most unsatisfactory substitute.At onetime peoplehad themselves frozenwhen theydied, in the hope of being thawedout in a future when humans knew how to reverse death.Look at the GreatPyramidin the Egyptdisneylandif you want to see the sheersize of that urge. Sowe live our livesin pieces.I could know,for whatevergoodit would do me, that thousandsof yearsfrom now a beingwould still existwho would be at leastpartly me. Shewould rememberexactlythe samethings I rememberedof her childhood;the trip to Archimedes,her first sex change,her lovers,her hurts and her happiness.If I had anotherrecordingtaken,she would rememberthinking the thoughtsI wasthinking now.And shewould probablystill be stringingchunksof experienceonto her life, yearby year. Each time shehad a new recording,that much more of her life wassafefor all time. There wasa certaincomfort in knowing that my life wassafeup until a few hours ago, when the recordingwas made. Having thought all that out, I found myself fiercelydeterminedto never let it happenagain.I beganto hate my killer with an intensityI had never experienced.I wantedto storm out of the apartmentand beatmy killer to death with a blunt instrument. I swallowedthat emotion with difficulty. It was exactlywhat the killer would be looking for. I had to rememberthat the killer knew what my first reactionwould be. I had to behavein a waythat he or shewould not expect. But what way was that? I calledthe police departmentand met with the detectivewho had my case.Her name was Isadora,and she had somegood advice. "You'renot goingto like it, if I can judgefrom pastexperience,"shesaid. "The last time I proposedit to you, you rejectedit out of hand." I knewI'd haveto get usedto this. Peoplewould alwaysbe telling me what I had done,what I had saidto them. I controlledmy angerand askedher to go on. "It's simply to stayput. I know you think you're a detective,but your predecessor provedpretty well that you are not. If you stir out of that door you'll be nailed. This guy knowsyou inside and out, and he'll get you. Count on it. " "He? You know somethingabout him, then?" "Sorry,you'll haveto bearwith me. I've told you partsof this casetwice already;soit'shard to rememberwhat you don't know.Yes,we do know he'sa male. Or was, six months ago, when you had your big fight with him.

-"; Severatwitnessesreporteda man with bloor-J:::t:",;" only havebeen your killer." "Then you're on his trail?" She sighed, and I knew she was going over old ground again. "No, and you'veprovedagain that you're not a detective.Your detective lore comes from reading old novels. It's not a glamorous enough iob nowadaysto rate fictional heroesand such, so most peopledon't know the kind of work we do. Knowing that the killer wasa man when he lastknocked you off meansnothing to us. He could havebought a Change the very next day. You're probably wondering if we have fingerprintsof him, right?" I gritted my teeth. Everyonehad the advantageover me. It wasobviousI had askedsomethinglike that the lasttime I spokewith this woman. And I had been thinking of it. "No," I said."Becausehe could changethoseaseasilyashis sex,right?" "Right. Easier.The only positive meansof identification today is genotyping, and he wasn'tcooperativeenoughto leaveany of him behind when he killed you. He must havebeen a real brute, to be able to inflict asmuch damageon you ashe did and not evenbe cut himself. You werearmedwith a knife. Nota drop of his blood wasfound atthe sceneof the murder." "Then how do you go about finding him?" "Fox, I'd have to take you through severalcollege coursesto begin to explain our methodsto you. And I'll evenadmit that they'renot very good. Police work has not kept up with scienceover the last century. There are many things availableto the modern criminal that make our job more difficult than you'd imagine.We havehopesof catchinghim within about four lunations, though, if you'll stayput and stop chasinghim." "Why four months?" "We tracehim by computer.We havevery exactingprogramsthat we run when we'reafter a guy like this. It'sour one major weapon.Given time, we can run to ground about sixty percentof the criminals." "Sixty percent?"I squawked."ls that supposedto encourageme? Especially when you're dealing with a masterlike my killer seemsto be?" She shookher head. "He'snot a master.He'sonly determined.And that worksagainsthim, not for him. The moresingle-mindedlyhe pursuesyou, the surerwe are of catching him when he makesa slip. That sixty percent figure is overall crime; on murder, the rate is nine$-eight. It's a crime of passion,usuallydoneby an amateur.The prosseeno percentage in it, and they'reright. The penalty is so steepit can make a pauperof you, and your victim is back on the streetswhile you're still in court." I thought that over,and found it made me feel better.My killer wasnot a criminal mastermind.I wasnot being hunted by Fu Manchu or Professor

Moriarty.He wasonly a personlike myself,newto this business.Something Fox I did had madehim sufficientlyangryto riskfinancialruin to stalkand kill me. It scaledhim down to human dimensions. "So now you'reall readyto go out and get him?" Isadorasneered.I guess my thoughtswerewritten on my face.That, or shewasconsultingher script of our previousconversations. "Why not?" I asked. "Because,like I said, he'll get you. He might not be a pro but he'san experton you. He knowshow you'll jump. One thing he thinks he knowsis that you won't takemy advice.He might be right outsideyour door,waiting for you to finish this conversationlike you did last time around. The last time, he wasn'tthere. This time he might be." It soberedme. I glancednervouslyat my door, which wasguardedby eight differentsecuritysystemsbought by Fox 3. "Maybe you're right. So you want me just to stayhere. For how long?" "Howeverlong it takes.It may be a year.That four-lunation figure is the high point on a computercurve. It tapersoff to a virtual certaintyin just over a yeaL" "Why didn't I stayhere the last time?" 'A combinationof foolishbravery,hatred,and a fear of boredom." She searchedmy eyes,trying to find the wordsthat would make me take the advicethat Fox 3 had fatally refused."l understandyou're an artist," she wenton. "Why can'tyou just . . . well, whateverit is artistsdo when they're thinking up a new composition?Can't you work herein your apartment?" How could I tell her that inspirationwasn'tjustsomethingI could turn on at will? Weathersculpture is a tenuous discipline. The visualizationis difficult; you can't just try out a new idea the way you can with a song,by picking it out on a piano or guitar.You can run a computersimulation,but you never really know what you have until the tapes are run into the machinesand you standout therein the open field and watch the stormtake shapearound you. And you don't get any practicesessions. It'sexpensive. I've alwaysneededlong walks on the surface.My competitorscan't understandwhy. They go for strollsthrough the variousparks,usually the onewherethe piecewill be performed.I do that, too. You haveto, to get the lay of the land. A computer can tell you what it looks like in terms of thermoclinesand updraftsand pocketecologies,but you haveto reallygo thereand feel the land, tastethe air, smell the trees,beforeyou can compose a storm or even a summer shower.It has to be a part of the land. But my inspirationcomesfrom the dry, cold, airlesssurfacethat so few Lunariansreallylike. I'm not a burrower;I've neverlovedthe corridors,as so many of my friendsprofessto do. I think I seethe blacksky and harsh

rea'y-.:,:il ffiH" I never afeeling canvas, asablank terrain the land is lush and variedand there'salwayssomeweatherin progressevenif it's only partly cloudy and warm. Could I composewithout thoselong, solitarywalks? Run that through again: could I afford not to? 'All right, I'll stayinsidelike a good girl."

I was in luck. What could have been an endlesspurgatory turned into creative frenzy such as I had neverexperienced.My frustrationsat being locked in my apartment translatedthemselvesinto grand sweepsof tornadoesand thunderheads.I beganwriting my masterpiece.The working title wasAConflagration of Cyclones.That'show angryI was.My agentlater talked me into shortening it to a tasteful Cyclone, but it was always a conflagrationto me. Soon I had managedvirtually to forget about my killer. I never did completely;after all, I neededthe thought of him to fog me onward, to serveas the canvason which to paint my hatred. I did have one awful thought, early on, and I brought it up to Isadora. "lt strikesme," I said, "that what you'vebuilt hereis the bettermousetrap, and I'm the hunk of cheese." "You'vegot the essenceof it," sheagreed. "l find I don't care for the role of bait." "Why not? Are you scared?" I hesitated,but what the hell did I have to be ashamedof? "Yeah. I guessI am. What can you tell me to make me stayhere when I could be doing what all my instinctsaretelling me to do, which is run like hell?" "That'sa fair question.This is the ideal situation,asfar asthe police are concerned.We have the victim in a place that can be watchedperfectly safely,and we havethe killer on the loose. Furthermore,this is an obsessed killer, one who cannot stayawayfrom you forever.Long beforehe is ableto make a strike at you we should pick him up ashe scoutsout waysto reach you." 'Are there ways?" "No. An unqualifiedno. Any oneof thosedeviceson your door would be enough to keephim out. Beyondthat, your food and water is being tested before it getsto you. Those are extremelyremote possibilitiessince we're convincedthat your killer wishesto disposeof your body completely,to kill you for good.Poisoningis no goodto him. We'd just startyou up again.But if we can't find at leasta pieceof your body,the law forbidsus to reviveyou."

