PukeOnABook

https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html STARMAN JONES by Robert A. Heinlein. Copyright 1953 by Robert A. Heinlein. Published by Ballantine Books All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. This edition published by arrangement with Charles Scribner’s Sons First Ballantine Books Edition: February 1975 ISBN 0-345-32811-6 For my friend Jim Smith Reformatted for Machine Text, PukeOnaPlate MMXXIII CONTENTS 1. The Tomahawk 2. Good Samaritan 3. Earthport 4. The Astrogators’ Guild 5. “… Your Money and My Know-How …” 6. “Spaceman” Jones 7. Eldreth 8. Three Ways to Get Ahead 9. Chartsman Jones 10. Garson’s Planet 11. “Through the Cargo Hatch” 12. Halcyon 13. Transition 14. Anywhere 15. “This Isn’t a Picnic” 16. “, Over a Hundred Years, ” 17. Charity 18. Civilization 19. A Friend in Need 20. “, A Ship Is Not Just Steel, ” 21. The Captain of the Asgard 22. The Tomahawk STARMAN JONES. Copyright 1953 by Robert Heinlein. One. THE TOMAHAWK. Max liked this time of day, this time of year. With the crops in, he could finish his evening chores early and be lazy. When he had slopped the hogs and fed the chickens, instead of getting supper he followed a path to a rise west of the barn and lay down in the grass, unmindful of chiggers. He had a book with him that he had drawn from the county library last Saturday, Bonforte’s Sky Beasts: A Guide to Exotic Zoology, but he tucked it under his head as a pillow. A blue jay made remarks about his honesty, then shut up when he failed to move. A red squirrel sat on a stump and stared at him, then went on burying nuts. Max kept his eyes to the northwest. He favored this spot because from it he could see the steel stilts and guide rings of the Chicago, Springfield, and Earthport Ring Road emerge from a slash in the ridge to his right. There was a guide ring at the mouth of the cut, a great steel hoop twenty feet high. A pair of stilt-like tripods supported another ring a hundred feet out from the cut. A third and last ring, its stilts more than a hundred feet high to keep it level with the others, lay west of him where the ground dropped still more sharply into the valley below. Half way up it he could see the powerlink antenna pointing across the gap. On his left the guides of the C S and E picked up again on the far side of the gap. The entering ring was larger to allow for maximum windage deviation; on its stilts was the receptor antenna for the power link. That ridge was steeper; there was only one more ring before the road disappeared into a tunnel. He had read that, on the Moon, entrance rings were no larger than pass-along rings, since there was never any wind to cause variation in ballistic. When he was a child this entrance ring had been slightly smaller and, during an unprecedented windstorm, a train had struck the ring and produced an unbelievable wreck, with more than four hundred people killed. He had not seen it and his father had not allowed him to poke around afterwards because of the carnage, but the scar of it could still be seen on the lefthand ridge, a darker green than the rest. He watched the trains go by whenever possible, not wishing the passengers any bad luck, but still, if there should happen to be a catastrophe, he didn’t want to miss it. Max kept his eyes fixed on the cut; the Tomahawk was due any instant. Suddenly there was a silver gleam, a shining cylinder with needle nose burst out of the cut, flashed through the last ring and for a breathless moment was in free trajectory between the ridges. Almost before he could swing his eyes the projectile entered the ring across the gap and disappeared into the hillside, just as the sound hit him. It was a thunderclap that bounced around the hills. Max gasped for air. “Boy!” he said softly. “Boy, oh boy!” The incredible sight and the impact on his ears always affected him the same way. He had heard that for the passengers the train was silent, with the sound trailing them, but he did not know; he had never ridden a train and it seemed unlikely, with Maw and the farm to take care of, that he ever would. He shifted to a sitting position and opened his book, holding it so that he would be aware of the southwestern sky. Seven minutes after the passing of the Tomahawk he should be able to see, on a clear evening, the launching orbit of the daily Moonship. Although much father away and much less dramatic than the nearby jump of the ring train it was this that he had come to see. Ring trains were all right, but spaceships were his love, even a dinky like the moon shuttle. But he had just found his place, a description of the intelligent but phlegmatic crustaceans of Epsilon Ceti Four, when he was interrupted by a call behind him. “Oh, Maxie! Maximilian! Max, mi, yan!” He held still and said nothing. “Max! I can see you, Max, you come at once, hear me?” He muttered to himself and got to his feet. He moved slowly down the path, watching the sky over his shoulder until the barn cut off his view. Maw, was back and that was that, she’d make his life miserable if he didn’t come in and help. When she had left that morning he had had the impression that she would be gone overnight, not that she had said so; she never did, but he had learned to read the signs. Now he would have to listen to her complaints and her petty gossip when he wanted to read, or just as bad, be disturbed by the slobbering stereovision serials she favored. He had often been tempted to sabotage the pesky SV set, by rights with an ax! He hardly ever got to see the programs he liked. When he got in sight of the house he stopped suddenly. He had supposed that Maw had ridden the bus from the Corners and walked up the draw, as usual. But there was a sporty little unicycle standing near the stoop, and there was someone with her. He had thought at first it was a “foreigner”, but when he got closer he recognized the man. Max would rather have seen a foreigner, any foreigner. Biff Montgomery was a Hillman but he didn’t work a farm; Max couldn’t remember having seen him do any honest work. He had heard it said that Montgomery sometimes hired out as a guard when one of the moonshine stills back in the hills was operating and it might be so, Montgomery was a big, beefy man and the part might fit him. Max had known Montgomery as long as he could remember, seen him loafing around Clyde’s Corners. But he had ordinarily given him “wagon room” and had had nothing to do with him, until lately: Maw had started being seen with him, even gone to barn dances and huskings with him. Max had tried to tell her that Dad wouldn’t have liked it. But you couldn’t argue with Maw, what she didn’t like she just didn’t hear. But this was the first time she had ever brought him to the house. Max felt a slow burn of anger starting in him. “Hurry up, Maxie!” Maw called out. “Don’t stand there like a dummy.” Max reluctantly moved along and joined them. Maw said, “Maxie, shake hands with your new father,” then looked roguish, as if she had said something witty. Max stared and his mouth sagged open. Montgomery grinned and stuck out a hand. “Yep, Max, you’re Max Montgomery now, I’m your new pop. But you can call me Monty.” Max stared at the hand, took it briefly. “My name is Jones,” he said flatly. “Maxie!” protested Maw. Montgomery laughed jovially. “Don’t rush him, Nellie my love. Let Max get used to it. Live and let live; that’s my motto.” He turned to his wife. “Half a mo’, while I get the baggage.” From one saddlebag of the unicycle he extracted a wad of mussed clothing; from the other, two flat pint bottles. Seeing Max watching him he winked and said, “A toast for the bride.” His bride was standing by the door; he started to brush on past her. She protested, “But Monty darling, aren’t you going to.” Montgomery stopped. “Oh. I haven’t much experience in these things. Sure.” He turned to Max,” Here, take the baggage”, and shoved bottles and clothes at him. Then he swung her up in his arms, grunting a bit, and carried her over the threshold, put her down and kissed her while she squealed and blushed. Max silently followed them, put the items on the table and turned to the stove. It was cold, he had not used it since breakfast. There was an electric range but it had burned out before his father had died and there had never been money to repair it. He took out his pocket knife, made shavings, added kindling and touched the heap with an Everlite. When it flared up he went out to fetch a pail of water. When he came back Montgomery said, “Wondered where you’d gone. Doesn’t this dump even have running water?” “No,” Max set the pail down, then added a couple of chunks of cord wood to the fire. His Maw said, “Maxie, you should have had dinner ready.” Montgomery interceded pleasantly with, “Now, my dear, he didn’t know we were coming. And it leaves time for a toast.” Max kept his back to them, giving his full attention to slicing side meat. The change was so overwhelming that he had not had time to take it in. Montgomery called to him. “Here, son! Drink your toast to the bride.” “I’ve got to get supper.” “Nonsense! Here’s your glass. Hurry up.” Montgomery had poured a finger of amber liquid into the glass; his own glass was half full and that of his bride at least a third. Max accepted it and went to the pail, thinned it with a dipper of water. “You’ll ruin it.” “I’m not used to it.” “Oh, well. Here’s to the blushing bride, and our happy family! Bottoms up!” Max took a cautious sip and put it down. It tasted to him like the bitter tonic the district nurse had given him one spring. He turned back to his work, only to be interrupted again. “Hey, you didn’t finish it.” “Look, I got to cook. You don’t want me to burn supper, do you?” Montgomery shrugged. “Oh, well, the more for the rest of us. We’ll use yours for a chaser. Sonny boy, when I was your age I could empty a tumbler neat and then stand on my hands.” Max had intended to sup on side meat and warmed-over biscuits, but there was only half a pan left of the biscuits. He scrambled eggs in the grease of the side meat, brewed coffee, and let it go at that. When they sat down Montgomery looked at it and announced, “My dear, starting tomorrow I’ll expect you to live up to what you told me about your cooking. Your boy isn’t much of a cook.” Nevertheless he ate heartily. Max decided not to tell him that he was a better cook than Maw, he’d find out soon enough. Presently Montgomery sat back and wiped his mouth, then poured himself more coffee and lighted a cigar. Maw said, “Maxie, dear, what’s the dessert?” “Dessert? Well, there’s that ice cream in the freezer, left over from Solar Union Day.” She looked vexed. “Oh, dear! I’m afraid it’s not there.” “Huh?” “Well, I’m afraid I sort of ate it one afternoon when you were out in the south field. It was an awfully hot day.” Max did not say anything, he was unsurprised. But she was not content to leave it. “You didn’t fix any dessert, Max? But this is a special occasion.” Montgomery took his cigar out of his mouth. “Stow it, my dear,” he said kindly. “I’m not much for sweets, I’m a meat-and-potatoes man, sticks to the ribs. Let’s talk of pleasanter things.” He turned to Max. “Max, what can you do besides farm?” Max was startled. “Huh? I’ve never done anything else. Why?” Montgomery touched the ash of the cigar to his plate. “Because you are all through farming.” For the second time in two hours Max had more change than he could grasp. “Why? What do you mean?” “Because we’ve sold the farm.” Max felt as if he had had a rug jerked out from under him. But he could tell from Maw’s face that it was true. She looked the way she always did when she had put one over on him, triumphant and slightly apprehensive. “Dad wouldn’t like that,” he said to her harshly. “This land has been in our family for four hundred years.” “Now, Maxie! I’ve told you I don’t know how many times that I wasn’t cut out for a farm. I was city raised.” “Clyde’s Corners! Some city!” “It wasn’t a farm. And I was just a young girl when your father brought me here, you were already a big boy. I’ve still got my life before me. I can’t live it buried on a farm.” Max raised his voice. “But you promised Dad you’d.” “Stow it,” Montgomery said firmly. “And keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to your mother, and to me.” Max shut up. “The land is sold and that’s that. How much do you figure this parcel is worth?” “Why, I’ve never thought about it.” “Whatever you thought, I got more.” He gave Max a wink. “Yes, sir! It was a lucky day for your mother and you when she set her cap for me. I’m a man with his ear to the ground. I knew why an agent was around buying up these worn-out, worthless pieces of property. I.” “I use government fertilizers.” “Worthless I said and worthless I meant. For farming, that is.” He put his finger along his nose, looked sly, and explained. It seemed that some big government power project was afoot for which this area had been selected, Montgomery was mysterious about it, from which Max concluded that he didn’t know very much. A syndicate was quietly buying up land in anticipation of government purchase. “So we held ‘em up for five times what they expected to pay. Pretty good, huh?” Maw put in, “You see, Maxie? If your father had known that we would ever get.” “Quiet, Nellie!” “But I was just going to tell him how much.” “‘Quiet!’ I said.” She shut up. Montgomery pushed his chair back, stuck his cigar in his mouth, and got up. Max put water on to heat for the dishes, scraped the plates and took the leavings out to the chickens. He stayed out quite a spell, looking at the stars and trying to think. The idea of having Biff Montgomery in the family shook him to his bones. He wondered just what rights a stepfather had, or, rather a step-stepfather, a man who had married his stepmother. He didn’t know. Presently he decided that he had to go back inside, much as he hated to. He found Montgomery standing at the bookshelf he had built over the stereo receiver; the man was pawing at the books and had piled several on the receiver. He looked around. “You back? Stick around, I want you to tell me about the live stock.” Maw appeared in the doorway. “Darling,” she said to Montgomery, “can’t that wait till morning?” “Don’t be in a hurry, my dear,” he answered. “That auctioneer fellow will be here early. I’ve got to have the inventory ready.” He continued to pull books down. “Say, these are pretty things.” He held in his hands half a dozen volumes, printed on the finest of thin paper and bound in limp plastic. “I wonder what they’re worth? Nellie, hand me my specs.” Max advanced hastily, reached for them. “Those are mine!” “Huh?” Montgomery glanced at him, then held the books high in the air. “You’re too young to own anything. No, everything goes. A clean sweep and a fresh start.” “They’re mine! My uncle gave them to me.” He appealed to his mother. “Tell him, Maw.” Montgomery said quietly, “Yes, Nellie, set this youngster straight, before I have to correct him.” Nellie looked worried. “Well, I don’t rightly know. They did belong to Chet.” “And Chet was your brother? Then you’re Chet’s heir, not this young cub.” “He wasn’t her brother, he was her brother-in-law!” “So? No matter. Your father was your uncle’s heir, then, and your mother is your father’s heir. Not you, you’re a minor. That’s the law, son. Sorry.” He put the books on the shelf but remained standing in front of them. Max felt his right upper lip begin to twitch uncontrollably; he knew that he would not be able to talk coherently. His eyes filled with tears of rage so that he could hardly see. “You, you, thief!” Nellie let out a squawk. “Max!” Montgomery’s face became coldly malignant. “Now you’ve gone too far. I’m afraid you’ve earned a taste of the strap.” His fingers started unbuckling his heavy belt. Max took a step backward. Montgomery got the belt loose and took a step forward. Nellie squealed, “Monty! Please!” “Keep out of this, Nellie.” To Max he said, “We might as well get it settled once and for all who is boss around here. Apologize!” Max did not answer. Montgomery repeated, “Apologize, and we’ll say no more about it.” He twitched the belt like a cat lashing its tail. Max took another step back; Montgomery stepped forward and grabbed at him. Max ducked and ran out the open door into darkness. He did not stop until he was sure that Montgomery was not following. Then he caught his breath, still raging. He was almost sorry that Montgomery had not chased him; he didn’t think that anyone could match him on his home grounds in the dark. He knew where the wood pile was; Montgomery didn’t. He knew where the hog wallow was. Yes, he knew where the well was, even that. It was a long time before he quieted down enough to think rationally. When he did, he was glad it had ended so easily, Montgomery outweighed him a lot and was reputed to be a mean one in a fight. If it had ended, he corrected. He wondered if Montgomery would decide to forget it by morning. The light was still on in the living room; he took shelter in the barn and waited, sitting down on the dirt floor and leaning against the planks. After a while he felt terribly tired. He considered sleeping in the barn but there was no fit place to lie down, even though the old mule was dead. Instead he got up and looked at the house. The light was out in the living room, but he could see a light in the bedroom; they were still awake, surely. Someone had closed the outer door after his flight; it did not lock so there was no difficulty getting in, but he was afraid that Montgomery might hear him. His own room was a shed added at the kitchen end of the main room, opposite the bedroom, but it had no outside door. No matter, he had solved that problem when he had first grown old enough to wish to get in and out at night without consulting his elders. He crept around the house, found the saw horse, placed it under his window, got on and wiggled loose the nail that held the window. A moment later he stepped silently down into his own room. The door to the main part of the house was closed but he decided not to risk switching on the light. Montgomery might take it into his head to come out into the living room and see a crack of light under his door. He slipped quietly out of his clothes and crawled into his cot. Sleep wouldn’t come. Once he began to feel that warm drowsiness, then some tiny noise had brought him wide, stiff awake. Probably just a mouse, but for an instant he had thought that Montgomery was standing over his bed. With his heart pounding, he sat up on the edge of his cot, still in his skin. Presently he faced up to the problem of what he was to do, not just for the next hour, not just tomorrow morning, but the following morning and all the mornings after that. Montgomery alone presented no problem; he would not voluntarily stay in the same county with the man. But how about Maw? His father had told him, when he had known that he was dying, “Take care of your mother, son.” Well, he had done so. He had made a crop every year, food in the house and a little money, even if things had been close. When the mule died, he had made do, borrowing McAllister’s team and working it out in labor. But had Dad meant that he had to take care of his stepmother even if she remarried? It had never occurred to him to consider it. Dad had told him to look out for her and he had done so, even though it had put a stop to school and did not seem to have any end to it. But she was no longer Missus Jones but Missus Montgomery. Had Dad meant for him to support Missus Montgomery? Of course not! When a woman married, her husband supported her. Everybody knew that. And Dad wouldn’t expect him to put up with Montgomery. He stood up, his mind suddenly made up. The only question was what to take with him. There was little to take. Groping in the dark he found the rucksack he used for hunting hikes and stuffed into it his other shirt and his socks. He added Uncle Chet’s circular astrogation slide rule and the piece of volcanic glass his uncle had brought back for him from the Moon. His citizen’s identification card, his toothbrush, and his father’s razor, not that he needed that very often, about completed the plunder. There was a loose board back of his cot. He felt for it, pulled it out and groped between the studs, found nothing. He had been hiding a little money from time to time against a rainy day, as Maw couldn’t or wouldn’t save. But apparently she had found it on one of her snooping tours. Well, he still had to leave; it just made it a little more difficult. He took a deep breath. There was something he must get, Uncle Chet’s books, and they were still (presumably) on the shelf against the wall common with the bedroom. But he had to get them, even at the risk of meeting Montgomery. Cautiously, most slowly, he opened the door into the living room, stood there with sweat pouring down him. There was still a crack of light under the bedroom door and he hesitated, almost unable to force himself to go on. He heard Montgomery muttering something and Maw giggle. As his eyes adjusted he could see by the faint light leaking out under the bedroom door something piled at the outer door. It was a deadfall alarm of pots and pans, sure to make a dreadful clatter if the door were opened. Apparently Montgomery had counted on him coming back and expected to be ready to take care of him. He was very glad that he had sneaked in the window. No use putting it off, he crept across the floor, mindful of the squeaky board near the table. He could not see but he could feel and the volumes were known to his fingers. Carefully he slid them out, being sure not to knock over the others. He was all the way back to his own door when he remembered the library book. He stopped in sudden panic. He couldn’t go back. They might hear him this time, or Montgomery might get up for a drink of water or something. But in his limited horizon, the theft of a public library book, or failure to return it, which was the same thing, was, if not a mortal sin, at least high on the list of shameful crimes. He stood there, sweating and thinking about it. Then he went back, the whole long trek, around the squeaky board and tragically onto one he had not remembered. He froze after he hit it, but apparently it had not alarmed the couple in the room beyond. At last he was leaning over the SV receiver and groping at the shelf. Montgomery, in pawing the books, had changed their arrangement. One after another he had to take them down and try to identify it by touch, opening each and feeling for the perforations on the title page. It was the fourth one he handled. He got back to his room hurrying slowly, unbearably anxious but afraid to move fast. There at last, he began to shake and had to wait until it wore off. He didn’t chance closing his door but got into his clothes in the dark. Moments later he crept through his window, found the saw horse with his toe, and stepped quietly to the ground. His shoes were stuffed on top of the books in his rucksack; he decided to leave them there until he was well clear of the house, rather than chance the noise he might make with his feet shod. He swung wide around the house and looked back. The bedroom light was still on; he started to angle down toward the road when he noticed Montgomery’s unicycle. He stopped. If he continued he would come to the road the bus passed along. Whether he turned right or left there, Montgomery would have a fifty-fifty chance of catching him on the unicycle. Having no money he was dependent on Shank’s ponies to put distance under him; he could not take the bus. Shucks! Montgomery wouldn’t try to fetch him back. He would say good riddance and forget him! But the thought fretted him. Suppose Maw urged him? Suppose Montgomery wouldn’t forget an insult and would go to any trouble to “get even”? He headed back, still swinging wide of the house, and cut across the slopes toward the right of way of the C S and E. Two. GOOD SAMARITAN. He wished for a light, but its lack did not bother him much. He knew this country, every slope, almost every tree. He stayed high, working along the hillside, until he reached the exit ring where the trains jumped the gap, and there he came out on the road used by the ring road’s maintenance crews. He sat down and put on his shoes. The maintenance road was no more than a track cut through trees; it was suited to tractor treads but not to wheels. But it led down across the gap and up to where the ring road disappeared in the tunnel through the far ridge. He followed it, making good time in the born mountaineer’s easy, loose-jointed walk. Seventy minutes later he was across the gap and passing under the entrance ring. He went on until he was near the ring that marked the black entrance to the tunnel. He stopped at what he judged to be a safe distance and considered his chances. The ridge was high, else the rings would have been built in a cut rather than a tunnel. He had often hunted on it and knew that it would take two hours to climb it, in daylight. But the maintenance road ran right through the hill, under the rings. If he followed it, he could go through in ten or fifteen minutes. Max had never been through the ridge. Legally it was trespass, not that that bothered him, he was trespassing now. Occasionally a hog or a wild animal would wander into the tunnel and be trapped there when a train hurtled through. They died, instantly and without a scratch. Once Max had spotted the carcass of a fox just inside the tunnel and had ducked in and salvaged it. There were no marks on it, but when he skinned it he found that it was a mass of tiny hemorrhages. Several years earlier a man had been caught inside; the maintenance crew brought out the body. The tunnel was larger than the rings but no larger than necessary to permit the projectile to ride ahead of its own reflected shock wave. Anything alive in the tunnel could not avoid the wave; that unbearable thunderclap, painful at a distance, was so loaded with energy as to be quick death close up. But Max did not want to climb the ridge; he went over the evening schedule of trains in his mind. The Tomahawk was the one he had watched at sundown; the Javelin he had heard while he was hiding in the barn. The Assegai must have gone by quite a while ago though he didn’t remember hearing it; that left only the midnight Cleaver. He then looked at the sky. Venus had set, of course, but he was surprised to see Mars still in the west. The Moon had not risen. Let’s see, full moon was last Wednesday. Surely. The answer he got seemed wrong, so he checked himself by taking a careful eyesight of Vega and compared it with what the Big Dipper told him. Then he whistled softly, despite everything that had happened it was only ten o’clock, give or take five minutes; the stars could not be wrong. In which case the Assegai was not due for another three-quarters of an hour. Except for the faint chance of a special train he had plenty of time. He headed into the tunnel. He had not gone fifty yards before he began to be sorry and a bit panicky; it was as dark as a sealed coffin. But the going was much easier as the bore was lined to permit smooth shockwave reflections. He had been on his way several minutes, feeling each step but hurrying, when his eyes, adjusting to complete darkness, made out a faint grey circle far ahead. He broke into a trot and then into a dead run as his fear of the place piled up. He reached the far end with throat burned dry and heart laboring; there he plunged downhill regardless of the sudden roughening of his path as he left the tunnel and hit the maintenance track. He did not slow up until he stood under stilt supports so high that the ring above looked small. There he stood still and fought to catch his breath. He was slammed forward and knocked off his feet. He picked himself up groggily, eventually remembered where he was and realized that he had been knocked cold. There was blood on one cheek and his hands and elbows were raw. It was not until he noticed these that he realized what had happened; a train had passed right over him. It had not been close enough to kill, but it had been close enough to blast him off his feet. It could not have been the Assegai; he looked again at the stars and confirmed it. No, it must have been a special, and he had beaten it out of the tunnel by about a minute. He began to shake and it was minutes before he pulled himself together, after which he started down the maintenance road as fast as his bruised body could manage. Presently he became aware of an odd fact; the night was silent. But night is never silent. His ears, tuned from babyhood to the sounds and signs of his hills, should have heard an endless pattern of little night noises, wind in the leaves, the scurrying of his small cousins, tree frogs, calls of insects, owls. By brutal logic he concluded correctly that he could not hear, “deef as a post”, the shock wave had left him deaf. But there was no way to help it, so he went on; it did not occur to him to return home. At the bottom of this draw, where the stilts were nearly three hundred feet high, the maintenance road crossed a farm road. He turned down hill onto it, having accomplished his first purpose of getting into territory where Montgomery would be less likely to look for him. He was in another watershed now; although still only a few miles from home, nevertheless by going through the ridge he had put himself into a different neighborhood. He continued downhill for a couple of hours. The road was hardly more than a cart track but it was easier than the maintenance road. Somewhere below, when the hills gave way to the valley where the “foreigners” lived, he