An Introduction to this poem, or to its author, would be certainly tautological, and probably presumptuous. The poem serves rather as an introduction to the book, stating tho case for the literature of the imagination far more effectively (literately, and imaginatively) than I should hope to do myself. “Oneiromachia” will be included in a new book of Mr. Aiken’s poetry. The Morning Song of lord Zero, to be published shortly by Oxford University Press.

* * * *

Loosen the rainbow, Mr. Aiken says… or splinter the light. They are the same thing seen from different sides of any prism. It is this function precisely, and uniquely, that defines the scope of what I mean by the derived initials of my title. “S-F” means all the ways of filtering feelings and Ideas through imagination so as to project them in another form — no less “true,” but a great deal less expected.

Kaatje Hurlbut has been writing for eighteen years, and is a fairly regular reader of science fiction, but this is her first s-f story. In telling me how it came about, she described graphically the working of this “prism effect”:

“I went out before dawn one cold morning in October ‘57 to see the first Sputnik…. It must have uprooted me, because I began to see how beautiful the earth is in approach… and these two things impressed me tremendously: first, how precious it is — a flourishing globe of life in the lifeless dark of space; and second, that it is ours, it is home….”

This story was published, she adds, on “the day Shepard made his space flight. I was delighted. I fell launched too.” Actually, she was well launched some time before that. Since her first appearance in Mademoiselle, six years ago. Miss Hurlbut’s stories have been published in a cross-section of leading national magazines, both slick and literary, and two before this have been reprinted in “best” anthologies: a collection from Mademoiselle, and The Best American Short Stories, 1961.

The people of Pomeroy’s Cove gave Mr. Paradee the sky. They gave it all to him, from dawn to dawn — with thunderheads and flights of geese and the red moon rising. At first it was a joke, one of those non-sympathetic jokes reserved for the newcomer by members of a small village, a defensive measure designed to hold him in place while being inspected for acceptability. For, one fall when the cove had just settled down to a long snug winter — summer visitors gone for the year — Mr. Paradee turned up, purchased land from Miss Pomeroy and built his house on a point beside the marsh. His manner was one of extreme reserve couched in the punctilious deference of his old-fashioned way — with one astonishing exception: he would rap on doors at night and call them out to see the northern lights; he would stop them in the lane in the morning to ask if they had seen the crimson of the dawn; in the evening he would call to them and point over the marsh at a sundog’s mocking glow. They cocked their heads and wondered about him.

The truth was, Mr. Paradee had lived his entire life in the deep streets of the city. When he came to Pomeroy’s Cove to live, he couldn’t get over how big the sky was, how changing it was and how magnificent. It was as simple as that.

A retired bookkeeper, he was a small, quiet man, stooped a little by nearly fifty years of bending over the ledgers he kept for a button factory; when he spoke, it was with the earnestness of one unaccustomed to casual small talk; a chronic squint rendered his expression gently quizzical. Until he came to Pomeroy’s Cove — he had no family — the years of his life had been much like the factory’s books, meticulously correct and hopelessly predictable.

When Mr. Paradee retired he invested his life’s savings to bring about two supreme ambitions. One was to have a home — his own house with a yard and a white picket fence. The other was to have a great many friends. But his shyness made him compromise in this by setting himself up as a ham radio operator. Through his short-wave he could roam the earth that throbbed with sound, and discover friendly voices which spoke across the night into the morning and pass along a scrap of gossip or a good story from Reykjavik to Singapore, from Johannesburg to Sydney.

But he found, to his happiness, that he hadn’t time for his short-wave adventures during the days — though often in the night he switched it on — for Pomeroy’s Cove soon gave him the sky in earnest. Not only the sky but also tulip bulbs to start a garden and birthday cakes and advice about his gutters. Their dogs walked beside him down the lane, their children sat on his steps in the sun and held serious talks with him, and on summer evenings he sat on their porches with them, rocking, swatting mosquitoes and murmuring comfortably.

The dim long tunnel of his loneliness seemed far behind him now. For as yet no echo had come from the tunnel to haunt him, to chill his heart and make him tremble, as if with cold.

Besides Mr. Paradee there were only six other families on the cove, if Miss Pomeroy could be counted as a family. An elderly maiden who lived alone, she had inherited the cove and its land from her family, which had settled there in the 1600’s. The Pomeroy estate had been intact for almost 300 years.

To the indignation of her contemporaries in the neighborhood, Miss Pomeroy had shattered the precedent of generations of family by selling, in recent years, parcels of land here and there — the land on which Mr. Paradee and the others had built their homes. “For company,” she snapped with a none-of-your-business inflection to those who demanded to know why, and who knew it was not for money.

She herself lived in a Victorian house on a knoll overlooking the point. But the original Pomeroy house, by now called the Settler’s Cottage, was built in 1690 and stood back from the water at the head of the cove. It was out of sight, hidden among the trees.

A massive stone structure, deep-roofed with great chimneys at either end, it had been neglected for almost 100 years. But recently Miss Pomeroy had given in to years of pestering by the local Historical Society and had assumed the expense of having the Settler’s Cottage restored to the last candlestick and kettle. During the summers a caretaker, whom she engaged, received the trickle of visitors who roamed the old rooms, admiring trestle table, spinning wheel and little, bubbly windowpanes.

But now that the cottage was livable again, it became a source of irritation to Miss Pomeroy. One evening, as she and Mr. Paradee sat on his porch and rocked, she unburdened herself to him. They were the only two people on the cove without families, and they found that in having this in common they had much.

“It’s a mockery,” she said bitterly, “to keep that wonderful old house as a museum with visitors tiptoeing about, pointing and whispering. Somebody ought to live there.”

“You must have had handsome offers for it.”

“Offers!” she snorted. “From people who could afford anything, anywhere — who want a private museum to hold forth in. Something quaint,” she grimaced, “for a summer place. Well, they’ll not have it,” she went on grimly. “That old cottage was a home to my people when they built it, a place to live, because they weren’t just playing at living. They knew what mattered, and they went all the way.”

As they rocked in silence for a moment or two, Mr. Paradee wondered what those people of hers had been like — people who knew what mattered and went all the way. They don’t seem real any more, he thought sadly. They’re only a legend.

“As far as that goes—” she began again presently.

“As far as what goes?”

“Things that matter. It’s my opinion that people matter. And Historical Society or no, that’s still my house. And one of these days the Settler’s Cottage”—here she quoted from the society’s pamphlet—” ‘an authentic seventeenth-century dwelling, a chapter in the history of our great heritage,’ is going to get a taste of corned-beef hash and yelling children! Ha!”

“I wonder,” Mr. Paradee chuckled, “what the society will say?”

“Say? They’ll be speechless!” She became sober then and said, “It has to be; I’m not going to back down. The cottage has to go as the rest of the cove has gone: to young families with their lives to live. Of course, you were an exception.” Her penetration disconcerted Mr. Paradee when she added, “You looked to me like a man born away from home who had spent his life trying to get back. Well, all of you are home now. And after a while somebody will turn up — just as you and the others did — and the cottage will be waiting.”

Sensing an undercurrent in her words, Mr. Paradee asked shyly, “Did you ever want a family?”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Very much once. But after all, what is a family for? Something to give yourself to; something that matters, so that you can give. At night, when I see all your lights down on the point, I feel as if I almost had a family. One of these days I’ll look over at the woods and see smoke rising from the chimneys of the Settler’s Cottage.” After a reflective pause she added dryly, “I expect we’ll see a little smoke rising from the Historical Society too.”

“I’ve spent a lifetime,” Mr. Paradee said after they rocked for a moment in silence, “thinking I knew what mattered. To be home, just to be home.” He shook his head and said slowly, “But I’m not so sure — I’m not so sure there isn’t more to it than that.”

As time went on, Mr. Paradee’s sky flourished, his garden flowered and his picket fence sported a yearly coat of dazzling white; the path which led from the lane to his gate widened, as he and his friends and their children and dogs passed back and forth; his short-wave crackled with friendly voices from New Zealand, Scotland, Australia and Alaska — and with other voices, deep in the night, which at first he could not identify. He often said to himself, cautiously at first, but after a while with confidence, “I’m happy.”

But then one spring — as the winds of March roared over the cove — Mr. Paradee began to wake at night. He would lie in the dark, listening and wondering what it was that would not let him sleep. When for a moment the wind held its breath, he could hear the distant pounding of the surf and, now and then, the herald sound of an early flight of geese. These were the sounds he loved; they would no more wake him than the swinging pendulum of his clock on the mantel. It wouldn’t come to him until he was dropping off to sleep again; just for a moment he would know what had waked him: an unaccountable space within him, a curious emptiness.

In time it waked him often, and it frightened him, for it was too much like the old emptiness, the old ache he had lived with for so long back in the days when all that mattered to him was to be home. Well, he was home. Why did it keep coming back to him, like an echo?

Night after night the ghostly echo woke him and, when he could not go back to sleep, he would find himself sitting in a rocker beside his short-wave where he would listen and listen. When at last there was silence, he often would go out on the porch and look up into the night, not thinking, as he used to, how beautiful it was, but how vast and how cold.

Summer came and passed. In September all the visitors — house guests and a few boarders — went home, leaving a trail of footprints and sand castles along the beach.

Every year — after they had left and the caretaker from the Settler’s Cottage had locked up and gone for the winter — Pomeroy’s Cove celebrated the end of the season with a picnic on the ocean. They would all decide on a day, having first consulted Mr. Paradee on the likely behavior of his sky — who in turn consulted the Coast Guard weather report. With baskets of lunch they would cross the cove and walk over the dunes to the sea. They usually left about noon and returned at dusk.

Just before noon on the day of the picnic Mr. Paradee glanced out his window and saw a billow of clouds low in the east. They didn’t look like much, but nevertheless he snapped on the short-wave to wait for twelve sharp and the weather report.

Waiting, he checked the picnic basket and found that he had forgotten the salt. As he reached to open a cupboard to get the shaker, static from the radio receiver was interrupted by a high-pitched musical tone. Startled, Mr. Paradee went quickly and shut the door to the yard and hurried back to the radio. He adjusted the volume, turning it low, and listened with his ear close to the set. In a moment he heard a quiet, familiar voice.

“Paradee?”

He snapped on the transmitter and spoke barely above a whisper. “This is Paradee. Hello, out there!”

“Hello, Paradee. It’s good to hear your voice again.”

“How are you?” asked Mr. Paradee. “Everything all right? I haven’t heard from you folks in weeks. I was beginning to think you’d moved on.”

“No. We are still standing by. Our situation is very grave.”

“Oh?” Mr. Paradee was silent for a moment, his face clouded with concern. “But, see here. Didn’t you get in touch with Cook in New Zealand? What about MacIntyre in Scotland and Burns in Alaska?”

“We were in touch with them, Paradee. But we weren’t able to convince them. One can hardly blame them.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you know it!” Mr. Paradee snorted with impatience. “I suppose they thought it was some other ham trying to pull off the hoax of the century! Why, those fellows have miles of land, away off from anywhere. I know they could help you.”

“Yes, but only if they could be convinced without being frightened. But that would take time — as it did with you, Paradee, and we have run out of time now. To maintain a fuel reserve for reconnaissance and a landing, we’ve had to jettison supply units. We are reduced to one craft. Provisions are severely low.”

“Provisions?” Mr. Paradee anxiously hunched his shoulders. “What kind of provisions? How long can you hold out?”

“Two days — possibly three.” There was a pause before the quiet voice continued. “Only days now, after all this time. But there was so much we couldn’t calculate. We knew only the course. We couldn’t know how long we would be out here listening and learning, trying to make ourselves understood. Now it’s the end, and all depends on one more calculation we cannot make.”

Mr. Paradee’s palms were sweating. “What? What is it?”

“Whether you will help us, Paradee. Whether you will allow us a place to live. We need little more than shelter— but immediately.”

“But I don’t know — I don’t know—”

“There are only seven of us, and three are children.”

Mr. Paradee drew a deep breath to relieve a heaviness in his chest, the weight of his realization. This voice was no longer a marvelous curiosity, he had picked up months ago on the latter side of night, to which in his long hours of sleeplessness he had listened, musing and wondering — a voice belonging to a dream image lost among the stars; a voice that was sensible, humorous, gentle and yet, because of what it had told him, too incredible except to be confined in a private chamber of fancy. Well — it had broken from the chamber, and it had stepped out of the night. This was midday; this voice, for all its accustomed quietness, was human and tired.

“Very well.” Mr. Paradee leaned close to the set and spoke rapidly, as if another thought were racing to overtake the one he was putting into words. “Very well. But let me think a minute. This house of mine is so small it wouldn’t even— Wait! I know. Now listen, can you determine my location exactly?”

“Exactly.”

“At the head of this cove I’m on, there’s a wooded area, very dense. But there’s a clearing in the woods and—” Mr. Paradee halted abruptly, astonished at himself. Why, what would Miss Pomeroy say? And anyway, what in heaven’s name was he doing?

“Now see here!” he said tightly into the transmitter. “Just you hold on a minute! You people could land anywhere. All over the earth there are huge uninhabited areas where you’d never be discovered. There are mountain ranges and islands where you could live—”

The voice interrupted gently, “Where we could live as fugitives? We might as well live as captives — it would be all the same. My dear Paradee, we are not looking for a hiding place. We only want a home among people. Is that hard for you to understand?”

“No.”

“Isolated, friendless, we had far rather remain out here.”

“No!” Paradee said.

“In this clearing in the woods is there a dwelling?”

Mr. Paradee was unable to answer at once, for something cold and heavy battered at the walls of his mind. Presently, forcing himself to speak, he said, “Yes. An old stone cottage. No one is there now.”

“You sound troubled, Paradee. Please believe we will not be conspicuous in any way. Now, to avoid disturbance, we will land at night and destroy the craft. But first we will have to see the area in the daylight — just before dark perhaps. I’ll contact you later tonight, at the usual time.”

The thing that was heavy and cold broke through the wall of Mr. Paradee’s mind. It was fear. It rolled like a boulder crushing every thought, every sensibility which rose before it.

He let out his breath and whispered harshly, “Now, see here, you people! You say you’re in a bad way out there; you’re at the end of your rope. And yet — and yet you’re asking to be allowed some kind of a home. What kind of game is this? Why, after what you’ve done, you could do anything you wanted here. You could—you could control the earth.”

In the silence following his outburst, he heard waves lapping at the jetty, a gull crying over the cove, a child laughing down in the lane. He clasped his hands to keep from shaking, as if with cold.

Presently from the receiver came a sigh and the voice spoke with weariness and regret. “We probably could.”

At a sound from the porch Mr. Paradee snapped off the receiver and jumped to his feet. He opened the door to find Miss Pomeroy.

“Ready?” she asked, looking quizzically at him.

“Ready?” he repeated blankly.

“The picnic, Mr. Paradee.” Her eyes searched his face.

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.”

“Were you talking to yourself when I came up on the porch — or to a ghost? You look as if you’d seen one.”

Her voice was dry, but her eyes held kindly concern. Mr. Paradee found that the effort to make a light reply was too much. He shook his head and turned away to pick up the picnic basket, forgetting the salt again.

It took but twenty minutes to cross the cove and walk over the dunes to the sea. When they first arrived, they always stood a moment in silent detachment and gazed over the water to the edge of the world. As if, Mr. Paradee thought, they were trying to remind themselves that they knew what lay beyond the horizon, patiently trying to rid themselves of an ancient memory crouched in the dark of their minds: that the rim of the world is no less an awful mystery than the incredible reach of night. Presently someone would pick up a shell or point to a gull skimming the waves, and they would emerge from the spell and go down to the water.

Miss Pomeroy and Mr. Paradee sat side by side beyond the reach of the breakers and watched the children race the whispering wash like sandpipers, nimbly dodging the big breaker which stretched up the sand, grabbed at them and fled back again, tumbling golden flecks of mica in its wake. Down in the surf the older children and their parents hurled themselves into the waves like javelins. Mr. Paradee’s sky was sapphire.

“Aren’t we a collection!” Miss Pomeroy remarked. “From two”—she nodded toward a fat baby recklessly flinging sand in the air and shutting his eyes as it showered his bright hair —”from two to what? You’re older than I. Seventy?”

Mr. Paradee squinted reflectively and shook his head.

“Oh, not that old, not I. My life began here at the cove, you know, because here — and only recently — I’ve found out what really matters to me. I’ve found that all I have is worthless unless I can give it in some way, or share it. But—” He let out his breath in a sigh.

“Something is troubling you, Mr. Paradee.”

He shook his head and shrugged helplessly. “I’m trapped.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember the time we talked about things that matter? And you said your people, who settled here, knew what mattered, and they went all the way?”

“I remember.”

“What else could they do? What else? Once you know what matters, once you care, it’s too late to turn back. You must go all the way. You’ve no choice. It’s a terrible kind of trap.”

“It’s a wonderful kind of trap,” she said.

“But suppose,” he said softly, “you don’t dare go all the way?”

“I wish,” she said, “that I knew what is troubling you. Because I’d help you if I could.”

He turned toward her and with an effort he smiled. “I know you would.”

Mr. Paradee poured the last of the wine and waited for dusk. The picnic fire was banked with sand, and everyone lay stretched out around it, comfortable and drowsy. Everyone, that is, except Mr. Paradee, who sat with his hands locked about his knees. Lulled by the murmur of talk, some of the children slept.

Mr. Paradee watched the sky. It is possible, he thought, entirely possible: a world dies of old age, peacefully, slowly, and the few who survive it cannot bear to leave. Except a handful with children who set out, not on a mad race for food and shelter, not on a search for paradise, but simply to find another home, among people. Possible. Of course, it’s possible.

Turning to look at the east, where the rim of the sea was tinged with dark, he sent his imaginary vision over the edge and around and circled the earth, so that he knew it visually for what it was — a great globe turning slowly in space, as other great globes were turning slowly in space.

How beautiful, he thought suddenly, must the earth be in approach! If you roamed the paths of satellites, you’d see it all, the whole round earth, immense — immense in haze. Oceans sprawling, rivers fingering, wandering continents, green and shadowy, clinging to the mother curve. And there, too small to see, infinitely small and tender-boned, were people. The little valiant, vulnerable people, ardent and self-aware. Strip them of their many surface differences, and you would find, he thought, a single likeness, a common majesty: their unfathomable capacity to care, to gain the point where life, as such, becomes a minor thing compared to that for which they live.

And at that point, he thought, there is no turning back. But where does it take us? Where are we going?

He sighed so deeply that everyone glanced at him and stirred. Miss Pomeroy got to her feet and brushed the sand from her clothes with a brisk motion.

“Time to pack up,” she said cheerfully. “Be dark soon. Wake up, sleepyheads.” She bent down and ruffled the drowsy children.

When they were ready to leave, baskets packed, children yawning, they all stood a moment, taking a last look out over the water. Then they saw it.

It appeared above the horizon, oblong and silent, reflecting the geranium glow of the setting sun and bathing them in its light. Speechless, they watched it approach and slow its speed. Just overhead, it veered northward, slowly circled the cove, and then returned to its point of origin, where it shot upward with such incredible swiftness that their eyes lost it and, a split second later, searching the sky could not find it again.

During the flurry of astonished exclamations which followed — pointing, comparing notes, questioning, surmising— Mr. Paradee turned his head and Miss Pomeroy caught his eye. Gazing at him, her expression slowly changed from amazement to startled inquiry. He quickly looked away.

Presently someone found the words to release them from their incredulity.

“You know what that thing was, don’t you? One of those big weather balloons.”

“Yes, but the shape—”

“Illusion. The way the light was reflecting, you see—”

“Yes, undoubtedly.”

“How about it, Mr. Paradee? It’s your sky.”

“Well, I have my secrets, you know,” he said hollowly, and they laughed a little, all but Miss Pomeroy, whose inquiring eyes were still upon him, grave now, and steady.

As they all began their way back over the dunes, Mr. Paradee walked slowly and fell behind. Miss Pomeroy glanced back at him and stopped to wait.

“We’re getting old, you and I, poking along behind like this.” Her voice was light, but her glance was keenly watchful.

Mr. Paradee’s steps became slower, and finally he stopped altogether, as if he couldn’t go on. After a moment she put her hand on his arm.

“Well?” she said.

“You told me back there on the beach that you’d help me if you could.” He looked at her directly, searching her face.

“I will.”

“How far,” he asked slowly and deliberately, “are you willing to go?”

“All the way, Mr. Paradee.”

He considered her for a long moment. “You’d better listen first.”

Up ahead the others turned and called to them. Miss Pomeroy waved them on. She and Mr. Paradee sat down on the dune. Before he began to speak, he drew a deep uneven breath.

Pomeroy’s Cove went to bed early that night. Doors closed, lights blinked out and a night of stars held forth.

As he had done so many times in the past months, during long sleepless nights, Mr. Paradee sat in a rocking chair beside his short-wave. With the receiver turned on and the volume low, he waited and rocked, listening to the tick of the clock on the mantel and the creak of the rocker. He wondered musingly if any sound on earth lulled so gently. The curving motion of rocker and pendulum — the creak-creak, tick-tock — called forth a singing of words, a scrap of poetry. “Great wide, beautiful, wonderful world, with the wonderful waters round you curled…”

“No, no,” he said, to himself; “no,” and he shook his head as the cold hard fear, like a boulder, rolled suddenly into his mind. “No, no!” But it persisted, rolling out of control. “They could take it away from us. They could. They admitted that much. They said they could.”

The radio receiver issued a sharp crackle of static, and the high-pitched musical tone beeped and ceased. The voice came through, quiet as always. “Paradee?”

He snapped on the transmitter and leaned forward.

“Listen,” he said, whispering fiercely. “You listen to me. If you think you’re going to take our world away from us, you out there, you’d better guess again! What do you think you’re doing, cutting down here in that glorified tin can of yours? Do you think for one minute that we—”

“Paradee, Paradee,” the voice interrupted, “my dear man! No one wants to take your world away from you. What an unthinkable notion! You can’t really believe that, can you?”

Mr. Paradee slumped as he let out his breath, the surprising rush of fright and anger receding as quickly as it had risen. He shook his head and said tiredly, “You said you could.”

“We probably could — we haven’t thought about it. But does it not occur to you that those who are capable of taking worlds are far, far beyond that sort of behavior? Taking is a practice for brutes and naughty children.”

It seemed to Mr. Paradee, as he sighed, that he had sighed a thousand times that day.

“I know, I know. Forgive me. But for a moment I was afraid again. You know how it is. Once you find out what matters to you, you’re willing to go all the way, and then suddenly you’re afraid of where it’s going to take you.”

Just at that moment it occurred to Mr. Paradee that he would not be afraid again. All at once he knew beyond doubt, as surely as if he had always known it.

When you know what matters, you have already arrived. That thought held him in peaceful contemplation, and he wondered absently if it had come from the quiet voice or from the quiet of his own heart.

Presently then, “You have come a long way, Paradee.”

He roused and smiled, and then he chuckled. “You’ve come a pretty long way yourselves.” He turned on a light and looked at the clock on the mantel. “Well, Miss Pomeroy is waiting for you up there at the Settler’s Cottage. She has the key.”

But that’s not science fiction…!

Even my best friends (to invert a paraphrase) keep telling me: That’s not science fiction!?

Sometimes they mean it couldn’t be s-f, because it’s good. Sometimes it couldn’t be because it’s not about spaceships or time machines. (Religion or politics or psychology isn’t science fiction — is it?) Sometimes (because some of my best friends are s-f fans) they mean it’s not really science fiction — just fantasy or satire or something like that.

On the whole, I think I am very patient. I generally manage to explain, again, just a little wearily, what the “S-F” In the title of this book means, and what science fiction is, and why the one contains the other, without being constrained by it. But it does strain my patience when the exclamation is compounded to mean: “Surely you don’t mean to use that in ‘S-F’? That’s not science fiction!”—about a first-rate piece of the honest thing.

For some reason, this comes most often from other editors — and most irritatingly from the editor who first bought and published the story in question, and does not want to think that he printed that kind of story. But the ultimate in frustration is to hear the same thing from the editor who is publishing me. .

“Among the Dangs” first appeared in Esquire in 1958; in 1959 it was reprinted in Fantasy and Science Fiction, and in the O. Henry Awards. And in both years, my editors said with dismay (you guessed it!)—”That’s not science fiction!” Last year, it became eligible for inclusion in this volume once more by appearing as the title story in a collection of Mr. Elliott’s short stories. It is a multiple pleasure to be able to reprint it at last — partly because I too am a real-science-fiction fan and, in a year when there was precious little of the pure product published anywhere, “Among the Dangs” remains a first-rate sample of what science fiction really is.

I graduated from Sansom University in 1937 with honors in history, having intended to study law, but I had no money and nowhere to get any; by good fortune the anthropology department, which had just been given a grant for research, decided that I could do a job for them. In idle curiosity I had taken a course in anthro, to see what I would have been like had history not catapulted my people a couple of centuries ago up into civilization, but I had not been inclined to enlarge on the sketchy knowledge I got from that course; even yet, when I think about it, I feel like a fraud teaching anthropology. What chiefly recommended me to the department, aside from a friend, was a combination of three attributes: I was a good mimic, a long-distance runner, and black.

The Dangs live in a forested valley in the eastern foothills of the Andes. The only white man to report on them (and, it was loosely gossiped, the only one to return from them alive), Sir Bewley Morehead, owed his escape in 1910 to the consternation caused by Halley’s comet. Otherwise, he reported, they would certainly have sacrificed him as they were preparing to do; as it was they killed the priest who was to have killed him and then burned the temple down. However, Dr. Sorish, our most distinguished Sansom man, in the early thirties developed an interest in the Dangs which led to my research grant; he had introduced a tribe of Amazonian head-shrinkers to the idea of planting grain instead of just harvesting it, as a result of which they had fattened, taken to drinking brew by the tubful, and elevated Sorish to the rank of new god. The last time he had descended among them — it is Sansom policy to follow through on any primitives we “do”—he had found his worshipers holding a couple of young Dang men captive and preparing them for ceremonies which would end only with the processing of their heads; his godhood gave him sufficient power to defer these ceremonies while he made half-a-dozen transcriptions of the men’s conversations and learned their language well enough to arouse the curiosity of his colleagues. The Dangs were handy with blowpipes; no one knew what pleased them; Halley’s comet wasn’t due till 1986. But among the recordings Sorish brought back was a legend strangely chanted by one of these young men, whose very head perhaps you can buy today from a natural science company for $150 to $200, and the same youth had given Sorish a sufficient demonstration of the Dang prophetic trance, previously described by Morehead, to whet his appetite.

I was black, true; but as Sorish pointed out, I looked as though I had been rolled in granite dust and the Dangs as though they had been rolled in brick dust; my hair was short and kinky, theirs long and straight; my lips were thick, theirs thin. It’s like dressing a Greek up in reindeer skins, I said, and telling him to go pass himself off as a Lapp in Lapland. Maybe, they countered, but wouldn’t he be more likely to get by than a naked Swahili with bones in his nose? I was a long-distance runner, true, but as I pointed out with a good deal of feeling I didn’t know the principles of jungle escape and had no desire to learn them in, as they put it, the field. They would teach me to throw the javelin and wield a machete, they would teach me the elements of judo, and as for poisoned darts and sacrifices they would insure my life — that is, my return within three years — for five thousand dollars. I was a good mimic, true; I would be able to reproduce the Dang speech and especially the trance of the Dang prophets for the observation of science—”make a genuine contribution to learning.” In the Sansom concept the researcher’s experience is an inextricable part of anthropological study, and a good mimic provides the object for others’ study as well as for his own. For doing this job I would be given round-trip transportation, an M.S. if I wrote a thesis on the material I gathered, the temporary insurance on my life, and one hundred dollars a month for the year I was expected to be gone. After I’d got them to throw in a fellowship of some sort for the following year I agreed. It would pay for filling the forty cavities in my brothers’ and sisters’ teeth.

Dr. Sorish and I had to wait at the nearest outstation for a thunderstorm; when it finally blew up I took off all my clothes, put on a breechcloth and leather apron, put a box of equipment on my head, and trotted after him; his people were holed in from the thunder and we were in their settlement before they saw us. They were taller than I, they no doubt found my white teeth as disagreeable as I found their stained, filed teeth, but when Sorish spoke to me in English (telling me to pretend indifference to them while they sniffed me over) and in the accents of American acquaintances rather than in the harsh tones of divinity their eyes filled with awe of me. Their taboo against touching Sorish extended itself to me; when a baby ran up to me and I lifted him up to play with him, his mother crawled, beating her head on the ground till I freed him.

The next day was devoted chiefly to selecting the man to fulfill Sorish’s formidable command to guide me to the edge of the Dang country. As for running — if those characters could be got to the next Olympics, Ecuador would take every long-distance medal on the board. I knew I had reached the brow of my valley only because I discovered that my guide, whom I had been lagging behind by fifty feet, at a turn in the path had disappeared into the brush.

Exhaustion allayed my terror; as I lay in the meager shade recuperating I remembered to execute the advice I had given myself before coming: to act always as though I were not afraid. What would a brave man do next? Pay no attention to his aching feet, reconnoiter, and cautiously proceed. I climbed a jutting of rock and peered about. It was a wide, scrubby valley; on the banks of the river running down the valley I thought I saw a dozen mounds too regular for stones. I touched the handle of the hunting knife sheathed at my side, and trotted down the trackless hill.

The village was deserted, but the huts, though miserable, were clean and in good repair. This meant, according to the movies I had seen, that hostile eyes were watching my every gesture. I had to keep moving in order to avoid trembling. The river was clear and not deep. The corpse of a man floated by. I felt like going downstream, but my hypothesized courage drove me up.

In half a mile I came upon a toothless old woman squatting by the track. She did not stop munching when I appeared, nor did she scream, or even stand up. I greeted her in Dang according to the formula I had learned, whereupon she cackled and smiled and nodded as gleefully as though I had just passed a test. She reminded me of my grandmother, rolled in brick dust, minus a corncob pipe between her gums. Presently I heard voices ahead of me. I saw five women carrying branches and walking very slowly. I lurked behind them until they came to a small village, and watched from a bush while they set to work. They stripped the leaves off, carefully did something to them with their fingers, and then dropped them in small-throated pots. Children scrabbled around, and once a couple of them ran up and suckled at one of the women. There remained about an hour till sunset. I prowled, undetected. The women stood, like fashion models, with pelvis abnormally rocked forward; they were wiry, without fat even on their breasts; not even their thighs and hips afforded clean sweeping lines undisturbed by bunched muscles. I saw no men.

Before I began to get into a lather about the right tack to take I stepped into the clearing and uttered their word of salutation. If a strange man should walk in your wife’s front door and say “How do you do” in an accent she did not recognize, simultaneously poking his middle finger at her, her consternation would be something like that of those Dang women, for unthinkingly I had nodded my head when speaking and turned my palm up as one does in the United States; to them this was a gesture of intimacy, signifying desire. They disappeared into huts, clutching children.

I went to the central clearing and sat with my back to a log, knowing they would scrutinize me. I wondered where the men were. I could think of no excuse for having my knife in my hand except to clean my toenails. So astonishing an act was unknown to the Dangs; the women and children gradually approached in silence, watching; I cleaned my fingernails. I said the word for food; no one reacted, but presently a little girl ran up to me holding a fruit in both hands. I took it, snibbed her nose between my fingers, and with a pat on the bottom sent her back to her mother. Upon this there were hostile glances, audible intakes of breath, and a huddling about the baby who did not understand any more than I did why she was being consoled. While I ate the fruit I determined to leave the next move up to them. I sheathed my knife and squatted on my hunkers, waiting. To disguise my nervousness I fixed my eyes on the ground between my feet, and grasped my ankles from behind in such a way — right ankle with right hand, left with left — as to expose the inner sides of my forearms. Now this was, as I later learned, pretty close to the initial posture taken for the prophetic trance; also I had a blue flower tattooed on my inner right arm and a blue serpent on my left (from the summer I’d gone to sea), the like of which had never been seen in this place.

At sundown I heard the men approach; they were anything but stealthy about it; I had the greatest difficulty in suppressing the shivers. In simple fear of showing my fear I did not look up when the men gathered around, I could understand just enough of what the women were telling the men to realize that they were afraid of me. Even though I was pelted with pebbles and twigs till I was angry I still did not respond, because I could not think what to do. Then something clammy was plopped onto my back from above and I leaped high, howling. Their spears were poised before I landed.

“Strangers!” I cried, my speech composed. “Far kinsmen! I come from the mountains I” I had intended to say from the river lands, but the excitement tangled my tongue. Their faces remained expressionless but no spears drove at me, and then to be doing something I shoved the guts under the log with my feet.

And saved my life by doing so. That I seemed to have taken, though awkwardly, the prophetic squat; that I bore visible marvels on my arm; that I was fearless and inwardly absorbed; that I came from the mountains (their enemies lived toward the river lands); that I wore their apron and spoke their language, albeit poorly, all these disposed them to wonder at this mysterious outlander. Even so they might very well have captured me, marvelous though I was, possibly useful to them, dangerous to antagonize, had I not been unblemished, which meant that I was supernaturally guarded. Finally, my scrutinizing the fish guts, daring to smile as I did so, could mean only that I was prophetic; my leap when they had been dropped onto my back was prodigious, “far higher than a man’s head,” and my howl had been vatic; and my deliberately kicking the guts aside, though an inscrutable act, demonstrated at least that I could touch the entrails of an eel and live.

So I was accepted by the Dangs. The trouble was they had no ceremony for naturalizing me. For them every act had a significance, and here they were faced with a reverse problem for which nothing had prepared them. They could not possibly just assimilate me without marking the event with an act (that is, a ceremony) signifying my entrance. For them nothing just happened, certainly nothing that men did. Meanwhile, I was kept in a sort of quarantine while they deliberated. I did not, to be sure, understand why I was being isolated in a hut by myself, never spoken to except efficiently, watched but not restrained. I swam, slept, scratched, watched, swatted, ate; I was not really alarmed because they had not restrained me forcibly and they gave me food. I began making friends with some of the small children, especially while swimming, and there were two girls of fifteen or so who found me terribly funny. I wished I had some magic, but I knew only card tricks. The sixth day, swimming, I thought I was being enticed around a point in the river by the two girls, but when I began to chase them they threw good-sized stones at me, missing me only because they were such poor shots. A corpse floated by; when they saw it they immediately placed the sole of their right foot on the side of their left knee and stood thus on one leg till the corpse floated out of sight; I followed the girls’ example, teetering. I gathered from what they said that some illness was devastating their people; I hoped it was one of the diseases I had been inoculated against. The girls’ mothers found them talking with me and cuffed them away.

I did not see them for two days, but the night of my eighth day there the bolder of them hissed me awake at the door of my hut in a way that meant “no danger.” I recognized her when she giggled. I was not sure what their customs were in these matters, but while I was deliberating what my course of wisdom should be she crawled into the hut and lay on the mat beside me. She liked me, she was utterly devoid of reticence, I was twenty-one and far from home; even a scabby little knotty-legged fashion model is hard to resist under such circumstances. I learned before falling asleep that there was a three-way debate among the men over what to do with me: initiate me according to the prophet-initiation rites, invent a new ceremony, or sacrifice me as propitiation to the disease among them as was usually done with captives. Each had its advantages and drawbacks; even the news that some of the Dangs wanted to sacrifice me did not excite me as it would have done a week before; now, I half-sympathized with their trouble. I was awakened at dawn by the outraged howl of a man at my door; he was the girl’s father. The village men gathered and the girl cowered behind me. They talked for hours outside my hut, men arrived from other villages up and down the valley, and finally they agreed upon a solution to all the problems: they proposed that I should be made one of the tribe by marriage on the same night that I should be initiated into the rites of prophecy.

The new-rite men were satisfied by this arrangement because of the novelty of having a man married and initiated on the same day, but the sacrifice party was visibly unmollified. Noticing this and reflecting that the proposed arrangement would permit me to do all my trance research under optimum conditions and to accumulate a great deal of sexual data as well I agreed to it. I would of course only be going through the forms of marriage, not meaning them; as for the girl, I took this vow to myself (meaning without ceremony): “So long as I am a Dang I shall be formally a correct husband to her.” More’s a pity.

Fortunately a youth from down the valley already had been chosen as a novice (at least a third of the Dang men enter the novitiate at one time or another, though few make the grade), so that I had not only a companion during the four-month preparation for the vatic rites but also a control upon whom I might check my experience of the stages of the novitiate. My mimetic powers stood me in good stead; I was presumed to have a special prophetic gift and my readiness at assuming the proper stances and properly performing the ritual acts confirmed the Dangs’ impressions of my gift; but also, since I was required to proceed no faster than the ritual pace in my learning, I had plenty of leisure in which to observe in the smallest detail what I did and how I, and to some extent my fellow novice, felt. If I had not had this self-observing to relieve the tedium I think I should have been unable to get through that mindless holding of the same position hour after hour, that mindless repeating of the same act day after day. The Dangs appear to be bored much of the time, and my early experience with them was certainly that of ennui, though never again ennui so acute as during this novitiate. Yet I doubt that it would be accurate to say they actually are bored, and I am sure that the other novice was not, as a fisherman waiting hours for a strike cannot be said to be bored. The Dangs do not sate themselves on food; the experience which they consider most worth seeking, vision, is one which cannot glut either the prophet or his auditors; they cannot imagine an alternative to living as they live or, more instantly, to preparing a novice as I was being prepared. The people endure; the prophets, as I have learned, wait for the time to come again, and though they are bitten and stung by ten thousand fears, about this they have no anxiety — the time will surely come again. Boredom implies either satiety, and they were poor and not interested in enriching themselves, or the frustration of impulse, and they were without alternatives and diversions. The intense boredom which is really a controlled anxiety, they are protected from by never doubting the worth of their vision or their power to achieve it.

I was assisted through these difficult months during which I was supposed to do nothing but train by Redadu, my betrothed. As a novice I was strictly to abstain from sexual intercourse, but as betrothed we were supposed to make sure before marriage that we satisfied one another, for adultery by either husband or wife was punishable by maiming. Naturally the theologians were much exercised by this impasse, but while they were arguing Redadu and I took the obvious course — we met more or less surreptitiously. Since my vatic training could not take place between sunrise and sundown I assumed that we could meet in the afternoon when I woke up, but when I began making plans to this effect I discovered that she did not know what I was talking about. It makes as much sense in Dang to say, “Let’s blow poisoned darts at the loss of the moon,” as to say, “Let’s make love in broad daylight.” Redadu dissolved in giggles at the absurdity. What to do? She found us a cave. Everyone must have known what I was up to, but we were respectable (the Dang term for it was harsher, deed-liar) so we were never disturbed. Redadu’s friends would not believe her stories of my luxurious love ways, especially my biting with lips instead of teeth. At one time or another she sent four of them to the cave for me to demonstrate my prowess upon; I was glad that none of them pleased me as much as she did for I was beginning to be fond of her. My son has told me that lip-biting has become if not a customary at any rate a possible caress.

As the night of the double rite approached, a night of full moon, a new conflict became evident: the marriage must be consummated exactly at sundown, but the initiation must begin at moonrise, less than two hours later. For some reason that was not clear to me preparing for the initiation would incapacitate me for the consummation. I refrained from pointing out that it was only technically that this marriage needed consummating and even from asking why I would not be able to do it. The solution, which displeased everyone, was to defer the rites for three nights, when the moon, though no longer perfectly round, would rise sufficiently late so that I would, by hurrying, be able to perform both of my functions. Redadu’s father, who had been of the sacrifice party, waived ahead of time his claim against me; legally he was entitled to annul the marriage if I should leave the marriage hut during the bridal night. And although I in turn could legally annul it if she left the hut I waived my claim as well so that she might attend my initiation.

The wedding consisted chiefly of our being bound back to back by the elbows and being sung to and danced about all day. At sunset we were bound face to face by the elbows (most awkward) and sent into our hut. Outside the two mothers waited — a high prophet’s wife took the place of my mother (my Methodist mother!) — until our orgastic cries indicated that the marriage had been consummated, and then came in to sever our bonds and bring us the bridal foods of cold stewed eel and parched seeds. We fed each other bite for bite and gave the scraps to our mothers, who by the formula with which they thanked us pronounced themselves satisfied with us. Then a falsetto voice called to me to hurry to the altar. A man in the mask of a moon slave was standing outside my hut on his left leg with the right foot against his left knee, and he continued to shake his rattle so long as I was within earshot.

The men were masked. Their voices were all disguised. I wondered whether I was supposed to speak in an altered voice; I knew every stance and gesture I was to make, but nothing of what I was to say; yet surely a prophet must employ words. I had seen some of the masks before — being repaired, being carried from one place to another — but now, faced with them alive in the failing twilight, I was impressed by them in no scientific or esthetic way — they terrified and exalted me. I wondered if I would be given a mask. I began trying to identify such men as I could by their scars and missing fingers and crooked arms, and noticed to my distress that they too were all standing one-legged in my presence. I had thought that was the stance to be assumed in the presence of the dead! We were at the entrance to The Cleft, a dead-end ravine in one of the cliffs along the valley; my fellow novice and I were each given a gourdful of some vile-tasting drink and were then taken up to the end of The Cleft, instructed to assume the first position, and left alone. We squatted as I had been squatting by the log on my first day, except that my head was cocked in a certain way and my hands clasped my ankles from the front. The excitements of the day seemed to have addled my wits, I could concentrate on nothing and lost my impulse to observe coolly what was going on; I kept humming St. James Infirmary to myself, and though at first I had been thinking the words, after a while I realized that I had nothing but the tune left in my head. At moonrise we were brought another gourd of the liquor to drink, and were then taken to the mouth of The Cleft again. I did, easily, whatever I was told. The last thing I remember seeing before taking the second position was the semicircle of masked men facing us and chanting, and behind them the women and children — all standing on the left leg. I lay on my back with my left ankle on my right and my hands crossed over my navel, rolled my eyeballs up and held the lids open without blinking, and breathed in the necessary rhythm, each breath taking four heartbeats, with an interval of ten heartbeats between each exhalation and the next inspiration. Then the drug took over. At dawn when a called command awakened me, I found myself on an islet in the river dancing with my companion a leaping dance I had not known or even seen before, and brandishing over my head a magnificent red and blue, new-made mask of my own. The shores of the river were lined with the people chanting as we leaped, and all of them were either sitting or else standing on both feet. If we had been dead the night before we were alive now.

After I had slept and returned to myself, Redadu told me that my vision was splendid, but of course she was no more permitted to tell me what I had said than I was able to remember it. The Dangs’ sense of rhythm is as subtle as their ear for melody is monotonous, and for weeks I kept hearing rhythmic snatches of St. James Infirmary scratched on calabash drums and tapped on blocks.

Sorish honored me by rewriting my master’s thesis and adding my name as co-author of the resultant essay, which he published in JAFA (The Journal of American Field Anthropology): ‘Techniques of Vatic Hallucinosis among the Dangs.” And the twenty-minute movie I made of a streamlined performance of the rites is still widely used as an audio-visual aid.

By 1939 when I had been cured of the skin disease I had brought back with me and had finished the work for my M.S., I still had no money. I had been working as the assistant curator of the University’s Pre-Columbian Museum and had developed a powerful aversion to devoting my life to cataloguing, displaying, restoring, warehousing. But my chances of getting a research job, slight enough with a Ph.D., were nil with only an M.S. The girl I was going with said (I had not told her about Redadu) that if we married she would work as a nurse to support me while I went through law school; I was tempted by the opportunity to fulfill my original ambition, and probably I would have done it had she not pressed too hard; she wanted me to leave anthropology, she wanted me to become a lawyer, she wanted to support me, but what she did not want was to make my intentions, whatever they might be, her own. So when a new grant gave me the chance to return to the Dangs I gladly seized it; not only would I be asserting myself against Velma, but also I would be paid for doing the research for my Ph.D. thesis; besides, I was curious to see the Congo-Maryland-Dang bastard I had left in Redadu’s belly.

My assignment was to make a general cultural survey but especially to discover the content of the vatic experience— not just the technique, not even the hallucinations and stories, but the qualities of the experience itself. The former would get me a routine degree, but the latter would, if I did it, make me a name and get me a job. After much consultation I decided against taking with me any form of magic, including medicine; the antibiotics had not been invented yet, and even if there had been a simple way to eradicate the fever endemic among the Dangs, my advisers persuaded me that it would be an error to introduce it since the Dangs were able to procure barely enough food for themselves as it was and since they might worship me for doing it, thereby making it impossible for me to do my research with the proper empathy. I arrived the second time provided only with my knife (which had not seemed to impress these stone-agers), salve to soothe my sores, and the knowledge of how to preserve fish against a lean season, innovation enough but not one likely to divinize me.

I was only slightly worried how I would be received on my return, because of the circumstances under which I had disappeared. I had become a fairly decent hunter — the women gathered grain and fruit — and I had learned to respect the Dangs’ tracking abilities enough to have been nervous about getting away safely. While hunting with a companion in the hills south of our valley I had run into a couple of hunters from an enemy tribe which seldom foraged so far north as this. They probably were as surprised as I and probably would have been glad to leave me unmolested; however, outnumbered and not knowing how many more were with them, I whooped for my companion; one of the hunters in turn, not knowing how many were with me, threw his spear at me. I side-stepped it and reached for my darts, and though I was not very accurate with a blowpipe I hit him in the thigh; within a minute he was writhing on the ground, for in my haste I had blown a venomous dart at him, and my comrade took his comrade prisoner by surprise. As soon as the man I had hit was dead I withdrew my dart and cut off his ear for trophy, and we returned with our captive. He told our war chief in sign language that the young man I had killed was the son and heir of their king and that my having mutilated him meant their tribe surely would seek to avenge his death. The next morning a Dang search party was sent out to recover the body so that it might be destroyed and trouble averted, but it had disappeared; war threatened. The day after that I chose to vanish; they would not think of looking for me in the direction of Sorish’s tribe, north, but would assume that I had been captured by the southern tribe in retribution for their prince’s death. My concern now, two years later, was how to account for not having been maimed or executed; the least I could do was to cut a finger off, but when it came to the point I could not even bring myself to have a surgeon do it, much less do it myself; I had adequate lies prepared for their other questions, but about this I was a bit nervous.

I got there at sundown. Spying, I did not see Redadu about the village. On the chance, I slipped into our hut when no one was looking; she was there, playing with our child. He was as cute a little preliterate as you ever saw suck a thumb, and it made me chuckle to think he would never be literate either. Redadu’s screams when she saw me fetched the women, but when they heard a man’s voice they could not intrude. In her joy she lacerated me with her fingernails (the furrows across my shoulder festered for a long time); I could do no less than bite her arm till she bled; the primal scene we treated our son to presumably scarred him for life — though I must say the scars haven’t shown up yet. I can’t deny I was glad to see her too, for, though I felt for her none of the tender, complex emotions I had been feeling for Velma, emotions which I more or less identified as being love, yet I was so secure with her sexually, knew so well what to do and what to expect from her in every important matter that it was an enormous, if cool, comfort to me to be with her. Comfort is a dangerous approximation to what I mean; being with her provided, as it were, the condition for doing; in Sansom I did not consider her my wife and here I did not recognize in myself the American emotions of love or marriage, yet it seemed to me right to be with her and our son was no bastard. Cool—I cannot guarantee that mine was the usual Dang emotion, for it is hard for the cool to gauge the warmth of others (in my reports I have denied any personal experience of love among the Dangs for this reason). When we emerged from the hut there was amazement and relief among the women: amazement that I had returned and relief that it had not been one of their husbands pleasuring the widow. But the men were more ambiguously pleased to see me. Redadu’s scratches were not enough and they doubted my story that the enemy king had made me his personal slave who must be bodily perfect. They wanted to hear me prophesy.

Redadu told me afterward, hiding her face in my arms for fear of being judged insolent, that I surpassed myself that night, that only the three high prophets had ever been so inspired. And it was true that even the men most hostile to me did not oppose my re-entry into the tribe after they had heard me prophesy; they could have swallowed the story I fed them about my two-year absence only because they believed in me the prophet. Dangs make no separation between fact and fantasy, apparent reality and visionary reality, truth and beauty. I once saw a young would-be prophet shudder away from a stick on the ground saying it was a snake, and none of the others except the impressionable was afraid of the stick; it was said of him that he was a beginner. Another time I saw a prophet scatter the whole congregation, myself included, when he screamed at the sight of a beast which he called a cougar; when sober dawn found the speared creature to be a cur it was said of the prophet that he was strong, and he was honored with an epithet, Cougar-Dog. My prophesying the first night of my return must have been of this caliber, though to my disappointment I was given no epithet, not even the nickname I’d sometimes heard before, Bush-Hair.

I knew there was a third kind of prophesying, the highest, performed only on the most important occasions in the Cave-Temple where I had never been. No such occasion had presented itself during my stay before, and when I asked one of the other prophets about that ceremony he put me off with the term Wind-Haired Child of the Sun; from another I learned that the name of this sort of prophesying was Stone is Stone. Obviously I was going to have to stay until I could make sense of these mysteries.

There was a war party that wanted my support; my slavery was presumed to have given me knowledge which would make a raid highly successful; because of this as well as because I had instigated the conflict by killing the king’s son I would be made chief of the raiding party. I was uneasy about the fever, which had got rather worse among them during the previous two years, without risking my neck against savages who were said always to eat a portion of their slain enemy’s liver raw and whose habitat I knew nothing of. I persuaded the Dangs, therefore, that they should not consider attacking before the rains came, because their enemies were now the stronger, having on their side their protector, the sun. They listened to me and waited. Fortunately it was a long dry season, during which I had time to find a salt deposit and to teach a few women the rudiments of drying and salting fish; and during the first week of the rains every night there were showers of falling stars to be seen in the sky; to defend against them absorbed all energies for weeks, including the warriors’. Even so, even though I was a prophet, a Journeyman prophet as it were, I was never in on these rites in the Cave-Temple. I dared not ask many questions. Sir Bewley Morehead had described a temple surrounded by seventy-six poles, each topped by a human head; he could hardly have failed to mention that it was in a cave, yet he made no such mention, and I knew of no temple like the one he had described. At a time of rains and peace in the sky the war party would importune me. I did not know what to do but wait.

The rains became violent, swamping the villages in the lower valley and destroying a number of huts, yet the rainy season ended abruptly two months before its usual time. Preparations for war had already begun, and day by day as the sun’s strength increased and the earth dried the war party became more impatient. The preparations in themselves lulled my objections to the raid, even to my leading the raid, and stimulated my desire to make war. But the whole project was canceled a couple of days before we were to attack because of the sudden fever of one of the high prophets; the day after he came down five others of the tribe fell sick, among them Redadu. There was nothing I could do but sit by her, fanning her and sponging her till she died. Her next older sister took our son to rear. I would allow no one to prepare her body but myself, though her mother was supposed to help; I washed it with the proper infusions of herbs, and at dawn, and in the presence of her clan, I laid her body on the river. Thank heaven it floated or I should have had to spend another night preparing it further. I felt like killing someone now; I recklessly called for war now, even though the high prophet had not yet died; I was restrained, not without admiration. I went up into the eastern hills by myself and returned after a week bearing the hide of a cougar; I had left the head and claws on my trophy in a way the Dangs had never seen; when I put the skin on in play by daylight and bounded and snarled only the bravest did not run in terror. They called me Cougar-Man. Redadu’s younger sister came to sleep with me; I did not want her, but she so stubbornly refused to be expelled that I kept her for the night, for the next night, for the next; it was not improper.

The high prophet did not die, but lay comatose most of the time. The Dangs have ten master prophets, of whom the specially gifted, whether one or all ten, usually two or three, are high prophets. Fifteen days after Redadu had died, well into the abnormal dry spell, nearly all the large fish seemed to disappear from the river. A sacrifice was necessary. It was only because the old man was so sick that a high prophet was used for this occasion, otherwise a captive or a woman would have served the purpose. A new master prophet must replace him, to keep the complement up to ten. I was chosen.

The exultation I felt when I learned that the master prophets had co-opted me among them was by no means cool and anthropological, for now that I had got what I had come to get I no longer wanted it for Sansom reasons. If the conditions of my being elevated, I said to myself, are the suffering of the people, Redadu’s death, and the sacrifice of an old man, then I must make myself worthy of the great price. Worthy—a value word, not a scientific one. Of course, my emotions were not the simple pride and fear of a Dang. I can’t say what sort they were, but they were fierce.

At sundown all the Dangs of all the clans were assembled about the entrance to The Cleft. All the prophets, masked, emerged from The Cleft and began the dance in a great wheel. Within this wheel, rotating against it, was the smaller wheel of the nine able-bodied master prophets. At the center, facing the point at which the full moon would rise, I hopped on one leg, then the other. I had been given none of the vatic liquor, that brew which the women, when I had first come among the Dangs, had been preparing in the small-throated pots, and I hoped I should be able to remain conscious throughout the rites. However, at moon-rise a moon slave brought me a gourdful to drink without ceasing to dance. I managed to allow a good deal of it to spill unnoticed down with the sweat streaming off me, so that later I was able to remember what had happened, right up to the prophesying itself. The dance continued for at least two more hours, then the drums suddenly stopped and the prophets began to file up The Cleft with me last dancing after the high prophets. We danced into an opening in the cliff from which a disguising stone had been rolled away. The people were not allowed to follow us. We entered a great cavern illuminated by ten smoking torches and circled a palisade of stakes; the only sound was the shuffle of our feet and the snorts of our breathing. There were seventy-six stakes, as Morehead had seen, but only on twenty-eight of them were heads impaled, the last few with flesh on them still, not yet skulls cleaned of all but hair. In the center was a huge stone under the middle of which a now dry stream had tunneled a narrow passage; on one side of the stone, above the passage, were two breastlike protuberances, one of which had a recognizable nipple in the suitable place. Presently the dancing file reversed so that I was the leader. I had not been taught what to do; I wove the file through the round of stakes, and spiraled inward till we were three deep about The Stone; I straddled the channel, raised my hands till they were touching the breasts, and gave a great cry. I was, for reason I do not understand, shuddering all over; though I was conscious and though I had not been instructed, I was not worried that I might do the wrong thing next. When I touched The Stone a dread shook me without affecting my exaltation. Two moon slaves seized my arms, took off my mask, and wrapped and bound me — arms at my side and legs pressed together in a deer hide — and then laid me on my back in the channel under The Stone with my head only half out, so that I was staring up the sheer side of rock. The dancers continued, though the master prophets had disappeared. My excitement, the new unused position, being mummied tightly, the weakness of the drug, my will to observe, all kept me conscious for a long time. Gradually, however, my eyes began to roll up into my head, I strained less powerfully against the thongs that bound me, and I felt my breathing approach the vatic rhythm. At this point I seemed to break out in a new sweat, on my forehead, my throat, in my hair; I could hear a splash, groggily I licked my chin — an odd taste — I wondered if I was bleeding. Of course, it was the blood of the sick old high prophet, who had just been sacrificed on The Stone above me; well, his blood would give me strength. Wondering remotely whether his fever could be transmitted by drinking his blood I entered the trance. At dawn I emerged into consciousness while I was still prophesying; I was on a ledge in the valley above all the people, in my mask again. I listened to myself finish the story I was telling. “He was afraid. A third time a man said to him: ‘You are a friend of the most high prophet.’ He answered: ‘Not me. I do not know that man they are sacrificing.’ Then he went into a dark corner, he put his hands over his face all day.” When I came to the Resurrection a sigh blew across the people. It was the best story they had ever heard. Of course. But I was not really a Christian. For several weeks I fretted over my confusion, this new, unsuspected confusion.

I was miserable without Redadu; I let her sister substitute only until I had been elevated, and then I cast her off, promising her however that she and only she might wear an anklet made of my teeth when I should die. Now that I was a master prophet I could not be a warrior; I had enough of hunting and fishing and tedious ceremonies. Hunger from the shortage of fish drove the hunters high into the foothills; there was not enough; they ate my preserved fish, suspiciously, but they ate them. When I left it was not famine that I was escaping but my confusion; I was fleeing to the classrooms and the cool museums where I should be neither a leftover Christian nor a mimic of a Dang.

My academic peace lasted for just two years, during which time I wrote five articles on my researches, publishing them this time under my name only, did some of the work for my doctorate, and married Velma. Then came World War II, in which my right hand was severed above the wrist; I was provided with an artificial hand and given enough money so that I could afford to finish my degree in style. We had two daughters and I was given a job at Sansom. There was no longer a question of my returning to the Dangs. I would become a settled anthropologist, teach, and quarrel with my colleagues in the learned journals. But by the time the Korean War came along and robbed us of a lot of our students, my situation at the university had changed considerably. Few of my theoretical and disputatious articles were printed in the journals, and I hated writing them; I was not given tenure and there were some hints to the effect that I was considered a one-shot man, a flash-in-the-pan; Velma nagged for more money and higher rank. My only recourse was further research, and when I thought of starting all over again with some other tribe — in northern Australia, along the Zambesi, on an African island — my heart sank. The gossip was not far from the mark — I was not a one hundred per cent scientist and never would be. I had just enough reputation and influential recommendations to be awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship; supplemented by a travel grant from the university this made it possible for me to leave my family comfortably provided for and to return to the Dangs.

A former student now in Standard Oil in Venezuela arranged to have me parachuted among them from an SO plane. There was the real danger that they would kill me before they recognized me, but if I arrived in a less spectacular fashion I was pretty sure they would sacrifice me for their safety’s sake. This time, being middle-aged, I left my hunting knife and brought instead at my belt a pouch filled with penicillin and salves. I had a hard time identifying the valley from the air; it took me so long that it was sunset before I jumped. I knew how the Dangs were enraged by airplanes, especially by the winking lights of night fliers, and I knew they would come for me if they saw me billowing down. Fortunately I landed in the river, for though I was nearly drowned before I disentangled my parachute harness I was also out of range of the blow-pipes. I finally identified myself to the warriors brandishing their spears along the shore; they had not quite dared to swim out after so prodigious a being; even after they knew who I said I was and allowed me to swim to shore they saw me less as myself than as a supernatural being. I was recognized by newcomers who had not seen me so closely swinging from the parachute (the cloud); on the spot my epithet became, and remained, Sky-Cougar. Even so no one dared touch me till the high prophet — there was only one now — had arrived and talked with me; my artificial hand seemed to him an extension of the snake tattooed onto my skin, he would not touch it; I suddenly struck him with it and pinched his arm. “Pinchers,” I said using the word for a crayfish claw, and he laughed. He said there was no way of telling whether I was what I seemed to be until he had heard me prophesy; if I prophesied as I had done before I had disappeared I must be what I seemed to be; meanwhile, for the three weeks till full moon I was to be kept in the hut for captives.

At first I was furious at being imprisoned, and when mothers brought children from miles about to peek through the stakes at the man with the snake hand I snarled or sulked like a caged wolf. But I became conscious that one youth, squatting in a quiet place, had been watching me for hours. I demanded of him who he was. He said, “I am your son,” but he did not treat me as his father. To be sure, he could not have remembered what I looked like; my very identity was doubted; even if I were myself, I was legendary, a stranger who had become a Dang and had been held by an enemy as captive slave for two years and had then become a master prophet with the most wonderful vision anyone knew. Yet he came to me every day and answered all the questions I put to him. It was, I believe, my artificial hand that finally kept him aloof from me; no amount of acquaintance could accustom him to that. By the end of the first week it was clear to me that if I wanted to survive — not to be accepted as I once had been, just to survive — I would have to prophesy the Passion again. And how could I determine what I would say when under the vatic drug? I imagined a dozen schemes for substituting colored water for the drug, but I would need an accomplice for that and I knew that not even my own son would serve me in so forbidden an act.

I called for the high prophet. I announced to him in tones all the more arrogant because of my trepidations that I would prophesy without the vatic liquor. His response to my announcement astonished me: he fell upon his knees, bowed his head, and rubbed dust into his hair. He was the most powerful man among the Dangs, except in time of war when the war chief took over, and furthermore he was an old man of personal dignity, yet here he was abasing himself before me and, worse, rubbing dust into his hair as was proper in the presence of the very sick to help them in their dying. He told me why: prophesying successfully from a voluntary trance was the test which I must pass to become a high prophet; normally a master prophet was forced to this, for the penalty for failing it was death. I dismissed him with a wave of my claw.

I had five days to wait until full moon. The thought of the risk I was running was more than I could handle consciously; to avoid the jitters I performed over and over all the techniques of preparing for the trance, though I carefully avoided entering it. I was not sure I would be able to enter it alone, but whether I could or not I knew I wanted to conserve my forces for the great test. At first during those five days I would remind myself once in a while of my scientific purpose in going into the trance consciously; at other times I would assure myself that it was for the good of the Dangs that I was doing it, since it was not wise or safe for them to have only one high prophet. Both of these reasons were true enough, but not very important. As scientist I should tell them some new myth, say the story of Abraham and Isaac or of Oedipus, so that I could compare its effect on them with that of the Passion; as master prophet I should ennoble my people if I could. However, thinking these matters over as I held my vatic squat hour after hour, visited and poked at by prying eyes, I could find no myth to satisfy me; either, as in the case of Abraham, it involved a concept of God which the Dangs could not reach, or else, as with Oedipus, it necessitated more drastic changes than I trusted myself to keep straight while prophesying — that Oedipus should mutilate himself was unthinkable to the Dangs and that the gods should be represented as able to forgive him for it was impious. Furthermore, I did not think, basically, that any story I could tell them would in fact ennoble them. I was out to save my own skin.

The story of Christ I knew by heart; it had worked for me once, perhaps more than once; it would work again. I rehearsed it over and over, from the Immaculate Conception to the Ascension. But such was the force of that story on me that by the fifth day my cynicism had disappeared along with my scientism, and I believed, not that the myth itself was true, but that relating it to my people was the best thing it was possible for me to do for them. I remember telling myself that this story would help raise them toward monotheism, a necessary stage in the evolution toward freedom. I felt a certain satisfaction in the thought that some of the skulls on the stakes in the Cave-Temple were very likely those of missionaries who had failed to convert these heathen.

At sundown of the fifth day I was taken by moon slaves to a cave near The Cleft, where I was left in peace. I fell into a troubled sleep from which I awoke in a sweat. “Where am I? What am I about to do?” It seemed to me dreadfully wrong that I should be telling these, my people, a myth in whose power, but not in whose truth, I believed. Why should I want to free them from superstition into monotheism and then into my total freedom, when I myself was half-returning, voluntarily, down the layers again? The energy for these sweating questions came, no doubt, from my anxiety about how I was going to perform that night, but I did not recognize this fact at the time. Then I thought it was my conscience speaking, and that I had no right to open to the Dangs a freedom I myself was rejecting. It was too late to alter my course; honesty required me, and I resolved courageously, not to prophesy at all.

When I was fetched out the people were in assembly at The Cleft and the wheel of master prophets was revolving against the greater wheel of dancers. I was given my cougar skin. Hung from a stake, in the center where I was to hop, was a huge, terrific mask I had never seen before. As the moon rose her slaves hung this mask on me; the thong cut into the back of my neck cruelly, and at the bottom the mask came to a point that pressed my belly; it was so wide my arms could only move laterally. It had no eye holes; I broke into a sweat wondering how I should be able to follow the prophets into the Cave-Temple. It turned out to be no problem; the two moon slaves, one on each side, guided me by prodding spears in my ribs. Once in the cave they guided me to the back side of The Stone and drove me to climb it, my feet groping for steps I could not see; once, when I lost my balance, the spears’ pressure kept me from falling backward. By the time I reached the top of The Stone I was bleeding and dizzy. With one arm I kept the mask from gouging my belly while with the other I helped my aching neck support the mask. I did not know what to do next. Tears of pain and anger poured from my eyes. I began hopping. I should have been moving my arms in counterpoint to the rhythm of my hop, but I could not bear the thought of letting the mask cut into me more. I kept hopping in the same place for fear of falling off; I had not been noticing the sounds of the other prophets, but suddenly I was aware they were making no sounds at all. In my alarm I lurched to the side and cut my foot on a sharp break in the rock. Pain converted my panic to rage.

I lifted the mask and held it flat above my head. I threw my head back and howled as I had never howled in my life, through a constricted, gradually opening throat, until at the end I was roaring; when I gasped in my breath I made a barking noise. I leaped and leaped, relieved of pain, confident I punched my knee desecratingly through the brittle hide of the mask, and threw it behind me off The Stone. I tore off my cougar skin, and holding it with my claw by the tip of its tail I whirled it around my head. The prophets, massed below me, fell onto their knees. I felt their fear. Howling, I soared the skin out over them; one of those on whom it landed screamed hideously. A commotion started; I could not see very well what was happening. I barked and they turned toward me again. I leaped three times and then, howling, jumped wide-armed off The Stone. The twelve-foot drop hurt severely my already cut foot. I rolled exhausted into the channel in the cave floor.

Moon slaves with trembling hands mummied me in the deerskin and shoved me under The Stone with only my head sticking out. They brought two spears with darts tied to the points; rolling my head to watch them do this I saw the prophets were kneeling over and rubbing dirt into their hair. Then the slaves laid the spears alongside the base of The Stone with the poisoned pricks pointed at my temples; exactly how close they were I could not be sure, but close enough so that I dared not move my head. In all my preparations I had, as I had been trained to do, rocked and weaved at least my head; now, rigidity, live rigidity. A movement would scratch me and a scratch would kill me.

I pressed my hook into my thigh, curled my toes, and pressed my tongue against my teeth until my throat ached. I did not dare relieve myself even with a howl, for I might toss my head fatally. I strained against my thongs to the verge of apoplexy. For a while I was unable to see, for sheer rage. Fatigue collapsed me. Yet I dared not relax my vigilance over my movements. My consciousness sealed me off. Those stone protuberances up between which I had to stare in the flickering light were merely chance processes on a boulder, similes to breasts. The one thing I might not become unconscious of was the pair of darts waiting for me to err. For a long time I thought of piercing my head against them, for relief, for spite. Hours passed. I was carefully watched.

I do not know what wild scheme I had had in mind when I had earlier resolved not to prophesy, what confrontation or escape; it had had the pure magnificence of a fantasy resolution. But the reality, which I had not seriously tried to evade, was that I must prophesy or die. I kept lapsing from English into a delirium of Dang. By the greatest effort of will I looked about me rationally. I wondered whether the return of Halley’s comet, at which time all the stakes should be mounted by skulls, would make the Dangs destroy the Cave-Temple and erect a new one. I observed the straight, indented seam of sandstone running slantwise up the boulder over me and wondered how many eons this rotting piece of granite had been tumbled about by water. I reflected that I was unworthy both as a Christian and as a Dang to prophesy the life of Jesus. But I convinced myself that it was a trivial matter, since to the Christians it was the telling more than the teller that counted and to the Dangs this myth would serve as a civilizing force they needed. Surely, I thought, my hypocrisy could be forgiven me, especially since I resolved to punish myself for it by leaving the Dangs forever as soon as I could. Having reached this rational solution I smiled and gestured to the high prophet with my eyes; he did not move a muscle. When I realized that nothing to do with hypocrisy would unbind me desperation swarmed in my guts and mounted toward my brain; with this question it took me over: How can I make myself believe it is true? I needed to catch hold of myself again. I dug my hook so hard into my leg — it was the only action I was able to take — that I gasped with pain; the pain I wanted. I did not speculate on the consequences of gouging my leg, tearing a furrow in my thigh muscle, hurting by the same act the stump of my arm to which the hook was attached; just as I knew that the prophets, the torches, the poisoned darts were there in the cave, so also I knew that far far back in my mind I had good enough reasons to be hurting myself, reasons which I could find out if I wanted to, but which it was not worth my trouble to discover; I even allowed the knowledge that I myself was causing the pain to drift back in my mind. The pain itself, only the pain, became my consciousness, purging all else. Then, as the pain subsided leaving me free and equipoised, awareness of the stone arched over me flooded my mind. Because it had been invested by the people with a great mystery, it was an incarnation; the power of their faith made it the moon, who was female; at the same time it was only a boulder. I understood Stone is Stone, and that became my consciousness.

My muscles ceased straining against the bonds, nor did they slump; they ceased aching, they were at ease, they were ready. I said nothing, I did not change the upward direction of my glance, I did not smile, yet at this moment the high prophet removed the spears and had the moon slaves unbind me. I did not feel stiff nor did my wounds bother me, and when I put on my cougar skin and leaped, pulled the head over my face and roared, all the prophets fell onto their faces before me. I began chanting and I knew I was doing it all the better for knowing what I was about; I led them back out to the waiting people, and until dawn I chanted the story of the birth, prophesying, betrayal, sacrifice, and victory of the most high prophet. I am a good mimic, I was thoroughly trained, the story is the best; what I gave them was, for them, as good as a vision. I did not know the difference myself.

But the next evening I knew the difference. While I performed my ablutions and the routine ceremonies to the full moon I thought with increasing horror of my state of mind during my conscious trance. What my state of mind actually had been I cannot with confidence now represent, for what I know of it is colored by my reaction against it the next day. I had remained conscious, in that I could recall what happened, yet that observer and commentator in myself of whose existence I had scarcely been aware, but whom I had always taken for my consciousness, had vanished. I no longer had been thinking, but had lost control so that my consciousness had become what I was doing; almost worse, when I told the story of Christ I had done it not because I had wanted to or believed in it but because, in some obscure sense, I had had to. Thinking about it afterward I did not understand or want to understand what I was drifting toward, but I knew it was something that I feared. And I got out of there as soon as I was physically able.

Here in Sansom what I have learned has provided me with material for an honorable contribution to knowledge, has given me a tenure to a professorship — thereby pleasing my wife — whereas if I had stayed there among the Dangs much longer I would have reverted until I had become one of them, might not have minded when the time came to die under the sacrificial knife, would have taken in all ways the risk of prophecy — as my Dang son intends to do — until I had lost myself utterly.

Now this one is not science fiction. It is, very much, “S-F.” Mr. Hale was not concerned with how or why his strange events occurred, or with the logic of the situation — and neither am I.

Rationale here is not just unnecessary; it could have been ruinous. What Mr. Hale has done is to paint an alien viewpoint in an unknown perspective, and do it so graphically that (to return to the earlier metaphor), the resultant rainbow seems the natural way for light to be.

Of course, he has some special advantages. Possibly, this story could only have been written by an author who is both architect (by training) and anatomist (lecturer on, at the Art Students’ League) as well as a painter and poet of some years’ standing, and an editor, writer, and teacher of art. (Among other things, Curator of American Painting and Sculpture at New York’s Metropolitan Museum.)

Let me tell you about a dream I had and what happened afterward, because I think it all adds up.

You see, when this poet turned up a while back telling me he could live upstairs because Mrs. Stettheimer had said he could, there wasn’t much I could do. After all, Mr. Stettheimer had let us have the place free, as long as I painted him one picture a year. And upstairs wasn’t much anyway: it was where they used to keep the hay. There was an old sofa up there full of moths, and we gave him a blanket. He didn’t need a table, he said, because he never wrote anything down, he was extemporaneous. His name was Virgil Cranbrook; he came from Taos and San Francisco.

He wasn’t much trouble in the beginning. Mornings, Olivia used to pound on the ceiling with a mop handle and wake him up. Soon he would open the trap door, call for the stepladder and join us at breakfast. He took mescaline, or peyote, the drug that Huxley wrote about. He’d picked a supply of peyote buds near Taos and carried them around in his pockets. Every now and then he’d slice some with a razor blade, toast them in our toaster, and crumble them into powder. He’d put this powder in a jar of instant coffee, shake it up, and then at breakfast drink a couple of cups. After breakfast he would go upstairs and walk back and forth being extemporaneous.

The trouble was the moths up there couldn’t get used to him. He disturbed them. They’d crawl through the cracks in the ceiling and fly around my studio. Once so many of them got on a wet canvas of mine that they ruined it. I complained to Olivia, so she bought some moth balls and put them around upstairs. She also persuaded Virgil to carry some in his pockets along with the peyote buds.

Let me explain about Olivia. Thelonious Monk was playing at the Jazz Gallery one evening, and I found her next to me in the balcony. She had blank gray eyes, a thin body, and rather fat arms and legs. She wasn’t very attractive, but then I’m afraid I’m not either — and so far I haven’t been very successful. So we worked out an arrangement. She kept house well enough for me, and the nice thing about her was you didn’t know she was around when she was around.

The first thing that made me suspect there was something up between Virgil and Olivia were those whistles. Olivia and Virgil used to like to go to the beach, and one day they came back with a couple of tin whistles they’d found near some empty packages of Cracker Jack. Then they worked up a kind of game in the woods behind my studio — they’d separate from each other and start blowing the whistles. Ultimately they’d find each other and stop blowing. This used to go on while I was painting.

One morning Virgil came down to breakfast as usual, but after breakfast he didn’t go up again; he started declaiming right there — some crazy poem about what sex was like in outer space. Olivia sat on the bed and watched him. She was showing, I thought, a little too much appreciation. For me, this went on too long, so I told him to go upstairs or keep quiet; I wanted to paint. Since he wouldn’t pay any attention, I picked him up and threw him out the door. This wasn’t very hard to do because his co-ordination had been all shaken up by his morning coffee. Nevertheless, I handled him pretty roughly; he lost a couple of moth balls. Olivia looked irritated. I told them they could go out in the woods and blow their damn whistles, then slammed the door on both of them.

Right away they threw this stone, or rock, I guess you might call it, through the studio window. Outside, I heard them start up my car and head down the road.

Virgil’s special brew was still on the table. I mixed up a cup and poured in a lot of sugar. It wasn’t too bad. I drank three cups altogether. Soon I began to feel uneasy and lay down on the bed.

Outside the hole in the studio window, climbing up my rose bush, was a morning-glory vine. The blossoms were a very effective blue. On the floor a square of sunlight was making up into a nice arrangement with the rock they’d thrown through the window. As the sun moved across the floor, it occurred to me that the rock was not an ordinary Long Island rock. Long Island rocks look like Long Island potatoes, but this rock was a deep black, a real ivory black, and it had metallic flecks in it. I got off the bed, though it took a great deal of effort, and picked the rock up. It was terribly heavy for its size and roughly conical in shape— altogether, it had a lot of style. I decided I’d give it to Zogstein. He’d been making some very nice things out of iron lately, with a rock in the middle.

There came a loud knock, so I put the rock on the bed and opened the door. On the doorstep was a tall man carrying an open can of beer in one hand and a live lobster in the other. At first I thought he was an artist, because he hadn’t shaved and his shirt was such a tasteful, faded blue. But he didn’t have that troubled look, he had a general air of assurance; I decided he was a native of the place.

“Morning,” he said. “Got any pictures you want to trade?”

I understood the situation immediately. Jackson Pollock had come to Springs in 1947, and very shortly a number of other Abstract Expressionists, who are now famous, had followed him. Things were not so good in those days, so the grocer had occasionally let them exchange paintings for groceries. Lately, the grocer had been written up in Life magazine as a great collector, and had sold his Pollock for a price that had increased at every telling.

“I’m Lester Barnes, from over at Louse Point,” said the man at my door. “I’m putting up a little mess of drawings. They come cheaper than the big stuff, and I figure, I figure—” He seemed confused, and took a gulp of beer. “I figure that, well…”

“You mean that though they’re sort of small they still carry the personality of the artist?”

“Yep!” exclaimed Mr. Barnes enthusiastically. “That’s just what I mean. Now I’ve just been over to Mike Goldfarb’s. He gave me a drawing for seven lobsters. But I figured that after that panning you got in Art News you might let me have one for three.”

I didn’t like this much.

“All right,” I said.

“Here’s one down.” Mr. Barnes handed me the lobster. “I’ll bring the other two later.” He started down the path, hesitated, and came back. “The one I gave you — maybe you won’t eat him right away.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you see—” He took another gulp of beer and looked down at the ground. “You see, we’ve had him for quite a while. You might call him sort of a household pet. He’s even learned to play marbles with the kids.”

I took the lobster inside and put him down in the square of sunlight. He crawled across the room right away and went under the bed. That was all right, because it left the floor clear for me to do a little painting. I was feeling much better and was beginning to have ideas. Art News had said that my work was too busy, too many things in it. I decided I’d try for a very simple statement. Just two strong forms, one geometrical and one amorphous: And just two colors playing against each other, but strong ones.

I placed a forty-eight-by-fifty canvas on the floor, mixed up some vermilion, and painted in a nice round disc up near the top of the canvas. Then I got a can of ivory black and poured some out in a little pool down near the bottom.

I picked up another brush, wondering what shape I would tease this pool into. But then a really weird thing happened. I noticed that as a shape formed in my mind, the same shape would form on the canvas. I mean I didn’t touch the canvas or anything. The black pool of paint just took on what I was thinking. I worked through a series of shapes and finally hit on a very good one. It had a sort of cosmic quality: a nucleus, with five interrelated drips spiraling around it.

I stepped back. The black form was in a very nice place, the tension was practically perfect. I was pleased and was admiring my work, when I began to get the feeling that somebody was watching me. You know that feeling you sometimes get in a bus or a subway and you look up and sure enough you meet the eyes of a character across the aisle. A detective or something. So I looked up.