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"What about bombs?" "The corridor outside your apartment is being watched. It would take quite a largebomb to blow out your door, and gettinga bomb that sizein placewould not be possiblein the time he would have.Relax,Fox. We've thought of everything.You'resafe." She rang off, and I called up the Central Computer. "CC," I said, to get it on-line, "can you tell me how you go about catchingkillers?" 'Are you talkingaboutkillersin general,or the one you havea particular interestin?" "What do you think? I don't completelybelievethat detective.What I want to know from you is what can I do to help?" "There is little you can do," the CC said."While I myself,in the senseof the Central or controlling Lunar Computer,do not handlethe apprehension of criminals, I act in a supervisorycapacityto severalsatellitecomputers.They usea complexnumber theory,correlatedwith the daily input from all my terminals.The averagepersonon Luna dealswith me on the orderof twentytimes per day,many of thesetransactionsinvolving a routine epidermalsamplefor positivegenalysis.By matching thesetransactions with the time and place they occurred, I am able to constructa dynamic model of what hasoccurred,what possiblycould haveoccurred,and what cannothaveoccurred.With suitableperipheralprogramsI can refinethis model to a closedegreeof accuracy.For instance,at the time of your murder I wasable to assigna low probabilityof their being responsibleto ninetynine point nine threepercentof all humans on Luna. This left me with a pool of two hundred ten thousandpeoplewho might havehad a hand in it. This is merely from data placing each personat a particular place at a particulartime. Furtherweightingof such factorsas possiblemotive narrowed the range of prime suspects.Do you wish me to go on?" "No, I think I get the picture. Each time I was killed you must have narrowed it more. How many suspectsare left?" "You are not phrasingthe questioncorrectly.As implied in my original statement,all residentsof Luna are still suspects.But each has been assigneda probability,rangingfrom a very largegroup with a valueof ten to the minus-twenty-seventh powerto twentyindividualswith probabilitiesof thirteen percent." The more I thought about that, the lessI liked it. "None of those sound to me like what you'd call a prime suspect." 'Alas, no. This is a very intriguing case,I must say." "l'm glad you think so." "Yes,"it said, obliviousas usual to sarcasm."l may haveto havesome

programs rewritten. never gone We've thisfar-,,r:r:;.l,}l:

," ,.1ul'1. t

ninety percentrating to the Grand fury Data Bank." "Then Isadorais feedingme a line, right?Shedoesn'thaveanythingto go on?" "Not strictlytrue. Shehasan analysis,a curve,that placesthe probability of capture as near certainty within one year." "You gaveher that estimate,didn't you?" "Of course." "Then what the hell doesshedo?Listen, I'll tell you right now, I don't feel goodabout putting my fatein her hands.I think this iob of detectiveis just a trumped-up featherbed.Isn't that right?" "The privacy laws forbid me to expressan opinion about the worth, performance,or intelligenceof a human citizen. But I can give you a comparison.Would you entrust the constructionof your symphoniesto a computer alone?Would you sign your name to a work that wasgenerated entirely by me?" "l seeyour point." "Exactly. Without a computer you'd nevercalculate all the factorsyou needfor a symphony.But I do not write them. It is your creativesparkthat but of course makesthe wheelsturn. Incidentally, I told your predecessor you don't rememberit, I liked your Liquid lce tremendously.It wasa real pleasureto work with you on it. " "Thanks.I wish I could saythe same."I signedoff, feelingno betterthan when I began the interface. The mention of Liquid lcehad me seethingagain. Robbed!Violated! I'd ratherhavebeen gang-rapedby chimpanzeesthan havethe memory stolen from me. I had punchedup the films of Liquid lce andthey werebeautiful. Stunning, and I could sayit without conceitbecauseI had not written it.

My life becamevery simple. I worked-trvelve and fourteen hours a day sometimes-ate, slept,and workedsomemore. Thice a day I put in onehour learningto fight overthe holovision.It wasall highly theoretical,of course, but it had value. It kept me in shapeand gave me a senseof confidence. For the first time in my life I got a goodlook at what my body would have been with no tampering.I wasborn female,but Carnival wantedto raise me asa boy soshehad me Changedwhen I wastwo hoursold. It'sanotherof the contradictionsin her that usedto infuriateme so much but which, asI got older, I came to love. I mean, why go to all the pain and trouble of bringing a child to term and giving birth naturally, all from a professed

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dislikeof tampering-and then turn aroundand refuseto acceptthe results of nature'slottery?I havedecidedthat it'sa resultof her age.She'salmosttwo hundred by now,which puts her childhood back in the daysbeforeChanging. In thosedays-l've neverunderstoodwhy-there wasa predilectionfor male children. I think she neverreally shedit. At any rate, I spentmy childhood male. When I got my first Change, I pickedmy own body design.No*, in a six-lunation-oldclone body which naturallyreflectedmy actualgeneticstructure,I waspleasedto seethat my first female body design had not been far from the truth. I wasshort, with small breastsand an undistinguishedbody.But my face was nice. Cute, I would say.I liked the nose. The age of the accelerated clone body was about seventeenyears;perhapsthe nose would lose its upturn in a few yearsof naturalgrowth,but I hopednot. If it did, I'd haveit put back. Once a week,I had a recordingmade.It wasthe only time I sawpeoplein the flesh.Carnival, Leander,Isadora,anda medicowould enterandstayfor a while after it was made. It took them an hour each way to get past the securitydevices.I admit it mademe feela little moresecureto seehow long it took even my friends to get into my apartment. It was like an invisible fortressoutside my door. The better to lure you into my parlor, killer! I workedwith the CC asI neverhad before.We wrote new programsthat producedfour-dimensionalmodelsin my viewerunlike anything we had ever done. The CC knew the stage-which was to be the Kansasdisneyland-and I knew the storm. Since I couldn't walk on the stagebeforethe concertthis time I had to rely on the CC to reconstructit for me in the holo tank. Nothing makesme feel more godlike. Even watching it in the threemetertank I felt thirty meterstall with lightning in my hair and a crown of shimmeringfrost.I walkedthroughthe Kansasautumn, the brown, rolling, featurelessprairie beforethe red or white man came. It wasthe way the real Kansaslooked now under the rule of the Invaders,who had ripped up the barbedwire, smoothedoverthe furrows,dismantledthe citiesand railroads, and let the buffalo roam once more. There wasa logisticalproblem I had neverfacedbefore.I intendedto use the buffalo instead of having them kept out of the way. I needed the thunderinghoovesof a stampede;it wasvery much a part of the environment I was creating.How to do it without killing animals? The disneylandmanagementwouldn't allow any of their livestockto be injured aspartofa performance.Thatwasfine with me;my stomachturned at the very thought. Art is one thing, but life is anotherand I will not kill unlessto savemyself. But the Kansasdisneylandhas two million headof

;: ," ;" twiste.r;:;-" up to twenty-five buffaloandI envisioned keepthe two separate? profilesthatwere With subtlety,I found.The CC hadbuffalobehavioral more I've had occasion and everything, veryreliable.The damnCC stores spot thanonceto bethankfulfor it. Wecouldpositiontheherdsata selected wouldneverbe totally andletthetwisterslooseabovethem.The tornadoes evenwhen handmade-butwe underour control-they are capricious them.The herdprofile in steering couldrelyon a hard90 percentaccuracy against points, asinsurance and out to two decimal usable weworkedup was groupsof flashbombsto turn theherdif we installedseveral theunforeseen it headedinto danger. It's an endlessseriesof details.Where doesthe lightning strike,for instance?On a flat, gently rolling plain, the natural accumulationof electricchargecan be just aboutanywhere.We had to be surewe could that shapeit the waywe wanted,by buryingfive hundredaccumulators flashon cue.And to the right spot.The aircouldtriggeran air-to-ground to-air are harder.And the ball lightning-oh, brother.But we found we couldguideit prettywell with buriedwirescarryingan electriccurrent. on Thereweregoingto be rangefires-so checkwith the management andkeepthebuffaloaway placesthatareduefor a controlledburn anyway, from there, too; and be sure the smokewould not blow over into the audienceand spoilthe viewor into the herdand panic them. . . . But it wasgoingto be glorious.

Six lunationsrolledby. Six lunations!I77.18313meansolardays! I discovered thatfigureduringa longperiodof broodingwhenI calledup Which, accordingto Isadora,was all sortsof dataon the investigation. goingwell. I knewbetter.The CC hasitsfaultsbut shadingdatais not oneof them. Ask it what the figuresareand it printsthem out in tricolor. Here's some:probabilityof a captureby the originalcurve,93 percent. remaining:nine. Highestprobabilityof Totalnumberof viablesuspects 3.9 percent.That wasCarnival.The otherswerealso thosenine possibles: theyhadhadtheopportunityat closefriends,andweretheresolelybecause darednotspeculate-atleastnotaloud,and all threemurders.EvenIsadora to me-about whetherany of them had a motive. it with the CC. I discussed "l know,Fox,I know,"it replied,with theclosest to mechanical approach despairI haveeverheard. "ls that all you can say?"

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"No. As it happens,I'm pursuingthe otherpossibility:that it wasa ghost who killed you." 'Are you serious?" "Yes.The term 'ghost'coversall illegalbeings.I estimatethereto be on the orderof two hundredof them existingoutsidelegalsanctionson Luna. These are executedcriminals with their right to life officially revoked, unauthorizedchildren neverregistered,and somesuspected artificial mutants.Thoselastarethe resultof proscribedexperiments with human DNA. All theseconditionsarehard to concealfor any lengthof time, and I round up a few every year." "What do you do with them?" "They have no right to life. I must executethem when I find them. " "You do it? That'snot just a figure of speech?" "That'sright. I do it. It'sa iob humansfind distasteful.I nevercould keep the position filled, so I assumedit myself." That didn't sit right with me. There is an atavisticstreakin me that doesn'tlike to turn overthe completefunctioningof societyto machines.I get it from my mother, who goesfor yearsat a time not deigning to speakto the CC. "So you think someonelike that may be after me. Why?" "There is insufficient data for a meaningful answer.'Why' has always beena tough questionfor me. I can operateonly on the parametersfed into me when I'm dealing with human motivation, and I suspectthat the parametersare not complete.I'm constantlybeing surprised." "Thank goodnessfor that." But this time, I could havewishedthe CC knew a little more about human behavior. So I wasbeing hunted by a spook.It didn't do anythingfor my peaceof mind. I triedto think of how sucha personcould existin this card-fileworld we live in. A technologicalrat, smarterthan the computers,ableto fit into the cracksand holesin the integratedcircuits. Where were thosecracks?I couldn't find them. When I thoughtof the checksand safeguards all around us, the voluntarygenalysiswe submit to everytime we spendmoneyor take a tube or closea businessdeal or interfacewith the computer . . . People usedto sign their namesmany times a day,or so I've heard. No*, we scrape off a bit of dead skin from our palms. It's damn hard to fake. But how do you catch a phantom?I wasfacing life as a recluseif this murdererwas really so determinedthat I die. That conclusioncameat a badtime. I had finishedCyclone,and to relax I had called up the films of some of the other performancesduring my absencefrom the art scene. I never should have done that.