would find the freight highway that paralleled the ring road on the route to Earthport, Earthport being his destination although he had only foggy plans as to what he would do when he got there. The Moon was behind him now and he made good time. A rabbit hopped onto the road ahead, sat up and stared, then skittered away. Seeing it, he regretted not having brought along his squirrel gun. Sure, it was worn out and not worth much and lately it had gotten harder and harder to buy the slugs thrown by the obsolete little weapon, but rabbit in the pot right now would go mighty nice, mighty nice! He realized that he was not only weary but terribly hungry. He had just picked at his supper and it looked like he’d breakfast on his upper lip. Shortly his attention was distracted from hunger to a ringing in his ears, a ringing that got distressingly worse. He shook his head and pounded his ears but it did not help; he had to make up his mind to ignore it. After another half mile or so he suddenly noticed that he could hear himself walking. He stopped dead, then clapped his hands together. He could hear them smack, cutting through the phantom ringing. With a lighter heart he went on. At last he came out on a shoulder that overlooked the broad valley. In the moonlight he could make out the sweep of the freight highway leading southwest and could detect, he thought, its fluorescent traffic guide lines. He hurried on down. He was nearing the highway and could hear the rush of passing freighters when he spotted a light ahead. He approached it cautiously, determined that it was neither vehicle nor farm house. Closer approach showed it to be a small open fire, visible from uphill but shielded from the highway by a shoulder of limestone. A man was squatting over it, stirring the contents of a can resting on rocks over the fire. Max crept nearer until he was looking down into the hobo jungle. He got a whiff of the stew and his mouth watered. Caught between hunger and a hillman’s ingrown distrust of “foreigners” he lay still and stared. Presently the man set the can off the fire and called out, “Well, don’t hide there! Come on down.” Max was too startled to answer. The man added, “Come on down into the light. I won’t fetch it up to you.” Max got to his feet and shuffled down into the circle of firelight. The man looked up. “Howdy. Draw up a chair.” “Howdy.” Max sat down across the fire from the tramp. He was not even as well dressed as Max and he needed a shave. Nevertheless he wore his rags with a jaunty air and handled himself with a sparrow’s cockiness. The man continued to stir the mess in the can then spooned out a sample, blew on it, and tasted it. “About right,” he announced. “Four-day mulligan, just getting ripe. Find yourself a dish.” He got up and picked over a pile of smaller cans behind him, selected one. Max hesitated, then did the same, settling on one that had once contained coffee and appeared not to have been used since. His host served him a liberal portion of stew, then handed him a spoon. Max looked at it. “If you don’t trust the last man who used it,” the man said reasonably, “hold it in the fire, then wipe it. Me, I don’t worry. If a bug bites me, he dies horribly.” Max took the advice, holding the spoon in the flames until the handle became too hot, then wiped it on his shirt. The stew was good and his hunger made it superlative. The gravy was thick, there were vegetables and unidentified meat. Max didn’t bother his head about the pedigrees of the materials; he simply enjoyed it. After a while his host said, “Seconds?” “Huh? Sure. Thanks!” The second can of stew filled him up and spread through his tissues a warm glow of well-being. He stretched lazily, enjoying his fatigue. “Feel better?” the man asked. “Gee, yes. Thanks.” “By the way, you can call me Sam.” “Oh, my name is Max.” “Glad to know you, Max.” Max waited before raising a point that had been bothering him. “Uh, Sam? How did you know I was there? Did you hear me?” Sam grinned. “No, but you were silhouetted against the sky. Don’t ever do that, kid, or it may be the last thing you do.” Max twisted around and looked up at where he had lurked. Sure enough, Sam was right. He’d be dogged! Sam added, “Traveled far?” “Huh? Yeah, quite a piece.” “Going far?” “Uh, pretty far, I guess.” Sam waited, then said, “Think your folks’ll miss you?” “Huh? How did you know?” “That you had run away from home? Well, you have, haven’t you?” “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I have.” “You looked beat when you dragged in here. Maybe it’s not too late to kill the goose before your bridges are burned. Think about it, kid. It’s rough on the road. I know.” “Go back? I won’t ever go back!” “As bad as that?” Max stared into the fire. He needed badly to get his thoughts straight, even if it meant telling a foreigner his private affairs, and this soft-spoken stranger was easy to talk to. “See here, Sam, did you ever have a stepmother?” “Eh? Can’t remember that I ever had any. The Central Jersey Development Center for State Children used to kiss me good night.” “Oh.” Max blurted out his story with an occasional sympathetic question from Sam to straighten out its confusion. “So I lit out,” he concluded. “There wasn’t anything else to do. Was there?” Sam pursed his lips. “I reckon not. This double stepfather of yours, he sounds like a mouse studying to be a rat. You’re well shut of him.” “You don’t think they’ll try to find me and haul me back, do you?” Sam stopped to put a piece of wood on the fire. “I am not sure about that.” “Huh? Why not? I’m no use to him. He doesn’t like me. And Maw won’t care, not really. She may whine a bit, but she won’t turn her hand.” “Well, there’s the farm.” “The farm? I don’t care about that, not with Dad gone. Truthfully, it ain’t much. You break your back trying to make a crop. If the Food Conservation Act hadn’t forbidden owners to let farm land fall out of use, Dad would have quit farming long ago. It would take something like this government condemnation to make it possible to find anybody to take it off your hands.” “That’s what I mean. This joker got your mother to sell it. Now my brand of law may not be much good, but it looks as if that money ought to come to you.” “What? Oh, I don’t care about the money. I just want to get away from them.” “Don’t talk that way about money; the powers-that-be will have you shut up for blasphemy. But it probably doesn’t matter how you feel, as I think Citizen Montgomery is going to want to see you awful bad.” “Why?” “Did your father leave a will?” “No, why? He didn’t have anything to leave but the farm.” “I don’t know the ins and outs of your state laws, but it’s a sure thing that at least half of that farm belongs to you. Possibly your stepmother has only lifetime tenure in her half, with reversion to you when she dies. But it’s a certainty that she can’t grant a good deed without your signature. Along about time your county courthouse opens up tomorrow morning the buyers are going to find that out. Then they’ll come high-tailing up, looking for her, and you. And ten minutes later this Montgomery hombre will start looking for you, if he hasn’t already.” “Oh, me! If they find me, can they make me go back?” “Don’t let them find you. You’ve made a good start.” Max picked up his rucksack. “I guess I had better get moving. Thanks a lot, Sam. Maybe I can help you someday.” “Sit down.” “Look, I had better get as far away as I can.” “Kid, you’re tired out and your judgment has slipped. How far can you walk tonight, the shape you’re in? Tomorrow morning, bright and early, we’ll go down to the highway, follow it about a mile to the freighters’ restaurant south of here and catch the haulers as they come out from breakfast, feeling good. We’ll promote a ride and you’ll go farther in ten minutes than you could make all night.” Max had to admit that he was tired, exhausted really, and Sam certainly knew more about these wrinkles than he did. Sam added, “Got a blanket in your bindle?” “No, just a shirt, and some books.” “Books, eh? Read quite a bit myself, when I get a chance. May I see them?” Somewhat reluctantly Max got them out. Sam held them close to the fire and examined them. “Well, I’ll be a three-eyed Martian! Kid, do you know, what you’ve got here?” “Sure.” “But you ought not to have these. You’re not a member of the Astrogators’ Guild.” “No, but my uncle was. He was on the first trip to Beta Hydrae,” he added proudly. “No foolin’!” “Sure as taxes.” “But you’ve never been in space yourself? No, of course not.” “But I’m going to be!” Max admitted something that he had never told anyone, his ambition to emulate his uncle and go out to the stars. Sam listened thoughtfully. When Max stopped, he said slowly, “So you want to be an astrogator?” “I certainly do.” Sam scratched his nose. “Look, kid, I don’t want to throw cold water, but you know how the world wags. Getting to be an astrogator is almost as difficult as getting into the Plumbers’ Guild. The soup is thin these days and there isn’t enough to go around. The guild won’t welcome you just because you are anxious to be apprenticed. Membership is hereditary, just like all the other high-pay guilds.” “But my uncle was a member.” “Your uncle isn’t your father.” “No, but a member who hasn’t any sons gets to nominate someone else. Uncle Chet explained it to me. He always told me he was going to register my nomination.” “And did he?” Max was silent. At the time his uncle had died he had been too young to know how to go about finding out. When his father had followed his uncle events had closed in on him, he had never checked up, subconsciously preferring to nurse the dream rather than test it. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I’m going to the Mother Chapter at Earthport and find out.” “Hum, I wish you luck, kid.” He stared into the fire, sadly it seemed to Max. “Well, I’m going to grab some shut-eye, and you had better do the same. If you’re chilly, you’ll find some truck back under that rock shelf, burlap and packing materials and such. It’ll keep you warm, if you don’t mind risking a flea or two.” Max crawled into the dark hole indicated, found a half-way cave in the limestone. Groping, he located the primitive bedding. He had expected to be wakeful, but he was asleep before Sam finished covering the fire. He was awakened by sunlight blazing outside. He crawled out, stood up and stretched the stiffness out of his limbs. By the sun he judged it to be about seven o’clock in the morning. Sam was not in sight. He looked around and shouted, not too loudly, and guessed that Sam had gone down to the creek for a drink and a cold wash, Max went back into the shelter and hauled out his rucksack, intending to change his socks. His uncle’s books were missing. There was a note on top of his spare shirt: “Dear Max,” it said, “There is more stew in the can. You can warm it up for breakfast. So long, Sam P S, Sorry.” Further search disclosed that his identification card was missing, but Sam had not bothered with his other pitiful possessions. Max did not touch the stew but set out down the road, his mind filled with bitter thoughts. Three. EARTHPORT. The farm road crossed under the freight highway; Max came up on the far side and headed south beside the highway. The route was marked by “NO TRESPASS” signs but the path was well worn. The highway widened to make room for a deceleration strip. At the end of its smooth reach, a mile away, Max could see the restaurant Sam had mentioned. He shinnied over the fence enclosing the restaurant and parking grounds and went to the parking stalls where a dozen of the big land ships were lined up. One was quivering for departure, its flat bottom a few inches clear of the metallic pavement. Max went to its front end and looked up at the driver’s compartment. The door was open and he could see the driver at his instrument board. Max called out, “Hey, Mister!” The driver stuck his head out. “What’s itching you?” “How are the chances of a lift south?” “Beat it, kid.” The door slammed. None of the other freighters was raised off the pavement; their control compartments were empty. Max was about to turn away when another giant scooted down the braking strip, reached the parking space, crawled slowly into a stall, and settled to the ground. He considered approaching its driver, but decided to wait until the man had eaten. He went back toward the restaurant building and was looking through the door, watching hungry men demolish food while his mouth watered, when he heard a pleasant voice at his shoulder. “Excuse me, but you’re blocking the door.” Max jumped aside. “Oh! Sorry.” “Go ahead. You were first.” The speaker was a man about ten years older than Max. He was profusely freckled and had a one-sided grin. Max saw on his cap the pin of the Teamsters’ Guild. “Go on in,” the man repeated, “before you get trampled in the rush.” Max had been telling himself that he might catch Sam inside, and, after all, they couldn’t charge him just for coming in, if he didn’t actually eat anything. Underlying was the thought of asking to work for a meal, if the manager looked friendly. The freckled-faced man’s urging tipped the scales; he followed his nose toward the source of the heavenly odors pouring out the door. The restaurant was crowded; there was one vacant table, for two. The man slid into a chair and said, “Sit down.” When Max hesitated, he added, “Go ahead, put it down. Never like to eat alone.” Max could feel the manager’s eyes on him, he sat down. A waitress handed them each a menu and the hauler looked her over appreciatively. When she left he said, “This dump used to have automatic service, and it went broke. The trade went to the Tivoli, eighty miles down the stretch. Then the new owner threw away the machinery and hired girls and business picked up. Nothing makes food taste better than having a pretty girl put it in front of you. Right?” “Uh, I guess so. Sure.” Max had not heard what was said. He had seldom been in a restaurant and then only in the lunch counter at Clyde’s Corners. The prices he read frightened him; he wanted to crawl under the table. His companion looked at him. “What’s the trouble, chum?” “Trouble? Uh, nothing.” “You broke?” Max’s miserable expression answered him. “Shucks, I’ve been there myself. Relax.” The man waggled his fingers at the waitress. “Come here, honey chile. My partner and I will each have a breakfast steak with a fried egg sitting on top and this and that on the side. I want that egg to be just barely dead. If it is cooked solid, I’ll nail it to the wall as a warning to others. Understand me?” “I doubt if you’ll be able to get a nail through it,” she retorted and walked away, swaying gently. The hauler kept his eyes on her until she disappeared into the kitchen. “See what I mean? How can machinery compete?” The steak was good and the egg was not congealed. The hauler told Max to call him “Red” and Max gave his name in exchange. Max was pursuing the last of the yolk with a bit of toast and was considering whether it was time to broach the subject of a ride when Red leaned forward and spoke softly. “Max, you got anything pushing you? Free to take a job?” “What? Why, maybe. What is it?” “Mind taking a little run southwest?” “Southwest? Matter of fact, I was headin’ that way.” “Good. Here’s the deal. The Man says we have to have two teamsters to each rig, or else break for eight hours after driving eight. I can’t; I’ve got a penalty time to meet, and my partner washed out. The flathead got taken drunk and I had to put him down to cool. Now I’ve got a check point to pass a hundred thirty miles down the stretch. They’ll make me lay over if I can’t show another driver.” “Gee! But I don’t know how to drive, Red. I’m awful sorry.” Red gestured with his cup. “You won’t have to. You’ll always be the off-watch driver. I wouldn’t trust little Molly Malone to somebody who didn’t know her ways. I’ll keep myself awake with Pep pills and catch up on sleep at Earthport.” “You’re going all the way to Earthport?” “Right.” “It’s a deal!” “Okay, here’s the lash up. Every time we hit a check point you’re in the bunk, asleep. You help me load and unload, I’ve got a partial and a pick-up at Oke City, and I’ll feed you. Right?” “Right!” “Then let’s go. I want to scoot before these other dust jumpers get underway. Never can tell, there might be a spotter.” Red flipped a bill down and did not wait for change. The Molly Malone was two hundred feet long and stream lined such that she had negative lift when cruising. This came to Max’s attention from watching the instruments; when she first quivered and raised, the dial marked ROAD CLEARANCE showed nine inches, but as they gathered speed down the acceleration strip it decreased to six. “The repulsion works by an inverse-cube law,” Red explained. “The more the wind pushes us down the harder the road pushes us up. Keeps us from jumping over the skyline. The faster we go the steadier we are.” “Suppose you went so fast that the wind pressure forced the bottom down to the road? Could you stop soon enough to keep from wrecking it?” “Use your head. The more we squat the harder we are pushed up, inverse-cube, I said.” “Oh.” Max got out his uncle’s slide rule. “If she just supports her own weight at nine inches clearance, then at three inches the repulsion would be twenty-seven times her weight and at an inch it would be seven hundred and twenty-nine, and at a quarter of an inch.” “Don’t even think about it. At top speed I can’t get her down to five inches.” “But what makes her go?” “It’s a phase relationship. The field crawls forward and Molly tries to catch up, only she can’t. Don’t ask me the theory, I just push the buttons.” Red struck a cigarette and lounged back, one hand on the tiller. “Better get in the bunk, kid. Check point in forty miles.” The bunk was thwartships abaft the control compartment, a shelf above the seat. Max climbed in and wrapped a blanket around himself. Red handed him a cap. “Pull this down over your eyes. Let the button show.” The button was a teamster’s shield, Max did as he was told. Presently he heard the sound of wind change from a soft roar to a sigh and then stop. The freighter settled to the pavement and the door opened. He lay still, unable to see what was going on. A strange voice said, “How long you been herding it?” “Since breakfast at Tony’s.” “So? How did your eyes get so bloodshot?” “It’s the evil life I lead. Want to see my tongue?” The inspector ignored this, saying instead, “Your partner didn’t sign his trick.” “Whatever you say. Want me to wake the dumb geek?” “Um, don’t bother. You sign for him. Tell him to be more careful.” “Right.” The Molly Malone pulled out and picked up speed. Max crawled down. “I thought we were sunk when he asked for my signature.” “That was on purpose,” Red said scornfully. “You have to give them something to yap about, or they’ll dig for it.” Max liked the freighter. The tremendous speed so close to the ground exhilarated him; he decided that if he could not be a spaceman, this life would not be bad, he’d find out how high the application fee was and start saving. He liked the easy way Red picked out on the pavement ahead the speed line that matched the Molly’s speed and then laid the big craft into a curve. It was usually the outermost line, with the Molly on her side and the horizon tilted up at a crazy angle. Near Oklahoma City they swooped under the ring guides of the C S and E just as a train went over, the Razor, by Max’s calculations. “I used to herd those things,” Red remarked, glancing up. “You did?” “Yep. But they got to worrying me. I hated it every time I made a jump and felt the weight sag out from under me. Then I got a notion that the train had a mind of its own and was just waiting to turn aside instead of entering the next guide ring. That sort of thing is no good. So I found a teamster who wanted to better himself and paid the fine to both guilds to let us swap. Never regretted it. Two hundred miles an hour when you’re close to the ground is enough.” “Uh, how about space ships?” “That’s another matter. Elbow room out there. Say, kid, while you’re at Earthport you should take a look at the big babies. They’re quite something.” The library book had been burning a hole in his rucksack; at Oklahoma City he noticed a postal box at the freight depot and, on impulse, dropped the book into it. After he had mailed it he had a twinge of worry that he might have given a clue to his whereabouts which would get back to Montgomery, but he suppressed the worry, the book had to be returned. Vagrancy in the eyes of the law had not worried him, nor trespass, nor impersonating a licensed teamster, but filching a book was a sin. Max was asleep in the bunk when they arrived. Red shook him. “End of the line, kid.” Max sat up, yawning. “Where are we?” “Earthport. Let’s shake a leg and get this baby unloaded.” It was two hours past sunrise and growing desert hot by the time they got the Molly disgorged. Red stood him to a last meal. Red finished first, paid, then laid a bill down by Max’s plate. “Thanks, kid. That’s for luck. So long.” He was gone while Max still had his mouth hanging open. He had never learned his friend’s name, did not even know his shield number. Earthport was much the biggest settlement Max had ever seen and everything about it confused him, the hurrying self-centered crowds, the enormous buildings, the slidewalks in place of streets, the noise, the desert sun beating down, the flatness, why, there wasn’t anything you could call a hill closer than the skyline! He saw his first extra-terrestrial, an eight-foot native of Epsilon Gemini Five, striding out of a shop with a package under his left arms, as casually, Max thought, as a farmer doing his week’s shopping at the Corners. Max stared. He knew what the creature was from pictures and SV shows, but seeing one was another matter. Its multiple eyes, like a wreath of yellow grapes around the head, gave it a grotesque faceless appearance. Max let his own head swivel to follow it. The creature approached a policeman, tapped the top of his cap, and said, “Excuse me, sahr, but can you tirect me to the Tesert Palms Athletic Club?” Max could not tell where the noise came out. Max finally noticed that he seemed to be the only one staring, so he walked slowly on, while sneaking looks over his shoulder, which resulted in his bumping into a stranger. “Oh, excuse me!” Max blurted. The stranger looked at him. “Take it easy, cousin. You’re in the big city now.” After that he tried to be careful. He had intended to seek out the Guild Hall of the Mother Chapter of Astrogators at once in the forlorn hope that even without his books and identification card he might still identify himself and find that Uncle Chet had provided for his future. But there was so much to see that he loitered. He found himself presently in front of Imperial House, the hotel that guaranteed to supply any combination of pressure, temperature, lighting, atmosphere, pseudogravitation, and diet favored by any known race of intelligent creatures. He hung around hoping to see some of the guests, but the only one who came out while he was there was wheeled out in a pressurized travel tank and he could not see into it. He noticed the police guard at the door eyeing him and started to move on, then decided to ask directions, reasoning that if it was all right for a Geminian to question a policeman it certainly must be all right for a human being. He found himself quoting the extra-terrestrial. “Excuse me, sir, but could you direct me to the Astrogators’ Guild Hall?” The officer looked him over. “At the foot of the Avenue of Planets, just before you reach the port.” “Uh, which way do.” “New in town?” “Yeah. Yes, sir.” “Where are you staying?” “Staying? Why, nowhere yet. I just got here. I.” “What’s your business at the Astrogators’ Hall?” “It’s on account of my uncle,” Max answered miserably. “Your uncle?” “He, he’s an astrogator.” He mentally crossed his fingers over the tense. The policeman inspected again. “Take this slide to the next intersection, change and slide west. Big building with the guild sunburst over the door, can’t miss it. Stay out of restricted areas.” Max left without waiting to find out how he was to know a restricted area. The Guild Hall did prove easy to find; the slidewalk to the west ducked underground and when it emerged at its swing-around Max was deposited in front of it. But he had not eyes for it. To the west where avenue and buildings ended was the field and on it space ships, stretching away for miles, fast little military darts, stubby Moon shuttles, winged ships that served the satellite stations, robot freighters, graceless and powerful. But directly in front of the gate hardly half a mile away was a great ship that he knew at once, the starship Asgard. He knew her history, Uncle Chet had served in her. A hundred years earlier she had been built out in space as a space-to-space rocket ship; she was then the Prince of Wales. Years passed, her tubes were ripped out and a mass-conversion torch was kindled in her; she became the Einstein. More years passed, for nearly twenty she swung empty around Luna, a lifeless, outmoded hulk. Now in place of the torch she had Horst-Conrad impellers that clutched at the fabric of space itself; thanks to them she was now able to touch Mother Terra. To commemorate her rebirth she had been dubbed Asgard, heavenly home of the gods. Her massive, pear-shaped body was poised on its smaller end, steadied by an invisible scaffolding of thrust beams. Max knew where they must be, for there was a ring of barricades spotted around her to keep the careless from wandering into the deadly loci. He pressed his nose against the gate to the field and tried to see more of her, until a voice called out, “Away from there, Jack! Don’t you see that sign?” Max looked up. Above his head was a sign: RESTRICTED AREA. Reluctantly he moved away and walked back to the Guild Hall. Four. THE ASTROGATORS’ GUILD. Everything about the hall of the Mother Chapter was to Max’s eyes lavish, churchlike, and frightening. The great doors opened silently as he approached, dilating away into the walls. His feet made no sound on the tesselated floor. He started down the long, high foyer, wondering where he should go, when a firm voice stopped him. “May I help you, please?” He turned. A beautiful young lady with a severe manner held him with her eye. She was seated behind a desk. Max went up to her. “Uh, maybe you could tell me, Ma’am, who I ought to see. I don’t rightly know just.” “One moment. Your name, please?” Several minutes later she had wormed out of him the basic facts of his quest. “So far as I can see, you haven’t any status here and no excuse for appealing to the Guild.” “But I told you.” “Never mind. I’m going to put it up to the legal office.” She touched a button and a screen raised up on her desk; she spoke to it. “Mister Hanson, can you spare a moment?” “Yes, Grace?” “There is a young man here who claims to be a legacy of the Guild. Will you talk with him?” The voice answered, “Look, Grace, you know the procedures. Get his address, send him on his way, and send his papers up for consideration.” She frowned and touched another control. Although Max could see that she continued to talk, no sound reached him. Then she nodded and the screen slid back into the desk. She touched another button and said, “Skeeter!” A page boy popped out of a door behind her and looked Max over with cold eyes. “Skeeter,” she went on, “take this visitor to Mister Hanson.” The page sniffed. “Him?” “Him. And fasten your collar and spit out that gum.” Mister Hanson listened to Max’s story and passed him on to his boss, the chief legal counsel, who listened to a third telling. That official then drummed his desk and made a call, using the silencing device the girl had used. He then said to Max, “You’re in luck, son. The Most Worthy High Secretary will grant you a few minutes of his time. Now when you go in, don’t sit down, remember to speak only when spoken to, and get out quickly when he indicates that the audience is ended.” The High Secretary’s office made the lavishness that had thus far filled Max’s eyes seem like austerity. The rug alone could have been swapped for the farm on which Max grew up. There was no communication equipment in evidence, no files, not even a desk. The High Secretary lounged back in a mammoth easy chair while a servant massaged his scalp. He raised his head as Max appeared and said, “Come in, son. Sit down there. What is your name?” “Maximilian Jones, sir.” They looked at each other. The Secretary saw a lanky youth who needed a haircut, a bath, and a change of clothes; Max saw a short, fat little man in a wrinkled uniform. His head seemed too big for him and Max could not make up his mind whether the eyes were kindly or cold. “And you are a nephew of Chester Arthur Jones?” “Yes, sir.” “I knew Brother Jones well. A fine mathematician.” The High Secretary went on, “I understand that you have had the misfortune to lose your government Citizen’s Identification. Carl.” He had not raised his voice but a young man appeared with the speed of a genie. “Yes, sir?” “Take this young man’s thumb print, call the Bureau of Identification, not here, but the main office at New Washington. My compliments to the Chief of Bureau and tell him that I would be pleased to have immediate identification while you hold the circuit.” The print was taken speedily; the man called Carl left. The High Secretary went on, “What was your purpose in coming here?” Diffidently Max explained that his uncle had told him that he intended to nominate him for apprenticeship in the guild. The man nodded. “So I understand. I am sorry to tell you, young fellow, that Brother Jones made no nomination.” Max had difficulty in taking in the simple statement. So much was his inner pride tied to his pride in his uncle’s profession, so much had he depended on his hope that his uncle had named him his professional heir, that he could not accept at once the verdict that he was nobody and nothing. He blurted out, “You’re sure? Did you look?” The masseur looked shocked but the High Secretary answered calmly, “The archives have been searched, not once, but twice. There is no possible doubt.” The High Secretary sat up, gestured slightly, and the servant disappeared. “I’m sorry.” “But he told me,” Max said stubbornly. “He said he was going to.” “Nevertheless he did not.” The man who had taken the thumb print came in and offered a memorandum to the High Secretary, who glanced at it and waved it away. “I’ve no doubt that he considered you. Nomination to our brotherhood involves a grave responsibility; it is not unusual for a childless brother to have his eye on a likely lad for a long time before deciding whether or not he measures up. For some reason your uncle did not name you.” Max was appalled by the humiliating theory that his beloved uncle might have found him unworthy. It could not be true, why, just the day before he died, he had said, he interrupted his thoughts to say, “Sir, I think I know what happened.” “Eh?” “Uncle Chester died suddenly. He meant to name me, but he didn’t get a chance. I’m sure of it.” “Possibly. Men have been known to fail to get their affairs in order before the last orbit. But I must assume that he knew what he was doing.” “But.” “That’s all, young man. No, don’t go away. I’ve been thinking about you today.” Max looked startled, the High Secretary smiled and continued, “You see, you are the second ‘Maximilian Jones’ who has come to us with this story.” “Huh?” “Huh indeed.” The guild executive reached into a pocket of his chair, pulled out some books and a card, handed them to Max, who stared unbelievingly. “Uncle Chet’s books!” “Yes. Another man, older than yourself, came here yesterday with your identification card and these books. He was less ambitious than you are,” he added dryly. “He was willing to settle for a rating less lofty than astrogator.” “What happened?” “He left suddenly when we attempted to take his finger prints. I did not see him. But when you showed up today I began to wonder how long a procession of ‘Maximilian Jones’s‘ would favor us. Better guard that card in the future, I fancy we have saved you a fine.” Max placed it in an inner pocket. “Thanks a lot, sir.” He started to put the books in his rucksack. The High Secretary gestured in denial. “No, no! Return the books, please.” “But Uncle Chet gave them to me.” “Sorry. At most he loaned them to you, and he should not have done even that. The tools of our profession are never owned individually; they are loaned to each brother. Your uncle should have turned them in when he retired, but some of the brothers have a sentimental fondness for having them in their possession. Give them to me, please.” Max still hesitated. “Come now,” the guildsman said reasonably. “It would not do for our professional secrets to be floati