On the bed where I had put the rock was a girl. At first I thought she was Olivia. She was the same size, small, that is, had the same immature and somewhat nondescript face, and was wearing, as Olivia always did, a black turtle-neck sweater and blue jeans. But the eyes that were watching me were not Olivia’s. Olivia’s eyes were gray, as I’ve said, and sort of dull. These eyes were a burnt-sienna color. And over there on the dark side of the room they were glowing as if someone had lit a couple of little bonfires behind them.

“Good morning,” I said.

She didn’t answer. She sat there watching me, her elbow on her knee, her pointed chin resting on the palm of a somewhat pudgy hand.

“Do you know,” she said finally, “you’re the first man I’ve ever seen. Ever, that is.”

She shook her head slightly, as if to clear it, and looked at me again.

“How did it happen, sister?” I asked. ‘They had you locked up?”

“In a sense,” she said.

I carried my canvas across the room and set it up against the wall.

“It utterly overwhelms me!” she exclaimed. “I can see that one must exercise fantastic control.”

I looked at my picture to see if it was that good, and shrugged my shoulders modestly.

“I wasn’t talking about your picture,” she said. “I was talking about sex. This is the first time I’ve ever experienced it. You know, where I come from we don’t have any sex. We have something entirely different.”

“And what is that?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s a really grisly performance. It takes eight of us, and it’s run by the Department of Weights and Measures. It’s quite heavy.” She patted the bed. “Do come and sit beside me.”

I said, somewhat nervously, “Perhaps you’d better come over here and sit on this chair.” Since she didn’t move, I added, “As a matter of fact, I’m afraid you’re sitting on a rock.”

“No, I’m not,” she said, a little coldly. “Besides, it wasn’t a rock. It was a meteorite.” A small, reproachful wrinkle appeared on her forehead. She drew up her knees, and in a slow, weary way put her head down on the pillow. “I’m not happy,” she said. “It’s very evident that you don’t like me.” She began to look as if she were going to cry. “I gave a lot of thought to my appearance before I came. I’ve always heard that artists like you, who’d been through the mill, who’d really had it, wanted something quiet around. Something not too exciting. Something they call a studio mouse.”

I began to feel sorry for her. I crossed the room and put my hand on her shoulder.

“Listen, sister,” I explained, “the trouble is, I’ve just had one of what you describe. And I’m not too anxious to get mixed up with another.”

“Oh,” she said, lightening up considerably. “So that’s all it is. Why, that can be taken care of in no time. Do you like my eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like them better this way?” As she spoke her eyes changed from brown to a brilliant blue. The color of the morning-glory in the sun outside.

“Anything else?” she asked.

At first I thought I wasn’t functioning properly. I put my hands over my own eyes and looked at her again. Then I went to the window. The grass was still green, the sky still blue. And across the marshes, across Acabonic Creek, I could see Seymore Harris’ red Jaguar speeding along his private causeway. Colorwise, my eyes were O.K.

“Anything else?” she had asked. Slowly I grasped the significance of her remark. Evidently, all I had to do was to make a suggestion or so, and she would change into my conception of the perfect woman. The trouble was, I’d never done any work with the figure. I’d always painted abstractions (I’d studied with Hans Hofmann). I wasn’t sure I could carry the job through. So I went to the stepladder where Olivia had put some of my books and took down a large volume.

“Have you ever heard of Leonardo da Vinci?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said brightly. “He was one of ours. How did he make out down here?”

“Not at all badly.” I handed her the book. “I’ve always admired his women.”

She leafed through the papers. “They seem,” she said, “they seem to me to be a little old-fashioned. Wouldn’t you like something less passé?” She pointed to a picture of Jacqueline Kennedy that I had tacked up over the sink. “Who’s that over there?” she asked. “Couldn’t I combine a little of that with a little of these?”

“If you like.”

“Then put your hands over your eyes, the way you did a moment ago, and count backward from ten. Very slowly.”

I covered my eyes as she asked and started to count. At eight, I heard the town siren give a wail, there was a fire somewhere. At five, I began to notice a complicated perfume, as if the room were filling up with flowers. And then I heard an automobile horn on the road below. A very expensive horn.

“Now, darling,” she said. “Now…”

She was flawless, absolutely flawless. She was, to be sure, generally Leonardo, though I had the impression that he might have painted her some years after he had died, when things in Italy were more sensuous, more worldly. But her hair was definitely Jacqueline. She had kept her blue eyes.

“Do you approve?” she murmured, smiling and holding out her hands toward me.

She was completely irresistible. I took her in my arms.

“Who,” she asked, “is that utterly fascinating man coming up the path?”

I turned to see.

“It’s Seymore Harris, the dealer,” I answered.

He was striding up the path with all the purpose and vitality that had brought him such success in business. He was very smartly done up, in crushed-raspberry trousers and a well-cut plaid jacket. This was topped off with a handsome beret, the whole costume suggesting that he was a man of two worlds — which indeed he was, for he could move with us and with the others. His strong face was a type that often appeals to women: it was full of charm and animal cunning.

“Look,” I said abruptly. “I’m afraid Mr. Harris has come to discuss a private matter. Would you mind going upstairs?”

“Where’s upstairs?” she asked.

I grabbed the stepladder, shook the books off the steps and set it up under the trap door.

“Come!” I ordered. “Right up here.” And she followed obediently.

Seymore Harris was knocking on the door below. I said to her, “Just make yourself at home on the sofa,” and she sat down. A small cloud of moths arose before her beautiful and bewildered face. I descended the ladder, then slammed the trap door above me.

“Hi, Seymore,” I said.

He was surveying the studio with evident distaste. “God knows how you artists can stand it. This place is in a mess.”

“I’m sorry, Seymour; Olivia’s left me.”

“Hmm,” he muttered. “Hmm,” and sat down on the bed. He lifted his handsome nose and began to sniff appreciatively. “Boy, you must be a fast worker. Fleurs d’Amour. Made by Reynal Frères. The most expensive perfume in the world. Costs eighty-two dollars an ounce.” He gave me a crafty, sympathetic smile. “But don’t think I’m criticizing. I guess everybody knows my weakness. Women!” he snorted. “Women! You know, fella, the only women worth a damn are the ones you meet in dreams.”

“How’s that?”

“No strings attached. No pregnancies, no mothers-in-law, no alimony.”

He glanced at his gold watch. “Listen, I haven’t much time. I have to get to New York before closing. What I came to see you about is this. I’ve just got to find a Jackson Pollock. I’ve got a party that will pay up in the five figures.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Look, son,” he said, “don’t act so innocent. You know and I know that a lot of the artists out here liked Pollock very much, and he liked them. One way or another they got pictures out of him, and now they’ve got them hidden, waiting for higher prices. You’ve been living here for years, and you’ve been to all their houses—”

A moth ball shot between his feet, sped across the room, and came to rest with considerable clatter among the pots under the sink.

“What was that?” said Seymore sharply.

“There’s a lobster under the bed,” I explained. “He used to play marbles with the kids.”

“Look here,” said Seymore, “you been taking that Metrecal, or whatever they call it?”

“You mean mescaline?”

“Whatever they call it,” he said, “lay off. It’s ruined a lot of the boys down here. Tell me, how’s your painting coming along?”

“There’s one over there. I did it this morning.”

“Oh, God!” he moaned. “It’s way behind the Zeitgeist. It’s just a copy of what Harry Glottnik was doing last year. Got any others?”

“There are some piled in the corner.”

He began to look over them rapidly.

“Hmm,” he said. “Hmm… Say fella, you’ve got something here. I mean the one with the butterflies on it.”

“They’re not butterflies, they’re moths.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Seymore. “It’s saleable.”

He walked across the room and put his hand on my shoulder. “You know, fella, I kind of like you. And frankly, you’ve got a certain talent. It’s dormant, but it’s there. You’ve seen me sell some of these jerks that haven’t got half what you’ve got.” His face crinkled into a persuasive smile. “How about it, fella? Can’t you and I do a little business?”

“What do you mean?”

“Now don’t play stupid. Just tell me which one of the artists out here has a nice Pollock hidden in the attic. Just tell me, and I’ll take you on, and have you hanging in the Modern by Christmas.”

I picked up O’Hara’s book on Pollock off the floor and put my foot on the first step of the ladder.

“O.K., Seymore,” I said. “It’s a deal.”

She was at the far end of the loft, her elbows on the high sill of the little window. She didn’t move when I dropped the trap door. She was deeply absorbed, staring into the far distance. I don’t think she realized I was there until I got directly behind her.

“Darling!” she cried. “I’ve been thinking of you. You can’t imagine what I’ve seen.”

“What have you seen?”

“I think it has something to do with that nice man downstairs. I really do.” She took my face in her hands and looked at me for quite a long while. “I have a wonderful idea,” she said. “Why don’t you and I go over to the sofa and make love?”

I was so startled by this that I let go of O’Hara’s book. Its pointed cover struck her bare foot. She let out a small cry of pain.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a book full of Pollocks.”

She took her foot in her hand. “What are Pollocks? Animals of some sort?”

“No, no. Jackson Pollock. A great modern artist. Haven’t you heard of him?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “We’ve sent hardly anyone down here lately. Only Buckminster Fuller.” She held the book up to the window. “Oh! This stuff. We passed through it ages ago. We called it Pre-Negative Realism.”

She bent her head over the pages. Beyond, on my climbing rose bush, there was one white rose left. In the center of it, a brilliant viridian green, was the last of the Japanese beetles.

“You know,” I said, “you can do me a great favor.”

“Why, I’d love to,” she said, with really enormous enthusiasm.

“You’re very amiable.”

“But naturally. I’m descended from the few who were left. So of course we’re amiable. What can I do for you?”

“Do you think you can turn yourself into a Pollock?”

“How large?” she asked.

“About forty-two by forty-eight. Just something that would fit up against the back seat of a Jaguar.”

“Oh, how exciting. You mean I’m going for a ride with that attractive dealer?”

“That’s the general idea,” I said. “He wants very much to hang you in his gallery. But I hope,” and I took her hand, “I hope that as soon as you hear him telephone the man about insurance, you’ll slip out and find your way back here.”

“Of course I will, darling,” she replied. “But how shall I find my way?”

“You take something,” I said, “they call the Long Island Railroad.”

She moved behind me.

“Don’t let go of my hand,” she said. “And don’t look back. Tell me, what do you see? Off in the distance?”

“Why the lighthouse at Montauk.”

“And beyond?”

“A dark fog rolling in.”

“And beyond?”

‘That’s all. What can you see?”

“I see a city, with water flowing through the streets.”

“It could be Mobile, Alabama,” I said. “It was right in the path of a hurricane. On the radio this morning.”

“It could be,” she said, “but I don’t think it is. The houses are of stone that is cut like lace, and the people move as if to music. There are four enormous shapes in the sky.”

“What sort of shapes?”

“Horses,” she said. “And there is a building, somewhat out of taste, that is filled with your pictures.” She was whispering now, her lips were close to my ear.

“There is a really attractive man with a forked beard, and he is handing you a check for a million… a million…”

“A million what?” I cried, and turned to her. But she wasn’t there. A strong smell of fresh paint drifted out the window and instantly disappeared. And then I realized that in my hand I held a Pollock, signed and dated 1949.

I began to feel a little guilty. I wondered if I’d done the right thing in changing her into a mere Pollock; and, I began to realize as I studied it, not a very good one at that. I was just about to politely request the Pollock to change itself back again when there came a loud knocking directly beneath my feet. Seymore, downstairs, had found the handle of the mop; he was getting impatient. I decided I’d go along with him. I set the picture up against the wall opposite the little window in the loft, and examined it critically.

“Frankly,” I said, “your color, it’s not Pollock’s color at all. It’s too sweet. It’s too old-fashioned. It’s School of Paris. And that big drip on the upper right throws the whole thing out of balance. If I were you I would eliminate it completely.”

Evidently her spirit still retained its amiability, for as I spoke a certain American harshness crept into the color and the heavy black drip faded and disappeared.

“That’s excellent!” I said. “Now, you’ve got Pollock’s calligraphic quality all right, but up there on the left you’re all tangled up. Clarify it a little, give it more meaning. That’s right. That’s better. Now. Just one thing more: couldn’t you possibly increase the over-all tension? That’s it. That’s perfect!”

I threw open the trap door and started down the ladder. But I had miscalculated. The picture was too large for the opening. It wouldn’t even go through diagonally.

“Shrink it down to forty-by-forty-six,” I whispered hoarsely.

“Who are you talking to?” asked Seymore. “You got more lobsters up there?”

“You go sit on the bed,” I ordered. “I’m going to bring the picture down with its back toward you. The way you do, for your rich clients.”

I found a place where the light was good, and slowly turned the picture around. Seymore jumped to his feet and whistled loudly.

“Boy!” he cried. “You’ve sure got something there. And the best period, too. Why, you can get up in the five figures for that, maybe more. Even after my commission. You going to Mr. Stettheimer’s party next week?”

“Yes.”

“Well, fella, I’ll have a nice check for you. By the way, what’s the title?” He picked up the picture and examined the back. “Why, yes, here it is. Very faint, in pencil. And in Pollock’s handwriting, too. It’s a funny title.”

“What is the title, Seymore?”

“Immediately Yours.”

“It’s not so funny,” I said.

Toward the end of the week Zogstein, my neighbor, went off to California. He had said I could borrow his jeep whenever I wanted. So the night of Mr. Stettheimer’s party I drove through Springs, past the broken tree where Pollock was killed, over to the Montauk highway. Mr. Stettheimer’s place is way out, opposite the airport. You take a private road through a thick woods, this opens up into an enormous lawn, and across that, on the edge of Georgica Lake, is the house. It’s all glass and about half a block long; it was designed by Philip Johnson or somebody. It was late, and there were lots of cars parked around. They were well beaten up and had a lot of character, the kind the artists like. I recognized most of them. This was a very exclusive party. But Seymore Harris’ red Jaguar was not there.

Mr. Stettheimer greeted me warmly. He was about eighty years old, I guess, but still frisky and alert. He was a banker, I knew, but except for his little gold-rimmed glasses, it was hard to believe. A long Peruvian serape covered his fat little body; beneath it a pair of faded bathing trunks hung down to his withered knees. He dressed that way because he wanted his guests to feel at home, he wanted to be inconspicuous. And actually, the way the artists dressed, he was. He led me through an enormous hall, hung with abstract pictures frame-to-frame, out onto a terrace overlooking the lake.

There were lots of people talking and dancing. Moving among them were a number of caterers in faultless evening dress carrying trays and glasses. The general effect was as if the peasants had revolted and pressed the nobles into service.

“Where’s Olivia?” Mr. Stettheimer asked, and produced an electric hearing machine from under his serape and held it toward me.

I rather hated to tell him, because he’d been so nice to me. “She ran off with Virgil,” I said. ‘The poet who lived upstairs.”

“Oh, dear me,” he said. “I warned Mrs. Stettheimer that something like that might happen. Oh, dear me. You’d better have a drink.”

He led me through the crowd to a table loaded with food and liquor. I held up my glass to Mr. Stettheimer, and he held up his hearing aid.

“What’s new in the art world?” I asked.

“Nothing much,” answered Mr. Stettheimer absently. “Oh, yes, I forgot. In New York last night, a Leonardo was stolen from the Museum.”

“A Leonardo!” I exclaimed. “But I didn’t know there was one in the country.”

“Nobody thought there was,” he said, “until the day before yesterday. Then Seymore Harris brought one to the Museum. I heard all about it at lunch at the Bankers’ Club today from one of the trustees of the Museum. It will be in the papers tomorrow.”

“Did you say Seymore Harris?”

“Why, yes,” said Mr. Stettheimer. “Seymore Harris, the dealer. Oh, dear me, here come some more guests.” He turned very quickly and ran off through the crowd.

“The same as before,” I said to the gentleman behind the table. “But make it double.”

I pushed the people aside and went after Mr. Stettheimer. He was hard to catch; he moved quickly and he was so small I couldn’t see his head among the others. I finally caught up with him in the hall. A large woman with Calder jewelry and a yellow ponytail was talking to him. He had an absent look, so I grabbed his microphone and moved it in my direction.

“How did Seymore Harris ever get a Leonardo?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Stettheimer. “It’s really a mystery. Especially since he only deals in modern pictures. But the Director and the Curator of Paintings at the museum were convinced it was genuine. They knew all about it. One that was lost in the seventeenth century. A woman with blue eyes and dark hair.”

“And you say it was stolen last night?”

“Yes, it was. Last night. They had it locked in what they call Storeroom Thirteen, a place where they have maximum security. And this morning, when they opened up, it was gone.”

“How about insurance?” I asked.

“Oh, I should say… I should say that Seymore could collect…” (Mr. Stettheimer’s face became very serious, more like a banker’s) “up to three million dollars.”

“Why, the dirty crook!” I yelled. But Mr. Stettheimer had run off to greet a new guest.

I wandered out of the hall, through the party, to the balustrade on the edge of the terrace. There wasn’t any moon, but there were more stars than I had ever seen in my life. I finished my drink and put it down on the balustrade. I hadn’t realized that the top of it was curved — my glass immediately fell off into the water below. It filled and sank.

I felt someone plucking at my sleeve. It was a little girl about five years old. She had big dark eyes and a lonely face.

“Lift me up!” she ordered. “I want to find my mother. I want to go home.”

I lifted her up on my shoulder.

“There she is,” she said “She’s dancing with her psychiatrist.”

“Which one?” I asked.

“The one who sent Daddy away.” She looked down at me and studied my face. “Are you an abstract artist?”

“Yes.”

“Abstract art is a dead duck,” she said. “Put me down.”

As she ran off through the legs of the crowd, I turned her “dead duck” remark over in my mind. Canaday had been saying the same thing for quite a while in The New York Times. But now I had heard it directly from a member of the generation that was destined to destroy us. I decided to have another drink.

I crossed the terrace and saw, coming out of the lighted hall, a very spectacular girl. She looked as if she had just stepped out of some dream that Peter Paul Rubens might have had in his most opulent period. She wore a cluster of freshly cut diamonds around her neck, and her gown was a marvelous dark red, a sort of an Ad Reinhardt red, if you know what I mean. She was clinging to the arm of a man who was so well dressed that at first I thought he was one of the caterers, but then I realized he was Seymore Harris. Mr. Stettheimer was with them, standing on the bottom step, holding his microphone high.

“You’ll never make the Breakstone Club,” Seymore was saying to Mr. Stettheimer, “in an outfit like that.”

“I should dress like King Solomon,” beamed Mr. Stettheimer. “Would that make any difference?”

“No,” said Seymore. “Because they wouldn’t take him in either.”

“Not even if he was in the UN?” asked Mr. Stettheimer.

Seymore’s girl laughed gaily and threw her arms around the old man.

“You know, you’re very attractive,” she said, and kissed the top of his head.

Seymore put his hand on my shoulder.

“Hi,” he said. “I want you to meet my new fiancée.” He took her arm. “I want you to meet a friend of mine. I can’t remember his name, but I kind of like him, though not very much.”

She turned her laughing eyes toward me. They became suddenly grave.

“But he’s a ghost!” she cried.

“A ghost?” asked Seymore. “A ghost? He’s not a ghost He’s just an artist.”

“But he looks so thin,” she said. “I don’t believe he’s eaten for a week. I’m sure he needs a woman to take care of him.”

“It’s not a woman he needs,” said Seymore. “What he needs is talent.”

I didn’t like this crack, especially in front of Mr. Stettheimer. I reached out and grabbed Seymore by one of his satin lapels and pulled him toward me.

“Seymore,” I said, “I want my check.”

“What check?”

“The money for the Pollock.”

“What Pollock?”

“You know what Pollock. Give me my check!”

Seymore looked at me coldly. His face was tense and a little nasty.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”

“You’re a goddam liar!”

Seymore turned to Mr. Stettheimer. “Would you mind,” he said, “if I threw this creep into your lake?”

Both the girl and Mr. Stettheimer stepped in between us. I heard her saying, “Seymore, darling, couldn’t you try to be a little more agreeable?” And at the same time Mr. Stettheimer said, “You boys should talk business at the office, not at my party.” He grabbed my arm, and with extraordinary vitality for his years, hustled me past the bar, through the dancers, out to the steps that led down to the lake. “You stay here,” he ordered, “and pull yourself together. And keep away from Seymore. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Stettheimer,” I said. “I understand.” After all, he’d always been very nice to me.

The music was getting loud now, the party was moving into high gear. I turned my back on it. Even then, near at hand, I saw the shadows of the dancers jumping in the water. Farther out, the lake was dark and still. A nice place to be in a boat. Then I noticed that there was a boat, hidden in the grasses, its long rope tied to an iron ring on the bottom step.

The knot was complicated, but I solved it. I found the oars, fitted them into the locks, and was about to shove off when I saw against the light the figure of a woman on the steps above me. It wasn’t hard to tell who she was. Silhouettes aren’t cut that way very often.

“How about a ride?” I asked.

She didn’t answer, but she let me take her hand and help her in. I began to row through the grasses, out into the open water. I rowed for quite a while.

“Why didn’t you tell Seymore I was right?” I asked suddenly.

“But how could I?”

“But why couldn’t you?”

“Because you were probably both right!”

“But that’s just not possible,” I said sharply.

I let the boat drift. She sat quietly. The Milky Way was behind her. Its light had gathered in her diamond necklace; a phosphorescent glow fell on her shoulders and her hands. She sighed deeply.

“What’s the trouble?” I asked.

“I’m not for this world,” she said.

“But why not?”

“Because nobody seems to realize that as the ambiance changes, the truth changes.”

I started to row again. The moving figures at Mr. Stettheimer’s party grew smaller and smaller. Pretty soon I couldn’t hear the music. And then I began to hear the pounding of the surf. I realized we were getting near the sand spit that separated the lake from the ocean.

“Let’s go ashore,” I said.

I beached the boat. We climbed out and walked to the high part of the sand. In front of us the ocean waves were breaking heavily; on either side of us there were big dunes. Down the beach, black against the ocean, a man was walking briskly toward us — a member of the Coast Guard on his nightly patrol. We turned back to the boat.

I took her arm in one hand and with the other I pointed out across the lake.

“What can you see?” I asked.

“I can see the Nebula of Andromeda,” she said. “It’s a pity it’s lying on its side. The top view is much more exciting.”

“Oh, I don’t mean way out there. I mean just on the other side of the lake.”

“I can see Mr. Stettheimer’s party. There’s a man, apart from the others, sitting on the balustrade.”

“Can you see what he’s thinking?” I asked.

“Why yes, as a matter of fact, I can. Can you?”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s trying to figure out how much he could get for a Rubens from the Art Institute of Chicago.”

She laughed softly.

“Darling,” she whispered. “Why don’t you and I take a little walk in the dunes?”

“Let me tie up the boat first,” I said.

There was a large piece of driftwood at our feet. I got down on my knees and started to dig in the sand under the driftwood so I could get the rope around it.

“Do you know,” she said suddenly, “there’s a very attractive man in a uniform watching us. He’s just on the top of the rise. Who do you think he is? Do you mind if I go over and talk to him?”

Before I could answer she had gone.

David Rome is another new writer, whose work has appeared only in the past year in the two British magazines. New Worlds and Science Fantasy. This is his first American publication.

Drop Parky into a crowd anywhere and he’d stand out like a Roman nose in Basutoland. Tall and excessively thin, with eyes like twin tail-lights — that was Parky. But get him alone, start a conversation, and he’d seem to shrink a foot. His voice was high-pitched, like a woman’s; his baby-white hands never stopped moving.

He was a seer, and I owned him. Leastways, I owned an hour of his time Mondays to Saturdays when he’d sit up there on his rostrum and drone through his act.

Sundays, Parky was free; but he never went anywhere. He’d loll around my caravan drinking warm beer, telling me I should be paying him double his wage. His red eyes would glow and his fingers would tap out a melancholy tune on the side of the can.

‘Listen,’ I said once. ‘Your act is deader than Dodo.’

Dodo was a highwire, no-net, artist I once had.

So Parky would tell me then that because I wasn’t paying him enough he wasn’t getting enough to eat.

‘Reading the future takes energy, Charlie.’

Then he’d finish his beer, poke around in the fridge until he found a leg of chicken, and start chewing it for its energy.

‘Look, Parky,’ I said. ‘You read the future, eh? Well, read it now. See any raise in the ether? Any big money about to materialise?’

He didn’t, and I knew it. His act wasn’t worth half what I was paying him now. I opened another can and avoided his eyes.

‘I could always go elsewhere,’ he said.

Like hell he could. I’d tried to shuffle him out of my hand months ago, but nobody else was having any.

‘Don’t make me laugh,’ I said. ‘And have a beer.’

He took the huff at that. He grabbed the can I was holding out to him, mumbled a word or two under his breath, and off he went. I never saw him again that day. I wrote up my accounts, put the books away in my safe, and started out on my Sunday check of the fairground.

I was halfway around, with two kids and a stray dog to my credit, when I first saw the little guy with yellow hair. Just a glimpse. There, then gone. I changed my direction and went after him.

Rounding a tent, I caught sight of him again. He was walking towards Parky’s pitch, his bright hair shining like a halo under the afternoon sun.

‘Hey!’ I called out.

He turned slowly. Neatly pressed suit; collar-and-tie. He was well dressed. He waited until I was closer, then he said, ‘Yes?’

Funny that. I’d thought he was little; when he spoke, though, he seemed taller than I was.

‘Look,’ I said carefully. ‘I don’t want to be unpleasant.’

An up-and-down line creased his brow. He stared at me.

‘The fact is — ah — the fairground is closed.’

Silence.

‘Sunday, you know.’

He spoke then, very softly, without malice. ‘I’m not certain I understood your first remark.’

Peculiar accent he had. Some kind of foreigner. I retrospected. First remark? ‘I don’t want to be…’

‘Unpleasant?’ The question came sharply.

‘That’s right.’

He sighed gently. ‘Ahhh!’ Then he said frankly, ‘I like your system down here.’

My heart warmed suddenly. ‘Like it?’ I turned in a slow circle, taking in the tents and caravans under a blue sky. ‘Yes I suppose it’s not a bad layout. You’re in the entertainment world, then?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Government.’

Well, you can understand that this rocked me a little. I mustered up my talking-to-big-brass tone and said politely, ‘Local MP?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘IGC. Inter-Galaxy.’

Some kind of European was my guess. Anyway, I was beginning to wonder about something else. The main gate had been locked, so how had he got in? I looked at his immaculate suit. Kids crawl through the holes, and performers have their own keys. He wasn’t a performer, and he hadn’t been doing any crawling.

‘How — ’

He cut me short. ‘I’m looking for Ephraim Parkinson,’ he said.

For Ephraim Parkinson. That stumped me for a moment. But sometime in the past I had seen that name scratched out on a contract.

‘For Parky?’ I said.

‘Yes — for Ephraim Parkinson. You can direct me?’

Well, I was able to direct him all right. I pointed out Parky’s pitch to him, and off he went. It wasn’t until he was yards away that I remembered to ask him how he’d got in.

He turned when I called out the question.

He smiled brightly.

‘Oh, I came over the gate,’ he said.

In my business you don’t let anything worry you. There are funnymen in every walk of life, and if they’re from the government I leave them alone.

I finished my rounds without further incident and went back to my caravan. I had a drink, read the papers, turned on the radio, turned it off. Then I went to sleep.

If Parky was in trouble it was his lookout.

Next morning I was up at ten. I was shaving when Parky came in. He didn’t say anything. He sat down in one of my chairs and watched me scraping the razor around my face.

‘That’s a fine, well-fed face you’ve got, Charlie,’ he said finally.

I wiped the razor, rinsed my face, and mopped it dry.

‘Thanks, Parky,’ I said.

He watched me, eyes blinking slowly.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘I once weighed a hundred and ninety.’

‘Too much,’ I said. But I knew he was getting at something. As I pulled my shirt over my head I said, ‘What’s eating you today?’

His long fingers were picking at his sleeves.

‘We’ve been together a long time, Charlie.’

This I knew.

‘But I’ve never had a raise, Charlie.’

I knotted my tie and watched him in the mirror.

‘You’ve never had a wage-cut either, Parky.’

I saw his red eyes spark. Suddenly he seemed to reach a decision in his own mind. He got to his feet.

‘Charlie — I’ve got to ask you for a raise. If you can’t give me a raise I’ll be — ’ He hesitated, then said it:

‘I’ll be leaving.’

I didn’t move a muscle. ‘Leaving?’

‘That’s right.’ He seemed embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, but I’ve had another offer.’

I sat down. I smiled across at him. Every move was calculated now. For months I’d been trying to shake Parky off my lists — but this was something different. If a performer gets an offer, then somebody thinks that performer is worth something. And if you’ve still got all your screws, this starts you thinking. What had I missed in Parky? What did he have that I hadn’t seen?

‘Parky,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to talk about this.’

He shook his head grimly. ‘I can’t talk about it, Charlie. I’ve been offered another job at a higher rate of pay. That’s all there is to it. I can’t tell you who. I can’t tell you where.’

‘Can’t? Or won’t?’

He didn’t answer me. Just shook his head.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Give me until after the show tonight.’

He nodded, satisfied. ‘That’s fine, Charlie.’

‘You won’t do anything rash?’

He shook his head like a child. I wondered if he realised that he was legally bound to me. Unless I gave him the OK he couldn’t go anywhere. I could hold him to his contract if I had to.

But I wouldn’t do that to the old fraud.

He went off down the steps, beaming, and I opened a beer, gulped it down, and started thinking.

Who the hell was after Parky? That was the first question. Nobody wants psi minds these days. Science has proved that the Power is so much s.f. It’s the equivalent of the headless woman nowadays.

I wondered if the yellow-haired guy had anything to do with it. What did he call his department? IGC? Something connected with government. And what the hell had he meant about ‘unpleasant’?

Angrily I tossed the empty beer-can into a corner and pulled on my coat. I locked the door of the caravan behind me and crossed the battered stretch of grass that separated my place from the rest of the fairground.

The remainder of the morning was spent in futile questioning. Nobody else had been approached. Nobody else had seen the guy with yellow hair. Finally, after lunch, I decided that all I could do was watch Parky’s act. If he had something new, I would spot it.

Accordingly, with two cans of beer and a plate of sausage-and-mash under my belt, I made my way over to Parky’s tent at about seven o’clock. There was a handful of people sown over the wooden benches, all of them looking around without interest, or watching a couple of kids who were trying to pull down the pale-blue curtain that screened Parky’s rostrum.

The dim yellow lights were shining uncertainly on the muddy grass inside the tent, and somewhere behind his curtain Parky was playing the harmonica while he changed his robes.

I sat down at the back of the tent, looking around. There was no sign of the guy with yellow hair. The spectators were an ordinary looking bunch. I would’ve bet my profits that none of them were talent scouts.

Five minutes went by, and the harmonica rose on a weird note, and fell silent. Quite suddenly, the lights went out. A girl in the second row giggled, of course, and for a moment the sound caught my attention. I almost missed the entry of two men who slipped into their seats unobtrusively in the half-darkness. Then Parky flung his curtain open with a flourish and the light from the rostrum fell on the hair of one of the men.

Government my pink eye. Yellow Hair was after Parky.

Almost in the same instant my eyes switched back to the tall, thin figure on the rostrum. I didn’t want to miss anything. So Parky did have something. So what the hell was it?

An hour later I was still asking myself the same question. Parky read the minds of two mindless youths; he foretold the futures of half a dozen seedy couples. But hell! The whole act was corn. His patter was feeble. His stage manner was laughable.

When it was over I ducked out quick because I didn’t want the embarrassment of seeing the guy with yellow hair turning Parky down. It was raining outside — a fine drizzle. I walked back to my caravan through the milling crowds with that rain slanting down into my face and Parky’s troubles in my mind.

I couldn’t give him a raise — he was already operating at a loss. And after tonight’s performance he wouldn’t be getting his offer. If one had been made, it was going to be withdrawn fast. I knew the business. I knew no one would want Parky now.

It was sometime after eight when I reached the caravan. I went inside and shut the door. I stripped off my wet clothes, put on my dressing-gown and started to make supper. I turned on the radio and got some soft music playing.

The hell with the whole business, I thought. The hell with Parky and his lousy act, and the hell with the whole damned fairground.

Then there was a knock at the door.

I thought it would be Parky, but it wasn’t. It was the guy with yellow hair. He stood outside, dripping. The rain, I saw, was heavier now.

‘Come in,’ I said. And in he came. He pushed past me purposefully and turned, facing me. Now he was between me and my desk. I had my back to the door. I closed it.

‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ he said quickly.

‘Not at all,’ I said. His dress was still very gentlemanly. His tie was knotted neatly. He carried an umbrella.

‘I understand that you’re Parkinson’s manager,’ he said in his precise English. He gestured faintly with his hand. ‘This is correct?’

‘That’s righ — yikes!’

I gagged. My eyelids peeled back like sprung traps.

During that little gesture, his dainty feet enclosed in his dainty shoes had risen! Perceptibly — unmistakably — they had left the floor!

He looked down and realised what was wrong. He touched a hand to his waist, under his coat. He descended, unperturbed.

‘Gravity Variation,’ he explained. ‘Plays the dickens with our AG belts.’

I sat down heavily on the bed.

‘Now,’ he said briskly, ‘to business.’ He took a seat on the arm of a chair, crossed his impeccably tailored knees, and went on: ‘You must realise that our world is not your world. You yourself once said to me that you didn’t wish to be unpleasant. On my world, Mr Cot, everyone wished to be unpleasant. Our civilisation has advanced until it is chaos. Our government has broken apart. We need Ephraim Parkinson!’

I gaped.

‘As his manager, of course, you will expect compensation. Perhaps this’ — he extended one arm gracefully and the point of his umbrella touched the steel door of the safe — ‘will be recompense enough?’

He smiled. ‘We took the opportunity earlier this evening, Mr Cot, of placing your reward in the safe. You will open it when I am gone.’

‘Why Parky?’ I croaked.

He smiled again. ‘Because Ephraim Parkinson is the only man in the Universe who actually can read minds, Mr Cot. He will be of inestimable value to my government when our Peace Talks begin.’

Then he waved his umbrella cheerfully, stepped out into the rain without raising it, and was gone.

Apparently it never rained on Parky’s new world.

I got around to opening that safe, you know. And by now most of you will have been out to the fairground to see the ‘Snuffler’ they left me.

It’s small, red, and furry. It eats glass, nails, paper — anything. It has three eyes, breathes fire, and can dance the hula on one leg.

But you know something. I’d give any amount of ‘Snufflers’ to get old Parky back.

We could do with a guy like him on Earth these days.

For every change in outlook, there is an equal (and opposite?) shift in insight.

This dictum, known (up till now, to an exceedingly small group) as Merril’s First Law of S-F Psychodynamics, is admirably demonstrated by the two preceding stories and the one that follows. The basic ingredients of all three are startlingly similar: an Alien with Powers; a central character who is awkward, unconventional, and a Natural Victim) a Shrewd Operator standing by to take advantage… maybe. Even the widely varied backgrounds have this similarity: that an art colony, a carnival, and the Old West (coming up) are all basically tourist attractions to most of us: real settings that seem more like fable than fact.

A still further coincidence is that this is Mr. Grow’s first story too — although he has been a professional journalist for some time, and is currently a News Bureau Chief for a leading New England newspaper.

But this time, the invader from outer space is neither studying sex nor seeking to save civilization….

He was a big man, broad of shoulder, slim of hip. His Stetson was crimped Texas-style, over slate-gray eyes that impassively had seen much good and more evil in their twenty-six years.

He stood in the saloon door with the dust of the streets of Dos Cervezas Pequenas still swirling about scuffed, range-rider’s chaps. His left hand held open the weather-beaten swinging door. The right hovered over the worn peachwood butt of the Colt holstered on his right thigh.

The slate-gray eyes, emotionless, swept the crowd bellied up to the bar, and stopped at one man. When he spoke it was flat, but with the ring of tempered steel, and every man but that one drew back out of range. “I want you, Dirty Jake,” the big man said. “Now.”

Dirty Jake shot him into doll rags, naturally.

Dirty Jake Niedelmeier was, you might say, the most feared ribbon clerk in the Territory. Easily the most.

I remember him from the early days, from the first day he came to town, in fact. I remember because he got off the stage just as I was leaning out the window nailing up my brand-new shingle, and my office was and still is upstairs next to the stage depot. I was down on the boardwalk admiring it, all shiny gold leaf on black like the correspondence school promised:

Hiram Pertwee, M.D.

His voice broke in on me, all squeaky. “Beg your pardon,” he said, “where’s the YMCA?”

Well, that isn’t the usual sort of question for here. I turned around. There he was, a scrawny little runt about knee-high to short, wearing a panama hat, a wrinkled linen duster and Congress gaiters.

He wasn’t especially dirty then, of course, only about average for a stage passenger. He kind of begrudged his face, with little squint eyes and a long thin nose, a mustache like a hank of Spanish moss and just about chin enough to bother shaving. Under his duster he wore a clawhammer coat, the only alpaca one I ever saw, and I never from that day out saw him wear any other. He stood there looking like he’d never been any place he really cottoned to, but this might just be the worst.

I was just a young squirt then and not above funning a dude. I told him the YMCA was around the corner, two doors down and up the back stairs at the Owl Hoot Palace. He nodded and went the way I told him.

That was, and still is, Kate’s Four Bit Crib. The girls there wear candy-striped stockings and skirts halfway to the knee, and their shirtwaists are open at the neck. Dirty Jake didn’t speak to me for three years.

He wasn’t Dirty Jake then, though, just Jacob Niedelmeier, fresh from selling ribbons and yard goods in Perth Amboy, New Jersey and hot to find a fortune in the hills. He’d been a failure all his natural life. This was a new beginning, for a man thirty-four who was already at the bitter end and looking for the path back. Gold was the way, he figured. He was going to get it.

But he didn’t He was back flat broke and starving in four months.

He spent the next seventeen years behind the notions counter at Martin’s Mercantile, selling ribbon and yard goods and growing old two years at a time. I think it tainted his mind.

Leastways, from the time I got to know him, some fourteen years gone, he’s been what you might say, a queer actor. At first, when the store closed at sundown he’d take off for the near hills with a pick and a sack, still seeking for color somebody might have missed. After a while he didn’t bother with the gear. He just moseyed around all that rock mostly, I suppose, to be away from people.

Truth to tell, people were beginning to avoid him anyway. He was getting kind of gamy over the years, and cantankerous generally.

Maybe it’s kind of funny we got more or less friendly but doctors and ribbon clerks aren’t so all-fired far apart. They both have to do with people and their ways, and like to get shut of both now and then. Every couple of months I’d go along with him up in the hills, to get the sick smell out of my nose. Night air and a night sky can be pretty fine if you’ve been looking at tongues and such long enough.

Going out like that, we didn’t say much. I preferred it that way since Jake Niedelmeier was a boob.

A smart man can get on tolerably well with an idiot if both just have sense enough to keep their mouths shut. One time he didn’t was when he brought along a bottle of rye. He got started and was going on to beat the band, yapping about how life was a cheat and someday everybody’d respect Jacob Niedelmeier, until finally I lost patience and told him that while I treasured our association beyond pearls I’d chuck him off a cliff if he didn’t shut the hell up. I was nice about it, and after that it was like I said, tolerable.

Well, sir, about two years ago he came into my office while I was darning up some fool borax miner that’d got himself kicked square in the bottle on his hip. Jake stood in the corner picking his teeth while I finished. After the borax miner limped out he spoke up.

“Comin’?” That was all the invitation he ever gave.

“I guess,” I said. I sloshed the suture needle in a basin, gave it a couple of swipes on the hone stone and threw it in my satchel. That miner had a tough rind.

Jake went out first. I closed the door behind us, not locking it, of course, because our night marshal was kind of my relief surgeon whenever I was on calls. He was a Secesh hospital orderly during the Rebellion. He was better with a saw than with sewing, but he could tie up most wounds well enough to do till I got back.

Jake and I set out south up the mountain trail, but pretty soon it hit me he was heading some place considerable more directly than we usually did.

Sure enough, he took off at an angle from the trail after a bit. We struck up into some fairly woolly country. He wasn’t following any sign I could see, at least not by moonlight, but he kept going faster until I was plumb out of wind.

We were in the hills overlooking Crater Lake when we came to kind of an amphitheater in the rocks, some twenty feet across. He stopped at the edge of it and stood staring in, silent and breathing catchy.

Me, I just chased my own breath for a while, then looked too and saw what he was aiming at. Right in the middle, shining pale in the moonshine like nothing else does, was a pile of old, old bones. Jake, I saw, had seen it before. It was scaring him yet.

Old bones, sir, are still bones. I’ve seen and set my fill. But after I got a good look at these they scared me too.

There were four skeletons altogether, all nicely preserved, and only three of them were men. Indians, I mean. You could tell that from the shreds of buckskin. Two of them still had weapons near their right hands: one a stone knife, the other a lance. And the top of each of the three skulls had been shot clean away.

At least, half of the top had, and the same half on all three. Almost the entire os frontale and ossa parietalia on the left side was gone on each one. I hunkered down to see closer, while Jake stood back and shook.

I struck a sulphur match and saw something else about those three redskin skulls. The edges where the bone was gone weren’t fractured clean like a bullet or a club would do. They were charred.

The three were sprawled around the fourth skeleton and that was the one gave me the vapors. It was more or less man-shaped. But it wasn’t a man, that I know. I don’t believe I care to find out what it was. Instead of ribs there was a cylinder of thin bone, and it had only one bone in the lower leg. What there was for a pelvis I’ve never seen the like, and the skull was straight out of a Dore Bible. There was a hatchet buried in that skull.

The bones of the right arm were good and hefty, and it had two elbows. The left arm was about half the size — not crippled, but smaller scale. Like it was good for delicate work and not much else.

About ten inches from the widespread six fingers of its right hand was what you knew right off was a weapon even if it did look like an umbrella handle.

I was just reaching down to touch it when that fool Jake made his move.

He’d been standing behind me closer I bet than he’d ever got before, staring down at that fourth skeleton and making odd noises. I tell you, it was something for a medical man to see. Suddenly he grunted like he was going to be sick. He snatched up a femur from one of the Indians and swung it up to smash that fourth skeleton to smithereens.

Well, sir, quicker than the eye could see the umbrella handle smacked itself into the palm of that bony hand, sending fingers flying in six directions. It hung there in the air against what was left, trained dead on Jake’s head, and it hummed.

The femur dropped from Jake’s right hand like he’d been shot. He hadn’t, though, because he was still wearing his skull and by that time running. Soon as he did, the umbrella handle flopped over and just lay there, the hum dying away.

When it stopped the place was pretty quiet, because Jake was off in the rocks and I was going over some things I wanted to say to him immediately I was able to talk again. That fourth skeleton had the fastest draw I’d ever seen.

Jake stuck his head up from behind a boulder. “Doc,” he said, “why didn’t he shoot?”

The question wasn’t as all-fired pip-witted as Jake was capable of. It took me upward of three weeks to work out why a weapon that could draw and aim itself didn’t shoot too.

I’d heard a little clink when the weapon flew into the skeleton’s hand. It came from a metal disk that lay in its palm, toward the heel of the hand.

The disk was thin and only about as big as a two-cent piece. A mate to it was set in the butt of the umbrella handle, convex where the other was concave.

Going at it kind of gingerly, I slid the disk in my vest behind my watch and put the umbrella handle in my right coat pocket.

It was a key-wind repeater with a gold hunting case, that watch, and I worried about it every step down the mountain. I walked a good four hundred yards behind Jake all the way back into town, just to be on the safe side. We didn’t linger, either. We wanted lights..

By the time I got the two objects locked in my rolltop my heartbeat in anybody else would have had me telling the sexton to start his hole. I prescribed bed for me, told Jake, who hadn’t hardly even drawn breath the whole time, to go to hell and retired.

Next day a squabble came up over some borax rights up-country. I didn’t get to open that rolltop for a time. Then one early morning coming back in the buggy from a house-call in Pockmark, forty-odd miles north, I got to worrying again at the umbrella handle and those dead Indians.

Seems like four, five times a week some chunkhead hunkers down hard with his spurs on. When I got to the office that night there was one waiting — a bad one, Spanish rowels— and Jake was sprawled in my chair, picking his teeth with my spare scalpel. I patched up the chunkhead, took the scalpel from Jake and rinsed it off and watched him suck his teeth for a while. It began to look like he was going to be stubborn. So finally I said: “Say, Jake.”

He grunted. “Jake,” I said, “I think I’ve got that dingus figured.” He snuck a glance over at the desk so I knew he knew what I meant, but he was busy pretending that wasn’t what he came to talk about.

“I think it’s a gun that can read minds like a gypsy,” I said. Jake still looked bored, so I took the umbrella handle out of the rolltop and waved it at him. He dove off the chair and started rolling for the door.

“You damn fool,” I said, “it won’t go off.” I was reasonably certain it wouldn’t, but I laid it back down by the disk gently anyhow and sat in the chair. I’ve only got the one chair, on the theory that anybody who isn’t bad enough to lie on the table is well enough to stand. Jake edged over and stood like a short-legged bird on a bobwire fence. “It kin whut?” he said.

“It can read minds,” I said. “You were going to bash those bones. The gun knew it and trained square on your head. You remember?”

He remembered. “And those Indians,” I went on. “You remember them? The left side of the head on each of them was blown off.”

I hauled down a roller chart of the human skeleton, first time I’d done that since I don’t know when.

“This up here is the brain,” I said. “We don’t know a hell of a lot about it, but we do know it’s like a whole roomful of telegraphers, sending messages to different parts of the body along the nerves. They’re like the wires. This left hemisphere — right here — sends to the right side of the body. Don’t fret about why, the nerves twist going into the spinal cord.

“Okay. We know, too, that the part of the brain that sends to the arm is right here, in the parietal lobe. Right under the chunk of skull that was shot off on those three Indians.”

“Shaw,” Jake said, perching on the table. The old billy-goat was beginning to get impressed, even if he didn’t have any notion of what I was talking about.

I didn’t have exactly much notion either, but I kept on. “The brain works by a kind of electricity, same kind as in the telegraph batteries at the depot. This gun,” I tapped the umbrella handle and Jake started off again, but caught himself, “has some sort of detector, a galvanic thermometer that senses electrical messages to the nerves.”

From here on in it was pure dark and wild hazard. “Obviously,” I said, “whenever one of those signals goes from this cerebral motor area here in the left hemisphere down to make the weapon hand move, it must be a special signal this gun was built to catch. Just like a lock is made for one particular key.

“And near as I can figure, the gun has to be able to tell when that move coming up is going to be dangerous to the man holding it. Stands to reason if it can tell when a brain’s signaling a hand, it can tell too if that brain is killing-mad. Some people can do that, and most dogs.

“So, if it senses murderous intent and a message to the weapon hand to move, it moves too, and faster.

“It homes on this disk like a magnet right into the hand of the gent that owns it, and aims itself plumb at the place the signal is coming from.” I tapped the chart. “Right here.”

I poked the gunk out of a corncob, packed it and lit up before going on. Jake stared at the umbrella handle like a stuffed owl.

“Now, that fourth skeleton we saw sure as hell isn’t human. He isn’t from anywhere on this green earth, or I miss my guess. Might even have something to do with Crater Lake there, years ago. But we aren’t likely to find out.

“But we do know that he fought three Indians that probably jumped him all at once. And he killed every one of them with this gun before he fell.”

That brought Jake up short.

The Territory is kind of violent generally, and anybody or anything good along that line would be bound to have the sober respect of a ninny like Jake.

I dug up an old glove and used spirit gum to stick in its palm the little disk from the skeleton’s hand. I pulled the glove on my right hand, and stood up with my hand about a foot over the umbrella handle.

“Okay,” I said, “kill me.”

He was so orry-eyed by then he damn near did it just to be obliging. But then the recollection of the night on the mountain, and the three Indians with their heads shot off, sifted through and he shied off. “Hell no,” he hollered, “I seen that thing go before! I ain’t about to get my head blowed to bits!” And he went on.

Well, it took me the best of two hours. I showed him the two studs on the underside that most likely were a safety device. I explained how probably the gun wouldn’t go off unless somebody was holding it with a finger between those studs, which was why it didn’t shoot when it went into the skeleton’s hand that night. I finally got him by telling him if I was right, we’d wire the fourth skeleton together, take it back East and earn a mint of money on the vaudeville stage showing the fastest cadaver in the West.

“Mr. Bones: Faster than Billy the Kid and Twice as Dead,” I said we’d bill it. Jake, he thought that was a lovely idea, and decided to go along.

Fourteen times that eternal jackass raised his right arm at me, while I held my own gloved right hand over the weapon. But he didn’t have any real heart for it, and fourteen times the gun just lay there. Then I got a mite impatient, and kicked him in the kneecap. That fifteenth time he was really trying.

Skinny as he was he’d have driven me clear through the floor, except that umbrella handle jumped into my glove and aimed dead at his forehead, snarling like a cougar. More correctly, the left side of his forehead. If I hadn’t braced my index finger out stiff, that fifteenth time would’ve had him a dead man.

Jake froze like a statue and hung in the air staring at the gun, snarling away in my hand. Finally I pulled the glove off with the gun still stuck to it, and flung it on the desk.

Then Jake gave me the sixteenth, and by the time I got up again he was gone and the gun and glove with him.

Next morning the borax squabble blew up again. What with miners getting stomped I didn’t get to bed for a week, much less have a chance to find out where Jake and that damned weapon had lit out for. By the time I did, it was too late. Jacob Niedelmeier, the ribbon clerk, after seventeen years was on his way to glory as the legendary Dirty Jake.

I got the start of the story from a drifter, name of Hubert Comus. He’d got into kind of a heated discussion in a saloon south a ways that ended with him and this other man going for their hardware. Hubert got his Merwin & Bray.42 out and, being a fool, tried fanning it. Of course it jammed and he laid the heel of his hand open clear to the bone.

‘Twasn’t the hand bothering Hubert though. Like most, the other man missed him clean, but when the barkeep threw them both out Hubert lit sitting on the boardwalk and took a six-inch splinter clear through his corduroys.

While I was working on him he told me about Jake.

A man, it seems, had turned up in a little settlement called Blister, about two days down the line. Nobody noticed him come in, except that he was wearing one glove, a shiny clawhammer coat and Congress gaiters. The general run in the mining camps doesn’t wear Congress gaiters.

He got noticed, though, when he showed up in a barroom wearing a pearl-gray derby with an ostrich plume in the band, and carrying a rolled-up umbrella under his arm. The little devil had stuck the shaft of a regular umbrella in the muzzle of the skeleton’s weapon.

It turned out he’d bought the derby that the storekeeper there had planned to be buried in. Where the ostrich plume came from I never did find out.

“He come right in the swingin’ door an’ stood there,” Hubert said over his shoulder, “lookin’ at the crowd. Purty quick they was all lookin’ right back, I kin tell you. That feather fetched ‘em up sharp. Take it easy back there, will you, Doc? Then Homer Cavanaugh, the one they called Ham Head, he bust out laughing. He laughed so hard he bent over double, and the rest of the boys was just begin-nin’t’ laugh too when the little feller picked up a spitoon and dumped it down Ham Head’s neck.

“The boys got mighty quiet then. Hey, easy, Doc, will you? Ham Head straightened up and his face went from red as flannels to white, just like that. He stood glarin’ at the little feller for a couple of ticks, openin’ and closin’ his fists, and then that big right hand went for the Smith & Wesson in his belt.

“Well, it was a double-action pistol and had a couple notches in the grip, but Ham Head never cleared it. I never even seen the little feller draw, but there was Ham Head fallin’ with half his noggin shot away. Gently, will you, Doc, gently!

“The little feller stood leaning on his umbrella, lookin’ down at him. ‘What was that man’s name?’ he says. ‘Ham Head Cavanaugh,’ somebody says back. ‘Ham Head Cavanaugh,’ the little feller says, ‘he’s the first.’ Then he shoves the umbreller back under his arm and goes out. We never saw him again.

“Some say it was a bootleg pistol he used, or a derringer in his sleeve. And some say he had a pardner with a rifle in the street, but there wasn’t nobody there. I was standin’ as close to him as I am to you, Doc, and I swear — it — was — that — um — breller — OW!”

Ham Head Cavanaugh was the first. I had kind of a personal interest in Jake and his weapon, so I kept track. There was Curly Sam Thompson, Big John Ballentine, Red-meat Carson, Uriah Singletree and twelve others known of, all dead within eighteen months. Any man Jake could hoorah into a fight. With never a chance to get his right hand on iron before his head gave the signal and got blown off. He took them all on. And he never lost — because he couldn’t.

Jake was king-o’-the-hill now, all right. He had the success he yearned for.

Yet when he came back to see me last April it wasn’t to brag. He was in trouble. I looked up from a customer, a damn fool that’d sat on a gila monster, and there he was, sneaking in the door bareheaded like a whipped hound, not the cock of the walk in the whole Territory. He slid into the back room like a shadow, and the man I was working on never even knew he’d come.

When I went in afterward the lamp was out, the shade was down and he was in a corner, nervous as a jackrabbit an eagle just dropped in a wolf den. “Buried my derby under a pile of rock up in the mountains,” he whispered. “Look,” and he held out his glove.

It was plumb worn out. The little metal disk was hanging on by a strand of spirit gum, and the fabric of the palm was in shreds.

I looked at him for a minute without saying anything. He was still wearing the clawhammer coat, over B.V.D. tops, but it looked like he’d been buried weeks in it and dug up clumsy. He had on greasy rawhide breeches and battered cowhand boots for shoes. He had a month’s beard on his lip and he stunk.

This here was legendary Dirty Jake, no question about it.

“Get a new glove,” I said.

“Nope,” he answered, “no good. Last week in Ojo Rojizo I took the glove off to scratch and right then a man braced me. He threw me in a horse-trough when I wouldn’t fight I want you to fix me up good.

“I want you to open my hand up and set the dingus just under the skin, and sew it up again. Knew a feller did that with five-dollar gold pieces cuz he didn’t like banks. Worked fine till he got a counterfeit, and it killed him.

“I’ll lay low in the hills till the hand heals. No problems after that”

No problems? Maybe so, but I’d been doing some thinking. Still, I kept my mouth shut and did what he wanted, and he slunk off with no thanks. Don’t guess I really had any coming.

After he left I got out my tallybook and ticked off the men Dirty Jake had killed: One Eye Jack Sundstrom, Fat Charlie Ticknor, Pilander Quantrell, Lobo Stephens, Alec the Frenchman Dubois, some jackass Texan nobody even knew and the rest, all men whose brains had telegraphed a special signal to Jake’s gun before it reached their own right hand. Well, there was a new pistolero in town.

A month and a half later I was craned around, trying to lance a boil of my own, when out of the corner of my eye I saw Dirty Jake go by under my window. He’d dug that hat with the ostrich plume out from under the rocks, his hand was healed, he was swinging his umbrella and he didn’t so much as look up. He was headed for the Owl Hoot Palace. I decided the boil’d wait.

Less than five minutes later I heard the shots, two of them. A second later Jubal Bean, swamper at the Owl Hoot, came pounding up the boardwalk and hollered in the door: “Doc, better come quick. Dirty Jake just took a couple slugs in the chest and he never even got to draw!”

I took my time. “It was just a matter of odds,” I said. “Who got him?”

“The new one,” Jubal said, “the man they call Lefty.”

Well, a couple more weeks to bleach, a little wiring, and I’ll be heading East. Look for the billboards:

MR. BONES

The Fastest Draw in the West

“Faster than Billy the Kid and Twice as Dead”

presented by

HIRAM PERTWEE, M.D.

All I’ve got to do is figure how to keep getting mad at Jake.

I was suitably startled to learn last year that a recent conference of the Modern Language Association had included a seminar on science fiction — but my sense of shock was in no way due to the realization that s-f has exerted its influence on our language, as it had on our literature. What surprised me was that official cognizance of this self-evident phenomenon should have been taken, so readily, by a learned body of academicians.

Actually, publishers of science fantasy have known for some time that the colleges and universities provide some of their best markets! but s-f reading was something almost everybody did, and practically nobody talked about. I wonder how much of this emergence of science fiction from the academic kitchen to its parlor is due to the change in media (so much easier to discuss a story from Atlantic or even the Post, than one from Thrilling Wonder), and how much to the persistent subversive efforts of a few literary guerrillas who have been sniping steadily from positions of irreproachable intellectual eminence at the guardians of literary snobbery. The more celebrated of these have included Anthony Boucher, Clifton Fadiman, and the late Fletcher Pratt; but none have been more staunchly effective than Reg Bretnor.

Linguist, Orientalist, lecturer, critic, and author, Bretnor’s last two books have been a translation of Moncrif’s Les Chats (Golden Cockerel Press; 400 copies; morocco, $40; cloth, $20); and a paperback collection of vignette-length extended s-f puns. In the past he has served as adviser on Asian affairs to the U.S. Government; taught writing at San Quentin; edited one of the earliest and best volumes of s-f criticism (Modern Science Fiction, Coward-McCann, 1953). His short stories appear, ordinarily, either in literary quarterlies or in s-f magazines.

It was mighty lucky for me that my Grandma Whitford caught on in time. If she hadn’t, chances are I would’ve grown up just like her Great-uncle Jonas Hackett, and come to the same sort of end, shaking hands with the Devil himself before breakfast, and with not even a Christian tombstone over me at the last for folks to come look at.

I was down in an empty stall at the barn, making a trade with Jim Bledsoe. Jim was sniveling and crying and begging me not to make him go through with the trade, which he’d already agreed to, and I wasn’t giving an inch.

He picked up his 12-gauge Iver-Johnson, and his two Belgian hares, and his skates, and fondled them kind of, and put them back down with the rest of his stuff; and he said, maybe for the twentieth time, “Aw, B-Bill, you — you can have all the rest. But p-p-please lemme keep my old shotgun, p-please.”

And I said, “Not for all the tea in China, I won’t. No sirree bob!”

It was right then Grandma showed up, her little eyes crackling and sparkling, and her lips set as tight as when she was mad at some fresh city peddler. Small as she was, she grabbed my left ear and twisted real hard.

“Ow!” I said.

She twisted again. “All the tea in China, indeed!” she snapped. “I’ll all-the-tea-in-China you, boy. Now you give those things back to Jimmy — this instant! And Jimmy, you take ‘em and skeddaddle on home.”

“Aw, Gran’ma,” I grumbled, “we’re only making a trade. There’s nothing wrong with just— Yow!”

“Don’t lie to me, boy. You were chiseling him out of his eyeteeth. That whole big pile for a one-bladed jack-knife and a busted war sword! It’s that bad Hackett blood in you, I do declare. You’re getting to be as wicked and sinful as Great-uncle Jonas.” She looked at Jimmy again, who was fiddling around, still scared to pick up his things. “Go ahead, take ‘em,” she told him. “The sheriff won’t ever hear how you burned down his outhouse — that’s a promise. When I get through with Bill here, he won’t say a word.” She twisted my ear harder than ever. “No sirree bob — not for all the tea in China, he won’t!”

And as soon as Jimmy had beat it, she marched me out of the barn, and straight past the house while the hired-hand snickered, and around the big corn-patch and right up the east slope of Hackett’s Hill. She didn’t slow down or let go of my ear till we got clean to the top; and even though Hackett’s Hill isn’t more than a couple hundred feet high, I was just about out of breath.

She told me to sit. “Wonder why I brought you up here?”

Hackett’s Hill wasn’t worth climbing. It was sort of lumpy and brown, with nothing but scrubby dry weeds growing on it. All you could see from the top was the Post Road winding around it before straightening out down the valley, and our house, and Smathers’. So I nodded.

“I brought you,” she said, “because it was right about here that Jonas Hackett’s place was before he was took by the Devil, and because I can see his spirit’s strong in you, and because I aim to drive it clean out.”

She stared at me till it seemed that a cold little wind blew across Hackett’s Hill and into my spine. “Boy,” she asked, “what do you want to be when you’ grown?”

I looked down at my shoes. “I want to be rich,” I told her defiantly. “I want to move down to Boston, and have a big house, and a carriage, and a gold watch and chain, and tell folks what to do.”

“I thought so,” she said. “Well, that’s all right for some, whose natures are honest and can stand off temptation — but it isn’t for you. You’re going to Harvard College instead, and let ‘em make you a doctor.”

“No, ma’am,” I answered right back. “I wouldn’t do that. No, siree bob. Not for—” Then I remembered my ear and shut up.

“Not for all the tea in China,” she finished up for me. “No siree bob. And that’s just what Great-uncle Jonas answered them back when they wanted him to go down to Harvard. Now you sit real still, and don’t interrupt, and I’ll tell you the story. Only don’t go telling anyone else, because it’s nothing we’re proud of, and it’s best kept in the family.”

She gave me a look, and I promised….

By the time Jonas was forty (Grandma said), he was a fine-looking man. Maybe he was a little too lean, and I guess his eyes looked a little too much like cold chunks of gray glass in dark caves. They say, too, that his big, pale hands were always opening and closing all by themselves, as if they were hungry. But he had curly black hair, and a good set of white teeth, and a walk like a lion out hunting.

(In my mind, I saw Great-uncle Jonas clear as could be, and I shivered.)

Besides (she went on), by that time he owned a good part of the land around here, and had loans out on lots more. He had some business in Boston, and down in New York, which he kept to himself. But everyone knew that he owned a three-quarter share in the tea-clipper Queen of the East, because everyone knew young Middleton Martin, who was her first mate and the one friend Jonas had in the world.

You’d have thought there’d have been lots of men willing to call him their friend, and plenty of women hereabouts to marry him at the drop of a hat. But there weren’t. Only Middleton Martin forgave him for the things he had done — maybe because he’d been off to sea so much of the time, and never seen Jonas at work. You see, boy, Jonas was never content just making a dollar. He had to make it off someone, so it hurt — and the more it hurt the better he liked it.

Let’s say a neighbor had something that’d just about kill him if anyone knew, and Jonas found out. Pretty soon he’d show up and offer to buy the man’s team, or his pasture, or even his house. He’d look it over, taking his time, and they’d have a talk, friendly like, and finally they’d get to the price — and Jonas’d offer a dollar, or maybe fifteen, or fifty at the outside. Usually his neighbor would shout he was crazy. Then Jonas would tighten the screws. He’d whisper what he’d found out. He’d let the man cuss and threaten, and argue and beg. He’d pretend to give in. And right at the last, he’d tighten his jaw and say, “No siree bob. Not for all the tea in China, I won’t.”

(Grandma paused for a minute, but I just pulled at the dry grass at my feet instead of looking up at her.)

He always did it that way (Grandma said). It was the same when he’d clamp down on a loan. He was hated by every man, woman, and child within fifteen miles. He’d built a fine, big, new house, and he lived there alone except for two foreign servants he’d brought in from the city. He never went out to visit, even his kin, or showed up at church, or had anyone over except Middleton Martin. And all through the years, he never so much as looked at one of the girls. Then all of a sudden, when he’d turned forty, he started courting Mary Ann Thorpe.

She was the prettiest girl in the valley, twenty years younger than he, with hair like honey. It was known that Jonas had a money hold on her father, but what really started tongues wagging was that she’d been promised to Middleton Martin for close on three years. A few said it was queer that Jonas Hackett would do such a thing to the one friend he had, but mostly folks thought it was just like his nature. She was Middleton’s girl, and no man could find anyone finer; and betraying a friendship just made him want her the more. The whole valley waited for the Queen of the East to come back with her cargo of tea. And because Jonas was Middleton’s friend, and for fear of what he could do to her father, Mary Ann let him sit on her porch in the evenings, and tried to pretend she didn’t know what he’d come for.

That went on for three months, with Mary Ann crying herself quietly to sleep every night; and after a while there was even some lowdown gossip that she was going to accept Jonas Hackett for his money, and because of what he might do, and because his house was the finest house in the county, in the prettiest place.

(Grandma broke off, and I thought to myself she was making it up, because Hackett’s Hill was the ugliest place in the county, not the prettiest. Besides, searching around, I couldn’t see any sign of where a house might have been, not even a small one. But her face looked as if she was telling the truth. It made me feel queer.)

Then (Grandma said), the Queen of the East came in from the sea with Middleton Martin aboard, and he took the stage straight for home, wanting to get back to Mary Ann as fast as he could. But first, not knowing a thing, and it being right on the way, he stopped off a minute or two to leave Jonas a present. Jonas shook hands with him just as if nothing had happened, and Middleton gave him a bundle tied up in canvas, which he’d brought all the way from Foochow.

“Open it up,” Middleton said.

So Jonas took off the canvas, and there was a sort of a cage about two feet square. It was made of lacquered wood and bamboo, and pieces of fancy red cord laced around and criss-crossed inside, and there were bits of silk like bright little flags at the corners, with Oriental writings.

“What is it?” asked Jonas.

“A tea merchant had it,” Middleton told him. “He’d got it from one of the caravan men, who’d brought it in from the mountains out behind China. It’s a demon trap. Suppose you want to catch you a demon. You set it down by some track where they run, and by morning most likely you’ll find a big fat one.” He slapped Jonas’ back, and roared with laughter. “Works every time. Doesn’t even need bait. It’s just what you need!”

“What do they do with the demon?” Jonas asked him, not laughing at all.

Middleton cocked a red eyebrow, but he saw that Jonas was serious, so he made out like he was. “If he’s a water-demon,” he said, “they burn him up right there in the cage, but if he’s a fire-demon — you can tell by the smell — then they chuck him into a well or a lake, cage and all.”

Jonas frowned. Quickly he shoved the cage back behind him, as if to protect it. “I wouldn’t do that,” he declared.

Then Middleton told him good-by, and went on up to Mary Ann’s house. But that was just the first time he saw Jonas Hackett that day.

(Grandma snorted.) He found out soon enough. He was back inside half an hour, and Jonas, standing out on the porch, saw by the look on his face that he knew.

“Well?” he said.

Middleton spoke very softly, “Jonas, I didn’t use to believe what folks said about you. I almost do now. What do you want with my Mary Ann?”

“I’m going to marry her,” Jonas answered.

“Suppose she says no?”

“I can ruin her dad,” Jonas said.

The shoulders of Middleton Martin’s blue jacket went tight. “Suppose I say no, Jonas?”

“Berths are scarce, and you won’t have yours,” Jonas told him. “The Queen is my ship.”

For a while they looked at each other without saying a word. Then Middleton said, “We’ve been friends, Jonas. We’ve been friends a long time. I guess we can still be. Just say you don’t want her — that it’s been a mistake. Give her up, Jonas.”

All the blood left Jonas’ lips. “Not for all the tea in China!” he snapped.

Middleton laughed in his face. “All right, have it your way. I’ve talked to Mary Ann. I’ve talked to her father. We’re getting married next week. Wreck him — he’ll be living with us. Take my berth — I’ve got a new one, a command of my own, bigger and faster.” And with that he turned his back and walked off.

(Grandma shaded her eyes from the sun, and pointed east of the road.) The Thorpe place was just beyond Smathers’. Even now, you can hardly see it from here. Jonas spent some bad nights, I’ve been told, pacing the floor and saying never a word, all eaten inside because not two miles off were three people who’d told him where to head in. The truth was he’d gone off half-cocked. Middleton and Mary Ann and her pa knew the worst he could do, and they just didn’t care. He kept thinking of Mary Ann being Mrs. Middleton Martin, and how folks in the valley would laugh in his face; and the closer they got to the wedding, the worse he became. Those who saw him said his hands were clinching and clenching harder than ever, and he walked with his teeth skinned back like a wolfs. Then, just two nights before the wedding was set to take place, he got his idea.

He was sitting in the dark in his parlor, thinking what he’d like to do to Middleton Martin, and racking his brains for some new dirty trick, when all of a sudden he stretched out his hand — and there was the demon-trap, which he’d completely forgotten. As soon as he touched it, the idea came into his head.

Jonas knew that Orientals know a lot of things better not known, and he figured that if they took the time to build demon-traps, those traps would most likely catch demons. Also, he knew there’d been demons and devils aplenty in Massachusetts back in the old Salem days, and that Satan himself still had business in Boston, because he’d been mixed up in it often enough. And he reasoned that if a little trap’d catch little devils, why it’d only take a great big one to catch the biggest of all.

Showing his teeth in the moonlight, Jonas walked out in the night to the Post Road, which ran right past his gate, and he looked up and down. In those days, it was straight as an arrow all the way down the valley, and he guessed that it was the track the Devil would use when he went up to Boston. Right away, he made up his mind that he’d catch him — but he wasn’t intending to waste him by chucking him, sizzling and sputtering, into the ocean — not Jonas! He was going to keep him right there in the cage till he fixed it so he could get Mary Ann.

Jonas looked at the moon, and laughed without making a sound, and he went back in the house, and woke up his two foreign servants, a man and a woman, and sent them off into town to buy stuff — lumber and silk, and red-colored paint, and cord and bamboo. Later that day, old Lem Smathers saw him hammering away in the yard like a madman, with the big trap darned near finished, but he wouldn’t tell Lem anything. It was the servants that told it next day, after it happened, because right at the last they found out what he was up to and ran off and quit him. The rest folks just figured out.

Night came, dark and angry, with storm clouds drowning the stars and hiding the moon except once in a while for just a few seconds. And Great-uncle Jonas hitched a team to his devil trap — for, making it strong, he’d built it too heavy to carry — and dragged it out, and set it up by the road right under his window. Then he went back in to stay up and watch, leaving the window propped open in spite of the weather so he could hear if anything happened. It stormed and it rained, and the wind blew and blew, and several times he had to go take a look, just in case, and he got soaked to the skin. But he didn’t think about that. Then, toward three o’clock, the sky started to clear, and gales up aloft tore the black clouds to shreds — and all of a sudden, down by the trap, Jonas heard a stumbling and stamping, and a roaring and ranting like he’d never heard in his life.

Jonas knew that the worst thing you could do, going into a deal, was to seem to be anxious, so he walked down as slow as he could, his hands in his pockets. Sure enough, there was his trap, with its little silk flags fluttering their Oriental letters in the cold breeze. And sure enough, in it, all tangled up in the strings, was the Devil.

He didn’t have hoofs or a tail, or anything like it. He was six foot tall, dark and handsome. He wore a big beaver hat, and a greatcoat, and flowers all over his vest, and a gold watch and chain. When he saw Jonas Hackett, he quit his struggling and swearing, and tried to pretend not to be mad, and actually smiled.

“Good mawnin’, suh,” he said, bowing. “Mah name is Legree. Ah’m a tobacco auctioneer from No’th Carolina, headin’ for Boston. Ah seem to have blundered into this heah Yankee contraption.”

Jonas didn’t bow back. ‘That’s right,” he agreed, “sure seems like you have. But you’re no auctioneer, no more’n I am.”

The Devil shrugged just a little, and fixed up his smile. “Ah see, suh,” he said, “that Ah’m dealin’ with a true judge of man’s nature. Ah was lyin’, suh, Ah admit it. But Ah was only tryin’ to spare the Abolitionist sentiments heahabouts. Truth is, Ah’m a slave-dealer from way down in Memphis. And now, suh, Ahll oblige you to set me free from this gadget—”

“You’re a slave-dealer, right enough,” Jonas answered, “but not like you meant it. Down South, you’d show up as a Yankee. I know you, Satan.”

At that, the Devil couldn’t help letting a wisp of steam, smoke, and flame leak out of his nostrils, and he quickly lit a cheroot trying to cover it up. Then he smiled again, a smile that would’ve scared most any man clean out of his skin. “You’d best open the door of this thing,” he suggested, “before I break it down and come get you.”

Jonas just shook his head. “If you could’ve, I guess you’d have got me already,” he said coldly.

Well, the Devil couldn’t control himself any longer, and the show he put on made all the cussing and roaring he’d gone in for before seem like nothing at all. He described the things that would happen to Jonas if he ever got out. He spouted out cinders and sparks, and smoke poured from him, and red flames; and the sulphur and brimstone smelled up the valley for days. He even took his true natural shape a few times.

But Jonas hung on, and didn’t heed him at all, because he knew he could force him into a deal. And, watching real close, after almost an hour he saw him beginning to tire.

Finally, the Devil worked himself up to a real fever pitch. He grabbed the bars of the cage, and shook them till all the ground quaked, and in a voice like thunder and lightning he bawled, “OPEN THE DOOR!”

And Jonas knew at once that the Devil was just about done. He looked him right in the eye. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said firmly. “Not for all the tea in China. No siree bob.”

There was a great dreadful hush, as if everything over the world had just stopped. Slowly, the Devil eased up. He lit another cheroot. He twirled his mustache. “Wouldn’t you?” he said with a smile. “Wouldn’t you, Jonas?”

Then and there, Jonas forgot all about Mary Ann, and what all the neighbors would say, and Middleton Martin. All he could think of was how much money there would be in that tea. “We-ell,” he said to the Devil, “maybe I would.”

“That’s fine,” said the Devil. “It’s a deal!”

Jonas backed away from the door. He knew that the Devil had to keep that sort of a bargain. “Hold on a minute. That tea’ll have to be packed in tea chests and bales, and set down right here.”

“You’re a hard man,” the Devil declared, “but you’ve got me. That’s the way it’ll be.”

“Shake,” said Great-uncle Jonas; and they shook.

And then he opened the door.

Grandma eyed me very severely. ‘That was how Jonas Hackett came to his end,” she said after a minute. “Let it be a lesson to you, boy. Don’t you ever forget it!”

“Did — did he get all that tea from the Devil?” I gasped.

“Every last bit. There was one peal of thunder, and a flash from one end of the sky to the other, and sure enough there it was.”

She paused. With a heel, she kicked at the thin inch of topsoil covering up Hackett’s Hill. Under it was a thick, dark brown leaf-mold, and some rotten wood like the corner of a broken old chest; and the smell of tannin came up as strong as could be.

We looked at the Hill, more than two hundred feet high and a thousand feet long, sitting squarely on top of where Jonas’ place used to be.

“All the tea in China,” Grandma said. “Yes siree bob. There was a lot of it, too.”

“The incredible we believe immediately. The impossible takes a bit longer.”

We live in an age of what we casually — without embarrassment — call “scientific miracles.” And if the innate paradox no longer grates on the literate ear, I suppose it is because the contradiction in terms is no longer a contradiction in attitude. The quickening pace of scientific progress has so far outrun the capacity of most of us to comprehend, that we are now in the absurd position of accepting science on faith: prepared to believe almost any statement from almost any source cloaked in the vestments of that same “science” which is the discipline of skepticism, the attitude that accepts nothing without evidence, and credits no effect without a cause.

This very scientific spirit has destroyed, for most of us, the capacity to believe in the witches, elves, demons, fairies, and angels that frightened and delighted our forerunners. Now, more and more of our new scientific knowledge rests on proofs as abstruse and mysterious as the motives of godlets and demons once were.

In any case, the modern mind can achieve the “willing suspension of disbelief” much more readily for a spaceship than a flying carpet, for an equation than an incantation. Concomitantly, the field of “pure fantasy” is out of favor, and its practitioners are few.

Among these, two of the most competent are Mr. Bretnor and Miss Spark. Perhaps there is some significance in the fact that the one was raised In the Orient and has lived since in the pragmatic United States; and that the other was born and raised in commonsense Edinburgh, and then went to live in Africa?

One day in my young youth at high summer, lolling with my lovely companions upon a haystack, I found a needle. Already and privately for some years I had been guessing that I was set apart from the common run, but this of the needle attested the fact to my whole public, George, Kathleen, and Skinny. I sucked my thumb, for when I had thrust my idle hand deep into the hay, the thumb was where the needle had stuck.

When everyone had recovered, George said, “She put in her thumb and pulled out a plum.” Then we were into our merciless hacking-hecking laughter again.

The needle had gone fairly deep into the thumby cushion and a small red river flowed and spread from this tiny puncture. So that nothing of our joy should lag, George put in quickly, “Mind your bloody thumb on my shirt.”

Then hac-hec-hoo, we shrieked into the hot Borderland afternoon. Really I should not care to be so young of heart again. That is my thought every time I turn over my old papers and come across the photograph. Skinny, Kathleen, and myself are in the photo atop the haystack. Skinny had just finished analyzing the inwards of my find.

“It couldn’t have been done by brains. You haven’t much brains, but you’re a lucky wee thing.”

Everyone agreed that the needle betokened extraordinary luck. As it was becoming a serious conversation, George said, “I’ll take a photo.”

I wrapped my hanky round my thumb and got myself organized. George pointed up from his camera and shouted, “Look, there’s a mouse!”

Kathleen screamed and I screamed, although I think we knew there was no mouse. But this gave us an extra session of squalling hee-hoo’s. Finally we three composed ourselves for George’s picture. We look lovely and it was a great day at the time, but I would not care for it all over again. From that day, I was known as Needle.

One Saturday in recent years, I was mooching down the Portobello Road, threading among the crowds of marketers on the narrow pavement, when I saw a woman. She had a haggard, careworn, wealthy look, thin but for the breasts forced up high like a pigeon’s. I had not seen her for nearly five years. How changed she was! But I recognized Kathleen, my friend; her features had already begun to sink and protrude in the way that mouths and noses do in people destined always to be old for their years. When I had last seen her, nearly five years ago, Kathleen, barely thirty, had said, “I’ve lost all my looks; it’s in the family. All the women are handsome as girls, but we go off early, we go brown and nosey.”