-tr::.T.:;.,Ju,.=J, elegance wasout.understated Flashiness

t

read was very flattering to my Liquid lce. I quote: "ln this pieceFoxhasclosedthe book on the blood and thunder schoolof Environmentalism.This powerfulstatementsumsup the things that can be achievedby sheermagnitudeand overwhelmingdrama. The displaysof the future will be concernedwith the gentlenuanceof dusk, the elusivebreath of a summer breeze.Fox is the Tchaikovskyof Environmentalism,the last greatromantic who paintson a broadcanvas.Whether shecan adiustto the new more thoughdul stylesthat are evolvingin the work of fanus, or Pym, or even some of the ambiguous abstractionswe have seenfrom Tyleber, remainsto be seen.Nothing will detractfrom the sublime glory of Liquid Ice, of course, but the time is here . . ." and so forth and thank-you for nothing. For an awful moment I thought I had a beautiful dinosauron my hands. It can happen, and the hazards are pronounced after a reincarnation. Advancingtechnology,fashion,frontiers,taste,or moralscan makethe best of us obsoleteovernight. Was everyonecontemplatinggentle springtimes now, after my long sleep?Werethe cool, sweetzephyrsof a summer'snight the only thing that had meaning now? A panicky call to my agentdispelledthat quickly enough. As usual, the pronouncementsof the critics had gone aheadof the public taste.I'm not knockingcritics;that'stheir function, ifyou concedethey havea function: to chart a courseinto unexploredterritory.They must stayat the leadingedge of the innovative artistic evolution, they must seewhat everyonewill be seeingin a few years'time. Meanwhile, the public wasstill eatingup the I have alwaysspecializedin. I ran the risk of being type of superspectacle labeled a dinosaur myself, but I found the prospectdid not worry me. I became an artist through the back door, just like the tinkerers in early twentieth-centuryHollywood. BeforeI wasdiscovered,I had iust been an environmentalengineerhaving a good time. That'snot to sayI don't take my art seriously.I do sweatover it, investing inspiration and perspirationin about the classicEdison proportions.But I don't take the critics too seriously,especiallywhen they're not enunciating the public taste.JustbecauseBeethovendoesn'tsoundlike currently popular art doesn'tmean his music is worthless. I found myself thinking back to the times before Environmentalism made such a splash.Back then we were carefree.We had grandiosebull talkingof what we would do if only we weregivenan environment sessions, largeenough.We spentmonthsroughing out the programsfor somethingto be called Typhoon!It wasa hurricane in a bottle, and the bottle would have

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to be five hundred kilometerswide. Such a bottle still doesnot exist,but when it'sbuilt somefool will stagethe show.Maybe me. The good old days neverdie, you know. So my agentmadea deal with the ownerof the Kansasdisr-reyland. The ownerhad known that I wasworkingon somethingfor his place,but I'd not talked to him about it. The terms were generous.My agent displayedthe profit reportonLiquid lce, which wasstill playingyearlyto packedhousesin Pennsylvania.I got a straightfifty percentof the gate, with costsof the installationand computertime to be sharedbetweenme and the disneyland. I stoodto make about five million Lunar marks. And I wasrobbedagain.Not killed this time, but robbedof the chanceto go into Kansasand supervisethe installationof the equipment.I clashed mightily with Isadoraand would havestormedout on my own, armedwith not so much as a nail file, if not for a pleadingvisit from Carnival. So I backeddown this once and sat at home, going there only by holographic projection.I plungedinto self-doubt.After all, I hadn't evenfelt the Kansas sodbeneathmy barefeetthis time. I hadn't beentherein the fleshfor over three years.My usual method beforeI evenconceivea project is to spenda weekor two iust wanderingnakedthrough the park, gettingthe feel of it through my skin and noseand thosesensesthat don't evenhavea name. It took the CC three hours of gentleargumentto convinceme againthat the modelswe had written wereaccurateto sevendecimal places.They were perfect. An action orderedup on the computer model would be a perfect analogof the realactionin Kansas.The CC saidI could makequite a bit of money just renting the softwareto other artists.

The day of the premiereof Cyclonefound me still in my apartment. But I was on the way out. Small as I am, I somehowmanagedto struggleout that door with Carnival, Isadora,Leander,and my agentpulling on my elbows. I was not going to watch the performanceon the tube. I arrived early, surroundedby my impromptu bodyguard. The sky matchedmy mind, gray,overcast,and slightlyfearful. It broodedoverus, and I felt moreandmorelike a sacrificiallamb mountingsomesomberaltar. But it was a magnificentstageto die upon. The Kansasdisneylandis oneof the newerones,and oneof the largest.It is a hollowed-outcylindertwenty kilometersbeneathClavius.It measures two hundred and fifty kilometersin diameterand is five kilometershigh. The rim is artfully disguisedto blendinto the blue sky.When you arehalf a kilometerfrom the rim, the illusion fails;otherwise,you might aswell be

::-" '*:-standingbackon old Earth. The curvature "r;oJ], Old Earth, sothe horizon is terrifyinglyfar away.Only the gravityis Lunar. possibilities had been Kansaswasbuilt aftermostof the morespectacular beneath Kenya, planet. There was exhausted,either on Luna or another Mare Moscoviense;Him alaya,also on the Farside;Amazon, under old Tycho;Pennsylvania,Sahara,Pacific,Mekong, Tiansylvania.There were thirty disneylandsunder the inhabited planetsand satellitesof the solar systemthe last time I counted. Kansasis certainly the leastinterestingtopographically.It's flat, almost monotonous.But it wasperfectfor what I wantedto do. What artist really choosesto paint on a canvasthat'salreadybeencoveredwith pictures?Well, I have, for one. But for the frame of mind I wasin when I wrote Cycloneit of the wide-openskyand the brownsand yellowsof had to be the starkness the rolling terrain. It was the place where Dorothy departedfor Oz. The home of the black twister. I wasgreetedwarmly by Pym and |anus, old friendshereto seewhat the grandmasterwasup to. Or so I fattered myself. More likely they werehere to seethe old lady make a fool of herself.Very few otherswere able to get closeto me. My shieldof high shoulderswasvery effective.It wouldn't do when the showbegan,however.I wishedI wasa little taller, then wondered if that would make me a better target. The viewingareawasa gentleriseabouta kilometerin radius.It had been written out of the program to the extent that none of the more fearsome effectswould intrude to sweepus all into the Land of Oz. But being a spectatorat a weathershowcan be grueling. Most had come preparedwith clear plasticslicker,insulatedcoat, and boots.I wasgoing to be banging somewarm and somevery cold air massesheadon to get things rolling, and some of it would sweepover us. There were a few brave souls in Native American war paint, feathers,and moccasins. An Environmental happening has no opening chords like a musical when you arrive, and will still be going symphony.It is alreadyin progress on when you leave.The weatherin a disneylandis a continuousprocessand we merelyshapea few hoursof it to our wills. The observerdoesnot needto watch it in its entirety. Indeed,it would be impossibleto do so, asit occursall aroundand above you. There is no rule of silence.Peopletalk, stroll,breakout picnic lunches as an ancientsignalfor the rain to begin, and generallyenjoy themselves. You experiencethe symphonywith all five senses,and severalthat you are not awareof. Most peopledo not realizetheeffectof a giganticlow-pressure area sweepingover them, but they feel it all the same. Humidity alters mood, metabolism,and hormonelevel. All of thesethings are important to

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the total experience,and I neglectnone of them. Cyclonehas a definite beginning, however.At leastto the audience.It beginswith the openingbolt of lightning. I workedoverit a long time, and designeditto shatternerves.Thereis the slowbuilding of thunderheads, the ominousrolling and turbulence,then the prickling in your body hairsthat you don't evennoticeconsciously. And then it hits. It crashes in at seventeen points in a ring around the audience, none farther awaythan half a kilometer. It is properly called chain lightning, becauseafter the initial dischargeit keepsflashingfor a full sevenseconds.It'sdesignedto takethe hair right off your scalp. It had its desired effect. We were surrounded by a crown of jittering incandescent snakes,coiling and dancingwith a soundimporteddirect to you from Armageddon. It startled the hell out of me, and I had been expectingit. It wasa while beforethe audiencecould get their ooftersand aahersback into shape.For severalsecondsI had touchedthem with stark,nakedterror. An emotion like that doesn'tcome cheaplyto sensation-starved, innately insulartunnel dwellers.Lunariansget little to reallyshoutabout, growing up in the warrensand corridors,and living their livesmore or lessafraidof the surface.That'swhy the disneylandswerebuilt, becausepeoplewanted limitlessvistasthat were not in vacuum. The thunder neverreally stoppedfor me. It blendedimperceptibly into the applausethat is morevaluablethan the millions I would makefrom this storm. As for the rest of the performance. What can I say?It's been said that there'snothing more dull than a descriptionof the weather.I believeit, evenspectacularweather.Weatheris an experientialthing, and that'swhy tapesand films of my works sell few copies.You haveto be thereand havethe wind actually whipping your face and feel the oppressiveweight of a tornado as it passesoverheadlike a vermiform freight train. I could write down wherethe funnel cloudsformed and where they went from there, where the sleetand hail fell, where the buffalo stampeded,but it would do no one any good. If you want to seeit, go to Kansas.The last I heard, Cycloneis still playing there two or three times yearly. I recall standingsurroundedby a seaof people.Beyondme to the eastthe land wasburning. Smokeboiled blackfrom the hilltops and sootygrayfrom the hollowswherethe waterwasrising to drown it. To the north a Herculean cyclonesweptup a chain of ball lightning like pearlsand swallowedthem into the evacuatedvortex in its center.Above me, two twistersweretwined in a deathdance.They circledeachotherlike balefulgraypredators,taking

;:;,ffiJ;; retreated, Theyfeinted, measure. eachother's tubesof oil. It wasbeautiful and deadly.And I had neverseenit before. Someonewastamperingwith my program. As I realized that and stood rooted to the ground with the possibly becomingapparentto me, the wind-snakeslocked disastrousconsequences in a final embrace. Their counterrotationscanceledout, and they were gone. Not evena breathof wind reachedme to hint of that titanic struggle.