Rahan. By Roger Lecureux, drawn by Andre Cheret. Episode Fifty-Three. The Little Man. Where does this water come from? Rahan wants to know! Although the rain had stopped, a fine trickle of water still flowed from the rock under which Crao's son had taken shelter. Rahan Understands! The tears of heaven gather in the "Wooden Spring"! By chance the drops, sliding from one leaf to another, fell into a burst bamboo where they streamed. Rahan had not discovered any watering hole since he wandered in this territory. So he drank for a long time before sinking further into the forest. Page Two. The sun has returned and its rays pierce the foliage. The bellowing of a deer rose in the distance when. Oh! At the end of the crossed branches the skulls were enormous, bigger than those of the great "Four-hands" but they were nevertheless the skulls of men! Was this a clan's tribute to its dead? Was this a warning? A threat? The son of Crao did not know how to say it. All his attention was already attracted by something else. It was the “Wooden Front” that Rahan heard. It came to die there! The deer was lying in the clearing, its side pierced by a spear. He had to flee for a long time before collapsing. The hunter who killed him was undoubtedly far away! Page Three. As he approached the deer, the son of Crao could not hold back a cry of astonishment. No! This. It is impossible Rahan must be dreaming! What he had thought was a spear. Was an arrow! The head, as long as a hand. It left no doubt. The bow that launched this arrow must be bigger than Rahan! Rahan had to make an effort to pull out the arrow. He was about to achieve this when a terrible voice thundered behind him. Oh! Do not touch the “Front of wood” little man! It belongs to Oham! Page Four. The man who emerged from the thickets was five or six heads taller than the son of Crao! This giant must have been of colossal strength. Ha! Ha! Ha! You have nothing to fear from Oham, little man! Rahan instinctively drew his knife. But he remained motionless, terrified by this extraordinary apparition. And the giant observed him, an amused smile on his lips. Oham will lead you to his people! It has been a long time since they have seen a little man! Page Five. As the huge hand was about to grab him, Rahan reacted. Do not come near! Rahan does not fear Oham! The son of Crao was ready for unequal combat! But this fight did not take place. You are brave, little Man! You will please my brothers! Rahan had no time to dodge. With a simple tap the giant threw him to the ground! Oham's hand struck with the force of a club. Plak! He only regained consciousness later. A solid vine bound his hands. Stand, little man! The giant was joyfully pulling the long line that he had tied to his wrist. The deer seemed to have little weight on its shoulders. Rahan is not a slave! He will escape faster than you think! Page Six. Rahan may have been able to untie the link and flee. But he wanted to take back the knife that Oham had confiscated from him. So he let himself be dragged into the forest. They were crossing a clearing when the sight of a large stump gave him an idea. You cannot imagine what awaits you Oham! The son of Crao suddenly darted, overtook the giant, and leaped over the stump. And passed under it again with astonishing agility. Oham, surprised, had no time to react. Ra-ha-ha-ha! The vine wrapped around his ankles and he lost his balance. Page Seven. A moment later the giant was tied to the stump and Rahan, recovering his knife, freed himself. You have fire in your blood, little man! No one has ever defeated Oham like this! Oham is strong enough to break this vine. But he will not be fast enough to catch up with Rahan! Abandoning the giant who was bracing himself against the stump to break the line, the son of Crao disappeared into the thickets. He walked for a long time until a river stopped him. A waterfall, on the other bank, flowed into this river. If Oham cannot crawl on water, Rahan has nothing to fear from him! Page Eight. Barely had he dived when his blood froze. From everywhere fish arrived, whose terrifying voracity he knew. He had already seen "Piranhas" shred and devour a man in a few moments. So he returned in all haste to the bank, narrowly escaping the disturbing swarm. Rahan will have to stay on this shore! Unless he kills a beast to attract the “Piranhas”! The son of Crao set out in search of game which, if thrown into the river, would cause a diversion. But he discovered no trace. Luck is not on Rahan's side! Page Nine. Oham will free himself but Rahan will not have to fear his arrows! The giant's bow was so powerful that Rahan could barely draw it! Crao sometimes spoke of the very tall men who live in the forests. Rahan did not believe him. He thought Crao wanted to amuse the clan! But now, Rahan knows that "Very Tall Men” exist! While the son of Crao was walking along the river, Oham had in fact freed himself. His face showed no anger. This little man is brave and cunning. Oham regrets that he ran away! Page Ten. Rahan, however, arrived at the foot of a very tall tree. Large vines hung from the branches, all the way to the ground. From above, Rahan will be able to observe the surroundings. Perhaps he can discover a place to cross the river! A moment later the son of Crao climbed into the branches. The foliage concealing the landscape from him, he had to climb further. He was soon so high that he experienced a feeling of vertigo. If Rahan fell, his limbs would shatter on the ground! And that was when laughter broke out around him! Giants were there crouching in the darkness of the foliage! Ha-ha-ha! The little man is hardly careful! Page Eleven. One of the giants, the leader no doubt, advanced on the big branch. We saw you arrive with a bow that was too big for you. And it turns out that one of us has not returned from hunting! What have you done with Oham, little man! Speak! Speak! The man's long stick made dangerous circles. The son of Crao withdrew his knife. Rahan will explain to you. But do not force him to kill you! The stick hit his legs with so much force that Rahan slipped on the branch and fell into the void! Ha-ha-ha! A lightning reflex made him grab a vine. He plunged his cutlass into it. Page Twelve. And the giants, dumfounded, saw him descend to the ground! The day has not come for Rahan to join the territory of shadows! The ivory blade sliced through the fibers slowly, almost too slowly. He was finally reaching the ground when a voice spoke to him. Very good, little man. Very good! Oham! The giant's powerful arm girdled him tightly! A moment later Orak and his people came tumbling down from the tree, laughing. It was Oham who captured the little man! It is Oham who will decide his fate! The little man has shown a lot of courage! Oham decides he must live! He can stay with us if he wants! Page thirteen. Oham has the right to demand this. But if the little man stays with us he will live on your share of meat and your water ration Oham! Rahan will not be a burden on your clan! He will leave this territory at sunrise! A little after. Why do you live in the trees, Oham? We do not live there. We take refuge there when danger threatens. When my people did not see me come back from hunting, they thought there was danger. Here, little man, drink. Oham carefully held out a bamboo container. The water seems sacred to your clan! It is! There is no source in this area and we have to fetch water from the other side of the river! Page Fourteen. However, it is dangerous to go to and from the waterfall. On each expedition the "piranes" which infest the river devour one of ours! Formerly, we were ten times the fingers of both hands! Here are those who survived! His Companions that Oham designated had only around thirty left. But why doesn't the Clan live on the other side of the river, on the side of the waterfall!? Because the game lives on this side, little man! Oham spoke with resignation and the son of Crao felt moved. And the river water? Those who wanted to drink became very ill, then died! We still have the rains. But they are rare and the little water we collect is quickly used up! Page Fifteen. Orak is a brave and just leader and, if we had water, we would be the happiest of clans! Come on, Oham should stop moaning! Tomorrow we will go hunting together! Drink a little more, little man. Oham is not thirsty! Rahan guessed that the giant was lying to give him his share. He observed the bamboo where the precious water shone. And an image suddenly came to his mind, that of another bamboo, split this one where the last drops of rain were streaming. Yes, Oham! Tomorrow we will go hunting! We will go to flush out the water from the waterfall! Look, Oham. Look what we'll do. With a blow of his knife, the son of Crao sliced a piece of bamboo along its entire length. Page Sixteen. Pour some water on it, Oham. Do not be afraid. They will soon have all the water they want! The giant delicately poured a few drops which rolled down those of the bamboo and passed onto the second. This is what we will do in a bigger way above the river! We will draw water from the waterfall and our "bridge" will bring it back to this shore! But it's impossible, little man! The Piranhas will never give us time to do such a thing! The "Wood Front" you brought back will keep them away. Nothing could dampen the enthusiasm of the son of Crao. If everyone acts together, everything will go very quickly! We must submit Rahan's idea to Orak! Page Seventeen. It's useless, little man! Orak heard everything. Your project is wonderful and Orak agrees with you! You will have the help of the whole clan! From daybreak, in fact, everyone set to work. Advised by Rahan, some split thick bamboos, others cut solid forks. The hollowed out bamboos were finally assembled using vines. The wooden aqueduct measured nearly thirty meters, but it was a light burden for the men of Orak. Barely had the big deer been thrown into the river when the surface seemed to bubble. The piranhas were attacking from all sides! Onward brothers! Leading by example, Rahan dove in. If he had to swim, the giants who followed him had only to walk. Page Eighteen. And while the piranha’s attacked the deer carried away by the current, the forks were deeply planted in the bottom of the river. Pulling the bamboo which would make the junction between the aqueduct and the waterfall, the son of Crao had already reached the other bank. Cries of fear suddenly rang out. The Piranhas have returned! The voracious fish which had completely devoured the great deer were moving upstream. They were so numerous that the multitude darkened the surface! The forks were planted but the men of Orak would no longer have time to adjust the "Aqueduct"! Abandon it brothers! Return to the bank, quickly! Page Nineteen. No! This project will bring happiness to our clan! You have to execute it! Keep going! Keep going! Orak the leader went to meet the wave of “Piranes” Orak will sacrifice himself for the happiness of his people! With a lump in his throat, the son of Crao saw the leader waver in the midst of the disturbing swarming. Orak's torn legs disappeared in a reddish swirl. And while the piranhas fought over his flesh. The “Water Bridge” could be firmly put in place. We must never forget Orak, brothers you will owe water to his sacrifice! We will not forget him little man! And we will not forget you either! Oham and his companions returned to the other bank. Page Twenty. When the son of Crao fixed last bamboo, just under a net of the waterfall. A clamor arose. The water surged in the hollow of the "Bridge", crossing the river, pouring out at the feet of the amazed giants! It would flow like this day and night, from the season to the green leaves. Until the leafless season. Storms may break this "Bridge". But Oham and his people would know how to rebuild it! When they looked up, over there, on the other bank, the “little man” had disappeared! Goodbye little man. May good spirits accompany you! Once again faithful to his destiny, the son of fierce ages left behind grateful beings. But Rahan did not think of that. He thought of the sacrifice of Orak, of the courage that "Those-who-walk-standing" can show when they love their fellow human beings. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

The Rolling Stones. AKA Space Family Stone. ROBERT A. HEINLEIN 1952 Reformatted for Machine Text, PukeOnAPlate 2023. Contents I, THE UNHEAVENLY TWINS II, A CASE FOR DRAMATIC LICENSE III, THE SECOND-HAND MARKET IV, ASPECTS OF DOMESTIC ENGINEERING V, BICYCLES AND BLAST-OFF VI, BALLISIICS AND BUSTER VII, IN THE GRAVITY WELL VIII, THE MIGHTY BOOM IX, ASSETS RECOVERABLE X, PHOBOS PORT XI, “WELCOME TO MARS!” XII, FREE ENTERPRISE XIII, CAVEAT VENDOR XIV, FLAT CATS FACTORIAL XV, “INTER JOVEM ET MARTEM PLANETAM INTERPOSUI” XVI, ROCK CITY XVII, FLAT CATS FINANCIAL XVIII, THE WORM IN THE MUD XIX, THE ENDLESS TRAIL The Rolling Stones. ROBERT HEINLEIN 1952. One. THE UNHEAVENLY TWINS. The two brothers stood looking the old wreck over. “Junk,” decided Castor. “Not junk,” objected Pollux. “A jalopy, granted. A heap any way you look at it. A clunker possibly. But not junk.” “You're an optimist, Junior.” Both boys were fifteen; Castor was twenty minutes older than his brother. “I’m a believer, Grandpa, and you had better be, too. Let me point out that we don't have money enough for anything better. Scared to gun it?” Castor stared up the side of the ship. “Not at all, because that thing will never again rise high enough to crash. We want a ship that will take us out to the Asteroids, right? This superannuated pogo stick wouldn't even take us to Earth.” “It will when I get through hopping it up, with your thumb-fingered help. Let's look through it and see what it needs.” Castor glanced at the sky. “It’s getting late.” He looked not at the Sun making long shadows on the lunar plain, but at Earth, reading the time from the sunset line now moving across the Pacific. “Look, Grandpa, are we buying a ship or are we getting to supper on time?” Castor shrugged. “As you say, Junior.” He lowered his antenna, then started swarming up the rope ladder left there for the accommodation of prospective customers. He used his hands only and despite his cumbersome vacuum suit his movements were easy and graceful. Pollux swarmed after him. Castor cheered up a bit when they reached the control room. The ship had not been stripped for salvage as completely as had many of the ships on the lot. True, the ballistic computer was missing but the rest of the astrogation instruments were in place and the controls to the power room seemed to be complete. The space-battered old hulk was not a wreck, but merely obsolete. A hasty look at the power room seemed to confirm this. Ten minutes later Castor, still mindful of supper, herded Pollux down the ladder. When Castor reached the ground Pollux said, “Well?” “Let me do the talking.” The sales office of the lot was a bubble dome nearly a mile away; they moved toward it with the easy, fast lope of old Moon hands. The office airlock was marked by a huge sign: DEALER DAN THE SPACESHIP MAN CRAFT OF ALL TYPES. SCRAP METAL. SPARE PARTS FUELING AND SERVICE (AEC License Number 739024) They cycled through the lock and unclamped each other's helmets. The outer office was crossed by a railing; back of it sat a girl receptionist. She was watching a newscast while buffing her nails. She spoke without taking her eyes off the TV tank: “We're not buying anything, boys, nor hiring anybody.” Castor said, “You sell spaceships?” She looked up. “Not often enough.” “Then tell your boss we want to see him.” Her eyebrows went up. “Whom do you think you are kidding, sonny boy? Mister Ekizian is a busy man.” Pollux said to Castor, “Let's go over to the Hungarian, Cas. These people don't mean business.” “Maybe you're right.” The girl looked from one to the other, shrugged, and flipped a switch. “Mister Ekizan, there are a couple of Boy Scouts out here who say they want to buy a spaceship. Do you want to bother with them?” A deep voice responded, “And why not? We got ships to sell.” Shortly a bald-headed, portly man, dressed in a cigar and a wrinkled moonsuit came out of the inner office and rested his hands on the rail. He looked them over shrewdly but his voice was jovial. “You wanted to see me?” “You're the owner?” asked Castor. “Dealer Dan Ekizian, the man himself. What's on your mind, boys? Time is money.” “Your secretary told you,” Castor said ungraciously. “Spaceships.” Dealer Dan took his cigar out of his mouth and examined it. “Really? What would you boys want with a spaceship?” Pollux muttered something; Castor said, “Do you usually do business out here?” He glanced at the girl. Ekizan followed his glance. “My mistake. Come inside.” He opened the gate for them, led them into his office, and seated them. He ceremoniously offered them cigars; the boys refused politely. “Now out with it kids. Let's not joke.” Castor repeated, “Spaceships.” He pursed his lips. “A luxury liner, maybe? I haven't got one on the field at the moment but I can always broker a deal.” Pollux stood up. “He's making fun of us, Cas. Let's go see the Hungarian.” “Wait a moment Pol. Mister Ekizian, you've got a heap out there on the south side of the field, a class Seven, model ninety three Detroiter. What's your scrap metal price on her and what does she mass?” The dealer looked surprised. “That sweet little job? Why, I couldn't afford to let that go as scrap. And anyhow, even at scrap that would come to a lot of money. If it is metal you boys want, I got it. Just tell me how much and what sort.” “We were talking about that Detroiter.” “I don't believe I've met you boys before?” “Sorry, sir. I'm Castor Stone. This is my brother Pollux.” “Glad to meet you, Mister Stone. Stone, Stone? Any relation to, The "Unheavenly Twins", that's it.” “Smile when you say that,” said Pollux. “Shut up, Pol. We're the Stone twins.” “The frost proof rebreather valve, you invented it, didn't you?” “That's right.” “Say, I got one in my own suit. A good gimmick, you boys are quite the mechanics.” He looked them over again. “Maybe you were really serious about a ship.” “Of course we were.” “Hum, you're not looking for scrap; you want something to get around it. I've got just the job for you, a General Motors Jumpbug, practically new. It's been out on one grubstake job to a couple of thorium prospectors and I had to reclaim it. The hold ain't even radioactive.” “Not interested.” “Better look at it. Automatic landing and three hops takes you right around the equator. Just the thing for a couple of lively, active boys.” “About that Detroiter, what's your scrap price?” Ekizian looked hurt. “That's a deep space vessel, son, It's no use to you, as a ship. And I can't let it go for scrap; that's a clean job. It was a family yacht, never been pushed over six g, never had an emergency landing. It's got hundreds of millions of miles still in it. I couldn't let you scrap that ship, even if you were to pay me the factory price. It would be a shame. I love ships. Now take this Jumpbug.” “You can't sell that Detroiter as anything but scrap,” Castor answered. “It's been sitting there two years that I know of. If you had hoped to sell her as a ship you wouldn't have salvaged the computer. She's pitted, her tubes are no good, and an overhaul would cost more than she's worth. Now what's her scrap price?” Dealer Dan rocked back and forth in his chair; he seemed to be suffering. “Scrap that ship? Just fuel her up and she's ready to go, Venus, Mars, even the Jovian satellites.” “What's your cash price?” “Cash?” “Cash.” Ekizian hesitated, then mentioned a price. Castor stood up and said, “You were right, Pollux. Let's go see the Hungarian.” The dealer looked pained. “If I were to write it off for my own use, I couldn't cut that price, not in fairness to my partners.” “Come on, Pol.” “Look, boys, I can't let you go over to the Hungarian's. He'll cheat you.” Pollux looked savage. “Maybe he'll do it politely.” “Shut up, Poll!” Castor went on, “Sorry, Mister Ekizian, my brother isn't housebroken. But we can't do business.” He stood up. “Wait a minute. That's a good valve you boys thought up. I use it; I feel I owe you something.” He named another and lower sum. “Sorry. We can't afford it.” He started to follow Pollux out. ”Wait!” Ekizian mentioned a third price. “Cash,” he added. “Of course. And you pay the sales tax?” “Well, for a cash deal, yes.” “Good.” “Sit down, gentlemen. I'll call in my girl and we'll state the papers.” “No hurry,” answered Castor. “We've still got to see what the Hungarian has on his lot, and the government salvage lot, too.” “Huh? That price doesn't stand unless you deal right now. Dealer Dan, they call me. I got no time to waste dickering twice.” “Nor have we. See you tomorrow. If it hasn't sold we can take up where we left off.” “If you expect me to hold that price, I'll have to have a nominal option payment.” “Oh, no, I wouldn't expect you to pass up a sale for us. If you can sell it by tomorrow, we wouldn't think of standing in your way. Come on, Pol.” Ekizian shrugged. “Been nice meeting you, boys.” “Thank you, sir.” As they closed the lock behind them and waited for it to cycle, Pollux said “You should have paid him an option.” His brother looked at him. “You're retarded, Junior.” On leaving Dealer Dan's office the boys headed for the spaceport, intending to catch the passenger tube back to the city, fifty miles west of the port. They had less than thirty minutes if they were to get home for supper on time, unimportant in itself but Castor disliked starting a family debate on the defensive over a side issue. He kept hurrying Pollux along. Their route took them through the grounds of General Synthetics Corporation, square miles of giant cracking plants, sun screens, condensers, fractionating columns, all sorts of huge machinery to take advantage of the burning heat, the bitter cold, and the endless vacuum for industrial chemical engineering purposes, a Dantesque jungle of unlikely shapes. The boys paid no attention to it; they were used to it. They hurried down the company road in the flying leaps the Moon's low gravity permitted, making twenty miles an hour. Half way to the port they were overtaken by a company tractor; Pollux flagged it down. As he ground to a stop, the driver spoke to them via his cab radio: “What do you want?” “Are you meeting the Terra shuttle?” “Subject to the whims of fate, yes.” “It's Jefferson,” said Pollux. “Hey, Jeff, it's Cas and Pol. Drop us at the tube station, will you?” “Climb on the rack. Mind the volcano, come up the usual way.” As they did so he went on, “What brings you two carrot-topped accident-prones to this far reach of culture?” Castor hesitated and glanced at Pollux. They had known Jefferson James for some time, having bowled against him in the city league. He was an old Moon hand but not a native, having come to Luna before they were born to gather color for a novel. The novel was still unfinished. Pollux nodded. Castor said, “Jeff, can you keep a secret?” “Certainly, but permit me to point out that these radios are not directional. See your attorney before admitting any criminal act or intention.” Castor looked around; aside from two tractor trucks in the distance no one seemed to be in line-of-sight. “We're going into business.” “When were you out of it?” “This is a new line, interplanetary trade. We're going to buy our own ship and run it ourselves.” The driver whistled. “Remind me to sell Four-Planet Export short. When does this blitz take place?” “We're shopping for a ship now. Know of a good buy?” “I'll alert my spies.” He shut up, being busy thereafter with the heavier traffic near the spaceport. Presently he said, “Here's your stop.” As the boys climbed down from the rack of the truck he added, “If you need a crewman, keep me in mind.” “Okay, Jeff. And thanks for the lift.” Despite the lift they were late. A squad of marine M.P.s heading into the city on duty pre-empted the first tube car; by the time the next arrived the ship from Earth had grounded and its passengers took priority. Thereafter they got tangled with the changing shift from the synthetics plant. It was well past suppertime when they arrived at their family's apartment a half mile down inside Luna city Mister Stone looked up as they came in. “Well! the star boarders,” he announced. He was sitting with a small recorder in his lap, a throat mike clipped to his neck. “Dad, it was unavoidable,” Castor began. “We.” “It always is,” his father cut in. “Never mind the details. Your dinner is in the cozy. I wanted to send it back but your mother went soft and didn't let me.” Doctor Stone looked up from the far end of the living room, where she was modelling a head of their older sister, Meade. “Correction,” she said. “Your father went soft; I would have let you starve. Meade, quit turning your head.” “Check,” announced their four-year old brother and got up from the floor where he had been playing chess with their grand mother. He ran towards them. “Hey, Cas, Pol, where you been? Did you go to the port? Why didn't you take me? Did you bring me anything?” Castor swung him up by his heels and held him upside down. “Yes. No, maybe. And why should we? Here, Pol, catch.” He sailed the child through the air; his twin reached out and caught him, still by the heels. “Check yourself,” announced Grandmother, “and mate in three moves. Shouldn't let your social life distract you from your game, Lowell.” The youngster looked back at the board from his upside down position. “Wrong, Hazel. Now I let you take my queen, then, Blammie!” His grandmother looked again at the board. “Huh? Wait a minute, suppose I refuse your queen, then. Why, the little scamp! He's trapped me again.” Meade said, “Shouldn't let him beat you so often, Hazel. It's not good for him.” “Meade, for the ninth time, quit turning your head!” “Sorry, Mother. Let's take a rest.” Grandmother snorted. “You don't think I let him beat me on purpose, do you? You play him; I am giving up the game for good.” Meade answered just as her mother spoke; at the same time Pollux chucked the boy back at Castor. “You take him. I want to eat.” The child squealed. Mister Stone shouted, “QUIET!” “And stay quiet,” he went on, while unfastening the throat mike. “How is a man to make a living in all this racket? This episode has to be done over completely, sent to New York tomorrow, shot, canned, distributed, and on the channels by the end of the week. It's not possible.” “Then don't do it,” Doctor Stone answered serenely. “Or work in your room, it's soundproof.” Mister Stone turned to his wife. “My dear, I've explained a thousand times that I can't work in there by myself. I get no stimulation. I fall asleep.” Castor said, “How's it going, Dad? Rough?” “Well, now that you ask me, the villains are way ahead and I don't see a chance for our heroes.” “I thought of a gimmick while Pol and I were out. You have this young kid you introduced into the story slide into the control room while everybody is asleep. They don't suspect him, see?, he's too young so they haven't put him in irons. Once in the control room. “Castor stopped and looked crestfallen. “No, it won't do; he's too young to handle the ship. He wouldn't know how.” “Why do you say that?” his father objected. “All I have to do is to plant that he has had a chance to, let me see.