I stood silently among the people, watching. As you will see, I wasn’t in a position to speak to Kathleen. I saw her shoving in her avid manner from stall to stall. She was always fond of antique jewelry and of bargains. I wondered that I had not seen her before on the Portobello Road on my Saturday morning ambles. Her long, stiff-crooked fingers pounced to select a jade ring from amongst the jumble of brooches and pendants, onyx, moonstone, and gold, set out on the stall.

“What d’you think of this?” she said.

I saw then who was with her. I had been half-conscious of the huge man following several paces behind her, and now I noticed him.

“It looks all right,” he said. “How much is it?”

“How much is it?” Kathleen asked the vendor.

I took a good look at this man accompanying Kathleen. It was her husband. The beard was unfamiliar, but I recognized beneath it his enormous mouth, the bright, sensuous lips, the large brown eyes forever brimming with pathos.

It was not for me to speak to Kathleen, but I had a sudden inspiration which caused me to say quietly, “Hallo, George.”

The giant of a man turned round to face the direction of my voice. There were so many people — but at length he saw me.

“Hallo, George,” I said again.

Kathleen had started to haggle with the stall owner, in her old way, over the price of the jade ring. George continued to stare at me, his big mouth slightly parted so that I could see a wide slit of red lips and white teeth between the fair, grassy growths of beard and mustache.

“My God,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” said Kathleen.

“Hallo, George!” I said again, quite loud this time, and cheerfully.

“Look!” said George. “Look who’s standing there, over beside the fruit stall.”

Kathleen looked but didn’t see. “Who is it?” she said impatiently.

“It’s Needle,” he said. “She said, ‘Hallo George.’”

“Needle,” said Kathleen. “Who do you mean? You don’t mean our old friend Needle who—”

“Yes. There she is. My God!” He looked very ill, although when I had said, “Hallo, George,” I had spoken friendly enough.

“I don’t see anyone faintly resembling poor Needle,” said Kathleen, looking at him. She was worried.

George pointed straight at me. “Look there. I tell you that is Needle.”

“You’re ill, George. Heavens, you must be seeing things. Come on home. Needle isn’t there. You know as well as I do, Needle is dead.”

I must explain that I departed this life nearly five years ago. But I did not altogether depart this world. There were those odd things still to be done which one’s executors can never do properly. Papers to be looked over, even after the executors have torn them up. Lots of business except, of course, on Sundays and Holy Days of Obligation, plenty to take an interest in for the time being. I take my recreation on Saturday mornings. If it is a wet Saturday, I wander up and down the substantial lanes of Woolworth’s as I did when I was young and visible. There is a pleasurable spread of objects on the counters which I now perceive and exploit with a certain detachment, since it suits with my condition of life. Creams, toothpastes, combs and hankies, cotton gloves, flimsy flowering scarves, writing-paper and crayons, ice-cream cones and orangeade, screwdrivers, boxes of tacks, tins of paint, of glue, of marmalade; I always liked them but far more now that I have no need of any. When Saturdays are fine, I go instead to the Portobello Road where formerly I would jaunt with Kathleen in our grownup days. The barrow-loads do not change much, of apples and rayon vests in common blues and low-taste mauve, of silver plate, trays and teapots long since changed hands from the bygone citizens to dealers, from shops to the new flats and breakable homes, and then over to the barrow-stalls and the dealers again: Georgian spoons, rings, earrings of turquoise and opal set in the butterfly pattern of true-lovers’ knot, patch-boxes with miniature paintings of ladies on ivory, snuff-boxes of silver with Scotch pebbles inset.

Sometimes as occasion arises on a Saturday morning, my friend Kathleen, who is a Catholic, has a Mass said for my soul, and then I am in attendance, as it were, at the church. But most Saturdays I take my delight among the solemn crowds with their aimless purposes, their eternal life not far away, who push past the counters and stalls, who handle, buy, steal, touch, desire, and ogle the merchandise. I hear the tinkling tills, I hear the jangle of loose change and tongues and children wanting to hold and have.

That is how I came to be on the Portobello Road that Saturday morning when I saw George and Kathleen. I would not have spoken had I not been inspired to it. Indeed it’s one of the things I can’t do now — to speak out unless inspired. And most extraordinary, on that morning as I spoke, a degree of visibility set in. I suppose from poor George’s point of view it was like seeing a ghost when he saw me standing by the fruit barrow, repeating in so friendly a manner, “Hallo, George!”

We were bound for the south. When our education, what we could get of it from the north, was thought to be finished, one by one we were sent or sent for to London. John Skinner, whom we called Skinny, went to study more archaeology, George to join his uncle’s tobacco farm, Kathleen to stay with her rich connections and to potter intermittently in the Mayfair hat shop which one of them owned. A little later I also went to London to see life, for it was my ambition to write about life, which first I had to see.

“We four must stick together,” George said very often in that yearning way of his. He was always desperately afraid of neglect. We four looked likely to shift off in different directions and George did not trust the other three of us not to forget all about him. More and more as the time came for him to depart for his uncle’s tobacco farm in Africa, he said, “We four must keep in touch.”

Before he left, he told each of us anxiously, “I’ll write regularly, once a month. We must keep together for the sake of the old times.” He had three prints taken from the negative of that photo on the haystack, wrote on the back of them, “George took this the day that Needle found the needle,” and gave us a copy each. I think we all wished he could become a bit more callous.

During my lifetime I was a drifter, nothing organized. It was difficult for my friends to follow the logic of my life. By the normal reckonings I should have come to starvation and ruin, which I never did. Of course, I did not live to write about life as I wanted to do. Possibly that is why I am inspired to do so now in these peculiar circumstances.

I taught in a private school in Kensington for almost three months, very small children. I didn’t know what to do with them but I was kept fairly busy escorting incontinent little boys to the lavatory and telling the little girls to use their handkerchiefs. After that I lived a winter holiday in London on my small capital, and when that had run out I found a diamond bracelet in the cinema for which I received a reward of fifty pounds. When it was used up, I got a job with a publicity man, writing speeches for absorbed industrialists, in which the dictionary of quotations came in very useful. So it went on. I got engaged to Skinny, but shortly after that I was left a small legacy, enough to keep me going for six months. This somehow decided me that I didn’t love Skinny, so I gave him back the ring.

But it was through Skinny that I went to Africa. He was engaged with a party of researchers to investigate King Solomon’s mines, that series of ancient workings ranging from the ancient port of Ophir, now called Beira, across Portuguese East Africa and Southern Rhodesia to the mighty jungle city of Zimbabwe, whose temple walls still stand by the approach to an ancient and sacred mountain, where the rubble of that civilization scatters itself over the surrounding Rhodesian waste. I accompanied the party as a sort of secretary. Skinny vouched for me, he paid my fare, he sympathized by his action with my inconsequential life although, when he spoke of it, he disapproved.

A life like mine annoys most people; they go to their jobs every day, attend to things, give orders, pummel typewriters, and get two or three weeks off every year, and it vexes them to see someone else not bothering to do these things and yet getting away with it, not starving, being lucky as they call it. Skinny, when I had broken off our engagement, lectured me about this, but still he took me to Africa knowing I should probably leave his unit within a few months.

We were there a few weeks before we began inquiring for George who was farming about four hundred miles away to the north. We had not told him of our plans.

“If we tell George to expect us in his part of the world, he’ll come rushing to pester us the first week. After all, we’re going on business,” Skinny had said.

Before we left, Kathleen told us, “Give George my love and tell him not to send frantic cables every time I don’t answer his letters right away. Tell him I’m busy in the hat shop and being presented. You would think he hadn’t another friend in the world, the way he carries on.”

We had settled first at Fort Victoria, our nearest place of access to the Zimbabwe ruins. There we made inquiries about George. It was clear he hadn’t many friends. The older settlers were the most tolerant about the half-caste woman he was living with, as we found, but they were furious about his methods of raising tobacco which we learned were most unprofessional and in some mysterious way disloyal to the whites. We could never discover how it was that George’s style of tobacco farming gave the blacks opinions about themselves, but that’s what the older settlers claimed. The newer immigrants thought he was unsociable and, of course, his living with that woman made visiting impossible.

I was myself a bit put off by this news about the brown woman. I was brought up in a university town to which came Indian, African, and Asiatic students in a variety of tints and hues. I was brought up to avoid them for reasons connected with local reputation and God’s ordinances. You cannot easily go against what you were brought up to do unless you are a rebel by nature.

Anyhow, we visited George eventually, taking advantage of the offer of transport from some people bound north in search of game. He had heard of our arrival in Rhodesia and though he was glad — almost relieved — to see us, he pursued a policy of sullenness for the first hour.

“We wanted to give you a surprise, George.”

“How were we to know that you’d get to hear of our arrival, George? News here must travel faster than light, George.”

“We did hope to give you a surprise, George.”

We flattered and “Georged” him until at last he said, “Well, I must say it’s good to see you. All we need now is Kathleen. We four simply must stick together. You find, when you’re in a place like this, there’s nothing like old friends.”

He showed us his drying sheds. He showed us a paddock where he was experimenting with a horse and a zebra mare, attempting to mate them. They were frolicking happily, but not together. They passed each other in their private play time and again, but without acknowledgment and without resentment.

“It’s been done before,” George said. “It makes a fine, strong beast, more intelligent than a mule and sturdier than a horse. But I’m not having any success with this pair; they won’t look at each other.”

After a while he said, “Come in for a drink and meet Matilda.”

She was dark brown, with a subservient hollow chest and round shoulders, a gawky woman, very snappy with the houseboys. We said pleasant things as we drank on the porch before dinner, but we found George difficult. For some reason he began to rail at me for breaking off my engagement to Skinny, saying what a dirty trick it was after all those good times in the old days. I diverted attention to Matilda. I supposed, I said, that she knew this part of the country very well?

“No,” said she, “I been a-shellitered my life. I not put out to working. Me nothing to go from place to place is allowed like dirty girls does.” In her speech she gave every syllable equal stress.

George explained, “Her father was a white magistrate in Natal. She had a sheltered upbringing, different from the other coloreds, you realize.”

“Man, me no black-eyed Susan,” said Matilda, “no, no.”

On the whole, George treated her as a servant. She was about four months advanced in pregnancy, but he made her get up and fetch for him, many times. Soap: that was one of the things Matilda had to fetch. George made his own bath soap, showed it proudly, gave us the recipe which I did not trouble to remember; I was fond of nice soaps during my lifetime and George’s smelled of brilliantine and looked likely to soil one’s skin.

“D’yo brahn?” Matilda asked me.

George said, “She is asking if you go brown in the sun.”

“No, I go freckled.”

“I got sister-in-law go freckles.”

She never spoke another word to Skinny nor to me, and we never saw her again.

Some months later, I said to Skinny, “I’m fed up with being a camp follower.”

He was not surprised that I was leaving his unit, but he hated my way of expressing it. He gave me a Presbyterian look. “Don’t talk like that. Are you going back to England or staying?”

“Staying, for a while.”

“Well, don’t wander too far off.”

I was able to live on the fee I got for writing a gossip column in a local weekly, which wasn’t my idea of writing about life, of course. I made friends, more than I could cope with, after I left Skinny’s exclusive little band of archaeologists. I had the attractions of being newly out from England and of wanting to see life. Of the countless young men and go-ahead families who purred me along the Rhodesian roads, hundred after hundred miles, I only kept up with one family when I returned to my native land. I think that was because they were the most representative, they stood for all the rest: people in those parts are very typical of each other, as one group of standing stones in that wilderness is like the next.

I met George once more in a hotel in Bulawayo. We drank highballs and spoke of war. Skinny’s party were just then deciding whether to remain in the country or return home. They had reached an exciting part of their research, and whenever I got a chance to visit Zimbabwe, he would take me for a moonlight walk in the ruined temple and try to make me see phantom Phoenicians flitting ahead of us, or along the walls. I had half a mind to marry Skinny; perhaps, I thought, when his studies were finished. The impending war was in our bones: so I remarked to George as we sat drinking highballs on the hotel veranda in the hard, bright, sunny July winter of that year.

George was inquisitive about my relations with Skinny. He tried to pump me for about half an hour and when at last I said, “You are becoming aggressive, George,” he stopped. He became quite pathetic. He said, “War or no war, I’m clearing out of this.”

“It’s the heat does it,” I said.

“I’m clearing out in any case. I’ve lost a fortune in tobacco. My uncle is making a fuss. It’s the other bloody planters; once you get the wrong side of them, you’re finished in this wide land.”

“What about Matilda?” I asked.

He said, “She’ll be all right. She’s got hundreds of relatives.”

I had already heard about the baby girl. Coal black, by repute, with George’s features. And another on the way, they said.

“What about the child?”

He didn’t say anything to that. He ordered more highballs and when they arrived, he swizzled his for a long time with a stick. “Why didn’t you ask me to your twenty-first?” he said then.

“I didn’t have anything special, no party, George. We had a quiet drink among ourselves, George, just Skinny and the old professors and two of the wives and me, George.”

“You didn’t ask me to your twenty-first,” he said. “Kathleen writes to me regularly.”

This wasn’t true. Kathleen sent me letters fairly often in which she said, “Don’t tell George I wrote to you as he will be expecting word from me and I can’t be bothered actually.”

“But you,” said George, “don’t seem to have any sense of old friendships, you and Skinny.”

“Oh, George!” I said.

“Remember the times we had,” George said. “We used to have times.” His large brown eyes began to water.

“I’ll have to be getting along,” I said.

“Please don’t go. Don’t leave me just yet. I’ve something to tell you.”

“Something nice?” I laid on an eager smile. All responses to George had to be overdone.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” George said.

“How?” I said. Sometimes I got tired of being called lucky by everybody. There were times when, privately practicing my writings about life, I knew the bitter side of my fortune. When I failed again and again to reproduce life in some satisfactory and perfect form, I was the more imprisoned, for all my carefree living, within my craving for this satisfaction. Sometimes, in my impotence and need I secreted a venom which infected all my life for days on end and which spurted out indiscriminately on Skinny or on anyone who crossed my path.

“You aren’t bound by anyone,” George said. “You come and go as you please. Something always turns up for you. You’re free, and you don’t know your luck.”

“You’re a damn sight more free than I am,” I said sharply. “You’ve got your rich uncle.”

“He’s losing interest in me,” George said. “He’s had enough.”

“Oh well, you’re young yet. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“A secret,” George said. “Remember we used to have those secrets?”

“Oh, yes we did.”

“Did you ever tell any of mine?”

“Oh no, George.” In reality, I couldn’t remember any particular secret out of the dozens we must have exchanged from our schooldays onward.

“Well, this is a secret, mind. Promise not to tell.”

“Promise.”

“I’m married.”

“Married, George! Oh, who to?”

“Matilda.”

“How dreadful!” I spoke before I could think, but he agreed with me.

“Yes, it’s awful, but what could I do?”

“You might have asked my advice,” I said pompously.

“I’m two years older than you are. I don’t ask advice from you, Needle, little beast.”

“Don’t ask for sympathy then.”

“A nice friend you are,” he said. “I must say, after all these years.”

“Poor George!” I said.

“There are three white men to one white woman in this country,” said George. “An isolated planter doesn’t see a white woman and, if he sees one, she doesn’t see him. What could I do? I needed the woman.”

I was nearly sick. One, because of my Scottish upbringing. Two, because of my horror of corny phrases like, “I needed the woman,” which George repeated twice again.

“And Matilda got tough,” said George, “after you and Skinny came to visit us. She had some friends at the Mission, and she packed up and went to them.”

“You should have let her go,” I said.

“I went after her,” George said. “She insisted on being married, so I married her.”

“That’s not a proper secret, then,” I said. “The news of a mixed marriage soon gets about.”

“I took care of that,” George said. “Crazy as I was, I took her to the Congo and married her there. She promised to keep quiet about it.”

“Well, you can’t clear off and leave her now, surely,” I said.

“I’m going to get out of this place. I can’t stand the woman and I can’t stand the country. I didn’t realize what it would be like. Two years of the country and three months of my wife have been enough.”

“Will you get a divorce?”

“No. Matilda’s Catholic. She won’t divorce.”

George was fairly getting through the highballs, and I wasn’t far behind him. His brown eyes floated shiny and liquid as he told me how he had written to tell his uncle of his plight, “Except, of course, I didn’t say we were married. That would have been too much for him. He’s a prejudiced, hardened old Colonial. I only said I’d had a child by a colored woman and was expecting another, and he perfectly understood. He came at once by plane a few weeks ago. He’s made a settlement on her, providing she keeps her mouth shut about her association with me.”

“Will she do that?”

“Oh, yes, or she won’t be able to get the money.”

“But as your wife she has a claim on you, in any case.”

“If she claimed as my wife, she’d get far less. Matilda knows what she’s doing, greedy bitch that she is. She’ll keep her mouth shut.”

“Only, you won’t be able to marry again, will you, George?”

“Not unless she dies,” he said. “And she’s as strong as an ox.”

“Well, I’m sorry, George,” I said.

“Good of you to say so,” he said. “But I can see by your chin that you disapprove of me. Even my old uncle understood.”

“Oh, George, I quite understand. You were lonely, I suppose.”

“You didn’t even ask me to your twenty-first. If you and Skinny had been nicer to me, I would never have lost my head and married the woman, never.”

“You didn’t ask me to your wedding,” I said.

“You’re a catty bissom, Needle, not like what you were in the old times when you used to tell us your stories.”

“I’ll have to be getting along,” I said.

“Mind you keep the secret,” George said.

“Can’t I tell Skinny? He would be very sorry for you, George.”

“You mustn’t tell anyone. Keep it a secret. Promise?”

“Promise,” I said. I understood that he wished to enforce some sort of bond between us with this secret, and I thought, “Oh well, I suppose he’s lonely. Keeping his secret won’t do any harm.”

I returned to England with Skinny’s party just before the war.

I did not see George again till just before my death, five years ago.

After the war, Skinny returned to his studies. He had two more exams, over a period of eighteen months, and I thought I might marry him when the exams were over.

“You might do worse than Skinny,” Kathleen used to say to me on our Saturday morning excursions to the antique shops and the junk stalls.

She too was getting on in years. The remainder of our families in Scotland were hinting that it was time we settled down with husbands. Kathleen was a little younger than I, but looked much older. She knew her chances were diminishing but at that time I did not think she cared very much. As for myself, the main attraction of marrying Skinny was his prospective expeditions to Mesopotamia. My desire to marry him had to be stimulated by the continual reading of books about Babylon and Assyria; perhaps Skinny felt this, because he supplied the books and even started instructing me in the art of deciphering cuneiform tables.

Kathleen was more interested in marriage than I thought. Like me, she had racketed around a good deal during the war; she had actually been engaged to an officer in the U. S. Navy, who was killed. Now she kept an antique shop near Lambeth, was doing very nicely, lived in a Chelsea square, but for all that she must have wanted to be married and have children. She would stop and look into all the prams which the mothers had left outside shops or area gates.

“The poet Swinburne used to do that,” I told her once.

“Really? Did he want children of his own?”

“I shouldn’t think so. He simply liked babies.”

Before Skinny’s final exam, he fell ill and was sent to a sanatorium in Switzerland.

“You’re fortunate after all not to be married to him,” Kathleen said. “You might have caught T.B.”

I was fortunate, I was lucky… so everyone kept telling me on different occasions. Although it annoyed me to hear, I knew they were right, but in a way that was different from what they meant. It took me a small effort to make a living; book reviews, odd jobs for Kathleen, a few months with the publicity man again, still getting up speeches about literature, art, and life for industrial tycoons. I was waiting to write about life and it seemed to me that the good fortune lay in this, whenever it should be. And until then I was assured of my charmed life, the necessities of existence always coming my way and I with far more leisure than anyone else. I thought of my type of luck after I became a Catholic and was being confirmed. The Bishop touches the candidate on the cheek, a symbolic reminder of the sufferings a Christian is supposed to undertake. I thought, how lucky, what a feathery symbol to stand for the hellish violence of its true meaning.

I visited Skinny twice in the two years that he was in the sanatorium. He was almost cured, and expected to be home within a few months. I told Kathleen after my last visit.

“Maybe I’ll marry Skinny when he’s well again.”

“Make it definite, Needle, and not so much of the maybe. You don’t know when you’re well off,” she said.

This was five years ago, in the last year of my life. Kathleen and I had become very close friends. We met several times each week, and after our Saturday morning excursions on the Portobello Road very often I would accompany Kathleen to her aunt’s house in Kent for a long weekend.

One day in June of that year, I met Kathleen specially for lunch because she had phoned me to say she had news.

“Guess who came into the shop this afternoon,” she said.

“Who?”

“George.”

We had half imagined George was dead. We had received no letters in the past ten years. Early in the war we had heard rumors of his keeping a night club in Durban, but nothing after that. We could have made inquiries if we had felt moved to do so.

At one time, when we discussed him, Kathleen had said, “I ought to get in touch with poor George. But then I think he would write back. He would demand a regular correspondence again.”

“We four must stick together,” I mimicked. “I can visualize his reproachful limpid orbs,” Kathleen said.

Skinny said, “He’s probably gone native. With his coffee concubine and a dozen mahogany kids.” “Perhaps he’s dead,” Kathleen said. I did not speak of George’s marriage, nor of any of his confidences in the hotel at Bulawayo. As the years passed, we ceased to mention him except in passing, as someone more or less dead so far as we were concerned.

Kathleen was excited about George’s turning up. She had forgotten her impatience with him in former days; she said, “It was so wonderful to see old George. He seems to need a friend, feels neglected, out of touch with things.” “He needs mothering, I suppose.”

Kathleen didn’t notice the malice. She declared, “That’s exactly the case with George. It always has been, I can see it now.”

She seemed ready to come to any rapid new and happy conclusion about George. In the course of the morning, he had told her of his wartime night club in Durban, his game-shooting expeditions since. It was clear he had not mentioned Matilda. He had put on weight, Kathleen told me, but he could carry it.

I was curious to see this version of George, but I was leaving for Scotland next day and did not see him till September of that year just before my death.

While I was in Scotland I gathered from Kathleen’s letters that she was seeing George very frequently, finding enjoyable company in him, looking after him. “You’ll be surprised to see how he has developed.” Apparently he would hang ‘round Kathleen in her shop most days. “It makes him feel useful,” as she maternally expressed it. He had an old relative in Kent whom he visited at weekends; this old lady lived a few miles from Kathleen’s aunt, which made it easy for them to travel down together on Saturdays, and go for long country walks.

“You’ll see such a difference in George,” Kathleen said on my return to London in September. I was to meet him that night, a Saturday. Kathleen’s aunt was abroad, the maid on holiday, and I was to keep Kathleen company in the empty house.

George had left London for Kent a few days earlier. “He’s actually helping with the harvest down there!” Kathleen told me lovingly.

Kathleen and I planned to travel down together, but on that Saturday she was unexpectedly delayed in London on some business. It was arranged that I should go ahead of her in the early afternoon to see to the provisions for our party; Kathleen had invited George to dinner at her aunt’s house that night.

“I should be with you by seven,” she said. “Sure you won’t mind the empty house? I hate arriving at empty houses, myself.”

I said no, I liked an empty house.

So I did, when I got there. I had never found the house more likable. It was a large Georgian vicarage in about eight acres, most of the rooms shut and sheeted, there being only one servant. I discovered that I wouldn’t need to go shopping; Kathleen’s aunt had left many and delicate supplies with notes attached to them: “Eat this up please do, see also fridge” and “A treat for three hungry people see also 2 bttles beaune for yr party on back kn table.” It was like a treasure hunt as I followed clue after clue through the cool, silent, domestic quarters.

A house in which there are no people — but with all the signs of tenancy — can be a most tranquil good place. People take up space in a house out of proportion to their size. On my previous visits I had seen the rooms overflowing, as it seemed, with Kathleen, her aunt, and the little fat maidservant; they were always on the move. As I wandered through that part of the house which was in use, opening windows to let in the pale yellow air of September, I was not conscious that I, Needle, was taking up any space at all. I felt I might have been a ghost.

The only thing to be fetched was the milk. I waited till after four when the milking should be done, then set off for the farm which lay across two fields at the back of the orchard. There, when the byreman was handing me the bottle, I saw George.

“Hallo, George,” I said.

“Needle! What are you doing here?” he said.

“Fetching milk,” I said.

“So am I. Well, it’s good to see you, I must say.”

As we paid the farmhand, George said, “I’ll walk back with you part of the way. But I mustn’t stop; my old cousin’s without any milk for her tea. How’s Kathleen?”

“She was kept in London. She’s coming on later, about seven, she expects.”

We had reached the end of the first field. George’s way led to the left and on to the main road.

“We’ll see you tonight, then, George?” I said.

“Yes, and talk about old times.”

“Grand,” I said.

But George got over the stile with me. “Look here,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you, Needle.”

“We’ll talk tonight, George. Better not keep your cousin waiting for the milk.” I found myself speaking to him almost as if he were a child.

“No, I want to talk to you alone. This is a good opportunity.”

We began to cross the second field. I had been hoping to have the house to myself for a couple more hours and I was rather petulant

“See,” he said suddenly, “that haystack.”

“Yes,” I said absently.

“Let’s sit there and talk. I’d like to see you up on a haystack again. I still keep that photo. Remember that time when—”

“I found the needle,” I said very quickly, to get it over.

But I was glad to rest. The stack had been broken up, but we managed to find a nest in it. I buried my bottle of milk in the hay for coolness. George placed his carefully at the foot of the stack.

“My old cousin is terribly vague, poor soul. A bit hazy in her head. She hasn’t the least sense of time. If I tell her that I’ve only been gone ten minutes, she’ll believe it.”

I giggled, and looked at him. His face had grown much larger, his lips full, wide, and with a ripe color that appears strange in a man. His brown eyes were abounding as before with some inarticulate plea.

“So you’re going to marry Skinny after all these years?”

“I really don’t know, George.”

“You played him up properly.”

“It isn’t for you to judge. I have my own reasons for what I do.”

“Don’t get sharp,” he said. “I was only funning.” To prove it, he lifted a tuft of hay and brushed my face with it.

“D’you know,” he said next, “I didn’t think you and Skinny treated me very decently in Rhodesia.”

“Well, we were busy, George. And we were younger then; we had a lot to do and see. After all, we could see you any other time, George.”

“A touch of selfishness,” he said.

“I’ll have to be getting along, George.” I made to get down from the stack.

He pulled me back. “Wait, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“O.K., George, tell me.”

“First promise not to tell Kathleen. She wants it kept a secret, so that she can tell you herself.”

“All right. Promise.”

“I’m going to marry Kathleen.”

“But you’re already married.”

Sometimes I heard news of Matilda from the one Rhodesian family with whom I still kept up. They referred to her as “George’s Dark Lady” and of course they did not know he was married to her. She had apparently made a good thing out of George, they said, for she minced around all tarted up, never did a stroke of work, and was always unsettling the respectable colored girls in the neighborhood. According to accounts, she was a living example of the folly of behaving as George did.

“I married Matilda in the Congo,” George was saying.

“It would still be bigamy,” I said.

He was furious when I used that word bigamy. He lifted a handful of hay as if he would throw it in my face, but controlling himself meanwhile he fanned it at me playfully. “I’m not sure that the Congo marriage was valid,” he continued. “Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, it isn’t.”

“You can’t do a thing like that,” I said.

“I need Kathleen. She’s been decent to me. I think we were always meant for each other, me and Kathleen.”

“I’ll have to be going,” I said.

But he put his knee over my ankles, so that I couldn’t move. I sat still and gazed into space.

He tickled my face with a wisp of hay.

“Smile up, Needle,” he said. “Let’s talk like old times.”

“Well?”

“No one knows about my marriage to Matilda except you and me.”

“And Matilda,” I said.

“She’ll keep still so long as she gets her payments. My uncle left an annuity for the purpose, his lawyers see to it”

“Let me go, George.”

“You promised to keep it a secret,” he said. “You promised.”

“Yes, I promised.”

“And now that you’re going to marry Skinny, well be properly coupled off as we should have been years ago. We should have been — but youth! — our youth got in the way, didn’t it?”

“Life got in the way,” I said.

“But everything’s going to be all right now. You’ll keep my secret, won’t you? You promised.” He had released my feet. I edged a little further from him.

I said, “If Kathleen intends to marry you, I shall tell her you’re married.”

“You wouldn’t do a dirty trick like that, Needle. You’re going to be happy with Skinny, you wouldn’t—”

“I must. Kathleen’s my best friend,” I said swiftly.

He looked as if he would murder me and he did. He stuffed hay into my mouth until it could hold no more, kneeling on my body to keep it still, holding both my wrists tight in his huge left hand. I saw the red, full lines of his mouth and the white slit of his teeth last thing on earth. Not another soul passed by as he pressed my body into the stack, as he made a deep nest for me, tearing up the hay to make a groove the length of my corpse, and finally pulling the warm, dry stuff in a mound over this concealment, so natural-looking in a broken haystack. Then George climbed down, took up his bottle of milk, and went his way. I suppose that was why he looked so unwell when I stood, nearly five years later, by the barrow on the Portobello Road and said in easy tones, “Hallo, George!”

The Haystack Murder was one of the notorious crimes of that year. My friends said, “A girl who had everything to live for.” After a search that lasted twenty hours, when my body was found, the evening papers said, “ ‘Needle’ is found: in haystack!”

Kathleen, speaking from that Catholic point of view which takes some getting used to, said, “She was at Confession only the day before she died — wasn’t she lucky?”

The poor byrehand who sold us the milk was grilled for hour after hour by the local police, and later by Scotland Yard. So was George. He admitted walking as far as the haystack with me, but he denied lingering there.

“You hadn’t seen your friend for ten years?” the Inspector asked him.

“That’s right,” said George.

“And you didn’t stop to have a chat?”

“No. We’d arranged to meet later at dinner. My cousin was waiting for the milk; I couldn’t stop.”

The old soul, his cousin, swore that he hadn’t been gone more than ten minutes in all, and she believed it to the day of her death a few months later. There was the microscopic evidence of hay on George’s jacket, of course, but the same evidence was on every man’s jacket in the district that fine harvest year. Unfortunately, the byreman’s hands were even brawnier and mightier than George’s. The marks on my wrists had been done by such hands, so the laboratory charts indicated when my post-mortem was all completed. But the wrist marks weren’t enough to pin down the crime to either man. If I hadn’t been wearing my long-sleeved cardigan, it was said, the bruises might have matched up properly with someone’s fingers.

Kathleen, to prove that George had absolutely no motive, told the police that she was engaged to him. George thought this a little foolish. They checked up on his life in Africa, right back to his living with Matilda. But the marriage didn’t come out — who would think of looking up registers in the Congo? Not that this would have proved a motive.

Just the same, George was relieved when the inquiries were over without the marriage to Matilda being disclosed. He was able to have his nervous breakdown at the same time Kathleen had hers, and they recovered together and got married, long after the police had shifted their inquiries to an Air Force camp five miles from Kathleen’s aunt’s home. Only a lot of excitement and drinks came of those investigations. The Haystack Murder was one of the unsolved crimes that year.

Shortly afterward, the byrehand emigrated to Canada to start afresh, with the help of Skinny who felt sorry for him.

After seeing George taken away home by Kathleen that Saturday on the Portobello Road, I thought that perhaps I might be seeing more of him in similar circumstances. The next Saturday I looked out for him, and at last there he was, without Kathleen, half-worried, half-hopeful.

I dashed his hopes. I said, “Hallo, George!”

He looked in my direction, rooted in the midst of the Bowing market-mongers in that convivial street. I thought to myself, “He looks as if he had a mouthful of hay.” It was the new, bristly, maize-colored beard and mustache surrounding his great mouth which suggested the thought, gay and lyrical as life.

“Hallo, George!” I said again.

I might have been inspired to say more on that agreeable morning, but he didn’t wait. He was away down a side street along another street and down one more, zig-zag, as far and as devious as he could take himself from the Portobello Road.

Nevertheless he was back again next week. Poor Kathleen had brought him in her car. She left it at the top of the street, and got out with him, holding him tight by the arm.

George was haggard. His eyes seemed to have got smaller as if he had been recently in pain. He advanced up the road with Kathleen on his arm, letting himself lurch from side to side with his wife bobbing beside him, as the crowds asserted their rights of way.

“Oh, George!” I said. “You don’t look at all well, George.”

“Look!” said George. “Over there by the hardware barrow. That’s Needle.”

Kathleen was crying. “Come back home, dear,” she said.

“Oh, you don’t look well, George!” I said.

They took him to a nursing home. He was fairly quiet, except on Saturday mornings when they had a hard time of it to keep him indoors and away from the Portobello Road.

But a couple of months later, he did escape. It was a Monday.

They searched for him on the Portobello Road, but actually he had gone off to Kent to the village near the scene of the Haystack Murder. There he went to the police and gave himself up, but they could tell from the way he was talking that there was something wrong with him.

“I saw Needle on the Portobello Road three Saturdays running,” he explained, “and they put me in a private ward but I got away while the nurses were seeing to the new patient. You remember the murder of Needle — well, I did it. Now you know the truth, and that will keep bloody Needle’s mouth shut.”

Dozens of poor mad fellows confess to every murder. The police obtained an ambulance to take him back to the nursing home. He wasn’t there long. Kathleen gave up her shop and devoted herself to looking after him at home. But she found that the Saturday mornings were a strain. He insisted on going to see me on the Portobello Road and would come back to insist that he’d murdered Needle. Once he tried to tell her something about Matilda, but Kathleen was so kind and solicitous, I don’t think he had the courage to remember what he had to say.

Skinny had always been rather reserved with George since the murder. But he was kind to Kathleen. It was he who persuaded them to emigrate to Canada so that George should be well out of reach of the Portobello Road.

George has recovered somewhat in Canada but of course he will never be the old George again, as Kathleen writes to Skinny. ‘That Haystack tragedy did for George,” she writes. “I feel sorrier for George sometimes than I am for poor Needle. But I do often have Masses said for Needle’s soul.”

I doubt if George will ever see me again on the Portobello Road. He broods much over the crumpled snapshot he took of us on the haystack. Kathleen does not like the photograph, I don’t wonder. For my part, I consider it quite a jolly snap, but I don’t think we were any of us so lovely as we look in it, gazing blatantly over the ripe cornfields, Skinny with his humorous expression, I secure in my difference from the rest, Kathleen with her head prettily perched on her hand, each reflecting fearlessly in the face of George’s camera the glory of the world, as if it would never pass.

Sometimes the labels are meaningful. But sometimes— This story is a careful, indeed painstaking. Imaginative extrapolation from the best available data on a major frontier of scientific endeavor; yet it is not science fiction.

Fantasy — subjective fantasy — is its subject matter; but it is not a fantasy.

Once, it might have been a story of daemonic possession; today, if is not.

It mocks certain of our most cherished institutions, with barb-edged humor; but it is hardly true satire.

If utilizes a distinctly alien viewpoint to accomplish an effect of horror; yet it is not really a horror story.

It is “S-F”; first-rate imaginative, speculative fiction. It is also, by the way, another FPS (First Published Story, for future reference) — and again, by an already established writer — this time of radio drama, most notably for the CBS Radio “Suspense” show.

March 18, 1960

Ft Lauderdale,

Fla. 12:30 P.M.

Hi Red:

I just finished turning you off the television… but you were already off the air… (Hah, hah! Scared you for a minute!) Seriously, Red, you’re the funniest one they got on the television — hope to see more of you! (Hah, hah!) I never miss a show. People say you’re almost as funny as I am. (Hah!) You’re a lot like me. I say laugh and the world laughs with you; cry and you know what!!! I’m only kidding, Red! I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. You’re too funny. (Hah, hah!)

I just thought I’d write and let you know that everybody out here watches you. Never miss a show. When Red Time comes — (NOT COMMUNIST) — sets go on all over the world. EVERYBODY watches: Mrs. Kennedy, Jerry and Marge at their bar and grill, Mr. and Mrs. Nolan, Dean Rusk… the whole wide world.

I just thought I’d (squeak) write and tell you. If you’re looking for material, I guess you know where to come! (Hah, hah!) That’s right, ME! I’ve got close to 5,832 jokes written. A LAUGH A MINUTE! Could be worth thousands to the right party: YOU! (Hah, hah!) Others have tried to buy! But I won’t sell!!!!! I have them buried (so don’t worry, they’re safe.) I want to give them to you FREE!!! We can save the world!!!!! Write if you’re interested. This could be the turning point of your (hah!) career. Be sure to write:

Mr. Ottmar Balleau,

1365 Oceanway,

Ft. Lauderdale, Fla.

SPECIAL DELIVERY

Don’t delay. Send in Today! (Hah, hah!)

Sincerely,

Ottmar Balleau x 2

P.S. Good luck on your next (squeak) show.

P.P.S. I’ll be watching!!!!!

March 24, 1960

Ft. Lauderdale,

Fla. 12:30 P.M.

Red:

Excuse the index card. In case I forgot, my return address is:

Mr. Ottmar Balleau x 2,

1365 Oceanway,

Ft. Lauderdale, Fla.

Keep smiling!

(Hah, hah!)

Send no money. IMMEDIATELY!!! Reverse the charges.

Ott. Balleau x 2

P.S. Help stamp out DRUNKS! You’re welcome.

March 24, 1960

Ft. Lauderdale,

Fla. 6:30 P.M.

Dear Red:

I guess you’re pretty busy. That’s why you haven’t written before this! I’m just letting you know I can (squeak) understand and be patient. You’re probably a very busy man. With all those autographs you have to sign (hah, hah!). And all that easy MONEY you have to count. You movie stars sure have it (squeak) rough. Seriously: MORE POWER TO YOU! I just want you to know I’ll keep (squeak, squeak) waiting. When you find time: ANSWER MY LETTERS AND POST (SQUEAK) CARDS! Pretty smart writing on these index cards. I write all my jokes on them. Here’s one for nothing!!! WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE! (Hah, hah!) You can have that. Say it on your next program. I’ve got to (squeak, squeak) go to work now. Write when you have time! Signing off as the best friend you’ll ever have.

Ott. Balleau x 2

(Hah, hah!)

P.S. Have you figured it out yet?

March 25, 1960

Ft. Lauderdale,

Fla. 12:30 P.M.

Red:

There should have been (squeak, squeak) a letter from you today. I went and told everybody you and I were writing each other. They just (squeak) laughed and called me crazy. I wish you would write me, Red. I don’t like to look (squeak) so foolish! Everybody around here laughs at me. Only it isn’t funny like when they (squeak) laugh at you on the television. It hurts. (Just for a little while — hah, hah!) It would be (squeak), good if I had just one letter from you to show them. Then maybe they wouldn’t laugh. Do what you think is best, Red. You’re the only friend I got. (Squeak.)

How’s the weather in Hollywood? It’s hot as H--- (I said a dirty word) here. (Hah, hah!) Chin up. You can’t live forever! (Hah, hah!)

Please, please write me, Red. I get very lonely with nobody to write to.

Ottmar Balleau x 2 (Get it?)

Times Two! (Hah, hah!)

P.S. Somebody said you drink, Red. IS THIS TRUE?

March 27, 1960

Ft. Lauderdale,

Fla. 1:00 A.M.

Hi Red:

I got a great idea you can use on your (squeak, squeak) show. How’s this? When the camera comes on, you just look out at everybody, raise your arm and say: Heil Hitler! (Hah, Hah!) How about that? Scare every (squeak) body. (Hah, Hah.) Of course you’d have to say, “I really love Jesus.” So nobody will be mad. You can have that joke, I’ll (squeak squeak) just give it to you. It’s worth a hundred to me! You can have it (squeak) free.

I’ve got a pound of jokes wrapped up and ready to send to you. Don’t worry about the cost. I pay the (squeak) postage. I figure once you read them, I’ll never have to worry about (squeak, squeak) postage again. (Hah, hah!) I’ll write them. You crack them. (Hah, hah!)

I’ve got to go now, there’s a drunken bum that wants to be let out of the world. I’m the only (squeak, squeak) that will do it. Saint Peter get ready to let one in. Saint (Squeak) Balleau x 2 is gonna let one out.

Your new writer,

$t. Balleau x 2

P.$. I can move to (Squeak Squeak) Hollywood if it’s nece$$ary and no problem. I don’t have any family.

P.P.$. No Strings to tie. Just blades to buy. (Hah! Hah!)

P.P.P.$. Please answer my letters. $o I know you get them!

April 1, 1960

Ft. Lauderdale,

Fla. 1:00 A.M.

Dead Red: (Hah, Hah!)

I hate you, Red! (Squeak.) Soon to be dead (squeak, squeak) Red. I didn’t watch you on (squeak) the television tonight! I’m never going to (squeak squeak) watch you again!

(Hah, hah, hah!) I guess I scared you. I wouldn’t stop watching you. It was all just an April Fool Joke. I’ll JUST KILL YOU. (Joke again! Hah, Hah!)

Red, I hate to say this, but I think there are communists around you. I don’t (squeak) think you’re getting my letters. If not, (squeak, squeak) you’d better answer my letters. You’ll be (squeak) sorry if you don’t. I’d hate to kill you. (Hah, hah!) Another April Fool’s Joke.

ADOLF HITLER

KILL KILL KILL

All Bad

GOD

SWEET JESUS

All Good

(Hah, Hah!) For your own sake, answer my letters. (Squeak, squeak.) Just another April Fool’s Joke. Here’s another to use on your show. Use it so I’ll know you read my letters! NO TRESPASSING, NO SOLICITORS, PEDDLERS, OR AGENTS ALLOWED: FORGIVE US OUR SOLICITORS. (Hah, Hah, Hah!!!)

Solicitor Balleau x 2

P.S. I don’t like to threaten you, Red. You’re the only kindness left in this dirty world.

Apr. 8, 1960

Ft. Lauderdale,

Fla. 12:00 P.M.

Squeak:

I’m very (squeak) sad. Three weeks have passed and still no (squeak, squeak) letter from you. I’ve sent you five pounds of (squeak) jokes, and you haven’t answered. I think you used some of them on the T.V. already. I don’t think you’d betray (squeak) me. I’d hate to think that, Red. There must be communists between us. Have you investigated your secretary lately? Since you’re the only friend I have, Red, I know you’d answer my (squeak squeak) letters. (Unless you drink — Hah! Hah!)

I know you won’t laugh at me, like everybody else does. They call me Crazy Ott. You wouldn’t do that, would you, Red? I try to (squeak, squeak) scare them so they won’t laugh at me. When I tell them how many old men I’ve killed they just laugh at me anyway. They aren’t afraid at all because they won’t believe me. But it’s the truth. You believe me. Don’t you Red? I have killed men. Maybe even ten. Oh, don’t worry, they weren’t any good. Just dirty old men who drank a lot and nobody cares about. Most of the time they want to die anyway. Just drunks. They haven’t done anything but drink and make broken homes. No good. I wouldn’t kill a good person. Only Hitler kills good people. It’s not hard to kill them, Red. It doesn’t cost any more than a clean pack of razor blades. I walk up and down the alleys by the waterfront. I find most of them down there. I sit with them while they drink. Sometimes I have to buy them the liquor if they don’t have enough. I have to get them good and drunk. When they pass out: I operate.

It isn’t hard, Red. Sometimes the light is bad in an alley. You can hardly see in a packing crate. But I can do it by touch. They don’t even feel it most of the time. I just slice open the vein and wait until all the blood runs out. They go to justice quiet as you please. One time one of them woke up. He thought it was a good joke. He even held back his sleeve while I worked. He passed on happy; he died laughing. It’s really a kindness. I’ve been entrusted to rid the world of drunks. When it’s all over, I put the razor blade in their hand and the police think it’s a suicide. If they think about it at all. Nobody likes old drunks. They’re no good anyway. (DRUNK DRIVERS GO TO JAIL! HAH! HAH!) Drink is Evil. I let them out of the world. See how easy? That’s why you have to put me on your program. The camera opens up and there I am. For no money down, I tell the world how easy it is to rid the world of drunks. AND WHAT A BLESSING. You believe I killed these men, don’t you, Red? You won’t laugh at me, will you?

I hope you (squeak) write real soon, Red. I hate to lose you as a friend. If they’re holding you against your (squeak, squeak) will, say so on the television so I’ll know.

Ottmar Balleau x 2

P.S. For the closest shave of your (squeak) life, use hollow ground blades and Ott Balleau. (Hah, hah I)

P.P.S. Pretty sharp wit! (Hah, hah!)

April 14, 1960

Ft. Lauderdale,

Fla. 3:30 P.M.

Red:

No letter from (squeak) you again today. What’s the matter? I think I’ll have to come to (squeak, squeak) Hollywood. IF I DON’T HEAR SOMETHING SOON. SORRY to send just a card. JUST A CARD FROM A CARD TO A CARD1 (Hah, hah!) Get it? You can have that one if you want.

Your friend True Blue,

Ottmar Balleau x 2

April 25, 1960

Ft. Lauderdale,

Fla. 9:00 A.M.

Dear Red:

I’m on my way to (squeak, squeak) Hollywood. I have heard bad things about you, Red. I don’t believe them. I have to see for my (squeak) self. Besides, communists are after me! I went to my old place to pick up my mail and Evil old Mr. Collins wanted to know why the F.B.I, was asking questions about (squeak, squeak) me. They don’t FOOL me. Those aren’t the F.B.I., J. EDGAR HOOVER wasn’t with them, those were the communists. BUT THEY DIDNT CATCH ME. (Hah, hah!) Don’t worry, Red. As the MASTER said: I’ll be with you again in Hollywood. (Hah, hah!) I’m going to (squeak) start hitchhiking tonight.

Ott. Balleau x 2

May 10, 1960

New Orleans,

La. 1:00

Red:

Look. A new color picture of the (squeak, squeak) Mardi Gras on this card. It is taking longer to get to Hollywood than I thought. I don’t have any trouble getting rides, but I keep having to take time out for my work.

Lucky (squeak) I carry all my money in my money belt I could not risk going back to my old house. I had to leave two good pounds of jokes. (I hate to dig up old material anyway. Hah! Hah!)

Dreams come true with,

Ottmar Balleau x 2

P.S. I was able to help three old drunks since I left Ft. Lauderdale. One of them right in the Harbor Lights Rescue Mission Dormitory.

O.B. x 2

May 30, 1960

Albuquerque,

N. Mex. 3:30 P.M.

YOUNG MEN’S CHRISTIAN ASSOCIATION

Albuquerque Branch

Red:

I’m sorry to have to (squeak, squeak) write about this, but I guess there’s no way out of it. People said you drink a lot, but I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe you would do (squeak) such a thing, but I saw that magazine with the article on you: RED: A CLOWN ON THE TOWN— BUT HOW ABOUT THE MORNING AFTER. I couldn’t (squeak) believe it, but there it was right between: WHY HE-MEN MOVIE STARS DRESS UP IN WOMEN’S CLOTHES and THE NEW MIRACLE DRUGS ARE ROBBING YOUR SEX POTENCY. I used to think everybody lied when they said you were nothing but a drunk. But now I see it in the magazines.

It would explain a lot of things.

Only a drunk would have set the communists after me in Ft. Lauderdale. If your secretary isn’t a (squeak) communist.

Only a drunk would use my best jokes on the television and not pay me for them. Oh, I know they’re my jokes (squeak, squeak), Red. I knew you were using them all along. But I didn’t say anything. You change them a little. But they’re STILL MY JOKES! Only a drunk would do that, Red. Drunks aren’t funny.

(JOIN THE FIGHT AGAINST DRUNKS!!!!!!!)

I’ll just have to wait until I see you for myself. I’ll decide then.

Ottmar Balleau x 2

P.S. There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, but never between a Balleau blade and the wrist.

O.B. x 2

Jun. 30, 1960

Hollywood,

Calif. 3:00 P.M.

Red:

Well, I finally made it out here to (squeak, squeak) Hollywood. I seen all the shows: QUEEN FOR A DAY, PEOPLE ARE FUNNY, ANYONE CAN PLAY. All the ones I enjoyed so much back home. Of course I (squeak) saw your show. You looked all right up on stage. I wanted to rush right up in front of the cameras and tell the whole world: i.e., Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy, the Nolans, Marge and Jerry at their Bar & Grill, Billy Graham: EVERYBODY! The usher wouldn’t let me. I had to wait for you behind the studio. You didn’t see me, (Squeak, squeak). But I could tell you had been drinking. I’ve talked to a lot of people, Red. They say you (squeak) drink quite a lot. I guess you know what that means. I have to make sure though. When I make sure, I’ll have to get you alone some place. It will be hard. But I’ll work it out.

Ottmar Balleau x 2

P.S. Stop using my jokes on the television.

P.P.S. Please have faith in my ability to work things out You won’t have to suffer with drink much longer.

P.P.P.S. Sleeping in Griffith Park is uncomfortable.

Jul. 2, 1960

Hollywood,

Calif. 1:00 A.M.

Drunk:

I helped your communists comb Griffith Park last night They were looking for me. I joined the long line of Boy Scouts, Deputy Sheriffs and others. But we couldn’t find me. I guess it was me you sent them after, from what they said. Did you (squeak) tell them where I was? That was a terrible thing to do. Please don’t fight me. I want to help you. I must be more careful or the communists will get me.

I saw you falling-down-drunk the other night. But I couldn’t get to you. I can tell you need me in the worst way. I will save you. Just as I’ve saved others. WRITE FOR REFERENCES! (Hah, Hah!)

I have your actions mapped out. I know where you live, when you go to work, and the bars where you drink. You even shook my hand and (squeak, squeak) offered me a drink. That’s a funny: you offered me a drink. (Hah, Hah.) The bartender says you drink more than you used to. Careful, Red: DRINK WILL BE THE DEATH OF YOU! (Hah! Hah!)

Ottmar Balleau x 2

July 10, 1960

Hollywood,

Calif. 1:00 A.M.

Red:

Guess who? (Squeak, squeak.)

x 2

Jul. 21, 1960

Hollywood,

Calif. 12:30 P.M.

RED:

Just to let you know. I still got my eye on you.

Mister Ottmar Balleau

(Times Two)

Aug. 3, 1960

Hollywood,

Calif. 3:30 P.M.

Dear Red:

This is the last (squeak) letter I will ever write to you. I can’t write any more. If I write any more, I’ll give my (squeak) self away. I KNOW ME. I talk too much. At last I’m in a position to carry on my work for you and I can’t risk giving myself away.

Doesn’t this make you (HAPPY?) It has been hard on you. You (squeak, squeak) drink so much now. Poor old man! Your hands shake all the time. It even shows up on the T.V, Hang on, old man: soon it will be over with. OTTMAR BALLEAU IS ON HIS WAY TO HELPING YOU.

Don’t be afraid. It won’t hurt

Please stop trying to get away from me. You hired all those people to protect you from your fate. But as soon as you get a bottle, you slip away to drink by yourself. Not smart. It is out of my hands now. You’re doing it all by yourself (squeak) self. I can only promise it won’t hurt. You won’t feel a thing.

I suppose you’re wondering just who is Ottmar Balleau? I’ll tell you when you’ve drunk until your unconscious, and you always do. I’ll straighten you out peaceful and then do my little work. Usually I sing a little hymn and say a few words for the deceased, it helps to pass the time while I’m waiting for them to drain into the great beyond. I’ll slap you until I’m sure you’re awake, then I’ll whisper in your ear, before it’s too late:

“This is your old friend,

Ottmar Balleau x 2”

Devil and ghost, witchdoctor and madman, seer and space-mate: but one kind of otherness has not yet appeared.

Space travel and shape-changing, telepathy and levitation, astronomy, anthropology, marvelous inventions and mental marvels: there is still one of science fiction’s favorite themes that has not been used.

Sex and psychosis, murder and avarice, friendship, revenge, reform, conquest, hospitality: one major emotion has not been touched.

This is a love story, about time travel.

The girl on the hill made Mark think of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Perhaps it was because of the way she was standing there in the afternoon sun, her dandelion-hued hair dancing in the wind; perhaps it was because of the way her old-fashioned white dress was swirling around her long and slender legs. In any event, he got the definite impression that she had somehow stepped out of the past and into the present; and that was odd, because as things turned out, it wasn’t the past she had stepped out of, but the future.

He paused some distance behind her, breathing hard from the climb. She had not seen him yet, and he wondered how he could apprise her of his presence without alarming her. While he was trying to make up his mind, he took out his pipe and filled and lighted it, cupping his hands over the bowl and puffing till the tobacco came to glowing life. When he looked at her again, she had turned around and was regarding him curiously.

He walked toward her slowly, keenly aware of the nearness of the sky, enjoying the feel of the wind against his face. He should go hiking more often, he told himself. He had been tramping through woods when he came to the hill, and now the woods lay behind and far below him, burning gently with the first pale fires of fall, and beyond the woods lay the little lake with its complement of cabin and fishing pier. When his wife had been unexpectedly summoned for jury duty, he had been forced to spend alone the two weeks he had saved out of his summer vacation and he had been leading a lonely existence, fishing off the pier by day and reading the cool evenings away before the big fireplace in the raftered living room; and after two days the routine had caught up to him, and he had taken off into the woods without purpose or direction and finally he had come to the hill and had climbed it and seen the girl.

Her eyes were blue, he saw when he came up to her — as blue as the sky that framed her slender silhouette. Her face was oval and young and soft and sweet. It evoked a déjà vu so poignant that he had to resist an impulse to reach out and touch her wind-kissed cheek; and even though his hand did not leave his side, he felt his fingertips tingle.

Why, I’m forty-four, he thought wonderingly, and she’s hardly more than twenty. What in heaven’s name has come over me? “Are you enjoying the view?” he asked aloud.

“Oh, yes,” she said and turned and swept her arm in an enthusiastic semicircle. “Isn’t it simply marvelous!”

He followed her gaze. “Yes,” he said, “it is.” Below them the woods began again, then spread out over the lowlands in warm September colors, embracing a small hamlet several miles away, finally bowing out before the first outposts of the suburban frontier. In the far distance, haze softened the serrated silhouette of Cove City, lending it the aspect of a sprawling medieval castle, making it less of a reality than a dream. “Are you from the city too?” he asked.

“In a way I am,” she said. She smiled at him. “I’m from the Cove City of two hundred and forty years from now.”

The smile told him that she didn’t really expect him to believe her, but it implied that it would be nice if he would pretend. He smiled back. “That would be A.D. twenty-two hundred and one, wouldn’t it?” he said. “I imagine the place has grown enormously by then.”

“Oh, it has,” she said. “It’s part of a megalopolis now and extends all the way to there.” She pointed to the fringe of the forest at their feet. “Two Thousand and Fortieth Street runs straight through that grove of sugar maples,” she went on, “and do you see that stand of locusts over there?”

“Yes,” he said, “I see them.”

“That’s where the new plaza is. Its supermarket is so big that it takes half a day to go through it, and you can buy almost anything in it from aspirins to aerocars. And next to the supermarket, where that grove of beeches stands, is a big dress shop just bursting with the latest creations of the leading couturiers. I bought this dress I’m wearing there this very morning. Isn’t it simply beautiful?”

If it was, it was because she made it so. However, he looked at it politely. It had been cut from a material he was unfamiliar with, a material seemingly compounded of cotton candy, sea foam and snow. There was no limit anymore to the syntheses that could be created by the miracle-fiber manufacturers — nor, apparently, to the tall tales that could be created by young girls. “I suppose you traveled here by time machine,” he said.

“Yes. My father invented one.”

He looked at her closely. He had never seen such a guileless countenance. “And do you come here often?”

“Oh, yes. This is my favorite space-time coordinate. I stand here for hours sometimes and look and look and look. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.”

“But how can there be a yesterday,” Mark asked, “if you always return to the same point in time?”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” she said. “The reason is because the machine is affected by the passage of time the same as anything else, and you have to set it back every twenty-four hours if you want to maintain exactly the same coordinate. I never do because I much prefer a different day each time I come back.”

“Doesn’t your father ever come with you?”

Overhead, a v of geese was drifting lazily by, and she watched it for some time before she spoke. “My father is an invalid now,” she said finally. “He’d like very much to come if he only could. But I tell him all about what I see,” she added hurriedly, “and it’s almost the same as if he really came. Wouldn’t you say it was?”

There was an eagerness about the way she was looking at him that touched his heart. “I’m sure it is,” he said; then: “It must be wonderful to own a time machine.”

She nodded solemnly. “They’re a boon to people who like to stand on pleasant leas. In the twenty-third century there aren’t very many pleasant leas left.”

He smiled. “There aren’t very many of them left in the twentieth. I guess you could say that this one is sort of a collector’s item. I’ll have to visit it more often.”

“Do you live near here?” she asked.

“I’m staying in a cabin about three miles back. I’m supposed to be on vacation, but it’s not much of one. My wife was called to jury duty and couldn’t come with me, and since I couldn’t postpone it, I’ve ended up being a sort of reluctant Thoreau. My name is Mark Randolph.”

“I’m Julie,” she said. “Julie Danvers.”

The name suited her. The same way the white dress suited her — the way the blue sky suited her, and the hill and the September wind. Probably she lived in the little hamlet in the woods, but it did not really matter. If she wanted to pretend she was from the future, it was all right with him. All that really mattered was the way he had felt when he had first seen her, and the tenderness that came over him every time he gazed upon her gentle face. “What kind of work do you do, Julie?” he asked. “Or are you still in school?”

“I’m studying to be a secretary,” she said. She took a half step and made a pretty pirouette and clasped her hands before her. “I shall just love to be a secretary,” she went on. “It must be simply marvelous working in a big important office and taking down what important people say. Would you like me to be your secretary, Mr. Randolph?”

“I’d like it very much,” he said. “My wife was my secretary once — before the war. That’s how we happened to meet.” Now, why had he said that? he wondered.

“Was she a good secretary?”

“The very best. I was sorry to lose her; but then when I lost her in one sense, I gained her in another, so I guess you could hardly call that losing her.”

“No, I guess you couldn’t. Well, I must be getting back now, Mr. Randolph. Dad will be wanting to hear about all the things I saw, and I’ve got to fix his supper.”

“Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Probably. I’ve been coming here every day. Goodbye now, Mr. Randolph.”

“Goodbye, Julie,” he said.

He watched her run lightly down the hill and disappear into the grove of sugar maples where, two hundred and forty years hence, Two Thousand and Fortieth Street would be. He smiled. What a charming child, he thought. It must be thrilling to have such an irrepressible sense of wonder, such an enthusiasm for life. He could appreciate the two qualities all the more fully because he had been denied them. At twenty be had been a solemn young man working his way through law school; at twenty-four he had had his own practice, and, small though it had been, it had occupied him completely — well, not quite completely. When he had married Anne, there had been a brief interim during which making a living had lost some of its immediacy. And then, when the war had come along, there had been another interim — a much longer one this time — when making a living had seemed a remote and sometimes even a contemptible pursuit. After his return to civilian life, though, the immediacy had returned with a vengeance, the more so because he now had a son as well as a wife to support, and he had been occupied ever since, except for the four vacation weeks he had recently been allowing himself each year, two of which he spent with Anne and Jeff at a resort of their choosing and two of which he spent with Anne, after Jeff returned to college, in their cabin by the lake. This year, though, he was spending the second two alone. Well, perhaps not quite alone.

His pipe had gone out some time ago, and he had not even noticed. He lighted it again, drawing deeply to thwart the wind, then he descended the hill and started back through the woods toward the cabin. The autumnal equinox had come and the days were appreciably shorter. This one was very nearly done, and the dampness of evening had already begun to pervade the hazy air.

He walked slowly, and the sun had set by the time he reached the lake. It was a small lake, but a deep one, and the trees came down to its edge. The cabin stood some distance back from the shore in a stand of pines, and a winding path connected it with the pier. Behind it a gravel drive led to a dirt road that gave access to the highway. His station wagon stood by the back door, ready to whisk him back to civilization at a moment’s notice.

He prepared and ate a simple supper in the kitchen, then went into the living room to read. The generator in the shed hummed on and off, but otherwise the evening was unsullied by the usual sounds the ears of modern man are heir to. Selecting an anthology of American poetry from the well-stocked bookcase by the fireplace, he sat down and thumbed through it to “Afternoon on a Hill.” He read the treasured poem three times, and each time he read it he saw her standing there in the sun, her hair dancing in the wind, her dress swirling like gentle snow around her long and lovely legs; and a lump came into his throat, and he could not swallow.

He returned the book to the shelf and went out and stood on the rustic porch and filled and lighted his pipe. He forced himself to think of Anne, and presently her face came into focus — the firm but gentle chin, the warm and compassionate eyes with that odd hint of fear in them that he had never been able to analyze, the still-soft cheeks, the gentle smile — and each attribute was made more compelling by the memory of her vibrant light-brown hair and her tall, lithe gracefulness. As was always the case when he thought of her, he found himself marveling at her agelessness, marveling how she could have continued down through the years as lovely as she had been that long-ago morning when he had looked up, startled, and seen her standing timidly before his desk. It was inconceivable that a mere twenty years later he could be looking forward eagerly to a tryst with an over-imaginative girl who was young enough to be his daughter. Well, he wasn’t — not really. He had been momentarily swayed — that was all. For a moment his emotional equilibrium had deserted him, and he had staggered. Now his feet were back under him where they belonged, and the world had returned to its sane and sensible orbit.

He tapped out his pipe and went back inside. In his bedroom he undressed and slipped between the sheets and turned out the light. Sleep should have come readily, but it did not; and when it finally did come, it came in fragments interspersed with tantalizing dreams.

“Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit,” she had said, “and yesterday a deer, and today, you.”

On the second afternoon she was wearing a blue dress, and there was a little blue ribbon to match tied in her dandelion-colored hair. After breasting the hill, he stood for some time, not moving, waiting till the tightness of his throat went away; then he walked over and stood beside her in the wind. But the soft curve of her throat and chin brought the tightness back, and when she turned and said, “Hello, I didn’t think you’d come,” it was a long while before he was able to answer.

“But I did,” he finally said, “and so did you.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m glad.”

A nearby outcropping of granite formed a bench of sorts, and they sat down on it and looked out over the land. He filled his pipe and lighted it and blew smoke into the wind. “My father smokes a pipe too,” she said, “and when he lights it, he cups his hands the same way you do, even when there isn’t any wind. You and he are alike in lots of ways.”

“Tell me about your father,” he said. “Tell me about yourself too.”

And she did, saying that she was twenty-one, that her father was a retired Government physicist, that they lived in a small apartment on Two Thousand and Fortieth Street and that she had been keeping house for him ever since her mother had died four years ago. Afterward he told her about himself and Anne and Jeff — about how he intended to take Jeff into partnership with him someday, about Anne’s phobia about cameras and how she had refused to have her picture taken on their wedding day and had gone on refusing ever since, about the grand time the three of them had had on the camping trip they’d gone on last summer.

When he had finished, she said, “What a wonderful family life you have. Nineteen-sixty-one must be a marvelous year in which to live!”

“With a time machine at your disposal, you can move here any time you like.”

“It’s not quite that easy. Even aside from the fact that I wouldn’t dream of deserting my father, there’s the time police to take into consideration. You see, time travel is limited to the members of Government-sponsored historical expeditions and is out of bounds to the general public.”

“You seem to have managed all right.”

“That’s because my father invented his own machine, and the time police don’t know about it.”

“But you’re still breaking the law.”

She nodded. “But only in their eyes, only in the light of their concept of time. My father has his own concept.”

It was so pleasant hearing her talk that it did not matter really what she talked about, and he wanted her to ramble on, no matter how farfetched her subject. “Tell me about it,” he said.

“First I’ll tell you about the official concept. Those who endorse it say that no one from the future should participate physically in anything that occurred in the past, because his very presence would constitute a paradox, and future events would have to be altered in order for the paradox to be assimilated. Consequently the Department of Time Travel makes sure that only authorized personnel have access to its time machines, and maintains a police force to apprehend the would-be generation-jumpers who yearn for a simpler way of life and who keep disguising themselves as historians so they can return permanently to a different era.

“But according to my father’s concept, the book of time has already been written. From a macrocosmic viewpoint, my father says, everything that is going to happen has already happened. Therefore, if a person from the future participates in a past event, he becomes a part of that event — for the simple reason that he was a part of it in the first place — and a paradox cannot possibly arise.”

Mark took a deep drag on his pipe. He needed it. “Your father sounds like quite a remarkable person,” he said.

“Oh, he is!” Enthusiasm deepened the pinkness of her cheeks, brightened the blueness of her eyes. “You wouldn’t believe all the books he’s read, Mr. Randolph. Why, our apartment is bursting with them! Hegel and Kant and Hume; Einstein and Newton and Weizsäcker. I’ve — I’ve even read some of them myself.”

“I gathered as much. As a matter of fact, so have I.”

She gazed raptly up into his face. “How wonderful, Mr. Randolph,” she said. “I’ll bet we’ve got just scads of mutual interests!”

The conversation that ensued proved conclusively that they did have — though the transcendental aesthetic, Berkeleianism and relativity were rather incongruous subjects for a man and a girl to be discussing on a September hilltop, he reflected presently, even when the man was forty-four and the girl was twenty-one. But happily there were compensations. Their animated discussion of the transcendental aesthetic did more than elicit a priori and a posteriori conclusions — it also elicited microcosmic stars in her eyes; their breakdown of Berkeley did more than point up the inherent weaknesses in the good bishop’s theory — it also pointed up the pinkness of her cheeks; and their review of relativity did more than demonstrate that E invariably equals mc²—it also demonstrated that, far from being an impediment, knowledge is an asset to feminine charm.

The mood of the moment lingered far longer than it had any right to, and it was still with him when he went to bed. This time he didn’t even try to think of Anne; he knew it would do no good. Instead he lay there in the darkness and played host to whatever random thoughts came along — and all of them concerned a September hilltop and a girl with dandelion-colored hair.

Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

Next morning he drove over to the hamlet and checked at the post office to see if he had any mail. There was none. He was not surprised. Jeff disliked writing letters as much as he did, and Anne, at the moment, was probably incommunicado. As for his practice, he had forbidden his secretary to bother him with any but the most urgent of matters.

He debated whether to ask the wizened postmaster if there was a family named Danvers living in the area. He decided not to. To have done so would have been to undermine the elaborate make-believe structure which Julie had built, and even though he did not believe in the structure’s validity, he could not find it in his heart to send it toppling.

That afternoon she was wearing a yellow dress the same shade as her hair, and again his throat tightened when he saw her, and again he could not speak. But when the first moment passed and words came, it was all right, and their thoughts flowed together like two effervescent brooks and coursed gaily through the arroyo of the afternoon. This time when they parted, it was she who asked, “Will you be here tomorrow?”—though only because she stole the question from his lips — and the words sang in his ears all the way back through the woods to the cabin and lulled him to sleep after an evening spent with his pipe on the porch.

Next afternoon when he climbed the hill it was empty. At first his disappointment numbed him, and then he thought,She’s late, that’s all. She’ll probably show up any minute. And he sat down on the granite bench to wait. But she did not come. The minutes passed — the hours. Shadows crept out of the woods and climbed partway up the hill. The air grew colder. He gave up, finally, and headed miserably back toward the cabin.

The next afternoon she did not show up either. Nor the next. He could neither eat nor sleep. Fishing palled on him. He could no longer read. And all the while he hated himself — hated himself for behaving like a lovesick schoolboy, for reacting just like any other fool in his forties to a pretty face and a pair of pretty legs. Up until a few days ago he had never even so much as looked at another woman, and here in the space of less than a week he had not only looked at one but had fallen in love with her.

Hope was dead in him when he climbed the hill on the fourth day — and then suddenly alive again when he saw her standing in the sun. She was wearing a black dress this time, and he should have guessed the reason for her absence; but he didn’t — not till he came up to her and saw the tears start from her eyes and the telltale trembling of her lip. “Julie, what’s the matter?”

She clung to him, her shoulders shaking, and pressed her face against his coat. “My father died,” she said, and somehow he knew that these were her first tears, that she had sat tearless through the wake and funeral and had not broken down till now.

He put his arms around her gently. He had never kissed her and he did not kiss her now, not really. His lips brushed her forehead and briefly touched her hair — that was all. “I’m sorry, Julie,” he said. “I know how much he meant to you.”

“He knew he was dying all along,” she said. “He must have known it ever since the Strontium 90 experiment he conducted at the laboratory. But he never told anyone — he never even told me…. I don’t want to live. Without him there’s nothing left to live for — nothing, nothing, nothing!”

He held her tightly. “You’ll find something, Julie. Someone. You’re young yet. You’re still a child, really.”

Her head jerked back, and she raised suddenly tearless eyes to his. “I’m not a child! Don’t you dare call me a child!”

Startled, he released her and stepped back. He had never seen her angry before. “I didn’t mean—” he began.

Her anger was as evanescent as it had been abrupt. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, Mr. Randolph. But I’m not a child, honest I’m not. Promise me you’ll never call me one again.”

“All right,” he said. “I promise.”

“And now I must go,” she said. “I have a thousand things to do.”

“Will — will you be here tomorrow?”

She looked at him for a long time. A mist, like the aftermath of a summer shower, made her blue eyes glisten. “Time machines run down,” she said. “They have parts that need to be replaced — and I don’t know how to replace them. Ours — mine may be good for one more trip, but I’m not sure.”

“But you’ll try to come, won’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’ll try. And, Mr. Randolph?”

“Yes, Julie?”

“In case I don’t make it — and for the record — I love you.”

She was gone then, running lightly down the hill, and a moment later she disappeared into the grove of sugar maples. His hands were trembling when he lighted his pipe, and the match burned his fingers. Afterward he could not remember returning to the cabin or fixing supper or going to bed, and yet he must have done all of those things, because he awoke in his own room, and when he went into the kitchen there were supper dishes standing on the drain-board.

He washed the dishes and made coffee. He spent the morning fishing off the pier, keeping his mind blank. He would face reality later. Right now it was enough for him to know that she loved him, that in a few short hours he would see her again. Surely even a run-down time machine should have no trouble transporting her from the hamlet to the hill.

He arrived there early and sat down on the granite bench and waited for her to come out of the woods and climb the slope. He could feel the hammering of his heart and he knew that his hands were trembling. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

He waited and he waited, but she did not come. She did not come the next day either. When the shadows began to lengthen and the air grow chill, he descended the hill and entered the grove of sugar maples. Presently he found a path and he followed it into the forest proper and through the forest to the hamlet. He stopped at the small post office and checked to see if he had any mail. After the wizened postmaster told him there was none, he lingered for a moment. “Is — is there a family by the name of Danvers living anywhere around here?” he blurted.

The postmaster shook his head. “Never heard of them.”

“Has there been a funeral in town recently?

“Not for nigh onto a year.”

After that, although he visited the hill every afternoon till his vacation ran out, he knew in his heart that she would not return, that she was lost to him as utterly as if she had never been. Evenings he haunted the hamlet, hoping desperately that the postmaster had been mistaken; but he saw no sign of Julie, and the description he gave of her to the passers-by evoked only negative responses.

Early in October he returned to the city. He did his best to act toward Anne as though nothing had changed between them; but she seemed to know the minute she saw him that something had changed. And although she asked no questions, she grew quieter and quieter as the weeks went by, and the fear in her eyes that had puzzled him before became more and more pronounced.

He began driving into the country Sunday afternoons and visiting the hilltop. The woods were golden now, and the sky was even bluer than it had been a month ago. For hours he sat on the granite bench, staring at the spot where she had disappeared. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

Then, on a rainy night in mid-November, he found the suitcase. It was Anne’s, and he found it quite by accident. She had gone into town to play bingo, and he had the house to himself; and after spending two hours watching four jaded TV programs, he remembered the jigsaw puzzles he had stored away the previous winter.

Desperate for something — anything at all — to take his mind off Julie, he went up to the attic to get them. The suitcase fell from a shelf while he was rummaging through the various boxes piled beside it, and it sprang open when it struck the floor.

He bent over to pick it up. It was the same suitcase she had brought with her to the little apartment they had rented after their marriage, and he remembered how she had always kept it locked and remembered her telling him laughingly that there were some things a wife had to keep a secret even from her husband. The lock had rusted over the years, and the fall had broken it.

He started to close the lid, paused when he saw the protruding hem of a white dress. The material was vaguely familiar. He had seen material similar to it not very long ago — material that brought to mind cotton candy and sea foam and snow.

He raised the lid and picked up the dress with trembling fingers. He held it by the shoulders and let it unfold itself, and it hung there in the room like gently falling snow. He looked at it for a long time, his throat tight. Then, tenderly, he folded it again and replaced it in the suitcase and closed the lid. He returned the suitcase to its niche under the eaves. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

Rain thrummed on the roof. The tightness of his throat was so acute now that he thought for a moment that he was going to cry. Slowly he descended the attic stairs. He went down the spiral stairway into the living room. The clock on the mantel said 10:14. In just a few minutes the bingo bus would let her off at the corner, and she would come walking down the street and up the walk to the front door. Anne would… Julie would. Julianne?

Was that her full name? Probably. People invariably retained part of their original names when adopting aliases; and having completely altered her last name, she had probably thought it safe to take liberties with her first. She must have done other things, too, in addition to changing her name, to elude the time police. No wonder she had never wanted her picture taken! And how terrified she must have been on that long-ago day when she had stepped timidly into his office to apply for a job! All alone in a strange generation, not knowing for sure whether her father’s concept of time was valid, not knowing for sure whether the man who would love her in his forties would feel the same way toward her in his twenties. She had come back all right, just as she had said she would.

Twenty years, he thought wonderingly, and all the while she must have known that one day I’d climb a September hill and see her standing, young and lovely, in the sun, and fall in love with her all over again. She had to know because the moment was as much a part of her past as it was a part of my future. But why didn’t she tell me? Why doesn’t she tell me now?

Suddenly he understood.

He found it hard to breathe, and he went into the hall and donned his raincoat and stepped out into the rain. He walked down the walk in the rain, and the rain pelted his face and ran in drops down his cheeks, and some of the drops were raindrops, and some of them were tears. How could anyone as agelessly beautiful as Anne — as Julie — was be afraid of growing old? Didn’t she realize that in his eyes she couldn’t grow old — that to him she hadn’t aged a day since the moment he had looked up from his desk and seen her standing there in the tiny office and simultaneously fallen in love with her? Couldn’t she understand that that was why the girl on the hill had seemed a stranger to him?

He had reached the street and was walking down it toward the corner. He was almost there when the bingo bus pulled up and stopped, and the girl in the white trench coat got out. The tightness of his throat grew knife-sharp, and he could not breathe at all. The dandelion-hued hair was darker now, and the girlish charm was gone; but the gentle loveliness still resided in her gentle face, and the long and slender legs had a grace and symmetry in the pale glow of the November streetlight that they had never known in the golden radiance of the September sun.

She came forward to meet him, and he saw the familiar fear in her eyes — a fear poignant now beyond enduring because he understood its cause. She blurred before his eyes, and he walked toward her blindly. When he came up to her, his eyes cleared, and he reached out across the years and touched her rain-wet cheek. She knew it was all right then, and the fear went away forever, and they walked home hand in hand in the rain.

Chances are that no one could have composed this short-shortshort horror story except a man who worked as a proofreader for some twenty years, before turning in desperation to writing.

Professor Jones had been working on his time theory for many years.

“And I have found the key equation,” he told his daughter one day. ‘Time is a field. This machine I have made can manipulate, even reverse, that field.”

Pushing a button as he spoke, he said, “This should make time run backward run time make should this,” said he, spoke he as button a pushing.

“Field that, reverse even, manipulate can made have I machine this. Field a is time.” Day one daughter his told he, “Equation key the found have I and.”

Years many for theory time his on working been had Jones Professor.

A shift in viewpoint, lighting, or perspective may serve to study the background as well as the figure. Most of the selections so far have been concerned with individual insights; in the group that follows the focus shifts to the outlook for society.

Jules Feiffer’s cartoon made graphic use of a device for this purpose that was also effectively employed, recently, in Gore Vidal’s Visit to a Small Planet: the detached observer’s viewpoint (from space or time). George Elliott used, instead, the reflection of a single individual in the mirrors of two cultures, to shed light on both. Ward Moore (who follows this selection) makes use of retroflection — a sort of hindsight-in-advance gained by viewing through sympathetic and familiar eyes a society that could result from ours.

John Dos Passos is probably the outstanding contemporary practitioner of a less common and non-science-fiction technique for the same purpose. In his “mural novels,” he interweaves and counterposes strands of fact and story lines in such a way as to compel the mental eye to follow a pattern which composes a sort of aerial view of society. This can, sometimes, constitute Einstein’s famous “pause to wonder” in its most immediate form — as in these excerpts from Midcentury.

I should like to express my gratitude to the editors of Audit (published at the University of Buffalo), where I first saw this printed as a unified whole.

Walking the earth under the stars,

musing midnight in midcentury,

a man treads the road with his dog;

the dog, less timebound in her universe of stench and

shrill, trots eager ahead.