I ran through the seventy-kilometerwind and the thrashing rain. I was wearingsturdymoccasinsand a parka,and carryingthe knife I had brought from my apartment. Wasit a lure, setby one who hasbecomea student of Foxes?Am I playing into his hands? I didn't care. I had to meet him, had to fight it out once and for all. Getting away from my "protection" had been simple. They were as transfixedby the displayasthe restof the audience,and it had merelybeena matterof waiting until they all lookedin the samedirection and fading into the crowd. I picked out a small woman dressedin Indian styleand offered her a hundredmarksfor her moccasins.Sherecognizedme-my new face wason the programs-and made me a gift of them. Then I workedmy way to the edgeof the crowd and bolted pastthe securityguards.They werenot too concernedsincethe audienceareawasenclosedby a shock-field.When I went right through it they may havebeen surprised,but I didn't look back to see.I wasone of only three peoplein Kansaswearingthe PassKeydevice on my wrist, so I didn't fear anyonefollowing me. I had done it all without consciousthought. Somepart of me must have analyzedit, planned it out, but I just executedthe results.I knew wherehe must be to havegeneratedhis tornadoto go into combatwith mine. No one elsein Kansaswould know whereto look. I washeadedfor a particular wind generatoron the eastperiphery. I moved through weathermore violent than the real Kansaswould have experienced.It wasconcentratedviolence,more wind and rain and devastation than Kansaswould normally havein a full yeaLAnd it washappening all aroundme. But I wasall right, unlesshe had more tricks up his sleeve.I knew where the tornadoeswould be and at what time. I dodgedthem, waitedfor them to pass, knew every twist and dido they would make on their seemingly random courses.Off to my left the buffalo herdsmilled, restingfrom the stampedethat had brought them pastthe audiencefor the first time. In an hour they would be thundering backagain, but for now I could forgetthem.

A twister headedfor me, leapedhigh in the air, and skiddedthrough a miasmaof uprootedsageandsod.I clockedit with the intemal pictureI had and dived for a gully at just the right time. It hoppedover me and wasgone back into the clouds. I ran on. My training in the apartmentwas paying off. My body was only six Iunationsold, andasfinely tuned asitwould everbe. I restedby slowingto a trot, only to run again in a few minutes. I coveredten kilometersbeforethe storm began to slow down. Behind me, the audiencewould be drifting away.The criticswould be trying out scathingphrasesor wild adulation;I didn't seehow they could find any middle groundfor this one. Kansaswas being releasedfrom the grip of machinesgonewild. Aheadof me wasmy killer. I would find him. I wasn't totally unprepared.Isadora had given in and allowed me to installa computerizedbomb in my body.It would kill my killer-and meif he iumped me. It wasintendedasa balance-of-terror device,the kind you hope you will neverusebecauseit terrorizesyour enemy too much for him to testit. I would inform him of it if I had the time, hopinghe would not be $azy enoughto kill both of us. If he was,we had him, though it would be little comfort to me. At leastFox 5 would be the last in the series.Wth the remainsof a body, Isadoraguaranteedto bring a killer to justice. The sun cameout asI reachedthe last, distortedgully beforethe wall. It wasdistortedbecauseit wasoneof the placeswheretouristswerenot allowed to go. It waslike walking through the backdropon a stageproduction. The land wassquashed togetherin one of the dimensions,and the hills in front of me were painted against a bas-relief. It was meant to be seen from a distance. Standing in front of the towering mural was a man. He wasnaked,and grimed with dirt. He watchedme as I went down the gentleslopeto standwaiting for him. I stoppedabout two hundred meters from him, drew my knife and held it in the air. I waited. He came down the concealedstairway,slowly and painfully. He was limping badly on his left leg. As far as I could seehe was unarmed. The closerhe got, the worsehe looked. He had been in a savagefight. He had long, puckered,badlyhealedscarson his leftleg, his chest,and his right arm. He had one eye;the right one wasonly a reddenedsocket.There wasa scarthat slashedfrom his foreheadto his neck. It wasa hideousthing. I thought of the CC's suspicionthat my killer might be a ghost, someone living on the ran,edgesof our civilization. Such a man might not have accessto medical treatment wheneverhe neededit. "l think you shouldknow," I said, with just the slightestquaver,"that I havea bomb in my body. It'spowerful enough to blow both of us to pieces.

/ 381 It'ssetto go off if I'm killed.Sodon'ttry ,'rJ;;";:t=" "l won't,"hesaid."l thought youmighthavea fail-safe thistime,butit doesn'tmatter.I'm not goingto hurt you." "ls thatwhatyoutoldtheothers?" I sneered, crouchinga little lowerashe mighthave nearedme. I felt likeI hadtheupperhand,but my predecessors felt the sameway. "No, I neversaidthat. Youdon'thaveto believeme." He stoppedtwentymetersfrom me. His handswereat his sides.He in lookedhelpless enough,but he mighthavea weaponburiedsomewhere thedirt. He mighthaveanything.I hadto fightto keepfeelingthatI wasin control. ThenI hadto fightsomething else.I grippedtheknifetighterasa picture face.Itwasa mentalpicture,the itselfoverhisravaged slowlysuperimposed "sixth " my sense. functioningof it works No oneknowsif thatsensereallyexists.I think it does,because who hashad asthe knackfor seeingsomeone for me. It can be expressed radicalbodyworkdone-sex,weight,height,skincolorall altered-and still beingableto recognizehim. Somesayit'san evolutionarychange.I didn'tthink evolutionworkedthatway.But I cando it. And I knewwhothis was. tall, brutalizedmalestranger He wasme. I sprangback to my guard, wonderingif he had usedthe shockof It wouldn'tworkwith me. my earlierincarnations. to overpower recognition no matterwhohe was. Nothingwould work. I wasgoingto kill him, "You know me," he said.It wasnot a question. "Yes.And youscarehell out of me. I knewyouknewa lot aboutme,but I didn't realizeyou'dknowthis much." He laughed,withouthumor. "Yes.I knowyou from the inside." The silencestretchedout betweenus. Then he beganto cry. I was ninety but unmoved.I wasstill all nerveendings,andsuspected surprised, thousandtypesof dirty tricks.Let him cry. He slowly sank to his knees,sobbingwith the kind of washed-out monotonythat you readaboutbut seldomhear.He put his handsto the groundand awkwardlyshuffed around until his back was to me. He crouchedoverhimself,his headtouchingtheground,his handswideat his sides,his legsbent. It wasaboutthe most wide-open,helplessposture imaginable,and I knewit mustbe for a reason.But I couldn'tseewhatit might be. "I thoughtI hadthisall overwith," he sniffed,wipinghis nosewith the I'm not backof onehand."l'm sorry,I'd meantto bemoredignified.I guess " madeof thesternstuffI thought.I thoughtit'd beeasier.Hewassilentfor a

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"Go on. Get it overwith." moment,then coughedhoarsely. "Huh?" I said,honestlydumbfounded. "Kill me. It'swhatyou cameherefor. And it'll be a reliefto me." I took my time. I stoodmotionless for a full minute, lookingat the incredible problemfromeveryangle.Whatkindof trickcouldtherebe?He wassmart,but hewasn'tGod.Hecouldn'tcallin an air strikeon me,cause the ground to swallowme up, disarm me with one crippledfoot, or hypnotize meintoplungingtheknifeintomy owngut.Evenif hecoulddo something,he woulddie, too. I advanced cautiously, alertfor the slightesttwitch of his body.Nothing happened. I stoodbehindhim, my eyesflickingfromhisfeetto hishandsto his bareback.I raisedthe knife. My handstrembleda little, but my determination wasstill there.I would not flub this. I broughtthe knife down. The point went into his flesh,into the muscleof his shoulderblade, aboutthreecentimeters deep.He gasped. A trickleof bloodwentwinding throughtheknobsalonghisspine.But he didn'tmove,he didn'ttry to get up. He didn'tscreamfor mercy.He justkneltthere,shivering andturning pale. I'd haveto stabharder.I pulledtheknifefree,andmorebloodcameout. And still he waited. That wasaboutall I couldtake.My bloodlusthad driedin my mouth until all I couldtastewasvomit wellingin my stomach. I'm not a fool. It occurredto me eventhen that this could be some demented trick,thathe mightknowmewellenoughto be sureI couldnot gothroughwith it. Maybehewassomesortof psychotic whogotthrillsout of playingthiskindof incredible game,allowinghislife to beput in danger andthen drenchinghimselfin my blood. Buthe wasme.It wasall I hadto goon. Hewasa mewhohadliveda very differentlife, becomingmuchtougherandwilierwith everyday,diverging by thehourfromwhatI knewasmy personality andcapabilities. SoI tried andI triedto thinkof myselfdoing whathewasdoingnowforthepurpose of murder.I failedutterly. And if I couldsinkthat low,I'd rathernot live. "H.y, getup,"I said,goingaroundin frontof him. Hedidn'trespond, so I nudgedhim with my foot. He lookedup, andsawme offeringhim the knife, hilt-first. "If this is somesortof scheme,"I said,"l'd ratherlearnof it now." His oneeyewasredandbrimmingashe gotup, but therewasno joy in him. He tooktheknife,notlookingat me,andstoodthereholdingit. The skin on my belly wascrawling.Then he reversed the knife and his brow

wrinkled, asif hewere summoning upnerve. , J;;;ffi,

- -"

going to do, and I lunged. I wasbarelyin time. The knife missedhis belly and went offto the sideasI yankedon his arm. He wasmuch strongerthan I. I waspulled offbalance, but managedto hang onto his arm. He fought with me, but was intent on suicide and had no thought of defending himself. I brought my fist up under his jaw and he went limp.