“ He stopped; his face went blank. “No,” he said presently. “No good, huh?” “Eh? What? It smells, but I think I can use it. Stevenson did something like it in Treasure Island, and I think he got it from Homer. Let's see; if we.“ He again went into his trance. Pollux had opened the warming cupboard Castor dropped his baby brother on the floor and accepted a dinner pack from his twin. He opened it. “Meat pie again,” he stated bleakly and sniffed it. “Synthetic, too.” “Say that over again and louder,” his sister urged him. “I've been trying for weeks to get Mother to subscribe to another restaurant.” “Don't talk, Meade,” Doctor Stone answered. “I'm modelling your mouth.” Grandmother Stone snorted. “You youngsters have it too easy. When I came to the Moon there was a time when we had nothing but soya beans and coffee powder for three months.” Meade answered, “Hazel, the last time you told us about that it was two months and it was tea instead of coffee.” “Young lady, who's telling this lie? You, or me?” Hazel stood up and came over to her twin grandsons. “What were you two doing on Dan Ekizian's lot?” Castor looked at Pollux, who looked back. Castor said cautiously, “Who told you that we were there?” “Don't try to kid your grandmother. When you have been on.” The entire family joined her in chorus: “On the Moon as long as I have!” Hazel sniffed. “Sometimes I wonder why I married!” Her son said, “Don't try to answer that question,” then continued to his sons, “Well, what were you doing there?” Castor consulted Pollux by eye, then answered, “Well, Dad, it's like this.” His father nodded. “Your best flights of imagination always start that way. Attend carefully, everybody.” “Well, you know that money you are holding for us?” “What about it?” “Three per cent isn't very much.” Mister Stone shook his head vigorously. “I will not invest your royalties in some wildcat stock. Financial genius may have skipped my generation but when I turn that money over to you, it will be intact.” “That's just it. It worries you. You could turn it over to us now and quit worrying about it.” “No, you are too young.” “We weren't too young to earn it.” His mother snickered. “They got you, Roger. Come here and I'll see if I can staunch the blood.” Doctor Stone said serenely, “Don't heckle Roger when he is coping with the twins, Mother. Meade, turn a little to the left.” Mister Stone answered, “You've got a point there, Cas. But you may still be too young to hang on to it. What is this leading up to?” Castor signalled with his eyes; Pollux took over. “Dad, we've got a really swell chance to take that money and put it to work. Not a wildcat stock, not a stock at all. We'll have every penny right where we can see it, right where we could cash in on it at any time. And in the meantime we'll be making lots more money.” “Hum, how?” “We buy a ship and put it to work.” His father opened his mouth; Castor cut in swiftly, “We can pick up a Detroiter Seven cheap and overhaul it ourselves; we won't be out a cent for wages.” Pollux filled in without a break. “You've said yourself, Dad, that we are both born mechanics; we've got the hands for it.” Castor went on. “We'd treat it like a baby because it would be our own.” Pollux: “We've both got both certificates, control and power. We wouldn't need any crew.” Castor: “No overhead, that's the beauty of it.” Pollux: “So we carry trade goods out to the Asteroids and we bring back a load of high-grade. We can't lose.” Castor: “Four hundred percent, maybe five hundred.” Pollux: “More like six hundred.” Castor: “And no worries for you.” Pollux: “And we'd be out of your hair.” Castor: “Not late for dinner.” Pollux had his mouth open when his father again yelled, “QUIET!” He went on, “Edith, bring the barrel. This time we use it.” Mister Stone had a theory, often expressed, that boys should be raised in a barrel and fed through the bunghole. The barrel had no physical existence. Doctor Stone said, “Yes, dear,” and went on modelling. Grandmother Stone said, “Don't waste your money on a Detroiter. They're unstable; the gyro system is no good. Wouldn't have one as a gift. Get a Douglas.” Mister Stone turned to his mother. “Hazel, if you are going to encourage the boys in this nonsense.” “Not at all! Not at all! Merely intellectual discussion. Now with a Douglas they could make some money. A Douglas has a very favorable.” “Hazel!” His mother broke off, then said thoughtfully, as if to herself, “I know there is free speech on the Moon: I wrote it into the charter myself.” Roger Stone turned back to his sons. “See here, boys, when the Chamber of Commerce decided to include pilot training in their Youth-Welfare program I was all for it. I even favored it when they decided to issue junior licenses to anybody who graduated high in the course. When you two got your jets I was proud as could be. It's a young man's game; they license commercial pilots at eighteen and.” “And they retire them at thirty,” added Castor. “We haven't any time to waste. We'll be too old for the game before you know it.” “Pipe down. I'll do the talking for a bit. If you think I'm going to draw that money out of the bank and let you two young yahoos go gallivanting around the system in a pile of sky junk that will probably blow the first time you go over two g's, you had better try another think. Besides, you're going down to Earth for school next September.” “We've been to Earth,” answered Castor. “We didn't like it,” added Pollux. “Too dirty.” “Likewise too noisy.” “Groundhogs everywhere,” Castor finished. Mister Stone brushed it aside. “Two weeks you were there, not time enough to find out what the place is like. You'll love it, once you get used to it. Learn to ride horseback, play baseball, see the Ocean” “A lot of impure water,” Castor answered. “Horses are to eat.” “Take baseball,” Castor continued. “It's not practical. How can you figure a one-g trajectory and place your hand at the point of contact in the free flight time between bases? We're not miracle men.” “I played it.” “But you grew up in a one-g field; you've got a distorted notion of physics. Anyhow, why would we want to learn to play baseball? When we come back, we wouldn't be able to play it here. Why, you might crack your helmet” Mister Stone shook his head. “Games aren't the point. Play base-ball or not, as suits you. But you should get an education.” “What does Luna City Technical lack that we need? And if so, why? After all, Dad, you were on the Board of Education.” “I was not; I was mayor.” “Which made you a member ex-officio, Hazel told us.” Mister Stone glanced at his mother; she was looking elsewhere. He went on, “Tech is a good school, of its sort, but we don't pretend to offer everything at Tech. After all, the Moon is still an outpost, a frontier.” “But you said,” Pollux interrupted, “in your retiring speech as mayor, that Luna City was the Athens of the future and the hope of the new age.” “Poetic license. Tech is still not Harvard. Don't you boys want to see the world's great works of art? Don't you want to study the world's great literature?” “We've read lvanhoe,” said Castor. “And we don't want to read The Mill on the Floss,” added Pollux. “We prefer your stuff.” “My stuff? My stuff isn't literature. It's more of an animated comic strip.” “We like it,” Castor said firmly. His father took a deep breath. “Thank you. Which reminds me that I still have a full episode to sweat out tonight, so I will cut this discussion short. In the first place you can't touch the money without my thumbprint, from now on I am going to wear gloves. In the second place both of you are too young for an unlimited license.” “You could get us a waiver for out-system. When we got back we'd probably be old enough for unlimited.” “You're too young!” Castor said, “Why, Dad, not half an hour ago you accepted a gimmick from me in which you were going to have an eleven-year-old kid driving a ship.” “I'll raise his age!” “It'll ruin your gimmick.” “Confound it! That's just fiction, and poor fiction at that. It's hokum, dreamed up to sell merchandise.” He suddenly looked suspiciously at his son. “Cas, you planted that gimmick on me. Just to give yourself an argument in favor of this hair-brained scheme, didn't you?” Castor looked pious. “Why, Father, how could you think such a thing?” “Don't Father me! I can tell a hawk from a Hanshaw.” “Anybody can,” Grandmother Hazel commented. “The Hawk class is a purely commercial type while the Hanshaw runabout is a sport job. Come to think about it, boys, a Hanshaw might be better than a Douglas. I like its fractional controls and.” “Hazel!” snapped her son. “Quit encouraging the boys. And quit showing off. You're not the only engineer in the family.” “I'm the only good one,” she answered smugly. “Oh, yes? Nobody ever complained about my work.” “Then why did you quit?” “You know why. Fiddle with finicky figures for months on end, and what have you got? A repair dock. Or a stamping mill. And who cares?” “So you aren't an engineer. You're merely a man who knows engineering.” “What about yourself? You didn't stick with it.” “No,” she admitted, “but my reasons were different. I saw three big, hairy, male men promoted over my head and not one of them could do a partial integration without a pencil. Presently I figured out that the Atomic Energy Commission had a bias on the subject of women no matter what the civil service rules said. So I took a job dealing blackjack. Luna City didn't offer much choice in those days, and I had you to support.” The argument seemed about to die out; Castor judged it was time to mix it up again. “Hazel, do you really think we should get a Hanshaw? I'm not sure we can afford it.” “Well, now, you really need a third crewman for a.” “Do you want to buy in?” “Mister Stone interrupted. “Hazel, I will not stand by and let you encourage this. I'm putting my foot down.” “You look silly standing there on one foot. Don't try to bring me up, Roger. At ninety-five my habits are fairly well set.” “Ninety-five indeed! Last week you were eighty-five.” “It's been a hard week. Back to our muttons, why don't you buy in with them? You could go along and keep them out of trouble.” “What? Me?” Mister Stone took a deep breath. “(A) a marine guard couldn't keep these two junior-model Napoleons out of trouble. I know; I’ve tried. (B) I do not like a Hanshaw; they are fuel hogs. (C) I have to turn out three episodes a week of The Scourge of the Spaceways, including one which must be taped tonight, if this family will ever quiet down!” “Roger,” his mother answered. “Trouble in this family is like water for fish. And nobody asked you to buy a Hanshaw, As to your third point, give me a blank spool and I'll dictate the next three episodes tonight while I'm brushing my hair.” Hazel's hair was still thick and quite red. So far, no one had caught her dyeing it. “It's about time you broke that contract anyway; you've won your bet.” Her son winced. Two years before he had let himself be trapped into a bet that he could write better stuff than was being channeled up from Earth, and had gotten himself caught in a quicksand of fat checks and options. “I can't afford to quit,” he said feebly. “What good is money if you don't have time to spend it? Give me that spool and the box.” “You can't write it.” “Want to bet?” Her son backed down; no one yet had won a bet with Hazel. “That's beside the point I'm a family man; I've got Edith and Buster and Meade to think about, too.” Meade turned her head again. “If you're thinking about me, Daddy, I'd like to go. Why, I've never been any place, except that one trip to Venus and twice to New York.” “Hold still. Meade,” Doctor Stone said quietly. She went on to her husband, “You know, Roger, I was thinking just the other day how cramped this apartment is. And we haven't been any place, as Meade says, since we got back from Venus.” Mister Stone stared. “You too? Edith, this apartment is bigger than any ship compartment; you know that.” “Yes, but a ship seems bigger. In free fall one gets so much more use out of the room.” “My dear, do I understand that you are supporting this junket?” “Oh, not at all! I was speaking in general terms. But you do sleep better aboard ship. You never snore in free fall.” “I do not snore!” Doctor Stone did not answer. Hazel snickered. Pollux caught Castor's eye and Castor nodded; the two slipped quietly away to their own room. It was a lot of trouble to get mother involved in a family argument, but worth the effort; nothing important was ever decided until she joined in. Meade tapped on their door a little later; Castor let her in and looked her over; she was dressed in the height of fashion for the American Old West. “Square dancing again, huh?” “Eliminations tonight. Look here, Cas, even if Daddy breaks loose from the money you two might be stymied by being underage for an unlimited license, right?” “We figure on a waiver.” They had also discussed blasting off without a waiver, but it did not seem the time to mention it. “But you might not get it. Just bear in mind that I will be eighteen next week. Bye now!” “Good night.” When she had gone Pollux said, “That's silly. She hasn't even taken her limited license.” “No, but she's had astrogation in school and we could coach her.” “Cas, you're crazy. We can't drag her all around the system; girls are a nuisance.” “You've got that wrong, Junior. You mean "sisters", girls are okay.” Pollux considered this. “Yeah, I guess you're right.” “I'm always right.” “Oh, so? How about the time you tried to use liquid air to.” “Let's not be petty!” Grandmother Hazel stuck her head in next. “Just a quick battle report, boys. Your father is groggy but still fighting gamely.” “Is he going to let us use the money?” “Doesn't look like it, as now. Tell me, how much did Ekizian ask you for that Detroiter?” Castor told her; she whistled. “The gonoph,” she said softly. “That unblushing groundhog, I'll have his license lifted.” “Oh, we didn't agree to pay it.” “Don't sign with him at all unless I'm at your elbow. I know where the body is buried.” “Okay. Look, Hazel, you really think a Detroiter Seven is unstable?” She wrinkled her brow. “Its gyros are too light for the ship's moment of inertia. I hate a ship that wobbles. If we could pick up a war-surplus triple duo gyro system, cheap, you would have something. I'll inquire around.” It was much later when Mister Stone looked in. “Still awake, boys?” “Oh, sure, come in.” “About that matter we were discussing tonight.” Pollux said, “Do we get the money?” Castor dug him in the ribs but it was too late. Their father said, “I told you that was out. But I wanted to ask you: did you, when you were shopping around today, happen to ask, us, about any larger ships?” Castor looked blank. “Why, no sir. We couldn't afford anything larger could we, Pol?” “Gee, no! Why do you ask, Dad?” “Oh, nothing, nothing at all! Uh, good night.” He left. The twins turned to each other and solemnly shook hands. One. A CASE FOR DRAMATIC LICENSE. At breakfast the next morning, “morning” by Greenwich time, of course; it was still late afternoon by local sun time and would be for a couple of days, the Stone family acted out the episode Hazel had dictated the night before of Mister Stone's marathon adventure serial. Grandma Hazel had stuck the spool of dictation into the autotyper as soon as she had gotten up; there was a typed copy for each of them. Even Buster had a small side to read and Hazel played several parts, crouching and jumping around and shifting her voice from rusty bass to soprano. Everybody got into the act, everybody but Mister Stone; he listened with a dour try-to-make-me-laugh expression. Hazel finished her grand cliff-hanging finale by knocking over her coffee. She plucked the cup out of the air and had a napkin under the brown flood before it could reach the floor under the urge of the Moon's leisurely field. “Well?” she said breathlessly to her son, while still panting from the Galactic Overlord's frantic attempts to escape a just fate. “How about it? Isn't that a dilly? Did we scare the dickens out of 'em or didn't we?” Roger Stone did not answer; he merely held his nose. Hazel looked amazed. “You didn't like it? Why, Roger, I do believe you're jealous. To think I would raise a son with spirit so mean that he would be envious of his own mother!” Buster spoke up. “I liked it. Let's do that part over where I shoot the space pirate.” He pointed a finger and made a buzzing noise. “Whee! Blood all over the bulkheads!” “There's your answer, Roger. Your public. If Buster likes it, you're in.” “I thought it was exciting,” Meade put in. “What was wrong with it, Daddy?” “Yes,” agreed Hazel belligerently. “Go ahead. Tell us.” “Very well. In the first place, spaceships do not make hundred-and eighty-degree turns.” “This one does!” “In the second place, what in blazes is this "Galactic Overlord" nonsense? When did he creep in?” “Oh, that! Son, your show was dying on its feet, so I gave it a transfusion.” “But "Galactic Overlords", now, really! It's not only preposterous: it's been used over and over again.” “Is that bad? Next week I'm going to equip Hamlet with atomic propulsion and stir it in with The Comedy of Errors. I suppose you think Shakespeare will sue me?” “He will if he can stop spinning.” Roger Stone shrugged 'I'll send it in. There's no time left to do another one and the contract doesn't say it has to be good: it just says I have to deliver it. They'll rewrite it in New York anyway.” His mother answered, “Even money says your fan mail is up twenty-five per cent on this episode.” “No, thank you. I don't want you wearing yourself out writing fan mail, not at your age.” “What's wrong with my age? I used to paddle you twice a week and I can still do it. Come on; put up your dukes!” “Too soon after breakfast.” “Sissy! Pick your way of dying, Marquis of Queensbury, dockside, or kill-quick.” “Send around your seconds; let's do this properly. In the meantime.” He turned to his sons. “Boys, have you any plans for today?” Castor glanced at his brother, then said cautiously, “well, we were thinking of doing a little more shopping for ships. “I'll go with you.” Pollux looked up sharply. “You mean we get the money?” His brother glared at him. Their father answered, “No, your money stays in the bank where it belongs.” “Then why bother to shop?” He got an elbow in the ribs for this remark. “I'm interested in seeing what the market has to offer,” Mister Stone answered. “Coming, Edith?” Doctor Stone answered, “I trust your judgement, my dear.” Hazel gulped more coffee and stood lip. “I'm coming along.” Buster bounced down out of his chair. “Me, too!” Doctor Stone stopped him. “No, dear. Finish your oatmeal.” “No! I'm going, too. Can't I, Grandma Hazel?” Hazel considered it. Riding herd on the child outside the pressurised city was a full-time chore; he was not old enough to be trusted to handle his vacuum-suit controls properly. On this occasion she wanted to be free to give her full attention to other matters. “I'm afraid not, Lowell. Tell you what, sugar, I'll keep my phone open and we'll play chess while I'm away.” “It's no fun to play chess by telephone. I can't tell what you are thinking.” Hazel stared at him. “So that's it? I've suspected it for some time. Maybe I can win a game once. No, don't start whimpering, or I'll take your slide rule away from you for a week.” The child thought it over, shrugged, and his face became placid. Hazel turned to her son. “Do you suppose he really does hear thoughts?” Her son looked at his least son. “I'm afraid to find out.” He sighed and added, “Why couldn't I have been born into a nice, normal, stupid family? Your fault, Hazel.” “His mother patted his arm. “Don't fret, Roger. You pull down the average.” “Humph! Give me that spool. I'd better shoot it off to New York before I lose my nerve.” Hazel fetched it; Mister Stone took it to the apartment phone, punched in the code for RCA New York with the combination set for high speed transcription relay. As he slipped the spool into its socket he added, “I shouldn't do this. In addition to that "Galactic Overlord" nonsense, Hazel, you messed up the continuity by killing off four of my standard characters.” Hazel kept her eye on the spool; it had started to revolve. “Don't worry about it. I've got it all worked out. You'll see.” “Eh? What do you mean? Are you intending to write more episodes? I'm tempted to go limp and let you struggle with it, I'm sick of it and it would serve you right. Galactic Overlords indeed!” His mother continued to watch the spinning spool in the telephone. At high speed relay the thirty-minute spool zipped through in thirty seconds. Shortly it went spung! and popped up out of the socket; Hazel breathed relief. The episode was now either in New York, or was being held automatically in the Luna City telephone exchange, waiting for a break in the live Luna-to-Earth traffic. In either case it was out of reach, as impossible to recall as an angry word. “Certainly I plan to do more episodes,” she told him. “Exactly seven, in fact.” “Huh! Why seven?” “Haven't you figured out why I am killing off characters? Seven episodes is the end of this quarter and a new option date. This time they won't pick up your option because every last one of the characters will be dead and the story will be over. I'm taking you off the hook, son.” “What? Hazel, you can't do that! Adventure serials never end.” “Does it say so in your contract?” “No, but.” “You've been grousing about how you wanted to get off this golden treadmill. You would never have the courage to do it yourself, so your loving mother has come to the rescue. You're a free man again, Roger.” “But.” His face relaxed. “I suppose you're right. Though I would prefer to commit suicide, even literary suicide, in my own way and at my own time. Hum, see here, Hazel, when do you plan to kill off John Sterling?” “Him? Why, Our Hero has to last until the final episode, naturally. He and the Galactic Overlord do each other in at the very end. Slow music.” “Yes. Yes, surely, that's the way it would have to be. But you can't do it.” “Why not?” “Because I insist on writing that scene myself. I've hated that mealy-mouthed Galahad ever since I thought him up. I'm not going to let anyone else have the fun of killing him; he's mine!” His mother bowed. “Your honour, sir.” Mister Stone's face brightened; he reached for his pouch and slung it over his shoulder. “And now let's look at some space-ships!” “Geronimo!” As the four left the apartment and stepped on the slide-way that would take them to the pressure lift to the surface Pollux said to his grandmother, “Hazel, what does "Geronimo" mean?” “Ancient Druid phrase meaning "Let's get out of here even if we have to walk." So pick up your feet.” Three. THE SECOND-HAND MARKET. They stopped at the Locker Rooms at East Lock and suited up. As usual, Hazel unbelted her gun and strapped it to her vacuum suit. None of the others was armed; aside from civic guards and military police no one went armed in Luna City at this late date except a few of the very old-timers like Hazel herself. Castor said, “Hazel, why do you bother with that?” “To assert my right. Besides, I might meet a rattlesnake.” “Rattlesnakes? On the Moon? Now, Hazel!” “’Now, Hazel’” yourself. More rattlesnakes walking around on their hind legs than ever wriggled in the dust. Anyhow, do you remember the reason the White Knight gave Alice for keeping a mouse trap on his horse?” “Uh, not exactly.” “Look it up when we get home. You kids are ignorant Give me a hand with this helmet.” The conversation stopped, as Buster was calling his grandmother and insisting that they start their game. Castor could read her lips through her helmet; when he had his own helmet in place and his suit radio switched on he could hear them arguing about which had the white men last game. Hazel was preoccupied thereafter as Buster, with the chess board in front of him, was intentionally hurrying the moves, whereas Hazel was kept busy visualising the board. They had to wait at the lock for a load of tourists, just arrived in the morning shuttle from Earth, to spill out. One of two women passengers stopped and stared at them. “Thelma,” she said to her companion, “that little man, he's wearing a gun.” The other woman urged her along. “Don't take notice,” she said. “It's not polite.” She went on, changing the subject 'I wonder where we can buy souvenir turtles around here? I promised Herbert.” Hazel turned and glared at them; Mister Stone took her arm and urged her into the now empty lock. She continued to fume as the lock cycled. “Groundhogs! Souvenir turtles indeed!” “Mind your blood pressure, Hazel,” her son advised. “You mind yours.” She looked up at him and suddenly grinned. “I should ha' drilled her, podnuh, like this.” She made a fast draw to demonstrate, then, before returning the weapon to its holster, opened the charge chamber and removed a cough drop. This she inserted through the pass valve of her helmet and caught it on her tongue. Sucking it, she continued. “Just the same, son, that did it. Your mind may not be made up; mine is. Luna is getting to be like any other ant hill. I'm going out somewhere to find elbow room, about a quarter of a billion miles of it.” “How about your pension?” “Pension be hanged! I got along all right before I had it, Hazel, along with the other remaining Founding Fathers, and mothers, of the lunar colony, had been awarded a lifetime pension from a grateful city. This might be for a long period, despite her age, as the normal human life span under the biologically easy conditions of the Moon's low gravity had yet to be determined; the Luna city geriatrics clinic regularly revised the estimate upwards. She continued, “How about you? Are you going to stay here, like a sardine in a can? Better grab your chance, son, before they run you for office again. Oueen to king's bishop three, Lowell.” “We'll see. Pressure is down; let's get moving.” Castor and Pollux carefully stayed out of the discussion; things were shaping up. As well as Dealer Dan's lot, the government salvage yard and that of the Bankrupt Hungarian were, of course, close by the spaceport. The Hungarian's lot sported an ancient sun-tarnished sign: BARGAINS! BARGAINS! BARGAINS! GOING OUT OF BUSINESS. But there were no bargains there, as Mister Stone decided in ten minutes and Hazel in five. The government salvage yard held mostly robot freighters without living quarters, one-trip ships, the interplanetary equivalent of discarded packing cases, and obsolete military craft unsuited for most private uses. They ended up at Ekizian's lot. Pollux headed at once for the ship he and his brother had picked out. His father immediately called him back 'Hey,” Pol! What's your hurry?” “Don't you want to see our ship?” “Your ship? Are you still laboring under the fancy that I am going to let you two refugees from a correction school buy that Deiroiter?” “Huh? Then what did we come out here for?” “I want to look at some ships. But I am not interested in a Detroiter Seven.” Pollux said, “Huh! See here, Dad, we aren't going to settle for a jumpbug. We need a, “The rest of his protest was cut off as Castor reached over and switched off his walkie-talkie; Castor picked it up: “What sort of a ship, Dad? Pol and I have looked over most of these heaps, one time or another.” “Well, nothing fancy. A conservative family job. Let's look at that Hanshaw up ahead.” Hazel said, “I thought you said Hanshaws were fuel hogs, Roger?” “True, but they are very comfortable. You can't have everything.” “Why not?” Pollux had switched his radio back on immediately. He put in, “Dad, we don't want a runabout. No cargo space.” Castor reached again for his belt switch; he shut up. But Mister Stone answered him. “Forget about cargo space. You two boys would lose your shirts if you attempted to compete with the sharp traders running around the system. I'm looking for a ship that will let the family make an occasional pleasure trip; I'm not in the market for a commercial freighter.” Pollux shut up; they all went to the Hanshaw Mister Stone had pointed out and swarmed up into her control room. Hazel used both hands and feet in climbing the rope ladder but was only a little behind her descendants. Once they were in the ship she went down the hatch into the power room; the others looked over the control roof and the living quarters, combined in one compartment. The upper or bow end was the control station with couches for pilot and co-pilot. The lower or after end had two more acceleration couches for passengers, all four couches were reversible, for the ship could be tumbled in flight, caused to spin end over end to give the ship artificial 