The man too senses smells:

the frosted pasture and the cold loblollies,

he warmsweet of cows, and perhaps a hint of the passing of a skunk; hears

the hoot, hoot, hoot-hoot of the horned owl,

as full of faraway foreboding as the hoot of a

woodbuming locomotive heard across the plains as a child long ago; sees

Orion overhead sport glistening Rigel

and Betelgeuse, and the three belt buttons

that point out Sirius, and Belletrix that indicates

smoldering Aldebaran.

Eyes sweep

the bluedomed planetarium pivoting on the

polestar which the meditative Greeks and the Bedouin dreamed

engraved with the quaint creatures of the

zodiac; the spheres spun to music

and cherubim, benign to man,

with halcyon voices chanted

glory to God.

The dog stops short, paw poised, sniffs deep

and takes off yelping after some scuttle in the underbrush.

The man walks on alone.

Thoughts swarm; braincells, as multitudinous as the wan

starpoints that merge into the Milky Way overhead, trigger notions; tonight,

in the century’s decline,

new fantasies prevail. Photoelectric calculators

giddy the mind with number mechanically multiplying immensities by

billions of lightyears.

A million hostile chinamen a month; a hundred and thirty thousand

miscellaneous manmouths a day added to the population of the planet Earth.

But rockets successfully soar and satellites trundle on their punctual trails

above the stratosphere. Sam the Rhesus returns in his space capsule, his little face as inscrutable as when he went up. An aeronaut from a twelvemilehigh balloon spies moisture in the Venusian atmosphere. Norbert Weiner says his calculators are hep; watch out if they get a will of their own. A certain Dr. Otto Struve has predicted the possibility of ten million lifebreeding planets among the island galaxies, and, at Green Bank, West Virginia.

(far from the sins of the world)

they are building a radio telescope the size of a

baseballfield, tipped sixty stories up in the air, where the

physicists of project Osma plan to listen for messages

emitted with intelligent intent

from tau Ceti or epsilon Eridani.

A million men on a million nights, heirs of a

million generations, ponder the proliferation of their millions to the

millionth power till

multitude bursts into nothingness,

and numbers fail.

I feel the gravel underfoot, the starlit night about me. The nose smells, the

ears hear, the eyes see. “Willfully living?” “Why not?” Having survived up to now at least the death-dealing hail of cosmic particles, the interpreting mind says “I am here.”

In the underbrush under the pines my dog yelps in hot chase. Furry bodies

jostle in the dark among the broken twigs. Fangs snap, claws tear; barks, growls, snarls, panting breath as jaws close on the soft hairs under the throat. A shriek, not animal not human, a shriek of unembodied agony rips the night.

In the silence my dog panting drags a thick carcass through the brambles out

on the road

and places at her master’s feet

in the starlight

a beautiful raccoon

that was alive and is dead.

This much is true.

Man is a creature that builds

institutions

out of abnegation of lives linked for a purpose

the way the flowerlike polyps, the coralmakers of the warm salt seas

build

from incrusted layers of discarded careers:

niggerheads, atolls, great barrier reefs

and coquina benches forming the limestone basements of peninsulas where

civilizations flourish and flower and fall frazzled to seed.

Man’s institutions fashion his destiny,

as the hive, the nest, the hill, the sixsided cellular comb of the honeybee,

serried, tiered,

grouped according to impulses

inherent in the genes,

fashion the social insect, his castes and functional diversities:

the winged males and females, the blind workers, the soldiers, the nasuti,

the alternates of the “fourth caste”

of the pale termites,

dwellers in dark,

whose complex society has so astonished the naturalists.

Institutions, so the sociologists tell us,

shape man’s course.

as the comings and goings of the hardshelled ants — their diligence since the

dawn of philosophy has delighted the makers of fables and the pointers of morals — are

predetermined by instinct.

Institutional man,

like the termites and the social insects among the hymenoptera, must, we

are told, sacrifice individual diversity for diversity of caste. (Already in his bureaucratic form, with a diligence which would astonish any uncommitted naturalist, institutional man accumulates

in vaults and cabinets and files,—

paper,

the same paper the polistes wasp builds his

house of

and the termites of the tropical uplands

their towering castles.)

Lecturing on “Social Insects” the late Professor Wheeler of Harvard used to point out with some malice to his students

that the ants,

too,

in spite of the predestined perfection

of their institutions,

suffered what he called “perversions

of appetite.”

Their underground galleries and storied

domes

are infested by an array of lethal creatures, thieves and predators, scavenger

crickets, greedy roaches and rove beetles, and one particular peculiarly plumed little bug

which secretes in its hairs an elixir so

delectable to antkind

that the ants lose all sense of self- or

species-preservation

and seek death in its embrace.

What man can contemplate the aardvark without astonishment?

Who, should he be happy enough to have the zoo attendant hand him the

little creature, can feel in his hands the odd ambiguous body,

between fur and feathers,

of the duckbilled platypus

without a catch of the breath and awful wonder (suppose you were me and I

were you): what impulses,

wakened by the intake of the soft fluvial eyes,

trigger the cells of that small brain.

Or the spiny anteater?

what dreams, when he curls in the dark of his box, luminesce inside the

wedgeshaped skull? The variousness of life

as if in whimsy

constantly cracks the dogmatic mold

which man the classifier laboriously constructs to ease the pain of sorting

out diversities.

In man himself there are more variants

than in the animal kingdom or the vegetable

or the crystalline realm of minerals; sometimes, when

man the classifier slackens under the endless drudgery of arguing away

complexities; man, the curious viewer; the other man, the naive,

the astonished child

looks at himself in a mirror or lets his fingers explore the dissymmetries of

his uneven carcass or maybe, taking a peep through a fiuoroscope,

discovers enough aberrant factors to outdo the bestiaries from aardvark to

zebra.

“Did you know,”

asked Dr. Roger J. Williams the biochemist from Texas, of a tableful of

punditry at a symposium at the Princeton Inn,

“that the size of the human stomach has a sixfold variation

or that the small intestines of men and women have measured out

anywhere between eleven feet and twenty-five feet nine?”

Eleven different patterns have been plotted for the muscle that controls the

index finger. The blood’s path through vessels and arteries flows in courses as various as the earth’s

great river systems. Cell chemistries and the matching

electrical impulses vary from individual to individual. We none of us smell

alike. (That’s how the bloodhound earns his kennel ration; the bloodhound can tell.)

And when you try to chart the convolutions of the brain, each one’s a

universe where the layered cells multiply a trillion interactions into infinity.

“Can it be?”

Egghead inquires of Doubledome,

“that variety instead of uniformity

is nature’s law?”

SENDOFF

Musing midnight and the century’s decline

man walks with dog,

shuffling the roadside gravel where sometimes we used to find among the

quartzy riverpebbles,

spent arrowheads of the Powhatans.

Overcast blots the stars. Not even a glimpse of impudent Echo, America’s toy

balloon the radio man said go out and see. The fall’s too late for lightningbugs, only a chill hint here and there of a glowworm in the wet grass.

The dog trots eager, sniffing the night, proud of her man’s steps behind. The

man,

shamed drags beaten strides, drained of every thought but hatred

of the tinpot pharaohs whose coarse imprecations the impartial transistors

have been dinning in his ears. Evil is indivisible. By hate they rose to flashbulb glory and the roar of cowed multitudes, police sirens shrieking how great the leader, how little the led: the abject mike ever waiting to receive

the foul discharge of their power to kill. The lie squared, the lie cubed, the lie

to the power of x deals death like a tornado. By hate they live. By hate we’ll see them die. We’ve seen them die before. The hate remains

to choke out good, to strangle the still small private voice that is God’s spark,

in man. Man drowns in his own scum.

These nights are dark.

In the light of the carriagelamps on the brick steps of the sleeping house

back home the man pauses for a last breath of the outdoor air; the dog’s nose nuzzles his hand. She bows, wriggles, cavorts, goes belly up, eyes rolling in frantic appreciation:

walker on hindlegs, hurler of sticks, foodgiver, builder of shelter, toolmaker,

creation’s lord, initiator, master of Yes and No;

wagging dog-Shakespeare her tail declaims:

Oh paragon of animals.

It was just about twenty-five years ago, as a high school student, during the period of hope between the Great Depression and the pre-war “recession,” that I first read Dos Passos’ U.S.A.

That was the day of the WPA, PWA, CCC, and NYA. In my school in the Bronx, a dollar was enough for an evening’s date; none of my friends owned a car; the burning question among Young Intellectuals was whether to take the Ludlow Oath (never to fight in a war) or to support Collective Security (economic sanctions against fascist and militarist nations). Compulsory military service in peacetime was a practice of undemocratic foreign governments. We worried about civil rights; we were proud that this country held no political prisoners.

The prevailing intellectual tone was agnostic: religious instruction in the public schools was as unthinkable as sex education was unobtainable. The only really strong opposition to Communism here was from the extreme right wing— and the Trotskyites. The failure of the League of Nations had undermined any hope for world government.

In the quarter century since then, we have been acutely conscious of the changes in our physical existence. Synthetic fabrics, antibiotics, the home freezer, television, transistors, fm radio, cloud seeding, DDT, jet planes, radar, atomic reactors — all these were unknown, and almost undreamed, twenty-five years ago.

But the social and political changes — good and bad both — and both greater than all the changes In the first hundred and fifty years of American history — have crept in on us, almost unawares…

She sat there thinking. These chairs were never designed for living women, only mannikins. You had to be wax or plastic or whatever they made them out of, with Brancusi heads for pillared hats (the cult of Nefertiti, like that of the Druids, domesticated for Macy’s and Gimbels) and lower extremities in the best tradition of Albert the Good. Ten years younger, and she could do a nice paper for Sociology 2—or would it be European History 4?—on the Victorianism of the French, or, Why Was Louis Napoleon Little? Whatever happened to feminism? Her feet ached.

Hot water. Surely there was nothing unreasonable about hot water. Fifty thousand bathtubs in lower Manhattan, five million in New York (Oh God, why did I ever start on this, with my head for statistics?). . Even in England, with the stoic revulsion against comfort, it wasn’t too hard to get. Only here in France, in mobilized, dedicated, redeemed, righteous France, with everyone sacrificing to the point of ecstasy, was there suspicion attached to such use of patriotic resources.

She sipped the beer which she found completely revolting. I have no business here, she told herself for the fiftieth time, no business whatever. I could be asleep in that kennel they call a hotel, or could have gotten decently drunk, or thrown myself in the Seine (Paris is worth a Mass — but not to me) instead of torturing myself with this filthy chair and this filthy drink in this filthy café in this filthy city. Oh heavens…

He slid into the seat opposite so quickly that he was there, established, before she was aware of him. He was big, with a crooked nose and light eyes and freckled, hairy hands which he placed on the table like an offering. “Mrs. Fieldman?”

I don’t have to answer, she assured herself, I really don’t have to answer. I didn’t agree to any meeting. I’ve promised nothing; I’m not committed even to acknowledge my name. I can jump up and say, Sir! or just look haughty, or walk away. But of course I’ve been so conditioned against making a scene (Concord and Lexington were in bad taste, the fall of the Bastille would have shocked Emily Post and we don’t even think of the storming of the Winter Palace), I’m not going to do anything except sit here and listen to this fat man — he isn’t really fat; I’ve just been out of the country so long that anyone who eats steak regularly looks fat — and hear him patiently through. Hate him? Naturally I hate him. He’s one of them, isn’t he?

“Mrs. Fieldman— Do you want to see my credentials, by the way?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Because I could hardly carry them in enemy territory, could I?”

“France isn’t enemy territory,” she said more pedantically than she meant because she hadn’t intended to talk to him in anything but monosyllables. “It’s only one of the policing nations which—”

“ ‘Policing nations.’” He didn’t raise his voice; he expressed his disgust softly, with a soft sneer, a soft contempt. ‘The U.S. isn’t a two-bit country to be policed. If there’s policing to be done, we do it. Policing nations, Third Force! Who do they think they are?”

She shrugged her shoulders. Answering rhetorical questions only got you started on a treadmill.

He made an observable effort to be soothing, earnest, confident, winning. “Mrs. Fieldman, you have an opportunity—”

“Oh God,” she said, “the opportunities I’ve had. When I consider my moderation, I’m amazed at my opportunities. This time no doubt it’s to serve my country.”

She thought his pale eyes wavered just a little. “Well, it is your country.”

“Is it? I understood, or read in the paper, or something, that my citizenship was voided.”

He regarded her through partly closed lids. How silly, she thought; like a parlor hypnotist or something: the hard look. Really, they picked the stupidest men for agents. It’s a pattern, I guess. William S. Hart, the frontier marshal, steel-eyed character. “That disability can be removed.”

“What’s done can be undone?”

“Sure. Sometimes. Especially in the case of native-born.”

“The March on Washington can be reversed, the Defenders of the Constitution can bow out, Regulations can be replaced by laws again, the disfranchised minorities can be reinfranchised, the dead restored to life?”

He leaned back in the chair, obviously never meant to accommodate a man of his weight. “Little lady,” he said easily, “why do you bother your pretty head about crap like that? Sure, they lynched a few coloreds and booted out a few Jews, but what’s that between you and me?”

You just can’t ever tell, she thought; I’d have sworn (an archaic expression) he was the type to say between you and I. You never know, do you? ‘This”: she began, hoping she was speaking judicially, implacably, with a haughty calm which should make him quail, yet feeling pretty sure she was only sounding feminine and hysterical, “is the destruction of a democratic system which may not have worked too well but which was infinitely better (in kind, not just in degree) than the totalitarianism you replaced it with. Monstrousness, brutality, beastliness, the killing or exiling of those who couldn’t be numbed or corrupted, moral and political bankruptcy— Oh, hell, I can’t talk about it without bleating like an orator…”

“We all make mistakes,” he said soothingly. “You have to admit the Defenders have done a lot of good.”

“Do I? The compulsion doesn’t seem inescapable. Or have you a car around the corner that will draw up in a minute to convince me?”

“Now, we don’t do things like that. You’ve been reading those sensational limey papers.”

“They are annoying, aren’t they?” she taunted him, suddenly unafraid. ‘Too bad you can’t suppress them or take them over the way you did the Times and the Post-Dispatch and all the rest.”

“If you love the English so much, why did you leave London? What are you doing in France?”

She had an impulse to stick out her tongue and say, Yah, don’t you wish you knew? Try and find out. Or to speak of the conflict inside her and the depression of spirit which had sent her across the Channel. Instead she murmured, “England and France are allies. Along with the rest of the world, except the United States and the Soviet Union.”

“Yeh, sure.” For the first time he showed impatience. ‘The Third Force and all the rest of it.”

“Garçon,” she called, “une boc encore, s’il vous plait.”

“How can you drink that swill?” he asked, not scornfully but curiously. “Why don’t you let me buy you an honest drink?”

“Pepsicola?”

“If you like. Or a real martini or some of this Norman applejack.”

“Shall we consider the amenities taken care of? And come down to business?”

“Sure, sure. Here it is, right on the line: restoration of citizenship (after all, it isn’t as though you were a Jew yourself), full compensation for any property confiscated or bought at less than market value, guaranteed protection, freedom to travel in or out of the country and fifty thousand bucks in cash.”

“And my… my husband?”

The prescriptive sympathy on his face made him resemble a beagle who has lost the scent. “Look, I can’t do miracles; nobody can bring back the dead. Like I said, we all make mistakes, don’t we? But hell — excuse me — a good looking girl like you can get all the husbands she wants. Genuine American ones. Especially with fifty grand, along with the body. And, oh yes, we’ll throw in a good job too — maybe nine, ten thousand a year.”

“What am I supposed to do for all this? Shoot a few well-chosen statesmen?”

He leaned back again, making the chair creak. “Kid, you’ve got nothing but blood on your mind. I’ve told you we’re not doing things that way. We don’t want violence. No violence at all. We just want to be left alone. Peaceful coexistence. If the Third Force wants to police the Russians, let them go ahead. We don’t mind. But just leave us alone, see?”

“And if they won’t leave you alone?”

“We’ll fight.” The face which had been uncommitted, fixed in an expression of reasoning and persuasion, became truculent, potentially menacing. Like a policeman or Defender who wears a mask of good nature. He was undoubtedly both.

“What would you fight with?”

“Oh, we’ve got a couple of shots in our locker yet. Maybe the war did hit us pretty hard, but even after you write off Pittsburgh and Gary and Birmingham—”

“And New York, San Francisco, Chicago.”

“Sure, sure. But we won, didn’t we? We can still get a lot of planes in the air and mobilize an army — which is more than the Russkis can. And we hardly lost a sub. And we know your Third Force is too chicken to drop C-bombs on us—”

“Not my Third Force.”

“See?” All menace had been tucked back behind the folds and lines of his face. “I knew you were a good American deep down. Just a little misunderstanding.”

“That’s right,” she replied, thinking of Sol and refusing to think of Sol.

“Pardon, m’sieu, ‘dame.”

Two men had paused by their table in a delicate balance between part of the sidewalk used exclusively by pedestrians and that occupied by the café. The older, paunched, wattled, bald, with a William Howard Taft mustache, was trying to pull the younger away. Except for heavy, decayed teeth, the young man had the face of one of Pope Gregory’s angels: blond, blue-eyed, straight-nosed, pink-cheeked. His lips were red and full, but firm.

The man opposite Maggie set the front legs of his chair soundlessly on the pavement again and put his hands on the table edge, ready for action.

“Yes?” she inquired.

“American, no?” The red lips retained the perfect circle for a perceptible instant after the question was finished.

“No,” said the big man. “Non. Pas du tout. Kenya. Dominion brittanique. Aimée de France—cawmprah?” His accent was as pure Cedar Rapids as she had ever heard. He pulled out a booklet and flipped the pages in front of their eyes.

“Oh yays. Africain. Vairy nice for England, too bad for France. Ah, ah. A joke, is it not? And madame?”

“Are you a cop?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“Un flic?”

He breathed nastily into her face, his chiseled features subordinate to his bad teeth. They can laugh all they want about American toothpaste, she thought, but I’d rather smell peppermint any time than yesterday’s pot-au-feu. “You insult!”

“Beat it, Chester. I have no passport to show you and I wouldn’t if I had. Call a gendarme if you want action; meanwhile leave us alone. See?” She drank some of her beer — Pepsicola might have been an improvement after all — ignoring them until the older man finally succeeded in coaxing the younger to leave.

“That wasn’t bright,” remarked the agent, tilting his chair again.

“Wasn’t it?’ she asked indifferently. “I just happen to be fresh out of phony documents.”

“The bottom dropped out of the hero market during the war,” he said. “Glory was running in the streets. If you’d been home you’d have died with the rest of the eagle scouts. We’re in business to survive now, not to sing ‘God Bless America’ and run up the flag on the Eiffel Tower. But I can see you’re our girl. How about it?”

“How about what? What do you want?”

“Hardly anything at all. Nothing dangerous. You still in that long hair committee?”

It would be so easy to upstage him; all the formulas walked through her mind: What committee? Oh, you mean Americans Exiled for Freedom — the AEF? Well, naturally… Of course a man like you… I suppose you’ve run out of local victims; now you’ve gone into the overseas trade. . let’s end this little chat right here, shall we?. . Any one of these gambits would lead to the same end game. Was it conceivable she could be betrayed by simple biological weakness? Could she find herself in bed with a Defender? (Will Rock Hudson get girl?) Why, he was not even faintly physically attractive. When you had been living alone for a long time — for such an interminably long time — you began thinking like a man, feeling as a man does. Disgusting. “Yes. I suppose you want their names, addresses, letter-drops?”

(What an absurdity; it only went to show how far nature imitated pulp fiction. As though the AEF were a cohesive, dedicated body instead of a number of wrangling, petulant groups, forming and reforming, changing factions, dissatisfied and impotent. The Defenders, having conspired melodramatically and achieved power through their ludicrous conspiracy, believed their opponents must have remodeled themselves in their image. A government which could imagine the dilettantes of the AEF a threat wasn’t competent to run Outer Baldonia or one of the smaller Micronesian atolls.)

“Not to harm them. Believe me, kid, they’re worth their weight in isotopes to us. We want to work with them, convince them they’re making a mistake to criticize their country. Look, I’m not going to hand you a line, I’m not going to tell you the Defenders have thrown their whole program out of the window and the good guys have become bad guys and vice versa. I’m only saying you people never understood politics; now we want to get you back in on the ground floor.”

“A bribe like my fifty thousand dollars and a good job?”

“Bribe? It’s how you look at it. We’re all Americans— exiles, committee, Defenders — and we’re on the spot. No matter what, you wouldn’t want to see a bunch of limeys or frogs telling us how to run our country, would you?”

“They aren’t telling us how to run our country. Just not to fight any more wars or put people in concentration camps.”

“Education Centers. Nobody’s business but our own. Anyway, I see you wouldn’t work with the English.”

“That isn’t exactly true. Let’s say I couldn’t go all the way with them. But don’t fool yourself: as between the Third Force and the Defenders, I pray the Third Force beats you.”

“But you don’t pray hard enough to do something?”

“Treason is an ugly word, even when you can argue that it isn’t treason.”

“Look, Mrs. F, you lose me with fancy talk. Let me lay it on the line. All we want you to do is your duty to your country: Give us the names; nobody’s going to get mussed up, I swear, and anyway, what could we do to them? We need them because the war hurt us, even if it hurt the Russians worse, and they need us because a refugee is only half a man. Go back to London and say you’ve changed your mind and you’ll work with them. Just tip us off to what they’re doing. That’s all; no fireworks, no rough stuff, nobody hurt on either side, everything settled nice and smoothly.”

“And the Defenders will continue to run the United States as a dictatorship?”

“There’s still a vote, isn’t there? And Congress can yak.”

“And pass laws which the Defender-in-Chief supersedes with new Regulations.”

“The Defender-in-Chief isn’t going to resign and turn the job over to you, if that’s what you want, but there’s bound to be some easing up.”

“All through now?”

“Let’s say I’ve reached a comma.”

“All right. No.”

“Now, let’s not paint ourselves into corners—”

“Good-by. I can’t say it’s been nice knowing you, because it hasn’t. Or that you’ve clarified my thinking, because I’m afraid it’s as soupy as ever. But good-by, anyway.”

The greedy fingers closed over hers. “You’re hysterical, kid. You’re making a mistake and you — somehow, somewhere, in your subconscious—”

Maggie winced. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help it. “Unconscious,” she corrected, hearing in the primness of her voice an echo of exactly what made the opponents of the Defenders ineffective.

“O.k., o.k. In your unconscious, you know it. What you need is to simmer down and look at things coolly. Let’s go somewhere quiet — I hate these frog sidewalk joints — and talk everything over. Have a real get-together. I’ve got a room…”

She could visualize the whole scene. If he tried— If he raped her, she would lie still and docile. Maybe afterward she would kill him (how?), Judith — or was it Jael? — and Holofernes. But during the act she would be complacent.

His hand jerked away. ‘The damn frogs are coming back and they have the makings of an army with them.”

She looked over her shoulder. A crowd, a mob, not led— no, certainly not led, but he was there, near the front, thrown up and forward — by the beautiful young man. His older, calmer friend wasn’t in evidence. Clearly they had been assembled, drilled, directed, outfitted, rehearsed by some demented escapee from the lushest days of Hollywood; some man with a limp and milky eye, gray stubble and beret, who in a Montmartre garret made nightly obeisance with a lipped cigarette to Griffith and Von Stroheim. There was a United Nations flag — a faded one whose tatters had been mended with coarse thread — tied to a bamboo stick (now I know what happens to the poles those old men fishing along the Seine use; they become implements of riot) and a large placard, VIVE LA FORCE TROISIEME.

They didn’t seem in a particularly ugly or vicious mood. Rather they were like adolescents escaping boredom for some pointless horseplay. The bearer of the UN flag had a broken front tooth against which he kept thrusting his tongue; he looked bewildered and innocent. The man beside him was wall-eyed; Maggie wished profoundly he could take some position where both eyes looked at her simultaneously.

The angelic leader stepped forward, epauletted with importance. “You ‘ave not finish your beer, Madame?”

Now what happens? Does my compatriot with the Kenya passport produce a paper signed by the president of the republic attesting him a double-agent of long standing, who is loyal not only to la patrie but to la reine brittanique and the whole droning list of allies glorieux? Or does he whip out two Smith and Wessons from shoulder holsters and cow the whole mob until the US cavalry (read: paratroopers) comes to the rescue? She shifted her gaze slightly; the agent had vanished.

The leader took her glass and brought it to his carven, pouted mouth. She saw she had left a lipstick smear on the rim and that he had carefully turned the glass so he would be drinking from the same spot. The ruling spirit, she thought, but not in death; this is farce, not drama. “What is it this time, Chester?”

He took a full breath. “A bas les Etats Unis,” he shouted, and then translating for her benefit in a more confidential tone, “To ‘ell weeth Americains.” He swallowed what was left of the beer in a gulp.

She pushed her chair back. “Excuse me.”

“A minute, Madame.”

Ceremony, ceremony, thought Maggie; it’ll be the death of me. The Queen opens Parliament, the President reviews the Republican Guard on the Champs de Mars, the ruler of Holland sticks her finger in the dike. You can’t even blame it on foreigners: the bailiff knocks subserviently on the jury room door to ask, What is your pleasure? The chairman inquires, For what purpose does the delegate from the Canal Zone arise? The Flag comes tenderly down as the bugle sounds Retreat and the Nation’s might yields to the inexorable processes of Nature.

He caught her wrist. “Raymond! Içi!”

Raymond was lantern-jawed, self-conscious, in constant danger of stumbling over his own feet as he advanced holding in his hands an American flag as aged as the UN banner. Though it was folded, she could see from the alignment of the stars that it dated before 1959. Raymond smiled at her deprecatingly. The leader took it and thrust it at her. “Speet, Madame,” he invited.

She almost smiled at the theatricalism of it. Presumably if she made the gesture she would convince them of her political purity. Demonstrating indifference or contempt for the rectangle of red, white and blue material would establish her position in their eyes more firmly than the most fervent protestations or solemn oaths. The agent shouldn’t have run off; he would certainly have spat with zeal. And why not?

“Thanks. You just drank my beer and my mouth is dry.” She tried to slide her wrist out of his grasp, but it was too tight.

“You loaf these Defenders? These fascists?”

‘They killed my husband.”

“Alors!” He turned, speaking so rapidly she couldn’t follow him, hearing only the words, “mari. . assassine.” The crowd applauded rather listlessly.

He shook out the ensign with elaborate deliberation. She saw again the posters in the history museum, Remember December 7, with the colors coming down in unmistakable, unbelievable surrender. This is utterly ridiculous, she thought, ridiculous, pointless, futile. Such an allegedly logical people confusing cause and effect. Indulging in sympathetic magic, making the tableau to induce the events leading up to what it represented.

The man threw the flag on the pavement and smeared his foot over the field of stars. “Oh, you mustn’t do that,” she cried, in a high, little girl’s voice of shock at impropriety. “You mustn’t!”

She hurried forward and snatched up the bunting, clutching it to her. The kicking did not really hurt intolerably. Sol had been hurt much, much worse than this. Only her jaw, and her eye, and now her stomach…

Another FPS — First Published Story — although first published some lime back (1949, in The University of Chicago law Review) — and once again, by a writer already more than well established in other fields (although very little of his work had been published outside Top Classified circles for some years). *

Dr. Szilard was born In Budapest in 1898. After teaching In England for several years, he came here, to Columbia University, in 1939. Three years later, he went out to the University of Chicago, where, with Dr. Fermi, he developed the first uranium-graphite reactor.

I was just about to lock the door of my hotel room and go to bed when there was a knock on the door and there stood a Russian officer and a young Russian civilian. I had expected something of this sort ever since the President signed the terms of unconditional surrender and the Russians landed a token occupation force in New York. The officer handed me something that looked like a warrant and said that I was under arrest as a war criminal on the basis of my activities during the Second World War in connection with the atomic bomb. There was a car waiting outside and they told me that they were going to take me to the Brookhaven National Laboratory on Long Island. Apparently, they were rounding up all the scientists who had ever worked in the field of atomic energy.

Once we were in the car the young man introduced himself and told me that he was a physicist as well as a member of the Moscow Chapter of the Communist Party. I had never heard his name before and I was never able to remember it thereafter. He was obviously very eager to talk. He told me that he and the other Russian scientists were all exceedingly sorry that the strain of the virus which had been used had killed such a disproportionately large number of children. It was very fortunate, he said, that the first attack was limited to New Jersey and that the early cessation of hostilities made attacks of larger scope unnecessary. According to plan — so he said — stocks of this virus were merely held in reserve for an emergency. Another virus differing by five further mutational steps had been in the stage of pilot plant production, and it was this improved virus which was meant to be used in case of war. It would not affect children at all and would kill predominantly men between twenty and forty. Owing to the premature outbreak of the war, however, the Russian government found itself forced to use the stocks which it had on hand.

He said that all the scientists arrested would be given a chance to go to Russia, in which case they need not stand trial as war criminals; but that if I should elect to stand for trial he personally hoped that I would be exonerated and that afterward I would be willing to collaborate with the Russians here in the United States.

He said that the Russians were very anxious to get the support of people other than the American Communists for a stable political regime in the United States which would collaborate with them. Since they now had the support of the Communists anyway, he explained, they would rather bestow their favors on those whose co-operation was not yet assured. “We shall, of course, lean on the Communists for the next few months,” he said, “but, in the long run, dissatisfied elements who are used to conspiracy would not be relied on by us. It is difficult to work with fellows who have no sense of humor,” he added as an afterthought.

He told me that no scientist would be forced to go to Russia and that no one who was innocent need go there for fear of having to stand trial as a war criminal, because, he said, Russia would do everything in her power to make the trials fair and impartial. ‘The outcome of a bona fide trial,” he added somewhat illogically, “is, of course, always something of a tossup.”

He told me that he expected that Russia would, within a fortnight, change her position on the question of world government; that she would come out in favor of it, in principle, and that she would press for immediate strengthening of the United Nations. The tribunal which was being assembled to try war criminals would not be Russian-dominated, he said, but would, rather, be composed of representatives of all nations which were not at war with Russia.

I was surprised to hear him say that he expected Great Britain to delegate the Lord Chief Justice to sit on the tribunal, and, frankly, I did not believe him then, though of course this was technically not impossible, since the coalition Cabinet had declared Britain’s neutrality twenty-four hours before the outbreak of the war. His prediction was confirmed, however, the following morning when the newspapers reported the speech of the British Prime Minister, who had said that Great Britain, having participated in the Nuremberg trials, could not now refuse her participation without being guilty of displaying a double standard of morality. The information which I received from this young man proved to be most valuable to me, because it gave me time to make up my mind as to what line I would want to follow.

As far as going to Russia was concerned, my mind was made up. After having been raised in Hungary, I had lived in Germany and in England before I settled in the United States, and that is as much migration as is good for any man. Moreover, when you are above fifty you are no longer as quick at learning languages. How many years would it take me to get a sufficient command of Russian to be able to turn a phrase and to be slightly malicious without being outright offensive? No, I did not want to go to Russia.

Even less did I want to be put in the position of having favors bestowed upon me by the Russians or of having to refuse point-blank some position of importance which they might wish to offer to me. I did not want to incur the favor of the Russians, but I did not want to antagonize them, either. After devoting some thought to this dilemma, I decided that the best way for me to keep out of trouble was to stick to the truth and thereby to arouse the suspicion of the Russians.

I did not have to wait long for an opportunity to implement this plan of action. The next morning at Brookhaven I was interrogated by a Russian official. In the beginning his attitude was rather benevolent Almost the first question he asked me was why I had not worked in the field of atomic energy prior to the Third World War. When I truthfully said that I had five good and valid reasons and named them one by one, he took them down in shorthand, but the longer I talked the more incredulous he looked. It was obvious that he felt himself unable to believe what I was saying to him. Realizing that my method worked, I answered all his questions as truthfully as I possibly could and then signed the transcript at the end of the interview.

I was called back for further interrogation in the afternoon; this time it was an older Russian scientist, who was known to me by name, but whom I had not previously met. He told me that he had asked to see me because he had read the transcript which I had signed in the morning. He said that the Russian scientists had followed with great interest the articles I had written before the war, and he quoted to me passages from articles entitled “Calling for a Crusade” and “Letter to Stalin” which I had published in the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists in 1947. This pleased me very much. He went on to say, however, that these articles showed an almost incredible degree of naïveté and were models of un-Marxian writing. He acknowledged that they were free from any anti-Russian bias and told me that the Russian scientists had formed the opinion that I had not been working in the field of atomic energy before the Third World War because I had not wanted to make bombs that would be dropped on Russia. He said that he regretted that I had not given this as my reason, that he wanted to give me an opportunity to revise the answers which I had given, and that he was prepared to tear up my signed statement then and there, though by doing so he would be sticking his neck out, since he would be acting against regulations.

I thanked him for his kindness and told him that I had merely told the truth, which, unfortunately, it was not within my power to change; and there then ensued a most interesting and protracted conversation about the intrinsic value of truth. Since what he told me was told in confidence and might get him into trouble if revealed, I do not feel free to record it here.

The war crimes trials opened about one month later at Lake Success, and I was — apparently as a special favor— among the first to be tried. I was charged by the prosecutor, a Russian, first of all with having tried to induce the United States government to take up the development of atomic energy in a meeting held on October 21, 1939, i.e., at a time when the war in Europe was still an imperialist war, since Germany had not attacked Russia until 1941.

I was also charged with having contributed to the war crime of dropping an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. I thought at first that I had a good and valid defense against this latter charge, since I had warned against the military use of the bomb in the war with Japan in a memorandum which I had presented to Mr. Byrnes at Spartanburg, South Carolina, six weeks before the first bomb had been tested in New Mexico.

But unfortunately this memorandum, which Mr. Byrnes had put into a pocket of his trousers when I left him, could not be located by counsel for the defense either in the files of the State Department or in the possession of any of the Spartanburg cleaners who might have kept it as a souvenir. Mr. Byrnes was himself under indictment and was not called as a witness. Excerpts from the memorandum which were published in the fall of 1947 in the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists were stricken from the record on the ground that the parts of this memorandum which were omitted from the publication for reasons of secrecy might have contained the opposite of what the published part of the document appeared to indicate.

Under these circumstances I had to fall back for my defense on a petition which I had circulated in the Uranium Project at the University of Chicago immediately after the testing of the bomb in New Mexico and which asked the President to withhold his approval of a military use of the bomb against the cities of Japan. The prosecutor moved, however, that this document be stricken from the record on the ground that it was not transmitted by me to the President directly, but was, rather, handed by me to the head of the project, who forwarded it through the Manhattan District of the War Department, headed by General Groves. The prosecutor said that I, Szilard, should have known better than to agree to such a method of transmittal.

Having rested my defense, I was now free on bail. Since I was not permitted to leave Lake Success, I was spending my time there listening to the trials of the statesmen and scientists. In spite of the seriousness of my own situation, I found it difficult sometimes to refrain from joining in the laughter which frequently interrupted the proceedings.

As a prelude to the Nuremberg trials, war crimes had been defined with the collaboration of the United States, represented by Justice Jackson of the United States Supreme Court. The “violation of the customs of war” had been defined as a war crime at that time. “Planning a war in violation of international agreements” had also been defined as a crime.

The first statesman to be tried on charges arising from the bombing of Hiroshima was Mr. Stimson, and he was tried on his own admission contained in an article which he had published in 1947 in Harper’s. The prosecution pointed out that the “defense” put forward by Mr. Stimson in that article was untenable. Mr. Stimson’s point was that, had the bomb not been used, millions would have perished in an invasion of Japan. The prosecutor, a Dutchman, quoted from a memorandum prepared after the surrender of Japan by the United States Strategic Bombing Survey which showed that the United States could have won the war against Japan without invasion, just by sitting tight, since Japan was essentially defeated before the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. He further quoted passages from the book Secret Mission, by Ellis M. Zacharias, published in 1946, which showed that Japan’s desperate position must have been known to Mr. Stimson, since it was fully disclosed in the reports prepared by the United States naval intelligence.

Counsel for the defense, however, submitted a deposition obtained from the British Secretary of War in order to prove that secretaries of war never based decisions on reports prepared by naval intelligence. “Mr. Stimson,” so counsel for the defense said, “should not be reproached for acting as all secretaries of war in all English-speaking countries have acted at all times.”

The presiding judge, in summing up, disregarded the arguments presented by both the prosecution and the defense and took the line that prior to the Third World War it was not customary to drop atomic bombs on towns and cities, and that such a “violation of the customs of war” was a war crime which could not be justified on the ground that the government which committed it hoped that by doing so it would bring the war to a speedier conclusion.

It was expected that Mr. Stimson would be found guilty on his own admission, but that he would be reprieved primarily because of his article published in Foreign Affairs in 1947 in which he commented on the foreign policy of the Truman Administration. It was generally considered that in 1947 his was a voice of reason and moderation in the midst of general confusion.

Mr. Truman was charged with the “crime” of actually ordering the bombing of Hiroshima. At first, counsel for the defense took the line that at the time when the definition of war crimes was made public at Nuremberg, Mr. Truman was at sea — in the literal sense of the term. He was on board a battleship on his way back from Potsdam and did not have opportunity adequately to study the text of the Nuremberg Declaration prior to the bombing of Hiroshima. This plea was rejected by the court on the ground that those who were sentenced to death and executed at Nuremberg could — if they were alive — use much the same type of argument in their defense.

Subsequently, counsel for the defense took the line that Mr. Truman was not guilty because he had not acted on his own but had merely followed advice given to him and, so to speak, had been merely following orders. In proof of this the defense read into the record a magazine article published by Garbatov in Russia in 1947 which asserted that Mr. Truman had always been taking orders from one boss or another. This article had drawn a protest from the American ambassador at the time of its publication.

Having had little luck with any of his “lines,” counsel for the defense raised the question why the use of an atomic bomb should be considered a “violation of the customs of war” any more than the use of a virus that killed children. But the presiding judge ordered his remark stricken from the record, saying that this was the trial of Harry S. Truman and not of Somebody Else, and that since Mr. Truman was not accused of having ordered the use of a virus in warfare, nothing relating to any virus could possibly be relevant to his defense.

It was generally expected that Mr. Truman would be found guilty, but it was rumored that there were powerful Russian influences at work to have him reprieved. There were all sorts of guesses as to what the reasons of the Russians may have been, and some thought that they favored Mr. Truman on account of his supposed Wall Street connections, since the Russians were known to nurture a secret admiration for Wall Street. I, myself, believe that the reason of the Russians may have been political and rather difficult to guess in detail without knowing on which of their misconceptions it was based.

The next to be tried was Mr. Byrnes, who was not only accused of being responsible for the decision of using the atomic bomb against Japan, but, above all, was accused of having advocated a war against Russia “in violation of international agreements” in his book Speaking Frankly, which appeared in 1947. The British prosecutor quoted from page 203 of the first edition:

. .I do not believe the Red Army would try to hold permanently all of Eastern Germany. However, if I misjudge them, and they do go to the point of holding Eastern Germany and vetoing a Security Council Directive to withdraw occupation forces, we must be prepared to assume the obligation that then clearly will be ours. If our action is to be effective, we must be clear in our minds and must make it clear to all that we are willing to adopt these measures of last resort if, for the peace of the world, we are forced to do so.

On this passage Mr. Byrnes was most severely cross-examined by the prosecutor. He was asked whether he was aware of the fact that the United States ratified the Charter of the United Nations at the time when Mr. Byrnes himself was Secretary of State. He was asked whether he was aware of the fact that by doing so the United States undertook the solemn obligation of refraining from war and that, under Article 51 of the Charter, the United States merely retained the right of waging war in case of an armed attack. He was asked whether the mere refusal of Russia to leave the territories which she had occupied after the Second World War could be construed as an armed attack. He was asked whether he could suggest any way of interpreting what he had been saying on page 203 of his book other than as advocating that the United States ought to violate her solemn obligation under the Charter and wage an illegal war against Russia in case Russia should refuse to settle on the terms set by the United States government.

Counsel for the defense replied that he wished to elucidate the meaning of the passage “measures of last resort” quoted by the prosecutor from Mr. Byrnes’s book. At a press conference following shortly the publication of his book, Mr. Byrnes himself had explained this passage — so counsel for the defense said. “ There is no suggestion as to whether such collective action should be persuasion, economic, or military action,’” counsel quoted. “Clearly,” counsel said, raising his voice a little, “if Mr. Byrnes had had military action in mind, he would have spoken of ‘measures of very last resort’ and not merely of ‘measures of last resort.’ British statesmen,” he said, looking sharply at the prosecutor, “may indulge in understatements, but that is no reason for accusing my client of one.”

The prosecutor replied that Mr. Byrnes had condemned himself by the very words quoted by the defense, for by virtue of those words Mr. Byrnes had admitted that the term “measures of last resort” meant either persuasion or military action. “I am not conversant with American law,” he said, “but surely in England a man who publicly proclaims that he is going to get hold of something that is in the possession of his neighbor either by persuasion or by pulling a gun on him is persuaded to go to jail.”

At this point, counsel for the defense submitted evidence to show that, two weeks before the outbreak of the Third World War, Mr. Byrnes had sent a memorandum to the President of the United States warning against any aggressive act on the part of the United States armed forces that would result in war. The prosecutor’s motion that this memorandum be ruled out as evidence was upheld by the presiding judge on the ground that if inconsistency were admissible as a defense at the trial of a statesman, then no statesman could ever be convicted as a war criminal and the statesmen would enjoy an immunity not shared by the other defendants.

All of us who attended his trial were unanimous in our praise of Mr. Byrnes for the patience and firmness he displayed. Of course, if sentence had been passed and executed, he would have lost his life; but as is generally known, no sentence was ever passed on Mr. Byrnes or any of the rest of us. The first Russian appeal for help reached the United States Public Health Service one week after Mr. Byrnes rested his defense.

Just what happened will never be known with certainty. This much is clear, that the vast quantities of vaccine which the Russians held in readiness to safeguard their own population against the virus were absolutely without any effect. In the laboratory tests such vaccine had proved to be 100 per cent effective; something must have gone wrong in the change-over from pilot plant operation to mass production, and someone must have forgotten to check the product for its effectiveness. Since the engineer in charge of the production plant at Omsk perished in the disorders which broke out after over half of the children of the town had died, and since all records of the production plants were destroyed in the fire, we shall never know just what had gone wrong.

The terms of the postwar settlement which had been reached within two weeks of the Omsk riots were in every respect very favorable to the United States and also put an end to all war crime trials. Naturally, all of us who had been on trial for our lives were greatly relieved.

It is one of the odder paradoxes of our modern world that the only really functioning internationalists are those same scientists who are regarded by their several national governments as top priority defense materiel.

Of course this paradox has minimized global exchange and communication among scientists, so that the personal acquaintances which were once so common are now less likely to develop….

The letter from America arrived too late. The Committee had regarded acceptance as a foregone conclusion, for no one since Boris Pasternak had turned down a Nobel Prize. So when Professor Doctor Nels Christianson opened the letter, there was not the slightest fear on his part, or on that of his fellow committeemen, Dr. Eric Carlstrom and Dr. Sven Eklund, that the letter would be anything other than the usual routine acceptance.

“At last we learn the identity of this great research worker,” Christianson murmured as he scanned the closely typed sheets. Carlstrom and Eklund waited impatiently, wondering at the peculiar expression that fixed itself on Christianson’s face. Fine beads of sweat appeared on the professor’s high narrow forehead as he laid the letter down. “Well,” he said heavily, “now we know.”

“Know what?” Eklund demanded. “What does it say? Does she accept?”

“She accepts,” Christianson said in a peculiar half-strangled tone as he passed the letter to Eklund. “See for yourself.”

Eklund’s reaction was different. His face was a mottled reddish white as he finished the letter and handed it across the table to Carlstrom. “Why,” he demanded of no one in particular, “did this have to happen to us?”

“It was bound to happen sometime,” Carlstrom said. “It’s just our misfortune that it happened to us.” He chuckled as he passed the letter back to Christianson. “At least this year the presentation should be an event worth remembering.”

“It seems that we have a little problem,” Christianson said, making what would probably be the understatement of the century. Possibly there would be greater understatements in the remaining ninety-nine years of the Twenty-first Century, but Carlstrom doubted it. “We certainly have our necks out,” he agreed.

“We can’t do it!” Eklund exploded. “We simply can’t award the Nobel Prize in medicine and physiology to that — that C. Edie!” He sputtered into silence.

“We can hardly do anything else,” Christianson said. ‘There’s no question as to the identity of the winner. Dr. Hanson’s letter makes that unmistakably clear. And there’s no question that the award is deserved.”

“We still could award it to someone else,” Eklund said.

“Not a chance. We’ve already said too much to the press. It’s known all over the world that the medical award is going to the discoverer of the basic cause of cancer, to the founder of modern neoplastic therapy.” Christianson grimaced. “If we changed our decision now, there’d be all sorts of embarrassing questions from the press.”

“I can see it now,” Carlstrom said, “the banquet, the table, the flowers, and Professor Doctor Nels Christianson in formal dress with the Order of St. Olaf gleaming across his white shirtfront, standing before that distinguished audience and announcing: The Nobel Prize in Medicine and Physiology is awarded to—’ and then that deadly hush when the audience sees the winner.”

“You needn’t rub it in,” Christianson said unhappily. “I can see it, too.”

‘These Americans!” Eklund said bitterly. He wiped his damp forehead. The picture Carlstrom had drawn was accurate but hardly appealing. “One simply can’t trust them. Publishing a report as important as that as a laboratory release. They should have given proper credit.”

“They did,” Carlstrom said. “They did — precisely. But the world, including us, was too stupid to see it. We have only ourselves to blame.”

“If it weren’t for the fact that the work was inspired and effective,” Christianson muttered, “we might have a chance of salvaging this situation. But through its application ninety-five per cent of cancers are now curable. It is obviously the outstanding contribution to medicine in the past five decades.”

“But we must consider the source,” Eklund protested. ‘This award will make the prize for medicine a laughingstock. No doctor will ever accept another. If we go through with this, we might as well forget about the medical award from now on. This will be its swan song. It hits too close to home. Too many people have been saying similar things about our profession and its trend toward specialization. And to have the Nobel Prize confirm them would alienate every doctor in the world. We simply can’t do it.”

“Yet who else has made a comparable discovery? Or one that is even half as important?” Christianson asked.

“That’s a good question,” Carlstrom said, “and a good answer to it isn’t going to be easy to find. For my part, I can only wish that Alphax Laboratories had displayed an interest in literature rather than medicine. Then our colleagues at the Academy could have had the painful decision.”

“Their task would be easier than ours,” Christianson said wearily. “After all, the criteria of art are more flexible. Medicine, unfortunately, is based upon facts.”

“That’s the hell of it,” Carlstrom said.

“There must be some way to solve this problem,” Eklund said. “After all it was a perfectly natural mistake. We never suspected that Alphax was a physical rather than a biological sciences laboratory. Perhaps that might offer grounds—”

“I don’t think so,” Carlstrom interrupted. “The means in this case aren’t as important as the results, and we can’t deny that the cancer problem is virtually solved.”

“Even though men have been saying for the past two generations that the answer was probably in the literature and all that was needed was someone with the intelligence and the time to put the facts together, the fact remains that it was C. Edie who did the job. And it required quite a bit more than merely collecting facts. Intelligence and original thinking of a high order was involved.” Christianson sighed.

“Someone,” Eklund said bitterly. “Some thing you mean. C. Edie—C.E.D. — Computer, Extrapolating, Discriminatory. Manufactured by Alphax Laboratories, Trenton, New Jersey, U.S.A. C. Edie! Americans!! — always naming things. A machine wins the Nobel Prize. It’s fantastic!”

Christianson shook his head. “It’s not fantastic, unfortunately. And I see no way out. We can’t even award the prize to the team of engineers who designed and built Edie. Dr. Hanson is right when he says the discovery was Edie’s and not the engineers’. It would be like giving the prize to Albert Einstein’s parents because they created him.”

“Is there any way we can keep the presentation secret?” Eklund asked.

“I’m afraid not. The presentations are public. We’ve done too good a job publicizing the Nobel Prize. As a telecast item, it’s almost the equal of the motion picture Academy Award.”

“I can imagine the reaction when our candidate is revealed. in all her metallic glory. A two-meter cube of steel filled with microminiaturized circuits, complete with flashing lights and cogwheels,” Carlstrom chuckled. “And where are you going to hang the medal?”

Christianson shivered. “I wish you wouldn’t give that metal nightmare a personality,” he said. “It unnerves me. Personally, I wish that Dr. Hanson, Alphax Laboratories, and Edie were all at the bottom of the ocean — in some nice deep spot like the Mariannas Trench.” He shrugged. “Of course, we won’t have that sort of luck, so we’ll have to make the best of it.”

“It just goes to show that you can’t trust Americans,” Eklund said. “I’ve always thought we should keep our awards on this side of the Atlantic where people are sane and civilized. Making a personality out of a computer — ugh! I suppose it’s their idea of a joke.”

“I doubt it,” Christianson said. “They just like to name things — preferably with female names. It’s a form of insecurity, the mother fixation. But that’s not important. I’m afraid, gentlemen, that we shall have to make the award as we have planned. I can see no way out. After all, there’s no reason why the machine cannot receive the prize. The conditions merely state that it is to be presented to the one, regardless of nationality, who makes the greatest contribution to medicine or physiology.”

“I wonder how His Majesty will take it,” Carlstrom said.

“The king! I’d forgotten that!” Eklund gasped.

“I expect he’ll have to take it,” Christianson said. “He might even appreciate the humor in the situation.”

“Gustaf Adolf is a good king, but there are limits,” Eklund observed.

“There are other considerations,” Christianson replied. “After all, Edie is the reason the Crown Prince is still alive, and Gustaf is fond of his son.”

“After all these years?”

Christianson smiled. Swedish royalty was long-lived. It was something of a standing joke that King Gustaf would probably outlast the pyramids, providing the pyramids lived in Sweden. “I’m sure His Majesty will co-operate. He has a strong sense of duty and since the real problem is his, not ours, I doubt if he will shirk it.”

“How do you figure that?” Eklund asked.

“We merely select the candidates according to the rules, and according to the nature of their contribution. Edie is obviously the outstanding candidate in medicine for this year. It deserves the prize. We would be compromising with principle if we did not award it fairly.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Eklund said gloomily. “I can’t think of any reasonable excuse to deny the award.”

“Nor I,” Carlstrom said. “But what did you mean by that remark about this being the king’s problem?”

“You forget,” Christianson said mildly. “Of all of us, the king has the most difficult part. As you know, the Nobel Prize is formally presented at a State banquet.”

“Well?”

“His Majesty is the host,” Christianson said. “And just how does one eat dinner with an electronic computer?”

Last year, I got a pin-up postcard from Mack Reynolds, who has been touring Europe as Travel Editor for Rogue magazine. The handsome astronaut on the back of the card was, said Reynolds, a national hero; his picture hung in every bar and waiting room. Some months later, John Glenn had his historic ticker tape parade, achieving the same status in this country. The man on my card was named Titov; the card was mailed from a small Eastern European country.

Colonel Ilya Simonov tooled his Zil aircushion convertible along the edge of Red Square, turned right immediately beyond St. Basil’s Cathedral, crossed the Moscow River by the Moskvoretski Bridge and debouched into the heavy, largely automated traffic of Pyatnikskaya. At Dobryninskaya Square he turned west to Gorki Park which he paralleled on Kaluga until he reached the old baroque palace which housed the Ministry.

There were no flags, no signs, nothing to indicate the present nature of the aged Czarist building.

He left the car at the curb, slamming its door behind him and walking briskly to the entrance. Hard, handsome in the Slavic tradition, dedicated, Ilya Simonov was young for his rank. A plainclothesman, idling a hundred feet down the street, eyed him briefly then turned his attention elsewhere. The two guards at the gate snapped to attention, their eyes straight ahead. Colonel Simonov was in mufti and didn’t answer the salute.

The inside of the old building was well known to him. He went along marble halls which contained antique statuary and other relics of the past which, for unknown reason, no one had ever bothered to remove. At the heavy door which entered upon the office of his destination he came to a halt and spoke briefly to the lieutenant at the desk there.

“The Minister is expecting me,” Simonov clipped.

The lieutenant did the things receptionists do everywhere and looked up in a moment to say, “Go right in, Colonel Simonov.”

Minister Kliment Blagonravov looked up from his desk at Simonov’s entrance. He was a heavy-set man, heavy of face and he still affected the shaven head, now rapidly disappearing among upper echelons of the Party. His jacket had been thrown over the back of a chair and his collar loosened; even so there was a sheen of sweat on his face.

He looked up at his most trusted field man, said in the way of greeting, “Ilya,” and twisted in his swivel chair to a portable bar. He swung open the door of the small refrigerator and emerged with a bottle of Stolitschnaja vodka. He plucked two three-ounce glasses from a shelf and pulled the bottle’s cork with his teeth. “Sit down, sit down, Ilya,” he grunted as he filled the glasses. “How was Magnitogorsk?”

Ilya Simonov secured his glass before seating himself in one of the room’s heavy leathern chairs. He sighed, relaxed, and said, ‘Terrible. I loathed those ultra-industralized cities. I wonder if the Americans do any better with Pittsburgh or the British with Birmingham.”

“I know what you mean,” the security head rumbled. “How did you make out with your assignment, Ilya?”

Colonel Simonov frowned down into the colorlessness of the vodka before dashing it back over his palate. “It’s all in my report, Kliment.” He was the only man in the organization who called Blagonravov by his first name.

His chief grunted again and reached forward to refill the glass. “I’m sure it is. Do you know how many reports go across this desk daily? And did you know that Ilya Simonov is the most long-winded, as the Americans say, of my some two hundred first-line operatives?”

The colonel shifted in his chair. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

His chief rumbled his sour version of a chuckle. “Nothing, nothing, Ilya. I was jesting. However, give me a brief of your mission.”

Ilya Simonov frowned again at his refilled vodka glass but didn’t take it up for a moment. “A routine matter,” he said. “A dozen or so engineers and technicians, two or three fairly high-ranking scientists, and three or four of the local intelligentsia had formed some sort of informal club. They were discussing national and international affairs.”

Kliment Blagonravov’s thin eyebrows went up but he waited for the other to go on.

Ilya said impatiently, “It was the ordinary. They featured complete freedom of opinion and expression in their weekly get-togethers. They began by criticizing without extremism, local affairs, matters concerned with their duties, that sort of thing. In the beginning, they even sent a few letters of protest to the local press, signing the name of the club. After their ideas went further out, they didn’t dare do that, of course.”

He took up his second drink and belted it back, not wanting to give it time to lose its chill.

His chief filled in. “And they delved further and further into matters that should be discussed only within the party — if even there — until they arrived at what point?”

Colonel Simonov shrugged. “Until they finally got to the point of discussing how best to overthrow the Soviet State and what socio-economic system should follow it. The usual thing. I’ve run into possibly two dozen such outfits in the past five years.”

His chief grunted and tossed back his own drink. “My dear Ilya,” he rumbled sourly, “I’ve run into, as you say, more than two hundred.”

Simonov was taken back by the figure but he only looked at the other.

Blagonravov said, “What did you do about it?”

“Several of them were popular locally. In view of Comrade Zverev’s recent pronouncements of increased freedom of press and speech, I thought it best not to make a public display. Instead, I took measures to charge individual members with inefficiency in their work, with corruption or graft, or with other crimes having nothing to do with the reality of the situation. Six or seven in all were imprisoned, others, demoted. Ten or twelve I had switched to other cities, principally into more backward areas in the virgin lands.”

“And the ringleaders?” the security head asked.

“There were two of them, one a research chemist of some prominence, the other a steel plant manager. They were both, ah, unfortunately killed in an automobile accident while under the influence of drink.”

“I see,” Blagonravov nodded. “So actually the whole rat’s nest was stamped out without attention being brought to it so far as the Magnitogorsk public is concerned.” He nodded heavily again. “You can almost always be depended upon to do the right thing, Ilya. If you weren’t so confoundedly good a field man, I’d make you my deputy.”

Which was exactly what Simonov would have hated, but he said nothing.

“One thing,” his chief said. ‘The origin of this, ah, club which turned into a tiny underground all of its own. Did you detect the finger of the West, stirring up trouble?”

“No.” Simonov shook his head. “If such was the case, the agents involved were more clever than I’d ordinarily give either America or Common Europe credit for. I could be wrong, of course.”

“Perhaps,” the police head growled. He eyed the bottle before him but made no motion toward it. He wiped the palm of his right hand back over his bald pate, in unconscious irritation. “But there is something at work that we are not getting at.” Blagonravov seemed to change subjects. “You speak Czech, so I understand.”

‘That’s right. My mother was from Bratislava. My father met her there during the Hitler war.”

“And you know Czechoslovakia?”

“I’ve spent several vacations in the Tatras at such resorts as Tatranska Lomnica since the country’s been made such a tourist center of the satellites.” Ilya Simonov didn’t understand this trend of the conversation.

“You have some knowledge of automobiles, too?”

Simonov shrugged. “I’ve driven all my life.”

His chief rumbled thoughtfully, “Time isn’t of essence. You can take a quick course at the Moskvich plant. A week or two would give you all the background you need.”

Ilya laughed easily. “I seem to have missed something. Have my shortcomings caught up with me? Am I to be demoted to automobile mechanic?”

Kliment Blagonravov became definite. “You are being given the most important assignment of your career, Ilya. This rot, this ever growing ferment against the Party, must be cut out, liquidated. It seems to fester worst among the middle echelons of… what did that Yugoslavian Djilas call us?… the New Class. Why? That’s what we must know.”

He sat farther back in his chair and his heavy lips made a moue. “Why, Ilya?” he repeated. “After more than half a century the Party has attained all its goals. Lenin’s millennium is here; the end for which Stalin purged ten millions and more is reached; the sacrifices demanded by Khrushchev in the Seven-Year Plans have finally paid off, as the Yankees say. Our gross national product, our per capita production, our standard of living, is the highest in the world. Sacrifices are no longer necessary.”

There had been an almost whining note in his voice. But now he broke it off. He poured them still another drink. “At any rate, Ilya, I was with Frol Zverev this morning. Number One is incensed. It seems that in the Azerbaijan Republic, for one example, that even the Komsomols were circulating among themselves various proscribed books and pamphlets. Comrade Zverev instructed me to concentrate on discovering the reason for this disease.”

Colonel Simonov scowled. “What’s this got to do with Czechoslovakia — and automobiles?”

The security head waggled a fat finger at him. “What we’ve been doing, thus far, is dashing forth upon hearing of a new conflagration and stamping it out. Obviously, that’s no answer. We must find who is behind it. How it begins. Why it begins. That’s your job.”

“Why Czechoslovakia?”

“You’re unknown as a security agent there, for one thing. You will go to Prague and become manager of the

Moskvich automobile distribution agency. No one, not even the Czech unit of our ministry will be aware of your identity. You will play it by ear, as the Americans say.”

‘To whom do I report?”

“Only to me, until the task is completed. When it is, you will return to Moscow and report fully.” A grimace twisted Blagonravov’s face. “If I am still here. Number One is truly incensed, Ilya.”

There had been some more. Kliment Blagonravov had evidently chosen Prague, the capital of Czechoslovakia, as the seat of operations in a suspicion that the wave of unrest spreading insidiously throughout the Soviet Complex owed its origins to the West. Thus far, there had been no evidence of this but the suspicion refused to die. If not the West, then who? The Cold War was long over but the battle for men’s minds continued even in peace.

Ideally, Ilya Simonov was to infiltrate whatever Czech groups might be active in the illicit movement and then, if he discovered there was a higher organization, a center of the movement, he was to attempt to become a part of it. If possible he was to rise in the organization to as high a point as he could.

Blagonravov, Minister of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya, the Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution and Sabotage, was of the opinion that if this virus of revolt was originating from the West, then it would be stronger in the satellite countries than in Russia itself. Simonov held no opinion as yet. He would wait to see. However, there was an uncomfortable feeling about the whole assignment. The group in Magnitogorsk, he was all but sure, had no connections with Western agents, nor anyone else, for that matter. Of course, it might have been an exception.

He left the Ministry, his face thoughtful as he climbed into his waiting Zil. This assignment was going to be a lengthy one. He’d have to wind up various affairs here in Moscow, personal as well as business. He might be away for a year or more.

There was a sheet of paper on the seat of his aircushion car. He frowned at it. It couldn’t have been there before. He picked it up.

It was a mimeographed throw-away.

It was entitled FREEDOM, and it began: Comrades, more than a hundred years ago the founders of scientific socialism, Karl Marx and Frederick Engels, explained that the State was incompatible with liberty, that the State was an instrument of repression of one class by another. They explained that for true freedom ever to exist the State must wither away.

Under the leadership of Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev and now Zverev, the State has become ever stronger. Far from withering away, it continues to oppress us. Fellow Russians, it is time we take action! We must…

Colonel Simonov bounced from his car again, shot his eyes up and down the street He barely refrained from drawing the 9 mm automatic which nestled under his left shoulder and which he knew how to use so well.

He curtly beckoned to the plainclothesman, still idling against the building a hundred feet or so up the street. The other approached him, touched the brim of his hat in a half salute.

Simonov snapped, “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Ilya Simonov thrust the leaflet forward. “How did this get into my car?”

The other looked at it blankly. “I don’t know, Colonel Simonov.”

“You’ve been here all this time?”

“Why, yes, Colonel.”

With my car in plain sight?”

That didn’t seem to call for an answer. The plainclothesman looked apprehensive but blank.

Simonov turned on his heel and approached the two guards at the gate. They were not more than thirty feet from where he was parked. They came to the salute but he growled, “At ease. Look here, did anyone approach my vehicle while I was inside?”

One of the soldiers said, “Sir, twenty or thirty people have passed since the Comrade colonel entered the Ministry.”

The other one said, “Yes, sir.”

Ilya Simonov looked from the guards to the plainclothes-man and back, in frustration. Finally he spun on his heel again and re-entered the car. He slapped the elevation lever, twisted the wheel sharply, hit the jets pedal with his foot and shot into the traffic.

The plainclothesman looked after him, and muttered to the guards, “Blagonravov’s hatchetman. He’s killed more men than the plague. A bad one to have down on you.”

Simonov bowled down Kaluga at excessive speed. “Driving like a young stilyagi,” he growled in irritation at himself. But, confound it, how far had things gone when subversive leaflets were placed in cars parked in front of the ministry devoted to combating counter-revolution?

He’d been away from Moscow for over a month and the amenities in the smog, smoke and coke fumes blanketing the industrial complex of Magnitogorsk hadn’t been particularly of the best. Ilya Simonov headed now for Gorki Street and the Baku Restaurant. He had an idea that it was going to be some time before the opportunity would be repeated for him to sit down to Zakouski, the salty, spicy Russian hors d’oeuvres, and to Siberian pilmeny and a bottle of Tsinandali.

The restaurant, as usual, was packed. In irritation, Ilya Simonov stood for a while waiting for a table, then, taking the head waiter’s advice, agreed to share one with a stranger.

The stranger, a bearded little man, who was dwaddling over his Gurievskaya kasha dessert while reading Izvestia, glanced up at him, unseemingly, bobbed his head at Simonov’s request to share his table, and returned to the newspaper.

The harried waiter took his time in turning up with a menu. Ilya Simonov attempted to relax. He had no particular reason to be upset by the leaflet found in his car. Obviously, whoever had thrown it there was distributing haphazardly. The fact that it was mimeographed, rather than printed, was an indication of lack of resources, an amateur affair. But what in the world did these people want? What did they want?

The Soviet State was turning out consumer’s goods, homes, cars as no nation in the world. Vacations were lengthy, working hours short. A four-day week, even! What did they want? What motivates a man who is living on a scale unknown to a Czarist boyar to risk his position, even his life! in a stupidly impossible revolt against the country’s government?

The man across from him snorted in contempt.

He looked over the top of his paper at Simonov and said, “The election in Italy. Ridiculous!”

Ilya Simonov brought his mind back to the present. “How did they turn out? I understand the depression is terrible there.”

“So I understand,” the other said. “The vote turned out as was to be expected.”

Simonov’s eyebrows went up. ‘The Party has been voted into power?”

“Ha!” the other snorted. “The vote for the Party has fallen off by more than a third.”

The security colonel scowled at him. “That doesn’t sound reasonable, if the economic situation is as bad as has been reported.”

His table mate put down the paper. “Why not? Has there ever been a country where the Party was voted into power? Anywhere — at any time during the more than half a century since the Bolsheviks first took over here in Russia?”

Simonov looked at him.

The other was talking out opinions he’d evidently formed while reading the lzvestia account of the Italian elections, not paying particular attention to the stranger across from him.

He said, his voice irritated, “Nor will there ever be. They know better. In the early days of the revolution the workers might have had illusions about the Party and its goals. Now they’ve lost them. Everywhere, they’ve lost them.”

Ilya Simonov said tightly, “How do you mean?”

“I mean the Party has been rejected. With the exception of China and Yugoslavia, both of whom have their own varieties, the only countries that have adopted our system have done it under pressure from outside — not by their own efforts. Not by the will of the majority.”

Colonel Simonov said flatly, “You seem to think that Marxism will never dominate the world.”

“Marxism!” the other snorted. “If Marx were alive in Russia today, Frol Zverev would have him in a Siberian labor camp within twenty-four hours.”

Ilya Simonov brought forth his wallet and opened it to his police credentials. He said coldly, “Let me see your identification papers. You are under arrest.”

The other stared at him for a moment, then snorted his contempt. He brought forth his own wallet and handed it across the table.

Simonov flicked it open, his face hard. He looked at the man. “Konstantin Kasatkin.”

“Candidate member of the Academy of Sciences,” the other snapped. “And bearer of the Hero of the Soviet Union award.”

Simonov flung the wallet back to him in anger. “And as such, practically immune.”

The other grinned nastily at him. “Scientists, my police friend, cannot be bothered with politics. Where would the Soviet Complex be if you took to throwing biologists such as myself into prison for making unguarded statements in an absent-minded moment?”

Simonov slapped a palm down on the table. “Confound it, Comrade,” he snapped, “how is the Party to maintain discipline in the country if high-ranking persons such as yourself speak open subversion to strangers.”

The other snorted his contempt. “Perhaps there’s too much discipline in Russia, Comrade policeman.”

“Rather, far from enough,” Simonov snapped back.

The waiter, at last, approached and extended a menu, to the security officer. But Ilya Simonov had come to his feet. “Never mind,” he clipped in disgust. “There is an air of degenerate decay about here.”

The waiter stared at him. The biologist snorted and returned to his paper. Simonov turned and stormed out. He could find something to eat and drink in his own apartment.

The old, old town of Prague, the Golden City of a Hundred Spires was as always the beautifully stolid medieval metropolis which even a quarter of a century and more of Party rule could not change. The Old Town, nestled in a bend of the Vltava River, as no other city in Europe, breathed its centuries, its air of yesteryear.

Colonel Ilya Simonov, in spite of his profession, was not immune to beauty. He deliberately failed to notify his new office of his arrival, flew in on a Ceskoslovenske Aerolinie Tupolev rocket liner and spent his first night at the Alcron Hotel just off Wenceslas Square. He knew that as the new manager of the local Moskvich distribution agency he’d have fairly elaborate quarters, probably in a good section of town, but this first night he wanted to himself.

He spent it wandering quietly in the old quarter, dropping in to the age-old beer halls for a half liter of Pilsen Urquell here, a foaming stein of Smichov Lager there. Czech beer, he was reminded all over again, is the best in the world. No argument, no debate, the best in the world.

He ate in the endless automated caféterias that line Vaclavske Namesi, the entertainment center of Prague. Ate an open sandwich here, some crabmeat salad there, a sausage and another glass of Pilsen somewhere else again. He was getting the feel of the town and of its people. Of recent years, some of the tension had gone out of the atmosphere in Moscow and the other Soviet centers; with the coming of economic prosperity there had also come a relaxation. The fear, so heavy in the Stalin era, had fallen off in that of Khrushchev and still more so in the present reign of Frol Zverev. In fact, Ilya Simonov was not alone in Party circles in wondering whether or not discipline had been allowed to slip too far. It is easier, the old Russian proverb goes, to hang onto the reins than to regain them once dropped.

But if Moscow had lost much of its pall of fear, Prague had certainly gone even further. In fact, in the U Pinkasu beer hall Simonov had idly picked up a magazine left by some earlier wassailer. It was a light literary publication devoted almost exclusively to humor. There were various cartoons, some of them touching political subjects. Ilya Simonov had been shocked to see a caricature of Frol Zverev himself. Zverev, Number One! Ridiculed in a second-rate magazine in a satellite country!

Ilya Simonov made a note of the name and address of the magazine and the issue.

Across the heavy wooden community table from him, a beer drinker grinned, in typically friendly Czech style. “A good magazine,” he said. “You should subscribe.”

A waiter, bearing an even dozen liter-size steins of beer hurried along, spotted the fact that Simonov’s mug was empty, slipped a full one into its place, gave the police agent’s saucer a quick mark of a pencil, and hurried on again. In the U Pinkasu, it was supposed that you wanted another beer so long as you remained sitting. When you finally staggered to your feet, the nearest waiter counted the number of pencil marks on your saucer and you paid up.

Ilya Simonov said cautiously to his neighbor, “Seems to be quite, ah, brash.” He tapped the magazine with a finger.

The other shrugged and grinned again. “Things loosen up as the years go by,” he said. “What a man wouldn’t have dared say to his own wife, five years ago, they have on TV today.”

“I’m surprised the police don’t take steps,” Simonov said, trying to keep his voice expressionless.

The other took a deep swallow of his Pilsen Urquell. He pursed his lips and thought about it. “You know, I wonder if they’d dare. Such a case brought into the People’s Courts might lead to all sort of public reaction these days.”

It had been some years since Ilya Simonov had been in Prague and even then he’d only gone through on the way to the ski resorts in the mountains. He was shocked to find the Czech state’s control had fallen off to this extent. Why, here he was, a complete stranger, being openly talked to on political subjects.

His cross-the-table neighbor shook his head, obviously pleased. “If you think Prague is good, you ought to see Warsaw. It’s as free as Paris! I saw a Tri-D cinema up there about two months ago. You know what it was about? The purges in Moscow back in the 1930s.”

“A rather unique subject,” Simonov said.

“Um-m-m, made a very strong case for Bukharin, in particular.”

Simonov said, very slowly, “I don’t understand. You mean this… this film supported the, ah, Old Bolsheviks?”

“Of course. Why not? Everybody knows they weren’t guilty.” The Czech snorted deprecation. “At least not guilty of what they were charged with. They were in Stalin’s way and he liquidated them.” The Czech thought about it for a while. “I wonder if he was already insane, that far back.”

Had he taken up his mug of beer and dashed it into Simonov’s face, he couldn’t have surprised the Russian more.

Ilya Simonov had to take control of himself. His first instinct was to show his credentials, arrest the man and have him hauled up before the local agency of Simonov’s ministry.

But obviously that was out of the question. He was in Czechoslovakia and, although Moscow still dominated the Soviet Complex, there was local autonomy and the Czech police just didn’t enjoy their affairs being meddled with unless in extreme urgency.

Besides, this man was obviously only one among many. A stranger in a beer hall. Ilya Simonov suspected that if he continued his wanderings about the town, he’d meet in the process of only one evening a score of persons who would talk the same way.

Besides, still again, he was here in Prague incognito, his job to trace the sources of this dry rot, not to run down individual Czechs.

But the cinema, and TV! Surely anti-Party sentiment hadn’t been allowed to go this far!

He got up from the table shakily, paid for his beer and forced himself to nod good-by in friendly fashion to the subversive Czech he’d been talking to.

In the morning he strolled over to the offices of the Moskvich Agency which was located only a few blocks from his hotel on Celetna Hybernska. The Russian car agency, he knew, was having a fairly hard go of it in Prague and elsewhere in Czechoslavakia. The Czechs, long before the Party took over in 1948, had been a highly industrialized, modern nation. They consequently had their own automobile works, such as Skoda, and their models were locally more popular than the Russian Moskvich, Zim and Pobeda.

Theoretically, the reason Ilya Simonov was the newly appointed agency head was to push Moskvich sales among the Czechs. He thought, half humorously, half sourly, to himself, even under the Party we have competition and pressure for higher sales. What was it that some American economist had called them? a system of State-Capitalism.

At the Moskvich offices he found himself in command, of a staff that consisted of three fellow Russians, and a dozen or so Czech assistants. His immediate subordinate was a Catherina Panova, whose dossier revealed her to be a party member, though evidently not a particularly active one, at least not since she’d been assigned here in Prague.

She was somewhere in her mid-twenties, a graduate of the University of Moscow, and although she’d been in the Czech capital only a matter of six months or so, had already adapted to the more fashionable dress that the style-conscious women of this former Western capital went in for. Besides that, Catherina Panova managed to be one of the downright prettiest girls Ilya Simonov had ever seen.

His career had largely kept him from serious involvement in the past. Certainly the dedicated women you usually found in Party ranks seldom were of the type that inspired you to romance but he wondered now, looking at this new assistant of his, if he hadn’t let too much of his youth go by without more investigation into the usually favorite pastime of youth.

He wondered also, but only briefly, if he should reveal his actual identity to her. She was, after all, a party member. But then he checked himself. Kliment Blagonravov had stressed the necessity of complete secrecy. Not even the local offices of the ministry were to be acquainted with his presence.

He let Catherina introduce him around, familiarize him with the local methods of going about their business affairs and the problems they were running into.

She ran a hand back over her forehead, placing a wisp of errant hair, and said, “I suppose, as an expert from Moscow, you’ll be installing a whole set of new methods.”

It was far from his intention to spend much time at office work. He said, “Not at all. There is no hurry. For a time, we’ll continue your present policies, just to get the feel of the situation. Then perhaps in a few months, we’ll come up with some ideas.”

She obviously liked his use of “we” rather than “I.” Evidently, the staff had been a bit nervous upon his appointment as new manager. He already felt, vaguely, that the three Russians here had no desire to return to their homeland. Evidently, there was something about Czechoslovakia that appealed to them all. The fact irritated but somehow didn’t surprise him.

Catherina said, “As a matter of fact, I have some opinions on possible changes myself. Perhaps if you’ll have dinner with me tonight, we can discuss them informally.”

Ilya Simonov was only mildly surprised at her suggesting a rendezvous with him. Party members were expected to ignore sex and be on an equal footing. She was as free to suggest a dinner date to him as he was to her. Of course, she wasn’t speaking as a Party member now. In fact, he hadn’t even revealed to her his own membership.

As it worked out, they never got around to discussing distribution of the new Moskvich aircushion jet car. They became far too busy enjoying food, drink, dancing — and each other.

They ate at the Budapest, in the Prava Hotel, complete with Hungarian dishes and Riesling, and they danced to the inevitable gypsy music. It occurred to Ilya Simonov that there was a certain pleasure to be derived from the fact that your feminine companion was the most beautiful woman in the establishment and one of the most attractively dressed. There was a certain lift to be enjoyed when you realized that the eyes of half the other males present were following you in envy.

One thing led to another. He insisted on introducing her to barack, the Hungarian national spirit, in the way of a digestive. The apricot brandy, distilled to the point of losing all sweetness and fruit flavor, required learning. It must be tossed back just so. By the time Catherina had the knack, neither of them were feeling strain. In fact, it became obviously necessary for him to be given a guided tour of Prague’s night spots.

It turned out that Prague offered considerably more than Moscow, which even with the new relaxation was still one of the most staid cities in the Soviet Complex.

They took in the vaudeville at the Alhambra, and the variety at the Prazské Variet6.

They took in the show at the U Sv Tomise, the age-old tavern which had been making its own smoked black beer since the fifteenth century. And here Catherina with the assistance of revelers from neighboring tables taught him the correct pronunciation of Na zdravi! the Czech toast. It seemed required to go from heavy planked table to table practicing the new salutation to the accompaniment of the pungent borovika gin.

Somewhere in here they saw the Joseph Skupa puppets, and at this stage Ilya Simonov found only great amusement at the political innuendoes involved in half the skits. It would never have done in Moscow or Leningrad, of course, but here it was very amusing indeed. There was even a caricature of a security police minister who could only have been his superior Kliment Blagonravov.

They wound up finally at the U Kalicha, made famous by Hasek in ‘The Good Soldier Schweik.” In fact various illustrations from the original classic were framed on the walls.

They had been laughing over their early morning snack, now Ilya Simonov looked at her approvingly. “See here,” he said. “We must do this again.”

“Fine,” she laughed.

“In fact, tomorrow,” he insisted. He looked at his watch. “I mean tonight.”

She laughed at him. “Our great expert from Moscow. Far from improving our operations, there’ll be less accomplished than ever if you make a nightly practice of carrying on like we did this evening.”

He laughed too. “But tonight,” he said insistently.

She shook her head. “Sorry, but I’m already booked up for this evening.”

He scowled for the first time in hours. He’d seemingly forgotten that he hardly knew this girl. What her personal life was, he had no idea. For that matter, she might be engaged or even married. The very idea irritated him.