Night had fallen. I disposedof the knife and built a fire. Did you know that driedbuffalo manureburns well?I didn't believeit until I put it to the test. I dressedhis wound by tearingup my shirt, wrappedmy parkaaround him to ward offthe chill, and satwith my barebackto the fire. Luckily, there was no wind, becauseit can get very chilly on the plains at night. He wokewith a sorejaw and a resigneddemeanor.He didn't thank me for savinghim from himself. I supposepeoplerarelydo. They think they know what they'redoing, and their reasonsalwaysseemlogical to them. "You don't understand,"he moaned."You'reonly draggingit out. I have to die, there'sno place for me here." "Make me understand,"I said. He didn't want to talk, but there was nothing to do and no chance of sleepingin the cold, so he eventuallydid. The story waspunctuatedwith long, truculent silences. It stemmedfrom the bank robberytwo and a half yearsago. It had been stagedby somevery canny robbers.They had a new dodgethat made me respectIsadora'sstatementthat police methods had not kept pace with criminal possibilities. The destructionof the memory cubes had been merely a decoy.They were equally unconcernedabout the cash they took. They were bunco artists. They had destroyedthe rest of the cubes to conceal the theft of two of them. That waythe policewould be lookingfor a crime of passion,murder, rather than one of profit. It was a complicateddouble feint, becausethe robberswantedto givethe impressionof someonewho wastrying to conceal murder by stealingcash. My killer-we both agreedhe should not be called Fox so we settledon the namehe had cometo fancy,Rat-didn't know the detailsof the scheme, but it involved the theft of memory cubes containing two of the richest people on Luna. They were taken, and clones were grown. When the memorieswere played into the clones, the people were awakenedinto a falsely createdsituation and encouragedto believe that it was reality. It would work; the newly reincarnatedpersonis willing to be led, willing to

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believe.Rat didn't know exactlywhat the planswerebeyondthat. He had awakenedto be told that it was fifteen thousandyearslater, and that the Invaders had left Earth and were rampaging through the solar system wiping out the human race.It took three lunatior-rs to convincethem that he-or rathershe,for Rat had been awakenedinto a body identicalto the one I was wearing-was not the right billionaire. That she was not a billionaireat all, just a strugglingartist. The thieveshad gottenthe wrong cube. They dumped her. Justlike that. They openedthe door and kickedher out into what shethought wasthe end of civilization. Shesoorlfound out that it wasonly twenty yearsin her future, sinceher memoriescame from the.stolencube which I had recordedabout twenty yearsbefore. Don't askme how they got the wrong cube. One cube looksexactlylike another;they are in fact indistinguishablefrom one anotherby any test knownto scienceshortof playingthem into a cloneand askingthe resulting personwho he or sheis. Becauseof that fact, the bankswe entrustthem to havea foolprooffiling systemto avoid unpleasantaccidentslike Rat. The only possibleanswerwasthat for all their planning,for all their cunning and guile, the thieveshad read2 in column A and selected3 in column B. I didn't think much of their chancesof living to spendany of that money. I told Rat so. "l doubt if their extortionschemeinvolvesmoney,"he said.'At leastnot directly.More likely the theftwasaimedat obtaininginformationcontained in the mindsofbillionaires.Rich peopleareoftenprotectedwith psychological safeguards againsthaving information tortured from them, but can't blockthemselves againstdivulgingit willingly. That'swhatthe Invaderhoax must have been about, to finaglethem into thinking the information no longermattered,orperhapsthat it mustberevealed to savethe human race." "l'm suspiciousof involutedschemeslike that," I said. "So am I. " We laughedwhen we realizedwhat he had said.Of coursewe had the sameopinions. "But it fooled me:' he went on. "When they discardedme, I fully expectedto meet the Invadersface-to-face.It wasquite a shockto find that the world was almost unchanged." 'Almost," I said, quietly. I wasbeginning to empathizewith him. "Right." He lostthe half-smilethat had lingeredon his face,and I wassad to seeit go. What would I havedonein the samesituation?There'sreallyno needto ask.I must believethat I would havedoneexactlyasshedid. Shehad been dumped like garbage,and quickly saw that she was about that useful to society.Iffound, shewould be eliminatedlike garbage.The robbershad not

thoughtenough ofhertobotherkillingher.She#tt;;.::; thingstheydidnotknowif shewascaptured, soshehadto assume thatthe robbershad told her nothing of any useto the police. Even if shecould have helpedcaptureand convictthe conspirators, shewould stillbe eliminated. She wasan illegal person. Sheriskeda withdrawalfrom my bank account. I rememberedit now. It wasn'tlarge,and I assumedI musthavewritten it sinceit wasbackedup by my genalysis.It wasfar too small an amount to suspectanything. And it wasn't the first time I havemade a withdrawal and forgottenabout it. She knew that, of course. With the money she bought a Change on the sly. They can be had, though you take your chances. It's not the safestthing in the world to conduct illegal businesswith someonewho will soon have you on the operatingtable, unconscious.Rat had thought the Change would help throw the police offhis trail if they shouldlearn of his existence.Isadoratold me about that once, said it was the sign of the inexperiencedcriminal. Rat wasdefinitely a fugitive. If discoveredand captured,he faceda death sentence.It'sharsh,but the population lawsallow no loopholeswhatsoever. If theydid, we could be up to our earsin a century.Therewould be no trial, only a positivegenalysisand a hearingto determinewhich of us wasthe rightful Fox. "l can't tell you how bitter I was," he said. "l learnedslowly how to survive.It'snot ashard asyou might think, in someways,and much harder than you can imaginein others.I could walk the corridorsfreely,aslong asI did nothing that requireda genalysis.That meansyou can't buy anything, ride on public transport,takea job. But the air is freeif you'renot registered with the tax board, water is free, and food can be had in the disneylands.I waslucky in that. My palmprint would still open all the restricteddoorsin the disneylands. A legacyof my artisticdays."I could hearthe bitternessin his voice. And why not? He had been robbed,too. He went to sleepas I had been twenty yearsago, an up-and-comingartist, excitedby the possibilitiesin Environmentalism.He had greatdreams.I rememberthem well. He woke up to find that it had all beenrealizedbut noneof it wasfor him. He could not evenget accessto computer time. Everyonewastalking about Fox and her last opus, Thunderhead.She was the darling of the art world He went to the premiereof Liquid lce and began to hate me. He was sleepingin the air recirculatorsto keepwarm, foragingnutsand berriesand an occasionalsquirrelin Pennsylvania, while I wasgettingrich andfamous. He took to trailing me. He stolea spacesuit,followed me out onto Palus Putridinus.

"l didn't plan it," he said, his voice wrackedwith guilt. "l nevercould havedone it with planning. The idea just struckme and beforeI knew it I had pushedyou. You hit the bottom and I followedyou down, becauseI was really sorry I had done it and I lifted your body up and looked into your face. . . . Your facewasall . . . my face,it was . . . the eyespoppingout and blood boiling awayand . ." He couldn't go on, and I wasgrateful. He finally let out a shuddering breath and continued. "Beforethey found your body I wrote somecheckson your account.You nevernoticed them when you woke up that first time, sincethe reincarnation had takensuch a big chunk out of your balance.We neverwereany good with money." He chuckled again. I took the opportunity to move closerto him. He wasspeakingveryquietlyso that I could barelyhearhim over the crackling of the fire. "l . I guessI went crazythen. I can't account for it any other way. When I sawyou in Pennsylvania again, walkingamongthe treesasfree as can be, I iust crackedup. Nothing would do but that I kill you and takeyour place. I'd haveto do it in a way that would destroythe body. I thought of acid, andof burning you up herein Kansasin a rangefire. I don't knowwhy I settledon a bomb. It was stupid. But I don't feel responsible.At leastit must have been painless. "They reincarnatedyou again. I wasfresh out of ideasfor murder. And motivation.I tried to think it out. So I decidedto approachyou carefully, not revealingwho I was.I thought maybeI could reachyou. I tried to think of what I would do if I wasapproachedwith the samestory,and decidedI'd be sympathetic.I didn't reckon with the fear you were feeling. You were hunted. I myselfwasbeing hunted, and I shouldhaveseenthat fearbrings out the best and the worst in us. "You recognized me immediately-something else I should have thought of-and put two and two togethersofastI didn't evenknow what hit me. You wereon me, and you werearmedwith a knife. You had beentaking training in martial arts." He pointed to the variousscars."You did this to me, and this, and this. You nearlykilled me. But I'm bigger.I held on and managedto overpoweryou. I plunged the knife in your heart. "l went insaneagain. I've lost all memoriesfrom the sight of the blood pouring from your chestuntil yesterday.I somehowmanagedto stayalive andnot bleedto death.I musthavelived like an animal. I'm dirty enoughto be one. "Then yesterdayI heardtwo of the maintenancepeoplein the machine areasof Pennsylvania talkingaboutthe showyou wereputting on in Kansas. So I came here. The rest you know."