'gravity' through centrifugal force, in which case the forward direction would be 'down', just the opposite of the 'down' of flight under power. Pollux looked over these arrangements with distaste. The notion of cluttering up a ship with gadgetry to coddle the tender stomachs of groundhogs disgusted him. No wonder Hanshaws were fuel hogs! But his father thought differently. He was happily stretched out in the pilot's couch, fingering the controls. “This baby might do,” he announced, “if the price is right.” Castor said, “I thought you wanted this for the family, “I do.” “Be pretty cramped in here once you rigged extra couches. Edith won't like that.” “You let me worry, about your mother. Anyhow, there are enough couches now. “With only four? How do you figure?” “Me, your mother, your grandmother, and Buster. If Meade is along we'll rig something for the baby. By which you may conclude that I am really serious about you two juvenile delinquents finishing your schooling. Now don't blow your safeties!, I have it in mind that you two can use this crate to run around in after you finish school. Or even during vacations, once you get your unlimited licenses. Fair enough?” The twins gave him the worst sort of argument to answer; neither of them said anything. Their expressions said everything that was necessary. Their father went on, “See here, I'm trying to be fair and I'm trying to. be generous. But how many boys your age do you know, or have even heard of, who have their own ship? None, right? You should get it through your heads that you are not supermen.” Castor grabbed at it. “How do you know that we are not "supermen"?” Pollux followed through with, “Conjecture, pure conjecture.” Before Mister Stone could think of an effective answer his mother poked her head up the power room hatch. Her expression seemed to say she had whiffed a very bad odor. Mister Stone said, “What's the trouble, Hazel? Power plant on the blink?” “"On the blink", he says! Why, I wouldn't lift this clunker at two gravities.” “What's the matter with it?” “I never saw a more disgracefully abused, No, I won't tell you. Inspect it yourself; you don't trust my engineering ability.” “Now see here, Hazel, I've never told you I don't trust your engineering.” “No, but you don't. Don't try to sweet-talk me; I know. So check the power room yourself. Pretend I haven't seen it.” Her son turned away and headed for the outer door, saying huffily, “I've never suggested that you did not know power plants. If you are talking about that Gantry design, that was ten years ago; by now you should have forgiven me for being right about it.” To the surprise of the twins Hazel did not continue the argument but followed her son docilely into the air lock. Mister Stone started down the rope ladder; Castor pulled his grandmother aside, switched off both her radio and pushed his helmet into contact with hers so that he might speak with her in private. “Hazel, what was wrong with the power plant? Pol and I went through this ship last week, I didn't spot anything too bad.” Hazel look at him pityingly. “You've been losing sleep lately? It's obvious, only four couches.” “Oh.” Castor switched on his radio and silently followed his brother and father to the ground. Etched on the stern of the next ship they visited was Cherub, Roma, Terra, and she actually was of the Carlotti Motors Angel series, though she resembled very little the giant Archangels, She was short, barely a hundred fifty feet high, and slender, and she was at least twenty years old. Mister Stone had been reluctant to inspect her. “She's too big for us,” he protested, “and I'm not looking for a cargo ship.” “Too big how?” Hazel asked '"Too big" is a financial term, not a matter of size. And with her cargo hold empty, think how lively she'll be. I like a ship that jumps when I twist its tail, and so do you.” “Hum, yes,” he admitted. “Well, I suppose it doesn't cost anything to look her over.” “You're talking saner every day, son.” Hazel reached for the rope ladder. The ship was old and old-fashioned and she had plied many a lonely million miles of space, but, thanks to the preservative qualities of the Moon's airless waste, she had not grown older since the last time her jets had blasted. She had simply slumbered timelessly, waiting for someone to come along and appreciate her sleeping beauty. Her air had been salvaged; there was no dust in her compartments. Many of her auxiliary fittings had been stripped and sold, but she herself was bright and clean and spaceworthy. The light Hazel could see in her son's eyes she judged to be love at first sight. She hung back and signalled the twins to keep quiet. The open airlock had let them into the living quarters; a galley-saloon, two little staterooms, and a bunkroom. The control room was separate, above them, and was a combined conn and comm. Roger Stone immediately climbed into it. Below the quarters was the cargo space and below that the power room. The little ship was a passenger-carrying freighter, conversely a passenger ship with cargo space; it was this dual nature which had landed her, an unwanted orphan, in Dealer Dan's second-hand lot. Too slow when carrying cargo to compete with the express liners, she could carry too few passengers to make money without a load of freight. Although of sound construction she did not fit into the fiercely competitive business world. The twins elected to go on down into the power room. Hazel poked around the living quarters, nodded approvingly at the galley, finally climbed up into the control room. There she found her son stretched out in the pilot's couch and fingering the controls. Hazel promptly swung herself into the copilot's couch, settled down in the bare rack, the pneumatic pads were missing, and turned her head toward Roger Stone. She called out “All stations manned and ready, Captain!” He looked at her and grinned. “Stand by to raise ship!” She answered, “Board green! Clear from tower! Ready for count off!” “Minus thirty! Twenty-nine, twenty-eight.” He broke off and added sheepishly, “It does feel good.” “You're dern tootin' it does. Let's grab ourselves a chunk of it before we're too old. This city life is getting us covered with moss.” Roger Stone swung his long legs out of the pilot's couch. “Um, maybe we should. Yes, we really should.” Hazel's booted feet hit the deck plates by his. “That's my boy! I'll raise you up to man size yet. Let's go see what the twins have taken apart.” The twins were still in the power room. Roger went down first; he said to Castor, “Well, son, how does it look? Will she raise high enough to crash?” Castor wrinkled his forehead. “We haven't found anything wrong, exactly, but they've taken her boost units out. The pile is just a shell.” Hazel said, “What do you expect? For 'em to leave "hot" stuff sitting in a decommissioned ship? In time the whole stern would be radioactive, even if somebody didn't steal it. Her son answered, “Quit showing off, Hazel, Cas knows that. We'll check the log data and get a metallurgical report later, if we ever talk business.” Hazel answered, “King's knight to queen bishop five. What's the matter, Roger? Cold feet?” “No, I like this ship, but I don't know that I can pay for her. And even if she were a gift, it will cost a fortune to overhaul her and get her ready for space.” “Pooh! I'll run the overhaul myself, with Cas and Pol to do the dirty work. Won't cost you anything but dockage. As for the price, we'll burn that bridge when we come to it.” “I'll supervise the overhaul, myself.” “Want to fight? Let's go down and find out just what inflated notions Dan Ekizian has this time. And remember, let me do the talking.” “Now wait a minute, I never said I was going to buy this bucket.” “Who said you were? But it doesn't cost anything to dicker. I can make Dan see reason.” Dealer Dan Ekizian was glad to see them, doubly so when he found that they were interested, not in the Detroiter Seven, but in a larger, more expensive ship. At Hazel's insistence she and Ekizian went into his inner office alone to discuss prices. Mister Stone let her get away with it, knowing that his mother drove a merciless bargain. The twins and he waited outside for quite a while; presently Mister Ekizian called his office girl in. She came out a few minutes later, to be followed shortly by Ekizian and Hazel. “It's all settled,” she announced, looking smug. The dealer smiled grudgingly around his cigar. “Your mother is a very smart woman, Mister Mayor.” “Take it easy!” Roger Stone protested. “You are both mixed up in your timing. I'm no longer mayor, thank heaven, and nothing is settled yet. What are the terms?” Ekizian glanced at Hazel, who pursed her lips. “Well, now, son,” she said slowly, “it's like this. I'm too old a woman to fiddle around. I might die in bed, waiting for you to consider all sides of the question. So I bought it.” “You?” “For all practical purposes. It's a syndicate. Dan puts up the ship; I wangle the cargo, and the boys and I take the stuff out to the Asteroids for a fat profit. I've always wanted to be a skipper.” Castor and Pollux had been lounging in the background, listening and watching faces. At Hazel's announcement Pollux started to speak; Castor caught his eye and shook his head. Mister Stone said explosively, “That's preposterous! I won't let you do it” “I'm of age, son.” “Mister Ekizian, you must be out of your mind.” The dealer took his cigar and stared at the end of it. “Business is business.” “Well, at least you won't get my boys mixed up in it. That's out!” “Hum,” said Hazel. “Maybe. Maybe not. Let's ask them.” “They're not of age.” “No, not quite. But suppose they went into court and asked that I be appointed their guardian?” Mister Stone listened to this quietly, then turned to his sons. “Cas, Pol, did you frame this with your grandmother?” Pollux answered, “No, sir.” “Would you do what she suggests?” Castor answered, “Now, Dad, you know we wouldn't like to do anything like that.” “But would you do it, eh?” “I didn't say so, sir.” “Hum.“ Mister Stone turned back. “This is pure blackmail, and I won't stand for it. Mister Ekizian, you knew that I came in here to bid on that ship. You knew that my mother was to bargain for it as my agent. You both knew that, but you made a deal behind my back. Now either you set that so-called deal aside and we start over, or I haul both of you down to the Better Business Bureau. Hazel was expressionless; Mister Ekizan examined his rings. “There's something in what you say, Mister Stone. Suppose we go inside and talk it over?” “I think we had better.” Hazel followed them in and plucked at her son's sleeve before he had a chance to start any dung. “Roger? You really want to buy this ship?” “I do.” She pointed to papers spread on Ekizian's desk. “Then just sign right there and stamp your thumb.” He picked up the papers instead. They contained no suggestion of the deal Hazel had outlined; instead they conveyed to him all right, title and interest in the vessel he had just inspected, and at a price much lower than he had been prepared to pay. He did some hasty mental arithmetic and concluded that Hazel had not only gotten the ship at scrapmetal prices but also must have bulldozed Ekizian into discounting the price by what it would have cost him to cut the ship up into pieces for salvage. In dead silence he reached for Mister Ekizian's desk stylus, signed his name, then carefully affixed his thumb print. He looked up and caught his mother's eye. “Hazel, there is no honesty in you and you'll come to a bad end.” She smiled. “Roger, you do say the sweetest things.” Mister Ekizian sighed. “As I said, Mister Stone, your mother is a very smart woman. I offered her a partnership.” “Then there was a deal?” Oh, no, no, not that deal, I offered her a partnership in the lot.” “But I didn't take it.” Hazel added. “I want elbow room.” Roger Stone grinned and shrugged, stood up. “Well, anyway, who's skipper now?” “You are, Captain.” As they came out both twins said, “Dad, did you buy it?” Hazel answered, “Don't call him "Dad", he prefers to be calledCaptai.” “Oh.” “Likewise "Oh",” Pol repeated. Doctor Stone's only comment was, “Yes, dear, I gave them notice on the lease.” Meade was almost incoherent; Lowell was incoherent After dinner Hazel and the twins took Meade and the baby out to see their ship; Doctor Stone, who had shown no excitement even during the Great Meteor Shower, stayed home with her husband. He spent the time making lists of things that must be attended to, both in the city and on the ship itself, before they could leave. He finished by making a list that read as follows: Myself, skipper Castor, first officer and pilot Meade, second officer and asst. cook Hazel, chief engineer Pollux, assistant engineer and relief pilot Edith, ship's surgeon and cook Buster, “supercargo.” He stared at it for a while, then said softly to himself, “Something tells me this isn't going to work.” Four. ASPECTS OF DOMESTIC ENGINEERING. Mister Stone did not show his ship's organisation bill to the rest of the family; he knew in his heart that the twins were coming along, but he was not ready to concede it publicly. The subject was not mentioned while they were overhauling the ship and getting it ready for space. The twins did most of the work with Hazel supervising and their father, from time to time, arguing with her about her engineering decisions. When this happened the twins usually went ahead and did it in the way they thought it ought to be done. Neither of them had much confidence in the skill and knowledge of their elders; along with their great natural talent for mechanics and their general brilliance went a cocksure, half-baked conceit which led them to think that they knew a great deal more than they did. This anarchistic and unstable condition came to a head over the overhaul of the intermediate injector sequence. Mister Stone had decreed, with Hazel concurring, that all parts which could be disassembled would so be, interior surfaces inspected, tolerances checked, and gaskets replaced with new ones. The intermediate sequence in this model was at comparatively low pressure; the gasketing was of silicone-silica laminate rather than wrung metal. Spare gaskets were not available in Luna city, but had to be ordered up from Earth; this Mister Stone had done. But the old gaskets appeared to be in perfect condition, as Pollux pointed when they opened the sequence. “Hazel, why don't we put these back in? They look brand new.” His grandmother took one of the gaskets, looked it over, flexed it, and handed it back. “Lots of life left in it; that's sure. Keep it for a spare.” Castor said, “That wasn't what Pol said. The new gaskets have to be flown from Rome to Pikes Peak, then jumped here. Might be three days, or it might be a week. And we can't do another thing until we get this mess cleaned up.” “You can work in the control room. Your father wants all new parts on everything that wears out.” “Oh, bother! Dad goes too much by the book; you've said so yourself.” Hazel looked up at her grandson, bulky in his pressure suit. “Listen, runt, your father is an A-one engineer. I'm privileged to criticise him; you aren't.” Pollux cut in hastily, “Just a Sec, Hazel, let's keep personalities out of this. I want your unbiased professional opinion; are those gaskets fit to put back in, or aren't they? Cross your heart and shame the devil.” “Well. I say they are fit to use. You can tell your father I said so. He ought to be here any minute now; I expect he will agree.” She straightened up. “I've got to go.” Mister Stone failed to show up when expected. The twins fiddled around, doing a little preliminarv work on the preheater. Finally Pollux said, “What time is it?” “Past four.” “Dad won't show up this afternoon. Look, those gaskets are all right and, anyhow, two gets you five he'd never know the difference.” “Well, he would okay them if he saw them.” “Hand me that wrench.” Hazel did show up again but by then they had the sequence put back together and had opened up the preheater. She did not ask about the injector sequence but got down on her belly with a flashlight and mirror and inspected the preheater's interior. Her frail body, although still agile as a cricket under the Moon's weak pull, was not up to heavy work with a wrench, but her eyes were sharper, and much more experienced, than those of the twins. Presently she wiggled out. “Looks good,” she announced. “We'll put it back together tomorrow. Let's go see what the cook ruined tonight.” She helped them disconnect their oxygen hoses from the ship's tank and reconnect to their back packs, then the three went down out of the ship and back to Luna City. Dinner was monopolised by a hot argument over the next installment of The Scourge of the Spaceways. Hazel was still writing it but the entire family, with the exception of Doctor Stone, felt free to insist on their own notions of just what forms of mayhem, and violence the characters should indulge in next. https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html

Spiderman, by Stan Lee. The original comic, with great power comes great responsibility.

People of the Dark By Robert E. Howard. Published in the magazine: Strange Tales of Mystery and Terror June 1932. The First appearance of Conan the Barbarian in print. Reformatted for Machine Text by PukeOnAPlate 2023. People of the Dark. By Robert E Howard. Out of the past, in Dagon's Cave, there is Conan of the reavers. I came to Dagon's Cave to kill Richard Brent. I went down the dusky avenues made by the towering trees, and my mood well-matched the primitive grimness of the scene. The approach to Dagon's Cave is always dark, for the mighty branches and thick leaves shut out the sun, and now the somberness of my own soul made the shadows seem more ominous and gloomy than was natural. Not far away I heard the slow wash of the waves against the tall cliffs, but the sea itself was out of sight, masked by the dense oak forest. The darkness and the stark gloom of my surroundings gripped my shadowed soul as I passed beneath the ancient branches, as I came out into a narrow glade and saw the mouth of the ancient cavern before me. I paused, scanning the cavern's exterior and the dim reaches of the silent oaks. The man I hated had not come before me! I was in time to carry out my grim intent. For a moment my resolution faltered, then like a wave there surged over me the fragrance of Eleanor Bland, a vision of wavy golden hair and deep gray eyes, changing and mystic as the sea. I clenched my bands until the knuckles showed white, and instinctively touched the wicked snub-nosed revolver whose weight sagged my coat pocket. But for Richard Brent, I felt certain I had already won this woman, desire for whom made my waking hours a torment and my sleep a torture. Whom did she love? She would not say; I did not believe she knew. Let one of us go away, I thought, and she would turn to the other. And I was going to simplify Matters for her, and for myself. By chance I had overheard my blond English rival remark that he intended coming to lonely Dagon's Cave on an idle exploring outing, alone. I am not by nature criminal. I was born and raised in a hard country, and have lived most of my life on the raw edges of the world, where a man took what he wanted, if he could, and mercy was a virtue little known. But it was a torment that racked me day and night that sent me out to take the life of Richard Brent. I have lived hard, and violently, perhaps. When love overtook me, it also was fierce and violent. Perhaps I was not wholly sane, what with my love for Eleanor Bland and my hatred for Richard Brent. Under any other circumstances, I would have been glad to call him friend, a fine, rangy, up-standing young fellow, clear-eyed and strong. But he stood in the way of my desire and he must die. I stepped into the dimness of the cavern and halted. I had never before visited Dagon's Cave, yet a vague sense of misplaced familiarity troubled me as I gazed on the high arching roof, the even stone walls and the dusty floor. I shrugged my shoulders, unable to place the elusive feeling; doubtless it was evoked by a similarity to caverns in the mountain country of the American Southwest where I was horn and spent my childhood. And yet I knew that I had never seen a cave like this one, whose regular aspect gave rise to myths that it was not a natural cavern, but had been hewn from the solid rock ages ago by the tiny hands of the mysterious Little People, the prehistoric beings of British legend. The whole countryside thereabouts was a haunt for ancient folk lore. The country folk were predominantly Celtic; here the Saxon invaders had never prevailed, and the legends reached back, in that long settled countryside, further than anywhere else in England, back beyond the coming of the Saxons, aye, and Incredibly beyond that distant age, beyond the coming of the Romans, to those unbelievably ancient days when the native Britons warred with black-haired Irish pirates. The Little People, of course, had their part in the lore. Legend said that this cavern was one of their last strongholds against the conquering Celts, and hinted at lost tunnels, long fallen in or blocked up, connecting the cave with a network of subterranean corridors which honeycombed the hills. With these chance meditations vying idly in my mind with grimmer speculations, I passed through the outer chamber of the cavern and entered narrow tunnel, which, I knew by former descriptions, connected with a larger room. It was dark in the tunnel, but not too dark for me to make out the vague, half-defaced outlines of mysterious etchings on the stone walls. I ventured to switch on my electric torch and examine them more closely. Even in their dimness I was repelled by their abnormal and revolting character. Surely no men cast in human mold as we know it, scratched those grotesque obscenities. The Little People, I wondered if those anthropologists were correct in their theory of a squat Mongoloid aboriginal race, so low in the scale of evolution as to be scarcely human, yet possessing a distinct, though repulsive culture of their own. They had vanished before the invading races, theory said, forming the base of all Aryan legends of trolls, elves, dwarfs and witches. Living in caves from the start, these aborigines had retreated farther and farther into the caverns of the hills before the conquerors, vanishing at last entirely, though folk-lore fancy pictures their descendants still dwelling in the lost chasms far beneath the hills, loathsome survivals of an outworn age. I snapped off the torch and passed through the tunnel, to come out into a sort of doorway which seemed entirely too symmetrical to have been the work of nature. I was looking into a vast dim cavern, at a somewhat lower level than the outer chamber, and again I shuddered with a strange alien sense of familiarity. A short flight of steps led down from the tunnel to the floor of the cavern, tiny steps, too small for normal human feet, carved into the solid stone. Their edges were greatly worn away, as if by ages of use. I started the descent, my foot slipped suddenly. I instinctively knew what was coming, it was all in part with that strange feeling of familiarity, but I could not catch myself. I fell headlong down the steps and struck the stone floor with a crash that blotted out my senses. Slowly consciousness returned to me, with a throbbing of my head and a sensation of bewilderment. I lifted a hand to my head and found it caked with blood. I had received a blow, or had taken a fall, but so completely had my wits been knocked out of me that my mind was an absolute blank. Where I was, who I was, I did not know. I looked about, blinking in the dim light, and saw that I was in a wide, dusty cavern. I stood at the foot of a short' flight of steps which led upward into some kind of tunnel. I ran my hand dazedly through my square-cut black mane, and my eyes wandered over my massive naked limbs and powerful torso. I was clad, I noticed absently, in a sort of loin cloth, from the girdle of which swung an empty scabbard, and leathern sandals were on my feet. Then I saw an object lying at my feet, and stooped and took it up. It was a heavy iron sword, whose broad blade was darkly stained. My fingers fitted instinctively about its hilt with the familiarity of long usage. Then suddenly I remembered and laughed to think that a fall on his head should render me, Conan of the reavers so completely daft. Aye, it all came back to me now. It had been a raid on the Britons, on whose coasts we continually swooped with torch and sword, from the island called Eireann. That day we of the black-haired Gael had swept suddenly down on a coastal village in our long, low ships and in the hurricane of battle which followed, the Britons had at last given up the stubborn contest and retreated, warriors, women and bairns, into the deep shadows of the oak forests, whither we seldom dared follow. But I had followed, for there was a girl of my foes whom I desired with a burning passion, a lithe, slim young creature with wavy golden hair and deep gray eyes, changing and mystic as the sea. Her name was Tamera, well I knew it, for there was trade between the races as well as war, and I had been in the villages of the Britons as a peaceful visitor, in times of rare truce. I saw her white half-clad body flickering among the trees as she ran with the swiftness of a doe, and I followed, panting with fierce eagerness. Under the dark shadows of the gnarled oaks she fled, with me in close pursuit, while far away behind us died out the shouts of slaughter and the clashing of swords. Then we ran in silence, save for her quick labored panting, and I was so close behind her as we emerged into a narrow glade before a somber-mouthed cavern, that I caught her flying golden tresses with one mighty hand. She sank down with a despairing wail, and even so, a shout echoed her try and I wheeled quickly to face a rangy young Briton who sprang from among the trees, the light of desperation in his eyes. "Vertorix!" the girl wailed, her voice breaking in a sob, and fiercer rage welled up in me, for I knew the lad was her lover. "Run for the forest, Tamera!" he shouted, and leaped at me as a panther leaps, his bronze ax whirling like a flashing wheel about his head. And then sounded the clangor of strife and the hard-drawn panting of combat. The Briton was as tall as I, but he was lithe where I was massive. The advantage of sheer muscular power was mine, and soon he was on the defensive, striving desperately to parry my heavy strokes with his ax. Hammering on his guard like a smith on an anvil, I pressed him relentlessly, driving him irresistibly before me. His chest heaved, his breath came in labored gasps, his blood dripped from scalp, cheat and thigh where my whistling blade had cut the skin, and all but gone home. As I redoubled my strokes and he bent and swayed beneath them like a sapling in a storm, I heard the girl cry: "Vertorix! Vertorix! The cave! Into the cave!” I saw his face pale with a fear greater than that induced by my hacking sword. "Not there!" he gasped. "Better a clean death! In Il-marenin's name, girl, run into the forest and save yourself!" “I will not leave you!” she cried. "The cave! It is our one chance!" I saw her flash past us like a flying wisp of white and vanish in the cavern, and with a despairing cry, the youth launched a wild desperate stroke that nigh cleft my skull. As I staggered beneath the blow I had barely parried, be sprang away, leaped into the cavern after the girl and vanished in the gloom. With a maddened yell that invoked all my grim Gaelic gods, I sprang recklessly after them, not reckoning if the Briton lurked beside the entrance to brain me as I rushed in. But a quick glance showed the chamber empty and a wisp of white disappearing through a dark doorway in the back wall. I raced across the cavern and came to a sudden halt as an ax licked out of the gloom of the entrance and whistled perilously close to my black-maned head. I gave back suddenly. Now the advantage was with Vertorix, who stood in the narrow mouth of the corridor where I could hardly come at him without exposing myself to the devastating stroke of his ax. I was near frothing with fury and the sight of a slim white form among the deep shadows behind the warrior drove me into a frenzy. I attacked savagely but warily, thrusting venomously at my foe, and drawing back from his strokes. I wished to draw him out into a wide lunge, avoid it and run him through before he could recover his balance. In the open I could have beat him down by sheer power and heavy blows, but here I could only use the point and that at a dis-advantage; I always preferred the edge. But I was stubborn; if I could not come at him with a finishing stroke, neither could he or the girl escape me while I kept him hemmed in the tunnel. It must have been the realization of this fact that prompted the girl's action, for she said something to Vertorix about looking for a way leading out, and though he cried out fiercely forbidding her to venture away into the darkness, she turned and ran swiftly down the tunnel to vanish in the dimness. My wrath rose appallingly and I nearly got my head split in my eagerness to bring down my foe before she found a means for their escape. Then the cavern echoed with a terrible scream and Vertorix cried out like a man death-stricken, his face ashy in the gloom. He whirled, as if he had forgotten me and my sword, and raced down the tunnel like a madman, shrieking Tamera's name. Prom far away, as if from the bowels of the earth, I seemed to hear her answering