He said stiffly, “Ah, you have a date?”

Catherina laughed again. “My, what a dark face. If I didn’t know you to be an automobile distributor expert, I would suspect you of being a security police agent.” She shook her head. “Not a date. If by that you mean another man. There is a meeting that I would like to attend.”

“A meeting! It sounds dry as—”

She was shaking her head. “Oh, no. A group I belong to. Very interesting. We’re to be addressed by an American journalist.”

Suddenly he was all but sober.

He tried to smooth over the short space of silence his surprise had precipitated. “An American journalist? Under government auspices?”

“Hardly.” She smiled at him over her glass of Pilsen. “I forget,” she said. “If you’re from Moscow, you probably aren’t aware of how open things are here in Prague. A whiff of fresh air.”

“I don’t understand. Is this group of yours, ah, illegal?”

She shrugged impatiently. “Oh, of course not. Don’t be silly. We gather to hear various speakers, to discuss world affairs. That sort of thing. Oh, of course, theoretically it’s illegal, but for that matter even the head of the Skoda plant attended last week. It’s only for more advanced intellectuals, of course. Very advanced. But, for that matter, I know a dozen or so Party members, both Czech and Russian, who attend.”

“But an American journalist? What’s he doing in the country? Is he accredited?”

“No, no. You misunderstand. He entered as a tourist, came across some Prague newspapermen and as an upshot he’s to give a talk on freedom of the press.”

“I see,” Simonov said.

She was impatient with him. “You don’t understand at all. See here, why don’t you come along tonight? I’m sure I can get you in.”

“It sounds like a good idea,” Ilya Simonov said. He was completely sober now.

He made a written report to Kliment Blagonravov before turning in. He mentioned the rather free discussion of matters political in the Czech capital, using the man he’d met in the beer hall as an example. He reported — although, undoubtedly, Blagonravov would already have the information — hearing of a Polish Tri-D film which had defended the Old Bolsheviks purged in the 1930s. He mentioned the literary magazine, with its caricature of Frol Zverev, and, last of all, and then after hesitation, he reported party member Catherina Panova, who evidently belonged to a group of intellectuals who were not above listening to a talk given by a foreign journalist who was not speaking under the auspices of the Czech Party nor the government.

At the office, later, Catherina grinned at him and made a face. She ticked it off on her fingers. “Reisling, barack, smoked black beer, and borovica gin — we should have known better.”

He went along with her, putting one hand to his forehead. “We should have stuck to vodka.”

“Well,” she said, “tonight we can be virtuous. An intellectual evening, rather than a carouse.”

Actually, she didn’t look at all the worse for wear. Evidently, Catherina Panova was still young enough, that she could pub crawl all night, and still look fresh and alert in the morning. His own mouth felt lined with improperly tanned suède.

He was quickly fitting into the routine of the office. Actually, it worked smoothly enough that little effort was demanded of him. The Czech employees handled almost all the details. Evidently the word of his evening on the town had somehow spread, and the fact that he was prone to a good time had relieved their fears of a martinet sent down from the central offices. They were beginning to relax in his presence.

In fact, they relaxed to the point where one of the girls didn’t even bother to hide the book she was reading during a period where there was a lull in activity. It was Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago.

He frowned remembering vaguely the controversy over the book a couple of decades earlier. Ilya Simonov said, “Pasternak. Do they print his works here in Czechoslovakia?”

The girl shrugged and looked at the back of the cover. “German publisher,” she said idly. “Printed in Frankfurt.”

He kept his voice from registering either surprise or disapproval. “You mean such books are imported? By whom?”

“Oh, not imported by an official agency, but we Czechs are doing a good deal more travel than we used to. Business trips, tourist trips, vacations. And, of course, we bring back books you can’t get here.” She shrugged again. “Very common.”

Siminov said blankly, “But the customs. The border police—”

She smiled in a manner that suggested he lacked sophistication. “They never bother any more. They’re human, too.”

Ilya Simonov wandered off. He was astonished at the extent to which controls were slipping in a satellite country. There seemed practically no discipline, in the old sense, at all. He began to see one reason why his superior had sent him here to Prague. For years, most of his work had been either in Moscow or in the newly opened industrial areas in Siberia. He had lost touch with developments in this part of the Soviet Complex.

It came to him that this sort of thing could work like a geometric progression. Give a man a bit of rope one day, and he expects, and takes, twice as much the next, and twice that the next. And as with individuals, so with whole populations.

This was going to have to be stopped soon, or Party control would disappear. Ilya Simonov felt an edge of uncertainty. Nikita Khrushchev should never had made those first motions of liberalization following Stalin’s death. Not if they eventually culminated in this sort of thing.

He and Catherina drove to her meeting place that evening after dinner.

She explained as they went that the group was quite informal, usually meeting at the homes of group members who had fairly large places in the country. She didn’t seem to know how it had originally begun. The meetings had been going on for a year or more before she arrived in Prague. A Czech friend had taken her along one night, and she’d been attending ever since. There were other, similar groups, in town.

“But what’s the purpose of the organization?” Simonov asked her.

She was driving her little aircushion Moskvich. They crossed over the Vltava River by the Cechuv Bridge and turned right. On the hill above them loomed the fantastically large statue of Stalin which had been raised immediately following the Second War. She grimaced at it, muttered, “I wonder if he was insane from the first.”

He hadn’t understood her change of subject. “How do you mean?” he said.

“Stalin. I wonder how early it was in his career that he went insane.”

This was the second time in the past few days that Ilya Simonov had run into this matter of the former dictator’s mental condition. He said now, “I’ve heard the opinion before. Where did you pick it up?”

“Oh, it’s quite commonly believed in the Western countries.”

“But, have you ever been, ah, West?”

“Oh, from time to time. Berlin, Vienna, Geneva. Even Paris twice, on vacation, you know, and to various conferences. But that’s not what I mean. In the western magazines and newspapers. You can get them here in Prague now. But to get back to your question. There is no particular purpose of the organization.”

She turned the car left on Budenski and sped up into the Holesovice section of town.

The nonchalance of it all was what stopped Ilya Simonov. Here was a Party member calmly discussing whether or not the greatest Russian of them all, after Lenin, had been mad. The implications were, of course, that many of the purges, certainly the latter ones, were the result of the whims of a mental case, that the Soviet Complex had for long years been ruled by a man as unbalanced as Czar Peter the Great.

They pulled up before a rather large house that would have been called a dacha back in Moscow. Evidently, Ilya Simonov decided, whoever was sponsoring this night’s get-together was a man of prominence. He grimaced inwardly. A lot of high placed heads were going to roll before he was through.

It turned out that the host was Leos Dvorak, the internationally famed cinema director and quite an idol of Ilya Simonov in his earlier days when he’d found more time for entertainment It was a shock to meet the man under these circumstances.

Catherina Panova was obviously quite popular among this gathering. Their host gave her an affectionate squeeze in way of greeting, then shook hands with Simonov when Catherina introduced him.

“Newly from Moscow, eh?” the film director said, squinting at the security agent. He had a sharp glance, almost, it seemed to Simonov, as though he detected the real nature of the newcomer. “It’s been several years since I’ve been to Moscow. Are things loosening up there?”

“Loosening up?” Simonov said.

Leos Dvorak laughed and said to Catherina, “Probably not. I’ve always been of the opinion that the Party’s influence would shrivel away first at its extremities. Membership would fall off abroad, in the neutral countries and in Common Europe and the Americas. Then in the so-called satellite countries. Last of all in Russia herself. But, very last, Moscow — the dullest, stodgiest, most backward intellectually, capital city in the world.” The director laughed again and turned away to greet a new guest.

This was open treason. Ilya Simonov had been lucky. Within the first few days of being in the Czech capital he’d contacted one of the groups which he’d been sent to unmask.

Now he said mildly to Catherina Panova, “He seems rather outspoken.”

She chuckled. “Leos is quite strongly opinionated. His theory is that the more successful the Party is in attaining the goals it set half a century ago, the less necessary it becomes. He’s of the opinion that it will eventually atrophy, shrivel away to the point that all that will be needed will be the slightest of pushes to end its domination.”

Ilya Simonov said, “And the rest of the group here, do they agree?”

Catherina shrugged. “Some do, some don’t. Some of them are of the opinion that it will take another blood bath. That the party will attempt to hang onto its power and will have to be destroyed.”

Simonov said evenly, “And you? What do you think?”

She frowned, prettily. “I’m not sure. I suppose I’m still in the process of forming an opinion.”

Their host was calling them together and leading the way to the garden where chairs had been set up. There seemed to be about twenty-five persons present in all. Ilya Simonov had been introduced to no more than half of them. His memory was good and already he was composing a report to Kliment Blagonravov, listing those names he recalled. Some were Czechs, some citizens of other satellite countries, several, including Catherina, were actually Russians.

The American, a newspaperman named Dickson, had an open-faced freshness, hardly plausible in an agent from the West trying to subvert Party leadership. Ilya Simonov couldn’t quite figure him out.

Dickson was introduced by Leos Dvorak who informed his guests that the American had been reluctant but had finally agreed to give them his opinions on the press on both sides of what had once been called the Iron Curtain.

Dickson grinned boyishly and said, “I’m not a public speaker, and, for that matter, I haven’t had time to put together a talk for you. I think what I’ll do is read a little clipping I’ve got here — sort of a text — and then, well, throw the meeting open to questions, I’ll try to answer anything you have to ask.”

He brought forth a piece of paper. “This is from the British writer, Huxley. I think it’s pretty good.” He cleared his voice and began to read.

Mass communication…is simply a force and like any other force, it can be used either well or ill. Used one way, the press, the radio and the cinema are indispensible to the survival of democracy. Used in another way, they are among the most powerful weapons in the dictator’s armory. In the field of mass communications as in almost every other field of enterprise, technological progress has hurt the Little Man and helped the Big Man. As lately as fifty years ago, every democratic country could boast of a great number of small journals and local newspapers. Thousands of country editors expressed thousands of independent opinions. Somewhere or other almost anybody could get almost anything printed. Today the press is still legally free; but most of the little papers have disappeared. The cost of wood pulp, of modem printing machinery and of syndicated news is too high for the Little Man. In the totalitarian East there is political censorship, and the media of mass communications are controlled by the State. In the democratic West there is economic censorship and the media of mass communication are controlled by members of the Power Elite. Censorship by rising costs and the concentration of communication-power in the hands of a few big concerns is less objectionable than State Ownership and government propaganda; but certainly it is not something of which a Jeffersonian democrat could approve.

Ilya Simonov looked blankly at Catherina and whispered, “Why, what he’s reading is as much an attack on the West as it is on us.”

She looked at him and whispered back, “Well, why not? This gathering is to discuss freedom of the press.”

He said blankly, “But as an agent of the West—”

She frowned at him. “Mr. Dickson isn’t an agent of the West. He’s an American journalist.”

“Surely you can’t believe he has no connections with the imperialist governments.”

“Certainly he hasn’t. What sort of meeting do you think this is? We’re not interested in Western propaganda. We’re a group of intellectuals searching for freedom of ideas.”

Ilya Simonov was taken back once again.

Colonel Ilya Simonov dismissed his cab in front of the Ministry and walked toward the gate. Down the street the same plainclothesman who had been lounging there the last time he’d reported, once again took him in, then looked away. The two guards snapped to attention, and the security agent strode by them unnoticing.

At the lieutenant’s desk, before the offices of Kliment Blagonravov, he stopped and said, “Colonel Simonov. I have no appointment but I think the Minister will see me.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” the lieutenant said. He spoke into an inter-office communicator, then looked up. “Minister Blagonravov will be able to see you in a few minutes, sir.”

Ilya Simonov stared nervously and unseeingly out a window while he waited. Gorki Park lay across the way. It, like Moscow in general, had changed a good deal in Simonov’s memory. Everything in Russia had changed a good deal, he realized. And was changing. And what was the end to be? Or was there ever an end? Of course not. There is no end, ever. Only new changes to come.

The lieutenant said, ‘The Minister is free now, Comrade Colonel.”

Ilya Simonov muttered something to him and pushed his way through the heavy door.

Blagonravov looked up from his desk and rumbled affectionately, “Ilya! It’s good to see you. Have a drink! You’ve lost weight, Ilya!”

His top field man sank into the same chair he’d occupied nine months before, and accepted the ice-cold vodka.

Blagonravov poured another drink for himself, then scowled at the other. “Where have you been? When you first went off to Prague, I got reports from you almost every day. These last few months I’ve hardly heard from you.” He rumbled his version of a chuckle. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think there was a woman.”

Ilya Simonov looked at him wanly. “That too, Kliment.”

“You are jesting!”

“No. Not really. I had hoped to become engaged — soon.”

“A Party member? I never thought of you as the marrying type, Ilya.”

Simonov said slowly, “Yes, a Party member. Catherina Panova, my assistant in the automobile agency in Prague.”

Blagonravov scowled heavily at him, put forth his fat lips in a thoughtful pout He came to his feet, approached a file cabinet, fishing from his pocket a key ring. He unlocked the cabinet, brought forth a sheaf of papers with which he returned to his desk. He fumbled through them for a moment, found the paper he wanted and read it He scowled again and looked up at his agent.

“Your first report,” he said. “Catherina Panova. From what you say here, a dangerous reactionary. Certainly she has no place in Party ranks.”

Ilya Simonov said, “Is that the complete file of my assignment?”

“Yes. I’ve kept it here in my own office. I’ve wanted this to be ultra-undercover. No one except you and me. I had hopes of you working your way up into the enemy’s organization, and I wanted no possible chance of you being betrayed. You don’t seem to have been too successful.”

“I was as successful as it’s possible to be.”

The security minister leaned forward. “Ah ha! I knew I could trust you to bring back results, Ilya. This will take Frol Zverev’s pressure off me. Number One has been riding me hard.” Blagonravov poured them both another drink. “You were able to insert yourself into their higher circles?”

Simonov said, “Kliment, there are no higher circles.”

His chief glared at him. “Nonsense!” He tapped the file with a pudgy finger. “In your early reports you described several groups, small organizations, illegal meetings. There must be an upper organization, some movement supported from the West most likely.”

Ilya Simonov was shaking his head. “No. They’re all spontaneous.”

His chief growled, “I tell you there are literally thousands of these little groups. That hardly sounds like a spontaneous phenomenon.”

“Nevertheless, that is what my investigations have led me to believe.”

Blagonravov glowered at him, uncertainly. Finally, he said, “Well, confound it, you’ve spent the better part of a year among them. What’s it all about? What do they want?”

Ilya Simonov said flatly, “They want freedom, Kliment.”

“Freedom! What do you mean, freedom? The Soviet Complex is the most highly industrialized area of the world. Our people have the highest standard of living anywhere. Don’t they understand? We’ve met all the promises we ever made. We’ve reached far and beyond the point ever dreamed of by Utopians. The people, all of the people, have it made as the Americans say.”

“Except for freedom,” Simonov said doggedly. “These groups are springing up everywhere, spontaneously. Thus far, perhaps, our ministry has been able to suppress some of them. But the pace is accelerating. They aren’t inter-organized now. But how soon they’ll start to be, I don’t know. Sooner or later, someone is going to come up with a unifying idea. A new socio-political system to advocate a way of guaranteeing the basic liberties. Then, of course, the fat will be in the fire.”

“Ilya! You’ve been working too hard. I’ve pushed you too much, relied on you too much. You need a good lengthy vacation.”

Simonov shrugged. “Perhaps. But what I’ve just said is the truth.”

His chief snorted heavily. “You half sound as though you agree with them.”

“I do, Kliment.”

“I am in no mood for gags, as the Yankees say.”

Ilya Simonov looked at him wearily. He said slowly, “You sent me to investigate an epidemic, a spreading disease. Very well, I report that it’s highly contagious.”

Blagonravov poured himself more vodka angrily. “Explain yourself. What’s this all about?”

His former best field man said, “Kliment—”

“I want no familiarities from you, Colonel!”

“Yes, sir.” Ilya Simonov went on doggedly. “Man never achieves complete freedom. It’s a goal never reached, but one continually striven for. The moment as small a group as two or three gather together, all of them must give up some of the individual’s freedom. When man associates with millions of his fellow men, he gives up a good many freedoms for the sake of the community. But always he works to retain as much liberty as possible, and to gain more. It’s the nature of our species, I suppose.”

“You sound as though you’ve become corrupted by Western ideas,” the security head muttered dangerously.

Simonov shook his head. “No. The same thing applies over there. Even in countries such as Sweden and Switzerland, where institutions are as free as anywhere in the world, the people are continually striving for more. Governments and socio-economic systems seem continually to whittle away at individual liberty. But always man fights back and tries to achieve new heights for himself.

“In the name of developing our country, the Party all but eliminated freedom in the Soviet Complex, but now the goals have been reached and the people will no longer put up with us, sir.”

“Us!” Kliment Blagonravov growled bitterly. “You are hardly to be considered in the Party’s ranks any longer, Simonov. Why in the world did you ever return here?” He sneered fatly. “Your best bet would have been to escape over the border into the West.”

Simonov looked at the file on the other’s desk. “I wanted to regain those reports I made in the early days of my assignment. I’ve listed in them some fifty names, names of men and women who are now my friends.”

The fat lips worked in and out. “It must be that woman. You’ve become soft in the head, Simonov.” Blagonravov tapped the file beneath his heavy fingers. “Never fear, before the week is out these fifty persons will be either in prison or in their graves.”

With a fluid motion, Ilya Simonov produced a small caliber gun, a special model designed for security agents. An unusual snout proclaimed its quiet virtues as guns go.

“No, Kliment,” Ilya Simonov said.

“Are you mad!”

“No, Kliment, but I must have those reports.” Ilya Simonov came to his feet and reached for them.

With a roar of rage, Kliment Blagonravov slammed open a drawer and dove a beefy paw into it. With shocking speed for so heavy a man, he scooped up a heavy military revolver.

And Colonel Ilya Simonov shot him neatly and accurately in the head. The silenced gun made no more sound than a pop.

Blagonravov, his dying eyes registering unbelieving shock, fell back into his heavy swivel chair.

Simonov worked quickly. He gathered up his reports, checked quickly to see they were all there. Struck a match, lit one of the reports and dropped it into the large ash tray on the desk. One by one he lit them all and, when all were consumed, stirred the ashes until they were completely pulverized.

He poured himself another vodka, downed it, stiff wristed, then without turning to look at the dead man again, made his way to the door.

He slipped out and said to the lieutenant, “The Minister says that he is under no circumstances to be disturbed for the next hour.”

The lieutenant frowned at him. “But he has an appointment.”

Colonel Ilya Simonov shrugged. “Those were his instructions. Not to be bothered under any circumstances.”

“But it was an appointment with Number One!”

That was bad. And unforeseen. Ilya Simonov said, “It’s probably been canceled. All I’m saying is that Minister Blagonravov instructs you not to bother him under any circumstances for the next hour.”

He left the other and strode down the corridor, keeping himself from too obvious a quickened pace.

At the entrance to the Ministry, he shot his glance up and down the street. He was in the clutch now, and knew it. He had few illusions.

Not a cab in sight. He began to cross the road toward the park. In a matter of moments there, he’d be lost in the trees and shrubbery. He had rather vague plans. Actually, he was playing things as they came. There was a close friend in whose apartment he could hide, a man who owed him his life. He could disguise himself. Possibly buy or borrow a car. If he could get back to Prague, he was safe. Perhaps he and Catherina could defect to the West.

Somebody was screaming something from a window in the Ministry.

Ilya Simonov quickened his pace. He was nearly across the street now. He thought, foolishly, Whoever that is shouting is so excited he sounds more like a woman than a man.

Another voice took up the shout. It was the plainclothes-man. Feet began pounding.

There were two more shouts. The guards. But he was across now. The shrubs were only a foot away.

The shattering blackness hit him in the back of the head. It was over immediately.

Afterward, the plainclothesman and the two guards stood over him. Men began pouring from the Ministry in their direction.

Colonel Ilya Simonov was a meaningless, bloody heap on the edge of the park’s grass.

The guard who had shot said, “He killed the Minister. He must have been crazy to think he could get away with it. What did he want?”

“Well, we’ll never know now,” the plainclothesman grunted.

But that’s not science fiction?

I have already elaborated on the several ways in which this question can irritate or annoy. Perversely, it was saddening that no one asked it of me about Mr. Reynolds’ story. It would seem we are so thoroughly alienated from the Russians that a simple political yarn, involving no space travel, wonderful invention, time machine, psi power, or oven far-future speculation, but just the simplest extrapolation from the present situation, should seem as imaginatively remote as an analogy set on Mars. (Which raises the question: Is it science fiction if the author has been to Mars? Whether the reader has or not?) This next selection, in any case, is certainly not science fiction — perhaps not even fiction. Mademoiselle called it a short story; I should incline more to “satirical essay.”)

Mr. Durrell is probably the leading exponent of the shifting viewpoint among contemporary mainstream writers. His famous Alexandria Quartet is essentially a view of love through four different persons’ eyes. But before he turned to his examination of love, the author had an unusual opportunity to study some of the less congenial emotions. Like Mr. Reynolds, he was a “traveling man,” but under rather different auspices: Press Officer for the British Foreign Service, and lecturer for the British Council, in Athens, Cairo, Rhodes, Belgrade, among other places.

What I very much enjoy on the second Saturday of the month (said Antrobus) is the little walk across to the Strand for a haircut and a spiritual revamping chez the good Fenner. Everything about the operation is reassuring, soothing. As you know, Fenner himself is clearly a mixture of Old Father Time and Dr. Freud. The whole Office has, at one time or another, passed through his purposeful scissors. You know how fanatically faithful to tradition the F.O. is; well, Fenner is a tradition. Why, last week when Toby Featherblow’s wife, Constance, popped number four and the thing was found to be positively covered in hair, it was to Fenner that they rushed to have the features disinterred for the purposes of licensing and registration. Otherwise the registrar might have refused to accept what was, to all intents and purposes, an ape. Yes, you can count on old Fenner. He never flinches before reality.

As for the Emporium — with its potted palms, painted mirrors, its pictures of Eights Week in the nineties, its dominating portrait of Gladstone staring out through (or perhaps round?) a Fenner hairdo — what is one to say? It radiates calm and the soothing smell of bay rum or Fenner’s Scalp Syrup and Follicle Food combined. Nor does one overhear any low conversation there — just a few choice anecdotes about the Dutch Royal Family, carefully phrased. Fenner is strict; once I remember that two military attaches were expelled from their stools for trying to exchange betting slips. Fenner’s scorn was so withering that one of them cried.

But all this one learns to value truly only when one has served abroad — for not the least of the hazards the poor dip has to face is that of foreign barbary. My dear chap, as you walk in, you can scan the row of seated clients and tell at a glance where some of them have been serving. The singular bottlebrush effect of a Siamese haircut, for example, will take ages to grow out and is quite unmistakable. Fenner will shake his head commiseratingly and say, “Bangkok, I take it, sir?” The poor chap will sit with trembling lip and nod sadly. “We will see what can be done to save you, sir,” says Fenner and releases a faintly flocculent blast from a pressurized syringe, which at once brings back the flush of health to the raped scalp. You have experienced it. You will know what I mean.

It varies, too, with every country, as do the habits of the various artists. In Italy your barber is apt to sing — a dangerous habit and excruciating for the tone-deaf; moreover he may add gestures to his little aria of a sudden and lop off an earlobe with a fine air of effortless self-distinction. Personally, I would rather have the stuff grow all the way down my back and into my chair than trust an Italian when overcome with emotion and garlic. I have seen it happen. A cousin of Polk-Mowbray still bears a cropped right ear; indeed, he is lucky to have as much of it left as he has — only a wild swerve prevented its total disappearance. Talk about living dangerously!

In places like Germany, for example, one is lucky to be able to get away without a severed carotid. As for the Balkans, they, too, have their fearsome methods, and I have known cases where people took to beards and shingles rather than face up to reality. Of course, the moment they get leave they fly back to Fenner, who cuts back all the undergrowth and serenely removes whatever may have been picked up by the static electricity. At least that was the excuse that Munnings-Mather gave for all the hairpins and Gramophone needles Fenner found in his beard.

As for the French — they leave me speechless, positively beating the air. They will either do you a style pompier, piling the muck up on the top of your head and pressure-greasing it until you leave marks on the ceiling of every lift you enter, or else they treat you to a razor cut of such topiary ferocity that you come out feeling sculpted. They cut into the stuff as if it were cheese. No. No. You can have Paris. Let me keep my modest tonsure and my Short-Back-and-Sides Outlook. The style Fenner (vintage 1904) is my sort of thing.

Why, in Vulgaria, once, things got so bad that Polk-Mowbray was driven, positively driven, to Take Steps — and you know how much he hated the naked thrust of Action. It was during the Civil War when the country was Communist all the week and Royalist at the weekends. Every Saturday morning the Royalist troops came down from the hills and took the Praesidium; every Monday morning they were driven back with heavy losses. Monday was payday for the Communist forces, Saturday that of the Royalist army. This had a strange effect on the hairdressing business, for during the week you only found heavily nationalized barbers at work, while at the weekend you could borrow the live Royal barbers from the other side. The Communists used an unpretentious pudding-basin cut which had been worked out in terms of the dialectic, lightly driving a harrow across the scalp and then weeding with finger and thumb. They were short of instruments because the Five-Year Plan hadn’t started to work due to lack of foreign capital. Anyway, during the week you were in the hands of some horny peasant, while if you waited till Sunday you could get a sort of Viennese pompadour which fanned away into wings at the back like a tail coat and carried sideburns of a corkscrew pattern which once made Polk-Mowbray look so like Elizabeth Barrett Browning that the British Council man, Gool, suggested… but that is another story.

Yes, the Balkan barber, conditioned by the hirsute nature of his client, has developed a truly distressing style of action — suited to the nature of the terrain I don’t doubt, but nonetheless frightful to those who have been decently brought up. They positively plunge into one’s nostrils, hacking and snipping as if they were clearing a path in the jungle; then before one can say “moustache cup” they crawl into one’s ears, remorselessly pruning at what (to judge by the sound) must be something as intractable as a forest of holm oak. I could tell you grim tales of punctured eardrums, of inhaled hair, but I shall spare you. You know.

But I think you had left before Polk-Mowbray entered his Do-It-Yourself phase; the state of Vulgarian barbary must have touched him off. He saw an advertisement for an instrument called, I think, The Gents Super Hair Regulator, which from the brochure appeared to be an ingenious comb and razor blade in one; you trimmed as you combed, so to speak. Nothing simpler, nothing more calculated to please. Polk-Mowbray, deeply moved by the discovery, ordered a dozen, one for each member of the Chancery. He was beside himself with pride and joy. Speaking from a full heart, he said: “From today our troubles are over. I want each one of you from now on to use his little Regulator and so boycott these heathen barbers of Vulgaria.” Well, I don’t know if you know the Regulator? No? Be warned then. It is not a toy for frolicking amateurs. The keenest professional skill is needed to work it. Otherwise, it takes huge lumps out of your hair in the most awkward places, leaving gaunt patches of white scalp glimmering through. By lunchtime on that fatal day, the whole Chancery looked as if it had been mowed down by ringworm or mange. Worse still, de Mandeville contracted a sort of scalp-rot which turned his whole skull green. A sort of deathly verdigris set in. He had to keep his hair in a green baize bag for over a week while Fenner’s Follicle Food did its healing work— lucky I had brought a bottle with me. But, of course, the sight nearly drove Polk-Mowbray berserk, especially as at that time the two were at daggers drawn. De Mandeville had sworn to try and drive his chief mad by a sort of verbal Chinese torture. To every remark made to him, he would only reply “Charmed, I’m sure,” with a kind of snakelike sibilance. It doesn’t sound much, but I assure you that after a few days of endless repetition of this phrase (accompanied by the fearful sight of the green baize bag on his head), Polk-Mowbray was practically beaten to his knees.

But probably the most horrifying instance of mass barbary that I recall was what befell the little party of guileless Finns who submitted themselves to a Vulgarian perm in preparation for the National Lepers’ Day Ball. That could not be bettered as an illustration of the Things One Is Up Against in the Service. Five of them, including the Ambassadress, were partially electrocuted owing to a faulty fuse. How is it, I ask myself, that they did not know that the light and power arrangements of Vulgaria were so capricious? Yet, they did not. Polk-Mowbray, who was wooing the Communists, had given the Minister for Interior an electric razor which, whenever it was plugged in, fused the lights of the capital. Something of this order must have happened to the innocent Finns. With their crowning glories tied into those sort of pressurized domes attached to the ceiling by a live wire, they were suddenly aware that everything was turning red-hot and beginning to smoke fearfully; the atmosphere was rapidly beginning to resemble that of a Turkish bath that has got out of control. But the Finns are normally an unemotional race and not much given to fruitless ratiocination. It was not until sparks an inch long began to sprout from their fingers that they began to wonder dimly if all was well. By then it was too late.

They were far too hot to hold. The barbers who manfully tried to disengage them retired hastily with burns and shock. In fact they might have been there to this day, fried to a crisp, had not the Diplomatic Corps been passing at that moment in full tenue. We were winding our way across the town to lay a rather limp wreath on the Leper Memorial when we saw the smoke and heard the shrill ululations of the feckless barbers. It was more than lucky, too, that Dovebasket should have a pair of rubberized pliers in his uniform pocket. He darted into the smoke-filled cavern and brought his mechanical genius to bear on the situation, snipping the live wires which attached our poor colleagues to the roof. The Finns rolled moaning to the floor in their golden domes, looking like so much science fiction. “Give them air,” we all cried shrilly, and willing hands carried them out and laid them in a row upon the pavements. All this had the superficial air of being a mass burial, and I personally believe that had it been anyone but the Finns, that would indeed have been the case. But the Finns can take anything with equanimity. Water was carefully poured over them from plastic buckets. They smoked, they smelled like chops frying, but at last they came to their senses.

We did not see them again until the ball that night which closed Leper Week. My dear chap, you have never imagined such hair. It was positively psychoanalytic. Golden wigs of such hellish, blinding, metallic brilliance. The demon barbers had certainly done their work… Ah I But I see that Fenner is free at last. More of this anon.

“Social science fiction” is too often thought of as limited either to angry satire or to ponderous Utopian novels. Certainly the Pohl-Kornbluth combination has been noted primarily for a highly specialized kind of satirical novel set in a stiflingly overpopulated, advertising-drenched, cold-war-like future.

This kind of novel, whose objective is to pinpoint some of the more flagrant of our cultural absurdities, must of necessity assume the continuation of some sort of peace on Earth, however uneasy or precarious (just as the last group of stories here have done). The novelette that follows is unusual in several respects:

First, it is an atom-war story which is neither about the onset of the war nor its aftermath, but the war itself.

Second, it is a straightforward, serious, subjectively sympathetic Pohl-Kornbluth collaboration (completed by Mr. Pohl after Mr. Kornbluth’s sudden death).

Third, it is concerned less with the effects on our society of another war, than with those of our culture on such a war.

LIEUTENANT JOHN KRAMER did crossword puzzles during at least eighty per cent of his waking hours. His cubicle in Bachelor Officers Quarters was untidy; one wall was stacked solid with newspapers and magazines to which he subscribed for their puzzle pages. He meant, from week to week, to clean them out but somehow never found time. The ern, or erne, a sea eagle, soared vertically through his days and by night the ai, a three-toed sloth, crept horizontally. In edes, or Dutch communes, dyers retted ecru, quaffing ades by the tun and thought was postponed.

John Kramer was in disgrace and, at thirty-eight, well on his way to becoming the oldest first lieutenant in the North American (and Allied) Army. He had been captured in ‘82 as an aftermath of the confused fighting around Tsingtao. A few exquisitely unpleasant months passed and he then delivered three TV lectures for the yutes. In them he announced his total conversion to Neo-Utilitarianism, denounced the North American (and Allied) military command as a loathesome pack of war-waging, anti-utilitarian mad dogs, and personally admitted the waging of viral warfare against the United Utilitarian Republics.

The yutes, or Utilitarians, had been faithful to their principles. They had wanted Kramer only for what he could do for them, not for his own sweet self, and when they had got the juice out of him they exchanged him. In ‘83 he came out of his fog at Fort Bradley, Utah, to find himself being court-martialed.

He was found guilty as charged, and sentenced to a reprimand. The lightness of the sentence was something to be a little proud of, if not very much. It stood as a grudging tribute to the months he had held out against involutional melancholia in the yute Blank Tanks. For exchanged PW’s, the severity of their courts-martial was in inverse proportion to the duration of their ordeal in Utilitarian hands. Soldiers who caved in after a couple of days of sense-starvation could look forward only to a firing squad. Presumably a returned soldier dogged (or rigid) enough to be driven into hopeless insanity without cooperating would have been honorably acquitted by his court, but such a case had not yet come up.

Kramer’s “reprimand” was not the face-to-face bawling-out suggested to a civilian by the word. It was a short letter with numbered paragraphs which said (1) you are reprimanded, (2) a copy of this reprimand will be punched on your profile card. This tagged him forever as a foul ball, destined to spend the rest of his military life shuffling from one dreary assignment to another, without hope of promotion or reward.

He no longer cared. Or thought he did not; which came to the same thing.

He was not liked in the Officers Club. He was bad company. Young officers passing through Bradley on their way to glory might ask him, “What’s it really like in a Blank Tank, Kramer?” But beyond answering, “You go nuts,” what was there to talk about? Also he did not drink, because when he drank he went on to become drunk, and if he became drunk he would cry.

So he did a crossword puzzle in bed before breakfast, dressed, went to his office, signed papers, did puzzles until lunch, and so on until the last one in bed at night. Nominally he was Commanding Officer of the 561^st Provisional Reception Battalion. Actually he was (with a few military overtones) the straw boss of a gang of clerks in uniform who saw to the arrival, bedding, feeding, equipping, inoculation and transfer to a training unit of one thousand scared kids per week.

On a drizzle-swept afternoon in the spring of ‘85 Kramer was sounding one of those military overtones. It was his appointed day for a “surprise” inspection of Company D of his battalion. Impeccable in dress blues, he was supposed to descend like a thunderbolt on this company or that, catching them all unaware, striding arrogantly down the barracks aisle between bunks, white-gloved and eagle-eyed for dust, maddened at the sight of disarray, vengeful against such contraband as playing cards or light reading matter. Kramer knew, quite well, that one of his orderly room clerks always telephoned the doomed company to warn that he was on his way. He did not particularly mind it. What he minded was unfair definitions of key words, and ridiculously variant spellings.

The permanent-party sergeant of D Company bawled “Tench-hut!” when Kramer snapped the door open and stepped crisply into the ‘barracks. Kramer froze his face into its approved expression of controlled annoyance and opened his mouth to give the noncom his orders. But the sergeant had miscalculated. One of the scared kids was still frantically mopping the aisle.

Kramer halted. The kid spun around in horror, made some kind of attempt to present arms with the mop and failed.

The mop shot from his soapy hands like a slung baseball bat, and its soggy gray head schlooped against the lieutenant’s dress-blue chest.

The kid turned white and seemed about to faint on the damp board floor. The other kids waited to see him destroyed.

Kramer was mildly irritated. “At ease,” he said. “Pick up that mop. Sergeant, confound it, next time they buzz you from the orderly room don’t cut it so close.”

The kids sighed perceptibly and glanced covertly at each other in the big bare room, beginning to suspect it might not be too bad after all. Lieutenant Kramer then resumed the expression of a nettled bird of prey and strode down the aisle. Long ago he had worked out a “random” selection of bunks for special attention and now followed it through habit. If he had thought about it any more, he would have supposed that it was still spy-proof; but every noncom in his cadre had long since discovered that Kramer stopped at either every second bunk on the right and every third on the left, or every third bunk on the right and every second on the left-depending on whether the day of the month was odd or even. This would not have worried Kramer if he had known it; but he never even noticed that the men beside the bunks he stopped at were always the best-shaved, best-policed and healthiest looking in each barracks.

Regardless, he delivered a certain quota of meaningless demerits which were gravely recorded by the sergeant. Of blue-eyed men on the left and brown-eyed men on the right (this, at least, had not been penetrated by the noncoms) he went on to ask their names and home towns. Before discovering crossword puzzles he had memorized atlases, and so he had something to say about every home town he had yet encountered. In this respect at least he considered himself an above-average officer, and indeed he was.

It wasn’t the Old Army, not by a long shot, but when the draft age went down to fifteen some of the Old Army’s little ways had to go. One experimental reception station in Virginia was trying out a Barracks Mother system. Kramer, thankful for small favors, was glad they hadn’t put him on that project. Even here he was expected, at the end of the inspection, to call the “men” around him and ask if anything was bothering them. Something always was. Some gangling kid would scare up the nerve to ask, gee, lieutenant, I know what the Morale Officer said, but exactly why didn’t we ever use the megaton-head missiles, and another would want to know how come Lunar Base was such a washout, tactically speaking, sir. And then he would have to rehearse the dry “recommended discussion themes” from the briefing books; and then, finally, one of them, nudged on by others, would pipe up, “Lieutenant, what’s it like in the Blank Tanks?” And he would know that already, forty-eight hours after induction, the kids all knew about what Lieutenant John Kramer had done.

But today he was spared. When he was halfway through the rigmarole the barracks phone rang and the sergeant apologetically answered it.

He returned from his office-cubicle on the double, looking vaguely frightened. “Compliments of General Grote’s secretary, sir, and will you please report to him at G-l as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, sergeant. Step outside with me a moment.” Out on the duckboard walk, with the drizzle trickling down his neck, he asked: “Sergeant, who is General Grote?”

“Never heard of him, sir.”

Neither had Lieutenant Kramer.

He hurried to Bachelor Officers Quarters to change his sullied blue jacket, not even pausing to glance at the puzzle page of the Times, which had arrived while he was at “work.” Generals were special. He hurried out again into the drizzle.

Around him and unnoticed were the artifacts of an Army base at war. Sky-eye search radars popped from their silos to scan the horizons for a moment and then retreat, the burden of search taken up by the next in line. Helicopter sentries on guard duty prowled the barbed-wire perimeter of the camp. Fort Bradley was not all reception center. Above-ground were the barracks, warehouses and rail and highway termini for processing recruits-ninety thousand men and all their goods-but they were only the skin over the fort itself. They were, as the scared kids told each other in the dayrooms, naked to the air. If the yutes ever did spring a megaton attack, they would become a thin coating of charcoal on the parade ground, but they would not affect the operation of the real Fort Bradley a bit.

The real Fort Bradley was a hardened installation beneath meters of reinforced concrete, some miles of rambling warrens that held the North American (and Allied) Army’s G-l. Its business was people: the past, present and future of every soul in the Army.

G-l decided that a fifteen-year-old in Duluth was unlikely to succeed in civilian schools and drafted him. G-l punched his Army tests and civilian records on cards, consulted its card-punched tables of military requirements and assigned him, perhaps, to Machinist Training rather than Telemetering School. G-l yanked a platoon leader halfway around the world from Formosa and handed him a commando for a raid on the yutes’ Polar Station Seven. G-l put foulball Kramer at the “head” of the 561^st PRB. G-l promoted and allocated and staffed and rewarded and punished.

Foulball Kramer approached the guardbox at the elevators to the warrens and instinctively squared his shoulders and smoothed his tie.

General Grote, he thought. He hadn’t seen a general officer since he’d been commissioned. Not close up.

Colonels and majors had court-martialed him. He didn’t know who Grote was, whether he had one star or six, whether he was Assignment, Qualifications, Training, Evaluation, Psychological-or Disciplinary.

Military Police looked him over at the elevator head. They read him like a book. Kramer wore his record on his chest and sleeves. Dull gold bars spelled out the overseas months-for his age and arm-, the Infantry, not enough. “Formosa,” said a green ribbon, and “the storming of the beach” said a small bronze spearpoint on it. A brown ribbon told them “Chinese Mainland,” and the stars on it meant that he had engaged in three of the five mainland campaigns-presumably Canton, Mukden and Tsingtao, since they were the first. After that, nothing. Especially not the purple ribbon that might indicate a wound serious enough to keep him out of further fighting.

The ribbons, his age and the fact that he was still a first lieutenant were grounds enough for the MP’s to despise him. An officer of thirty-eight should be a captain at least. Many were majors and some were colonels. “You can go down, Lieutenant,” they told the patent foulball, and he went down to the interminable concrete tunnels of G-l.

A display machine considered the name General Grote when he typed it on its keyboard, and told him with a map where the general was to be found. It was a longish walk through the tunnels. While he walked past banks of clicking card-sorters and their servants he pondered other information the machine had gratuitously supplied: GROTE, Lawrence W, Lt Gen, 0-459732, Unassigned.

It did not lessen any of Kramer’s puzzles. A three-star general, then. He couldn’t possibly have anything to do with disciplining a lousy first-John. Lieutenant generals ran Army Groups, gigantic ad hoc assemblages of up to a hundred divisions, complete with air forces, missile groups, amphibious assault teams, even carrier and missile-sub task forces. The fact of Ms rank indicated that, whoever he was, he was an immensely able and tenacious person. He had gone through at least a twenty-year threshing of the wheat from the chaff, all up the screening and evaluation boards from second lieutenant to, say, lieutenant colonel, and then the murderous grind of accelerated courses at Command and General Staff School, the fanatically rigid selection for the War College, an obstacle course designed not to tram the substandard up to competence but to keep them out. It was just this side of impossible for a human being to become a lieutenant general. And yet a few human beings in every generation did bulldoze their way through that little gap between the impossible and the almost impossible. And such a man was unassigned?

Kramer found the office at last. A motherly, but sharp-eyed, WAC major told him to go right in.

John Kramer studied his three-star general while going through the ancient rituals of reporting-as-or-dered. General Grote was an old man, straight, spare, white-haired, tanned. He wore no overseas bars. On his chest were all the meritorious service ribbons his country could bestow, but none of the decorations of the combat soldier. This was explained by a modest sunburst centered over the ribbons. General Grote was, had always been, General Staff Corps. A desk man.

“Sit down, Lieutenant,” Grote said, eyeing him casually. “You’ve never heard of me, I assume.”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“As I expected,” said Grote complacently. “I’m not a dashing tank commander or one of those flying generals who leads his own raids. I’m one of the people who moves the dashing tank commanders and flying generals around the board like chess pieces. And now, confound it, I’m going to be a dashing combat leader at last. You may smoke if you like.”

Kramer obediently lit up.

“Dan Medway,” said the general, “wants me to start from scratch, build up a striking force and hit the Asian mainland across the Bering Strait.”

Kramer was horrified twice-first by the reference to The Supreme Commander as “Dan” and second by the fact that he, a lieutenant, was being told about high strategy.

“Relax,” the general said. “Why you’re here, now. You’re going to be my aide.”

Kramer was horrified again. The general grinned.

“Your card popped out of the machinery,” he said, and that was all there was to say about that, “and so you’re going to be a highly privileged character and everybody will detest you. That’s the way it is with aides. You’ll know everything I know. And vice versa; that’s the important part. You’ll run errands for me, do investigations, serve as hatchet man, see that my pajamas are pressed without starch and make coffee the way I like it-coarse grind, brought to the boil for just a moment in an old-fashioned coffee pot. Actually what you’ll do is what I want you to do from day to day. For these privileges you get to wear a blue fourragere around your left shoulder which marks you as a man not to be trifled with by colonels, brigadiers or MP’s. That’s the way it is with aides. And, I don’t know if you have any outside interests, women or chess or drinking. The machinery didn’t mention any. But you’ll have to give them up if you do.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kramer. And it seemed wildly possible that he might never touch pencil to puzzle again. With something to do-

“We’re Operation Ripsaw,” said the general. “So far, that’s me, Margaret out there in the office and you. In addition to other duties, you’ll keep a diary of Ripsaw, by the way, and I want you to have a summary with you at all times in case I need it. Now call in Margaret, make a pot of coffee, there’s a little stove thing in the washroom there, and I’ll start putting together my general staff.”

It started as small and as quietly as that.

It was a week before Kramer got back to the 561^st long enough to pick up his possessions, and then he left the stacks of Timeses and Saturday Reviews where they lay, puzzles and all. No time. The first person to hate him was Margaret, the motherly major. For all her rank over him, she was a secretary and he was an aide with a fourragere who had the general’s willing ear. She began a policy of nonresistance that was noncooperation, too; she would not deliberately obstruct him, but she would allow him to poke through the files for ten minutes before volunteering the information that the folder he wanted was already on the general’s desk. This interfered with the smooth performance of Kramer’s duties, and of course the general spotted it at once.

“It’s nothing,” said Kramer when the general called him on it. “I don’t like to say anything.”

“Go on,” General Grote urged. “You’re not a soldier any more; you’re a rat.”

“I think I can handle it, sir.”

The general motioned silently to the coffee pot and waited while Kramer fixed him a cup, two sugars, no cream. He said: “Tell me everything, always. All the dirty rumors about inefficiency and favoritism. Your suspicions and hunches. Anybody that gets in your way-or more important, in mine. In the underworld they shoot stool-pigeons, but here we give them blue cords for their shoulders. Do you understand?”

Kramer did. He did not ask the general to intercede with the motherly major, or transfer her; but he did handle it himself. He discovered it was very easy. He simply threatened to have her sent to Narvik.

With the others it was easier. Margaret had resented him because she was senior in Operation Ripsaw to him, but as the others were sucked in they found him there already. Instead of resentment, their attitude toward him was purely fear.

The next people to hate him were the aides of Grote’s general staff because he was a wild card in the deck. The five members of the staff-Chief, Personnel, Intelligence, Plans & Training and Operations-proceeded with their orderly, systematic jobs day by day, building Ripsaw. . until the inevitable moment when Kramer would breeze in with, “Fine job, but the general suggests-” and the unhorsing of many assumptions, and the undoing of many days’ work. That was his job also. He was a bird of ill omen, a coiled snake in fair grass, a hired killer and a professional betrayer of confidences-though it was not long before there were no confidences to betray, except from an occasional young, new officer who hadn’t learned his way around, and those not worth betraying. That, as the general had said, was the way it was with aides. Kramer wondered sometimes if he liked what he was doing, or liked himself for doing it. But he never carried the thought through. No time.

Troops completed basic training or were redeployed from rest areas and entrained, emplaned, em-bussed or embarked for the scattered staging areas of Ripsaw. Great forty-wheeled trucks bore nuclear cannon up the Alcan Highway at a snail’s pace. Air groups and missile sections launched on training exercises over Canadian wasteland that closely resembled tundra, with grid maps that bore names like Maina Pylgin and Kamenskoe. Yet these were not Ripsaw, not yet, only the separate tools that Ripsaw would someday pick up and use.

Ripsaw itself moved to Wichita and a base of its own when its headquarters staff swelled to fifteen hundred men and women. Most of them hated Kramer.

It was never perfectly clear to Kramer what his boss had to do with the show. Kramer made his coffee, carried his briefcase, locked and unlocked his files, delivered to him those destructive tales and delivered for him those devastating suggestions, but never understood just why there had to be a Commanding General of Ripsaw.

The time they went to Washington to argue an allocation of seventy rather than sixty armored divisions for Ripsaw, for instance, General Grote just sat, smiled and smoked his pipe. It was his chief of staff, the young and brilliant major general Cartmill, who passionately argued the case before D. Beauregard Medway, though when Grote addressed his superior it still was as “Dan.” (They did get the ten extra divisions, of course.)

Back in Wichita, it was Cartmill who toiled around, the clock coordinating. A security lid was clamped down early in the game. The fifteen hundred men and women in the Wichita camp stayed in the Wichita camp. Commerce with the outside world, except via coded messages to other elements of Ripsaw, was a capital offense-as three privates learned the hard way. But through those coded channels Cartmill reached out to every area of the North American (and Allied) world. Personnel scoured the globe for human components that might be fitted into Ripsaw. Intelligence gathered information about that tract of Siberia which they were to invade, and the waters they were to cross. Plans & Training slaved at methods of effecting the crossing and invasion efficiently, with the least (or at any rate the optimum least, consistent with requirements of speed, security and so on) losses in men and materiel. Operations studied and restudied the various ways the crossing and invasion might go right or wrong, and how a good turn of fortune could be exploited, a bad turn minimized. General Cartmill was in constant touch with all of them, his fingers on every cord in the web. So was John Kramer.

Grote ambled about all this with an air of pleased surprise.

Kramer discovered one day that there had been books written about his boss-not best sellers with titles like “Bloody Lorry” Grote, Sword of Freedom, but thick, gray mimeographed staff documents, in Chinese and Russian, for top-level circulation among yute commanders. He surprised Grote reading one of them — in Chinese.

The general was not embarrassed. “Just refreshing my memory of what the yutes think I’m like so I can cross them up by doing something different. Listen: ‘Characteristic of this officer’s philosophy of attack is varied tactics. Reference his lecture, Lee’s 1862 Campaigns, delivered at Fort Leavenworth Command & General Staff School, attached. Opposing commanders should not expect a force under him to do the same-’ Hmm. Tsueng, water radical.’-under him to press the advance the same way twice.’ Now all I have to do is make sure we attack by the book, like Grant instead of Lee, slug it out without any brilliant variations. See how easy it is, John? How’s the message center?”

Kramer had been snooping around the message center at Grote’s request. It was a matter of feeding out cigarettes and smiles in return for an occasional incautious word or a hint; gumshoe work. The message center was an underground complex of encoders, decoders, transmitters, receivers and switchboards. It was staffed by a Signal Corps WAC battalion in three shifts around lie clock. The girls were worked hard-though a battalion should have been enough for the job. Messages went from and to the message center linking the Wichita brain with those seventy divisions training now from Capetown to Manitoba, a carrier task force conducting exercises in the Antarctic, a fleet of landing craft growing every day on the Gulf of California. The average time-lag between receipt of messages and delivery to the Wichita personnel at destination was 12.25 minutes. The average number of erroneous transmissions detected per day was three.

Both figures General Grote considered intolerable.

“It’s Colonel Bucknell that’s lousing it up, General. She’s trying too hard. No give. Physical training twice a day, for instance, and a very hard policy on excuses. A stern attitude’s filtered down from her to the detachments. Everybody’s chewing out subordinates to keep themselves covered. The working girls call Bucknell ‘the monster.’ Their feeling is the Army’s impossible to please, so what the hell.”

“Relieve her,” Grote said amiably. “Make her mess officer; Ripsaw chow’s rotten anyway.” He went back to his Chinese text.

And suddenly it all began to seem as if it really might someday rise and strike out across the Strait. From Lieutenant Kramer’s Ripsaw Diary:

At AM staff meeting CG RIPSAW xmitted order CG NAAARMY designating RIPSAW D day 15 May 1986. Gen CARTMILL observed this date allowed 45 days to form troops in final staging areas assuming RIPSAW could be staged in 10 days. CG RIPSAW stated that a 10-day staging seemed feasible. Staff concurred. CG RIPSAW so ordered. At 1357 hours CG NAAARMY concurrence received.

They were on the way.

As the days grew shorter Grote seemed to have less and less to do, and curiously so did Kramer. He had not expected this. He had been aide-de-camp to the general for nearly a year now, and he fretted when he could find no fresh treason to bring to the general’s ears. He redoubled his prowling tours of the kitchens, the BOQ, the motor pools, the message center, but not even the guard mounts or the shine on the shoes of the soldiers at Retreat parade was in any way at fault. Kramer could only imagine that he was missing things. It did not occur to him that, as at last they should be, the affairs of Ripsaw had gathered enough speed to keep them straight and clean, until the general called him in one night and ordered him to pack. Grote put on his spectacles and looked over them at Kramer. “D plus five,” he said, “assuming all goes well, we’re moving this headquarters to Kiska. I want you to take a look-see. Arrange a plane. You can leave tomorrow.”

It was, Kramer realized that night as he undressed, Just Something to Do. Evidently the hard part of his job was at an end. It was now only a question of fighting the battle, and for that the field commanders were much more important than he. For the first time in many months he thought it would be nice to do a crossword puzzle, but instead fell asleep.

It was an hour before leaving the next day that Kramer met Ripsaw’s “cover.”

The “cover” was another lieutenant general, a bristling and wiry man named Clough, with a brilliant combat record staked out on his chest and sleeves for the world to read. Kramer came in when his buzzer sounded, made coffee for the two generals and was aware that Grote and Clough were old pals and that the Ripsaw general was kidding the pants off his guest.

“You always were a great admirer of Georgie Patton,” Grote teased. “You should be glad to follow in his footsteps. Your operation will go down in history as big and important as his historic cross-Channel smash into Le Havre.”

Kramer’s thoughts were full of himself-he did not much like getting even so close to the yutes as Kiska, where he would be before the sun set that night — but his ears pricked up. He could not remember any cross-Channel smash into Le Havre. By Patton or anybody else.

“Just because I came to visit your show doesn’t mean you have to rib me, Larry,” Clough grumbled.

“But it’s such a pleasure, Mick.”

Clough opened his eyes wide and looked at Grote. “I’ve generated against Novotny before. If you want to know what I think of him, I’ll tell you,” Pause.

Then Grote, gently: “Take it easy, Mick. Look at my boy there. See him quivering with curiosity?”

Kramer’s back was turned. He hoped his blush would subside before he had to turn around with the coffee. It did not.

“Caught red-faced,” Grote said happily, and winked at the other general. Clough looked stonily back. “Shall we put him out of his misery, Mick? Shall we fill him in on the big picture?”

“Might as well get it over with.”

“I accept your gracious assent.” Grote waved for Kramer to help himself to coffee and to sit down. Clearly he was unusually cheerful today, Kramer thought. Grote said: “Lieutenant Kramer, General Clough is the gun-captain of a Quaker cannon which covers Ripsaw. He looks like a cannon. He acts like a cannon. But he isn’t loaded. Like his late idol George Patton at one point in his career, General Clough is the commander of a vast force which exists on paper and in radio transmissions alone.”

Clough stirred uneasily, so Grote became more serious. “We’re brainwashing Continental Defense Commissar Novotny by serving up to him his old enemy as the man he’ll have to fight. The yute radio intercepts are getting a perfect picture of an assault on Polar Nine being prepared under old Mick here. That’s what they’ll prepare to counter, of course. Ripsaw will catch them flatfooted.”

Clough stirred again but did not speak.

Grote grinned. “All right. We hope,” he conceded. “But there’s a lot of planning in this thing. Of course, it’s a waste of the talent of a rather remarkably able general-” Clough gave him a lifted-eyebrow look- “but you’ve got to have a real man at the head of the fake army group or they won’t believe it. Anyway, it worked with Patton and the Nazis. Some unkind people have suggested that Patton never did a better bit of work than sitting on his knapsack in England and letting his name be used.”

“All full of beans with a combat command, aren’t you?” Clough said sourly. “Wait’11 the shooting starts.”

“Ike never commanded a battalion before the day he invaded North Africa, Mick. He did all right.”

“Ike wasn’t up against Novotny,” Clough said heavily. “I can talk better while I’m eating, Larry. Want to buy me a lunch?”

General Grote nodded. “Lieutenant, see what you can charm out of Colonel Bucknell for us to eat, will you? We’ll have it sent in here, of course, and the best girls she’s got to serve it.” Then, unusually, he stood up and looked appraisingly at Kramer.

“Have a nice flight,” he said.

Kramer’s blue fourragere won him cold handshakes but a seat at the first table in the Hq Officers Mess in Kiska. He didn’t have quite enough appetite to appreciate it.

Approaching the island from the air had taken appetite away from him, as the GCA autocontroller rocked the plane in a carefully calculated zigzag in its approach. They were, Kramer discovered, under direct visual observation from any chance-met bird from yute eyries across the Strait until they got below five hundred feet. Sometimes the yutes sent over a flight of birds to knock down a transport. Hence the zigzags.

Captain Mabry, a dark, tall Georgian who had been designated to make the general’s aide feel at home, noticed Kramer wasn’t eating, pushed his own tray into the center strip and, as it sailed away, stood up. “Get it off the pad, shall we? Can’t keep the Old Man waiting.”

The captain took Mabry through clanging corridors to an elevator and then up to the eyrie. It was only a room. From it the spy-bird missiles-rockets, they were really, but the services like to think of them as having a punch, even though the punch was only a television camera-were controlled. To it the birds returned the pictures their eyes saw.

Brigadier Spiegelhauer shook Kramer’s hand. “Make yourself at home, Lieutenant,” he boomed. He was short and almost skeletally thin, but his voice was enormous. “Everything satisfactory for the general, I hope?”

“Why, yes, sir. I’m just looking around.”

“Of course,” Spiegelhauer shouted. “Care to monitor a ride?”

“Yes, sir.” Mabry was looking at him with amusement, Kramer saw. Confound him, what right did he have to think Kramer was scared-even if he was? Not a physical fear; he was not insane. But. . scared.

The service life of a spy-bird over yute territory was something under twenty minutes, by then the homing heads on the ground-to-air birds would have sniffed out its special fragrance and knocked it out. In that twenty-minute period it would see what it could see. Through its eyes the observers in the eyrie would learn just that much more about yute dispositions-so long as it remained in direct line-of-sight to the eyrie, so long as everything in its instrumentation worked, so long as yute jamming did not penetrate its microwave control.

Captain Mabry took Kramer’s arm. “Take’er off the pad,” Mabry said negligently to the launch officer. He conducted Kramer to a pair of monitors and sat before them.

On both eight-inch screens the officers saw a diamond-sharp scan of the inside of a silo plug. There was no sound. The plug lifted off its lip without a whisper, dividing into two semicircles of steel. A two-inch circle of sky showed. Then, abruptly, the circle widened; the lip irised out and disappeared; the gray surrounded the screen and blanked it out, and then it was bright blue, and a curl of cirrocumulus in one quadrant of the screen.

Metro had promised no cloud over the tactical area, but there was cloud there. Captain Mabry frowned and tapped a tune on the buttons before him; the cirrocumulus disappeared and a line of gray-white appeared at an angle on the screen. “Horizon,” said Mabry. “Labble to make you seasick, Lootenant.”‘ He tapped some more and the image righted itself. A faint yellowish stain, not bright against the bright cloud, curved up before them and burst into spidery black smoke. “Oh, they are anxious,” said Mabry, sounding nettled. “General, weather has busted it again. Cain’t see a thing.”

Spiegelhauer bawled angrily, “I’m going to the weather station,” and stamped out. Kramer knew what he was angry about. It was not the waste of a bird; it was that he had been made to lose face before the general’s aide-de-camp. There would be a bad tune for the Weather Officer because Kramer had been there that day.

The telemetering crew turned off their instruments. The whining eighteen-inch reel that was flinging tape across a row of fifteen magnetic heads, recording the picture the spy-bird took, slowed and droned and stopped. Out of instinct and habit Kramer pulled out his rough diary and jotted down Brig. Spiegelhauer- Permits bad wea. sta. situation? But it was little enough to have learned on a flight to Kiska, and everything else seemed going well.

Captain Mabry fetched over two mugs of hot cocoa. “Sorry,” he said. “Cain’t be helped, I guess.”

Kramer put his notebook away and accepted the cocoa.

“Beats U-2in’,” Mabry went on. “Course, you don’t get to see as much of the country.”

Kramer could not help a small, involuntary tremor. For just a moment there, looking out of the spy-bird’s eyes, he had imagined himself actually in the air above yute territory and conceived the possibility of being shot down, parachuting, internment, the Blank Tanks, “Yankee! Why not be good fellow? You proud you murderer?”

“No,” Kramer said, “you don’t get to see as much of the country.” But he had already seen all the yute country he ever wanted.

Kramer got back in the elevator and descended rapidly, his mind full. Perhaps a psychopath, a hungry cat or a child would have noticed that the ride downward lasted a second or two less than the ride up. Kramer did not. If the sound echoing from the tunnel he walked out into was a bit more clangorous than the one he had entered from, he didn’t notice that either.

Kramer’s mind was occupied with the thought that, all in all, he was pleased to find that he had approached this close to yute territory, ‘and to yute Blank Tanks, without feeling particularly afraid. Even though he recognized that there was nothing to be afraid of, since of course the yutes could not get hold of him here.

Then he observed that the door Mabry opened for him led to a chamber he knew he had never seen before.

They were standing on an approach stage and below them forty-foot rockets extended downward into their pit. A gantry-bridge hung across space from the stage to the nearest rocket, which lay open, showing a clumsily padded compartment where there should have been a warhead or an instrument capsule.

Kramer turned around and was not surprised to find that Mabry was pointing a gun at him. He had almost expected it. He started to speak. But there was someone else in the shadowed chamber, and the first he knew of that was when the sap struck him just behind the ear.

It was all coming true: “Yankee! Why not be honest man? You like murder babies?” Kramer only shook his head. He knew it did no good to answer. Three years before he had answered. He knew it also did no good to keep quiet; because he had done that too. What he knew most of all was that nothing was going to do him any good because the yutes had him now, and who would have thought Mabry would have been the one to do him in?

They did not beat him at this point, but then they did not need to. The nose capsule Mabry had thrust him into had never been designed for carrying passengers. With ingenuity Kramer could only guess at Mabry had contrived to fit it with parachutes and watertight seals and flares so the yute gunboat could find it in the water and pull out their captive alive. But he had taken 15- and 20-G accelerations, however briefly. He seemed to have no serious broken bones, but he was bruised all over. Secretly he found that almost amusing. In the preliminary softening up, the yutes did not expect their captives to be in physical pain. By being in pain he was in some measure upsetting their schedule. It was not much of a victory but it was all he had.

Phase Two was direct questioning: What was Ripsaw exactly? HOW many divisions? Where located? Why had Lieutenant-General Grote spent so much time with Lieutenant-General Clough? When Mary Elizabeth Grote, before her death, entertained the Vietnamese UNESCO delegate’s aunt in Sag Harbor, had she known her husband had just been passed over for promotion to brigadier? And was resentment over that the reason she had subsequently donated twenty-five dollars to a mission hospital in Laos? What were the Bering Straits rendezvous points for missile submarines supporting Ripsaw? Was the transfer of Lieutenant Colonel Carolyn S. Bucknell from Message Center Battalion C.O. to Mess Officer a cover for some CIC complexity? What air support was planned for D plus one? D plus two? Did Major Somebody-or-other’s secret drinking account for the curious radio intercept in clear logged at 0834 on 6 October 1985? Or was “Omobray for my eadhay” the code designation for some nefarious scheme to be launched against the gallant, the ever-victorious forces of Neo-Utilitarianism?

Kramer was alternately cast into despondency by the amount of knowledge his captors displayed and puzzled by the psychotic irrelevance of some of the questions they asked him. But most of all he was afraid. As the hours of Phase Two became days, he became more and more afraid-afraid of Phase Three-and so he was ready for Phase Three when the yutes were ready for him.

Phase Three was physical. They beat the living be-hell out of First Lieutenant John Kramer, and then they shouted at him and starved him and kicked him and threw him into bathtubs filled half with salt and water and half with shaved ice. And then they kicked him in the belly and fed him cathartics by the ounce and it went on for a long time; but that was not the bad thing about Phase Three. Kramer found himself crying most of the tune, when he was conscious. He did not want to tell them everything he knew about Ripsaw-and thus have them be ready when it came, poised and prepared, and know that maybe 50,000 American lives would be down the drain because the surprise was on the wrong side. But he did not know if he could help himself. He was in constant pain. He thought he might die from the pain. Sometimes people did. But he didn’t think much about the pain, or the fear of dying, or even about what would happen if-no, when he cracked. What he thought about was what came next. For the bad thing about Phase Three was Phase Four.

He remembered. First they would let him sleep. (He had slept very well that other time, because he hadn’t known exactly what the Blank Tanks were like. He didn’t think he would sleep so well this tune.) Then they would wake him up and feed him quickly, and bandage his worst bruises, and bandage his ears, with cotton tampons dipped in vaseline jelly plugged into

them, and bandage his eyes, with light-tight adhesive around them, and bandage his mouth, with something like a boxer’s toothguard inside so he couldn’t even bite his tongue, and bandage his arms and legs, so he couldn’t even move them or touch them together. .

And then the short superior-private who was kicking him while he thought all this stopped and talked briefly to a noncom. The two of them helped him to a mattress and left him. Kramer didn’t want to sleep, but he couldn’t help himself; he slipped off, crying weakly out of his purled and bloody eyes, because he didn’t want to sleep, he wanted to die.

Ten hours later he was back in the Blank Tanks.

Sit back and listen. What do you hear?

Perhaps you think you hear nothing. You are wrong. You discount the sound of a distant car’s tires, or the crackle of metal as steam expands the pipes. Listen more carefully to these sounds; others lie under them. From the kitchen there is a grunt and hum as the electric refrigerator switches itself on. You change position; your chair creaks, the leather of your shoes slip-slides with a faint sound. Listen more carefully still and hear the tiny roughness in the main bearing of the electric clock in the next room, or the almost inaudible hum of wind in a television antenna. Listen to yourself: Your heartbeat, your pulse in your chin. The rumble of your belly and the faint grating of your teeth. The susurrus of air entering your nostrils. The rub of thumb against finger.

In the Blank Tanks a man hears nothing at all.

The pressure of the tampons in the ear does not allow stirrup to strike anvil; teeth cannot touch teeth, hands cannot clap, he cannot make a noise if he tries to, or hear it if he did.

That is deafness. The Blank Tanks are more than deafness. In them a man is blind, even to the red fog that reaches through closed eyelids. There is nothing to smell. There is nothing to taste. There is nothing to feel except the swaddling-cloths, and through time the nerve ends tire and stop registering this constant touch.

It is something like being unborn and something like never having been at all. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, and although you are not dead you are not alive either. And there you stay.

Kramer was ready for the Blank Tank and did not at once panic. He remembered the tricks he had employed before. He swallowed his own sputum and it made a gratifying popping sound in his inner ear; he hummed until his throat was raw and gasped through flaring nostrils until he became dizzy. But each sound he was able to produce lasted only a moment. He might have dropped them like snowflakes onto wool. They were absorbed and they died.

It was actually worse, he remembered tardily, to produce a sound because you could not help but listen for the echo and no echo came. So he stopped.

In three years he must have acquired some additional resources, he thought. Of course. He had! He settled down to construct a crossword puzzle in his head. Let 1 Across be a tropical South American bird, hoatzin. Let 1 Down be a medieval diatonic series of tones, hexacord. Let 2 Down be the Asiatic wild ass, or onagin, which might make the first horizontal word under 1 Across be, let’s see, E — N -. . well, why not the ligature of couplets in verse writing, or enjambment. That would make 3 Down- He began to cry, because he could not remember 1 Across.

Something was nagging at his mind, so he stopped crying and waited for it to take form, but it would not. He thought of General Grote, by now surely aware that his aide had been taken; he thought of the consternation that must be shuddering through all the tentacles of Ripsaw. It was not actually going to be so hard, he thought pathetically, because he didn’t actually have to hold out against the Blank Tanks, he only had to wait. After D day, or better, say, D plus 7, it wouldn’t much matter what he told them. Then the divisions would be across. Or not across. Breakthrough or failure, it would be decided by then and he could talk.

He began to count off Ripsaw’s division officers to himself, as he had so often seen the names on the morning reports. Catton of the XLIst Armored, with Colonels Bogart, Ripner and Bletterman. M’Cleargh of the Highland & Lowland, with Brigadiers Douglass and McCloud. Leventhal of the Vth Israeli, with Koehne, Meier and-he stopped, because it had occurred to him that he might be speaking aloud. He could not tell. All right. Think of something else.

But what?

There was nothing dangerous about sensory deprivation, he lied. It was only a rest. Nobody was hurting him. Looked at in the right way, it was a chance to do some solid thinking like you never got tune for in real life-strike that. In outside life. For instance, what about freshing up on French irregular verbs? Start with avoir. Tu as, vous avez, nous avons. Voi avete, noi ab-biamo, du habst. . Du habst? How did that get in there? Well, how about poetry?

Kramer stopped himself, barely in time. Were there throat mikes? Were the yutes listening in?

He churned miserably in his cotton bonds, because, as near as he could guess, he had probably been in the Blank Tank for less than an hour. D day, he thought to himself, praying that it was only to himself, was still some six weeks away and a week beyond that was seven. Seven weeks, forty-nine days, eleven hundred and, um, seventy-six hours, sixty-six thousand minutes plus. He had only to wait those minutes out, what about the diary? and then he could talk all he wanted. Talk, confess, broadcast, anything, what difference would it make then?

He paused, trying to remember. That furtive thought had struggled briefly to the surface but he had lost it again. It would not come back.

He tried to fall asleep. It should have been easy enough. His air was metered and the CO2 content held to a level that would make him torpid; his wastes cathe-terized away; water and glucose valved into his veins; he was all but in utero, and unborn babies slept, didn’t they? Did they? He would have to look in the diary, but it would have to wait until he could remember what thought it was that was struggling for recognition. And that was becoming harder with every second.

Sensory deprivation in small doses is one thing; it even has its therapeutic uses, like shock. In large doses it produces a disorientation of psychotic proportions, a melancholia that is all but lethal; Kramer never knew when he went loopy.

He never quite knew when he went sane again, either, except that one day the fog lifted for a moment and he asked a WAC corporal, “When did I get back to Utah.” The corporal had dealt with returning yute prisoners before. She said only: “It’s Fort Hamilton, sir. Brooklyn.”

He was in a private room, which was bad, but he wore a maroon bathrobe, which was good-at least it meant he was in a hospital instead of an Army stockade. (Unless the private room meant he was in the detention ward of the hospital.)

Kramer wondered what he had done. There was no way to tell, at least not by searching his memory. Everything went into a blurry alternation of shouting relays of yutes and the silence of the Blank Tanks. He was nearly sure he had finally told the yutes everything they wanted to know. The question was, when? He would find out at the court-martial, he thought. Or he might have jotted it down, he thought crazily, in the diary.

Jotted it down in the…?

Diary!

That was the thought that had struggled to come through to the surface!

Kramer’s screams brought the corporal back in a hurry, and then two doctors who quickly prepared knockout needles. He fought against them all the way.

“Poor old man,” said the WAC, watching him twitch and shudder in unconsciousness. (Kramer had just turned forty.) “Second dose of the Blank Tanks for him, wasn’t it? I’m not surprised he’s having nightmares.” She didn’t know that his nightmares were not caused by the Blank Tanks themselves, but by his sudden realization that his last stay in the Tanks was totally unnecessary. It didn’t matter what he told the yutes, or when! They had had the diary all along, for it had been on him when Mabry thrust him in the rocket; and all Ripsaw’s secrets were in it!

The next time the fog lifted for Kramer it was quick, like the turning on of a light, and he had distorted memories of dreams before it. He thought he had just dreamed that General Grote had been with him. He was alone in the same room, sun streaming in a window, voices outside. He felt pretty good, he thought tentatively, and had no time to think more than that because the door opened and a ward boy looked in, very astonished to find Kramer looking back at him. “Holy heaven,” he said. “Wait there!” He disappeared. Foolish, Kramer thought.

Of course he would wait. Where else would he go?

And then, surprisingly, General Grote did indeed walk in.

“Hello, John,” he said mildly, and sat down beside the bed, looking at Kramer. “I was just getting in my car when they caught me.”

He pulled out his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco, watching Kramer. Kramer could think of nothing to say. “They said you were all right, John. Are you?”

“I-.think so.” He watched the general light his pipe. “Funny,” he said. “I dreamed you were here a minute ago.”

“No, it’s not so funny; I was. I brought you a present.”

Kramer could not imagine anything more wildly improbable in the world than that the man whose combat operation he had betrayed should bring him a box of chocolates, bunch of flowers, light novel or whatever else was appropriate. But the general glanced at the table by Kramer’s bed.

There was a flat, green-leather-covered box on it. “Open it up,” Grote invited.

Kramer took out a glittering bit of metal depending from a three-barred ribbon. The gold medallion bore a rampant eagle and lettering he could not at first read.

“It’s your D.S.M.,” Grote said helpfully. “You can pin it on if you like. I tried,” he said, “to make it a Medal of Honor. But they wouldn’t allow it, logically enough.”

“I was expecting something different,” Kramer mumbled foolishly.

Grote laughed. “We smashed them, boy,” he said gently. “That is, Mick did. He went straight across Polar Nine, down the Ob with one force and the Yenisei with another. General dough’s got his forward command in Chebarkul now, loving every minute of it. Why, I was in Karpinsk myself last week-they let me get that far-of course, it’s a rest area. It was a brilliant, bloody, backbreaking show. Completely successful.”

Kramer interrupted in sheer horror: “Polar Nine? But that was the cover-the Quaker cannon!”

General Grote looked meditatively at his former aide. “John,” he said after a moment, “didn’t you ever wonder why the card-sorters pulled you out for my staff? A man who was sure to crack in the Blank Tanks, because he already had?”

The room was very silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, John. Well, it worked-had to, you know; a lot of thought went into it. Novotny’s been relieved. Mick’s got his biggest victory, no matter what happens now; he was the man that led the invasion.” The room was silent again. Carefully Grote tapped out his pipe into a metal wastebasket. “You’re a valuable man, John. Matter of fact, we traded a major general to get you back.” Silence.

Grote sighed and stood up. “If it’s any consolation to you, you held out four full weeks in the Tanks. Good thing we’d made sure you had the diary with you. Otherwise our Quaker cannon would have been a bust.” He nodded good-bye and was gone. He was a good officer, was General Grote. He would use a weapon in any way he had to, to win a fight; but if the weapon was destroyed, and had feelings, he would come around to bring it a medal afterwards.

Kramer contemplated his Distinguished Service Medal for a while. Then he lay back and considered ringing for a Sunday Times, but fell asleep instead.

Novotny was now a sour, angry corps commander away off on the Baltic periphery because of him; a million and a half NAAARMY troops were dug in the heart of the enemy’s homeland; the greatest operation of the war was an unqualified success. But when the nurse came in that night, the Quaker cannon-the man who had discovered that the greatest service he could perform for his country was to betray it-was moaning in his sleep.

It is a traditionally slim volume of illustrated verses. The drawings are quaintly Victorian in atmosphere; the verse is conventional in rhyme and meter. And the book as a whole is just about as comfortingly familiar as the latest word (if one could hear it) from a bacteriological warfare laboratory.

Paul Dehn, who wrote the verses, is an established British poet, a movie critic for the London Daily Herald, and the co-author of Seven Days to Noon. Edward Gorey, the illustrator, has published several pictorial books, the best known here being The Hapless Child.

Quake, Quake, Quake is divided into several sections: “A Leaden Treasury of English Verse”; “Rhymes for a Modern Nursery”; “Weather Forecast”; “From a Soviet Child’s Garden of Verses”; “From a Modern Student’s Song Book”; and “From a Modern Hymnal.”

And then, of course, there is still the possibility of peace— if you find the prospect peaceful.

Mrs. Reed here suggests some prospects derived from the present trends in urban teenage gang behavior. (The trouble with these reductii ad absurdum is they don’t always seem so absurd — ten years later. We can only hope.)

If anyone can cope with the peaceless peace, by the way, I am convinced it will be the Connecticut housewives. There was Mrs. Schoolfield (Kaatje Hurlbut), wife of a New York newspaperman, raising three children exurbanly, writing four hours a day, six days a week for eighteen years (the first twelve without selling a word of it) — and still able to get up and out for a pre-dawn stroll to watch the sky.

And now a “faculty wife,” married to an English Professor at Wesleyan University. In the eight years since she finished college, Mrs. Reed has been twice named New England Newspaperwoman of the year; published two novels (most recently, Mother Isn’t Dead, She’s Only Sleeping, Houghton Mifflin, 1961); acquired two children; and published short stories in such diversified media as F&SF, Cosmopolitan, Seventeen, and the Yale Literary Magazine. With a two-year-old and an infant son at home, she says she can now manage “only one” freelance newspaper job — besides her fiction, that is.

It happened, in the days when the young ruled, that Washington got a bomb. The Hypos found out about it when one of the Judas Gang got swell-headed and started to brag. He stepped over the marker into Hypo country around Delaware, and the Hypos got him and he didn’t brag any more. Little Easter, Franko’s man, took care of him, and while Little Easter was working on him he said the Hypos had better lay off because Washington knew where he was, and Washington had a bomb. Little Easter finished what he was doing and then he told Franko and the Hypos held a council of war.

From Buffalo and Philadelphia and Albany the Hypos came, and they parked their ‘cicles in ramshackle Rockefeller Center, Franko’s pad, and they parleyed, sitting cross-legged in the deserted square where skaters had glided before the gangs moved out of the neighborhoods into the city and the country and the world. They sat, in silver-sheen jackets sewn for them by the squares, and they talked about the bomb, oblivious of the beer cans, the garbage, the cigarette butts that littered the ground and piled high in the corners.

Franko said, “You know what they’re gonna do with that bomb.”

Netta Rampo was tall and broad and tough. She was from Trenton, and she ran the Hypettes. She made a gesture. “That’s what they’ll do.”