rhe firewasdying. I realized thatpartof,r, J::;:'.*,

fi"

cold.I gotup andsearched for morechips,but it wastoo darkto see.The "moon"wasn'tup tonight,wouldnot risefor hoursyet. "You'recold,"he said,suddenly. "l'm sorry,I didn't realize.Here,take this back.I'm usedto it." He heldout the parka. "No, youkeepit. I'm all right."I laughedwhenI realizedmy teethhad beenchatteringasI saidit. He wasstill holdingit out to me. "Well, maybewe couldshareit?" Luckily it wastoo big, borrowedfrom a randomspectator earlierin the day.I satin front of him andleanedbackagainsthis chestandhe wrapped his armsaroundme with the parkagoingaroundboth of us.My teethstill chattered,but I wascozy. I thoughtof him sittingattheauxiliarycomputerterminalabovetheeast lookingout from a distanceof fifteenkilometersat the wind generator, crowdandthestorm.Hehadknownhowto talkto me.Thattornadohehad in real-timeandsentoutto dobattlewith my stormwasasspecificto created me asa typedmessage: l'm here!Comemeetme. I hadan awfulthought,thenwondered why it wassoawful.It wasn'tme that wasin trouble. "Rat, you usedthe computer.That meansyou submitteda skinsample for genalysis, andthe CC will . Do,wait a minute." "What doesit matter?" "lt . . it matters.But the game's not over.I can coverfor you. No one knowswhen I left the audience,or why. I can sayI sawsomethinggoing wrong- it couldbetrickyfoolingtheCC, but I'll thinkof something-and headedfor the computerroom to correctit. I'll sayI createdthe second tornadoasa-" He put his handovermy mouth. "Don'ttalklikethat.It washardenoughto resignmyselfto death.There's no wayout for me. Don't youseethatI can'tgo on livinglikea rat?What wouldI do if youcovered for methistime?I'll tell you.I'd spendthe restof my life hidingout here.Youcouldsneakmetablescraps from timeto time. No, thank-you." "No, no. Youhaven'tthoughtit out. You'restill lookingon me asan enemy.Alone,youdon'thavea chance,I'll concede that,but with me to helpyou,spendmoneyandsoforth,we-" Heput hishandovermy mouth again.I foundthat I didn't mind, dirty asit was. "Youmeanyou'renotmy enemynow?"Hesaidit quietly,helplessly, like a child askingif I wasreallygoingto stopbeatinghim. "1-" ThatwasasfarasI got.Whatthehellwasgoingon?I became aware of his armsaroundme, not aslovelywarmthbut asa strongpresence. I

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hugged my legsup closerto me and bit down hard on my knee. Tears squeezedfrom my eyes. I turned to facehim, searchingto seehis face in the darkness.He went over backwardswith me on top of him. "No, I'm not your enemy." Then I wasstrugglingblindly to disposeof the onething that stoodbetweenus:my pants.While we gropedin the dark, the rain startedto fall around us. We laughedas we were drenched,and I remembersitting up on top of him once. "Don'tblame me," I said."This stormisn't mine." Then he pulled me back down. It waslike somethingyou readabout in the romance magazines.All the overblownwords,the intensivehyperbole.It wasall real. We weremadefor eachother,literally.It wasthe mostastoundingact of love imaginable.He knew what I liked to the tenth decimal place, and I wasjust asknowledgeable. I knewwhat he liked, by rememberingbackto the times I had been male and then doing what I had liked. Call it masturbationorchestratedfor two. There weretimes during that night when I wasunsureof which oneI was.I distinctlyremembertouching his face with my hand and feeling the scar on my own face. For a few momentsI wasconvincedthat the line which foreverseparates two individualsblurred, andwe camecloserto beingonepersonthan any two humans have ever done. A time finally camewhen we had spentall our passion.Or, I preferto think, investedit. We lay togetherbeneath*y parkaandallowedour bodies to adjustto eachother,filling the little spaces, trying to touch in everyplace it was possibleto touch. "l'm listening," he whispered."What'syour plan?"

They cameafterme with a helicopterlaterthat night. Rat hid out in a gully while I threw awaymy clothesand walkedcalmly out to meetthem. I was filthy, with mud and grassplasteredin my hair, but that wasconsistentwith what I had been known to do in the past. Often, before or after a performance,I would run nudethroughthe disneylandin an effortto getcloserto the environment I had shaped. I told them I had been doing that. They acceptedit, Carnival and Isadora,though they scoldedme for a fool to leavethem asI had. But it was easyto bamboozlethem into believingthat I had had no choice. "If I hadn't takenovercontrol when I did," I saidto them, "theremight have been twenty thousanddead. One of those twisterswas off course. I

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extrapolatedand sawtrouble in about three hours. I had no choice." Neither of them knewa stationarycold front from an isobar,so I got away with it. Fooling the CC wasnot so simple. I had to fakedataasbestI could, and makeit iibe with the internal records.This all had to be done in my head, relying on the overallfeeling I've developedfor the medium. When the CC questionedme about it I told it haughtily that a human developsa sixth sensein art, and it'ssomethinga computer could nevergrasp.The CC had to be satisfiedwith that. The reviewswere good, though I didn't really care. I wasin demand. That made it harderto do what I had to do, but I washelpedby the fact of my continued forced isolation. I told all the people who called me with offers that I was not doing anything more until my killer was caught. And I proposed*y idea to Isadora. She couldn't very well object. She knew there was not much chance of keepingme in my apartmentfor much longer,so shewent along with me. I bought a ship and told Carnival about it. Carnival didn't like it much, but shehad to agreeit wasthe bestway to keepme safe.But shewanted to know why I neededmy own ship, why I couldn't just book passage on a passenger liner. Becauseall passengerson d liner must undergo genalysis,is what I thought, but what I saidwas,"Becausehow would I know that my killer is not a fellow passenger? To be safe,I must be alone. Don't worry, mother, I know what I'm doing." The daycamewhen I ownedmy own ship, freeand clear.It wasa beauty, and cost me most of the five million I had made from Cyclone. It could boost at one gee for weeks;plenty of power to get me to Pluto. It was completelyautomatic, requiring only verbal instructionsto the computerpilot. The customs agentswent over it, then left me alone. The CC had instructedthem that I neededto leavequietly, and told them to cooperate with me. That wasa strokeof luck, sincegetting Rat aboardwasthe most hazardouspart of the plan. We wereableto scrapour elaborateplansand he just walkedin like a law-abidingcitizen. We sat togetherin the ship, waiting for the ignition. "Pluto hasno extraditiontreatywith Luna," the CC said,out of the blue. "I didn't know that," I lied, wonderingwhat the hell was happening. "lndeed?Then you might be interestedin anotherfact. There is verylittle on Pluto in the way of centralizedgovernment.You'reheadingout for the frontier."

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"That shouldbe fun," I said, cautiously."Sort of an adventure,right?" "You alwayswere one for adventure. I rememberwhen you first came hereto Nearside,overmy objections.That one turned out all right, didn't it? Now Lunarians live freely on either side of Luna. You were largely responsiblefor that." "WasI really?I don't think so. I think the time wasjust ripe." "Perhaps." The CC wassilent for a while as I watchedthe chronometer ticking down to lift-off time. My shoulderbladeswereitching with a sense of danger. "There are no population laws on Pluto," it said, and waited. "Oh? How delightfullyprimitive. You meana woman can haveasmany children as shewishes?" "So I hear. I'm onto you, Fox." 'Autopilot, overrideyour previousinstructions.I wishto lift offright now! Move!" A red light fashed on my panel, and startedblinking. "That meansthat it'stoo late for a manual override,"the CC informed me. "Your ship'spilot is not that bright." I slumped into my chair and then reachedout blindly for Rat. Two minutes to go. So close. "Fox, it was a pleasureto work with you on Cyclone. I enioyed it tremendously.I think I'm beginningto understandwhat you mean when 'art.' you say I'm evenbeginningto try somethingson my own. I sincerely wish you could be around to give me criticism, encouragement, " perspective. We looked at the speaker,wondering what it meant by that. "l knew about your plan, and about the existenceof your double, since shortlyafter you left Kansas.You did your bestto concealit and I applaud to the effort,but the datawereunmistakable.I had trillions of nanoseconds I arrived possible way, and every playaroundwith the facts,fit them together at the inevitableanswer." I clearedmy throat nervously. "l'm glad you enjoyedCyclone.Uh, if you knew this, why didn't you have us arrestedthat day?" 'As I told you, I am not the law-enforcementcomputer. I merely superviseit. If Isadoraandthe computercould not arriveat the sameconclusion, then it seemsobviousthat someprogramsshouldbe rewritten.So I decided to leavethem on their own and seeif they could solvethe problem. It wasa test, you see." It made a throat-clearingsound, and went on in a slightly voice. embarrassed "For a while there, a few daysago, I thought they'd really catch you. Do

youknow what a'redherring'is? But,asyou#:lJ;;;i informedIsadoraof thetruesituationa fewminutesago.Sheis on herway herenowto arrestyourdouble.She's havinga little troublewith an elevator whichisstuckbetween levels. I'm sending a repaircrew.Theyshouldarrive " in anotherthreeminutes. 3 2 . . . 3 1. . . 3 0 . . . 2 9 . . . 2 8 . . . "l don't knowwhat to say." "Thankyou," Ratsaid."Thankyou for everything. I didn't knowyou could do it. I thoughtyour parameters weretotally rigid." "Theyweresupposed to be. I'vewrittena fewnewones.Anddon'tworry, you'll beall right. Youwill not bepursued.Onceyouleavethesurfaceyou areno longerviolatingLunar law.You area legalpersonagain,Rat." "Why did you do it?" I wascrying as Rat held me in a graspthat threatened to breakribs."What haveI doneto deservesuchkindness?" It hesitated. "Humanityhaswashed itshandsof responsibility. I find myselfgivenall thehardtasksof government. I find someof thelawstoo harsh,but thereis no provisionfor me to disagree with them andno oneis writingnewones. I'm stuckwith them. It iustseemed. unfair." 9. . .8. . . 7 . . .6. . . 'Also . . cancelthat. Thereis no also.It . . wasgoodworkingwith you." I wasleft to wonderasthe enginesfired and we werepressed into the couches.I heardthe CC'slastmessage to us comeoverthe radio. "Goodluckto youboth. Please takecareof eachother,youmeana lot to me. And don't forgetto write."