cry, mingled with a strange sibilant clamor that electrified me with nameless but instinctive horror. Then silence fell, broken only by Vertorix's frenzied cries, receding farther and farther into the earth. Recovering myself I sprang into the tunnel and raced after the Briton as recklessly as he had run after the girl. And to give me my due, red-handed reaver though I was, cutting down my rival from behind was less in my mind than discovering what dread thing had Tamera in its clutches. As I, ran along I noted absently that the sides of the tunnel were scrawled with monstrous pictures, and realized suddenly and creepily that this must be the dread Cavern of the Children of the Night, tales of which had crossed the narrow sea to resound horrifically in the ears of the Gaels. Terror of me must have ridden Tamara hard to have driven her into the cavern shunned by her people, where it was said, lurked the survivals of that grisly race which inhabited the land before the coming of the Picts and Britons, and which had fled before them into the unknown caverns of the hills. Ahead of me the tunnel opened into a wide chamber, and I saw the white form of Vertorix glimmer momentarily in the semi darkness and vanish in what appeared to be the entrance of a corridor opposite the mouth of the tunnel I had just traversed. Instantly there sounded a short, fierce shout and the crash of a hard-driven blow, mixed with the hysterical screams of a girl and a medley of serpent like hissing that made my hair bristle. And at that instant I shot out of the tunnel, running at full speed, and realized too late the floor of the cavern lay several feet below the level of the tunnel. My flying feet missed the tiny steps and I crashed terrifically on the solid stone floor. Now as I stood in the semi-darkness, rubbing my aching head, all this came back to me, and I stared fearsomely across the vast chamber at that black cryptic corridor into which Tamera and her lover had disappeared, and over which silence lay like a pall. Gripping my sword, I warily crossed the great still cavern and peered into the corridor. Only a denser darkness met my eyes. I entered, striving to pierce the gloom, and as my foot slipped on a wide wet smear on the stone floor, the raw acrid scent of fresh-spilled blood met my nostrils. Someone or something had died there, either the young Briton or his un-known attacker. I stood there uncertainly, all the supernatural fears that are the heritage of the Gael rising in my primitive soul. I could turn and stride out of these accursed mazes, into the clear sunlight and down to the clean blue sea where my comrades, no doubt, impatiently awaited me after the routing of the Britons. Why should I risk my life among these grisly rat dens? I was eaten with curiosity to know what manner of beings haunted the cavern, and who were called the Children of the Night by the Britons, but in it was my love for the yellow-haired girl which drove me down that dark tunnel, and love her I did, in my way, and would have been kind to her, had I carried her away to my island haunt. I walked softly along the corridor, blade ready. What sort of creatures the Children of the Night were, I had no idea, but the tales of the Britons had lent them a distinctly inhuman nature. The darkness closed around me as I advanced, until I was moving in utter blackness. My groping left hand encountered a strangely carven doorway, and at that instant something hissed like a viper beside me and slashed fiercely at my thigh. I struck back savagely and felt my blind stroke crunch home, and something fell at my feet and died. What thing I had slain in the dark I could not know, but it must have been at least partly human because the shallow gash in my thigh had been made with a blade of some sort, and not by fangs or talons. And I sweated with horror, for the gods know, the hissing voice of the Thing had resembled no human tongue I had ever heard. And now in the darkness ahead of me I heard the sound repeated, mingled with horrible slitherings, as if numbers of reptilian creatures were approaching. I stepped quickly into the entrance my groping hand had discovered and cane near repeating my headlong fall, for instead of letting into another level corridor, the entrance gave onto a flight of dwarfish steps on which I floundered wildly. Recovering my balance I went on cautiously, groping along the sides of the shaft for support. I seemed to be descending into the very bowels of the earth, but I dared not turn back. Suddenly, far below me, I glimpsed a faint eerie light. I went on, perforce, and came to a spot where the shaft opened into another great vaulted chamber; and I shrank back, aghast. In the center of the chamber stood a grim, black altar; it had been rubbed all over with a sort of phosphorous, so that it glowed dully, lending a semi-illumination to the shadowy cavern. Towering behind it on a pedestal of human skulls, lay a cryptic black object, carven with mysterious hieroglyphics, The Black Stone! The ancient, ancient Stone before which, the Britons said, the Children of the Night bowed in gruesome worship, and whose origin was lost in the black mists of a hideously distant past. Once, legend said, it had stood in that grim circle of monoliths called Stonehenge, before its votaries had been driven like chaff before the bows of the Picts. But I gave it but a passing, shuddering glance. Two figures lay, bound with rawhide thongs, on the glowing black altar. One was Tamera; the other was Vertorix, blood-stained and disheveled. His bronze ax, crusted with clotted blood, lay near the altar. And before the glowing stone squatted Horror. Though I had never seen one of those ghoulish aborigines, I knew this thing for what it was, and shuddered. It was a man of a sort, but so low in the stage of life that its distorted humanness was more horrible than its bestiality. Erect, it could not have been five feet in height. Its body was scrawny and deformed, its head disproportionately large. Lank snaky hair fell over a square in-human face with flabby writhing lips that bared yellow fangs, flat spreading nostrils and great yellow slant eyes. I knew the creature must be able to see in the dark as well as a cat. Centuries of skulking in dim caverns had lent the race terrible and inhuman attributes. But the most repellent feature was its skin: scaly, yellow and mottled, like the hide of a serpent. A loin-cloth made of a real snake's skin girt its lean loins, and its taloned hands gripped a short stone-tipped spear and a sinister-looking mallet of polished flint. So intently was it gloating over its captives, it evidently had not heard my stealthy descent. As I hesitated in the shadows of the shaft, far above me I heard a soft sinister rustling that chilled the blood in my veins. The Children were creeping down the shaft behind me, and I was trapped. I saw other entrances opening on the chamber, and I acted, realizing that an alliance with Vertorix was our only hope. Enemies though we were, we were men, cast in the same mold, trapped in the lair of these indescribable monstrosities. As I stepped from the shaft, the horror beside the altar jerked up his head and glared full at me. And as he sprang up, I leaped and he crumpled, blood spurting, as my heavy sword split his reptilian heart. But even as he died, he gave tongue in an abhorrent shriek which was echoed far up the shaft. In desperate haste I cut Vertorix's bonds and dragged him to his feet. And I turned to Tamera, who in that dire extremity did not shrink from me, but looked up at me with pleading, terror-dilated eyes. Vertorix wasted no time in words, realizing chance had made allies of us. He snatched up his ax as I freed the girl. "We can't go up the shaft," he explained swiftly; "we'll have the whole pack upon us quickly. They caught Tamera as she sought for an exit, and overpowered me by sheer numbers when I followed. They dragged us hither and all but that carrion scattered, bearing word of the sacrifice through all their burrows, I doubt not Il-marenin alone knows how many of my people, stolen in the night, have died on that altar. We must take our chance in one of these tunnels, all lead to hell! Follow me!" Seizing Tamera's hand he ran fleetly into the nearest tunnel and I followed. A glance back into the chamber before a turn in the corridor blotted it from view showed a revolting horde streaming out of the shaft. The tunnel slanted steeply upward, and suddenly ahead of us we saw a bar of gray light. But the next instant our cries of hope changed to curses of bitter disappointment. There was daylight, aye, drifting in through a cleft in the vaulted roof, but far, far above our reach. Behind us the pack gave tongue exultingly. And I halted. "Save yourselves if you can," I growled. "Here I make my stand. They can see in the dark and I cannot. Here at least I can see them. Go!" But Vertorix halted also. "Little use to be hunted like rats to our doom. There is no escape. Let us meet our fate like men." Tamera cried out, wringing her hands, but she clung to her lover. "Stand behind me with the girl," I grunted. "When I fall, dash out her brains with your ax lest they take her alive again. Then sell your own life as high as you may, for there is none to avenge us." His keen eyes met mine squarely. "We worship different gods, reaver," he said, "but all gods love brave men. Mayhap we shall meet again, beyond the Dark." "Hail and farewell, Briton I" I growled, and our right hands gripped like steel. "Hail and farewell, Gael!" And I wheeled as a hideous horde swept up the tunnel and burst into the dim light, a flying nightmare of streaming 'snaky hair, foam-flecked lips and glaring eyes. Thundering my war-cry I sprang to meet them and my heavy sword sang and a head spun grinning from its shoulder on an arching fountain of blood. They came upon me like a wave and the fighting madness of my race was upon me. I fought as a maddened beast fights and at every stroke I clove through flesh and bone, and blood spattered in a crimson rain. Then as they surged in and I went down beneath the sheer weight of their numbers, a fierce yell cut the din and Vertorix's ax sang above me, splattering blood and brains like water. The press slackened and I staggered up, trampling the writhing bodies beneath my feet. "A stair behind us!" the Briton was screaming. "Half bidden in an angle of the wall! It must lead to daylight! Up it, in the name of Il-marenin!" So we fell back, fighting our way inch by inch. The vermin fought like blood-hungry devils, clambering over the bodies of the slain to screech and hack. Both of us were streaming blood at every step when we reached the mouth of the shaft, into which Tamera had preceded us. Screaming like very fiends the Children surged in to drag us down. The shaft was not as light as had been the corridor, and it grew darker as we climbed, but our foes could only come at us from in front. By the gods, we slaughtered them till the stair was littered with mangled corpses and the Children frothed like mad wolves! Then suddenly they abandoned the fray and raced back down the steps. "What portends this?" gasped Vertorix, shaking the bloody sweat from his eyes. "Up the shaft, quick I" I panted. "They mean to mount some other stair and come at us from above!" So we raced up those accursed steps, slipping and stumbling, and as we fled past a black tunnel that opened into the shaft, far down it we heard a frightful howling. An instant later we emerged from the shaft into a winding corridor, dimly illumined by a vague gray light filtering in from above, and some-where in the bowels of the earth I seemed to hear the thunder of rushing water. We started down the corridor and as we did so, a heavy weight smashed on my shoulders, knocking me headlong, and a mallet crashed again and again on my head, sending dull red flashes of agony across my brain. With a volcanic wrench I dragged my attacker off and under me, and tore out his throat with my naked fingers. And his fangs met in my arm in his death-bite. Reeling up, I saw that Tamera and Vertorix had passed out of sight I had been somewhat behind them, and they had run on, knowing nothing of the fiend which had leaped on my shoulders. Doubtless they thought I was still close on their heels. A dozen steps I took, then halted. The corridor branched and I knew not which way my companions had taken. At blind venture I turned into the left-hand branch, and staggered on in the semidarkness. I was weak from fatigue and loss of blood, dizzy and sick from the blows I had received. Only the thought of Tamera kept me doggedly on any feet. Now distinctly I heard the sound of an unseen torrent. That I was not far underground was evident by the dim light which filtered in from somewhere above, and I momentarily expected to come upon another stair. But when I did, I halted in black despair; instead of up, it led down. Somewhere far behind me I heard faintly the howls of the pack, and I went down, plunging into utter darkness. At last I struck a level and went along blindly. I had given up all hope of escape, and only hoped to find Tamera, if she and her lover had not found a way of escape, and die with her. The thunder of rushing water was above my head now, and the tunnel was slimy and dank. Drops of moisture fell on my head and I knew I was passing under the river. Then I blundered again upon steps cut in the stone, and these led upward. I scrambled up as fast as my stiffening wounds would allow, and I had taken punishment enough to have killed an ordinary man. Up I went and up, and suddenly daylight burst on me through a cleft in the solid rock. I stepped into the blaze of the sun. I was standing on a ledge high above the rushing waters of a river which raced at awesome speed between towering cliffs. The ledge on which I stood was close to the top of the cliff; safety was within arm's length. But I hesitated and such was my love for the golden-haired girl that I was ready to retrace my steps through those black tunnels on the mad hope of finding her. Then I started. Across the river I saw another cleft in the cliff-wall which fronted me, with a ledge similar to that on which I stood, but longer. In olden times, I doubt not, some sort of primitive bridge connected the two ledges, possibly before the tunnel was dug beneath the riverbed Now as I watched, two figures emerged upon that other ledge, one gashed, dust-stained, limping, gripping a bloodstained ax; the other slim, white and girlish. Vertorix and Tamera! They had taken the other branch of the corridor at the fork and had evidently followed the windows of the tunnel to emerge as I had done, except that I had taken the left turn and passed clear under the river. And now I saw that they were in a trap. On that side the cliffs rose half a hundred feet higher than on my side of the river, and so sheer a spider could scarce have scaled them. There were only two ways of escape from the ledge: hack through the fiend-haunted tunnels, or straight down to the river which raved far beneath. I saw Vertorix look up the sheer cliffs and then down, and shake his head in despair. Tamara put her arms about his neck, and though I could not hear their voices for the rush of the river, I saw them smile, and then they went together to the edge of the ledge. And out of the cleft swarmed a loathsome mob, as foul reptiles writhe up out of the darkness, and they stood blinking in the sunlight like the night-things they were. I gripped my sword-hilt in the agony of my helplessness until the blood trickled from under my finger-nails. Why had not the pack followed me Instead of my companions? The Children hesitated an instant as the two Britons faced them, then with a laugh Vertorix hurled his ax far out into the rushing river, and turning, caught Tamera in a last embrace. Together they sprang far out, and still locked in each other's arms, hurtled down-ward, struck the madly foaming water that seemed to leap up to meet them, and vanished. And the wild river swept on like a blind, insensate monster, thundering along the echoing cliffs. A moment I stood frozen, then like a man in a dream I turned, caught the edge of the cliff above me and wearily drew myself up and over, and stood on my feet above the cliffs, hearing like a dim dream the roar of the river far beneath. I reeled up, dazedly clutching my throbbing head, on which dried blood was clotted. I glared wildly about me. I had clambered the cliffs, no, by the thunder of Crom, I was still in the cavern! I reached for my sword. The mists faded and I stared about dizzily, orienting myself with space and time. I stood at the foot of the steps down which I had fallen. I who had been Conan the reaver, was John O'Brien. Was all that grotesque interlude a dream? Could a mere dream appear so vivid? Even in dreams, we often know we are dreaming, but Conan the reaver had no cognizance of any other existence. More, he remembered his own past life as a living man remembers, though in the waking mind of John O'Brien, that memory faded into dust and mist. But the adventures of Conan in the Cavern of the Children stood clear-etched in the mind of John O'Brien. I glanced across the dim chamber toward the entrance of the tunnel into which Vertorix had followed the girl. But I looked in vain, seeing only the bare blank wall of the cavern. I crossed the chamber, switched on my electric torch, miraculously unbroken in my fall, and felt along the wall. Ha! I started, as from an electric shock! Exactly where the entrance should have been, my fingers detected a difference in material, a section which was rougher than the rest of the wall. I was convinced that it was of comparatively modern workmanship; the tunnel had been walled up. I thrust against it, exerting all my strength, and It seemed to me that the section was about to give. I drew back, and taking a deep breath, launched my full weight against it, backed by all the power of my giant muscles. The brittle, decaying wall gave way with a shattering crash and I catapulted through in a shower of stones and falling masonry. I scrambled up, a sharp cry escaping me. I stood in a tunnel, and I could not mistake the feeling of similarity this time. Here Vertorix had first fallen foul of the Children, as they dragged Tamara away, and here where I now stood the floor had been awash with blood. I walked down the corridor like a man In a trance, Soon I should come to the doorway on the left, aye, there it was, the strangely carven portal, at the mouth of which I had slain the unseen being which reared up in the dark beside me. I shivered momentarily. Could it be possible that remnants of that foul race still lurked hideously in these remote caverns? I turned into the doorway and my light shone down a long, slanting shaft, with tiny steps cut into the solid stone. Down these had Conan the reaver gone groping and down them went I, John O'Brien, with memories of that other life filling my brain with vague phantasms. No light glimmered ahead of me but I came into the great dim chamber I had known of yore, and I shuddered as I saw the grim black altar etched in the gleam of my torch. Now no bound figures writhed there, no crouching horror gloated before it. Nor did the pyramid of skulls support the Black Stone before which unknown races had bowed before Egypt was born out of time's dawn. Only a littered heap of dust lay strewn where the skulls had upheld the hellish thing. No, that had been no dream; I was John O'Brien, but I had been Conan of the reavers in that other life, and that grim interlude a brief episode of reality which I had relived. I entered the tunnel down which we had fled, shining a beam of light ahead, and saw the bar of gray light drifting down from above, just as in that other, lost age. Here the Briton and I, Conan, had turned at bay. I turned my eyes from the ancient cleft high up in the vaulted roof, and looked for the stair. There it was, half concealed by an angle in the wall. I mounted, remembering how hardly Vcrtorix and I had gone up so many ages before, with the horde hissing and frothing at our heels. I found myself tense with dread as I approached the dark, gaping entrance through which the pack had sought to cut us off. I had snapped off the light when I came into the dim-lit corridor below, and now I glanced into the well of blackness which opened on the stair. And with a cry I started back, nearly losing my footing on the worn steps. Sweating in the semidarkness I switched on the light and directed its beam into the cryptic opening, revolver in hand. I saw only the bare rounded sides of a small shaftlike tunnel and I laughed nervously. My imagination was running riot; I could have sworn that hideous yellow eyes glared terribly at me from the darkness, and that a crawling some-thing had stuttered away down the tunnel. I was foolish to let these imaginings upset me. The Children had long vanished from these caverns; a nameless and abhorrent race closer to the serpent than the man, they had centuries ago faded back into the oblivion from which they had crawled in the black dawn ages of the earth. I came out of the shaft into the winding corridor, which, as I remembered of old, was lighter. Here from the shadows a lurking thing had leaped on my back while my companions ran on, unknowing. What a brute of a man Conan had been, to keep going after receiving such savage wounds! Aye, in that age all men were Iron. I came to the place where the tunnel forked and as before I took the left-hand branch and came to the shaft that led down. Down this I went, listening for the roar of the river, but not hearing it. Again the darkness shut in about the shaft, so I was forced to have recourse to my electric torch again, lest I lose my footing and plunge to my death. Oh, I, John O'Brien, am not nearly so surefooted as was I, Conan the reaver; no, nor as tigerishly powerful and quick, either. I soon struck the dank lower level and felt again the dampness that denoted my position under the river-bed, but still I could not hear the rush of the water. And indeed I knew that whatever mighty river had rushed roaring to the sea in those ancient times, there was no such body of water among the hills today. I halted, flashing my light about. I was in a vast tunnel, not very high of roof, but broad. Other smaller tunnels branched off from it and I wondered at the network which apparently honeycombed the hills. I cannot describe the grim, gloomy effect of those dark, low-roofed corridors far below the earth. Over all hung an overpowering sense of unspeakable antiquity. Why had the little people carved out these mysterious crypts, and in which black age? Were these caverns their last refuge from the on-rushing tides of humanity, or their castles since time immemorial? I shook my head in bewilderment; the bestiality of the Children I had seen, yet somehow they had been able to carve these tunnels and chambers that might balk modern engineers. Even supposing they had but completed a task begun by nature, still it was a stupendous work for a race of dwarfish aborigines. Then I realized with a start that I was spending more time in these gloomy tunnels than I cared for, and began to hunt for the steps by which Conan had ascended. I found them and, following them up, breathed again deeply in relief as the sudden glow of daylight filled the shaft. I came out upon the ledge, now worn away until it was little more than a bump on the face of the cliff. And I saw the great river, which had roared like a prisoned monster between the sheer walls of its narrow canyon, had dwindled away with the passing eons until it was no more than a tiny stream, far beneath me, trickling soundlessly among the stones on its way to the sea. Aye, the surface of the earth changes; the rivers swell or shrink, the mountains heave and topple, the lakes dry up, the continents alter; but under the earth the work of lost, mysterious hands slumbers untouched by the sweep of Time. Their work, aye, but what of the hands that reared that work? Did they, too, lurk beneath the bosoms of the hills? How long I stood there, lost in dim speculations, I do not know, but suddenly, glancing across at the other ledge, crumbling and weathered. I shrank back into the entrance behind me. Two figures came out upon the ledge and I gasped to see that they were Richard Brent and Eleanor Bland. Now I remembered why I had come to the cavern and my hand instinctively sought the revolver in my pocket. They did not see me. But I could see them, and hear them plainly, too, since no roaring river now thundered between the ledges. "By gad, Eleanor," Brent was saying, "I'm glad you decided to come with me. Who would have guessed there was anything to those old tales about hidden tunnels leading from the cavern? I wonder how that section of wall came to collapse? I thought I heard a crash just as we entered the outer cave. Do you suppose some beggar was in the cavern ahead of us, and broke it in?" "I don't know," she answered. “I remember, oh, I don't know. It almost seems as if I'd been here before, or dreamed I had. I seem to faintly remember, like a far-off nightmare, running, running, running endlessly through these dark corridors with hideous creatures on my heels.” "Was I there?" jokingly asked Brent. "Yes, and John. too." she answered. "But you were not Richard Brent, and John was not John O'Brien. No, and I was not Eleanor Bland, either. Oh, it's so dim and far-off I can't describe it at all. It's hazy and misty and terrible." "I understand, a little," he said unexpectedly. "Ever since we came to the place where the wall had fallen and revealed the old tunnel, I've had a sense of familiarity with the place. There was horror and danger and battle, and love, too." He stepped nearer the edge to look down in the gorge, and Eleanor cried out sharply and suddenly, seizing him in a convulsive grasp. "Don’t Richard, don’t! Hold me, oh, hold me tight!" He caught her in his arms. "Why, Eleanor, dear, what's the matter?" "Nothing," she faltered, but she clung closer to him and I saw she was trembling. "Just a strange feeling, rushing dizziness and fright, just as if I were falling from a great height. Don't go near the edge, Dick; it scares me." "I won't, dear," he answered, drawing her closer to him, and continuing hesitantly: "Eleanor, there's something I've wanted to ask you for a long time, well, I haven't the knack of putting things in an elegant way. I love you, Eleanor; always have. You know that. But if you don't love me, I'll take myself off and won't annoy you anymore. Only please tell me one way or another, for I can't stand it any longer. Is it I or the American?" "You, Dick." she answered, hiding her face on his shoulder. "It's always been you, though I didn't know it. I think a great deal of John O'Brien. I didn't know which of you I really loved. But today as we came through those terrible tunnels and climbed those fearful stairs, and just now, when I thought for some strange reason we were falling from the ledge. I realized it was you I loved, that I always loved you, through more lives than this one. Always!" Their lips met and I saw her golden head cradled on his shoulder. My lips were dry, my heart cold, yet my soul was at peace. They belonged to each other. Eons ago they lived and loved, and because of that love they suffered and died. And I, Conan, had driven them to that doom. I saw them turn toward the cleft, their arms about each other, then I heard Tamera, I mean Eleanor, shriek, I saw them both recoil. And out of the cleft a horror came writhing, a loathsome, brain-shattering thing that blinked in the clear, sunlight. Aye, I knew it of old, vestige of a forgotten age, it came writhing its horrid shape up out of the darkness of the Earth and the lost past to claim its own. What three thousand years of retrogression can do to a race hideous in the beginning, I saw, and shuddered. And instinctively I knew that in all the world it was the only one of its kind, a monster that had lived on. God alone knows how many centuries, wallowing in the slime of its dank subterranean lairs. Before the Children had vanished, the race must have lost all human semblance, living as they did, the life of the reptile. This thing was more like a giant serpent than anything else, but it had aborted legs and snaky arms with hooked talons. It crawled on its belly, writhing back mottled lips to bare needlelike fangs, which I felt must drip with venom. It hissed as it reared up its ghastly head on a horribly long neck, while its yellow slanted eyes glittered with all the horror that is spawned in the black lairs under the earth. I knew those eyes had blazed at me from the dark tunnel opening on the stair. For some reason the creature had fled from me, possibly because it feared my light, and it stood to reason that it was the only one remaining in the caverns, else I had been set upon in the darkness. But for it, the tunnels could be traversed in safety. Now the reptilian thing writhed toward the humans trapped on the ledge. Brent had thrust Eleanor behind him and stood, face ashy, to guard her as best he could. And I gave thanks silently that I, John O'Brien, could pay the debt I, Conan the reaver, owed these lovers since long ago. The monster reared up and Brent, with cold courage, sprang to meet it with his naked hands. Taking quick aim. I fired once. The shot echoed like the crack of doom between the towering cliffs, and the Horror, with a hideously human scream, staggered wildly, swayed and pitched headlong, knotting and writhing like a wounded python, to tumble from the sloping ledge and fall plummet like to the rocks far below.