“Oh, man. ‘worse’n that. They’re not gonna use it on us. We don’t bug them half as much as the Comradskis. They’ll find a way to drop it over there. Then—” Franko ground his boot heel into Netta Rampo’s hand. “That’s what’ll happen to us.” She didn’t even wince. “It’ll be the last rumble, man. We’ll get it from all over — Kiev, Leningrad, Peiping — they’ll be plantin’ bombs like appleseed, and it’ll be the end.”

Billy from Philly, sprawled on his elbows, kicked at the dirt. “So?”

“So we gotta stop ‘em.” Automatically, Franko zipped and unzipped his jacket. Twenty heads turned toward him. Twenty pairs of eyes coldly looked him up and down. “We gotta get a bomb. We gotta get that bomb.”

They talked long into the night, and it was decided that one of them would have to do the job — alone. They wrangled on, and every once in a while one of them would interrupt Franko and Little Easter would get him and it would be very quiet after that.

“Okay,” Franko said at dawn. “We gotta decide who’s going. Netta’s out because she’s a girl.”

“Bug you,” Netta said.

“So it’s gotta be one of us guys. We’ll face off for it. Guy that’s still standing up at the end gets the job. I’ll take on any one of you guys, starting now. Anybody…”

“Forget it, Franko.” A dark form stood up.

In the dimness, Little Easter started forward. “Nobody interrupts Franko…”

Franko pulled him back.

“Except Johnny Fairhair.” Fairhaired Johnny was big, bigger than Netta Rampo, and he was sturdy as a rhino and muscled like a bull. He had big, black eyes and the ugliest face in Christendom, and to his shoulders fell hair as pale and silky as that of a child. “Forget it, Franko.” He headed for his ‘cicle, parked in a corner of the rink. “I’ll go.”

Billy from Philly looked after him and said softly, “Just as well. He’s nearly twenty. He’s almost through.”

Without seeming to look at him, Johnny wheeled and threw his knife. It stuck in the back of Billy from Philly’s hand.

He set out for Washington without a weapon or a plan, traveling until the brightness of the dawn warned him to take his ‘cicle down. He set down at a deserted landmark, the last Howard Johnson’s on the Jersey Turnpike, stepping carefully through the shattered glass front, looking into every possible hiding place before he settled down to sleep. Day fell, and the deserted building was silent, except for the occasional drone of a ‘cicle overhead.

Outside, New Jersey stretched quiet and drab. In dull cities, squares worked under the eyes of the Hypos who lounged on catwalks, quick with knives and curses. The Hypos were only around when they felt like it, but the squares kept at it because sure as they flagged there’d be a Hypo around — because he felt like it. Squares and families of squares nested in sordid little villages of identical clapboard houses, living as quietly as possible, subdued by the terrifying brashness of youth.

Aroused by the sound of soft breathing, Fairhaired Johnny lurched to his feet and closed his hands about a muscular throat. He shook himself awake and took a look at the person who stood, unmoving, between his hands.

“Oh, it’s you.” He tightened his grip a little.

“Lay off, Johnny. I come along to help.” It was Netta Rampo. She raised heavy forearms and broke his hold.

He started to hit her.

“Wait a minute, Johnny. You got a plan?”

He lowered his head and kicked at a piece of glass.

“Okay.” She drove her hands into her pockets and looked at him, all business. “I do. We cross the marker and grab a guy. Maybe I pretend I’m a Judy and go up to this guy and distract him, and you jump him. We make him tell us where the bomb is and we go on from there. Okay?”

He hesitated.

“It’s more plan than you’ve got.”

“Okay, Netta, you’re on. But don’t go getting yourself knocked off. You’ve got three good years left. You’re only seventeen.”

“Let’s go to Squaresville and get a meal.”

They stopped in one of the square villages — a miserable Levittown — and one of the nurse-women gave them some cake and cheese. They sprawled on the lawn, eating, and watched the neighborhood kids. Johnny, who had run in packs since his childhood, had never talked to another person alone. Sharing the food gave him a strange sense of intimacy. They began to talk.

“You grow up in a place like this?” Netta asked.

“From when I was two until I was old enough to join a pack. My old lady shot herself the same day my old man got his. He was a brave one.” Johnny’s eyes softened. “Did it with a belly-bomb — wiped out fifty guys in a rumble with the Bishops’ mob.”

“I had a mother,” Netta sneered. “The old lady didn’t have the guts to die when Pop got his. Said she was only eighteen and she couldn’t see cashing in just because it was time for Pop to die.”

“You going to do that?”

“I’ll die with my guy — if I ever get a guy — if I don’t get one, I’ll just go when it’s time. I’ll find a way.” She spat.

“It’s gonna be soon for me.” Johnny looked thoughtful.

In the days when the young ruled, a guy was through at twenty, and he did the only decent thing a guy could do when his life was over. He went out in a rumble and got his, and if he couldn’t do it that way he found some other way to die.

With girls it didn’t matter so much. If they lived there were always kids they could raise. There had to be a lot of kids.

You could spot the guy who was too chicken to die while you were still a kid, running in one of the neighborhood packs, and you never let him earn his jacket and become one of the gang. He stayed in Squaresville all his life and he worked his fool head off for you, because if he worked, and kept his nose clean, the gang might let him live. He got squarer and squarer. He got old.

Johnny and Netta were ready to go when a pack of kids spotted their jackets and came over, shrilling a thousand questions and jumping up and down. When they were on their ‘cicles, the pair discovered that the kids had stolen Netta’s knife. It made them proud.

They circled over the marker that divided the Hypos’ territory from the land of the Judas Gang, and at dark they went over the Delaware River, looking for a scout from the other gang. They set down near a roadhouse, where noise and yellow light spilled out into the dark, and hid their ‘cicles in the bushes. Crouched in the darkness, they watched the Judas guys and their Judys come out, two by two, and go into the shadows to neck. A guy came out alone and Netta gave Johnny a dig in the ribs. He nodded and she stood up, reversing her jacket so the Hypo silver was turned to the inside, and made a low sound that could mean only one thing, no matter which gang you ran with. The Judas flipped a knife into the tree just behind Netta’s head. She grinned.

“Well, well, well…” He ambled forward until he saw her face — then his lip crinkled in distaste and he started to back away, but it was too late. Johnny was on him. When they got him into the bushes Netta, remembering the look, hit him especially hard.

“Easy, or we’ll never get anything out of him,” Johnny said. Then, as she sat astride the Judas’s chest, waiting for instructions, he said, “You were pretty good about that knife.”

“Enh.”

“Let’s find out about the bomb.” Johnny gave their prisoner’s ear a twist. “Where’s the bomb?”

“Bug you.”

“Where’d you get the bomb?”

“Cash in.”

He twisted a little harder, while Netta gave the Judas a well-calculated dig in the ribs. They kept at it until the Judas raised his head limply and said, “Okay, okay. I’ll tell. Knock it off.”

“Well?”

“Got the bomb from Daddy-o.” Johnny gave Netta a puzzled look and hit him again. “Daddy-o gave it to us. With that bomb, man, the Judas gang is on top!”

“Where is it?”

“Bug you.”

They worked on him a little harder, and when they finished, he told them the bomb was in the center of Judas territory, and when Johnny applied a special hold he knew, he told them it was under guard in the safest spot in town — the top of the Washington Monument. When Johnny hit him again, he said the bomb was for the Comradskis, but the Hypos would get theirs, and the Dragons and the Bishops too, and man the Judas Gang would take over the world, because they had a bomb and there were more where that came from. Netta and Johnny asked him what he meant, but all he would say was “Ask Daddy-o.”

Afterward they threw him in the bushes and took his jacket. Netta got a Judy before the girl even knew what had happened, and then she had a Judas jacket too.

It was nearly daylight when they got on their ‘cicles again and there was no hurry. They didn’t want to try the monument until after dark. They spent the day in Wilmington, hanging around the joints and finding out what they could find. Everybody seemed to know about the bomb and they talked about it with a frantic pride, but underneath the cockiness there seemed to be some sort of fear. Conversations were spotted with talk about the Big Bang, and the catchword in all the places was, “Ask Daddy-o.”

Johnny picked a fight because there was nothing better to do. He flipped the elbows from under a guy propped at a bar and the two squared off. Johnny lunged with the wild joy of a Hypo feeling his stuff, and then he backed away.

“Creep. What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t feel like it, man. Ask Daddy-o.”

“Enh.” Johnny waded in again, but the tangle was no fun. The Judas fought with a strange unsureness, like a man who is off his feed. When Johnny closed in on him he clawed frantically, baring sharp teeth like a cornered rabbit. Disgusted, Johnny flung him in a corner.

“You just watch it” The Judas’s voice was high and hysterical. “Watch out for Daddy-o.”

Johnny tried it several more places, but all he got was the same nervous, girlish scratching that left him puzzled and disgusted. He and Netta headed out of Wilmington and set down in Hyattsville for something to eat A square served them at the cheap lunch counter, and when they finished their hamburgers and started to leave he said, “Don’t I get paid?”

“Get paid? You crazy?” Johnny kicked in the front of the juke box. “Be glad that’s not you.”

The square watched him, but there was no fear in his eyes. Baffled by the man’s calm, assured look, Johnny gave the juke box a final kick, grabbed a piece of cake from under a plastic cover and left

“Guy was pretty cool for a square,” Netta said.

“Enh. It’s these Judas guys. They ain’t got the guts to do things right No wonder they think they need a bomb.”

“They won’t have it much longer.”

“Boy, from what I’ve seen, without that bomb this place’ll be wide open.”

“Ready for the Hypos to take over.” Netta paused. “Or somebody.”

Johnny shifted uneasily. Then his eyes brightened. “That’d be a rumble for sure. Wait’ll Franko hears what chickens these guys have turned out to be.”

It was nearing dark so they headed into Washington. Before long they spotted the monument and zeroed in to land on the Mall. The stone needle loomed, tall and pockmarked, in the soft half-darkness.

Johnny sank on the grass. “We better wait till it’s dark.”

Netta settled beside him. “Yeah.”

“Well leave the ‘cicles here, so we can get to ‘em in a hurry and get the bomb back to Franko. If anything happens to me, you take it and get back.”

“Not as long as I can help you.” She looked fierce in the twilight.

“You heard me. Get that thing to Franko. He wants it.”

“He must want it real bad.”

Musing, Johnny looked up at the monument. “Wonder what’s inside.”

“Few guys, probably. It oughta be some fight.”

“You stay out of it unless I call you, huh?” He made his voice stern. “No use you cashing in — you got three good years left.”

‘The hell you say.” Netta drove her fist into her hand several times. “Does it bug you bein’ nineteen?”

“I’ll cash in when it’s time. Maybe tonight, if I have to, to get the bomb. Only one thing does bug me. Before I go, I’d like to have a girl. Maybe leave a kid.”

“You don’t have one now?” In the dark, Netta’s heavy face glowed.

“Nope.” Johnny sprawled, resting on his elbows. “But I know her, and I’ve watched her, and someday I’ll get her.” He threw his head back. “Franko’s girl, all golden, like a tiger…”

“Oh,” Her voice was small.

“Couple of guys comin’ out over there. C’mon, Netta. It’s time.”

The two heavy forms, almost identical in the darkness, moved toward the opening to the monument. A bored Judas stood outside, idly flipping his knife into a plank. Johnny got him before he could pull the knife out for another throw.

Inside, there were two more. Moving as if the stolen Judas jackets belonged to them, Johnny and Netta flipped the two a casual greeting and started up the stairs. One of the Judas’s called up.

“You say Moe said it was okay for you to come in?”

“Yeah. Said we could take a look at this crazy bomb.”

“Well,” the Judas said, “I dunno…”

“C’mon,” his partner whined. “C’mon, let’s go over to the locker and get a beer.” They headed for a freezer in the long-disabled elevator and Netta and Johnny disappeared around a bend in the towering stone stairs.

They toiled up in total darkness, listening to the hollow sound of their feet rattle up and down the empty shaft. Once Netta tripped and fell against the wire netting that covered the elevator track, and Johnny took her arm. They went on and on until they rounded the last bend and dim light shone on the steps from the doorway at the top. They stood in the half-darkness until their eyes were acclimated and then burst into the small stone room.

In a transparent casing on a square pedestal glowed the bomb. Johnny headed for it without even stopping to see who guarded it. Suddenly he felt something hard in his ribs.

“And who do you think you are?”

“Bug you,” Johnny said, and he turned. “Wha-ah—”

The man with the gun had a hard face and a cool, gray eye. His hand was steady and he was ready to kill. He was old — almost forty. He was a square.

Johnny turned cold eyes on him. “Daddy-o?”

“Not just me. All of us.”

Sternly, the man dug at his ribs. “I thought Daddy-o told you to stay away from this room. Daddy-o told you he’d watch the bomb for the Judas Gang.”

“You think we’re Judas, man?” Ignoring the gun, Johnny whipped off the jacket. “We’re Hypos.”

The square smiled thinly. “And I suppose you came up here to steal the bomb.”

“Somethin’ like that, man.” Johnny backed away to stand beside Netta on the far side of the room. The man with the gun moved closer to them.

“You’ll get your own bomb, Hypos. The sooner the better.”

“From squares? Bug you.”

“You’ll get your bomb, because every other mob will have a bomb, just like the Judas gang.” The square laughed. “You’ll get your little present from us old guys. Us Daddy-os.”

“We’ll blast you, Daddy-o.” Johnny ached to jump for the gun.

“Oh, no. You’ll be just like the Judas gang. They think they control us, but they don’t. They think they have the bomb, but they don’t” He smiled. “They have us, and we have the bomb.”

Johnny growled.

The square went on. “They sense that now, but they don’t want to admit it They sense it and it’s put them off their feed. They don’t even enjoy a good girl, or a good fight, because somehow the word’s begun to spread that if they fight, or if they fool around too much, the bomb just might go off, and that would be too bad. They’re lucky boys to get bombs from their Daddy-o.” The man patted the casing of the bomb. “When we’ve given one to every other gang in this country we’ll tell them whose bomb it really is.”

He stepped closer to Johnny. “And they’ll throw down their knives and their guns and their bats because they’ll be afraid the bomb will go off.”

He waved the gun at Johnny’s nose. “And they’ll stop terrorizing their elders for fear the bomb will go off.”

He leveled the gun at Johnny’s chest. “And they’ll give the world back to their elders”—his finger began to tighten —”for fear the bomb will go off.”

“The hell!” With a look Johnny couldn’t interpret, Netta pushed him aside and threw herself on the gun. There was an explosion and she collapsed, carrying the man to the floor as she fell.

Johnny beat Daddy-o and he beat him and he beat him, and when there was nothing left to beat he started to pick up the bomb. Then he cursed and split the case that protected it and dismantled the bomb and destroyed the important parts of it, and began to carry Netta down the hundreds of shallow stone stairs. The Judas at the bottom took one look at his face and let him pass.

He buried Netta near the reflecting pond at the end of the Mall and stuck a piece of twisted wire at the top of the grave. It was all that was left of the trigger device of the bomb.

“I gotta tell Frank’o,” he mumbled, flinging himself on his ‘cicle and taking to the air. “We gotta stop the squares.”

He heard the first rumblings of the news when he set down in New York, near battered Rockefeller center. “Got one…” “Daddy-o gave us one…” “Got…” “We got..

Trembling, he raced through the deserted lobby into the room that was Franko’s pad. “Hey, Franko, Franko, it’s a trick… we gotta watch out for…”

Franko looked up at him and grinned. “We don’t gotta watch out for nothing, Johnny boy. We got a bomb.”

Some further thoughts on child care — this time from a mid-western bachelor. Mr. Bunch is another of the growing number of young writers who seem to divide their efforts between the literary and s-f publications. Both of the fields being notoriously underpaid, he earns his living as a professional cartographer for the Air Force.

Char was a big dog, black as a Tarbaby, but he seemed pleasant enough with a gay plaid pancake cap stitched to the fur of his head, and a bright chain tied to a red plastic band, and the long tongue of him, fuzzy and very scarlet, lolling down. He was the one thing among all of Daphalene’s toys that I had not tampered with, had not fixed for lessons. Daphalene? Daphalene was my daughter Daphalene, a cute baby-girl child with blond ringlets and a stomach ball-slight over the band of her training pants, and a dour sweet squint as she looked up at me with love, and her mother dead-to-me two years.

Yes, being her one parent left, mother-and-father now, staunch and adamant-true, I had fixed the other toys in the interest of Daphalene’s training — pins sticking out of the dollies, and fishhooks in the stuffed things to stick her, and a special strong spring on the jack-in-the-box to slap her head when she played. Also, over all toys was a syrupy stickum, light gum that would itch and burn slightly, and be on the hands black and adhesive, like handling the fresh-cut end of a Christmas tree. Yes, I wanted Daphalene to hurt early and well while playing, to learn that pain comes easily, flowing freely from Everything; she must form that hard crust NOW! Sometimes I thought of her as a fresh little wound in the world, so vulnerable to the harsh grains and grits, her freshness needing to be scabbed and grayed over. For her safety. Yes, I wanted her to be READY FOR THE WORLD.

But I wanted her to know love too. Within these baby shells that go across our times of horror must be the seed of love still. Else what? Inside the tended scars we rear to walk more confidently across our planned damnation must be the heart of love kept back, but kept like some deep-buried seedlet ready to sprout, the debris being cleared from the ground, and the sun and rain coming right again.

So the black dog — I wanted her to love the black dog. “He is my best toy,” she would say, giving Char a joyful squeeze and lugging him about the dust-balled two-room apartment, where no woman was, where the poor-housekeeper wife “had been briefly, briefly-and-long, to leave me with this challenge to the world, a wee thing to cherish and to train in my practical kindness. And my love. — She would carefully circle all the other toys while she hugged the huggable Char. She would laugh a gay chortle until I would glare at her from my dusty chair. She would know then that she had had her time with the easy dog. It was time to be going among harsh, useful toy lessons again.

It was a cold spring night. There was a Good Friday moon, full and pale, through the cracked pane of my high-up northwest window. I was alone. I had read some in some dull work of ancient charmless stories that should never have been told and had turned sleepy in my chair. Daphalene I could hear in the other room, tossing and turning in her high crib as she slept. So this young spring tosses and turns and waits, I thought, waits high up and restless to flower black ice-flowers into the iceberg world, when the frost comes out of its time. So oh-how-many-millions of girl babies wait fitfully in their strange chemistry, to flower ice-hearted ice babies into this glacial age, with ice hearts of men, until sometime that heart coldness must surely freeze along all the world’s gray tubes until all is white and proper and dead stone. Unless the debris is cleared, and cleared quickly, for the seedlets… of love. And the moon — a Good Friday full cold moon — aloof, maniacal orange-white eye… indifferent… meaning nothing… chill, dead… ball… of light…

I watched, hypnotized, and he moved! From where he lay on his side, just as Daphalene had piled him, with his red-felt tongue lolling at tie foot of a doll with ice-blue eyes, Char stretched one black leg. Then carefully, ominously, he rolled to a sitting position and sat eying the toys and me, his red tongue streaming out. Like flame, that tongue — flame turned to stone, I thought, and melting and streaming. I rubbed my eyes, and I shuddered at this black dog’s odd turn.

Carefully, as I watched and could not clear this watching from my head, he circled all the toy pile. Three times. Then he walked among them, slowly, on great fur feet, the big scarlet tongue unrolling out of the caverns of the mouth and the caverns behind the mouth and flowing over all the toys until all the itch and burn had been quite lapped from them. Then with a sweep of a massive foot he crushed the jack-in-the-box until the leering face of jack lay nose-up, frightening without a home. And all the pins and the fishhooks and keen bright nails were carefully pulled from the stuffed toys and the dolls, and the sharp points soon lay together in a little heap on the floor. And the black dog grinned, a strange grin in the moonlight, before he moved…on me…

Like a wrecking ball swung at a stubborn structure of brick and masonry stone the sound was. And the harsh noise of my falling among the toys was followed by a chortle of morning grayness. She stood there holding the big black Char clutched fondly in her arms and her baby-girl hands. The little stomach ball-slight over the band of her training pants, the sleep squint yet in her baby-girl blue eyes, she was asking Char if he had been a good doggie and had slept well all through the night.

The scream of winning was harsh and high when, the sleep squint gone, she saw that the box was broken. She was astonished at jack so strange and peeled looking outside his box and springs, and she must have known that he could not slap her now. She was concerned for the stuffed bears and cats and the dollies that I had fallen among. When I arose bleeding, I was surprised to leak two pins and a fishhook from my hands. The other sharp-pointed things from all the toys lay in a shiny small mound where I, standing or sitting or walking in a strange moonlit trance, had watched Char so carefully place them for the little girl who loved him… and whom he must have… greatly… loved…

…And yet another FPS — unless you are the cynical sort who would insist that an article on soldiering experiences In Laos, written by a lady editor who has never been east of Paris, France, is not truly non-fiction. (The men’s adventure magazine that published it said it was true.) Miss Glaser, Long Island born and bred, is an ex-expatriate now working as an editorial associate at Esquire magazine.

The floor of the Topolino was full of sand. There was sand in Tom’s undershorts, too, and damp sand rubbing between his toes. Damn it, he thought, here they build you six-lane highways right on down to the ocean, a giant three-hundred car turntable to keep traffic moving over the beach, efficiency and organization and mechanization and co-operation and what does it get you? Sand. And inside the car, in spite of the air-conditioning, the sour smell of sun-dried salt water.

Tom’s muscles ached with their familiar cramp. He ran his hands uselessly around the steering wheel, wishing he had something to do, or that there were room to stretch in the tiny car, then felt instantly ashamed of his antisocial wish. Naturally there was nothing for him to do because the drive, as on all highways, was set at “Automatic.” That was the law. And although he had to sit hunched over so that his knees were drawn nearly to his chin, and the roof of the car pressed down on the back of his neck like the lid of a box, and his four kids crammed into the rear seat seemed to be breathing down his shirt collar — well, that was something you simply had to adjust to, and besides, the Topolino had all the five-foot wheelbase the law allowed. So there was nothing to complain about.

Besides, it hadn’t been a bad day, all things considered. Five hours to cover the forty miles out to the beach, then of course a couple of hours waiting in line at the beach for their turn in the water. The trip home was taking a little longer: it always did. The Tunnel, too, was unpredictable. Say ten o’clock, for getting home. Pretty good time. As good a way as any of killing a leisureday, he guessed. Sometimes there seemed to be an awful lot of leisuretime to kill.

Jeannie, in the seat beside him, was staring through the windshield. Her hair, almost as fair as the kids’, was pulled back into pigtails, and although she was pregnant again she didn’t look very much older than she had ten years before. But she had stopped knitting, and her mind was on the Tunnel. He could always tell.

“Ouch!” Something slammed into the back of Tom’s neck and he ducked forward, banging his forehead on the windshield.

“Hey!” He half-turned and clutched at the spade that four-year-old Pattie was waving.

“I swimmed,” she announced, blue eyes round. “I swimmed good and I din’t hit nobody.”

“Anybody,” Tom corrected. He confiscated the spade, thinking tiredly that “swim” these days meant “tread water,” all there was room to do in the crowded bathing-area.

Jeannie had turned too, and was glowering at her daughter, but Tom shook his head.

“Over and out,” he said briefly. He knew a car ride was an extra strain on kids, and lord knew he saw them seldom enough, what with their school-shifts and play-shifts and his own job-shift But his brood was going to be properly brought up. See a sign of extroversion, squelch it at the beginning, that was his theory. Save them a lot of pain later on.

Jeannie leaned forward and pressed a dashboard button. The tranquillizer drawer slid open; Jeannie selected a pink one, but by the time she had turned around Pattie had subsided with her hands folded patiently in her lap and her eyes fixed on the rear seat TV screen. Jeannie sighed and slipped the pill into Pattie’s half-open mouth anyway.

The other three hadn’t spoken for hours which, of course, was as it should be. Jeannie had fed them a purposely heavy lunch in the car, steakopop and a hot, steaming bowl of rehydrated algaesoup from the thermos, and they had each had an extra dose of tranquillizers for the trip. Six-year-old David, who has having a particularly hard time learning to introvert was watching the TV screen and breathing hard. David, his first-born son, born in the supermarket delivery booth in the year twenty-one hundred on the third of April at 8:32 in the morning. The year the population of the United States hit the billion mark. And the fifth child to arrive in that booth that morning. But his own son. The two-headed twins, Susan and Pattie, sat upright and watched the screen with expressions of great seriousness on their faces, and the baby, two-year-old Betsy, had her fat legs stuck straight out in front of her and was obviously going to be asleep in minutes.

The car crawled forward at its allotted ten mph, just one in a ribbon of identical bright bubble cars, like candy buttons, that stretched along the New Pulaski Skyway under a setting sun. The distance between them, strictly rationed by Autodrive, never changed.

Tom felt the dull ache of tension settled behind his eyes. All of his muscles were protesting now with individual stabs of cramp. He glanced apologetically at Jeannie, who disliked sports, and switched on the dashboard TV. Third game in the World Series, and the game had already begun. Malenkovsky on red. Malenkovsky moved a checker and sat back. The cameras moved to Saito, on black. It was going to be a good game. Faster than most.

They were less than a mile from the Tunnel when the line of cars came to a halt. Tom said nothing for a minute. It might just be an accident, or even somebody, driving illegally on Manual, out of line. Another minute passed. Jeannie’s hands were tense on the yellow blanket she was knitting.

It was a definite halt. Jeannie regarded the motionless lines of cars, frowning a little.

“I’m glad it’s happening now. That gives us a better chance of getting through, doesn’t it?”

Her question was rhetorical, and Tom felt his usual stir of irritation. Jeannie was an intelligent girl; he couldn’t have loved her so much otherwise. But explaining the laws of chance to her was hopeless. The Tunnel averaged ten closings a week. All ten could happen within seconds of each other, or on the hour, or not at all on a given day. That was how things were. The closing now affected their own chance of getting through not one iota.

Jeannie said thoughtfully, “We’ll be caught some time, Tom.”

He shrugged without answering. Whatever might happen in the future, they were obviously going to be held up for a good half hour now.

David was wriggling a little, his face apologetic.

“Can I get out, Daddy, if the Tunnel’s closed? I ache.”

Tom bit his lip. He could sympathize as well as anyone, remembering the cramped misery of the years when his own body was growing and all he wanted to do was run fast, just run headlong, any place. Kids. Extras, all of them. Maybe you could get away with that kind of wildness back in the twentieth century, when there were no crowds and plenty of space, but not these days. David was just going to have to learn to sit still like everybody else.

David had begun to flex his muscles rhythmically. Passive exercise, it was called, one of the new pseudo-sports that took up no room, and it was very scientifically taught in the playshifts. Tom eyed his son enviously. Great to be in condition like that. No need to wait in line to get your ration of gym time when you could depend on yourself like that.

“Dad, no kidding, now I gotta go.” David wriggled in his seat again. Well, that sounded valid. Tom looked through the windshield. The thousands of cars in sight were still motionless, so he swung the door open. Luckily there was a chemjohn a few yards away, and only a short line in front of it. David slid quickly out of the car. Tom watched him start to stretch his arms over his head, released from the low roof, then sheepishly remember decent behavior and tighten into the approved intro-walk. “He’s getting tall,” Tom thought, with a sudden accession of hopelessness. He had been praying that David would inherit Jeannie’s height instead of his own six feet. The more area you took up the harder everything was, and it was getting worse: Tom had noticed that, already, people would sometimes stare resentfully at him in the street.

There was an Italian family in the bright blue Topolino behind his own; they too had a car full of children. Two of the boys, seeing David in front of the chemjohn, burst out and dashed into the line behind him The father was grinning; Tom caught his eye and looked away. He remembered seeing them pass a large bottle of expensive re-claimed-water around the car, the whole family guzzling it as though water grew on trees. Extros, that whole family. Almost criminal, the way people like that were allowed to run loose and increase the discomfort of everyone else. Now the father had left the car too. He had curly black hair; he was very plump. When he saw Tom watching him he grinned broadly, waved toward the Tunnel and lifted his shoulders with a kind of humorous resignation.

Tom drummed on the wheel. The extras were lucky. You’d never catch them worrying unduly about the Tunnel. They had to get the kids out of the city, once in a while, like everybody else; the Tunnel was the only way in and out, so they shrugged and took it. Besides, there were, so many rules and regulations now that it was hard to question them any more. You can’t fight City Hall. The extras would neither dread the trip, the way Jeannie did, nor… Tom’s fingers were rigid on the wheel. He clamped down, hard, on the thought in his mind. He had been about to say, needed it, the way he did.

David emerged from the chemjohn and slid back into his seat. The cars had just begun to move; in a moment they had resumed their crawl.

On the left of the Skyway they were coming to the development that was already called, facetiously, “Beer Can Mountain.” So far there was nothing there except the mountainous stacks of shiny bricks, the metal bricks that had once been tin cans, and would soon be constructed into another badly needed housing development. Probably with even lower ceilings and thinner walls. Tom winced, involuntarily. Even at home, in a much older residential section, the ceilings were so low that he could never stand up without bending his head. Individual area-space was being cut down and cut down, all the time.

On the flatlands, to the right of the Skyway, stretched mile after garish mile of apartment buildings, interspersed with gasoline stations and parking lots. And beyond these flatlands were the suburbs of Long Island, cement-floored and stacked with gay-colored skyscrapers.

Here, as they approached the city, the air was raucous with the noise of transistor radios and TV sets. Privacy and quiet had disappeared everywhere, of course, but this was a lower-class unit and so noisy that the blare penetrated even the closed windows of the car. The immense apartment buildings, cement block and neon-lit, came almost to the edge of the Skyway, with ramps between them at all levels. The ramps, originally built for cars, were swarming now with people returning from their routine job-shifts or from marketing, or just carrying on the interminable business of leisuretime. They looked pretty apathetic, Tom thought. You couldn’t blame them. There was so much security that none of the work anybody did was really necessary, and they knew it. Their jobs were probably even more monotonous and futile than his own. All he did, on his own job-shift, was to verify figures in a ledger, then copy them into another ledger. Time-killing, like everything else. These people looked as though they didn’t care, one way or the other.

But as he watched there was a quick scuffle in the crowd, a sudden, brief outbreak of violence. One man’s shoe had scraped the heel of the woman ahead of him; she turned and swung her shopping bag, scraping a bloody gash down his cheek. He slammed his fist at her stomach. She kicked. A man behind them rammed his way past, his face contorted. The pair separated, both muttering. Around them other knots of people were beginning to mutter. The irritation was spreading, as it seemed to do from time to time, as though nobody wanted anything so much as the chance to strike out.

Jeannie had seen the explosion too. She gasped and turned away from the window, looking quickly back at the children, who were all asleep now. Tom pulled one of her pigtails, gently.

The skyline loomed ahead of them, one vast unified glass-walled cube of Manhattan. Light rays shot from it into the sunset; the spots of foliage that were the carefully planned block gardens, one at each level of the ninety-eight floors of the Unit, glowed dark green. Tom, as he always did, blessed the foresight that had put them there. Each one of his children had been allotted his or her weekly hour on the grass and a chance to play near the tree. There was even a zoo on each level, not the kind of elaborate one they had in Washington and London and Moscow, of course, but at least it had a cat and a dog and a really large tank of goldfish. When you came down to it, luxuries like that almost made up for the crowds and the noise and tiny rooms and feeling that there was never quite enough air to breathe.

They were just outside the Tunnel. Jeannie had put her knitting down; she was looking intently ahead, but as though she were listening rather than looking. In spite of his own arguments, Tom felt his fingers thudding on the dashboard. On the TV screen, Malenkovsky triumphantly moved a king.

They had reached the Tunnel entrance. Jeannie was silent. She glanced at her watch, irrationally. Tom pressed the tranquillizer button and the drawer shot out, but Jeannie shook her head.

“I hate this, Tom. I think it’s an absolutely lousy idea.”

Her voice sounded almost savage, for Jeannie, and Tom felt a little shocked.

“It’s the fairest thing,” he argued. “You know it perfectly well.”

Jeannie’s mouth had set in a stubborn line. “I don’t care. There must be another way.”

“This is the only fair way,” Tom said again. “We take our chances along with everybody else.”

His own heart was pounding, now, and his hands felt cold. It was the feeling he always had on entering the Tunnel, and he had never decided whether it was dread or elation, or both. He was no longer bored. He glanced at the children on the back seat. David was watching television again and gnawing on a fingernail; the three little ones were still asleep, sitting up as they had been taught to do, hands folded properly in their laps. Three blind mice.

The Tunnel was echoing and cold. White light slipped off the white tile walls that were clean and polished and air-tight. Wind rushed past, sounding as though the car were moving faster than it actually was. The Italian family was still behind them, following at a constant speed. Huge fans were set into the Tunnel ceiling; their roar reverberated over the roar of the giant invisible air-conditioning units, over the slow wind of the moving cars.

Jeannie had put her head down on the seat back as though she were asleep. The cars stopped for an instant, started again. Tom wondered if Jeannie felt the same vivid thrill that he felt. Then he looked at the line of her mouth and saw the fear.

The Tunnel was 8500 feet long. Each car took up seven feet bumper to bumper. Allow five feet between cars. About seven hundred cars in the tunnel, then: more than three thousand people. It would take each car about fifteen minutes to go through. Their car was halfway through now.

They were three-quarters of the way through. Automatic signal lights were flashing at them from the catwalk under the Tunnel roof. Tom’s foot moved to the gas pedal before he remembered the car was set on Automatic. It was an atavistic gesture: his hands and feet wanted a job to do. His body, for a minute, wanted to control the direction of its plunge. It was the way he always felt, in the Tunnel.

They were almost through. His scalp felt as though tiny ants were running along the hairs. He moved his toes, feeling the scratch of sand on the nerves between them. He could see the far end of the Tunnel. Maybe two minutes more. A minute.

They stopped again. A car, somewhere ahead, had swerved out of line to search for the right exit. Once out of the Tunnel it was legal to switch back to Manual Drive, since it was necessary to pick the right exit out of ten, and all too easy to find yourself carried to the top level of Manhattan Unit before finding a place to turn off.

Tom’s hand drummed at the wheel. The maverick ahead had edged back into line. They started movement again. They picked up speed. They were out of the Tunnel.

Jeannie picked up her knitting and shook it, sharply. Then she dropped it as though it had bitten her fingers. A bell was clanging over their heads, not too loud, but clear. Just behind their rear bumper, a gate swung smoothly into place.

Jeannie turned to look back at the space behind them where the Italian family in the bright blue car, and others, had been. There were no cars there now. She turned back, to stare whitely through the windshield.

Tom was figuring. Two minutes for the ceiling sprays to work. Then the seven hundred cars in the Tunnel would be hauled out and emptied. Ten minutes for that, say. He wondered how long it was supposed to take for the giant fans to blow the cyanide gas away.

“Depopulation without Discrimination,” they called it at election time. Nobody would ever admit voting for it, but almost everybody did. Aloud, you had to rationalize: it was the fairest way to do a necessary thing. But in the unadmitted places of your mind you knew it was more than that A gamble, the one unpredictable element in the long, dreary process of survival. A game. Russian Roulette. A game you played to win? Or, maybe, to lose? The answer didn’t matter, because the Tunnel was excitement. The only excitement left.

Tom felt, suddenly, remarkably wide awake. He switched to Manual Drive and angled the round nose of the Topolino over to the Fourth Level exit.

He began to whistle between his teeth. “Beach again next weekend, sweetie, huh?”

Jeannie’s eyes were on his face. Defensively, he added, “Good for all of us, get out of the city, get a little fresh air once in a while.”

He nudged her and pulled a pigtail gently, with affection.

The ever-more-pressing probability of planetwide overpopulation is both more real and less remote than it may appear. Certainly, for the smog-breathers of the great centers of modem civilization, as for the emergent peoples of the world’s “underdeveloped” areas, the pressures of the new population explosion are daily more evident. And as the cities grow out, and the primitives grow up, the room in the middle grows steadily less. Each new medical discovery, every agricultural advance, every increment in social security, every headhunter converted to some gentler philosophy, each “international incident” settled however precariously without resort to all-out war — each one of these and a score of other proofs of our progress, adds measurably, if minutely, to the factor by which our fruitfulness constantly multiplies.

The problem, of course, is new only in scope, and (through Malthus back to Moses, and no doubt before) in the more limited test cases, it has proved, drastically, self-regulating. Unless new land was found for the overflow, war, famine, and pestilence have always cut problem and population both down to size.

The recent historical alternatives are especially familiar to Denver’s Regional CARE Director, Sheri Eberhart. An ex-saleswoman, — secretary, — draftswoman, and — pottery-painter, she also became an ex-short-story-writer when after two sales, and “enough rejections to paper a wall” her daughter advised her to quit because, “You don’t think like a grown-up.” Mrs. Eberhart promptly turned to children’s plays — including a handclapping version of the Pentateuch (The Beat Bible), which has made her the swing-ingest Sunday School teacher in town.

In the catalogue of natural wonders, along with such unlikely miracles as the existence of self-conscious intelligence, the fecundity of humanity, and the evolution of communication, we may now add this marvel: that, after two decades of possession of a means of destruction volatile enough to match our mob furies, we (the people, of the third planet) are still very much alive.

The almost incredible indication is that we are — slowly, with utmost caution — approaching a real awareness of the irrevocability of the global interdependence our technology has created. Not only is it increasingly obvious that the worst they can do to us (from either viewpoint) is less terrible than what we-and-they can do to all-of-us; it is also becoming clear how much we-and-they might do, if we chose, for all of us; and further clear that the most we can do will be none too much, for if we avoid self-devastation, we may well be faced with self-suffocation.

Mankind, united, will undoubtedly level mountains and plumb the ocean depths; but with the same strength, we can more readily perhaps find our new space out in space. The stories that follow this one are all based on the assumption that man can and will go out to other worlds. This one is still set on a near-future Earth, but it concerns a pioneer of the still-uncertain emigration. It is the first science fiction (to my knowledge) by an author best known for his novel. The Fun Couple (Simon & Schuster, 1961), from which the hit Broadway play was adapted.

Carrying his duffelbag, Jack Bell climbed the stairs to Dan Oldfield’s office. The door was open, and through the outer office, now empty of secretaries, Bell could see Oldfield sitting at his desk, the phone in one hand, a toothpick in the other. Bell walked in without knocking, and waited for the other man to finish his conversation.

Oldfield hung up the phone. “Well, old Sleepy Bell. I thought you’d crashed by now.”

“Almost — not quite, though.”

Oldfield watched Bell. He noticed the gray creeping in around the temples, the flaccid cheeks, the pushed-out face from too many rides in the centrifuge.

“I need a blast,” Bell said.

“Drink?” Oldfield asked.

“No, thanks. Never touch it.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Oh, can it,” Bell said, sitting down without being asked, his duffelbag beside him.

“How many blasts have you had this year?” Oldfield asked.

“One. A Redstone. Suborbital.”

“A liquid-fuel job, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Bell looked around the office. There were dusty models of the Redstone, the Mercury capsule, the Minuteman, a few brownish photographs of pads at Vandenburg, at Cape Canaveral, and one picture, taken years before, in the infancy of space flight, of the seven original astronauts; a few framed newspaper clippings; a business license; a Lions Club plaque.

“There aren’t many blasts around,” Oldfield said.

“I’m still an astronaut, you know,” Bell said.

“Sure,” Oldfield said, “and I’m still a space agent. Well, I can book you into a night space circus right here at the Cape. By the lake on the edge of town.”

Bell looked at the agent. “I hate circuses. You know that.”

“It’s all I’ve got. Still got your G-suit?”

“Yeah. What about the real blasts here at the Cape? I hear they’re trying for a soft Mars landing.”

“They are. It’s all Air Force stuff.”

“How much for the circus?”

“Two hundred bucks.”

Bell sighed hard, then looked at Oldfield. “What time do they blast off?”

“Tomorrow night. Seven-thirty,” Oldfield said. “Countdown begins at six-thirty. Be there, and sober. It’s a little circus. They’ve only got one missile.”

Bell looked at Oldfield. “How about fifty on account?”

“Sure,” Oldfield said, and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

“This is only twenty.”

“If you’re really on the wagon, that’s all the dough you’ll need till tomorrow night.”

“Yeah,” Bell said. “I guess you’re right.” He took the twenty-dollar bill and, getting up, started to leave. “He shook my hand, you know,” Bell said.

“Who?”

“The President.”

Oldfield looked at the astronaut, and a touch of compassion brushed his eyes. “Sure, Jack. Those were good days. Good for everybody.”

Bell picked up his duffelbag, which held his G-suit, his helmet, his boots, and a few toilet articles, and left the office.

“Oh, Bell!” Oldfield yelled.

“Yeah?”

“You got a dresser?”

“I think so. I think Barney’s still in town. He’s the best.”

“Well, that’s out of your cut.”

“I know,” Bell said. “I know.”

He left the building and walked along the broad boulevard. The warm breezes of the Cape ruffled his shirt slightly. He walked into the Hangar, a favorite bar of the astronauts, and put down his duffelbag in an empty booth.

A waiter came over. “What’ll you have?”

“Rye-on-the-rocks. Have you seen Barney?” Bell asked.

“Sure. You know Barney?”

“Yeah.”

“You a space jockey?”

Bell nodded.

“You on the Mars shot?”

“No.”

“Circus?”

“Just bring me the drink.”

“Yes, sir.”

The waiter returned with the drink. Bell drank it, and sat there and waited, and ordered another drink, and then another, and then Barney came in.

The two men had not seen each other for five years, maybe six, yet Barney walked right over, shook hands, and seemed not at all surprised to see Bell. He took a seat opposite Bell and ordered a drink.

“Well, kid, how’s things?” Barney asked.

“Up and down.”

“Very funny,” Barney said. “You guys always had a crummy sense of humor.”

“I guess we did. I got a favor to ask you, Barney.”

“Yeah? What’s the favor?”

“I need a dresser — the circus tomorrow night. You’re the best in the business.”

“I was,” Barney said. “I was. But no more. No more dressing for me.”

“I just thought I’d ask.”

“Yeah,” Barney continued. “I guess you haven’t heard.”

“What?”

“I bought me a little bait shop. Right on the coast. Four days I sell bait. Three days I fish. What a life!” He patted his stomach.

“Sounds good. Don’t need a partner?”

“No. We’re overstaffed now. That was the smartest thing I ever did. You know, Jack, I’m right near the Cape. I see ‘em go off every day and I say to myself, ‘Thank God.’ ‘Yeah. That’s what I say. ‘Thank God it ain’t my worry if that damned suit leaks, or if the valves are stuck, or there’s spit caught in the poor slob’s throat.’ “ Barney drank deeply and looked accusingly at Bell. “You think you guys had all the sweat? Do you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, you didn’t. All you did was lie there. All the rest was up to the guys on the ground.”

“I know,” Bell said. “I know. I just thought I’d ask.”

“You’re not still blasting, are you, Jack?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“You’re too old.”

“I did real good out on the Coast in the Orbit-O-Rama.”

“A milk run,” Barney said.

“Yeah.”

“What was the apogee?”

“Three hundred and forty miles,” Bell said.

“Yeah, kid stuff.” Barney nodded his head. “How many moon landings have you had, kid?”

“Two.”

Barney shook his head. “You’re too old, Jack. Why don’t you throw away the G-suit?”

“I just want to get up and out, Barney. I just want one more try. Up and out. I know a way.”

“A way what?”

“A way to beat ‘em to Mars.”

“Sure, Jack. The thing you’ll be riding won’t get you past five hundred…”

“You haven’t seen me lately, Barney.”

“I’ve seen you, Jack, I’ve seen you plenty. I seen you one night, Jack, I’d rather forget it.”

Bell stared at Barney. “All right, I was stewed. Jesus Christ. Haven’t you ever gotten stewed? You were with me. You dressed me. You checked me out. We rode over together in the van. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about that night plenty.”

“Well, why didn’t you stop me?”

“I didn’t know you was loaded. What the hell were you drinking? Vodka?”

Bell nodded.

“I couldn’t smell a thing on you. I thought you was tense, that’s all. How the hell can you tell about a guy? You’re lying on that chair in the van. We took the elevator up the gantry. I strapped you in. You were still lying there.”

“Well, I walked away from it, didn’t I?”

“Sure.” Barney nodded. “But the senator riding with you never saw home again.”

“I know,” Bell said. “I already got punished for it. I just asked you a question. Forget it.”

“How much they paying you for the blast tomorrow?”

“Two hundred.”

“Well, I get more than that for dressing.”

“That settles it then, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. I guess it does.”

The two men sat silently and alone.

“What time’s countdown?” Barney asked.

“Six-thirty.”

“Get a tank of oxygen, and I’ll meet you. Let me feel your suit.”

Bell reached for his duffelbag, loosened the strings, and pulled out an arm of his space suit. Barney picked up the empty sleeve and expertly kneaded the rubberlike material in his big sea-scarred hands. “Getting pretty stiff.”

“She’ll hold,” Bell said eagerly.

“Yeah,” Barney said. “She’ll hold.” He got up and left two dollars for his whiskey. “Old G-suit. Old space jockey, old missile. It’ll hold. Yeah.” He left the bar.

Bell arrived in the dressing shack of the circus grounds at five o’clock the next afternoon. A few minutes later, a boy knocked on the door. ‘This your oxygen?” he asked, lowering a tank to the floor.

“Yes.”

“Four-forty.”

Bell paid him, and the boy started to leave.

“Hey, kid,” Bell said.

“Yeah?”

“What kind of bird they got here?”

“A surplus Redstone.”

“Recovered?”

The kid laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Bell asked.

“Recovered? That thing’s been recovered twenty times.”

Bell remembered dimly the lectures on metal fatigue at the Cape. ‘Thanks, kid. Will you be watching the blastoff?”

“Nah. I gotta date. Gung-ho.”

The boy left, and Bell, sitting down on the wooden bench, unpacked his G-suit and his boots and his helmet. He laid out the tubing nice and straight, and unlaced the boots; then he unpacked the long woolen underwear and stripped naked to put it on. He scratched the tattoo mark where they used to tape on the first sensor. He felt his heart beat below it. Well, nobody cares how my ticker’s working now, he thought, laughing to himself. Up and out, he thought. One more try. He slipped on the woolen underwear, then zipped it shut and sat there on the bench waiting for Barney.

The door opened, and the circus manager came in. “Bell.”

“Yeah?”

“Let me smell your breath.”

“Oh, can it.”

“You dry?”

“Dry as a blotter.”

“O.K. Now, listen. Straight shot. Blastoff, apogee three hundred miles, retrojet, land in the lake behind us. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, just remember it. She’s loaded to the hilt. She takes a lot to get her off. But don’t go wasting the spare stuff. No fancy ideas. Get it?”

“Check.”

“Who’s dressing you?”

“Barney.”

“Good.”

Barney walked in and told the circus manager to beat it.

“Touchy little guy, ain’t you?” the manager said.

“You want to listen to the leaks?” Barney asked. “I ain’t getting nothing out of this.”

“O.K. O.K. Blastoff at seven-thirty. I want him to shake a few hands at seven-fifteen. Press. Stuff like that.”

“Ask him,” Barney said. “He ain’t got his helmet on.”

“O.K.,” Bell said. “O.K.”

The manager left, and Barney helped Bell get into the G-suit. Carefully, Bell stepped into one leg, then the other. Barney started pulling zippers, and then Bell’s torso slipped into the suit, and finally Barney strapped down the helmet. He attached a hose from the suit to the oxygen tank; then he attached a smaller hose to the suit and taped the other end of it behind his own ear.

“O.K., Jack. Here goes.” Slowly, Barney turned the knob on the oxygen tank and waited for the suit to inflate. He heard the gas flow out of the tank, but no air reached his ear. “The sucker’s leaking like a sieve,” he said.

“Give it more juice!” Bell shouted.

Barney increased the pressure on the valve, and the astronaut’s suit inflated slowly. Barney’s eyes watched the tarnished silver material lose its creases, and he listened to the exhaust behind his ear. He knew there were leaks; he could tell by the lack of pressure behind his ear. He ran his hands over the suit. He knew where to look for the leaks — the armpits, under the neck, at the seat. Sure. They were there. Big leaks. “She’ll never hold,” Barney said.

“She’ll hold!” Bell shouted. “Just glue them.”

Barney reached into his pocket and pulled out a tube of liquid rubber and slowly mended each hole, waiting for the rubber to harden, repressurizing the suit, listening, feeling, listening, gluing.

“I’ve got you tight at ten G’s,” Barney yelled. “You get any cute ideas and you’ll turn into a jigsaw puzzle.”

“Run ‘er up,” Bell said.

“What for? You ain’t goin’ nowhere past three hundred miles.”

“Run ‘er up, Barney.”

Barney increased the pressure. He watched the G-meter. Eleven Gs, twelve, thirteen — then he heard the leaks again. “See?” he said, pointing to one of them.

“Glue it,” Bell said.

Barney glued and reduced the pressure. He held up both hands. “Ten Gs is all she’ll take. And you’ll be lucky at that.”

The circus manager came to the door. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Barney said.

The circus manager looked at Barney, then at Bell, and led the way as they walked the two hundred yards to the missile, past the snake show, the belly dancers, the penny pitches, a hot-dog stand, a wheel of fortune.

Heavy ropes held back about a hundred spectators. There was no press. Bell knew there’d be no press. He stepped over the ropes and looked at the missile. It was an old-timer. The markings “U.S. Army” had been crudely painted out, and the words “Kingsley Shows” ran up the length of the missile, the paint faded and scorched.

Bell felt better when he was knee-deep in vapor at the base of the missile. There was no elevator, just a steel ladder. He mounted the ladder, and Barney trailed behind him. There were sixty-five steps, and on the fiftieth Bell stopped and looked at the corroding seams of the missile’s skin. He pointed to them for Barney to see and continued his climb until he reached the hatch of the capsule. There he did not hesitate, but stepped in and lay down on the well-worn leather couch. He spread his arms and waited for Barney to strap him in.

Barney puffed heavily and sat down on the floor of the capsule. He made a thumbs-down gesture in front of Bell’s helmet, but Bell yelled, “Strap on!”

“She ain’t safe!” Barney yelled. “Forget it. Well go fishing.”

“She’ll go,” Bell said.

“Ditch the ride,” Barney pleaded. “Let’s go fishing.”

“Count down!” Bell shouted.

Barney mechanically strapped the shoulder braces and leg braces. He took a last pressure reading of the suit, then started to step out.

“Jack, for Christ’s sake. Eject. Go up and eject.”

“Count down, Barney.”

Barney reached in his pocket and pulled out the tube of liquid rubber. He squeezed the tube and poured a small mound of rubber on the instrument panel in front of Bell. “Just watch the rubber, Jack,” Barney said. “If she starts to bubble—” He pointed down. “Retrojet. Do you hear me?”

Bell watched Barney and smiled. “Cut bait!” Bell shouted, and Barney left the capsule, sealed it, and descended the long steel ladder. He joined the circus manager in the control wagon.

“You sure that jockey was sober, Barney?” the manager asked.

“What do you want for two hundred bucks?”

“I want my missile back in one piece.”

“Did you ever shake the President’s hand?” Barney asked.

The manager looked at him. “He don’t go around shaking carnies’ hands.”

“No, I guess he don’t.”

Barney left the control wagon and heard the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, at the count of zero you will witness a manned space flight. At the controls — Jack Bell, the second man to reach the moon. Are you ready now? Count down… ten — nine — eight — seven—”

Barney could barely hear the countdown, and yet, out of habit, he counted to himself as he walked down the highway. He saw, over his shoulder, the lights dim behind him as the circus generators ignited die fuel, and then he saw his shadow clearly ahead of his body as the blastoff lit the countryside. He could not bring himself to look back and see whether his friend lifted off the pad. He walked on, and his right hand played nervously with the tube of rubber cement in his pocket. Then he yanked it out and threw it into the gully at one side of the road.

The latest thing in subnuclear theory (I learned from an article in The Saturday Evening Post) is that the sub-particles have subparticles — and those subparticles have. . ad infinitum. That is, it may be impossible to reach the ultimate submicroscopic unit of the atom.

A similar likelihood has been evident for some time in the case of scholarly-literary distinctions. For instance: science fiction is a subform of science fantasy, which is a subform of fantasy, which is a subform of fiction — and still, within s-f, the afficionado subdivides repeatedly.

The subspecies most widely identified with the field as a whole is, of course, the space story: this is what is commonly considered the “science fiction” that “science has caught up with.” Science fiction (meaning: the space story) is dead— they say — because it has become true-adventure; and they would be right, if science fiction (or even the space story) were limited to speculation about rockets and orbits. But when we consider the people in those now so-nearly-true-adventure orbits…

When the eviction order arrived, Fats Jordan was hanging in the center of the Big Glass Balloon, hugging his guitar to his massive black belly above his purple shorts.

The Big Igloo, as the large living-Globe was more often called, was not really made of glass. It was sealingsilk, a cheap flexible material almost as transparent as fused silica and ten thousand times tougher — quite tough enough to hold a breathable pressure of air in the hard vacuum of space.

Beyond the spherical wall loomed the other and somewhat smaller balloons of the Beat Cluster, connected to each other and to the Big Igloo by three-foot-diameter cylindrical tunnels of triple-strength tinted sealingsilk. In them floated or swam about an assemblage of persons of both sexes in informal dress and undress and engaged in activities suitable to freefall: sleeping, sunbathing, algae tending (“rocking” spongy cradles of water, fertilizer and the green scummy “guk”), yeast culture (a rather similar business), reading, studying, arguing, stargazing, meditation, space-squash (played inside the globular court of a stripped balloon), dancing, artistic creation in numerous media and the production of sweet sound (few musical instruments except the piano depend in any way on gravity).

Attached to the Beat Cluster by two somewhat larger sealingsilk tunnels and blocking off a good eighth of the inky, star-speckled sky, was the vast trim aluminum bulk of Research Satellite One, dazzling now in the untempered sunlight.

It was mostly this sunlight reflected by the parent satellite, however, that now illuminated Fats Jordan and the other “floaters” of the Beat Cluster. A huge sun-quilt was untidily spread (staying approximately where it was put, like all objects in freefall) against most of the inside of the Big Igloo away from the satellite. The sun-quilt was a patchwork of colors and materials on the inward side, but silvered on the outward side, as turned-over edges and corners showed. Similar “Hollywood Blankets” protected the other igloos from the undesirable heating effects of too much sunlight and, of course, blocked off the sun’s disk from view.

Fats, acting as Big Daddy of the Space Beats, received the eviction order with thoughtful sadness.

“So we all of us gotta go down there?”

He jerked a thumb at the Earth, which looked about as big as a basketball held at arms’ length, poised midway between the different silvers of the sun-quilt margin and the satellite. Dirty old Terra was in half phase: wavery blues and browns toward the sun, black away from it except for the tiny nebulous glows of a few big cities.

“That is correct,” the proctor of the new Resident Civilian Administrator replied through thin lips. The new proctor was a lean man in silvery gray blouse, Bermuda shorts and sockassins. His hair was precision clipped — a quarter-inch blond lawn. He looked almost unbearably neat and hygienic contrasted with the sloppy long-haired floaters around him. He almost added, “and high time, too,” but he remembered that the Administrator had enjoined him to be tactful—”firm, but tactful.” He did not take this suggestion as including his nose, which had been wrinkled ever since he had entered the igloos. It was all he could do not to hold it shut with his fingers. Between the overcrowding and the loathsome Chinese gardening, the Beat Cluster stank.

And it was dirty. Even the satellite’s precipitrons, working over the air withdrawn from the Beat Cluster via the exhaust tunnel, couldn’t keep pace with the new dust. Here and there a film of dirt on the sealingsilk blurred the star-fields. And once the proctor thought he saw the film crawl.

Furthermore, at the moment Fats Jordan was upside-down to the proctor, which added to the latter’s sense of the unfitness of things. Really, he thought, these beat types were the curse of space. The sooner they were out of it the better.

“Man,” Fats said mournfully, “I never thought they were going to enforce those old orders.”

“The new Administrator has made it his first official act,” the proctor said, smiling leanly. He went on, “The supply rocket was due to make the down-jump empty this morning, but the Administrator is holding it. There is room for fifty of your people. We will expect that first contingent at the boarding tube an hour before nightfall.”

Fats shook his head mournfully and said, “Gonna be a pang, leavin’ space.”

His remark was taken up and echoed by various individuals spotted about in the Big Igloo.

“It’s going to be a dark time,” said Knave Grayson, merchant spaceman and sun-worshiper. Red beard and sheath-knife at his belt made him look like a pirate. “Do you realize the nights average twelve hours down there instead of two? And there are days when you never see Sol?”

“Gravity yoga will be a trial after freefall yoga,” Guru Ishpingham opined, shifting from padmasana to a position that put his knees behind his ears in a fashion that made the proctor look away. The tall, though presently much folded and intertwined, Briton was as thin as Fats Jordan was stout. (In space the number of thins and fats tends to increase sharply, as neither overweight nor under-musculature carries the penalties it does on the surface of a planet.)

“And mobiles will be trivial after space stabiles,” Erica Janes threw under her shoulder. The husky sculptress had just put the finishing touches to one of her three-dimensional free montages — an arrangement of gold, blue and red balls — and was snapping a stereophoto of it. “What really hurts,” she added, “is that our kids will have to try to comprehend Newton’s Three Laws of Motion in an environment limited by a gravity field. Elementary physics should never be taught anywhere except in freefall.”

“No more space diving, no more water sculpture, no more vacuum chemistry,” chanted the Brain, fourteen-year-old fugitive from a brilliant but much broken home down below.

“No more space pong, no more space pool,” chimed in the Brainess, his sister. (Space pool, likewise billiards, is played on the inner surface of a stripped balloon. The balls, when properly cued, follow it by reason of centrifugal force.)

“Ah well, we all knew this bubble would someday burst,” Gussy Friml summed up, pinwheeling lazily in her black leotards. (There is something particularly beautiful about girls in space, where gravity doesn’t tug at their curves. Even fat folk don’t sag in freefall. Luscious curves become truly remarkable.)

“Yes!” Knave Grayson agreed savagely. He’d seemed lost in brooding since his first remarks. Now as if he’d abruptly reached conclusions, he whipped out his knife and drove it through the taut sealingsilk at his elbow.

The proctor knew he shouldn’t have winced so convulsively. There was only the briefest whistle of escaping air before the edge-tension in the sealingsilk closed the hole with an audible snap.

Knave smiled wickedly at the proctor. “Just testing,” he explained. “I knew a roustabout who lost a foot stepping through sealingsilk. Edge-tension cut it off clean at the ankle. The foot’s still orbiting around the satellite, in a brown boot with needle-sharp hobnails. This is one spot where a boy’s got to remember not to put his finger in the dike.”

At that moment Fats Jordan, who’d seemed lost in brooding too, struck a chilling but authoritative chord on his guitar.

“Gonna be a pang

Leavin’ space,” (he sang)

“Gonna be a pang!”

The proctor couldn’t help wincing again. “That’s all very well,” he said sharply, “and I’m glad you’re taking this realistically. But hadn’t you better be getting a move on?”

Fats Jordan paused with his hand above the strings. “How do you mean, Mr. Proctor?” he asked.

“I mean getting your first fifty ready for the down jump!”

“Oh, that,” Fats said and paused reflectively. “Well, now, Mr. Proctor, that’s going to take a little time.”

The proctor snorted. ‘Two hours!” he said sharply and, grabbing at the nylon line he’d had the foresight to trail into the Beat Cluster behind him (rather like Theseus venturing into the Minotaur’s probably equally smelly labyrinth), he swiftly made his way out of the Big Igloo, hand over hand, by way of the green tunnel.

The Brainess giggled. Fats frowned at her solemnly. The giggling was cut off. To cover her embarrassment the Brainess began to hum one of her semi-private songs:

“Eskimos of space are we

In our igloos falling free.

We are space’s Esquimaux,

Fearless vacuum-chewing hawks.”

Fats tossed Gussy his guitar, which set him spinning very slowly. As he rotated, precessing a little, he ticked off points to his comrades on his stubby, ripe-banana-clustered fingers.

“Somebody gonna have to tell the research boys we’re callin’ off the art show an’ the ballet an’ terminatin’ jazz Fridays. Likewise the Great Books course an’ Saturday poker. Might as well inform our friends of Edison and Convair at the same time that they’re gonna have to hold the 3D chess and 3D go tournaments at their place, unless they can get the new Administrator to donate them our quarters when we leave — which I doubt. I imagine he’ll tote the Cluster off a ways and use the igloos for target practice. With the self-sealin’ they should hold shape a long time.

“But don’t exactly tell the research boys when we’re goin’ or why. Play it mysterioso.

“Meanwhile the gals gotta start sewin’ us some ground clothes. Warm and decent. And we all gotta get our papers ready for the customs men, though I’m afraid most of us ain’t kept nothin’ but Davis passports. Heck, some of you are probably here on Nansen passports.

“An’ we better pool our credits to buy wheelchairs and dollies groundside for such of us as are gonna ‘need ‘em.” Fats looked back and forth dolefully from Guru Ishpingham’s interwoven emaciation to his own hyper-portliness.

Meanwhile a space-diver had approached the Big Igloo from the direction of the satellite, entered the folds of a limp blister, zipped it shut behind him and unzipped the slit leading inside. The blister filled with a dull pop and the diver pushed inside through the lips. With a sharp effort he zipped them shut, then threw back his helmet.

“Condition Red!” he cried. “The new Administrator’s planning to ship us all groundside! I got it straight from the Police Chief. The new A’s taking those old deportation orders seriously and he’s holding the—”

“We know all about that, Trace Davis,” Fats interrupted him. “The new A’s proctor’s been here.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” the other demanded.

“Nothin’,” Fats serenely informed the flushed and shock-headed diver. “We’re complyin’. You, Trace”—he pointed a finger—”get out of that suit. We’re auctionin’ it off ‘long with all the rest of our unworldly goods. The research boys’ll be eager to bid on it. For fun-diving our space-suits are the pinnacle.”

A carrot-topped head thrust out of the blue tunnel. “Hey, Fats, we’re broadcasting,” its freckled owner called accusingly. “You’re on in thirty seconds!”

“Baby, I clean forgot,” Fats said. He sighed and shrugged. “Guess I gotta tell our downside fans the inglorious news. Remember all my special instructions, chillun. Share ‘em out among you.” He grabbed Gussy Friml’s black ankle as it swung past him and shoved off on it, coasting toward the blue tunnel at about one fifth the velocity with which Gussy receded from him in the opposite direction.

“Hey, Fats,” Gussy called to him as she bounced gently off the sun-quilt, “you got any general message for us?”

“Yeah,” Fats replied, still rotating as he coasted and smiling as he rotated. “Make more guk, chillun. Yeah,” he repeated as he disappeared into the blue tunnel, “take off the growth checks an’ make mo’ guk.”

Seven seconds later he was floating beside the spherical mike of the Beat Cluster’s shortwave station. The bright instruments and heads of the Small Jazz Ensemble were all clustered in, sounding a last chord, while their foreshortened feet waved around the periphery. The half dozen of them, counting Fats, were like friendly fish nosing up to the single black olive of the mike. Fats had his eyes on the Earth, a little more than half night now and about as big as the snare drum standing out from the percussion rack Jordy had his legs scissored around. It was good, Fats thought, to see who you were talking to.

“Greetings, groundsiders,” he said softly when the last echo had come back from the sealingsilk and died in the sun-quilt. “This is that ever-hateful voice from outer space, the voice of your old tormentor Fats Jordan, advertising no pickle juice.” Fats actually said “advertising,” not “advertisin’”—his diction always improved when he was on vacuum.

“And for a change, folks, I’m going to take this space to tell you something about us. No jokes this time, just tedious talk. I got a reason, a real serious reason, but I ain’t saying what it is for a minute.”

He continued, “You look mighty cozy down there, mighty cozy from where we’re floating. Because we’re way out here, you know. Out of this world, to quote the man. A good twenty thousand miles out, Captain Nemo.

“Or we’re up here, if it sounds better to you that way. Way over your head. Up here with the stars and the flaming sun and the hot-cold vacuum, orbiting around Earth in our crazy balloons that look like a cluster of dingy glass grapes.”

The band had begun to blow softly again, weaving a cool background to Fats’ lazy phrases.

“Yes, the boys and girls are in space now, groundsiders. We’ve found the cheap way here, the back door. The wild ones who yesterday would have headed for the Village or the Quarter or Big Sur, the Left Bank or North Beach, or just packed up their Zen Buddhism and hit the road, are out here now, digging cool sounds as they fall round and round Dear Old Dirty. And, folks, ain’t you just a little glad we’re gone?”

The band coasted into a phrase that was like the lazy swing of a hammock.

“Our cold-water flats have climbed. Our lofts have gone aloft. We’ve cut our pads loose from the cities and floated them above the stratosphere. It was a stiff drag for our motorcycles, Dad, but we made it. And ain’t you a mite delighted to be rid of us? I know we’re not all up here. But the worst of us are.

“You know, people once pictured the conquest of space entirely in terms of military outposts and machine precision.” Here Burr’s trumpet blew a crooked little battle cry. “They didn’t leave any room in their pictures for the drifters and dreamers, the rebels and no-goods (like me, folks!) who are up here right now, orbiting with a few pounds of oxygen and a couple of gobs of guk (and a few cockroaches, sure, and maybe even a few mice, though we keep a cat) inside a cluster of smelly old balloons.

“That’s a laugh in itself: the antique vehicle that first took man off the ground also being the first to give him cheap living quarters outside the atmosphere. Primitive balloons floated free in the grip of the wind; we fall free in the clutch of gravity. A balloon’s a symbol, you know, folks. A symbol of dreams and hopes and easily punctured illusions. Because a balloon’s a kind of bubble. But bubbles can be tough.”

Led by Jordy’s drums, the band worked into the Blue Ox theme from the Paul Bunyan Suite.

“Tough the same way the hemlock tents and sod huts of the American settlers were tough. We got out into space, a lot of us did, the same way the Irish and Finns got west. They built the long railroads. We built the big satellites.”

Here the band shifted to the Axe theme.

“I was a welder myself. I came into space with a bunch of other galoots to help stitch together Research Satellite One. I didn’t like the barracks they put us in, so I made myself a little private home of sealingsilk, a material which then was used only for storing liquids and gases — nobody’d even thought of it for human habitation. I started to meditate there in my bubble and I came to grips with a few half-ultimates and I got to like it real well in space. Same thing happened to a few of the others. You know, folks, a guy who’s wacky enough to wrestle sheet aluminum in vacuum in a spider suit may very well be wacky enough to get to really like stars and weightlessness and all the rest of it.

“When the construction job was done and the big research outfits moved in, we balloon men stayed on. It took some wangling but we managed. We weren’t costing the Government much. And it was mighty convenient for them to have us around for odd jobs.

“That was the nucleus of our squatter cluster. The space roustabouts and roughnecks came first. The artists and oddballs, who have a different kind of toughness, followed. They got wind of what our life was like and they bought, bummed or conned their way up here. Some got space research jobs and shifted over to us at the ends of their stints. Others came up on awards trips and managed to get lost from their parties and accidentally find us. They brought their tapes and instruments with them, their sketchbooks and typers; some even smuggled up their own balloons. Most of them learned to do some sort of space work — it’s good insurance on staying aloft. But don’t get me wrong. We’re none of us work-crazy. Actually we’re the laziest cats in the cosmos: the ones who couldn’t bear the thought of carrying their own weight around every day of their lives! We mostly only toil when we have to have money for extras or when there’s a job that’s just got to be done. We’re the dreamers and funsters, the singers and studiers. We leave the ‘to the stars by hard ways’ business to our friends the space marines. When we use the ‘ad astra per aspera’ motto (was it your high school’s too?) we change the last word to asparagus — maybe partly to honor the green guk we grow to get us oxygen (so we won’t be chiseling too much gas from the Government) and to commemorate the food-yeasts and the other stuff we grow from our garbage.

“What sort of life do we have up here? How can we stand it cooped up in a lot of stinking balloons? Man, we’re free out here, really free for the first time. We’re floating, literally. Gravity can’t bow our backs or break our arches or tame our ideas. You know, it’s only out here that stupid people like us can really think. The weightlessness gets our thoughts and we can sort them. Ideas grow out here like nowhere else — it’s the right environment for them.

“Anybody can get into space if he wants to hard enough. The ticket is a dream.

“That’s our story, folks. We took the space road because it was the only frontier left. We had to come out, just because space was here, like the man who climbed the mountain, like the first man who skin-dove into the green deeps. Like the first man who envied a bird or a shooting star.”

The music had softly soared with Fats’ words. Now it died with them and when he spoke again it was without accompaniment, just a flat lonely voice.

“But that isn’t quite the end of the story, folks. I told you I had something serious to impart — serious to us anyway. It looks like we’re not going to be able to stay in space, folks. We’ve been told to get out. Because we’re the wrong sort of people. Because we don’t have the legal right to stay here, only the right that’s conveyed by a dream.

“Maybe there’s real justice in it. Maybe we’ve sat too long in the starbird seat. Maybe the beat generation doesn’t belong in space. Maybe space belongs to soldiers and the civil service, with a slice of it for the research boys. Maybe there’s somebody who wants to be in space more than we do. Maybe we deserve our comedownance. I wouldn’t know.

“So get ready for a jolt, folks. We’re coming back! If you don’t want to see us, or if you think we ought to be kept safely cooped up here for any reason, you just might let the President know.

“This is the Beat Cluster, folks, signing off.”

As Fats and the band pushed away from each other, Fats saw that the little local audience in the sending balloon had grown and that not all new arrivals were fellow floaters.

“Fats, what’s this nonsense about you people privatizing your activities and excluding research personnel?” a grizzle-haired stringbean demanded. “You can’t cut off recreation that way. I depend on the Cluster to keep my electron bugs happily abnormal. We even mention it downside in recruiting personnel — though we don’t put it in print.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Thoms,” Fats said. “No offense meant to you or to General Electric. But I got no time to explain. Ask somebody else.”

“Whatdya mean, no offense?” the other demanded, grabbing at the purple shorts. “What are you trying to do, segregate the squares in space? What’s wrong with research? Aren’t we good enough for you?”

“Yes,” put in Rumpleman of Convair, “and while you’re doing that would you kindly throw some light on this directive we just received from the new A — that the Cluster’s off-bounds to us and that all dating between research personnel and Cluster girls must stop? Did you put the new A up to that, Fats?”

“Not exactly,” Fats said. “Look, boys, let up on me. I got work to do.”

“Work!” Rumpleman snorted.

“Don’t think you’re going to get away with it,” Thorns warned Fats. “We’re going to protest. Why, the Old Man is frantic about the 3D chess tournament. He says the Brain’s the only real competition he has up here.” (The Old Man was Hubert Willis, guiding genius of the open bevatron on the other side of the satellite.)

“The other research outfits are kicking up a fuss too,” Trace Davis put in. “We spread the news like you said, and they say we can’t walk out on them this way.”

“Allied Microbiotics,” Gussy Friml said, “wants to know who’s going to take over the experiments on unshielded guk societies in freefall that we’ve been running for them in the Cluster.”

Two of the newcomers had slightly more confidential messages for Fats.

Allison of Convair said, “I wouldn’t tell you, except I think you’ve guessed, that I’ve been using the Beat Cluster as a pilot study in the psychology of anarchic human societies in freefall. If you cut yourself off from us, I’m in a hole.”

“It’s mighty friendly of you to feel that way,” Fats said, “but right now I got to rush.”

Space Marines Sergeant Gombert, satellite police chief, drew Fats aside and said, “I don’t know why you’re giving research a false impression of what’s happening, but they’ll find out the truth soon enough and I suppose you have your own sweet insidious reasons. Meanwhile I’m here to tell you that I can’t spare the men to police your exodus. As you know, you old corner-cutter, this place is run more like a national park than a military post, in spite of its theoretical high security status. I’m going to have to ask you to handle the show yourself, using your best judgment.”

“We’ll certainly work hard at it, Chief,” Fats said. “Hey, everybody, get cracking!”

“Understand,” Gombert continued, his expression very fierce, “I’m wholly on the side of officialdom. I’ll be officially overjoyed to see the last of you floaters. It just so happens that at the moment I’m short-handed.”

“I understand,” Fats said softly, then bellowed, “On the jump, everybody!”

But at sunset the new A’s proctor was again facing him, rightside-up this time, in the Big Igloo.

“Your first fifty were due at the boarding tube an hour ago,” the proctor began ominously.

“That’s right,” Fats assured him. “It just turns out we’re going to need a little more time.”

“What’s holding you up?”

“We’re getting ready, Mr. Proctor,” Fats said. “See how busy everybody is?”

A half dozen figures were rhythmically diving around the Big Igloo, folding the sun-quilt. The sun’s disk had dipped behind the Earth and only its wild corona showed, pale hair streaming across the star-fields. The Earth had gone into its dark phase, except for the faint unbalanced halo of sunlight bent by the atmosphere and for the faint dot-dot-dot of glows that were the Los Angeles-Chicago-New York line. Soft yellow lights sprang up here and there in the Cluster as it prepared for its short night. The transparent balloons seemed to vanish, leaving a band of people camped among the stars.

The proctor said, “We know you’ve been getting some unofficial sympathy from research and even the MPs. Don’t depend on it. The new Administrator can create special deputies to enforce the deportation orders.”

“He certainly can,” Fats agreed earnestly, “but he don’t need to. We’re going ahead with it all, Mr. Proctor, as fast as we’re able. F’rinstance, our groundclothes ain’t sewed yet. You wouldn’t want us arriving downside half naked an’ givin’ the sat’ a bad reputation. So just let us work an’ don’t joggle our elbow.”

The proctor snorted. He said, “Let’s not waste each other’s time. You know, if you force us to do it, we can cut off your oxygen.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then from the side Trace Davis said loudly, “Listen to that! Listen to a man who’d solve the groundside housing problem by cutting off the water to the slums.”

But Fats frowned at Trace and said quietly only, “If Mr. Proctor shut down on our air, he’d only be doing the satellite a disservice. Right now our algae are producing a shade more oxy than we burn. We’ve upped the guk production. If you don’t believe me, Mr. Proctor, you can ask the atmosphere boys to check.”

“Even if you do have enough oxygen,” the proctor retorted, “you need our forced ventilation to keep your air moving. Lacking gravity convection, you’d suffocate in your own exhaled breath.”

“We got our fans ready, battery driven,” Fats told him.

“You’ve got no place to mount them, no rigid framework,” the proctor objected.

“They’ll mount on harnesses near each tunnel mouth,” Fats said impertubably. “Without gravity they’ll climb away from the tunnel mouths and ride the taut harness. Besides, we’re not above hand labor if it’s necessary. We could use punkahs.”

“Air’s not the only problem,” the proctor interjected. “We can cut off your food. You’ve been living on handouts.”

“Right now,” Fats said softly, “we’re living half on yeasts grown from our own personal garbage. Living well, as you can see by a look at me. And if necessary we can do as much better than half as we have to. We’re farmers, man.”

“We can seal off the Cluster,” the proctor snapped back, “and set you adrift. The orders allow it.”

Fats replied, “Why not? It would make a very interesting day-to-day drama for the groundside public and for the food chemists — seeing just how long we can maintain a flourishing ecology.”

The proctor grabbed at his nylon line. “I’m going to report your attitude to the new Administrator as hostile,” he sputtered. “You’ll hear from us again shortly.”

“Give him our greetings when you do,” Fats said. “We haven’t had opportunity to offer them. And there’s one other thing,” he called after the proctor, “I notice you hold your nose mighty rigid in here. It’s a waste of energy. If you’d just steel yourself and take three deep breaths you’d never notice our stink again.”

The proctor bumped into the tunnel side in his haste to be gone. Nobody laughed, which doubled the embarrassment. If they’d have laughed he could have cursed. Now he had to bottle up his indignation until he could discharge it in his report to the new Administrator.

But even this outlet was denied him.

“Don’t tell me a word,” the new Administrator snapped at his proctor as the latter zipped into the aluminum office. ‘The deportation is canceled. I’ll tell you about it, but if you tell anybody else I’ll down-jump you. In the last twenty minutes I’ve had messages direct from the Space Marshal and the President. We must not disturb the Beat Cluster because of public opinion and because, although they don’t know it, they’re a pilot experiment in the free migration of people into space.” (“Where else, Joel,” the President had said, “do you think we’re going to get people to go willingly off the Earth and achieve a balanced existence, using their own waste products? Besides, they’re a floating labor pool for the satellites. And Joel, do you realize Jordan’s broadcast is getting as much attention as the Russian landings on Ganymede?”) The new Administrator groaned softly and asked the Unseen, “Why don’t they tell a new man these things before he makes a fool of himself?”

Back in the Beat Cluster, Fats struck the last chord of “Glow Little Glow Worm.” Slowly the full moon rose over the satellite, dimming the soft yellow lights that seemed to float in free space. The immemorial white globe of Luna was a little bit bigger than when viewed from Earth and its surface markings were more sharply etched. The craters of Tycho and Copernicus stood out by reason of the bright ray systems shooting out from them and the little dark smudge of the Mare Crisium looked like a curled black kitten. Fats led those around him into a new song:

An observer of the s-f scene once commented that science fiction-writing was less a means of livelihood than a way of life. It could as easily be said that s-f is not so much a kind of reading as a way of thinking.