CaptainNemo's Last Adventune TFIANSLATED

E|Y IFIIS URWIN

A leading European sciencefiction writer, losef Nesvadbais a doctor ai well it t ptyrhiatrist and the heir of Karel aapek. Aapek not only invented the word robot but wrote many works influenced by H. G. Wells, culminating in The War with the Newts, a twentieth-century classicand a work of greatsatiricalforceandphilosophicaldepth. Sincethe /,950s, Nesvadba has been the only internationally recognized Czech SF writer, with two collections of short fiction trans' lated intoEnglish, Vampires,Ltd. , andlnthe Footstepsof the Abominable Snowman. First published in 1964, "Captain Nemo3 LastAdventure" is a tour-de-forcegestureof homage to the SF adventurestory o{the Campbell era and a satire on Campbellian aspirationsworthy of Fritz Leiber or Cyril M. Kornb]uth. I'{esvadbauses ffie tropes and conventions of genre SI especially the pu]p SF of the 1940s,in a way that showsdetailedknowledgeofthem, and then undercutsthem. It is fascinating to read this tale of noble heroism in the spacefaring future, with a bow to lules Verne'smysteriousCaptain Nemo, in comparison to lohn Berryman's "special Flight," irony makes which may be its direct antecedent. Nesvadba's this story a work of criticism of the most rigorous yet affectionate sort.He has,unfortunately, written no sciencefrction novels,although one of his two novels, a mysterst,parodies someof the ideasof Erich Von Daniken.

is real name was Feather.Lieutenant Feather.He wasin charge of transportbetweenthe secondlunar baseand the airfieldson Earth, both direct trips and transfersvia Cosmic Station36 or 38. It wasa dull iob, and the suggestionhad beenmade that the pilots of theserockets be replacedaltogetherby automatic control, as the latter was capableof reportingdangerousmeteoritesor mechanicalbreakdowns soonerand with greateraccuracy,and was not subjectto fatigue. But then there was the famous accident with Thnker Rocket 272 BF. Unable to land on Cosmic Station6, it was in dangerof explodingand destroyingthe whole station,which would haveheld up traffic betweenthe Moon and the Earth for severalweeksand brought the greatestfactorieson Earth to a standstill,dependentas they are on the supply of cheaptopquality Moon ore. How would the Moon crewscarry on without supplies from Earth? Were their rationsadequate?How long would they be cut off? Everyoneaskedthe same questions;there wasn't a family on Earth who didn't haveat leastone close relativeon one lunar stationor another.The SupremeOffice of Astronauticswas criticized from all quarters,and it looked as though the chairman would haveto resign. Justthen the newscame through that an unknown officer, one Lieutenant Feather,had risked his life to land on the tanker rocker in a small Number Four Cosmic Bathtub (the nickname for the small squatrockets used for short journeys).After repairing the rocket controls, Featherhad landedsafelyon one of the Moon bases.Afterwardshe spenta few weeksin the hospital;apparentlyhe had tackledthe job in an astronauticaltraining suit. On the day he was released,the chairman of the SupremeOffice of Astronauticshimself waswaiting for him, to thank him personallyfor his heroic deed and to offer him a new job. And soLieutenantFeatherbecameCaptain Feather;and Captain Feather becameCaptain Nemo. The world pressservicescouldn't get his Czech name right, and when news got out that Captain Featherwas going to commandthe new Nautilus rocketto explorethe secretsof Neptune, he was promptly rechristenedNemo (JulesVernewasen voguejust then). Reuter even put forth another suggestion:Captain Featherde Neptune (it was meant to look like a title of nobility). But no one picked up on the idea. Readersall over the world soon got usedto Captain Nemo, who discovered the secretsof Neptune, brought back live bacteriafrom Uranus, and savedthe suppliesof radon on fupiter during the greatearthquakethere-or rather, the planetquake.Captain Nemo was alwayson the spot whenever there was an accidentor catastrophein our solar system-wheneverthe stakeswerelife or death. He gatheredtogethera crewof kindredspirits,most of them from his native Skalice,and becamethe idol of all the little bovson

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our third planet (asthe scientistssometimescalled Earth). But progressin automation and the gradual perfection of technical devicesmade human intervention lessand lessnecessary.Feather/l',lemo wasthe commander of the rescuesquadson Earth, but for someyearshe had had no opportunityto displayhis heroism. He and his crew werethe subjectsof literary works,the modelsfor sculptorsand painters,and the most popular lecturersamong the younger generation.The captain often changedhis placeof residence-andhis paramoursaswell. Womenfell for him. He waswell-built and handsome,with a determinedchin and hair that had begun to grayat the temples:the answerto a maiden'sprayer.And unhappy at home; everybodyknew that. That wasreallywhy he had becomea hero. At any rate, a psychologist somewherehad written a scholarlyarticleabout it: "Suicideand Heroism. Noteson Causeand Effect." That wasthe title of the study.The authorcited the caseof CaptainNemo: if only this greatcosmicexplorerhad beenmore happily married, he said, if insteadof a wife from Zatec, wherethe hops groq he had marrieda wife from Skalice,wherethey are broughtup with the vine, if only his wife werenot sucha narrow specialistin her own field (shewasa geologist),but had the gift of fantasy,and if only the sonhad taken after his father-Mr. Featherwould be sitting quietly by the family hearth, and no one would everhaveheardof Captain Nemo. As it was,his wife was of no particular use to him, and he was alwaystrying to slip awayfrom home. His son wasnearsighted,had alwayshad to wear thick spectacles, and wasdevotedto music. He wasalsocomposingsymphoniesthat nobody everplayed;his deskwasfull of them by now,and the only thing he wasgood for was to occasionallyplay the harp and to teach youngstersto play this neglectedold instrumentat music societymeetings.The son of a hero, a harpist-that wasanothergoodreasonfor Captain Nemo to be fed up with life. And so he lookedfor distractionelsewhere.His most recentaffairwas saidto havebeen with a black girl mathematicianfrom the Universityof Timbuctoo, but everyoneknew that eventhis twenty-year-oldravenbeauty could not hold him for long. He wasfamousfor his infidelity-a relatively rarequality at this stagein history,sincepeopleusuallymarriedonly after careful considerationand on the recommendationof the appropriatespecialists,so that the chancesof a successfulmarriagewereoptimal. Naturally the expertsalwaystried to adfust the interestsof thosein love. Heroism it wasa bit too specialized, wasno longerconsideredmuch of a profession; thosewho designednew were heroes and in fact no longerfulfilling. Today's machinesor found the solution to some current problem. There was no longer any need to risk one's life. Thus Captain Nemo had become somewhatobsoletein the civilization he had so often savedfrom destruc-

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tion; he was a museum piece women admired becausethey longed for excitement,becausethey still rememberedthat lovemakingand the begetting of children were the only things that had not changed much since men emergedfrom the jungle. Featherand his men were the constant recipientsof love lettersfrom all over the Earth - in fact, from all over the solarsystem.Needlessto say,this did nothing to maketheir own marriages any more stable, quite the reverse:becausethey were so popular, they longed to be able to return over and over again as conquering heroes. F'inallyeventhe raven-skinned girl in Timbuctoo beganto think of setting up houseas the necessityfor heroic journeysbegan to dwindle: even this adventurous young lady wanted to bind Nemo with love, just as the geologistfrom Zatec had managedto do once upon a time. But that was not what the captainwantedat all. That would mean the end of adventure, and the beginning of old age and illness.He could not imagine what he would do with a happy marriage;he would haveto upsetit so asto havea reasonfor fying off againand riskinghis life, just asa drunkard inventsa reasonfor getting drunk. Nemo knew the storiesof all the greatadventures of the past, he knew how to build up a convincing argument, and he used to say that in the end humanity would realize that this vast technical progressthat kept them living in easerequired, demandedan equally vast contrast;that man must give rein to his aggressive instincts;that men need adventurein orderto remain fertile-in otherwords,that riskingone'slife in the universe(or anywhereelse)was directly bound up with the fate of future generations.It wasan odd sort of philosophy;very few peopletook it up, and astime went on there werefewerand fewerargumentsin its favor. In fact, for the lastfive yearsNemo and his men had simply been idle. The men were discontented.And so they were all delightedwhen one night quite suddenlytheir captainwascalledto the chief ministry,just like in the old daysof alarms.

"This time, Captain Nemo," the minister addressed him ceremoniously, "we are facedwith an unusual and dangerousmystery.For this time it is apparentlynot only Earth that is threatened,but the sun itself,the sourceof all life in our solarsystem,the sourceof all we seearoundus." The minister solemnly signaledto the assistantsecretaryof scienceto continue. Nemo and his adiutantweresitting facingthem on the other sideof the conference table. The four men werealone in the room. The assistantsecretarywalked over to a map of the Universe.

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"Of coursewe didn't believeit at first, but we were wrong, gentlemen. The factsyou areabout to be given are well founded. About ayearago, one of the universitiessent us a paper written by a young scientistabout the incidenceof novas.The papersquoted old Egyptian astronomicalmaPSas well asrecentobservationsin the constellationof OmegaCentauri and the galaxy of Andromeda. The writer concluded that novas do not simply explodeof their own accord, but that they are touched off accordingto a plan. Like someonegoing along the hilltops who lights a beaconto signal backto the valleysbelow.Somesort of rocketseemsto havebeen entrusted with the task-or a satellitewith an irregularcourse,somethingmoving independentlythrough spaceand destroying the starsone by one. It is interestingto note that a similar idea occurredto the writersof antiquity. Sinceaccordingto this paperthe next victim of thesecosmicpirateswould be the immediateneighborhoodof our own solarsystem,we quicklysetup a secrettelescopenear fupiter, without the knowledgeof the public, in order to observethe regionsin which this body appearsto be moving. Todaywe reviewedthe information providedby that telescope."The assistantsecretary pickedup a long pointer and turned backto the astronomicalmap. The minister could control his excitementno longer. He leapt to his feet. "They're coming!" he shouted. "They're coming closer! We've got to catch them!" He was so excitedthat his chestwas heaving, and he had to wipe his browwith his handkerchief."Damn them," he saidand satdown again. "If the reports from ancient Egypt are reliable, this body has been wanderingaroundthe universefor about nine hundredthousandyears,"the assistantsecretaryof sciencewent on. "We've managedto calculatethe precisecourseit has followed to date. It cannot possiblybe the satelliteof somedistant sun-it's a body that movesunder its own power." "lts own power?Then it is a rocket," Nemo'syoung adiutant breathed. "But seventhousandtimes the sizeof any rocketwe arepresentlycapable 'And it detonatesthe starsfrom of constructing,"saidthe assistantsecretary. an immensedistance.In oneyearour sun will comewithin ih orbit. In one year,it can causean explosionof our solarsystem." "What are our orders,sir?" saidNemo briefly,taking out his notebookas though it wereall in the day'swork to tacklecosmic piratesseventhousand times his own size. "Orders?Don't talk nonsense,"the minister burst out. "How could we sendanyoneto attackit? You might just aswell sendan ant to deal with an elephant." "Why not, if the ant is cleverenough and you give it enough oxygen?" Nemo laughed.