THE COMPUTER AND THE BRAIN. JOHN VON NEUMANN. First edition 1958. For historical interest. INTRODUCTION. Since I am neither a neurologist nor a psychiatrist, but a mathematician, the work that follows requires some explanation and justification. It is an approach toward the understanding of the nervous system from the mathematician’s point of view. However, this statement must immediately be qualified in both of its essential parts. First, it is an overstatement to describe what I am attempting here as an “approach toward the understanding”; it is merely a somewhat systematized set of speculations as to how such an approach ought to be made. That is, I am trying to guess which of the, mathematically guided, lines of attack seem, from the hazy distance in which we see most of them, a priori promising, and which ones have the opposite appearance. I will also offer some rationalizations of these guesses. Second, the “mathematician’s point of view,” as I would like to have it understood in this context, carries a distribution of emphases that differs from the usual one: apart from the stress on the general mathematical techniques, the logical and the statistical aspects will be in the foreground. Furthermore, logics and statistics should be primarily, although not exclusively, viewed as the basic tools of “information theory.” Also, that body of experience which has grown up around the planning, evaluating, and coding of complicated logical and mathematical automata will be the focus of much of this information theory. The most typical, but not the only, such automata are, of course, the large electronic computing machines. Let me note, in passing, that it would be very satisfactory if one could talk about a “theory” of such automata. Regrettably, what at this moment exists, and to what I must appeal, can as yet be described only as an imperfectly articulated and hardly formalized “body of experience.” Lastly, my main aim is actually to bring out a rather different aspect of the matter. I suspect that a deeper mathematical study of the nervous system, “mathematical” in the sense outlined above, will affect our understanding of the aspects of mathematics itself that are involved. In fact, it may alter the way in which we look on mathematics and logics proper. I will try to explain my reasons for this belief later. PART One. THE COMPUTER. I begin by discussing some of the principles underlying the systematics and the practice of computing machines. Existing computing machines fall into two broad classes: “analog” and “digital.” This subdivision arises according to the way in which the numbers, on which the machine operates, are represented in it. The Analog Procedure. In an analog machine each number is represented by a suitable physical quantity, whose values, measured in some pre-assigned unit, is equal to the number in question. This quantity may be the angle by which a certain disk has rotated, or the strength of a certain current, or the amount of a certain (relative) voltage, etc. To enable the machine to compute, meaning to operate on these numbers according to a predetermined plan, it is necessary to provide organs, or components, that can perform on these representative quantities the basic operations of mathematics. The Conventional Basic Operations. These basic operations are usually understood to be the “four species of arithmetic”: Addition (the operation x plus y), subtraction (x minus y), multiplication (x times y), division (x dived by y). Thus it is obviously not difficult to add or to subtract two currents (by merging them in parallel or in antiparallel directions). Multiplication (of two currents) is more difficult, but there exist various kinds of electrical componentry which will perform this operation. The same is true for division, of one current by another. For multiplication as well as for division, but not for addition and subtraction, of course the unit in which the current is measured is relevant. Unusual Basic Operations. A rather remarkable attribute of some analog machines, on which I will have to comment a good deal further, is this. Occasionally the machine is built around other “basic” operations than the four species of arithmetic mentioned above. Thus the classical “differential analyzer,” which expresses numbers by the angles by which certain disks have rotated, proceeds as follows. Instead of addition, x plus y, and subtraction, x minus y, the operations (x plus or minus y) divided by two are offered, because a readily available, simple component, the “differential gear” (the same one that is used on the back axle of an automobile) produces these. Instead of multiplication, xy, an entirely different procedure is used: In the differential analyzer all quantities appear as functions of time, and the differential analyzer makes use of an organ called the “integrator,” which will, for two such quantities x (Of t), y (Of t) form the (“Stieltjes”) integral z (Of t) between two t values of x (Of t) d y (Of t). The point in this scheme is threefold: First: the three above operations will, in suitable combinations, reproduce three of the four usual basic operations, namely addition, subtraction, and multiplication. Second: in combination with certain “feedback” tricks, they will also generate the fourth operation, division. I will not discuss the feedback principle here, except by saying that while it has the appearance of a device for solving implicit relations, it is in reality a particularly elegant short-circuited iteration and successive approximation scheme. Third, and this is the true justification of the differential analyzer: its basic operations (x plus, or minus y) over two and integration are, for wide classes of problems, more economical than the arithmetical ones (x plus y, x minus y, x times y, x over y). More specifically: any computing machine that is to solve a complex mathematical problem must be “programmed” for this task. This means that the complex operation of solving that problem must be replaced by a combination of the basic operations of the machine. Frequently it means something even more subtle: approximation of that operation, to any desired (prescribed) degree, by such combinations. Now for a given class of problems one set of basic operations may be more efficient, meaning allow the use of simpler, less extensive, combinations, than another such set. Thus, in particular, for systems of total differential equations, for which the differential analyzer was primarily designed, the above-mentioned basic operations of that machine are more efficient than the previously mentioned arithmetical basic operations (x plus y, x minus y, x times y, x over y). Next, I pass to the digital class of machines. The Digital Procedure. In a decimal digital machine each number is represented in the same way as in conventional writing or printing, meaning as a sequence of decimal digits. Each decimal digit, in turn, is represented by a system of “markers.” Markers, Their Combinations and Embodiments. A marker which can appear in ten different forms suffices by itself to represent a decimal digit. A marker which can appear in two different forms only will have to be used so that each decimal digit corresponds to a whole group. (A group of three two-valued markers allows 8 combinations; this is inadequate. A group of four such markers allows 16 combinations; this is more than adequate. Hence, groups of at least four markers must be used per decimal digit. There may be reasons to use larger groups; see below.) An example of a ten-valued marker is an electrical pulse that appears on one of ten pre-assigned lines. A two-valued marker is an electrical pulse on a pre-assigned line, so that its presence or absence conveys the information (the marker’s “value”). Another possible two-valued marker is an electrical pulse that can have positive or negative polarity. There are, of course, many other equally valid marker schemes. I will make one more observation on markers: The above-mentioned ten-valued marker is clearly a group of ten two-valued markers, in other words, highly redundant in the sense noted above. The minimum group, consisting of four two-valued markers, can also be introduced within the same framework. Consider a system of four pre-assigned lines, such that (simultaneous) electrical pulses can appear on any combination of these. This allows for 16 combinations, any 10 of which can be stipulated to correspond to the decimal digits. Note that these markers, which are usually electrical pulses, or possibly electrical voltages or currents, lasting as long as their indication is to be valid, must be controlled by electrical gating devices. Digital Machine Types and Their Basic Components. In the course of the development up to now, electromechanical relays, vacuum tubes, crystal diodes, ferromagnetic cores, and transistors have been successively used, some of them in combination with others, some of them preferably in the memory organs of the machine. See later in this volume, and others preferably outside the memory (in the “active” organs), giving rise to as many different species of digital machines. Parallel and Serial Schemes. Now a number in the machine is represented by a sequence of ten-valued markers (or marker groups), which may be arranged to appear simultaneously, in different organs of the machine, in parallel, or in temporal succession, in a single organ of the machine, in series. If the machine is built to handle, say, twelve-place decimal numbers, for example, with six places “to the left” of the decimal point, and six “to the right,” then twelve such markers (or marker groups) will have to be provided in each information channel of the machine that is meant for passing numbers. This scheme can, and is in various machines, be made more flexible in various ways and degrees. Thus, in almost all machines, the position of the decimal point is adjustable. However, I will not go into these matters here any further. The Conventional Basic Operations. The operations of a digital machine have so far always been based on the four species of arithmetic. Regarding the well-known procedures that are being used, the following should be said: First, on addition: in contrast to the physical processes that mediate this process in analog machines, in this case rules of strict and logical character control this operation, how to form digital sums, when to produce a carry, and how to repeat and combine these operations. The logical nature of the digital sum becomes even clearer when the binary (rather than decimal) system is used. Indeed, the binary addition table (0 plus 0 equals 00, 0 plus 1 equals 01, 1 plus 0 equals 01, 1 plus 1 equals 10) can be stated thus: The sum digit is 1 if the two addend digits differ, otherwise it is 0; the carry digit is 1 if both addend digits are 1, otherwise it is 0. Second, on subtraction: the logical structure of this is very similar to that one of addition. It can even be, and usually is, reduced to the latter by the simple device of “complementing” the subtrahend. Third, on multiplication: the primarily logical character is even more obvious, and the structure more involved, than for addition. The products (of the multiplicand) with each digit of the multiplier are formed (usually preformed for all possible decimal digits, by various addition schemes), and then added together (with suitable shifts). Again, in the binary system the logical character is even more transparent and obvious. Since the only possible digits are 0 and 1, a (multiplier) digital product (of the multiplicand) is omitted for 0 and it is the multiplicand itself for 1. All of this applies to products of positive factors. When both factors may have both signs, additional logical rules control the four situations that can arise. Fourth, on division: the logical structure is comparable to that of the multiplication, except that now various iterated, trial-and-error subtraction procedures intervene, with specific logical rules (for the forming of the quotient digits) in the various alternative situations that can arise, and that must be dealt with according to a serial, repetitive scheme. To sum up: all these operations now differ radically from the physical processes used in analog machines. They all are patterns of alternative actions, organized in highly repetitive sequences, and governed by strict and logical rules. Especially in the cases of multiplication and division these rules have a quite complex logical character. This may be obscured by our long and almost instinctive familiarity with them, but if one forces oneself to state them fully, the degree of their complexity becomes apparent. Logical Control. Beyond the capability to execute the basic operations singly, a computing machine must be able to perform them according to the sequence, or rather, the logical pattern, in which they generate the solution of the mathematical problem that is the actual purpose of the calculation in hand. In the traditional analog machines, typified by the “differential analyzer”, this “sequencing” of the operation is achieved in this way. There must be a priori enough organs present in the machine to perform as many basic operations as the desired calculation calls for, meaning enough “differential gears” and “integrators” (for the two basic operations (x plus minus y) over 2 and integral over t of x ( of t) d y (Of t), respectively, as before. These, meaning their “input” and “output” disks (or, rather, the axes of these), must then be so connected to each other (by cogwheel connections in the early models, and by electrical follower-arrangements [“selsyns”] in the later ones) as to constitute a replica of the desired calculation. It should be noted that this connection-pattern can be set up at will, indeed, this is the means by which the problem to be solved, meaning the intention of the user, is impressed on the machine. This “setting up” occurred in the early, cog wheel-connected, machines by mechanical means, while in the later, electrically connected, machines it was done by plugging. Nevertheless, it was in all these types always a fixed setting for the entire duration of a problem. Plugged Control. In some of the very last analog machines a further trick was introduced. These had electrical, “plugged” connections. These plugged connections were actually controlled by electromechanical relays, and hence they could be changed by electrical stimulation of the magnets that closed or opened these relays. These electrical stimuli could be controlled by punched paper tapes, and these tapes could be started and stopped, and restarted and restopped, by electrical signals derived at suitable moments from the calculation. Logical Tape Control. The latter reference means that certain numerical organs in the machine have reached certain preassigned conditions, for example, that the sign of a certain number has turned negative, or that a certain number has been exceeded by another certain number, etc. Note that if numbers are defined by electrical voltages or currents, then their signs can be sensed by rectifier arrangements; for a rotating disk the sign shows whether it has passed a zero position moving right or moving left; a number is exceeded by another one when the sign of their difference turns negative, etc. Thus a “logical” tape control, or, better still, a “state of calculation combined with tape” control, was superposed over the basic, “fixed connections” control. The digital machines started off-hand with different control systems. However, before discussing these I will make some general remarks that bear on digital machines, and on their relationship to analog machines. The Principle of Only One Organ for Each Basic Operation. It must be emphasized, to begin with, that in digital machines there is uniformly only one organ for each basic operation. This contrasts with most analog machines, where there must be enough organs for each basic operation, depending on the requirements of the problem in hand. It should be noted, however, that this is a historical fact rather than an intrinsic requirement, analog machines of the electrically connected type, could, in principle, be built with only one organ for each basic operation, and a logical control of any of the digital types to be described below. Indeed, the reader can verify for himself without much difficulty, that the “very latest” type of analog machine control, described above, represents a transition to this modus operandi. It should be noted, furthermore, that some digital machines deviate more or less from this “only one organ for each basic operation” principle, but these deviations can be brought back to the orthodox scheme by rather simple reinterpretations. In some cases it is merely a matter of dealing with a duplex [or multiplex] machine, with suitable means of intercommunication. I will not go into these matters here any further. The Consequent Need for a Special Memory Organ. The “only one organ for each basic operation” principle necessitates, however, the providing for a larger number of organs that can be used to store numbers passively, the results of various partial, intermediate calculations. That is, each such organ must be able to “store” a number, removing the one it may have stored previously, accepting it from some other organ to which it is at the time connected, and to “repeat” it upon “questioning”: to emit it to some other organ to which it is at that (other) time connected. Such an organ is called a “memory register,” the totality of these organs is called a “memory,” and the number of registers in a memory in the “capacity” of that memory. I can now pass to the discussion of the main modes of control for digital machines. This is best done by describing two basic types, and mentioning some obvious principles for combining them. Control by “Control Sequence” Points The first basic method of control, which has been widely used, can be described, with some simplifications and idealizations, as follows: The machine contains a number of logical control organs, called “control sequence points,” with the following function. The number of these control sequence points can be quite considerable. In some newer machines it reaches several hundred. In the simplest mode of using this system, each control sequence point is connected to one of the basic operation organs that it actuates, and also to the memory registers which are to furnish the numerical inputs of this operation, and to the one that is to receive its output. After a definite delay, which must be sufficient for the performing of the operation, or after the receipt of a “performed” signal, if the duration of the operation is variable and its maximum indefinite or unacceptably long, this procedure requires, of course, an additional connection with the basic operation organ in question, the control sequence point actuates the next control sequence point, its “successor.” This functions in turn, in a similar way, according to its own connections, etc. If nothing further is done, this furnishes the pattern for an unconditioned, repetitionless calculation. More sophisticated patterns obtain if some control sequence points, to be called “branching points,” are connected to two “successors” and are capable of two states, say A and B, so that A causes the process to continue by way of the first “successor” and B by way of the second one. The control sequence point is normally in state A, but it is connected to two memory registers, certain events in which will cause it to go from A to B or from B to A, respectively, say the appearance of a negative sign in the first one will make it go from A to B, and the appearance of a negative sign in the second one will make it go from B to A. Note: in addition to storing the digits of a number, a memory register usually also stores its sign, plus or minus, for this a two-valued marker suffices. Now all sorts of possibilities open up: The two “successors” may represent two altogether disjunct branches of the calculation, depending on suitably assigned numerical criteria (controlling “A to B,” while “B to A” is used to restore the original condition for a new computation). Possibly the two alternative branches may reunite later, in a common later successor. Still another possibility arises when one of the two branches, say the one controlled by A, actually leads back to the first mentioned (branching) control sequence point. In this case one deals with a repetitive procedure, which is iterated until a certain numerical criterion is met, the one that commands “A to B,”. This is, of course, the basic iterative process. All these tricks can be combined and superposed, etc. Note that in this case, as in the plugged type control for analog machines mentioned earlier, the totality of the (electrical) connections referred to constitutes the set-up of the problem, the expression of the problem to be solved, meaning of the intention of the user. So this is again a plugged control. As in the case referred to, the plugged pattern can be changed from one problem to another, but, at least in the simplest arrangement, it is fixed for the entire duration of a problem. This method can be refined in many ways. Each control sequence point may be connected to several organs, stimulating more than one operation. The plugged connection may (as in an earlier example dealing with analog machines) actually be controlled by electromechanical relays, and these can be (as outlined there) set up by tapes, which in turn may move under the control of electrical signals derived from events in the calculation. I will not go here any further into all the variations that this theme allows. Memory-Stored Control. The second basic method of control, which has actually gone quite far toward displacing the first one, can be described, again with some simplifications, as follows. This scheme has, formally, some similarity with the plugged control scheme described above. However, the control sequence points are now replaced by “orders.” An order is, in most embodiments of this scheme, physically the same thing as a number (of the kind with which the machine deals. Thus in a decimal machine it is a sequence of decimal digits. 12 decimal digits in the example given previously, with or without making use of the sign, etc. Sometimes more than one order is contained in this standard number space, but there is no need to go into this here. An order must indicate which basic operation is to be performed, from which memory registers the inputs of that operation are to come, and to which memory register its output is to go. Note that this presupposes that all memory registers are numbered serially, the number of a memory register is called its “address.” It is convenient to number the basic operations, too. Then an order simply contains the number of its operation and the addresses of the memory registers referred to above, as a sequence of decimal digits (in a fixed order). There are some variants on this, which, however, are not particularly important in the present context: An order may, in the way described above, control more than one operation; it may direct that the addresses that it contained be modified in certain specified ways before being applied in the process of its execution (the normally used, and practically most important, address modification consists of adding to all the addresses in question the contents of a specified memory register). Alternatively, these functions may be controlled by special orders, or an order may affect only part of any of the constituent actions described above. A more important phase of each order is this. Like a control sequence point in the previous example, each order must determine its successor, with or without branching. As I pointed out above, an order is usually “physically” the same thing as a number. Hence the natural way to store it, in the course of the problem in whose control it participates, is in a memory register. In other words, each order is stored in the memory, in a definite memory register, that is to say, at a definite address. This opens up a number of specific ways to handle the matter of an orders successor. Thus it may be specified that the successor of an order at the address X is, unless the opposite is made explicit, the order at the address X plus 1. “The opposite” is a “transfer,” a special order that specifies that the successor is at an assigned address Y. Alternatively, each order may have the “transfer” clause in it, meaning specify explicitly the address of its successor. “Branching” is most conveniently handled by a “conditional transfer” order, which is one that specifies that the successor’s address is X or Y, depending on whether a certain numerical condition has arisen or not, for example, whether a number at a given address Z is negative or not. Such an order must then contain a number that characterizes this particular type of order (thus playing a similar role, and occupying the same position, as the basic operation number referred to further above), and the addresses X, Y, Z, as a sequence of decimal digits. Note the important difference between this mode of control and the plugged one, described earlier: There the control sequence points were real, physical objects, and their plugged connections expressed the problem. Now the orders are ideal entities, stored in the memory, and it is thus the contents of this particular segment of the memory that express the problem. Accordingly, this mode of control is called “memory-stored control.” Modus Operandi of the Memory-Stored Control. In this case, since the orders that exercise the entire control are in the memory, a higher degree of flexibility is achieved than in any previous mode of control. Indeed, the machine, under the control of its orders, can extract numbers (or orders) from the memory, process them (as numbers!), and return them to the memory, to the same or to other locations. Meaning, it can change the contents of the memory, indeed this is its normal modus operandi. Hence it can, in particular, change the orders (since these are in the memory!), the very orders that control its actions. Thus all sorts of sophisticated order-systems become possible, which keep successively modifying themselves and hence also the computational processes that are likewise under their control. In this way more complex processes than mere iterations become possible. Although all of this may sound farfetched and complicated, such methods are widely used and very important in recent machine-computing, or, rather, computation-planning, practice. Of course, the order-system, this means the problem to be solved, the intention of the user, is communicated to the machine by “loading” it into the memory. This is usually done from a previously prepared tape or some other similar medium. Mixed Forms of Control. The two modes of control described in the above, the plugged and the memory-stored, allow various combinations, about which a few words may be said. Consider a plugged control machine. Assume that it possesses a memory of the type discussed in connection with the memory-stored control machines. It is possible to describe the complete state of its plugging by a sequence of digits (of suitable length). This sequence can be stored in the memory; it is likely to occupy the space of several numbers, meaning several, say consecutive, memory registers, in other words it will be found in a number of consecutive addresses, of which the first one may be termed its address, for short. The memory may be loaded with several such sequences, representing several different plugging schemes. In addition to this, the machine may also have a complete control of the memory-stored type. Aside from the orders that go naturally with that system, it should also have orders of the following types. First: an order that causes the plugged set-up to be reset according to the digital sequence stored at a specified memory address. Second: a system of orders which change specified single items of plugging. (Note that both of these provisions necessitate that the plugging be actually effected by electrically controllable devices, meaning by electromechanical relays or by vacuum tubes or by ferromagnetic cores, or the like.) Third: an order which turns the control of the machine from the memory-stored regime to the plugged regime. It is, of course, also necessary that the plugging scheme be able to designate the memory-stored control (presumably at a specified address) as the successor (or, in case of branching, as one successor) of a control sequence point. Mixed Numerical Procedures. These remarks should suffice to give a picture of the flexibility which is inherent in these control modes and their combinations. A further class of “mixed” machine types that deserve mention is that where the analog and the digital principles occur together. To be more exact: This is a scheme where part of the machine is analog, part is digital, and the two communicate with each other (for numerical material) and are subject to a common control. Alternatively, each part may have its own control, in which case these two controls must communicate with each other, for logical material. This arrangement requires, of course, organs that can convert a digitally given number into an analogically given one, and conversely. The former means building up a continuous quantity from its digital expression, the latter means measuring a continuous quantity and expressing the result in digital form. Components of various kinds that perform these two tasks are well known, including fast electrical ones. Mixed Representations of Numbers. Machines Built on This Basis. Another significant class of “mixed” machine types comprises those machines in which each step of the computing procedure (but, of course, not of the logical procedure) combines analog and digital principles. The simplest occurrence of this is when each number is represented in a part analog, part digital way. I will describe one such scheme, which has occasionally figured in component and machine construction and planning, and in certain types of communications, although no large-scale machine has ever been based on its use. In this system, which I shall call the “pulse density” system, each number is expressed by a sequence of successive electrical pulses (on a single line), so that the length of this sequence is indifferent but the average density of the pulse sequence (in time) is the number to be represented. Of course, one must specify two time intervals t 1, t 2, t 2 being considerably larger than t 1, so that the averaging in question must be applied to durations lying between t 1 and t 2. The unit of the number in question, when equated to this density, must be specified. Occasionally, it is convenient to let the density in question be equal not to the number itself but to a suitable (fixed) monotone function of it, for example the logarithm. The purpose of this latter device is to obtain a better resolution of this representation when it is needed, when the number is small, and a poorer one when it is acceptable, when the number is large, and to have all continuous shadings of this. It is possible to devise organs which apply the four species of arithmetic to these numbers. Thus when the densities represent the numbers themselves, addition can be effected by combining the two sequences. The other operations are somewhat trickier, but adequate, and more or less elegant, procedures exist there, too. I shall not discuss how negative numbers, if needed, are represented, this is easily handled by suitable tricks, too. In order to have adequate precision, every sequence must contain many pulses within each time interval t 1 mentioned above. If, in the course of the calculation, a number is desired to change, the density of its sequence can be made to change accordingly, provided that this process is slow compared to the time interval t 2 mentioned above. For this type of machine the sensing of numerical conditions, for example for logical control purposes, may be quite tricky. However, there are various devices which will convert such a number, meaning a density of pulses in time, into an analog quantity. For example, the density of pulses, each of which delivers a standard charge to a slowly leaking condenser, through a given resistance, will control it to a reasonably constant voltage level and leakage current, both of which are usable analog quantities. These analog quantities can then be used for logical control, as discussed previously. After this description of the general principles of the functioning and control of computing machines, I will go on to some remarks about their actual use and the principles that govern it. Precision. Let me, first, compare the use of analog machines and of digital machines. Apart from all other considerations, the main limitation of analog machines relates to precision. Indeed, the precision of electrical analog machines rarely exceeds 1 in a thousand, and even mechanical ones (like the differential analyzer) achieve at best 1 in ten thousand to a hundred thousand. Digital machines, on the other hand, can achieve any desired precision. For example the twelve-decimal machine referred to earlier, for the reasons to be discussed further below, this is a rather typical level of precision for a modern digital machine, represents, of course, a precision 1 in ten to the twelve. Note also that increasing precision is much easier in a digital than in an analog regime: To go from 1 in a thousand to 1 in ten thousand in a differential analyzer is relatively simple; from 1 in ten thousand to 1 kin a hundred thousand is about the best present technology can do. From one in a hundred thousand to one in a million is, with present means, impossible. On the other hand, to go from one in ten to the twelfth to 1 in ten to the thirteenth in a digital machine means merely adding one place to twelve; this means usually no more than a relative increase in equipment (not everywhere!) of a twelfth, equals 8.3 percent, and an equal loss in speed (not everywhere!), none of which is serious. The pulse density system is comparable to the analog system; in fact it is worse: the precision is intrinsically low. Indeed, a precision of one in a hundred requires that there be usually a hundred pulses in the time interval t 1, meaning the speed of the machine is reduced by this fact alone by a factor of 100. Losses in speed of this order are, as a rule, not easy to take, and significantly larger ones would usually be considered prohibitive. Reasons for the High (Digital) Precision Requirements. However, at this point another question arises: why are such extreme precisions, like the digital one in ten to the twelfth at all necessary? Why are the typical analog precisions, say one in ten thousand, or even those of the pulse density system, say one in a hundred, not adequate? In most problems of applied mathematics and engineering the data are no better than one in a thousand or ten thousand, and often they do not even reach the level of one in a hundred, and the answers are not required or meaningful with higher precisions either. In chemistry, biology, or economics, or in other practical matters, the precision levels are usually even less exacting. It has nevertheless been the uniform experience in modern high speed computing that even precision levels like one in a hundred thousand are inadequate for a large part of important problems, and that digital machines with precision levels like one