Reginald Bretnor and Robert Heinlein (notably, in The Science Fiction Novel) have advanced the proposition that this identifying fundamental of science fiction is not the specific science content, but the writer’s awareness of science, and in particular of the scientific method.

To utilize this discipline — (observation, hypothesis, experimentation) — in fiction it is necessary, first, to get the best reliable information whether on weather, whales, witches, or whatever; then, to relate data and drama in such a way as to obtain a story line; finally, to devise the most useful environmental situation against which to play out the drama.

One might approach the same area of definition from another viewpoint, and say that the identifying factor in s-f is the interaction between man and his environment. “Mainstream” writing ordinarily confines itself to situations resulting from man’s reaction to only one phase of environment: his fellow-men. “Straight fantasy,” by definition, deals with unreal — fantastic — environmental factors. S-f, specifically, considers the effect on/of a human being of/on a realistically modern or logically predictable future environment (physical, technical, natural, or manmade).

Part of that physical environment for each man is the body his subjective self inhabits. Mr. Blish, who writes science fiction by night (as a way of life), is by day (for a livelihood) a public relations man specializing in the highly esoteric field of institutional drug promotion. Out of this combined background, he considers some of the possibilities inherent in our persistent efforts to modify, amend, and improve our own fleshly surroundings.

With a few notable exceptions, science-fiction authors talk very little about the biological sciences, and still fewer ever mention medicine. This is odd, for the history of modern science fiction coincides almost year for year with the world’s most spectacular medical revolution.

During this period, the contents of the doctor’s little black bag changed completely, and so did the nature of his practice. In 1926, that bag contained nothing that was curative, and the doctor’s practice was limited largely to relieving symptoms and hoping that Nature would do the rest. (That in itself was a revolutionary change; in the Gay Nineties, the bag contained poisons like calomel and the practice consisted in killing the patients with drastically applied ignorance.)

Today, curative drugs are so common and so potent that even physicians find it difficult to keep up with them. (As for science-fiction authors, one had a physician character remark, “If penicillin won’t cure it, I’m afraid nothing will,” although penicillin is, and was then, a “narrow-spectrum” antibiotic, effective against about 20 diseases — as opposed to at least four others that were, and are, effective against more than 100.)

In all civilized countries, infectious disease has been reduced to the category of a nuisance. Of course, it will never be eliminated completely, because bacteria are enormously prolific, and enormously necessary as the organisms of natural decay; furthermore, the natural habitat of many of the most virulent of them is the soil, with man as only a secondary host. Nevertheless, once they find their way into the body, it is possible to knock them out quite quickly. Yet, I am unable to think of a science-fiction writer who predicted this, or anything like it.

The virus diseases are next on the list. They are enormously tough, but a number of them are already no longer important; even polio has been licked in posse, and measles — which is no joke in adults, for it can be permanently disabling — is about to be.

The whole clouded area of mental disease, too, has been cracked wide open in two areas: chemistry and electroencephalography. The tranquillizing drugs are emptying state mental hospitals at a phenomenal rate; the BEG men are providing us with our first concrete clues about how the brain as an organ actually works. Nothing quite like this has happened since the days of Vesalius. The early anatomists, who laid the foundations of scientific medicine, were primarily artists; the early psychotherapists, like Freud, were primarily poets. Neither group ever cured anything, but each opened up a previously forbidden area of investigation. Both were retired to the sidelines when really hardcore knowledge began to be available, and that is happening to all the “talk” psychotherapies now, from pure Freudian-ism to splinter Scientology.

I could go on like this for quite a while, but I am more interested by another question: Where do we go from here?

The guesses that follow ought to be read only as those of a modestly informed layman; I am not a physician or a research scientist. I was trained as a biologist and have worked in or around the pharmaceutical industry for fifteen years, but these are nevertheless the guesses of an observer, not a participant.

First of all, then, it seems to me that some factor has already snapped off the switch on the fountain of “wonder drugs.” Since 1950, the pace of new drug discovery has slackened almost by half. This is true even in the United States, which since World War II has led all the rest of the world combined by about three to one in this field. No research director that I talk to is optimistic about reversing this trend.

One good reason for this is that all the obvious leads have been exhausted, and all the easy discoveries made. After penicillin, for example, showed that micro-organisms manufactured chemical weapons against each other, it was an obvious step for Waksman and his associates at Rutgers to set up a screening program to find another such productive microbe. In four years they had streptomycin, working with a very limited staff and a small stipend from Merck. When a large company puts its whole organization and a million dollars into such a screening program, this happens faster: Pfizer found, tested, and marketed Terramycin all inside a single year.

Several hundred antibiotics are now known, but only about a score have any medical significance, and of these the most recent five are chemists’ modifications of a 1946 discovery. The soil-screening system worked beautifully, but nothing further of startling importance can reasonably be expected of it now. In the meantime, the expenses involved in such research have risen in inverse proportion to its fruitfulness, so that one important company has now spent more than five million dollars on it without coming up with any antibiotic it thought worth marketing. It seems safe to predict that this company, and probably others, will shortly shut the whole project down for good.

This is not to say that the industry as a whole is quitting. Far from it. Last year more than $238 million (exact figures aren’t in yet) was spent in pharmaceutical company laboratories, and that’s more than a quarter of the country’s total budget for medical research.

But the questions now confronting the scientists are far tougher: cancer, heart and vascular disease, the arthritides, functional diseases like diabetes, and other illnesses of the kind generally lumped under the category, “degenerative” —including old age itself. Nobody yet knows what causes any of these, and so they are all being attacked more or less at random. The complexity of the life processes being what it is, this random attack is very much like trying to figure out how to play the piano by the noise it makes when you push it down the back stairs.

It is more than possible that most of these mysterious breakdowns of the human organism are the result, in one way or a dozen ways, of wear and tear — or, in short, old age itself. A year ago, G. Harry Stine, riding a trend-curve well beyond Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, predicted that after the year 2000 everyone then alive would live forever, but this, to put the matter kindly, is nonsense.

Nobody can live forever, because: (1) The longer you live, the more likely you are to meet with an accident; (2) The Second Law of Thermodynamics decrees that all things run down eventually; and (3) The universe itself is wholly unlikely to last forever. (Besides, what would we all eat?)

This writer was extrapolating from the increase in life expectancy at birth which has undoubtedly taken place. A baby born A.D. 1214 couldn’t hope to live beyond the age of 30; the same baby today could expect to live to the age of 70. But it’s important to note that the reason why the figure for the Middle Ages was so low is that so many babies did, in fact, die in early infancy. The age to which a man could live was as great then as it is today; Roger Bacon, who was born in 1214, lived to be 84, and he spent 14 of those years in the bowels of a medieval prison!

Nothing medicine has accomplished so far has raised the possible lifespan of one single man, not by so much as a year. It has raised the probable lifespan of large masses of men, which is a very different thing.

I incline to believe that the possible lifetime of a single man can be extended, at least to 150 years. No mammal but man has so long a childhood and so short an adult life; there is doubtless a findable physiological reason for this, and if it can be found, it can be corrected. (The means may have to be social; some very tentative recent research suggests that it may depend upon the age of the mother when the child is born. If this turns out to be true, the teen-agers will love it.)

But there is never going to be such a thing as an immortal man (I am talking now about the body, not the soul, about which I have no opinion). Everything wears out, without exception — and in challenging the degenerative diseases, medical research may well find itself attempting to give aspirin to the second law of thermodynamics.

I hope nobody will interpret this as pessimism, for I remain perfectly prepared to predict for men a possible lifetime of several thousand years. (In fact, I’ve written four novels from this assumption.) It seems to me that several trends in current research, now being actively prosecuted by both industry and government, point in this direction. They are:

(1) Permanent protection against all forms of infectious disease — and possibly against some forms of non-infectious ones, such as cancer — may be achievable with a drug which provokes the body into generating a non-specific immunity, This is necessary for true longevity because it obviates the possibility that a man’s life might hang from the thread of the availability of some specific anti-infective drug at some specific time. Several such drugs are already known; their common drawback is that they are highly toxic in themselves. It is only a matter of time before that drawback is eliminated.

(2) It may also be possible to eliminate atherosclerosis, a circulatory disease which causes almost 90 per cent of all cardiovascular deaths… and these are the most numerous of all the kinds of death today. Present research is aimed at interrupting the synthesis of a fatty substance called cholesterol in the body — a much more promising approach than eliminating it from the diet, since only about 25 per cent of serum cholesterol can be traced to what you eat. Again, there is a drug which does interrupt this internal synthesis, but it has drastic side-effects; and yet again, these can surely be eliminated sooner or later.

Given the success of both these approaches, there would be very little left to threaten a true longevity but accident. They are real approaches and the pharmaceutical industry, among others, is hotly at work on them.

In the meantime, the vast multiplication of curative agents which has occurred in our century has brought to the fore another problem which can only be touched upon here: the population explosion, which is the result of our having given our fellow men death control without the corresponding check of birth control. What is needed here, as everyone is now aware, is a cheap, simple oral contraceptive, inoffensive to anyone’s religious beliefs, which can be taken safely without a prescription and preferably at any time. The two oral contraceptives that are available now have just about every possible imaginable drawback: they require prescriptions, they are very expensive, they must be taken upon a regular schedule, they produce rebound pregnancy if they are neglected, and furthermore they must be taken by women, who probably won’t be able to find them in their pocketbooks much of the time. What is needed is something as simple as aspirin, which can be taken at need, by men. I think it will be found.

A second consequence of the curative drugs in today’s little black bag is an unprecedented increase in the urgency of accurate diagnosis. Antibiotics which cure or arrest more than 100 diseases have a tendency to mask what is wrong with the patient before the doctor can decide what really is the trouble, thus leaving behind a potential reservoir of future trouble. This can happen, for instance, when the patient has tuberculosis. The early stages of this disease often masquerade as pneumonia, and may be suppressed very quickly by penicillin and streptomycin, a common combination; but the TB is not really defeated and will come back. Or, a secondary infection resulting from early, undetected cancer may be cured by antibiotics, leaving the cancer undiagnosed and farther along in its course than it should be.

New diagnostic tools of many kinds, particularly those involving radio-active isotopes, are rapidly coming into use, and they are badly needed. Eventually, it should be possible to take a patient into the laboratory and produce a complete metabolic profile of his state of health, involving every organ, tissue, cellular and biochemical system he owns; when this is feasible, diagnosis will have become an exact science.

This, too, I think will happen. It cannot happen a moment too soon.

And after that, it will be up to the social scientists — if there are some real ones by that time — to figure out what we are going to do with a universally healthy population that lives an average lifespan of several thousand years.

The idea of a human brain connected to a mechanical “body” is at least as old as Frankenstein, and as new as the latest advance in prosthetics. The first story I recall which specifically considered the hooking up of a living brain to a spaceship was, coincidentally, James Blish’s “Solar Plexus,” almost twenty years ago. The difference in focus and treatment between that story and the one that follows are almost a two-step lesson in the Developmental Trends of Modem Science Fiction.

Anne McCaffrey describes herself as “the perfectly normal, well-adjusted wife of a public relations Duponter,” in support of which she points to a Wilmington home, three young children, and an ambitious canning, sewing, and den-mothering program. All nice-normal enough, till you add; she raises German Shepherds; sings in the Wilmington Opera Society and her church choir; translates opera. A trained linguist specializing in the Slavonic languages, she is also an ex-advertising copywriter.

She was born a thing and as such would be condemned if she failed to pass the encephalograph test required of all newborn babies. There was always the possibility that though the limbs were twisted, the mind was not, that though the ears would hear only dimly, the eyes see vaguely, the mind behind them was receptive and alert.

The electro-encephalogram was entirely favorable, unexpectedly so, and the news was brought to the waiting, grieving parents. There was the final, harsh decision, to give their child euthanasia or permit it to become an encapsulated “brain,” a guiding mechanism in any one of a number of curious professions. As such, their offspring would suffer no pain, live a comfortable existence in a metal shell for several centuries, performing unusual service to Central Worlds.

She lived and was given a name, Helva. For her first 3 vegetable months she waved her crabbed claws, kicked weakly with her clubbed feet and enjoyed the usual routine of the infant. She was not alone, for there were three other such children in the big city’s special nursery. Soon they all were removed to Central Laboratory School, where their delicate transformation began.

One of the babies died in the initial transferral, but of Helva’s ‘class’, 17 thrived in the metal shells. Instead of kicking feet, Helva’s neural responses started her wheels; instead of grabbing with hands, she manipulated mechanical extensions. As she matured, more and more neural synapses would be adjusted to operate other mechanisms that went into the maintenance and running of a space ship. For Helva was destined to be the ‘brain’ half of a scout ship, partnered with a man or a woman, whichever she chose, as the mobile half. She would be among the elite of her kind. Her initial intelligence tests registered above normal and her adaptation index was unusually high. As long as her development within her shell lived up to expectations, and there were no side-effects from the pituitary tinkering, Helva would live a rewarding, rich and unusual life, a far cry from what she would have faced as an ordinary, ‘normal’ being.

However, no diagram of her brain patterns, no early I.Q. tests recorded certain essential facts about Helva that Central must eventually learn. They would have to bide their official time and see, trusting that the massive doses of shell-psychology would suffice her, too, as the necessary bulwark against her unusual confinement and the pressures of her profession. A ship run by a human brain could not run rogue or insane with the power and resources Central had to build into their scout ships. Brain ships were, of course, long past the experimental stages. Most babies survived the perfected techniques of pituitary manipulation that kept their bodies small, eliminating the necessity of transfers from smaller to larger shells. And very, very few were lost when the final connection was made to the control panels of ship or industrial combine. Shell-people resembled mature dwarfs in size whatever their natal deformities were, but the well-oriented brain would not have changed places with the most perfect body in the Universe.

So, for happy years, Helva scooted around in her shell with her classmates, playing such games as Stall, Power-Seek, studying her lessons in trajectory, propulsion techniques, computation, logistics, mental hygiene, basic alien psychology, philology, space history, law, traffic, codes. All the et ceteras that eventually became compounded into a reasoning, logical, informed citizen. Not so obvious to her, but of more importance to her teachers, Helva ingested the precepts of her conditioning as easily as she absorbed her nutrient fluid. She would one day be grateful to the patient drone of the subconscious-level instruction.

Helva’s civilization was not without busy, do-good associations, exploring possible inhumanities to terrestrial as well as extraterrestrial citizens. One such group, Society for the Preservation of the Rights of Intelligent Minorities, got all incensed over shelled ‘children’ when Helva was just turning 14. When they were forced to, Central Worlds shrugged its shoulders, arranged a tour of the Laboratory Schools and set the tour off to a big start by showing the members case histories, complete with photographs. Very few committees ever looked past the first few photos. Most of their original objections about ‘shells’ were overridden by the relief that these hideous (to them) bodies were mercifully concealed.

Helva’s class was doing fine arts, a selective subject in her crowded program. She had activated one of her microscopic tools which she would later use for minute repairs to various parts of her control panel. Her subject was large, a copy of the Last Supper, and her canvas, small, the head of a tiny screw. She had tuned her sight to the proper degree. As she worked she absentmindedly crooned, producing a curious sound. Shell-people used their own vocal chords and diaphragms, but sound issued through microphones rather than mouths. Helva’s hum, then, had a curious vibrancy, a warm, dulcet quality even in its aimless chromatic wanderings.

“Why, what a lovely voice you have,” said one of the female visitors.

Helva ‘looked’ up and caught a fascinating panorama of regular, dirty craters on a flaky pink surface. Her hum became a gurgle of surprise. She instinctively regulated her ‘sight’ until the skin lost its cratered look and the pores assumed normal proportions.

“Yes, we have quite a few years of voice training, madam,” remarked Helva calmly. “Vocal peculiarities often become excessively irritating during prolonged intrastellar distances and must be eliminated. I enjoyed my lessons.”

Although this was the first time that Helva had seen unshelled people, she took this experience calmly. Any other reaction would have been reported instantly.

“I meant that you have a nice singing voice… dear,” the lady said.

“Thank you. Would you like to see my work?” Helva asked, politely. She instinctively sheered away from personal discussions, but she filed the comment away for further meditation.

“Work?” asked the lady.

“I am currently reproducing the Last Supper on the head of a screw.”

“Oh, I say,” the lady twittered.

Helva turned her vision back to magnification and surveyed her copy critically.

“Of course, some of my color values do not match the old Master’s and the perspective is faulty, but I believe it to be a fair copy.”

The lady’s eyes, unmagnified, bugged out.

“Oh, I forget,” and Helva’s voice was really contrite. If she could have blushed, she would have. “You people don’t have adjustable vision.”

The monitor of this discourse grinned with pride and amusement as Helva’s tone indicated pity for the unfortunate.

“Here, this will help,” said Helva, substituting a magnifying device in one extension and holding it over the picture.

In a kind of shock, the ladies and gentlemen of the committee bent to observe the incredibly copied and brilliantly executed Last Supper on the head of a screw.

“Well,” remarked one gentleman who had been forced to accompany his wife, “the good Lord can eat where angels fear to tread.”

“Are you referring, sir,” asked Helva politely, “to the Dark Age discussions of the number of angels who could stand on the head of a pin?”

“I had that in mind.”

“If you substitute ‘atom’ for ‘angel’, the problem is not insoluble, given the metallic content of the pin in question.”

“Which you are programmed to compute?”

“Of course.”

“Did they remember to program a sense of humor, as well, young lady?”

“We are directed to develop a sense of proportion, sir, which contributes the same effect.”

The good man chortled appreciatively and decided the trip was worth his time.

If the investigation committee spent months digesting the thoughtful food served them at the Laboratory School, they left Helva with a morsel as well.

‘Singing’ as applicable to herself required research. She had, of course, been exposed to and enjoyed a music appreciation course that had included the better known classical works such as ‘Tristan und Isolde’, ‘Candide’, ‘Oklahoma’, and ‘Le Nozze di Figaro’, along with the atomic age singers, Birgit Nilsson, Bob Dylan, and Geraldine Todd, as well as the curious rhythmic progressions of the Venusians, Capellan visual chromatics, the sonic concert of the Altairians and Reticulan croons. But ‘singing’ for any shell-person posed considerable technical difficulties. Shell-people were schooled to examine every aspect of a problem or situation before making a prognosis. Balanced properly between optimism and practicality, the nondefeatist attitude of the shell-people led them to extricate themselves, their ships, and personnel from bizarre situations. Therefore, to Helva, the problem that she couldn’t open her mouth to sing, among other restrictions, did not bother her. She would work out a method, bypassing her limitations, whereby she could sing.

She approached the problem by investigating the methods of sound reproduction through the centuries, human and instrumental. Her own sound production equipment was essentially more instrumental than vocal. Breath control and the proper enunciation of vowel sounds within the oral cavity appeared to require the most development and practice. Shell-people did not, strictly speaking, breathe. For their purposes, oxygen and other gases were not drawn from the surrounding atmosphere through the medium of lungs but sustained artificially by solution in their shells. After experimentation, Helva discovered that she could manipulate her diaphragmic unit to sustain tone. By relaxing the throat muscles and expanding the oral cavity well into the frontal sinuses, she could direct the vowel sounds into the most felicitous position for proper reproduction through her throat microphone. She compared the results with tape recordings of modern singers and was not unpleased, although her own tapes had a peculiar quality about them, not at all unharmonious, merely unique. Acquiring a repertoire from the Laboratory library was no problem to one trained to perfect recall. She found herself able to sing any role and any song which struck her fancy. It would not have occurred to her that it was curious for a female to sing bass, baritone, tenor, mezzo, soprano, and coloratura as she pleased. It was, to Helva, only a matter of the correct reproduction and diaphragmic control required by the music attempted.

If the authorities remarked on her curious avocation, they did so among themselves. Shell-people were encouraged to develop a hobby so long as they maintained proficiency in their technical work.

On the anniversary of her 16th year, Helva was unconditionally graduated and installed in her ship, the XH-834. Her permanent titanium shell was recessed behind an even more indestructible barrier in the central shaft of the scout ship. The neural, audio, visual, and sensory connections were made and sealed. Her extendibles were diverted, connected or augmented and the final, delicate-beyond-description brain taps were completed while Helva remained anesthetically unaware of the proceedings. When she woke, she was the ship. Her brain and intelligence controlled every function from navigation to such loading as a scout ship of her class needed. She could take care of herself, and her ambulatory half, in any situation already recorded in the annals of Central Worlds and any situation its most fertile minds could imagine.

Her first actual flight, for she and her kind had made mock flights on dummy panels since she was 8, showed her to be a complete master of the techniques of her profession. She was ready for her great adventures and the arrival of her mobile partner.

There were nine qualified scouts sitting around collecting base pay the day Helva reported for active duty. There were several missions that demanded instant attention, but Helva had been of interest to several department heads in Central for some tune and each bureau chief was determined to have her assigned to his section. No one had remembered to introduce Helva to the prospective partners. The ship always chose its own partner. Had there been another brain ship at the base at the moment, Helva would have been guided to make the first move. As it was, while Central wrangled among itself, Robert Tanner sneaked out of the pilots’ barracks, out to the field and over to Helva’s slim metal hull.

“Hello, anyone at home?” Tanner said.

“Of course,” replied Helva, activating her outside scanners. “Are you my partner?” she asked hopefully, as she recognized the Scout Service uniform.

“All you have to do is ask,” he retorted in a wistful tone.

“No one has come. I thought perhaps there were no partners available and I’ve had no directives from Central.”

Even to herself Helva sounded a little self-pitying, but the truth was she was lonely, sitting on the darkened field. She had always had the company of other shells and, more recently, technicians by the score. The sudden solitude had lost its momentary charm and become oppressive.

“No directives from Central is scarcely a cause for regret, but there happen to be eight other guys biting their fingernails to the quick just waiting for an invitation to board you, you beautiful thing.”

Tanner was inside the central cabin as he said this, running appreciative fingers over her panel, the scout’s gravity-chair, poking his head into the cabins, the galley, the head, the pressured-storage compartments.

“Now, if you want to goose Central and do us a favor all in one, call up the barracks and let’s have a ship-warming partner-picking party. Hmmmm?”

Helva chuckled to herself. He was so completely different from the occasional visitors or the various Laboratory technicians she had encountered. He was so gay, so assured, and she was delighted by his suggestion of a partner-picking party. Certainly it was not against anything in her understanding of regulations.

“Cencom, this is XH-834. Connect me with Pilot Barracks.”

“Visual?”

“Please.”

A picture of lounging men in various attitudes of boredom came on her screen.

“This is XH-834. Would the unassigned scouts do me the favor of coming aboard?”

Eight figures galvanized into action, grabbing pieces of wearing apparel, disengaging tape mechanisms, disentangling themselves from bedsheets and towels.

Helva dissolved the connection while Tanner chuckled gleefully and settled down to await their arrival.

Helva was engulfed in an unshell-like flurry of anticipation. No actress on her opening night could have been more apprehensive, fearful or breathless. Unlike the actress, she could throw no hysterics, china objets d’art or grease-paint to relieve her tension. She could, of course, check her stores for edibles and drinks, which she did, serving Tanner from the virgin selection of her commissary.

Scouts were colloquially known as ‘brawns’ as opposed to their ship ‘brains’. They had to pass as rigorous a training program as the brains and only the top 1 percent of each contributory world’s highest scholars were admitted to Central Worlds Scout Training Program. Consequently the eight young men who came pounding up the gantry into Helva’s hospitable lock were unusually fine-looking, intelligent, well coordinated and adjusted young men, looking forward to a slightly drunken evening, Helva permitting, and all quite willing to do each other dirt to get possession of her.

Such a human invasion left Helva mentally breathless, a luxury she thoroughly enjoyed for the brief time she felt she should permit it.

She sorted out the young men. Tanner’s opportunism amused but did not specifically attract her; the blond Nordsen seemed too simple; dark-haired Alatpay had a kind of obstinacy with which she felt no compassion; Mir-Ahnin’s bitterness hinted an inner darkness she did not wish to lighten, although he made the biggest outward play for her attention. Hers was a curious courtship, this would be only the first of several marriages for her, for brawns retired after 75 years of service, or earlier if they were unlucky. Brains, their bodies safe from any deterioration, were indestructible. In theory, once a shell-person had paid off the massive debt of early care, surgical adaptation and maintenance charges, he or she was free to seek employment elsewhere. In practice, shell-people remained in the service until they chose to self-destruct or died in line of duty. Helva had actually spoken to one shell-person 322 years old. She had been so awed by the contact she hadn’t presumed to ask the personal questions she had wanted to.

Her choice of a brawn did not stand out from the others until Tanner started to sing a scout ditty, recounting the misadventures of the bold, dense, painfully inept Billy Brawn. An attempt at harmony resulted in cacophony and Tanner wagged his arms wildly for silence.

“What we need is a roaring good lead tenor. Jennan, besides palming aces, what do you sing?”

“Sharp,” Jennan replied with easy good humor.

“If a tenor is absolutely necessary, I’ll attempt it,” Helva volunteered.

“My good woman,” Tanner protested.

“Sound your ‘A’,” laughed Jennan.

Into the stunned silence that followed the rich, clear, high ‘A,’ Jennan remarked quietly, “Such an A, Caruso would have given the rest of his notes to sing.”

It did not take them long to discover her full range.

“All Tanner asked for was one roaring good lead tenor,” Jennan said jokingly, “and our sweet mistress supplied us an entire repertory company. The boy who gets this ship will go far, far, far.”

“To the Horsehead Nebula?” asked Nordsen, quoting an old Central saw.

“To the Horsehead Nebula and back, we shall make beautiful music,” said Helva, chuckling.

“Together,” Jennan said. “Only you’d better make the music and, with my voice, I’d better listen.”

“I rather imagined it would be I who listened,” suggested Helva.

Jennan executed a stately bow with an intricate flourish of his crush-brimmed hat. He directed his bow toward the central control pillar where Helva was. Her own personal preference crystallized at that precise moment and for that particular reason. Jennan, alone of the men, had addressed his remarks directly at her physical presence, regardless of the fact that he knew she could pick up his image wherever he was in the ship and regardless of the fact that her body was behind massive metal walls. Throughout their partnership, Jennan never failed to turn his head in her direction no matter where he was in relation to her. In response to this personalization, Helva at that moment and from then on always spoke to Jennan only through her central mike, even though that was not always the most efficient method.

Helva didn’t know that she fell in love with Jennan that evening. As she had never been exposed to love or affection, only the drier cousins, respect and admiration, she could scarcely have recognized her reaction to the warmth of his personality and thoughtfulness. As a shell-person, she considered herself remote from emotions largely connected with physical desires.

“Well, Helva, it’s been swell meeting you,” said Tanner suddenly as she and Jennan were arguing about the baroque quality of ‘Come All Ye Sons of Art’. “See you in space some time, you lucky dog, Jennan. Thanks for the party, Helva.”

“You don’t have to go so soon?” asked Helva, realizing belatedly that she and Jennan had been excluding the others from this discussion.

“Best man won,” Tanner said, wryly. “Guess I’d better go get a tape on love ditties. Might need ‘em for the next ship, if there’re any more at home like you.”

Helva and Jennan watched them leave, both a little confused.

“Perhaps Tanner’s jumping to conclusions?” Jennan asked.

Helva regarded him as he slouched against the console, facing her shell directly. His arms were crossed on his chest and the glass he held had been empty for some time. He was handsome, they all were; but his watchful eyes were unwary, his mouth assumed a smile easily, his voice (to which Helva was particularly drawn) was resonant, deep, and without unpleasant overtones or accent.

“Sleep on it, at any rate, Helva. Call me in the morning if it’s your opt.”

She called him at breakfast, after she had checked her choice through Central. Jennan moved his things aboard, received their joint commission, had his personality and experience file locked into her reviewer, gave her the coordinates of their first mission. The XH834 officially became the JH-834.

Their first mission was a dull but necessary crash priority (Medical got Helva), rushing a vaccine to a distant system plagued with a virulent spore disease. They had only to get to Spica as fast as possible.

After the initial, thrilling forward surge at her maximum speed, Helva realized her muscles were to be given less of a workout than her brawn on this tedious mission. But they did have plenty of time for exploring each other’s personalities. Jennan, of course, knew what Helva was capable of as a ship and partner, just as she knew what she could expect from him. But these were only facts and Helva looked forward eagerly to learning that human side of her partner which could not be reduced to a series of symbols. Nor could the give and take of two personalities be learned from a book. It had to be experienced.

“My father was a scout, too, or is that programmed?” began Jennan their third day out.

“Naturally.”

“Unfair, you know. You’ve got all my family history and I don’t know one blamed thing about yours.”

“I’ve never known either,” Helva said. “Until I read yours, it hadn’t occurred to me I must have one, too, someplace in Central’s files.”

Jennan snorted. “Shell psychology!”

Helva laughed. “Yes, and I’m even programmed against curiosity about it. You’d better be, too.”

Jennan ordered a drink, slouched into the gravity couch opposite her, put his feet on the bumpers, turning himself idly from side to side on the gimbals.

“Helva, a made-up name…”

“With a Scandinavian sound.”

“You aren’t blonde,” Jennan said positively.

“Well, then, there’re dark Swedes.”

“And blonde Turks and this one’s harem is limited to one.”

“Your woman in purdah, yes, but you can comb the pleasure houses, “ Helva found herself aghast at the edge to her carefully trained voice.

“You know,” Jennan interrupted her, deep in some thought of his own, “my father gave me the impression he was a lot more married to his ship, the Silvia, than to my mother. I know I used to think Silvia was my grandmother. She was a low number so she must have been… a great-great-grandmother at least, I used to talk to her for hours.”

“Her registry?” asked Helva, unwittingly jealous of everyone and anyone who had shared his hours.

“422. I think she’s TS now. I ran into Tom Burgess once.”

Jennan’s father had died of a planetary disease, the vaccine for which his ship had used up in curing the local citizens.

“Tom said she’d got mighty tough and salty. You lose your sweetness and I’ll come back and haunt you, girl,” Jennan threatened.

Helva laughed. He startled her by stamping up to the column panel, touching it with light, tender fingers.

“I wonder what you look like,” he said softly, wistfully.

Helva had been briefed about this natural curiosity of scouts. She didn’t know anything about herself and neither of them ever would or could.

“Pick any form, shape, and shade and I’ll be yours obliging,” she countered, as training suggested.

“Iron Maiden, I fancy blondes with long tresses,” and Jennan pantomined Lady Godiva-like tresses. “Since you’re immolated in titanium, I’ll call you Brunehilde, my dear,” and he made his bow.

With a chortle, Helva launched into the appropriate aria just as Spica made contact.

“What’n’ Hell’s that yelling about? Who are you? And unless you’re Central Worlds Medical go away. We’ve got a plague. No visiting privileges.”

“My ship is singing, we’re the JH-834 of Worlds and we’ve got your vaccine. What are our landing coordinates?”

“Your ship is singing?”

“The greatest S.A.T.B. in organized space. Any request?”

The JH-834 delivered the vaccine but no more arias and received immediate orders to proceed to Leviticus IV. By the time they got there, Jennan found a reputation awaiting him and was forced to defend the 834’s virgin honor.

“I’ll stop singing,” murmured Helva contritely as she ordered up poultices for this third black eye in a week.

“You will not,” Jennan said through gritted teeth. “If I have to black eyes from here to the Horsehead to keep the snicker out of the title, we’ll be the ship who sings.”

After the ‘ship who sings’ tangled with a minor but vicious narcotic ring in the Lesser Magellanics, the title became definitely respectful. Central was aware of each episode and punched out a ‘special interest’ key on JH-834’s file. A first-rate team was shaking down well.

Jennan and Helva considered themselves a first-rate team, too, after their tidy arrest.

“Of all the vices in the universe, I hate drug addiction,” Jennan remarked as they headed back to Central Base. “People can go to hell quick enough without that kind of help.”

“Is that why you volunteered for Scout Service? To redirect traffic?”

“I’ll bet my official answer’s on your review.”

“In far too flowery wording. ‘Carrying on the traditions of my family, which has been proud of four generations in Service’, if I may quote you your own words.”

Jennan groaned. “I was very young when I wrote that. I certainly hadn’t been through Final Training. And once I was in Final Training, my pride wouldn’t let me fail…

“As I mentioned, I used to visit Dad on board the Silvia and I’ve a very good idea she might have had her eye on me as a replacement for my father because I had had massive doses of scout-oriented propaganda. It took. From the time I was 7, I was going to be a scout or else.” He shrugged as if deprecating a youthful determination that had taken a great deal of mature application to bring to fruition.

“Ah, so? Scout Sahir Silan on the JS-44 penetrating into the Horsehead Nebulae?”

Jennan chose to ignore her sarcasm.

“With you, I may even get that far. But even with Silvia’s nudging, I never day-dreamed myself that kind of glory in my wildest flights of fancy. I’ll leave the whoppers to your agile brain henceforth. I have in mind a smaller contribution to space history.”

“So modest?”

“No. Practical. We also serve, et cetera.” He placed a dramatic hand on his heart.

“Glory hound!” scoffed Helva.

“Look who’s talking, my Nebula-bound friend. At least I’m not greedy. There’ll only be one hero like my dad at Parsaea, but I would like to be remembered for some kudo. Everyone does. Why else do or die?”

“Your father died on his way back from Parsaea, if I may point out a few cogent facts. So he could never have known he was a hero for damming the flood with his ship. Which kept Parsaean colony from being abandoned. Which gave them a chance to discover the antiparalytic qualities of Parsaea. Which he never knew.”

“I know,” said Jennan softly.

Helva was immediately sorry for the tone of her rebuttal. She knew very well how deep Jennan’s attachment to his father had been. On his review a note was made that he had rationalized his father’s loss with the unexpected and welcome outcome of the Affair at Parsaea.

“Facts are not human, Helva. My father was and so am I. And basically, so are you. Check over your dial, 834. Amid all the wires attached to you is a heart, an underdeveloped human heart. Obviously!”

“I apologize, Jennan,” she said.

Jennan hesitated a moment, threw out his hands in acceptance and then tapped her shell affectionately.

“If they ever take us off the milkruns, we’ll make a stab at the Nebula, huh?”

As so frequently happened in the Scout Service, within the next hour they had orders to change course, not to the Nebula, but to a recently colonized system with two habitable planets, one tropical, one glacial. The sun, named Ravel, had become unstable; the spectrum was that of a rapidly expanding shell, with absorption lines rapidly displacing toward violet. The augmented heat of the primary had already forced evacuation of the nearer world, Daphnis. The pattern of spectral emissions gave indication that the sun would sear Chloe as well. All ships in the immediate spatial vicinity were to report to Disaster Headquarters on Chloe to effect removal of the remaining colonists.

The JH-834 obediently presented itself and was sent to outlying areas on Chloe to pick up scattered settlers who did not appear to appreciate the urgency of the situation. Chloe, indeed, was enjoying the first temperatures above freezing since it had been flung out of its parent. Since many of the colonists were religious fanatics who had settled on rigorous Chloe to fit themselves for a life of pious reflection, Chloe’s abrupt thaw was attributed to sources other than a rampaging sun.

Jennan had to spend so much time countering specious arguments that he and Helva were behind schedule on their way to the fourth and last settlement.

Helva jumped over the high range of jagged peaks that surrounded and sheltered the valley from the former raging snows as well as the present heat. The violent sun with its flaring corona was just beginning to brighten the deep valley as Helva dropped down to a landing.

“They’d better grab their toothbrushes and hop aboard,” Helva said. “HO says speed it up.”

“All women,” remarked Jeanan in surprise as he walked down to meet them. “Unless the men on Chloe wear furred skirts.”

“Charm ‘em but pare the routine to the bare essentials. And turn on your two-way private.”

Jennan advanced smiling, but his explanation of his mission was met with absolute incredulity and considerable doubt as to his authenticity. He groaned inwardly as the matriarch paraphrased previous explanations of the warming sun.

“Revered mother, there’s been an overload on that prayer circuit and the sun is blowing itself up in one obliging burst. I’m here to take you to the spaceport at Rosary—”

“That Sodom?” The worthy woman glowered and shuddered disdainfully at his suggestion. “We thank you for your warning but we have no wish to leave our cloister for the rude world. We must go about our morning meditation which has been interrupted—”

“It’ll be permanently interrupted when that sun starts broiling you. You must come now,” Jennan said firmly.

“Madame,” said Helva, realizing that perhaps a female voice might carry more weight in this instance than Jennan’s very masculine charm.

“Who spoke?” cried the nun, startled by the bodiless voice.

“I, Helva, the ship. Under my protection you and your sisters-in-faith may enter safely and be unprofaned by association with a male. I will guard you and take you safely to a place prepared for you.”

The matriarch peered cautiously into the ship’s open port.

“Since only Central Worlds is permitted the use of such ships, I acknowledge that you are not trifling with us, young man. However, we are in no danger here.”

“The temperature at Rosary is now 99°,” said Helva. “As soon as the sun’s rays penetrate directly into this valley, it will also be 99°, and it is due to climb to approximately 180° today. I notice your buildings are made of wood with moss chinking. Dry moss. It should fire around noontime.”

The sunlight was beginning to slant into the valley through the peaks and the fierce rays warmed the restless group behind the matriarch. Several opened the throats of their furry parkas.

“Jennan,” said Helva privately to him, “our time is very short.”

“I can’t leave them, Helva. Some of those girls are barely out of their teens.”

“Pretty, too. No wonder the matriarch doesn’t want to get in.”

“Helva.”

“It will be the Lord’s will,” said the matriarch stoutly and turned her back squarely on rescue.

“To burn to death?” shouted Jennan as she threaded her way through her murmuring disciples.

“They want to be martyrs? Their opt, Jennan,” said Helva dispassionately, “We must leave and that is no longer a matter of option.”

“How can I leave, Helva?”

“Parsaea?” Helva asked tauntingly as he stepped forward to grab one of the women. “You can’t drag them all aboard and we don’t have time to fight it out. Get on board, Jennan, or I’ll have you on report.”

“They’ll die,” muttered Jennan dejectedly as he reluctantly turned to climb on board.

“You can risk only so much,” Helva said sympathetically. “As it is we’ll just have time to make a rendezvous. Lab reports a critical speedup in spectral evolution.”

Jennan was already in the airlock when one of the younger women, screaming, rushed to squeeze in the closing port. Her action set off the others. They stampeded through the narrow-opening. Even crammed back to breast, there was not enough room inside for all the women. Jennan broke out spacesuits to the three who would have to remain with him in the airlock. He wasted valuable time explaining to the matriarch that she must put on the suit because the airlock had no independent oxygen or cooling units.

“We’ll be caught,” said Helva in a grim tone to Jennan on their private connection. “We’ve lost 18 minutes in this last-minute rush. I am now overloaded for maximum speed and I must attain maximum speed to outrun the heat wave.”

“Can you lift? We’re suited.”

“Lift? Yes,” she said, doing so. “Run? I stagger.”

Jennan, bracing himself and the women, could feel her sluggishness as she blasted upward. Heartlessly, Helva applied thrust as long as she could, despite the fact that the gravitational force mashed her cabin passengers brutally and crushed two fatally. It was a question of saving as many as possible. The only one for whom she had any concern was Jennan and she was in desperate terror about his safety. Airless and uncooled, protected by only one layer of metal, not three, the airlock was not going to be safe for the four trapped there, despite the spacesuits. These were only the standard models, not built to withstand the excessive heat to which the ship would be subjected.

Helva ran as fast as she could but the incredible wave of heat from the explosive sun caught them halfway to cold safety.

She paid no heed to the cries, moans, pleas, and prayers in her cabin. She listened only to Jennan’s tortured breathing, to the missing throb in his suit’s purifying system and the sucking of the overloaded cooling unit. Helpless, she heard the hysterical screams of his three companions as they writhed in the awful heat. Vainly, Jennan tried to calm them, tried to explain they would soon be safe and cool if they could be still and endure the heat. Undisciplined by their terror and torment, they tried to strike out at him despite the close quarters. One flailing arm became entangled in the leads to his power pack and the damage was quickly done. A connection, weakened by heat and the dead weight of the arm, broke.

For all the power at her disposal, Helva was helpless. She watched as Jennan fought for his breath, as he turned his head beseechingly toward her, and died.

Only the iron conditioning of her training prevented Helva from swinging around and plunging back into the cleansing heart of the exploding sun. Numbly she made rendezvous with the refugee convoy. She obediently transferred her burned, heat-prostrated passengers to the assigned transport.

“I will retain the body of my scout and proceed to the nearest base for burial,” she informed Central dully.

“You will be provided escort,” was the reply.

“I have no need of escort.”

“Escort is provided, XH-834,” she was told curtly. The shock of hearing Jennan’s initial severed from her call number cut off her half-formed protest. Stunned, she waited by the transport until her screens showed the arrival of two other slim brain ships. The cortege proceeded homeward at unfunereal speeds.

“834? The ship who sings?”

“I have no more songs.”

“Your scout was Jennan.”

“I do not wish to communicate.”

“I’m 422.”

“Silvia?”

“Silvia died a long time ago. I’m 422. Currently MS,” the ship rejoined curtly. “AH-640 is our other friend, but Henry’s not listening in. Just as well, he wouldn’t understand it if you wanted to turn rogue. But I’d stop him if he tried to deter you.”

“Rogue?” The term snapped Helva out of her apathy.

“Sure. You’re young. You’ve got power for years. Skip. Others have done it. 732 went rogue 20 years ago after she lost her scout on a mission to that white dwarf. Hasn’t been seen since.”

“I never heard about rogues.”

“As it’s exactly the thing we’re conditioned against, you sure wouldn’t hear about it in school, my dear,” 422 said.

“Break conditioning?” cried Helva, anguished, thinking longingly of the white, white furious hot heart of the sun she had just left.

“For you I don’t think it would be hard at the moment,” 422 said quietly, her voice devoid of her earlier cynicism. “The stars are out there, winking.”

“Alone?” cried Helva from her heart.

“Alone!” 422 confirmed bleakly.

Alone with all of space and time. Even the Horsehead Nebula would not be far enough away to daunt her. Alone with a hundred years to live with her memories and nothing… nothing more.

“Was Parsaea worth it?” she asked 422 softly.

“Parsaea?” 422 repeated, surprised. “With his father? Yes. We were there, at Parsaea when we were needed. Just as you… and his son… were at Chloe. When you were needed. The crime is not knowing where need is and not being there.”

“But I need him. Who will supply my need?” said Helva bitterly.

“834,” said 422 after a day’s silent speeding, “Central wishes your report. A replacement awaits your opt at Regulus Base. Change course accordingly.”

“A replacement?” That was certainly not what she needed… a reminder inadequately filling the void Jennan left. Why, her hull was barely cool of Chloe’s heat. Atavistically, Helva wanted time to mourn Jennan.

“Oh, none of them are impossible if you’re a good ship,” 422 remarked philosophically. “And it is just what you need. The sooner the better.”

“You told them I wouldn’t go rogue, didn’t you?” Helva said.

“The moment passed you even as it passed me after Parsaea, and before that, after Glen Arhur, and Betelgeuse.”

“We’re conditioned to go on, aren’t we? We can’t go rogue. You were testing.”

“Had to. Orders. Not even Psych knows why a rogue occurs. Central’s very worried, and so, daughter, are your sister ships. I asked to be your escort. I… don’t want to lose you both.”

In her emotional nadir, Helva could feel a flood of gratitude for Silvia’s rough sympathy.

“We’ve all known this grief, Helva. It’s no consolation, but if we couldn’t feel with our scouts, we’d only be machines wired for sound.”

Helva looked at Jennan’s still form stretched before her in its shroud and heard the echo of his rich voice in the quiet cabin.

“Silvia! I couldn’t help him,” she cried from her soul.

“Yes, dear, I know,” 422 murmured gently and then was quiet.

The three ships sped on, wordless, to the great Central Worlds base at Regulus. Helva broke silence to acknowledge landing instructions and the officially tendered regrets.

The three ships set down simultaneously at the wooded edge where Regulus’ gigantic blue trees stood sentinel over the sleeping dead in the small Service cemetery. The entire Base complement approached with measured step and formed an aisle from Helva to the burial ground. The honor detail, out of step, walked slowly into her cabin. Reverently they placed the body of her dead love on the wheeled bier, covered it honorably with the deep blue, star-splashed flag of the Service. She watched as it was driven slowly down the living aisle which closed in behind the bier in last escort.

Then, as the simple words of interment were spoken, as the atmosphere planes dipped in tribute over the open grave, Helva found voice for her lonely farewell.

Softly, barely audible at first, the strains of the ancient song of evening and requiem swelled to the final poignant measure until black space itself echoed back the sound of the song the ship sang.

A little mere than ten years ago, a story by a completely unknown writer, published in an otherwise unremarkable semi-amateur magazine, provoked a storm of Interest and inquiry among other writers and editors. “Cordwainer Smith” had all the true ring of the pseudonym, and the quality of the story was professional; but its content and style were so fresh that the pen-name could not be attached to any established writer in the field.

Mr. “Smith,” as it turns out, is a VIP (for Professor) of Sociology at a school near enough to Washington to make things convenient when the Slate Department calls. (He is surely the only ambassador — small “a,” generic, not diplomatic — of the U.S. who has ever established friendly relations with an astatic governmental official by talking science fiction all night.) Outside s-f, his writing is almost all in his main field of specialty) inside the field, a large part has been devoted to speculation about the possible physiological evolution (externally caused or self-effected) of mankind.

There was a tremendous difference between the liner and the ferry in Mercer’s treatment. On the liner, the attendants made gibes when they brought him his food.

“Scream good and loud,” said one rat-faced steward, “and then we’ll know it’s you when they broadcast the sounds of punishment on the Emperor’s birthday.”

The other, fat steward ran the tip of his wet, red tongue over his thick, purple-red lips one time and said, “Stands to reason, man. If you hurt all the time, the whole lot of you would die. Something pretty good must happen, along with the — whatchamacallit. Maybe you turn into a woman. Maybe you turn into two people. Listen, cousin, if it’s real crazy fun, let me know… “ Mercer said nothing. Mercer had enough troubles of his own not to wonder about the daydreams of nasty men.

At the ferry it was different. The biopharmaceutical staff was deft, impersonal, quick in removing his shackles. They took off all his prison clothes and left them on the liner. When he boarded the ferry, naked, they looked him over as if he were a rare plant or a body on the operating table. They were almost kind in the clinical deftness of their touch. They did not treat him as a criminal, but as a specimen.

Men and women, clad in their medical smocks, they looked at him as though he were already dead.

He tried to speak. A man, older and more authoritative than the others, said firmly and clearly, “Do not worry about talking. I will talk to you myself in a very little time. What we are having now are the preliminaries, to determine your physical condition. Turn around, please.” Mercer turned around. An orderly rubbed his back with a very strong antiseptic.

“This is going to sting,” said one of the technicians, “but it is nothing serious or painful. We are determining the toughness of the different layers of your skin.”

Mercer, annoyed by this impersonal approach, spoke up just as a sharp little sting burned him above the sixth lumbar vertebra. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“Of course we know who you are,” said a woman’s voice. “We have it all in a file in the corner. The chief doctor will talk about your crime later, if you want to talk about it. Keep quiet now. We are making a skin test, and you will feel much better if you do not make us prolong it.”

Honesty forced her to add another sentence: “And we will get better results as well.”

They had lost no time at all in getting to work.

He peered at them sidewise to look at them. There was nothing about them to indicate that they were human devils in the antechambers of hell itself. Nothing was there to indicate that this was the satellite of Shayol, the final and uttermost place of chastisement and shame. They looked like medical people from his life before he committed the crime without a name.

They changed from one routine to another. A woman, wearing a surgical mask, waved her hand at a white table.

“Climb up on that, please.”

No one had said “please” to Mercer since the guards had seized him at the edge of the palace. He started to obey her and then he saw that there were padded handcuffs at the head of the table. He stopped.

“Get along, please,” she demanded. Two or three of the others turned around to look at both of them.

The second “please” shook him. He had to speak. These were people, and he was a person again. He felt his voice rising, almost cracking into shrillness as he asked her, “Please, Ma’am, is the punishment going to begin?”

“There’s no punishment here,” said the woman. “This is the satellite. Get on the table. We’re going to give you your first skin-toughening before you talk to the head doctor. Then you can tell him all about your crime—”

“You know my crime?” he said, greeting it almost like a neighbor.

“Of course not,” said she, “but all the people who come through here are believed to have committed crimes. Somebody thinks so or they wouldn’t be here. Most of them want to talk about their personal crimes. But don’t slow me down. I’m a skin technician, and down on the surface of Shayol you’re going to need the very best work that any of us can do for you. Now get on that table. And when you are ready to talk to the chief you’ll have something to talk about besides your crime.”

He complied.

Another masked person, probably a girl, took his hands in cool, gentle fingers and fitted them to the padded cuffs in a way he had never sensed before. By now he thought he knew every interrogation machine in the whole empire, but this was nothing like any of them.

The orderly stepped back. “All clear, Sir and Doctor.”

“Which do you prefer?” said the skin technician. “A great deal of pain or a couple of hours’ unconsciousness?”

“Why should I want pain?” said Mercer.

“Some specimens do,” said the technician, “by the time they arrive here. I suppose it depends on what people have done to them before they got here. I take it you did not get any of the dream-punishments.”

“No,” said Mercer. “I missed those.” He thought to himself, I didn’t know that I missed anything at all.

He remembered his last trial, himself wired and plugged in to the witness stand. The room had been high and dark. Bright blue light shone on the panel of judges, their judicial caps a fantastic parody of the episcopal mitres of long, long ago. The judges were talking, but he could not hear them. Momentarily the insulation slipped and he heard one of them say, “Look at that white, devilish face. A man like that is guilty of everything. I vote for Pain Terminal.”

“Not Planet Shayol?” said a second voice.

“The dromozoa place,” said a third voice.

“That should suit him,” said the first voice. One of the judicial engineers must then have noticed that the prisoner was listening illegally. He was cut off. Mercer then thought that he had gone through everything which the cruelty and intelligence of mankind could devise.

But this woman said he had missed the dream-punishments. Could there be people in the universe even worse off than himself? There must be a lot of people down on Shayol. They never came back.

He was going to be one of them; would they boast to him of what they had done, before they were made to come to this place?

“You asked for it,” said the woman technician. “It is just an ordinary anesthetic. Don’t panic when you awaken. Your skin is going to be thickened and strengthened chemically and biologically.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Of course,” said she. “But get this out of your head. We’re not punishing you. The pain here is just ordinary medical pain. Anybody might get it if they needed a lot of surgery. The punishment, if that’s what you want to call it, is down on Shayol. Our only job is to make sure that you are fit to survive after you are landed. In a way, we are saving your life ahead of time. You can be grateful for that if you want to be. Meanwhile, you will save yourself a lot of trouble if you realize that your nerve endings will respond to the change in the skin. You had better expect to be very uncomfortable when you recover. But then, we can help that, too.” She brought down an enormous lever and Mercer blacked out.

When he came to, he was in an ordinary hospital room, but he did not notice it. He seemed bedded in fire. He lifted his hand to see if there were flames on it. It looked the way it always had, except that it was a little red and a little swollen. He tried to turn in the bed. The fire became a scorching blast which stopped him in mid-turn. Uncontrollably, he moaned.

A voice spoke, “You are ready for some pain-killer.”

It was a girl nurse. “Hold your head still,” she said, “and I will give you half an amp of pleasure. Your skin won’t bother you then.”

She slipped a soft cap on his head. It looked like metal but it felt like silk.

He had to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep from threshing about on the bed.

“Scream if you want to,” she said. “A lot of them do. It will just be a minute or two before the cap finds the right lobe in your brain.”

She stepped to the corner and did something which he could not see.

There was the flick of a switch.

The fire did not vanish from his skin. He still felt it; but suddenly it did not matter. His mind was full of delicious pleasure which throbbed outward from his head and seemed to pulse down through his nerves.

He had visited the pleasure palaces, but he had never felt anything like this before.

He wanted to thank the girl, and he twisted around in the bed to see her. He could feel his whole body flash with pain as he did so, but the pain was far away. And the pulsating pleasure which coursed out of his head, down his spinal cord and into his nerves was so intense that the pain got through only as a remote, unimportant signal.

She was standing very still in the corner.

“Thank you, nurse,” said he.

She said nothing.

He looked more closely, though it was hard to look while enormous pleasure pulsed through his body like a symphony written in nerve-messages. He focused his eyes on her and saw that she too wore a soft metallic cap.

He pointed at it.

She blushed all the way down to her throat.

She spoke dreamily, “You looked like a nice man to me. I didn’t think you’d tell on me… “

He gave her what he thought was a friendly smile, but with the pain in his skin and the pleasure bursting out of his head, he really had no idea of what his actual expression might be. “It’s against the law,” he said. “It’s terribly against the law. But it is nice.”

“How do you think we stand it here?” said the nurse. “You specimens come in here talking like ordinary people and then you go down to Shayol. Terrible things happen to you on Shayol. Then the surface station sends up parts of you, over and over again. I may see your head ten times, quick-frozen and ready for cutting up, before my two years are up. You prisoners ought to know how we suffer,” she crooned, the pleasure-charge still keeping her relaxed and happy, “you ought to die as soon as you get down there and not pester us with your torments. We can hear you screaming, you know. You keep on sounding like people even after Shayol begins to work on you. Why do you do it, Mr. Specimen?” She giggled sillily. “You hurt our feelings so. No wonder a girl like me has to have a little jolt now and then. It’s real, real dreamy and I don’t mind getting you ready to go down on Shayol.” She staggered over to his bed. “Pull this cap off me, will you? I haven’t got enough will power left to raise my hands.”

Mercer saw his hand tremble as he reached for the cap.

His fingers touched the girl’s soft hair through the cap. As he tried to get his thumb under the edge of the cap, in order to pull it off, he realized that this was the loveliest girl he had ever touched. He felt that he had always loved her, that he always would. Her cap came off. She stood erect, staggering a little before she found a chair to hold to. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

“Just a minute,” she said in her normal voice. “I’ll be with you in just a minute. The only time I can get a jolt of this is when one of you visitors gets a dose to get over the skin trouble.”

She turned to the room mirror to adjust her hair. Speaking with her back to him, she said, “I hope I didn’t say anything about downstairs.”

Mercer still had the cap on. He loved this beautiful girl who had put it on him. He was ready to weep at the thought that she had had the same kind of pleasure which he still enjoyed. Not for the world would he say anything which could hurt her feelings. He was sure she wanted to be told that she had not said anything about “downstairs”—probably shop talk for the surface of Shayol — so he assured her warmly, “You said nothing. Nothing at all.”.

She came over to the bed, leaned, kissed him on the lips. The kiss was as far away as the pain; he felt nothing; the Niagara of throbbing pleasure which poured through his head left no room for more sensation. But he liked the friendliness of it. A grim, sane corner of his mind whispered to him that this was probably the last time he would ever kiss a woman, but it did not seem to matter.

With skilled fingers she adjusted the cap on his head. “There, now. You’re a sweet guy. I’m going to pretend-forget and leave the cap on you till the doctor comes.”

With a bright smile she squeezed his shoulder.

She hastened out of the room.

The white of her skirt flashed prettily as she went out the door. He saw that she had very shapely legs indeed.

She was nice, but the cap… ah, it was the cap that mattered! He closed his eyes and let the cap go on stimulating the pleasure centers of his brain. The pain in his skin was still there, but it did not matter any more than did the chair standing in the corner. The pain was just something that happened to be in the room.

A firm touch on his arm made him open his eyes.

The older, authoritative-looking man was standing beside the bed, looking down at him with a quizzical smile.

“She did it again,” said the old man.

Mercer shook his head, trying to indicate that the young nurse had done nothing wrong.

“I’m Doctor Vomact,” said the older man, “and I am going to take this cap off you. You will then experience the pain again, but I think it will not be so bad. You can have the cap several more times before you leave here.”

With a swift, firm gesture he snatched the cap off Mercer’s head.

Mercer promptly doubled up with the inrush of fire from his skin. He started to scream and then saw that Doctor Vomact was watching him calmly.

Mercer gasped, “It is — easier now.”

“I knew it would be,” said the doctor. “I had to take the cap off to talk to you. You have a few choices to make.”

“Yes, Doctor,” gasped Mercer.

“You have committed a serious crime and you are going down to the surface of Shayol.”

“Yes,” said Mercer.

“Do you want to tell me your crime?”

Mercer thought of the white palace walls in perpetual sunlight, and the soft mewing of the little things when he reached them. He tightened his arms, legs, back and jaw. “No,” he said, “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s the crime without a name. Against the Imperial family… “

“Fine,” said the doctor, “that’s a healthy attitude. The crime is past. Your future is ahead. Now, I can destroy your mind before you go down — if you want me to.”

“That’s against the law,” said Mercer.

Doctor Vomact smiled warmly and confidently. “Of course it is. A lot of things are against human law. But there are laws of science, too. Your body, down on Shayol, is going to serve science. It doesn’t matter to me whether that body has Mercer’s mind or the mind of a low-grade shellfish. I have to leave enough mind in you to keep the body going, but I can wipe out the historic you and give your body a better chance of being happy. It’s your choice, Mercer. Do you want to be you or not?”

Mercer shook his head back and forth, “I don’t know.”

“I’m taking a chance,” said Doctor Vomact, “in giving you this much leeway. I’d have it done if I were in your position. It’s pretty bad down there.”

Mercer looked at the full, broad face. He did not trust the comfortable smile. Perhaps this was a trick to increase his punishment. The cruelty of the Emperor was proverbial. Look at what he had done to the widow of his predecessor, the Dowager Lady Da. She was younger than the Emperor himself, and he had sent her to a place worse than death. If he had been sentenced to Shayol, why was this doctor trying to interfere with the rules? Maybe the doctor himself had been conditioned, and did not know what he was offering.

Doctor Vomact read Mercer’s face. “All right. You refuse. You want to take your mind down with you. It’s all right with me. I don’t have you on my conscience. I suppose you’ll refuse the next offer too. Do you want me to take your eyes out before you go down? You’ll be much more comfortable without vision. I know that, from the voices that we record for the warning broadcasts. I can sear the optic nerves so that there will be no chance of your getting vision again.”

Mercer rocked back and forth. The fiery pain had become a universal itch, but the soreness of his spirit was greater than the discomfort of his skin.

“You refuse that, too?” said the doctor. “I suppose so,” said Mercer.

“Then all I have to do is to get ready. You can have the cap for a while, if you want.”.

Mercer said, “Before I put the cap on, can you tell me what happens down there?”

“Some of it,” said the doctor. “There is an attendant. He is a man, but not a human being. He is a homunculus fashioned out of cattle material. He is intelligent and very conscientious. You specimens are turned loose on the surface of Shayol. The dromozoa are a special life-form there. When they settle in your body, B’dikkat — that’s the attendant — carves them out with an anesthetic and sends them up here. We freeze the tissue cultures, and they are compatible with almost any kind of oxygen-based life. Half the surgical repair you see in the whole universe comes out of buds that we ship from here. Shayol is a very healthy place, so far as survival is concerned. You won’t die.”

“You mean,” said Mercer, “that I am getting perpetual punishment.”

“I didn’t say that,” said Doctor Vomact. “Or if I did, I was wrong. You won’t die soon. I don’t know how long you will live down there. Remember, no matter how uncomfortable you get, the samples which B’dikkat sends up will help thousands of people in all the inhabited worlds. Now take the cap.”

“I’d rather talk,” said Mercer. “It may be my last chance.”

The doctor looked at him strangely. “If you can stand that pain, go ahead and talk.”

“Can I commit suicide down there?”

“I don’t know,” said the doctor. “It’s never happened. And to judge by the voices, you’d think they wanted to.”

“Has anybody ever come back from Shayol?”

“Not since it was put off limits about four hundred years ago.”

“Can I talk to other people down there?”

“Yes,” said the doctor.

“Who punishes me down there?”

“Nobody does, you fool,” cried Doctor Vomact. “It’s not punishment. People don’t like it down on Shayol, and it’s better, I guess, to get convicts instead of volunteers. But there isn’t anybody against you at all.”

“No jailers?” asked Mercer, with a whine in his voice.

“No jailers, no rules, no prohibitions. Just Shayol, and B’dikkat to take care of you. Do you still want your mind and your eyes?”

“I’ll keep them,” said Mercer. “I’ve gone this far and I might as well go the rest of the way.”

“Then let me put the cap on you for your second dose,” said Doctor Vomact.

The doctor adjusted the cap just as lightly and delicately as had the nurse; he was quicker about it. There was no sign of his picking out another cap for himself.

The inrush of pleasure was like a wild intoxication. His burning skin receded into distance. The doctor was near in space, but even the doctor did not matter. Mercer was not afraid of Shayol. The pulsation of happiness out of his brain was too great to leave room for fear or pain.

Doctor Vomact was holding out his hand.

Mercer wondered why, and then realized that the wonderful, kindly cap-giving man was offering to shake hands. He lifted his own. It was heavy, but his arm was happy, too.

They shook hands. It was curious, thought Mercer, to feel the handshake beyond the double level of cerebral pleasure and dermal pain.

“Goodbye, Mr. Mercer,” said the doctor. “Goodbye and a good goodnight… “

The ferry satellite was a hospitable place. The hundreds of hours that followed were like a long, weird dream.

Twice again the young nurse sneaked into his bedroom with him when he was being given the cap and had a cap with him. There were baths which calloused his whole body. Under strong local anesthetics, his teeth were taken out and stainless steel took their place. There were irradiations under blazing lights which took away the pain of his skin. There were special treatments for his fingernails and toenails. Gradually they ‘changed into formidable claws; he found himself stropping them on the aluminum bed one night and saw that they left deep marks.

His mind never became completely clear.

Sometimes he thought that he was home with his mother, that he was little again, and in pain. Other times, under the cap, he laughed in his bed to think that people were sent to this place for punishment when it was all so terribly much fun. There were no trials, no questions, no judges. Food was good, but he did not think about it much; the cap was better. Even when he was awake, he was drowsy.

At last, with the cap on him, they put him into an adiabatic pod — a one-body missile which could be dropped from the ferry to the planet below. He was all closed in, except for his face.

Doctor Vomact seemed to swim into the room. “You are strong, Mercer,” the doctor shouted, “you are very strong! Can you hear me?”

Mercer nodded.

“We wish you well, Mercer. No matter what happens, remember you are helping other people up here.”

“Can I take the cap with me?” said Mercer.

For an answer, Doctor Vomact removed the cap himself. Two men closed the lid of the pod, leaving Mercer in total darkness. His mind started to clear, and he panicked against his wrappings.

There was the roar of thunder and the taste of blood.

The next thing that Mercer knew, he was in a cool, cool room, much chillier than the bedrooms and operating rooms of the satellite. Someone was lifting him gently onto a table.

He opened his eyes.

An enormous face, four times the size of any human face Mercer had ever seen, was looking down at him. Huge brown eyes, cowlike in their gentle inoffensiveness, moved back and forth as the big face examined Mercer’s wrappings. The face was that of a handsome man of middle years, clean-shaven, hair chestnut-brown, with sensual, full lips and gigantic but healthy yellow teeth exposed in a half-smile. The face saw Mercer’s eyes open, and spoke with a deep friendly roar.

“I’m your best friend. My name is B’dikkat, but you don’t have to use that here. Just call me Friend, and I will always help you.”

“I hurt,” said Mercer.

“Of course you do. You hurt all over. That’s a big drop,” said B’dikkat.

“Can I have a cap, please,” begged Mercer. It was not a question; it was a demand; Mercer felt that his private inward eternity depended on it.

B’dikkat laughed. “I haven’t any caps down here. I might use them myself. Or so they think. I have other things, much better. No fear, fellow, I’ll fix you up.”

Mercer looked doubtful. If the cap had brought him happiness on the ferry, it would take at least electrical stimulation of the brain to undo whatever torments the surface of Shayol had to offer.

B’dikkat’s laughter filled the room like a bursting pillow.

“Have you ever heard of condamine?”

“No,” said Mercer.

“It’s a narcotic so powerful that the pharmacopoeias are not allowed to mention it.”

“You have that?” said Mercer hopefully.

“Something better. I have super-condamine. It’s named after the New French town where they developed it. The chemists hooked in one more hydrogen molecule. That gave it a real jolt. If you took it in your present shape, you’d be dead in three minutes, but those three minutes would seem like ten thousand years of happiness to the inside of your mind.” B’dikkat rolled his brown cow eyes expressively and smacked his rich red lips with a tongue of enormous extent.

“What’s the use of it, then?”

“You can take it,” said B’dikkat. “You can take it after you have been exposed to the dromozoa outside this cabin. You get all the good effects and none of the bad. You want to see something?”

What answer is there except yes, thought Mercer grimly; does he think I have an urgent invitation to a tea party?

“Look out the window,” said B’dikkat, “and tell me what you see.”

The atmosphere was clear. The surface was like a desert, ginger-yellow with streaks of green where lichen and low shrubs grew, obviously stunted and tormented by high, dry winds. The landscape was monotonous. Two or three hundred yards away there was a herd of bright pink objects which seemed alive, but Mercer could not see them well enough to describe them clearly. Further away, on the extreme right of his frame of vision, there was the statue of an enormous human foot, the height of a six-story building. Mercer could not see what the foot was connected to. “I see a big foot,” said he, “but—”

“But what?” said B’dikkat, like an enormous child hiding the denouement of a hugely private joke. Large as he was, he could have been dwarfed by any one of the toes on that tremendous foot.

“But it can’t be a real foot,” said Mercer.

“It is,” said B’dikkat. “That’s Go-Captain Alvarez, the man who found this planet. After six hundred years he’s still in fine shape. Of course, he’s mostly dromozootic by now, but I think there is some human consciousness inside him. You know what I do?”

“What?” said Mercer.

“I give him six cubic centimeters of super-condamine and he snorts for me. Real happy little snorts. A stranger might think it was a volcano. That’s what super-condamine can do. And you’re going to get plenty of it. You’re a lucky, lucky man, Mercer. You have me for a friend, and you have my needle for a treat. I do all the work and you get all the fun. Isn’t that a nice surprise?”

Mercer thought, You’re lying! Lying! Where do the screams come from that we have all heard broadcast as a warning on Punishment Day? Why did the doctor offer to cancel my brain or to take out my eyes?

The cow-man watched him sadly, a hurt expression on his face. “You don’t believe me,” he said, very sadly.

“It’s not quite that,” said Mercer, with an attempt at heartiness, “but I think you’re leaving something out.”

“Nothing much,” said B’dikkat. “You jump when the dromozoa hit you. You’ll be upset when you start growing new parts — heads, kidneys, hands. I had one fellow in here who grew thirty-eight hands in a single session outside. I took them all off, froze them and sent them upstairs. I take good care of everybody. You’ll probably yell for a while. But remember, just call me Friend, and I have the nicest treat in the universe waiting for you. Now, would you like some fried eggs? I don’t eat eggs myself, but most true men like them.”

“Eggs?” said Mercer. “What have eggs got to do with it?”

“Nothing much. It’s just a treat for you people. Get something in your stomach before you go outside. You’ll get through the first day better.”

Mercer, unbelieving, watched as the big man took two precious eggs from a cold chest, expertly broke them into a little pan and put the pan in the heat-field at the center of the table Mercer had awakened on.

“Friend, eh?” B’dikkat grinned. “You’ll see I’m a good friend. When you go outside, remember that.”

An hour later, Mercer did go outside.

Strangely at peace with himself, he stood at the door. B’dikkat pushed him in a brotherly way, giving him a shove which was gentle enough to be an encouragement.

“Don’t make me put on my lead suit, fellow.” Mercer had seen a suit, fully the size of an ordinary space-ship cabin, hanging on the wall of an adjacent room. ‘When I close this door, the outer one will open. Just walk on out.”

“But what will happen?” said Mercer, the fear turning around in his stomach and making little grabs at his throat from the inside.

“Don’t start that again,” said B’dikkat. For an hour he had fended off Mercer’s questions about the outside. A map? B’dikkat had laughed at the thought. Food? He said not to worry. Other people? They’d be there. Weapons? What for, B’dikkat had replied. Over and over again, B’dikkat had insisted that he was Mercer’s friend. What would happen to Mercer? The same that happened to everybody else.

Mercer stepped out.

Nothing happened. The day was cool. The wind moved gently against his toughened skin.

Mercer looked around apprehensively.

The mountainous body of Captain Alvarez occupied a good part of the landscape to the right. Mercer had no wish to get mixed up with that. He glanced back at the cabin. B’dikkat was not looking out the window.

Mercer walked slowly, straight ahead.

There was a flash on the ground, no brighter than the glitter of sunlight on a fragment of glass. Mercer felt a sting in the thigh, as though a sharp instrument had touched him lightly. He brushed the place with his hand.

It was as though the sky fell in.

A pain — it was more than a pain; it was a living throb — ran from his hip to his foot on the right side. The throb reached up to his chest, robbing him of breath. He fell, and the ground hurt him. Nothing in the hospital-satellite had been like this. He lay in the open air, trying not to breathe, but he did breathe anyhow. Each time he breathed, the throb moved with his thorax. He lay on his back, looking at the sun. At last he noticed that the sun was violet-white.

It was no use even thinking of calling. He had no voice. Tendrils of discomfort twisted within him. Since he could not stop breathing, he concentrated on taking air in the way that hurt him least. Gasps were too much work. Little tiny sips of air hurt him least.

The desert around him was empty. He could not turn his head to look at the cabin. Is this it? he thought. Is an eternity of this the punishment of Shayol?

There were voices near him.

Two faces, grotesquely pink, looked down at him. They might have been human. The man looked normal enough, except for having two noses side by side. The woman was a caricature beyond belief. She had grown a breast on each cheek and a cluster of naked baby-like fingers hung limp from her forehead.

“It’s a beauty,” said the woman, “a new one.”

“Come along,” said the man.

They lifted him to his feet. He did not have strength enough to resist. When he tried to speak to them a harsh cawing sound, like the cry of an ugly bird, came from his mouth.

They moved with him efficiently. He saw that he was being dragged to the herd of pink things.

As they approached, he saw that they were people. Better, he saw that they had once been people. A man with the beak of a flamingo was picking at his own body. A woman lay on the ground; she had a single head, but beside what seemed to be her original body, she had a boy’s naked body growing sidewise from her neck. The boy-body, clean, new, paralytically helpless, made no movement other than shallow breathing. Mercer looked around. The only one of the group who was wearing clothing was a man with his overcoat on sidewise. Mercer stared at him, finally realizing that the man had two — or was it three? — stomachs growing on the outside of his abdomen. The coat held them in place. The transparent peritoneal wall looked fragile.

“New one,” said his female captor. She and the two-nosed man put him down.

The group lay scattered on the ground.

Mercer lay in a state of stupor among them.

An old man’s voice said, “I’m afraid they’re going to feed us pretty soon.”

“Oh, no!”

“It’s too early!”

“Not again!”

Protests echoed from the group.

The old man’s voice went on, “Look, near the big toe of the mountain!”

The desolate murmur in the group attested their confirmation of what he had seen.

Mercer tried to ask what it was all about, but produced only a caw.

A woman — was it a woman? — crawled over to him on her hands and knees. Beside her ordinary hands, she was covered with hands all over her trunk and halfway down her thighs. Some of the hands looked old and withered. Others were as fresh and pink as the baby-fingers on his captress’ face. The woman shouted at him, though it was not necessary to shout.

“The dromozoa are coming. This time it hurts. When you get used to the place, you can dig in—”

She waved at a group of mounds which surrounded the herd of people.

“They’re dug in,” she said.

Mercer cawed again.

“Don’t you worry,” said the hand-covered woman, and gasped as a flash of light touched her.

The lights reached Mercer too. The pain was like the first contact but more probing. Mercer felt his eyes widen as odd sensations within his body led to an inescapable conclusion: these lights, these things, these whatever they were, were feeding him and building him up.

Their intelligence, if they had it, was not human, but their motives were clear. In between the stabs of pain he felt them fill his stomach, put water in his blood, draw water from his kidneys and bladder, massage his heart, move his lungs for him.

Every single thing they did was well meant and beneficent in intent.

And every single action hurt.

Abruptly, like the lifting of a cloud of insects, they were gone. Mercer was aware of a noise somewhere outside — a brainless, bawling cascade of ugly noise. He started to look around. And the noise stopped.

It had been himself, screaming. Screaming the ugly screams of a psychotic, a terrified drunk, an animal driven out of understanding or reason.

When he stopped, he found he had his speaking voice again.

A man came to him, naked like the others. There was a spike sticking through his head. The skin had healed around it on both sides. “Hello, fellow,” said the man with the spike.

“Hello,” said Mercer. It was a foolishly commonplace thing to say in a place like this.

“You can’t kill yourself,” said the man with the spike through his head.

“Yes, you can,” said the woman covered with hands.

Mercer found that his first pain had disappeared. “What’s happening to me?”

“You got a part,” said the man with the spike. “They’re always putting parts on us. After a while B’dikkat comes and cuts most of them off, except for the ones that ought to grow a little more. Like her,” he added, nodding at the woman who lay with the boy-body growing from her neck.

“And that’s all?” said Mercer. “The stabs for the new parts and the stinging for the feeding?”

“No,” said the man. “Sometimes they think we’re too cold and they fill our insides with fire. Or they think we’re too hot and they freeze us, nerve by nerve.”

The woman with the boy-body called over, “And sometimes they think we’re unhappy, so they try to force us to be happy. I think that’s the worst of all.”

Mercer stammered, “Are you people — I mean — are you the only herd?”

The man with the spike coughed instead of laughing. “Herd! That’s funny. The land is full of people. Most of them dig in. We’re the ones who can still talk. We stay together for company. We get more turns with B’dikkat that way.”

Mercer started to ask another question, but he felt the strength run out of him. The day had been too much.

The ground rocked like a ship on water. The sky turned black. He felt someone catch him as he fell. He felt himself being stretched out on the ground. And then, mercifully and magically, he slept.

Within a week, he came to know the group well. They were an absent-minded bunch of people. Not one of them ever knew when a dromozoan might flash by and add another part. Mercer was not stung again, but the incision he had obtained just outside the cabin was hardening. Spike-head looked at it when Mercer modestly undid his belt and lowered the edge of his trouser-top so they could see the wound.

“You’ve got a head,” he said. “A whole baby head. They’ll be glad to get that one upstairs when B’dikkat cuts it off you.”

The group even tried to arrange his social life. They introduced him to the girl of the herd. She had grown one body after another, pelvis turning into shoulders and the pelvis below that turning into shoulders again until she was five people long. Her face was unmarred. She tried to be friendly to Mercer.

He was so shocked by her that he dug himself into the soft dry crumbly earth and stayed there for what seemed like a hundred years. He found later that it was less than a full day. When he came out, the long many-bodied girl was waiting for him.

“You didn’t have to come out just for me,” said she.

Mercer shook the dirt off himself.

He looked around. The violet sun was going down, and the sky was streaked with blues, deeper blues and trails of orange sunset.

He looked back at her. “I didn’t get up for you. It’s no use lying there, waiting for the next time.”

“I want to show you something,” she said. She pointed to a low hummock. “Dig that up.”

Mercer looked at her. She seemed friendly. He shrugged and attacked the soil with his powerful claws. With tough skin and heavy digging-nails on the ends of his fingers, he found it was easy to dig like a dog. The earth cascaded beneath his busy hands. Something pink appeared down in the hole he had dug. He proceeded more carefully.

He knew what it would be.

It was. It was a man, sleeping. Extra arms grew down one side of his body in an orderly series. The other side looked normal.

Mercer turned back to the many-bodied girl, who had writhed closer.

“That’s what I think it is, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Doctor Vomact burned his brain out for him. And took his eyes out, too.”

Mercer sat back on the ground and looked at the girl. “You told me to do it. Now tell me what for.”

“To let you see. To let you know. To let you think.”

“That’s all?” said Mercer.

The girl twisted with startling suddenness. All the way down her series of bodies, her chests heaved. Mercer wondered how the air got into all of them. He did not feel sorry for her; he did not feel sorry for anyone except himself. When the spasm passed the girl smiled at him apologetically.

“They just gave me a new plant.”

Mercer nodded grimly.

“What now, a hand? It seems you have enough.”

“Oh, those,” she said, looking back at her many torsos. “I promised B’dikkat that I’d let them grow. He’s good. But that man, stranger. Look at that man you dug up. Who’s better off, he or we?”

Mercer stared at her. “Is that what you had me dig him up for?”

“Yes,” said the girl.

“Do you expect me to answer?”

“No,” said the girl, “not now.”

“Who are you?” said Mercer.

“We never ask that here. It doesn’t matter. But since you’re new, I’ll tell you. I used to be the Lady Da — the Emperor’s stepmother.”

“You!” he exclaimed.

She smiled, ruefully. “You’re still so fresh you think it matters! But I have something more important to tell you.” She stopped and bit her lip.

“What?” he urged. “Better tell me before I get another bite. I won’t be able to think or talk then, not for a long time. Tell me now.”