/ Eg7 JOSEFNESVAtr)B.A"There's of buildinga miraclemissilefor you,"theminister no question wenton. "We can give you the latestwar rocketsequippedwith radioactivite missiles,but of coursethey'reovera hundredyearsold," the assistant said.The youngofhcerat Nemo'ssidefrowned. secretary his ioke.He was "Haven'tyougotanybowsandarrows?"Nemosavored notoriousfor telling funny storieswhenthingswerereallydangerous. "This is a serious matter,CaptainNemo,"saidthe minister. "l canseethat. Yourautomaticpilotsareno goodto you now arethey? they'dneverbe ableto keepin Youcan't sendthem out that far because crew can fly that kind of human a you, I suppose.Only touch with " distance. lookedgrim. "That'swhy it'sa volun"Naturally." The assistant secretary teer'siob. Nobodymustbe allowedto knowanythingaboutit. We don't wantto frightenthepublicnow,whenpeoplehaveonlybeenlivingwithout We'll issuea communiqudonly if your fearof war for a few generations. missionfails." "You meanif we don't manageto renderthem harmless?" It thealiensharmless. thatit wasnota matterof rendering Theyexplained in wouldbefarbetterif theycouldcometo termsandavoidmakingenemies to do: what Nemo to tell not want But they did the universeunnecessarily. to theutmostnot only hisheroism,but hiscommonsense theyappreciated aswell. The momentthe piratesturnedawayfrom our solarsystem,they wouldbe all right. him, everything assured the adjutantasked. "We shall sendin a report,I suppose?" "l hardlythink so," saidNemo. "Why not?"The adjutantwasjustovertwenty.The otherthreelookedat andCaptainNemo. secretary, him-the minister,his assistant "My dearboy,there's sucha thingasrelativi$,youknow.By thetimeyou get anywherenearthat thing, you'll havebeenmovingpracticallyat the yearswill havepassed on Earth." speedof light, andmorethana thousand 'A thousandyears?"the adjutantgasped,remembering that a thousand yearsearlierPremyslOtakarhad beenon the throneof Bohemia. "It'sa job for volunteers only, CaptainNemo." "It'sa magnificentadventure-" 'And I'm afraiditwill beour last,"CaptainNemoreplied,gettingto his feetandstandingat attention.He wantedto getdownto the detailsof the expedition. "What do we tell the folksat home?"His adjutantwasstill puzzled. "surelyyoudon'twantto upsetthemby suggesting that in a yearor two going to blow our Sun to bits?You'll set out on a normal somebody's

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exPedition,and in a month we'll publishthe newsof your death.Or do you think it would be betterfor your lovedonesto go on hoping for your return, until they themselvesdie? Your grandchildrenwon't know you, and in a thousandyearseveryonewill have forgotten you anyway." "lf we get the betterof the pirates,"Nemo laughed."lf not, we'll all be meetingagain soon." "Do you still believein life after death?"The minister smiled. 'An adventureris permittedhis little indulgences,"Captain Nemo answered."But if you really want to know-no, I don't believein it. That's preciselywhy I love adventure:you risk everything." "But this isn't an adventure,"his adjutant interruptedin an agitated voice. "This is certaindeath.We can't destroyan entity that hasdetonated severalsunsin the courseof the agesfrom an enormousdistance-and even if we managedto do it, we'd be coming back to a strangeland, to people who won't know us from Adam . . ." "You will be the only human beings to experiencethe future so far ahead,"said the minister. 'And it is a volunteerexpedition," addedthe assistant secretarypointedly. "lf you can suggestany otherwayout, let us hearit. The World Council has been rackingits brains for hours." 'And then they rememberedus. That'snice." Captain Nemo felt fattered."But now I'd like to know the details. . " He turned to the assistant secretarylike the commander of a sector ready to take orders from the commanderin chief of an offensive.

"Can't they leaveyou alone?"Mrs. Rather grumbled crosslyasshepacked her husband'sbag. "Couldn't they find anybodyyoungerto send?You'd think they could find somebodybetterfor the job when you're getting on to fifty . . . I thought we weregoing to enjoy a little peaceand quiet now, in our old age,at least.We could have moved to the mountains, the people next door are going to rent a cottage, and we could have had a rest at last. ." "There'll be plenty of time to rest when we're in our graves,"Captain Nemo yawned.Ever sincehe'd come home he'd been stretchedout on the couch. He alwayssleptfor twenty-fourhoursbeforean expedition.He used to sayit was his hibernation period, and that the only place he ever got a decentrestwasin his own house.And his wife knewthat wheneverhe came

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homehe would drop offsomewhere.In the lastfew years'though, he'd been stoppingby on Sundaysand at Christmasas well' iFo, H.rven's sake,Wlly, are you going to carry on like an adolescent forever?When are you going to settledown?" He gotto his feet in anger."l wish I knewwhy you neverlet me get a bit of rest. If you had any idea how important this expedition is-" "That's just what you said beforeyou went to fupiter and Neptune, and then there was the moonstorm businessand the time those meteorswere raining . . . It'salwaysthe most important expeditionanyone'severthought of, and it'salwaysa good reasonfor you to run awayfrom home again - . ." "Do you call this home?"He lookedaround. "l haven'tseteyeson the boy sincemorning." It appearedhis son had finally found a music group that waswilling to performone of his symphonies,and they'dbeen rehearsingeversincethe previous day. "You mean he isn't even coming to saygoodbyeto me? Didn't you tell him?" "But he'sgettingreadyfor his first night at last, don't you understand?" His mother tried to excusehim. "So am I," answeredNemo, who did not quite know how to describehis galalastperformance.But in the end he tried to find his son.To listen to the rehearsal,if nothing else. The concert hall was practically empty; one or two elderly figureswere dozingin the aisleseats.The orchestraemittedpeculiarsoundswhile young Featherconductedfrom memory, absorbedin the music and with his eyes closed,so that he did not seehis fathergesticulatingat him from one of the boxes.He heard nothing but his own music; he looked asthough he were quite alonein the hall. Nemo went out and bangedthe door in disgust.An elderly attendantcame up. "How do you like the symphony?"he askedthe old man. "lt's modern, all right; you've got to admit that." "Yes,but I wantedto know whetheryou liked it. " At that moment, a wave of particularlyvile noisecamescreechingout through the door, and Nemo took to his heels. In front of the hall, the girl from Timbuctoo waswaiting for him. She had fown over that morning by special rocket. He recalledhow she had wept the last time he'd refusedto marry her. "We're off to repair some equipment between Mercury and Venus." Nemo laughed."We'll getprettyhot this time. When I getback,Timbuctoo won't even look warm by comparison."

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"I know you're not coming back, Captain." She had alwayscalled him Captain. "I was the one who passedthe report on to the authorities." "What report?" 'About the cosmicpiratesseventhousandtimesour size,"shesmiled. "l thought it would be an adventureafteryour own heartat last. I could have sentthe wholething back,you know-a veryyoungstudentsubmittedit. I could havewon a little more time for us to spendtogether.But we haveour responsibilities, as you've alwaystold me." "You're perfectly right. " "But we must saygoodbyeproperly.I'm not coming to seeyou off, I want to be alone with you when we part . . ." So onceagainNemo did not go hometo Mrs. Feather,nor did he seehis sonagainbeforehe left. His adjutantbroughthis bagsto the rocket,sincehe hadn't found the captainat home. Nemo turned up looking ratherpaleand thin, and the crew commentedon it, but he had alwaysbeen like that wheneverthey wereabout to takeoff, and he wasusedto their good-natured jokes. This time the ministry preparedan elaboratefarewell.No expensewas spared.The World GovernmentCouncil turned up in a body,togetherwith all the relativesof the men, and crowdsof admirers:*o*.n, girls, and young boys. Enthusiasticfaces could be seen between the indifferent countenancesof relatives,who were used to such goings-on,and the serious,almost anxiousfacesof those who knew the secretbehind this expedition.The minister'svoicealmostshookwith emotionashe proposed the toast.He did not knowhow to thank the crewenough,andpromisedthat their heroismwould neverbe forgotten.His handwastremblingby the time he grippedNemo'sin farewell,and he actually beganto weep. Once the relativesand curiousonlookershad vanished,the crew had a final meeting with the leadersof the world government. 'All our livesarein your hands-the livesof your families,your children and your children'schildren, for generations to come. Men haveoften died for the sakeof future generations, and often the sacrificehasbeen in vain. Youcan restassuredthat this is not the casetoday.That'sthe only comfort we can offer you. I wish I weregoing with you myself,but it would causetoo much talk, and we can't risk a panic. Still, it'sbetterto fight than to wait passivelyin the role of victim." Then they playedfamousmilitary marchesin honor of the crew-it was an internationalteam-but the gesturefell a bit flat; not a tear wasshedat the soundof ColonelBogeyor the RadetzkyMarch. With suddeninspiration, the bandmasterstruck up the choral movement from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony,and the band improvisedfrom memory asbestit could.