She brought her face close to his. It was still a lovely face, even in the dying orange of this violet-sunned sunset. “People never live forever.”

“Yes,” said Mercer. “I knew that.”

“Believe it,” ordered the Lady Da.

Lights flashed across the dark plain, still in the distance. Said she, “Dig in, dig in for the night. They may miss you.”

Mercer started digging. He glanced over at the man he had dug up.

The brainless body, with motions as soft as those of a starfish under water, was pushing its way back into the earth.

Five or seven days later, there was a shouting through the herd.

Mercer had come to know a half-man, the lower part of whose body was gone and whose viscera were kept in place with what resembled a translucent plastic bandage. The half-man had shown him how to lie still when the dromozoa came with their inescapable errands of doing good.

Said the half-man, “You can’t fight them. They made Alvarez as big as a mountain, so that he never stirs. Now they’re trying to make us happy. They feed us and clean us and sweeten us up. Lie still. Don’t worry about screaming. We all do.”

“When do we get the drug?” said Mercer.

“When B’dikkat comes.”

B’dikkat came that day, pushing a sort of wheeled sled ahead of him. The runners carried it over the hillocks; the wheels worked on the surface.

Even before he arrived, the herd sprang into furious action. Everywhere, people were digging up the sleepers. By the time B’dikkat reached their waiting place, the herd must have uncovered twice their own number of sleeping pink bodies — men and women, young and old. The sleepers looked no better and no worse than the waking ones.

“Hurry!” said the Lady Da. “He never gives any of us a shot until we’re all ready.”

B’dikkat wore his heavy lead suit.

He lifted an arm in friendly greeting, like a father returning home with treats for his children. The herd clustered around him but did not crowd him.

He reached into the sled. There was a harnessed bottle which he threw over his shoulders. He snapped the locks on the straps. From the bottle there hung a tube. Midway down the tube there was a small pressure-pump. At the end of the tube there was a glistening hypodermic needle.

When ready, B’dikkat gestured for them to come closer. They approached him with radiant happiness. He stepped through their ranks and past them, to the girl who had the boy growing from her neck. His mechanical voice boomed through the loudspeaker set in the top of his suit.

“Good girl. Good, good girl. You get a big, big present.” He thrust

the hypodermic into her so long that Mercer could see an air bubhle travel from the pump up to the bottle.

Then he moved back to the others, booming a word now and then, moving with improbable grace and speed amid the people. His needle flashed as he gave them hypodermics under pressure. The people dropped to sitting positions or lay down on the ground as though half-asleep.

He knew Mercer. “Hello, fellow. Now you can have the fun. It would have killed you in the cabin. Do you have anything for me?”

Mercer stammered, not knowing what B’dikkat meant, and the two-nosed man answered for him, “I think he has a nice baby head, but it isn’t big enough for you to take yet.”

Mercer never noticed the needle touch his arm.

B’dikkat had turned to the next knot of people when the super-condamine hit Mercer.

He tried to run after B’dikkat, to hug the lead space suit, to tell B’dikkat that he loved him. He stumbled and fell, but it did not hurt.

The many-bodied girl lay near him. Mercer spoke to her.

“Isn’t it wonderful? You’re beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. I’m so happy to be here.”

The woman covered with growing hands came and sat beside them. She radiated warmth and good fellowship. Mercer thought that she looked very distinguished and charming. He struggled out of his clothes. It was foolish and snobbish to wear clothing when none of these nice people did.

The two women babbled and crooned at him.

With one corner of his mind he knew that they were saying nothing, just expressing the euphoria of a drug so powerful that the known universe had forbidden it. With most of his mind he was happy. He wondered how anyone could have the good luck to visit a planet as nice as this. He tried to tell the Lady Da, but the words weren’t quite straight.

A painful stab hit him in the abdomen. The drug went after the pain and swallowed it. It was like the cap in the hospital, only a thousand times better. The pain was gone, though it had been crippling the first time.

He forced himself to be deliberate. He rammed his mind into focus and said to the two ladies who lay pinkly nude beside him in the desert, “That was a good bite. Maybe I will grow another head. That would make B’dikkat happy!”

The Lady Da forced the foremost of her bodies in an upright position. Said she, “I’m strong, too. I can talk. Remember, man, remember. People never live forever. We can die, too, we can die like real people. I do so believe in death!”

Mercer smiled at her through his happiness.

“Of course you can. But isn’t this nice… “

With this he felt his lips thicken and his mind go slack. He was wide awake, but he did not feel like doing anything. In that beautiful place, among all those companionable and attractive people, he sat and smiled.

B’dikkat was sterilizing his knives.

Mercer wondered how long the super-condamine had lasted him. He endured the ministrations of the dromozoa without screams or movement. The agonies of nerves and itching of skin were phenomena which happened somewhere near him, but meant nothing. He watched his own body with remote, casual interest. The Lady Da and the hand-covered woman stayed near him. After a long time the half-man dragged himself over to the group with his powerful arms. Having arrived he blinked sleepily and friendlily at them, and lapsed back into the restful stupor from which he had emerged. Mercer saw the sun rise on occasion, closed his eyes briefly, and opened them to see stars shining. Time had no meaning. The dromozoa fed him in their mysterious way: the drug canceled out his needs for cycles of the body.

At last he noticed a return of the inwardness of pain.

The pains themselves had not changed; he had.

He knew all the events which could take place on Shayol. He remembered them well from his happy period. Formerly he had noticed them — now he felt them.

He tried to ask the Lady Da how long they had had the drug, and how much longer they would have to wait before they had it again. She smiled at him with benign, remote happiness; apparently her many torsos, stretched out along the ground, had a greater capacity for retaining the drug than did his body. She meant him well, but was in no condition for articulate speech.

The half-man lay on the ground, arteries pulsating prettily behind the half-transparent film which protected his abdominal cavity. Mercer squeezed the man’s shoulder.

The half-man woke, recognized Mercer and gave him a healthily sleepy grin.

“ ‘A good morrow to you, my boy.’ That’s out of a play. Did you ever see a play?”

“You mean a game with cards?”

“No,” said the half-man, “a sort of eye-machine with real people doing the figures.”

“I never saw that,” said Mercer, “but I—”

“But you want to ask me when B’dikkat is going to come back with the needle.”

“Yes,” said Mercer, a little ashamed of his obviousness.

“Soon,” said the half-man. “That’s why I think of plays. We all know what is going to happen. We all know when it is going to happen. We all know what the dummies will do—” he gestured at the hummocks in which the decorticated men were cradled—” and we all know what the new people will ask. But we never know how long a scene is going to take.”

“What’s a ‘scene’?” asked Mercer. “Is that the name for the needle?”

The half-man laughed with something close to real humor. “No, no, no. You’ve got the lovelies on the brain. A scene is just part of a play. I mean we know the order in which things happen, but we have no clocks and nobody cares enough to count days or to make calendars and there’s not much climate here, so none of us know how long anything takes. The pain seems short and the pleasure seems long. I’m inclined to think that they are about two Earth-weeks each.”

Mercer did not know what an “Earth-week” was, since he had not been a well-read man before his conviction, but he got nothing more from the half-man at that time. The half-man received a dromozootic implant, turned red in the face, shouted senselessly at Mercer, “Take it out, you fool! Take it out of me!”

While Mercer looked on helplessly, the half-man twisted over on his side, his pink dusty back turned to Mercer, and wept hoarsely and quietly to himself.

Mercer himself could not tell how long it was before B’dikkat came back. It might have been several days. It might have been several months.

Once again B’dikkat moved among them like a father; once again they clustered like children. This time B’dikkat smiled pleasantly at the little head which had grown out of Mercer’s thigh — a sleeping child’s head, covered with light hair on top and with dainty eyebrows over the resting eyes. Mercer got the blissful needle.

When B’dikkat cut the head from Mercer’s thigh, he felt the knife grinding against the cartilage which held the head to his own body. He saw the child-face grimace as the head was cut; he felt the far, cool flash of unimportant pain, as B’dikkat dabbed the wound with a corrosive antiseptic which stopped all bleeding immediately.

The next time it was two legs growing from his chest.

Then there had been another head beside his own.

Or was that after the torso and legs, waist to toe-tips, of the little girl which had grown from his side?

He forgot the order.

He did not count time.

Lady Da smiled at him often, but there was no love in this place. She had lost the extra torsos. In between teratologies, she was a pretty and shapely woman; but the nicest thing about their relationship was her whisper to him, repeated some thousands of times, repeated with smiles and hope, “People never live forever.”

She found this immensely comforting, even though Mercer did not make much sense out of it.

Thus events occurred, and victims changed in appearance, and new ones arrived. Sometimes B’dikkat took the new ones, resting in the everlasting sleep of their burned-out brains, in a ground-truck to be added to other herds. The bodies in the truck threshed and bawled without human speech when the dromozoa struck them.

Finally, Mercer did manage to follow B’dikkat to the door of the cabin. He had to fight the bliss of super-condamine to do it. Only the memory of previous hurt, bewilderment and perplexity made him sure that if he did not ask B’dikkat when he, Mercer, was happy, the answer would no longer be available when he needed it. Fighting pleasure itself, he begged B’dikkat to check the records and to tell him how long he had been there.

B’dikkat grudgingly agreed, but he did not come out of the doorway. He spoke through the public address box built into the cabin, and his gigantic voice roared out over the empty plain, so that the pink herd of talking people stirred gently in their happiness and wondered what their friend B’dikkat might be wanting to tell them. When he said it, they thought it exceedingly profound, though none of them understood it, since it was simply the amount of time that Mercer had been on Shayol:

“Standard years — eighty-four years, seven months, three days, two hours, eleven and one half minutes. Good luck, fellow.”

Mercer turned away.

The secret little corner of his mind, which stayed sane through happiness and pain, made him wonder about B’dikkat. What persuaded the cow-man to remain on Shayol? What kept him happy without super-condamine? Was B’dikkat a crazy slave to his own duty or was he a man who had hopes of going back to his own planet some day, surrounded by a family of little cow-people resembling himself? Mercer, despite his happiness, wept a little at the strange fate of B’dikkat. His own fate he accepted.

He remembered the last time he had eaten — actual eggs from an actual pan. The dromozoa kept him alive, but he did not know how they did it.

He staggered back to the group. The Lady Da, naked in the dusty plain, waved a hospitable hand and showed that there was a place for him to sit beside her. There were unclaimed square miles of seating space around them, but he appreciated the kindliness of her gesture none the less.

The years, if they were years, went by. The land of Shayol did not change.

Sometimes the bubbling sound of geysers came faintly across the plain to the herd of men; those who could talk declared it to be the breathing of Captain Alvarez. There was night and day, but no setting of crops, no change of season, no generations of men. Time stood still for these people, and their load of pleasure was so commingled with the shocks and pains of the dromozoa that the words of the Lady Da took on very remote meaning.

“People never live forever.”

Her statement was a hope, not a truth in which they could believe. They did not have the wit to follow the stars in their courses, to exchange names with each other, to harvest the experience of each for the wisdom of all. There was no dream of escape for these people. Though they saw the old-style chemical rockets lift up from the field beyond B’dikkat’s cabin, they did not make plans to hide among the frozen crop of transmuted flesh.

Far long ago, some other prisoner than one of these had tried to write a letter. His handwriting was on a rock. Mercer read it, and so had a few of the others, but they could not tell which man had done it. Nor did they care.

The letter, scraped on stone, had been a message home. They could still read the opening: “Once, I was like you, stepping out of my window at the end of day, and letting the winds blow me gently toward the place I lived in. Once, like you, I had one head, two hands, ten fingers on my hands. The front part of my head was called a face, and I could talk with it. Now I can only write, and that only when I get out of pain. Once, like you, I ate foods, drank liquid, had a name. I cannot remember the name I had. You can stand up, you who get this letter. I cannot even stand up. I just wait for the lights to put my food in me molecule by molecule, and to take it out again. Don’t think that I am punished any more. This place is not a punishment. It is something else.”

Among the pink herd, none of them ever decided what was “something else.”

Curiosity had died among them long ago.

Then came the day of the little people.

It was a time — not an hour, not a year: a duration somewhere between them — when the Lady Da and Mercer sat wordless with happiness and filled with the joy of super-condamine. They had nothing to say to one another; the drug said all things for them.

A disagreeable roar from B’dikkat’s cabin made them stir mildly.

Those two, and one or two others, looked toward the speaker of the public address system.

The Lady Da brought herself to speak, though the matter was unimportant beyond words. “I do believe,” said she, “that we used to call that the War Alarm.”

They drowsed back into their happiness.

A man with two rudimentary heads growing beside his own crawled over to them. All three heads looked very happy, and Mercer thought it delightful of him to appear in such a whimsical shape. Under the pulsing glow of super-condamine, Mercer regretted that he had not used times when his mind was clear to ask him who he had once been. He answered it for them. Forcing his eyelids open by sheer will power, he gave the Lady Da and Mercer the lazy ghost of a military salute and said, “Suzdal, Ma’am and Sir, former cruiser commander. They are sounding the alert. Wish to report that I am… I am… I am not quite ready for battle.”

He dropped off to sleep.

The gentle peremptorinesses of the Lady Da brought his eyes open again.

“Commander, why are they sounding it here? Why did you come to us?”

“You, Ma’am, and the gentleman with the ears seem to think best of our group. I thought you might have orders.”

Mercer looked around for the gentleman with the ears. It was himself. In that time his face was almost wholly obscured with a crop of fresh little ears, but he paid no attention to them, other than expecting that B’dikkat would cut them all off in due course and that the dromozoa would give him something else.

The noise from the cabin rose to a higher, ear-splitting intensity.

Among the herd, many people stirred.

Some opened their eyes, looked around, murmured. “It’s a noise,” and went back to the happy drowsing with super-condamine.

The cabin door opened.

B’dikkat rushed out, without his suit. They had never seen him on the outside without his protective metal suit.

He rushed up to them, looked wildly around, recognized the Lady Da and Mercer, picked them up, one under each arm, and raced with them back to the cabin. He flung them into the double door. They landed with bone-splitting crashes, and found it amusing to hit the ground so hard. The floor tilted them into the room. Moments later, B’dikkat followed.

He roared at them, “You’re people, or you were. You understand people; I only obey them. But this I will not obey. Look at that!”

Four beautiful human children lay on the floor. The two smallest seemed to be twins, about two years of age. There was a girl of five and a boy of seven or so. All of them had slack eyelids. All of them had thin red lines around their temples and their hair, shaved away, showed how their brains had been removed.

B’dikkat, heedless of danger from dromozoa, stood beside the Lady Da and Mercer, shouting.

“You’re real people. I’m just a cow. I do my duty. My duty does not include this. These are children.”

The wise, surviving recess of Mercer’s mind registered shock and disbelief. It was hard to sustain the emotion, because the super-condamine washed at his consciousness like a great tide, making everything seem lovely. The forefront of his mind, rich with the drug, told him, “Won’t it be nice to have some children with us!” But the undestroyed interior of his mind, keeping the honor he knew before he came to Shayol, whispered, “This is a crime worse than any crime we have committed! And the Empire has done it.”

“What have you done?” said the Lady Da. “What can we do?”

“I tried to call the satellite. When they knew what I was talking about, they cut me off. After all, I’m not people. The head doctor told me to do my work.”

“Was it Doctor Vomact?” Mercer asked.

“Vomact?” said B’dikkat. “He died a hundred years ago, of old age. No, a new doctor cut me off. I don’t have people-feeling, but I am Earth-born, of Earth blood. I have emotions myself. Pure cattle emotions! This I cannot permit.”

“What have you done?”

B’dikkat lifted his eyes to the window. His face was illuminated by a determination which, even beyond the edges of the drug which made them love him, made him seem like the father of this world-responsible, honorable, unselfish.

He smiled. “They will kill me for it, I think. But I have put in the Galactic Alert — all ships here.”

The Lady Da, sitting back on the floor, declared, “But that’s only for new invaders! It is a false alarm.” She pulled herself together and rose to her feet. “Can you cut these things off me, right now, in case people come? And get me a dress. And do you have anything which will counteract the effect of the super-condamine?”

“That’s what I wanted!” cried B’dikkat. “I will not take these children. You give me leadership.”

There and then, on the floor of the cabin, he trimmed her down to the normal proportions of mankind.

The corrosive antiseptic rose like smoke in the air of the cabin. Mercer thought it all very dramatic and pleasant, and dropped off in catnaps part of the time. Then he felt B’dikkat trimming him too. B’dikkat opened a long, long drawer and put the specimens in; from the cold in the room it must have been a refrigerated locker.

He sat them both up against the wall.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “There is no antidote for super-condamine. Who would want one? But I can give you the hypos from my rescue boat. They are supposed to bring a person back, no matter what has happened to that person out in space.”

There was a whining over the cabin roof. B’dikkat knocked a window out with his fist, stuck his head out of the window and looked up.

“Come on in,” he shouted.

There was the thud of a landing craft touching ground quickly. Doors whirred. Mercer wondered, mildly, why people dared to land on Shayol. When they came in he saw that they were not people; they were Customs Robots, who could travel at velocities which people could never match. One wore the insigne of an inspector.

“Where are the invaders?”

“There are no—” began B’dikkat.

The Lady Da, imperial in her posture though she was completely nude, said in a voice of complete clarity, “I am a former Empress, the Lady Da. Do you know me?”

“No, Ma’am,” said the robot inspector. He looked as uncomfortable as a robot could look. The drug made Mercer think that it would be nice to have robots for company, out on the surface of Shayol.

“I declare this Top Emergency, in the ancient words. Do you understand? Connect me with the Instrumentality.”

“We can’t—” said the inspector.

“You can ask,” said the Lady Da.

The inspector complied.

The Lady Da turned to B’dikkat. “Give Mercer and me those shots now. Then put us outside the door so the dromozoa can repair these scars. Bring us in as soon as a connection is made. Wrap us in cloth if you do not have clothes for us. Mercer can stand the pain.”

“Yes,” said B’dikkat, keeping his eyes away from the four soft children and their collapsed eyes.

The injection burned like no fire ever had. It must have been capable of fighting the super-condamine, because B’dikkat put them through the open window, so as to save time going through the door. The dromozoa, sensing that they needed repair, flashed upon them. This time the super-condamine had something else fighting it

Mercer did not scream but he lay against the wall and wept for ten thousand years; in objective time, it must have been several hours.

The Customs robots were taking pictures. The dromozoa were flashing against them too, sometimes in whole swarms, but nothing happened.

Mercer heard the voice of the communicator inside the cabin calling loudly for B’dikkat. “Surgery Satellite calling Shayol. B’dikkat, get on the line!”

He obviously was not replying.

There were soft cries coming from the other communicator, the one which the customs officials had brought into the room. Mercer was sure that the eye-machine was on and that people in other worlds were looking at Shayol for the first time.

B’dikkat came through the door. He had torn navigation charts out of his lifeboat. With these he cloaked them.

Mercer noted that the Lady Da changed the arrangement of the cloak in a few minor ways and suddenly looked like a person of great importance.

They re-entered the cabin door.

B’dikkat whispered, as if filled with awe, “The Instrumentality has been reached, and a lord of the Instrumentality is about to talk to you.”

There was nothing for Mercer to do, so he sat back in a corner of the room and watched. The Lady Da, her skin healed, stood pale and nervous in the middle of the floor.

The room filled with an odorless intangible smoke. The smoke clouded. The full communicator was on.

A human figure appeared.

A woman, dressed in a uniform of radically conservative cut, faced the Lady Da.

“This is Shayol. You are the Lady Da. You called me.”

The Lady Da pointed to the children on the floor. “This must not happen,” she said. This is a place of punishments, agreed upon between the Instrumentality and the Empire. No one said anything about children.”

The woman on the screen looked down at the children.

“This is the work of insane people!” she cried.

She looked accusingly at the Lady Da, “Are you imperial?”

“I was an Empress, madam,” said the Lady Da.

“And you permit this!”

“Permit it?” cried the Lady Da. “I had nothing to do with it.” Her eyes widened. “I am a prisoner here myself. Don’t you understand?”

The image-woman snapped, “No, I don’t.”

“I,” said the Lady Da, “am a specimen. Look at the herd out there. I came from them a few hours ago.”

“Adjust me,” said the image-woman to B’dikkat. “Let me see that herd.”

Her body, standing upright, soared through the wall in a flashing arc and was placed in the very center of the herd.

The Lady Da and Mercer watched her. They saw even the image lose its stiffness and dignity. The image-woman waved an arm to show that she should he brought back into the cabin. B’dikkat tuned her back into the room.

“I owe you an apology,” said the image. “I am the Lady Johanna Gnade, one of the lords of the Instrumentality.”

Mercer bowed, lost his balance and had to scramble up from the floor. The Lady Da acknowledged the introduction with a royal nod.

The two women looked at each other.

“You will investigate,” said the Lady Da, “and when you have investigated, please put us all to death. You know about the drug?”

“Don’t mention it,” said B’dikkat, “don’t even say the name into a communicator. It is a secret of the Instrumentality!”

“I am the Instrumentality,” said the Lady Johanna. “Are you in pain? I did not think that any of you were alive. I had heard of the surgery banks on your off-limits planet, but I thought that robots tended parts of people and sent up the new grafts by rocket. Are there any people with you? Who is in charge? Who did this to the children?”

B’dikkat stepped in front of the image. He did not bow. “I’m in charge.”

“You’re underpeople!” cried the Lady Johanna. “You’re a cow!”

“A bull, Ma’am. My family is frozen back on Earth itself, and with a thousand years’ service I am earning their freedom and my own. Your other questions, Ma’am. I do all the work. The dromozoa do not affect me much, though I have to cut a part off myself now and then. I throw those away. They don’t go into the bank. Do you know the secret rules of this place?”

The Lady Johanna talked to someone behind her on another world. Then she looked at B’dikkat and commanded, “Just don’t name the drug or talk too much about it. Tell me the rest.”

“We have,” said B’dikkat very formally, “thirteen hundred and twenty-one people here who can still be counted on to supply parts when the dromozoa implant them. There are about seven hundred more, including Go-Captain Alvarez, who have been so thoroughly absorbed by the planet that it is no use trimming them. The Empire set up this place as a point of uttermost punishment. But the Instrumentality gave secret orders for medicine—” he accented the word strangely, meaning super-condamine—”to be issued so that the punishment would be counteracted. The Empire supplies our convicts. The Instrumentality distributes the surgical material.”

The Lady Johanna lifted her right hand in a gesture of silence and compassion. She looked around the room. Her eyes came back to the Lady Da. Perhaps she guessed what effort the Lady Da had made in order to remain standing erect while the two drugs, the super-condamine and the lifeboat drug, fought within her veins.

“You people can rest. I will tell you now that all things possible will be done for you. The Empire is finished. The Fundamental Agreement, by which the Instrumentality surrendered the Empire a thousand years ago, has been set aside. We did not know that you people existed. We would have found out in time, but I am sorry we did not find out sooner. Is there anything we can do for you right away?”

“Time is what we all have,” said the Lady Da. “Perhaps we cannot ever leave Shayol, because of the dromozoa and the medicine. The one could be dangerous. The other must never be permitted to be known.”

The Lady Johanna Gnade looked around the room. When her glance reached him, B’dikkat fell to his knees and lifted his enormous hands in complete supplication.

“What do you want?” said she.

“These,” said B’dikkat, pointing to the mutilated children. “Order a stop on children. Stop it now!” He commanded her with the last cry, and she accepted his command. “And Lady—” he stopped as if shy.

“Yes? Go on.”

“Lady, I am unable to kill. It is not in my nature. To work, to help, but not to kill. What do I do with these?” He gestured at the four motionless children on the floor.

“Keep them,” she said. “Just keep them.”

“I can’t,” he said. “There’s no way to get off this planet alive. I do not have food for them in the cabin. They will die in a few hours. And governments,” he added wisely, “take a long, long time to do things.”

“Can you give them the medicine?”

“No, it would kill them if I give them that stuff first before the dromozoa have fortified their bodily processes.”

The Lady Johanna Gnade filled the room with tinkling laughter that was very close to weeping. “Fools, poor fools, and the more fool I! If super-condamine works only after the dromozoa, what is the purpose of the secret?”

B’dikkat rose to his feet, offended. He frowned, but he could not get the words with which to defend himself.

The Lady Da, ex-empress of a fallen empire, addressed the other lady with ceremony and force: “Put them outside, so they will be touched. They will hurt. Have B’dikkat give them the drug as soon as he thinks it safe. I beg your leave, my Lady… “

Mercer had to catch her before she fell.

“You’ve all had enough,” said the Lady Johanna. “A storm ship with heavily armed troops is on its way to your ferry satellite. They will seize the medical personnel and find out who committed this crime against children.”

Mercer dared to speak. “Will you punish the guilty doctor?”

“You speak of punishment,” she cried. “You!”

“It’s fair. I was punished for doing wrong. Why shouldn’t he be?”

“Punish — punish!” she said to him. “We will cure that doctor. And we will cure you too, if we can.”

Mercer began to weep. He thought of the oceans of happiness which super-condamine had brought him, forgetting the hideous pain and the deformities on Shayol. Would there be no next needle? He could not guess what life would be like off Shayol. Was there to be no more tender, fatherly B’dikkat coming with his knives?

He lifted his tear-stained face to the Lady Johanna Gnade and choked out the words, “Lady, we are all insane in this place. I do not think we want to leave.”

She turned her face away, moved by enormous compassion. Her next words were to B’dikkat. “You are wise and good, even if you are not a human being. Give them all of the drug they can take. The Instrumentality will decide what to do with all of you. I will survey your planet with robot soldiers. Will the robots be safe, cow-man?”

B’dikkat did not like the thoughtless name she called him, but he held no offense. “The robots will be all right, Ma’am, but the dromozoa will be excited if they cannot feed them and heal them. Send as few as you can. We do not know how the dromozoa live or die.”

“As few as I can,” she murmured. She lifted her hand in command to some technician unimaginable distances away. The odorless smoke rose about her and the image was gone.

A shrill cheerful voice spoke up. “I fixed your window,” said the customs robot. B’dikkat thanked him absentmindedly. He helped Mercer and the Lady Da into the doorway. When they had gotten outside, they were promptly stung by the dromozoa. It did not matter.

B’dikkat himself emerged, carrying the four children in his two gigantic, tender hands. He lay the slack bodies on the ground near the cabin. He watched as the bodies went into spasm with the onset of the dromozoa. Mercer and the Lady Da saw that his brown cow eyes were rimmed with red and that his huge cheeks were dampened by tears.

Hours or centuries.

Who could tell them apart?

The herd went back to its usual life, except that the intervals between needles were much shorter. The once-commander, Suzdal, refused the needle when he heard the news. Whenever he could walk, he followed the customs robots around as they photographed, took soil samples, and made a count of the bodies. They were particularly interested in the mountain of the Go-Captain Alvarez and professed themselves uncertain as to whether there was organic life there or not. The mountain did appear to react to super-condamine, but they could find no blood, no heart-beat. Moisture, moved by the dromozoa, seemed to have replaced the once-human bodily processes.

And then, early one morning, the sky opened.

Ship after ship landed. People emerged, wearing clothes.

The dromozoa ignored the newcomers. Mercer, who was in a state of bliss, confusedly tried to think this through until he realized that the ships were loaded to their skins with communications machines; the “people” were either robots or images of persons in other places.

The robots swiftly gathered together the herd. Using wheelbarrows, they brought the hundreds of mindless people to the landing area.

Mercer heard a voice he knew. It was the Lady Johanna Gnade. “Set me high,” she commanded.

Her form rose until she seemed one-fourth the size of Alvarez. Her voice took on more volume.

“Wake them all,” she commanded.

Robots moved among them, spraying them with a gas which was both sickening and sweet. Mercer felt his mind go clear. The super-condamine still operated in his nerves and veins, but his cortical area was free of it. He thought clearly.

“I bring you,” cried the compassionate feminine voice of the gigantic Lady Johanna, “the judgment of the Instrumentality on the planet Shayol.

“Item: the surgical supplies will be maintained and the dromozoa will not be molested. Portions of human bodies will be left here to grow, and the grafts will be collected by robots. Neither man nor homunculus will live here again. “

“Item: the underman B’dikkat, of cattle extraction, will be rewarded by an immediate return to Earth. He will be paid twice his expected thousand years of earnings.”

The voice of B’dikkat, without amplification, was almost as loud as hers through the amplifier. He shouted his protest, “Lady, Lady!”

She looked down at him, his enormous body reaching to ankle height on her swirling gown, and said in a very informal tone, “What do you want?”

“Let me finish my work first,” he cried, so that all could hear. “Let me finish taking care of these people.”

The specimens who had minds all listened attentively. The brainless ones were trying to dig themselves back into the soft earth of Shayol, using their powerful claws for the purpose. Whenever one began to disappear, a robot seized him by a limb and pulled him out again.

“Item: cephalectomies will be performed on all persons with irrecoverable minds. Their bodies will be left here. Their heads will be taken away and killed as pleasantly as we can manage, probably by an overdosage of super-condamine.”

“The last big jolt,” murmured Commander Suzdal, who stood near Mercer. “That’s fair enough.”

“Item: the children have been found to be the last heirs of the Empire. An over-zealous official sent them here to prevent their committing treason when they grew up. The doctor obeyed orders without questioning them. Both the official and the doctor have been cured and their memories of this have been erased, so that they need have no shame or grief for what they have done.”

“It’s unfair,” cried the half-man. “They should be punished as we were!”

The Lady Johanna Gnade looked down at him. “Punishment is ended. We will give you anything you wish, but not the pain of another. I shall continue.

“Item: since none of you wish to resume the lives which you led previously, we are moving you to another planet nearby. It is similar to Shayol, but much more beautiful. There are no dromozoa.”

At this an uproar seized the herd. They shouted, wept, cursed, appealed. They all wanted the needle, and if they had to stay on Shayol to get it, they would stay.

“Item,” said the gigantic image of the lady, overriding their babble with her great but feminine voice, “you will not have super-condamine on the new planet, since without dromozoa it would kill you. But there will be caps. Remember the caps. We will try to cure you and to make people of you again. But if you give up, we will not force you. Caps are very powerful; with medical help you can live under them many years.”

A hush fell on the group. In their various ways, they were trying to compare the electrical caps which had stimulated their pleasure-lobes with the drug which had drowned them a thousand times in pleasure. Their murmur sounded like assent.

“Do you have any questions?” said the Lady Johanna.

“When do we get the caps?” said several. They were human enough that they laughed at their own impatience.

“Soon,” said she reassuringly, “very soon.”

“Very soon,” echoed B’dikkat, reassuring his charges even though he was no longer in control.

“Question,” cried the Lady Da.

“My Lady…?” said the Lady Johanna, giving the ex-empress her due courtesy.

“Will we be permitted marriage?”

The Lady Johanna looked astonished. “I don’t know.” She smiled. “I don’t know any reason why not—”

“I claim this man Mercer,” said the Lady Da. “When the drugs were deepest, and the pain was greatest, he was the one who always tried to think. May I have him?”

Mercer thought the procedure arbitrary but he was so happy that he said nothing. The Lady Johanna scrutinized him and then she nodded. She lifted her arms in a gesture of blessing and farewell.

The robots began to gather the pink herd into two groups. One group was to whisper in a ship over to a new world, new problems and new lives. The other group, no matter how much its members tried to scuttle into the dirt, was gathered for the last honor which humanity could pay their manhood.

B’dikkat, leaving everyone else, jogged with his bottle across the plain to give the mountain-man Alvarez an especially large gift of delight.

The “space story” (the one science caught up with) was originally concerned with the techniques of space travel— with our ability to manufacture and control what we now call “the hardware” of space flight. The “planet story” has traditionally been rollicking-romance-adventure (prototypically. Burroughs’ “Princess of Mars.”) Both of these varieties dealt primarily with man’s effect on the environments of space. A third type, and indeed the earliest one, has been the philosophic novel, in which the space (or, most usually. Moon, setting) was essentially a stage for a passion play; in these there was no real interaction; the voyageur was primarily an observer.

Now, more and more, writers confronted by the imminence of space travel, are considering the effects of the trip into the unknown on mankind. One hears the old phrase, the “conquest of space,” less frequently now. That there will be immediate and perhaps profound effects on us, physiologically and culturally, is dear; equally obvious, but much less clearcut, are the potential effects on our psychology, philosophy, religion, and mystique.

My first visit to New Caledonia was in the summer of 2199. At that time an exploration party under the leadership of Gilbert Troon was cautiously pushing its way up the less radioactive parts of Italy, investigating the prospects of reclamation. My firm felt that there might be a popular book in it, and assigned me to put the proposition to Gilbert. When I arrived, however, it was to find that he had been delayed, and was now expected a week later. I was not at all displeased. A few days of comfortable laziness on a Pacific island, all paid for and counting as work, is the kind of perquisite I like.

New Caledonia is a fascinating spot, and well worth the trouble of getting a landing permit—if you can get one. It has more of the past — and more of the future, too, for that matter — than any other place, and somehow it manages to keep them almost separate.

At one time the island, and the group, were, in spite of the name, a French colony. But in 2044, with the eclipse of Europe in the Great Northern War, it found itself, like other ex-colonies dotted all about the world, suddenly thrown upon its own resources. While most mainland colonies hurried to make treaties with their nearest powerful neighbors, many islands such as New Caledonia had little to offer and not much to fear, and so let things drift.

For two generations the surviving nations were far too occupied by the tasks of bringing equilibrium to a half-wrecked world to take any interest in scattered islands. It was not until the Brazilians began to see Australia as a possible challenger of their supremacy that they started a policy of unobtrusive and tactful mercantile expansion into the Pacific. Then, naturally, it occurred to the Australians, too, that it was time to begin to extend their economic influence over various island-groups.

The New Caledonians resisted infiltration. They had found independence congenial, and steadily rebuffed temptations by both parties. The year 2194, in which Space declared for independence, found them still resisting; but the pressure was now considerable. They had watched one group of islands after another succumb to trade preferences, and thereafter virtually slide back to colonial status, and they now found it difficult to doubt that before long the same would happen to themselves when, whatever the form of words, they would be annexed — most likely by the Australians in order to forestall the establishment of a Brazilian base there, within a thousand miles of the coast.

It was into this situation that Jayme Gonveia, speaking for Space, stepped in 2150 with a suggestion of his own. He offered the New Caledonians guaranteed independence of either big Power, a considerable quantity of cash, and a prosperous future if they would grant Space a lease of territory which would become its Earth headquarters and main terminus.

The proposition was not altogether to the New Caledonian taste, but it was better than the alternatives. They accepted, and the construction of the Space-yards was begun.

Since then the island has lived in a curious symbiosis. In the north are the rocket landing and dispatch stages, warehouses, and engineering shops, and a way of life furnished with all modem techniques, while the other four-fifths of the island all but ignores it, and contentedly lives much as it did two and a half centuries ago. Such a state of affairs cannot be preserved by accident in this world. It is the result of careful contrivance both by the New Caledonians who like it that way, and by Space which dislikes outsiders taking too close an interest in its affairs. So, for permission to land anywhere in the group one needs hard-won visas from both authorities. The result is no exploitation by tourists or salesmen, and a scarcity of strangers.

However, there I was, with an unexpected week of leisure to put in, and no reason why I should spend it in Space-Concession territory. One of the secretaries suggested Lahua as a restful spot, so thither I went.

Lahua has picture-book charm. It is a small fishing town, half-tropical, half-French. On its wide white beach there are still canoes, working canoes, as well as modem. At one end of the curve a mole gives shelter for a small anchorage, and there the palms that fringe the rest of the shore stop to make room for the town.

Many of Lahua’s houses are improved-traditional, still thatched with palm, but its heart is a cobbled rectangle surrounded by entirely untropical houses, known as the Grande Place. Here are shops, pavement cafés, stalls of fruit under bright striped awnings guarded by Gauguinesque women, a statue of Bougainville, an atrociously ugly church on the east side, a pissoir, and even a Maine. The whole thing might have been imported complete from early twentieth-century France, except for the inhabitants — but even they, some in bright sarongs, some in European clothes, must have looked much the same when France ruled there.

I found it difficult to believe that they are real people living real lives. For the first day I was constantly accompanied by the feeling that an unseen director would suddenly call “Cut,” and it would all come to a stop.

On the second morning I was growing more used to it. I bathed, and then with a sense that I was beginning to get the feel of the life, drifted to the Place, in search of an aperitif. I chose a café on the south side where a few trees shaded the tables, and wondered what to order. My usual drinks seemed out of key. A dusky, brightly saronged girl approached. On an impulse, and feeling like a character out of a very old novel I suggested a pernod. She took it as a matter of course.

“Un pernod? Certainement, monsieur,” she told me.

I sat there looking across the Square, less busy now that the dejeuner hour was close, wondering what Sydney and Rio, Adelaide and Sao Paulo had gained and lost since they had been the size of Lahua, and doubting the value of the gains whatever they might be…

The pernod arrived. I watched it cloud with water, and sipped it cautiously. An odd drink, scarcely calculated, I felt, to enhance the appetite. As I contemplated it a voice spoke from behind my right shoulder.

“An island product, but from the original recipe,” it said. “Quite safe, in moderation, I assure you.”

I turned in my chair. The speaker was seated at the next table; a well-built, compact, sandy-haired man, dressed in a spotless white suit, a panama hat with a colored band, and wearing a neatly trimmed, pointed beard. I guessed his age at about 34 though the gray eyes that met my own looked older, more experienced, and troubled.

“A taste that I have not had the opportunity to acquire,” I told him. He nodded.

“You won’t find it outside. In some ways we are a museum here, but little the worse, I think, for that.”

”One of the later Muses,” I suggested. “The Muse of Recent History. And very fascinating, too.”

I became aware that one or two men at tables within earshot were paying us — or, rather, me — some attention; their expressions were not unfriendly, but they showed what seemed to be traces of concern.

“It is—” my neighbor began to reply, and then broke off, cut short by a rumble in the sky.

I turned to see a slender white spire stabbing up into the blue overhead. Already, by the time the sound reached us, the rocket at its apex was too small to be visible. The man cocked an eye at it.

“Moon-shuttle,” he observed.

“They all sound and look alike to me,” I admitted.

“They wouldn’t if you were inside. The acceleration in that shuttle would spread you all over the floor — very thinly,” he said, and then went on: “We don’t often see strangers in Lahua. Perhaps you would care to give me the pleasure of your company for luncheon? My name, by the way, is George.”

I hesitated, and while I did I noticed over his shoulder an elderly man who moved his lips slightly as he gave me what was without doubt an encouraging nod. I decided to take a chance on it.

“That’s very kind of you. My name is David — David Myford, from Sydney,” I told him. But he made no amplification regarding himself, so I was left still wondering whether George was his forename, or his surname.

I moved to his table, and he lifted a hand to summon the girl.

“Unless you are averse to fish you must try the bouillabaisse—speciality de la maison,” he told me.

I was aware that I had gained the approval of the elderly man, and apparently of some others. The waitress, too, had an approving air. I wondered vaguely what was going on, and whether I had been let in for the town bore, to protect the rest.

“From Sydney,” he said reflectively. “It’s a long time since I saw Sydney. I don’t suppose I’d know it now.”

“It keeps on growing,” I admitted, “but Nature would always prevent you from confusing it with anywhere else.”

We went on chatting. The bouillabaisse arrived; and excellent it was. There were hunks of first-class bread, too, cut from those long loaves you see in pictures in old European books. I began to feel, with the help of the local wine, that a lot could be said for the twentieth-century way of living.

In the course of our talk it emerged that George had been a rocket pilot, but was grounded now — not, one would judge, for reasons of health, so I did not inquire further….

The second course was an excellent coupe of fruits I never heard of, and, over all, iced passion-fruit juice. It was when the coffee came that he said, rather wistfully I thought:

“I had hoped you might be able to help me, Mr. Myford, but it now seems to me that you are not a man of faith.”

“Surely everyone has to be very much a man of faith,” I protested. “For everything a man cannot do for himself he has to have faith in others.”

“True,” he conceded. “I should have said ‘spiritual faith.’ You do not speak as one who is interested in the nature and destiny of his soul — nor of anyone else’s soul — I fear?”

I felt that I perceived what was coming next. However, if he was interested in saving my soul he had at least begun the operation by looking after my bodily needs with a generously good meal.

“When I was young,” I told him, “I used to worry quite a lot about my soul, but later I decided that that was largely a matter of vanity.”

“There is also vanity in thinking oneself self-sufficient,” he said.

“Certainly,” I agreed. “It is chiefly with the conception of the soul as a separate entity that I find myself out of sympathy. For me it is a manifestation of mind which is, in its turn, a product of the brain, modified by the external environment, and influenced more directly by the glands.”

He looked saddened, and shook his head reprovingly. “You are so wrong — so very wrong. Some are always conscious of their souls, others, like yourself, are unaware of them, but no one knows the true value of his soul as long as he has it. It is not until a man has lost his soul that he understands its value.”

It was not an observation making for easy rejoinder, so I let the silence between us continue. Presently he looked up into the northern sky where the trail of the moon-bound shuttle had long since blown away. With embarrassment I observed two large tears flow from the inner corners of his eyes and trickle down beside his nose. He, however, showed no embarrassment; he simply pulled out a large, white, beautifully laundered handkerchief, and dealt with them.

“I hope you will never learn what a dreadful thing it is to have no soul,” he told me, with a shake of his head. “It is to hold the emptiness of space in one’s heart: to sit by the waters of Babylon for the rest of one’s life.”

Lamely I said: “I’m afraid this is out of my range. I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. No one understands. But always one keeps on hoping that one day there will come somebody who does understand, and can help.”

“But the soul is a manifestation of the self,” I said. “I don’t see how that can be lost — it can be changed, perhaps, but not lost”

“Mine is,” he said, still looking up into the vasty blue. “Lost — adrift somewhere out there…. Without it I am a sham…. A man who has lost a leg or an arm is still a man, but a man who has lost his soul is nothing — nothing — nothing….”

“Perhaps a psychiatrist—” I started to suggest, uncertainly.

That stirred him, and checked the tears. “Psychiatrist!” he exclaimed scornfully. “Damned frauds! Even to the word. They may know a bit about minds; but about the psyche! — why they even deny its existence…!”

There was a pause.

“I wish I could help--”

“There was a chance. You might have been one who could. There’s always the chance…” Whether he was consoling himself, or me, seemed moot. At this point the church clock struck two. My host’s mood changed. He got up quite briskly.

“I have to go now,” he told me. “I wish you had been the one, but it has been a pleasant encounter all the same. I hope you enjoy Lahua.”

I watched him make his way along the Place. At one stall he paused, selected a peach-like fruit, and bit into it. The woman beamed at him amiably, apparently unconcerned about payment

The dusky waitress arrived by my table, and stood looking after him.

“O, le pauvre monsieur Georges,” she said, sadly. We watched him climb the church steps, throw away the remnant of his fruit and remove his hat to enter. “Il va faire la prière,” she explained. “Tous les jours ‘e make pray for ‘is soul. In ze morning, in ze afternoon. C’est si triste.”

I noticed the bill in her hand. I fear that for a moment I misjudged George, but it had been a good lunch. I reached for my notecase. The girl noticed, and shook her head.

“Non, non, monsieur, non. Vous êtes convive. C’est d’accord. Alors, monsieur Georges ‘e sign bill tomorrow. S’arrange. C’est okay,” she insisted, and stuck to it.

The elderly man whom I had noticed before broke in: “It’s all right — quite in order,” he assured me. Then he added: “Perhaps if you are not in a hurry you would care to take a café-cognac with me?”

There seemed to be a fine open-handedness about Lahua. I accepted, and joined him.

“I’m afraid no one can have briefed you about poor George,” he said.

I admitted this was so. He shook his head in reproof of persons unknown, and added:

“Never mind. All went well. George always has hopes of a stranger, you see: sometimes one has been known to laugh. One doesn’t like that.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I told him. “His state strikes me as very far from funny.”

“It is indeed,” he agreed. “But he’s improving. I doubt whether he knows it himself, but he is. A year ago he would often weep quietly through the whole dejeuner. — Rather depressing until one got used to it.”

“He lives here in Lahua, then?” I asked.

“He exists. He spends most of his time in the church. For the rest he wanders round. He sleeps at that big white house up on the hill. His grand-daughter’s place. She sees that he’s decently turned out, and pays the bills for whatever he fancies down here.”

I thought I must have misheard.

“His grand-daughter!” I exclaimed. “But he’s a young man. He can’t be much over thirty years old…”

He looked at me.

“You’ll very likely come across him again. Just as well to know how things stand. Of course it isn’t the sort of thing the family likes to publicize, but there’s no secret about it.”

The café-cognacs arrived. He added cream to his, and began:

About five years ago (he said), yes, it would be in 2194, young Gerald Troon was taking a ship out to one of the larger asteroids — the one that de Gasparis called Psyche when he spotted it in 1852. The ship was a space-built freighter called the Celestis, working from the moon-base. Her crew was five, with not bad accommodation forward. Apart from that and the motor-section these ships are not much more than one big hold which is very often empty on the outward journeys unless it is carrying gear to set up new workings. This time it was empty because the assignment was simply to pick up a load of uranium ore—Psyche is half made of high-yield ore, and all that was necessary was to set going the digging machinery already on the site, and load the stuff in. It seemed simple enough.

But the Asteroid Belt is still a very tricky area, you know. The main bodies and groups are charted, of course — but that only helps you to find them. The place is full of outfliers of all sizes that you couldn’t hope to chart, but have to avoid. About the best you can do is to tackle the Belt as near to your objective as possible, reduce speed until you are little more than local orbit velocity, and then edge your way in, going very canny. The trouble is the time it can take to keep on fiddling along that way for thousands — hundreds of thousands, maybe — of miles. Fellows get bored and inattentive, or sick to death of it and start to take chances. I don’t know what the answer is. You can bounce radar off the big chunks and hitch that up to a course deflector to keep you away from them. But the small stuff is just as deadly to a ship, and there’s so much of it about that if you were to make the course-deflector sensitive enough to react to it you’d have your ship shying off everything the whole time, and getting nowhere. What we want is someone to come up with a kind of repulse mechanism with only a limited range of operation— say, a hundred miles — but no one does. So, as I say, it’s tricky. Since they first started to tackle it back in 2150 they’ve lost half-a-dozen ships in there, and had a dozen more damaged one way or another. Not a nice place at all… On the other hand, uranium is uranium….

Gerald’s a good lad though. He has the authentic Troon yen for space without being much of a chancer; besides, Psyche isn’t too far from the inner rim of the orbit — not nearly the approach problem Ceres is, for instance — what’s more, he’d done it several times before.

Well, he got into the Belt, and jockeyed and fiddled and niggled his way until he was about three hundred miles out from Psyche and getting ready to come in. Perhaps he’d got a bit careless by then; in any case he’d not be expecting to find anything in orbit around the asteroid. But that’s just what he did find — the hard way…

There was a crash which made the whole ship ring round him and his crew as if they were in an enormous bell. It’s about the nastiest — and very likely to be the last — sound a spaceman can ever hear. This time, however, their luck was in. They discovered that as they crowded to watch the indicator dials. Nothing vital had been hit.

Gerald turned over the controls to his First, and he and the engineer, Steve, pulled spacesuits out of the locker. When the airlock opened they hitched their safety-lines on the spring hooks, and slid their way aft along the hull on magnetic soles. It was soon clear that the damage was not on the airlock side, and they worked round the curve of the hull.

One thing was evident right away — that it had hit with no great force. If it had, it would have gone right through and out the other side, for the hold of a freighter is little more than a single-walled cylinder: there is no need for it to be more, it doesn’t have to conserve warmth, nor contain air, nor to resist the friction of an atmosphere, nor does it have to contend with any more gravitational pull than that of the moon; it is only in the living-quarters that there have to be the complexities necessary to sustain life.

Another, which was immediately clear, was that this was not the only misadventure that had befallen the small ship. Something had, at some time, sliced off most of its after part, carrying away not only the driving tubes but the mixing-chambers as well, and leaving it hopelessly disabled.

Shuffling round the wreckage to inspect it, Gerald found no entrance. It was thoroughly jammed into the hole it had made, and its airlock must lie forward, somewhere inside the freighter. He sent Steve back for a cutter and for a key that would get them into the hold. While he waited he spoke, through his helmet radio to the operator in the Celestis’s living-quarters, and explained the situation. He added:

“Can you raise the moon-station just now, Jake? I’d better make a report.”

“Strong and clear, Cap’n.”

“Good. Tell them to put me on to the Duty Officer, will you.”

He heard Jake open up and call. There was a pause while the waves crossed and recrossed the millions of miles between them, then a voice:

“Hullo Celestis! Hullo Celestis! Moon-station responding. Go ahead, Jake. Over I”

Gerald waited out the exchange patiently. In due course another voice spoke.

“Hullo Celestis! Moon-station Duty Officer speaking. Give your location and go ahead.”

“Hullo, Charles. This is Gerald Troon calling from Celestis now in orbit about Psyche. Approximately three-twenty miles altitude. I am notifying damage by collision. No harm to personnel. Not repeat not in danger. Damage appears to be confined to empty hold-section. Cause of damage…” He went on to give particulars, and concluded: “I am about to investigate. Will report further. Please keep the link open. Over!”

The engineer returned, floating a self-powered cutter with him on a short safety-cord, and holding the key which would screw back the bolts of the hold’s entrance-port. Gerald took the key, inserted it in the hole beside the door, and inserted his legs into the two staples that would give him the purchase to wind it.

The moon man’s voice came again.

“Hullo, Ticker. Understand no immediate danger. But don’t go taking any chances, boy. Can you identify the derelict?”

“Repeat no danger,” Troon told him. “Plumb lucky. If she’d hit six feet further forward we’d have had real trouble. I have now opened small door of the hold, and am going in to examine the forepart of the derelict. Will try to identify it.”

The cavernous darkness of the hold made it necessary for them to switch on their helmet lights. They could now see the front part Of the derelict; it took up about half the space there was. The ship had punched through the wall, turning back the tough alloy in curled petals, as though it had been tinplate. She had come to rest with her nose a bare couple of feet short of the opposite side. Steve pointed to a ragged hole, some five or six inches across, about halfway along the embedded section. It had a nasty significance that caused Gerald to nod somberly.

He shuffled to the ship, and on to its curving side. He found the airlock on the top, as it lay in the Celestis, and tried the winding key. He pulled it out again.

“Calling you, Charles,” he said. “No identifying marks on the derelict. She’s not space-built — that is, she could be used in atmosphere. Oldish pattern — well, must be — she’s pre the standardization of winding keys, so that takes us back a bit. Maximum external diameter, say, twelve feet Length unknown — can’t say how much after part there was before it was knocked off. She’s been holed forward, too. Looks like a small meteorite, about five inches. At speed, I’d say. Just a minute…Yes, clean through and out, with a pretty small exit hole. Can’t open the airlock without making a new key. Quicker to cut our way in. Over!”

He shuffled back, and played his light through the small meteor hole. His helmet prevented him getting his face close enough to see anything but a small part of the opposite wall, with a corresponding hole in it.

“Easiest way is to enlarge this, Steve,” he suggested.

The engineer nodded. He brought his cutter to bear, switched it on and began to carve from the edge of the hole.

“Not much good, Ticker,” came the voice from the moon. “The bit you gave could apply to any one of four ships.”

“Patience, dear Charles, while Steve does his bit of fancy-work with the cutter,” Troon told him.

It took twenty minutes to complete the cut through the double hull. Steve switched off, gave a tug with his left hand, and the joined, inner and outer, circles of metal floated away.

“Celestis calling moon. I am about to go into the derelict, Charles. Keep open.” Troon said.

He bent down, took hold of the sides of the cut, kicked his magnetic soles free of contact, and gave a light pull which took him floating head-first through the hole in the manner of an underwater swimmer. Presently his voice came again, with a different tone:

“I say, Charles, there are three men in here. All in spacesuits — old-time spacesuits. Two of them are belted on to their bunks. The other one is… Oh, his leg’s gone. The meteorite must have taken it off…. There’s a queer— Oh God, it’s his blood frozen into a solid ball…!”

After a minute or so he went on: “I’ve found the log. Can’t handle it in these gloves, though. I’ll take it aboard, and let you have particulars. The two fellows on the bunks seem to be quite intact — their suits, I mean. Their helmets have those curved strip-windows so I can’t see much of their faces. Must’ve— That’s odd…. Each of them has a sort of little book attached by a wire to the suit fastener. On the cover it has: ‘Danger — Perigroso’ in red, and underneath: ‘Do not remove suit — Read instructions within,’ repeated in Portuguese. Then: ‘Hapson Survival System.’ What would all that mean, Charles? Over!”

While he waited for the reply Gerald clumsily fingered one of the tag-like books and discovered that it opened concertina-wise, a series of small metal plates hinged together printed on one side in English and on the other in Portuguese. The first leaf carried little print, but what there was, was striking. It ran: “CAUTION! Do NOT open suit until you have read these instructions or you will KILL the wearer.”

When he had got that far the Duty Officer’s voice came in again: “Hullo, Ticker. I’ve called the Doc. He says do NOT, repeat NOT, touch the two men on any account. Hang on, he’s coming to talk to you. He says the Hapson System was scrapped over thirty years ago. He — oh, here he is….”

“Ticker? Laysall here. Charles tells me you’ve found a couple of Hapsons, undamaged. Please confirm and give circumstances.”

Troon did so. In due course the doctor came back:

“Okay. That sounds fine. Now listen carefully, Ticker. From what you say it’s practically certain those two are not dead — yet. They’re — well, they’re in cold storage. That part of the Hapson system was good. You’ll see a kind of boss mounted on the left of the chest. The thing to do in the case of extreme emergency was to slap it good and hard. When you do that it gives a multiple injection. Part of the stuff puts you out. Part of it prevents the building-up in the body of large ice crystals that would damage the tissues. Part of it — oh, well, that’ll do later. The point is that it works practically a hundred per cent. You get Nature’s own deep-freeze in Space. And if there’s something to keep off direct radiation from the sun you’ll stay like that until somebody finds you — if anyone ever does. Now I take it that these two have been in the dark in an airless ship which is now in the airless hold of your ship. Is that right?”

“That’s so, Doc. There are the two small meteorite holes, but they would not get direct beams from there.”

“Fine. Then keep ‘em just like that. Take care they don’t get warmed. Don’t try anything the instruction-sheet says. The point is that though the success of the Hapson freeze is almost sure, the resuscitation isn’t. In fact it’s very dodgy indeed — a poorer than twenty-five per cent chance at best. You get lethal crystal formations building up, for one thing. What I suggest is that you try to get ‘em back exactly as they are. Our apparatus here will give them the best chance they can have. Can you do that?”

Gerald Troon thought for a moment. Then he said:

“We don’t want to waste this trip — and that’s what’ll happen if we pull the derelict out of our side to leave a hole we can’t mend. But if we leave her where she is, plugging the hole, we can at least take on a half-load of ore. And if we pack that well in, it’ll help to wedge the derelict in place. So suppose we leave the derelict just as she lies, and the men, too, and seal her up to keep the ore out of her. Would that suit?”

“That should be as good as can be done,” the doctor replied. “But have a look at the two men before you leave them. Make sure they’re secure in their bunks. As long as they are kept in space conditions about the only thing likely to harm them is breaking loose under acceleration, and getting damaged.”

“Very well, that’s what we’ll do. Anyway, we won’t be using any high acceleration the way things are. The other poor fellow shall have a proper space-burial…”

An hour later both Gerald and his companion were back in the Celestis’s living-quarters, and the First Officer was starting to maneuver for the spiral-in to Psyche. The two got out of their spacesuits. Gerald pulled the derelict’s log from the outside pocket, and took it to his bunk. There he fastened the belt, and opened the book.

Five minutes later Steve looked across at him from the opposite bunk, with concern.

“Anything the matter, Cap’n? You’re looking a bit queer.”

“I’m feeling a bit queer, Steve…That chap we took out and consigned to space, he was Terence Rice, wasn’t he?”

“That’s what his disc said,” Steve agreed.

“H’m.” Gerald Troon paused. Then he tapped the book. “This,” he said, “is the log of the Astarte. She sailed from the moon-station third of January, 2149—forty-five years ago — bound for the Asteroid Belt. There was a crew of three: Captain George Montgomery Troon, engineer Luis Gompez, radio-man Terence Rice____

“So, as the unlucky one was Terence Rice, it follows that one of those two back there must be Gompez, and the other — well, he must be George Montgomery Troon, the one who made the Venus landing in 2144… and, incidentally, my grandfather….”

“Well,” said my companion, “they got them back all right. Gompez was unlucky, though — at least I suppose you’d call it unlucky — anyway, he didn’t come through the resuscitation. George did, of course….

“But there’s more to resuscitation than mere revival. There’s a degree of physical shock in any case, and when you’ve been under as long as he had there’s plenty of mental shock, too.

“He went under, a youngish man with a young family; he woke up to find himself a great-grandfather; his wife a very old lady who had remarried; his friends gone, or elderly; his two companions in the Astarte, dead.

‘That was bad enough, but worse still was that he knew all about the Hapson System. He knew that when you go into a deep-freeze the whole metabolism comes quickly to a complete stop. You are, by every known definition and test, dead…. Corruption cannot set in, of course, but every vital process has stopped; every single feature which we regard as evidence of life has ceased to exist….

“So you are dead….

“So if you believe, as George does, that your psyche, your soul, has independent existence, then it must have left your body when you died.

“And how do you get it back? That’s what George wants to know — what he keeps searching for. That’s why he’s over there now, praying to be told____”

I leaned back in my chair, looking across the Place at the dark opening of the church door.

“You mean to say that that young man, that George who was here just now, is the very same George Montgomery Troon who made the first landing on Venus, half a century ago?” I said.

“He’s the man,” he affirmed.

I shook my head, not for disbelief, but for George’s sake.

“What will happen to him?” I asked.

“God knows,” said my neighbor. “He is getting better; he’s less distressed than he was. And now he’s beginning to show touches of the real Troon obsession to get into space again.

“But what then?… You can’t ship a Troon as crew. And you can’t have a Captain who might take it into his head to go hunting through Space for his soul….”

This short sad story of the last days of Argo III — as lost a soul as ever lifted jets — is included (along with some happier interludes in the Emperor’s early life) in Mr. Russell’s collection, Sardonicus and Other Stories (Ballantine, 1961). The author, who was executive editor of Playboy for most of its first seven years, has now turned full-time writer. Besides the short-story collection, and the movie of the same name, he has recently published a novel. The Case Against Satan (Obolensky, 1962).

The once young Argo III — now gnarled by age and debauchery — was on the run. After a lifetime of atrocities, all committed in the names of Humanity, Freedom, Fair Play, The Will Of The Majority, Our Way Of Life, and The Preservation Of Civilization As We Know It, an aroused populace led by his son, Argo IV, was out gunning for him. He raced from asteroid to asteroid, but his enemies followed close behind. He tried elaborate disguises and plastic surgery, but the infra-violet, ultra-red dimension-warp contact lenses of his son’s agents saw through all facades. He grew so weary that once he almost gave himself up — but he blanched at the thought of what he had made the official and now sacred mode of execution: a seven day death in the grip of the Black Elixir.

Now, his space ship irretrievably wrecked, he was crawling through the dark on the frozen gray sands of Asteroid Zero — so named by him because it was uninhabited, had no precious metals, and was even unvegetated because sunless through being in the eternal shadow of giant Jupiter. Argo’s destination, as he crawled, was the cave of The Last Wizard. All other wizards had been wiped out in Argo’s Holy Campaign Against Sorcery, but it was rumored one wizard had escaped to Zero. Argo silently prayed the rumor was true and The Last Wizard still alive.

He was: revoltingly old, sick, naked, sunken in squalor, alive only through sorcery — but alive. “Oh, it’s you,” were the words with which he greeted Argo. “I can’t say I’m surprised. You need my help, eh?”

“Yes, yes!” croaked Argo. “Conjure for me a disguise they cannot penetrate I I entreat, I implore you!”

“What kind of disguise might that be?” cackled The Last Wizard.

“I know for a fact,” said Argo, “because wizards have confessed it under torture, that all human beings are weres — that the proper incantation can transform a man into a werewolf, a weredog, a werebird, whatever were-creature may be locked within his cellular structure. As such a creature, I can escape undetected!”

“That is indeed true,” said The Last Wizard. “But suppose you become a werebug, which could be crushed underfoot? Or a werefish, which would flip and flop in death throes on the floor of this cave?”

“Even such a death,” shuddered Argo, “would be better than a legal execution.”

“Very well,” shrugged The Last Wizard. He waved his hand in a theatrical gesture and spoke a thorny word.

That was in July of 2904. A hundred years later, in July of 3004, Argo was still alive on Zero. He could not, with accuracy, be described as happy, however. In fact, he now yearns for and dreams hopelessly of the pleasures of a death under the Black Elixir. Argo had become that rare creature, a werevampire. A vampire’s only diet is blood, and when the veins of The Last Wizard had been drained, that was the end of the supply. Hunger and thirst raged within Argo. They are raging still, a trillionfold more intense, for vampires are immortal. They can be killed by a wooden stake through the heart, but Zero is unvegetated and has no trees. They can be killed by a silver bullet, but Zero can boast no precious metals. They can be killed by the rays of the sun, but because of Jupiter’s shadow, Zero never sees the sun. For this latter reason, Argo is plagued by an additional annoyance: vampires sleep only during the day, and there is no day on Zero.

Mrs. Kumin has published one book of poetry (Halfway, Holt, 1961), and several children’s books. She is an instructor in English at Tufts University, currently on leave to study on a Radcliffe grant.

For some years now, those of us working in what even we still quaintly call “the science-fiction field” have been increasingly aware of the floating-island nature of that “field.” And if it seemed at times that we were simply drifting out to sea, it is now becoming sharply evident that the direction of drift, all along, was into the “mainstream.” The specialized cult of science fiction (for which many of us still, and I expect will, feel a lingering nostalgia) is rapidly disappearing, as the essential quality is absorbed into the main body of literature.

More properly, I should say, reabsorbed. S-f had its beginnings in mainstream writing. The literary-sociological analysis of the compartmentalizing of this kind of fiction during the first half of the twentieth century will undoubtedly provide scholastic adventure for innumerable future thesis-writers. For those of us actively interested in the (flooded) field at the present time, it is enough to understand that the reabsorption has not been one-sided. For any prodigal to effect his return, it is necessary not only that the parent body be prepared to offer welcome, but that the wanderer has found cause to come home.

These causes have been varied and complex, ridiculous and sublime: they have included such things as the influence of “the syndicate” on magazine distribution, the International Geophysical Year, Kingsley Amis’ book of lectures and Willy Ley’s lectures on books. (The rest of the list I leave to those scholars of tomorrow.) But whatever the causes, the results are obvious.

At the beginning of 1956, when the First Annual of this series was being readied for the press, I counted thirteen science-fiction magazines in this country, and four more in England. (Most of them were quarterlies or bimonthlies; it averaged out to about ten altogether each month.) That first annual contained, proudly, three (out of eighteen) stories from sources outside the specialty magazines; the Honorable Mentions listed seven more. And the Summation pointed with a sort of ghetto pride to the fact that thirty or forty of Our Kind of Stories had crossed the line in ‘55, and found respectable lodging in literary and “slick” magazines.

This year, sixteen of the thirty fiction and verse selections are from general fiction magazines, or books. There are five s-f magazines published here, and two in England — five-and a half a month average, with the three bimonthlies.

In ‘56, I was able to include three “name” writers from outside the specialty field. This year, there are only thirteen stories by writers known in the field. Most striking is the number of writers from non-fiction fields who have made their first story efforts in s-f; most gratifying is the growing number of serious young writers who are devoting themselves equally to s-f and “quality” media.

This is the internal evidence. From outside come such items as the previously mentioned seminar of the Modern Language Association (or the word from my scout in Sausalito that s-f is the top seller in the beatniks’ favorite bookstore). There is The Twilight Zone on TV, which no one (except us Old School Ties) thinks of as s-f. There is The Saturday Evening Post, printing without special comment an average of one fantasy or s-f story per issue….

Which brings up a point. The welcome offered to s-f is warm, as only a homecoming can be. But by the same token, the critics, editors, reviewers, publishers, who are uncle and aunt, elder brother, sister, and cousins, who all stayed correctly at home while we went wandering in lurid pulp-paper lands, are not prepared to meet us on the grounds of our own choosing — and certainly not to recognize us by the identity we assumed “outside.”

Thus, much of the best science fiction published today is under wrappers and headings that either angrily disclaim the “science-fiction” label, or ignore it completely. As for the broader field defined in this book as “S-F,” the most special labeling it’s likely to get is “unusual” or “offbeat.”

The cult is dead, or at the least, moribund. But one may hope it has infused new life into the culture.

I should like to take this opportunity to extend my thanks to a few of the people whose assistance becomes more and more necessary, as the source material spreads itself thin. For suggestions or submissions of material, my thanks to Madeline Tracy Brigden, of Mademoiselle; to Anthony Boucher; to Laura Cohen; and to Willard Marsh. For help in obtaining permission for stories, and in assembling the final manuscript, to Robert Mills, Frederik Pohl, Joseph Ferman, Mrs. Brigden, my family, and — far beyond the call of duty— S & S editrix, Barbara Norville. And for opinions on the selections, my especial gratitude to Virginia Blish.

Judith Merril

Milford, 1962

I have been trying for some time to understand why I, as a reviewer, am so much more resentful of uninspired routine books in science fiction than I am of similar publications in the mystery-suspense field. And I think I am beginning to see the reason.

To be sure, the current publishing standards are even lower for s-f-in-book-form than they are for mysteries. The very crudest sex-and-sadism private-eye paperbacks have a certain professional competence in keeping a story moving that is rare at any level of today’s s-f; and the suspense field is certain to provide at least one intelligent, literate, original, creative novel in a week’s reviewing load, while the s-f reviewer is lucky if he finds one over a span of months.

But why do I simply shrug and stop reading if a whodunit turns out to be weary and derivative, while I feel acutely embittered when I find the same qualities in s-f?

I see now that it is because s-f is a form which, more than almost any other, by its very nature demands creative originality. The detective story and even the more modern psychological crime novel are — like the western, the love story, the historical romance — fixed forms, in which the creative challenge lies largely in seeing what the author can do within established boundaries. S-f is — or perhaps better, should and must be a literature of stimulus and fresh horizons.

Put it this way: You are not going to complain if a large number of sonnets sound, superficially, a good deal alike; you are fascinated by what each poet manages to do within the sonnet. But if all the free verse you read, from countless divers hands, sounds pretty much the same, you are justified in thinking that poetry is in a hell of a state.

A conventional, competent, uninspired murder novel or western is a perfectly reasonable commercial commodity. Conventional, competent, uninspired s-f has no reason for existing.

This is putting the case politely. As a matter of honest fact, most of 1961’s s-f novels were conventional, uninspired… and incompetent. There were more novels in the field than in any previous year save one (1959); over half of them came from two publishers whose sole criterion of a novel seems to be a length of 50,000 words or less.

Among these many novels were at least a half dozen examples of what might be called the un-novel, composed of, say, two short stories, a novelette and a novella assembled from various magazines and presented as a novel. The practice is more advantageous to authors than to readers, though at its best it can result in, if not a novel, at least a memorable collection of stories, like Zenna Henderson’s Pilgrimage, which presents at last in permanent form the chronicle of those interstellar castaways, the People.

The year 1961 was not totally devoid of good s-f novels. At least two were genuine Golden Age stuff — stimulating thought fleshed in good fiction. A Fall of Moondust showed that Arthur C. Clarke, now writing mostly non-fiction, is still uniquely the master of immediate day-after-tomorrow realism; and Daniel F. Galouye’s Dark Universe brought off a virtuoso technical trick in writing plausibly of a culture which knew nothing of the sense of sight. Poul Anderson’s Three Hearts and Three Lions, skillfully expanded from its 1953 magazine version, was a splendidly enjoyable fantasy-romance, in the tradition of Tolkien or T. H. White, with a gimmick or two that might possibly justify its publication as science fiction. Fritz Leiber’s The Big Time, Andre Norton’s Star Hunter, Brian Aldiss’ The Primal Urge and especially John Wyndham’s Trouble with Lichen had their welcome distinctions.

Philip José Farmer’s The Lovers, sensationally controversial when it appeared in Startling a decade ago, proved somewhat disappointing in its long-awaited book form, largely because Farmer has, in the interval, done even better jobs of handling such provocative xeno-sexual-symbolic material. But the year’s major disappointment was Robert A. Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, in which Heinlein regrettably abandoned storytelling for sermonizing.

Particularly notable among books of short stories were Poul Anderson’s Strangers from Earth, for the high quality of these hitherto unreprinted stories from Anderson’s early days; Fredric Brown’s Nightmares and Geezenstacks, for the technical brilliance of its under-1,000-words vignettes; and Mildred Clingerman’s A Cupful of Space, the first book by s-f’s glowing prophetess of warmth and love. But these— like other good collections by Fritz Leiber, Richard Mathe-son and Kurt Vonnegut Jr. — were composed chiefly of stories published in magazines a number of years ago; the year’s anthologies of brand-new short material reflected s-f’s contemporary state of weariness.

A major event in non-scientific fantasy was the rediscovery, for the English-speaking, of Nikolai Leskov (1831–1895), whose Selected Tales, newly translated by David Magarshack, include the novel The Enchanted Wanderer, as rich in inventive incident, at once as intensely Russian and as broadly human as a mob scene by Mussorgsky.

Fantasy anthologies notable for their intelligent patterning include Things with Claws, by Whit and Hallie Burnett, on the intimate and perilous relation of man and beast; Tales of Love and Horror, by Don Congdon, on the even more intimate and perilous relation of man and woman; and The Unexpected, by Leo Margulies, an interesting archeological dig in the era between the death of Unknown Worlds and the birth of F & S F, when Weird Tales was the only magazine market for fantasy.

Abbreviations:

Amz Amazing Stories

ASF Analog Science Fact & Fiction

Aud Audit

Dude The Dude

Fant Fantastic Stories

F&SF Fantasy and Science Fiction

Gal Galaxy Science Fiction

Gent Gent

If If Science Fiction

LHJ The Ladies’ Home Journal

McC McCall’s

Metr Metronome

Mlle Mademoiselle

MN New Worlds (British)

Plby Playboy

Rog Rogue

SEP The Saturday Evening Post

SciF Science Fantasy (British)

Vog Vogue

“ACOS” A Cupful of Space, Mildred Clingerman (Ballantine, 1961)

“COTM” Call Out the Malicia, John Anthony West (Dutton, 1961)

“F&SF:11” The Best from Fantasy and Science Fiction: Eleventh Series, ed. Robert P. Mills (Doubleday, 1961)

“Sard” Sardonicus and Other Stories, Ray Russell (Ballantine, 1961)

“SCTH” So Close to Home, James Blish (Ballantine, 1961)

“TIM” The Infinite Moment, John Wyndham (Ballantine, 1961)

* * * *

vance aandahl “Cogi Drove His Car Through Hell,” F&SF, Aug.

george sumner albee “Baby Was One,” McC, Apr.

Brian w. aldiss “Hothouse,” F&SF, Feb.

-----, “Moon of Delight,” NW, Mar.

poul Anderson “Hiding Place,” ASF, Mar.

-----, “Night Piece,” F&SF, Jul.

Christopher anvil “Identification,” ASF, May

-----, “No Small Enemy,” ASF, Nov.

russell a. apple “Astronaut Aweigh,” LHJ, Jan.

isaac asimov “Playboy and the Slime God,” Amz, Mar.

J. g. ballard “Deep End,” NW, May.

alan Barclay “Haircrack,” WW, May

-----, “The Scapegoat,” NW, Apr.

Charles beaumont “Blood Brother,” Plby, Apr.

thomas berger “Professor Hyde,” Plby, Dec.

john berry “The One Who Returns,” F&SF, Mar.

lloyd biggle, jr. “Monument,” ASF, Jun.

charles minor blackford “The Valley of the Masters,” If, Sep.

james blish “A Dusk of Idols,” Amz, Mar.

-----, “The Abattoir Effect,” “SCTH.”

robert bloch “Crime Machine,” Gal, Oct.

-----, “Philtre-Tip,” Rog, Mar.

neal brooks “The Peacemaker,” Rog, Oct.

rosel george brown “The Ultimate Sin,” F&SF, Oct.

john brunner “The Analysts,” SciF, Aug.

algis budrys “Wall of Crystal, Eye of Night,” Gal, Dec.

Walter bupp “Card Trick,” ASF, Jan.

OTIS KIDwell burger “The Zookeeper,” F&SF, Jul.

harold calin “A Time to Die,” Amz, Jun.

Arthur c. clarke “At the End of the Orbit,” If, Nov.

-----, “Before Eden,” Amz, Jun.

-----, “Death and the Senator,” ASF, May.

mildred clemgerman “A Red Heart and Blue Roses,”

-----, “The Gay Deceiver,” “ACOS.”

avram davidson “The Sources of the Nile,” F&SF, Jan.

Kathleen davttt “ ‘Come on in, Mrs. Farrick!’,” Mile, Aug.

miriam allen deford “The Cage,” F&SF, Jun.

cordon dickson “An Honorable Death,” Gal, Feb.

-----, “Rehabilitated,” F&SF, Jan.

-----, “The Haunted Village,” F&SF, Aug.

Jeremy dole “The Year the Yankees Won the Pennant,” Plby, Oct.

william eastlake “What Nice Hands Held,” F&SF, Jan.

harlan ellison & joe l. hensley “Do-It-Yourself,” Rog, Feb.

david ely “The Last Friday in August,” Fant, Dec.

carol emshwILLER “Adapted,” F&SF, May.

jack finney “Where the Cluetts Are,” McC, Jan.

daniel f. galouye “Spawn of Doom,” Fant, Dec.

james garrett “Gentlemen Be Sated,” Dude, Jan.

randall garrett “The Highest Treason,” ASF, Jan.

Herbert gold “The Day They Got Boston,” Metr, Jan.

david cordon “The Foreign Hand-Tie,”ASF, Dec.

henry hasse “The Beginning,” Amz, May.

zenna Henderson “Return,” F&SF, Mar.

frank Herbert “Try to Remember!” Ami, Oct.

philip e. high “Fallen Angel,” ASF, Jun.

-----, “Survival Course,” NW, Dec.

gary jennings “Buy Now, Die Later,” Gent, Aug.

teddy keller “The Plague,” ASF, Feb.

john kippax. “Blood Offering,” SciF, Jun.

Herbert kubly “ ‘They Think I’m Mad,’ Said the Marquise,” Fog, Sep. 15.

r. a. lafferty “Rainbird,” Gal, Dec.

george langelaan “Cold Blood,” NW, Oct.

keith laumer “The King of the City,” Gal, Aug.

fritz leiber “Scylla’s Daughter,” Fant, May.

Murray leinster “Doctor,” Gal, Feb.

art lewis “Vassi,” If, Jan.

willard marsh “My Cosmic Valentine,” Aud, Jan.

Arthur mayse “The Haunted Dancers,” SEP, Jul. 8.

winona mcclintoc “Four Days in the Comer,” F&SF, Sep.

fred mc morrow “The Big Wheel,” SEP, Jul. 29.

robert murphy “The Phantom Setter,” SEP, Jun. 17.

nils t. peterson “Pecking Order,” F&SF, Sep.

frederik pohl & c. m. kornbluth “The World of Myrion Flowers,” F&SF, Oct.

aRthur forces “One Bad Habit,” Fant, Jun.

tom purdom “The Green Beret,” ASF, Jan.

kit reed “Piggy,” F&SF, Aug.

john REESE “The Cat That Vanished,” SEP, Mar. 4.

mack Reynolds “Black Man’s Burden,” ASF, Dec.

-----, “Farmer,” Gal, Jun.

leigh Richmond “Prologue to an Analogue,” ASF, Jun.

david rome “Time of Arrival,” NW, Apr.

ray russell “Sardonicus,” “Sard.”

fred saberhagen “Seven Doors to Education,” If, May.

Margaret ST. clair “Lochinvar,” Gal, Aug.

william sambrot “The Cathedral of Mars,” SEP, Jun. 24.

jack sharkey “No Harm Done,” Fant, Jul.

robert silverberg “Company Store,” NW, Aug.

Clifford d. simak “Horrible Example,” ASF, Mar.

cordwainer smith “Alpha Ralpha Boulevard,” F&SF, Jun.

d. d. stewart “Junior Partner,” NW, Jul.

Theodore sturgeon “Tandy’s Story,” Gal, Apr.

Joseph tinker “Tinker’s Dam,” ASF, Jul.

jack vance “I–C-a-BeM,” Amz, Oct.

kurt vonnegut, jr. “Harrison Bergeron,” Fi&F, Oct.

edward wellen “IOU,” If, Mar.

john anthony west “George,”

-----, “The Fiesta at Managuay,” “COTM.”

george whitley “Change of Heart,” NW, Sep.

will worthington “The Food Goes in the Top,” SciF, Aug.

john wyndham “How Do I Do?” “TIM.”