in ten to the ten and ten to the twelfth are fully justified in practice. The reasons for this surprising phenomenon are interesting and significant. They are connected with the inherent structure of our present mathematical and numerical procedures. The characteristic fact regarding these procedures is that when they are broken down into their constituent elements, they turn out to be very long. This holds for all problems that justify the use of a fast computing machine, meaning for all that have at least a medium degree of complexity. The underlying reason is that our present computational methods call for analyzing all mathematical functions into combinations of basic operations, and this means usually the four species of arithmetic, or something fairly comparable. Actually, most functions can only be approximated in this way, and this means in most cases quite long, possibly iteratively defined, sequences of basic operations. In other words, the “arithmetical depth” of the necessary operations is usually quite great. Note that the “logical depth” is still greater, and by a considerable factor, that is, if, for example, the four species of arithmetic are broken down into the underlying logical steps, each one of them is a long logical chain by itself. However, I need to consider here only the arithmetical depth. Now if there are large numbers of arithmetical operations, the errors occurring in each operation are superposed. Since they are in the main, although not entirely, random, it follows that if there are N operations, the error will not be increased N times, but about square root of N times. This by itself will not, as a rule, suffice to necessitate a stepwise one in ten to the twelfth precision for an over-all one in a thousand result. For this to be so, one over ten to the twelve square root N would be needed, meaning around ten to the sixteen, whereas even in the fastest modern machines N gets hardly larger than ten to the ten. A machine that performs an arithmetical operation every 20 microseconds, and works on a single problem 48 hours, represents a rather extreme case. Yet even here N is only around ten to the ten. However, another circumstance supervenes. The operations performed in the course of the calculation may amplify errors that were introduced by earlier operations. This can cover any numerical gulf very quickly. The ratio used above, one in a thousand to one in ten to the twelve, is ten to the ninth, yet 425 successive operations each of which increases an error by 5 per cent only, will account for it! I will not attempt any detailed and realistic estimate here, particularly because the art of computing consists to no small degree of measures to keep this effect down. The conclusion from a great deal of experience has been, at any rate, that the high precision levels referred to above are justified, as soon as reasonably complicated problems are met with. Before leaving the immediate subject of computing machines, I will say a few things about their speeds, sizes, and the like. Characteristics of Modern Analog Machines. The order of magnitude of the number of basic-operations organs in the largest existing analog machines is one or two hundred. The nature of these organs depends, of course, on the analog process used. In the recent past they have tended uniformly to be electrical or at least electromechanical (the mechanical stage serving for enhanced precision. Where an elaborate logical control is provided above, this adds to the system (like all logical control of this type) certain typical digital action organs, like electromechanical relays or vacuum tubes (the latter would, in this case, not be driven at extreme speeds). The numbers of these may go as high as a few thousands. The investment represented by such a machine may, in extreme cases, reach the order of a million dollars. Characteristics of Modern Digital Machines. The organization of large digital machines is more complex. They are made up of “active” organs and of organs serving “memory” functions, I will include among the latter the “input” and “output” organs, although this is not common practice. The active organs are the following. First, organs which perform the basic logical actions: sense coincidences, combine stimuli, and possibly sense anticoincidences (no more than this is necessary, although sometimes organs for more complex logical operations are also provided). Second, organs which regenerate pulses: restore their gradually attrited energy, or simply lift them from the energy level prevailing in one part of the machine to another (higher) energy level prevailing in another part (these two functions are called amplification), which restore the desired, meaning within certain tolerances, standardized) pulse-shape and timing. Note that the first-mentioned logical operations are the elements from which the arithmetical ones are built up. Active Components; Questions of Speed. All these functions have been performed, in historical succession, by electromechanical relays, vacuum tubes, crystal diodes, and ferromagnetic cores and transistors, or by various small circuits involving these. The relays permitted achieving speeds of about ten to the minus two seconds per elementary logical action, the vacuum tubes permitted improving this to the order of ten to the minus five to ten to the minus six seconds (in extreme cases even one-half or one-quarter of the latter). The last group, collectively known as solid-state devices, came in on the ten to the minus six second (in some cases a small multiple of this) level, and is likely to extend the speed range to ten to the minus seven seconds per elementary logical action, or better. Other devices, which I will not discuss here, are likely to carry us still farther, I expect that before another decade passes we will have reached the level of ten to the minus eight to ten to the minus nine seconds. Number of Active Components Required. The number of active organs in a large modern machine varies, according to type, from, say, 3,000 to, say, 30,000. Within this, the basic (arithmetical) operations are usually performed by one subassembly (or, rather, by one, more or less merged, group of subassemblies), the “arithmetical organ.” In a large modern machine this organ consists, according to type, of approximately 300 to 2,000 active organs. As will appear further below, certain aggregates of active organs are used to perform some memory functions. These comprise, typically, 200 to 2,000 active organs. Finally the (properly) “memory” aggregates require ancillary subassemblies of active organs, to service and administer them. For the fastest memory group that does not consist of active organs; in the terminology used there, this is the second level of the memory hierarchy), this function may require about 300 to 2,000 active organs. For all parts of the memory together, the corresponding requirements of ancillary active organs may amount to as much as 50 per cent of the entire machine. Memory Organs. Access Times and Memory Capacities. The memory organs belong to several different classes. The characteristic by which they are classified is the “access time.” The access time is defined as follows. First: the time required to store a number which is already present in some other part of the machine (usually in a register of active organs, removing the number that the memory organ may have been storing before. Second: the time required to “repeat” the number stored, upon “questioning”, to another part of the machine, which can accept it (usually to a register of active organs. It may be convenient to distinguish between these two access times (“in” and “out”), or to use a single one, the larger of the two, or, possibly, their average. Also, the access time may or may not vary from occasion to occasion, if it does not depend on the memory address, it is called “random access.” Even if it is variable, a single value may be used, the maximum, or possibly the average, access time. The latter may, of course, depend on the statistical properties of the problems to be solved. At any rate, I will use here, for the sake of simplicity, a single access time. Memory Registers Built from Active Organs. Memory registers can be built out of active organs. These have the shortest access time, and are the most expensive. Such a register is, together with its access facilities, a circuit of at least four vacuum tubes (or, alternatively, not significantly fewer solid state devices) per binary digit (or for a sign), hence, at least four times the number per decimal digit. Thus the twelve-decimal digit (and sign) number system, referred to earlier, would normally require in these terms a 196-tube register. On the other hand, such registers have access times of one or two elementary reaction times, which is very fast when compared to other possibilities. Also, several registers of this type can be integrated with certain economies in equipment; they are needed in any case as “in” and “out” access organs for other types of memories; one or two, in some designs even three, of them are needed as parts of the arithmetic organ. To sum up: in moderate numbers they are more economical than one might at first expect, and they are, to that extent, also necessary as subordinate parts of other organs of the machine. However, they do not seem to be suited to furnish the large capacity memories that are needed in nearly all large computing machines. This last observation applies only to modern machines, meaning those of the vacuum-tube epoch and after. Before that, in relay machines, relays were used as active organs, and relay registers were used as the main form of memory. Hence the discussion that follows, too, is to be understood as referring to modern machines only. The Hierarchic Principle for Memory Organs. For these extensive memory capacities, then, other types of memory must be used. At this point the “hierarchy” principle of memory intervenes. The significance of this principle is the following: For its proper functioning, to solve the problems for which it is intended, a machine may need a capacity of a certain number, say N words, at a certain access time, say t. Now it may be technologically difficult, or, which is the way in which such difficulties usually manifest themselves, very expensive, to provide N words with access time t. However, it may not be necessary to have all the N words at this access time. It may well be that a considerably smaller number, say N prime, is needed at the access time t. Furthermore, it may be that, once N prime words at access time t are provided, the entire capacity of N words is only needed at a longer access time t 3. Continuing in this direction, it may further happen that it is most economical to provide certain intermediate capacities in addition to the above, capacities of fewer than N but more than N prime words, at access times which are longer than t but shorter than t prime. Memory Components; Questions of Access. In a large-scale, modern, high-speed computing machine, a complete count of all levels of the memory hierarchy will disclose at least three and possibly four or five such levels. The first level always corresponds to the registers mentioned above. Their number, N 1, is in almost any machine design at least three and sometimes higher, numbers as high as twenty have occasionally been proposed. The access time, t 1, is the basic switching time of the machine (or possibly twice that time). The next (second) level in the hierarchy is always achieved with the help of specific memory organs. These are different from the switching organs used in the rest of the machine, and in the first level of the hierarchy. The memory organs now in use for this level usually have memory capacities, N2, ranging from a few thousand words to as much as a few tens of thousands, sizes of the latter kind are at present still in the design stage. The access time, t 2, is usually five to ten times longer than the one of the previous level, t1. Further levels usually correspond to an increase in memory capacity, Ni, by some factor like 10 at each step. The access times, t-i, increase even faster, but here other limiting and qualifying rules regarding the access time also intervene. A detailed discussion of this subject would call for a degree of detail that does not seem warranted at this time. The fastest components, which are specifically memory organs, meaning not active organs, are certain electrostatic devices and magnetic core arrays. The use of the latter seems to be definitely on the ascendant, although other techniques, electrostatic, ferro-electric, and others, may also re-enter or enter the picture. For the later levels of the memory hierarchy, magnetic drums and magnetic tapes are at present mostly in use; magnetic discs have been suggested and occasionally explored. Complexities of the Concept of Access Time. The three last-mentioned devices are all subject to special access rules and limitations: a magnetic drum memory presents all its parts successively and cyclically for access; the memory capacity of a tape is practically unlimited, but it presents its parts in a fixed linear succession, which can be stopped and reversed when desired; all these schemes can be combined with various arrangements that provide for special synchronisms between the machine’s functioning and the fixed memory sequences. The very last stage of any memory hierarchy is necessarily the outside world, that is, the outside world as far as the machine is concerned, meaning that part of it with which the machine can directly communicate, in other words the input and the output organs of the machine. These are usually punched paper tapes or cards, and on the output side, of course, also printed paper. Sometimes a magnetic tape is the ultimate input-output system of the machine, and its translation onto a medium that a human can directly use, meaning punched or printed paper, is performed apart from the machine. The following are some access times in absolute terms: For existing ferromagnetic core memories, 5 to 15 microseconds; for electrostatic memories, 8 to 20 microseconds; for magnetic drums, 2,500 to 20,000 rpm., meaning a revolution per 24 to 3 milliseconds, in this time 1 to 2,000 words may get fed; for magnetic tapes, speeds up to 70,000 lines per second, meaning a line in 14 microseconds; a word may consist of 5 to 15 lines. The Principle of Direct Addressing. All existing machines and memories use “direct addressing,” which is to say that every word in the memory has a numerical address of its own that characterizes it and its position within the memory (the total aggregate of all hierarchic levels) uniquely. This numerical address is always explicitly specified when the memory word is to be read or written. Sometimes not all parts of the memory are accessible at the same time. There may also be multiple memories, not all of which can be acceded to at the same time, with certain provisions for access priorities). In this case, access to the memory depends on the general state of the machine at the moment when access is requested. Nevertheless, there is never any ambiguity about the address, and the place it designates. PART Two. THE BRAIN. The discussion up to this point has provided the basis for the comparison that is the objective of this work. I have described, in some detail, the nature of modern computing machines and the broad alternative principles around which they can be organized. It is now possible to pass on to the other term of the comparison, the human nervous system. I will discuss the points of similarity and dissimilarity between these two kinds of “automata.” Bringing out the elements of similarity leads over well-known territory. There are elements of dissimilarity, too, not only in rather obvious respects of size and speed but also in certain much deeper-lying areas: These involve the principles of functioning and control, of over-all organization, etc. My primary aim is to develop some of these. However, in order to appreciate them properly, a juxtaposition and combination with the points of similarity, as well as with those of more superficial dissimilarity, size, speed, are also required. Hence the discussion must place considerable emphasis on these, too. Simplified Description of the Function of the Neuron. The most immediate observation regarding the nervous system is that its functioning is prima facie digital. It is necessary to discuss this fact, and the structures and functions on which its assertion is based, somewhat more fully. The basic component of this system is the nerve cell, the neuron, and the normal function of a neuron is to generate and to propagate a nerve impulse. This impulse is a rather complex process, which has a variety of aspects, electrical, chemical, and mechanical. It seems, nevertheless, to be a reasonably uniquely defined process, meaning nearly the same under all conditions; it represents an essentially reproducible, unitary response to a rather wide variety of stimuli. Let me discuss this, meaning those aspects of the nerve impulse that seem to be the relevant ones in the present context, in somewhat more detail. The Nature of the Nerve Impulse. The nerve cell consists of a body from which originate, directly or indirectly, one or more branches. Such a branch is called an axon of the cell. The nerve impulse is a continuous change, propagated, usually at a fixed speed, which may, however, be a function of the nerve cell involved, along the (or rather, along each) axon. As mentioned above, this condition can be viewed under multiple aspects. One of its characteristics is certainly that it is an electrical disturbance; in fact, it is most frequently described as being just that. This disturbance is usually an electrical potential of something like 50 millivolts and of about a millisecond’s duration. Concurrently with this electrical disturbance there also occur chemical changes along the axon. Thus, in the area of the axon over which the pulse-potential is passing, the ionic constitution of the intracellular fluid changes, and so do the electrical-chemical properties (conductivity, permeability) of the wall of the axon, the membrane. At the endings of the axon the chemical character of the change is even more obvious; there, specific and characteristic substances make their appearance when the pulse arrives. Finally, there are probably mechanical changes as well. Indeed, it is very likely that the changes of the various ionic permeabilities of the cell membrane can come about only by reorientation of its molecules, meaning by mechanical changes involving the relative positions of these constituents. It should be added that all these changes are reversible. In other words, when the impulse has passed, all conditions along the axon, and all its constituent parts, resume their original states. Since all these effects occur on a molecular scale, the thickness of the cell membrane is of the order of a few tenth-microns, meaning ten to the minus five cm, which is a molecular dimension for the large organic molecules that are involved here, the above distinctions between electrical, chemical, and mechanical effects are not so definite as it might first appear. Indeed, on the molecular scale there are no sharp distinctions between all these kinds of changes: every chemical change is induced by a change in intramolecular forces which determine changed relative positions of the molecules, meaning it is mechanically induced. Furthermore, every such intramolecular mechanical change alters the electrical properties of the molecule involved, and therefore induces changed electrical properties and changed relative electrical potential levels. To sum up: on the usual (macroscopic) scale, electrical, chemical, and mechanical processes represent alternatives between which sharp distinctions can be maintained. However, on the near-molecule level of the nerve membrane, all these aspects tend to merge. It is, therefore, not surprising that the nerve impulse turns out to be a phenomenon which can be viewed under any one of them. The Process of Stimulation. As I mentioned before, the fully developed nerve impulses are comparable, no matter how induced. Because their character is not an unambiguously defined one (it may be viewed electrically as well as chemically, its induction, too, can be alternatively attributed to electrical or to chemical causes. Within the nervous system, however, it is mostly due to one or more other nerve impulses. Under such conditions, the process of its induction, the stimulation of a nerve impulse, may or may not succeed. If it fails, a passing disturbance arises at first, but after a few milliseconds, this dies out. Then no disturbances propagate along the axon. If it succeeds, the disturbance very soon assumes a (nearly) standard form, and in this form it spreads along the axon. That is to say, as mentioned above, a standard nerve impulse will then move along the axon, and its appearance will be reasonably independent of the details of the process that induced it. The stimulation of the nerve impulse occurs normally in or near the body of the nerve cell. Its propagation, as discussed above, occurs along the axon. The Mechanism of Stimulating Pulses by Pulses; Its Digital Character. I can now return to the digital character of this mechanism. The nervous pulses can clearly be viewed as (two-valued) markers, in the sense discussed previously: the absence of a pulse then represents one value (say, the binary digit 0), and the presence of one represents the other (say, the binary digit 1). This must, of course, be interpreted as an occurrence on a specific axon (or, rather, on all the axons of a specific neuron), and possibly in a specific time relation to other events. It is, then, to be interpreted as a marker (a binary digit 0 or 1) in a specific, logical role. As mentioned above, pulses (which appear on the axons of a given neuron) are usually stimulated by other pulses that are impinging on the body of the neuron. This stimulation is, as a rule, conditional, meaning only certain combinations and synchronisms of such primary pulses stimulate the secondary pulse in question, all others will fail to so stimulate. That is, the neuron is an organ which accepts and emits definite physical entities, the pulses. Upon receipt of pulses in certain combinations and synchronisms it will be stimulated to emit a pulse of its own, otherwise it will not emit. The rules which describe to which groups of pulses it will so respond are the rules that govern it as an active organ. This is clearly the description of the functioning of an organ in a digital machine, and of the way in which the role and function of a digital organ has to be characterized. It therefore justifies the original assertion, that the nervous system has a prima facie digital character. Let me add a few words regarding the qualifying “prima facie.” The above description contains some idealizations and simplifications, which will be discussed subsequently. Once these are taken into account, the digital character no longer stands out quite so clearly and unequivocally. Nevertheless, the traits emphasized in the above are the primarily conspicuous ones. It seems proper, therefore, to begin the discussion as I did here, by stressing the digital character of the nervous system. Time Characteristics of Nerve Response, Fatigue, and Recovery. Before going into this, however, some orienting remarks on the size, energy requirements, and speed of the nerve cell are in order. These will be particularly illuminating when stated in terms of comparisons with the main “artificial” competitors: The typical active organs of modern logical and computing machines. These are, of course, the vacuum tube and (more recently) the transistor. I stated above that the stimulation of the nerve cell occurs normally on or near its body. Actually, a perfectly normal stimulation is possible along an axon, too. That is, an adequate electrical potential or a suitable chemical stimulant in adequate concentration, when applied at a point of the axon, will start there a disturbance which soon develops into a standard pulse, traveling both up and down the axon, from the point stimulated. Indeed, the “usual” stimulation described above mostly takes place on a set of branches extending from the body of the cell for a short distance, which, apart from their smaller dimensions, are essentially axons themselves, and it propagates from these to the body of the nerve cell (and then to the regular axons). By the way, these stimulation-receptors are called dendrites. The normal stimulation, when it comes from another pulse (or pulses) emanates from a special ending of the axon (or axons) that propagated the pulse in question. This ending is called a synapse. (Whether a pulse can stimulate only through a synapse, or whether, in traveling along an axon, it can stimulate directly another, exceptionally close-lying axon, is a question that need not be discussed here. The appearances are in favor of assuming that such a short-circuited process is possible.) The time of trans-synaptic stimulation amounts to a few times ten to the minus four seconds, this time being defined as the duration between the arrival of a pulse at a synapse and the appearance of the stimulated pulse on the nearest point of an axon of the stimulated neuron. However, this is not the most significant way to define the reaction time of a neuron, when viewed as an active organ in a logical machine. The reason for this is that immediately after the stimulated pulse has become evident, the stimulated neuron has not yet reverted to its original, pre-stimulation condition. It is fatigued, meaning, it could not immediately accept stimulation by another pulse and respond in the standard way. From the point of view of machine economy, it is a more important measure of speed to state after how much time a stimulation that induced a standard response can be followed by another stimulation that will also induce a standard response. This duration is about 1.5 times ten to the minus two seconds. It is clear from these figures that only one or two per cent of this time is needed for the actual trans-synaptic stimulation, the remainder representing recovery time, during which the neuron returns from its fatigued, immediate post-stimulation condition to its normal, pre-stimulation one. It should be noted that this recovery from fatigue is a gradual one, already at a certain earlier time, after about point five times ten to the minus two seconds the neuron can respond in a nonstandard way, namely it will produce a standard pulse, but only in response to a stimulus which is significantly stronger than the one needed under standard conditions. This circumstance has somewhat broad significance, and I will come back to it later on. Thus the reaction time of a neuron is, depending on how one defines it, somewhere between ten to the minus four and ten to the minus two seconds, but the more significant definition is the latter one. Compared to this, modern vacuum tubes and transistors can be used in large logical machines at reaction times between ten to the minus six and ten to the minus seven seconds. Of course, I am allowing here, too, for the complete recovery time; the organ in question is, after this duration, back to its pre-stimulation condition. That is, our artifacts are, in this regard, well ahead of the corresponding natural components, by factors like ten to the four to ten to the five. With respect to size, matters have a rather different aspect. There are various ways to evaluate size, and it is best to take these up one by one. Size of a Neuron. Comparisons with Artificial Components. The linear size of a neuron varies widely from one nerve cell to the other, since some of these cells are contained in closely integrated large aggregates and have, therefore, very short axons, while others conduct pulses between rather remote parts of the body and may, therefore, have linear extensions comparable to those of the entire human body. One way to obtain an unambiguous and significant comparison is to compare the logically active part of the nerve cell with that of a vacuum tube, or transistor. For the former this is the cell membrane, whose thickness as mentioned before is of the order of a few times ten to the minus five cm. For the latter it is as follows: in the case of the vacuum tube, it is the grid-to-cathode distance, which varies from ten to the min

Reformatted for Machine Text. Not to be confused with "The Great Gatsby" By F. S. Fitzgerald. The Project Gutenberg eBook of Gadsby This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Gadsby a story of over 50,000 words without using the letter "E" Author: Ernest Vincent Wright Release date: November 13, 2014 [eBook #47342] Language: English *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GADSBY *** E-text prepared by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) GADSBY +--------------------------------+ | _A Story of Over 50,000 Words_ | | _Without Using the Letter "E"_ | +--------------------------------+ by ERNEST VINCENT WRIGHT Wetzel Publishing Co., Inc. : Los Angeles, California : Copyright 1939 by Wetzel Publishing Co., Inc. TO YOUTH! [Illustration: ERNEST VINCENT WRIGHT] INTRODUCTION The entire manuscript of this story was written with the E type-bar of the typewriter _tied down_; thus making it impossible for that letter to be printed. This was done so that none of that vowel might slip in, accidentally; and many _did_ try to do so! There is a great deal of information as to what _Youth_ can do, if given a chance; and, though it starts out in somewhat of an impersonal vein, there is plenty of thrill, rollicking comedy, love, courtship, marriage, patriotism, sudden tragedy, _a determined stand against liquor_, and some amusing political aspirations in a small growing town. In writing such a story,--purposely avoiding all words containing the vowel E, there are a great many difficulties. The greatest of these is met in the past tense of verbs, almost all of which end with "--ed." Therefore substitutes must be found; and they are _very few_. This will cause, at times, a somewhat monotonous use of such words as "said;" for neither "replied," "answered" nor "asked" can be used. Another difficulty comes with the elimination of the common couplet "of course," and its very common connective, "consequently;" which will, unavoidably cause "bumpy spots." The numerals also cause plenty of trouble, for none between six and thirty are available. When introducing young ladies into the story, this is a _real_ barrier; for what young woman wants to have it known that she is over thirty? And this restriction on numbers, of course taboos all mention of dates. Many abbreviations also must be avoided; the most common of all, "Mr." and "Mrs." being particularly troublesome; for those words, if read aloud, plainly indicate the E in their orthography. As the vowel E is used more than five times oftener than any other letter, this story was written, not through any attempt to attain literary merit, but due to a somewhat balky nature, caused by hearing it so constantly claimed that "it can't be done; for you _cannot_ say anything at all without using E, and make smooth continuity, with perfectly grammatical construction--" so 'twas said. Many may think that I simply "drop" the E's, filling the gaps with apostrophes. A perusal of the book will show that this is not so. All words used are _complete_; are correctly spelled and properly used. This has been accomplished through the use of synonyms; and, by so twisting a sentence around as to avoid ambiguity. The book may prove a valuable aid to school children in English composition. People, as a rule, will not stop to realize what a task such an attempt actually is. As I wrote along, in long-hand at first, a whole army of little E's gathered around my desk, all eagerly expecting to be called upon. But gradually as they saw me writing on and on, without even noticing them, they grew uneasy; and, with excited whisperings amongst themselves, began hopping up and riding on my pen, looking down constantly for a chance to drop off into some word; for all the world like sea-birds perched, watching for a passing fish! But when they saw that I had covered 138 pages of typewriter size paper, they slid off onto the floor, walking sadly away, arm in arm; but shouting back: "You certainly must have a hodge-podge of a yarn there without _Us!_ Why, man! We are in every story ever written, _hundreds of thousands of times!_ This is the first time we ever were shut out!" Pronouns also caused trouble; for such words as he, she, they, them, theirs, her, herself, myself, himself, yourself, etc., could not be utilized. But a particularly annoying obstacle comes when, almost through a long paragraph you can find no words with which to continue that line of thought; hence, as in Solitaire, you are "stuck," and must go way back and start another; which, of course, must perfectly fit the preceding context. I have received some extremely odd criticisms since the Associated Press widely announced that such a book was being written. A rapid-talking New York newspaper columnist wanted to know how I would get over the plain fact that my name contains the letter E three times. As an author's name is _not_ a part of his story, that criticism did not hold water. And I received one most scathing epistle from a lady (woman!) denouncing me as a "genuine fake;" (that paradox being a most interesting one!), and ending by saying:--"Everyone knows that such a feat is impossible." All right. Then the impossible has been accomplished; (a paradox to equal hers!) Other criticism may be directed at the Introduction; but this section of a story _also_ is not part of it. The author is entitled to it, in order properly to explain his work. The story required five and a half months of concentrated endeavor, with so many erasures and retrenchments that I tremble as I think of them. Of course anybody can write such a story. All that is needed is a piece of string tied from the E type-bar down to some part of the base of the typewriter. Then simply go ahead and type your story. Incidentally, you should have some sort of a bromide preparation handy, for use when the going gets rough, as it most assuredly will! Before the book was in print, I was freely and openly informed "there is a trick, or catch," somewhere in that claim that there is not one letter E in the entire book, after you leave the Introduction. Well; it is the privilege of the reader to unearth any such deception that he or she may think they can find. I have even ordered the printer not to head each chapter with the words "Chapter 2," etc., on account of that bothersome E in that word. In closing let me say that I trust you may learn to love all the young folks in the story, as deeply as I have, in introducing them to you. Like many a book, it grows more and more interesting as the reader becomes well acquainted with the characters. Los Angeles, California February, 1939 I If Youth, throughout all history, had had a champion to stand up for it; to show a doubting world that a child can think; and, possibly, do it practically; you wouldn't constantly run across folks today who claim that "a child don't know anything." A child's brain starts functioning at birth; and has, amongst its many infant convolutions, thousands of dormant atoms, into which God has put a mystic possibility for noticing an adult's act, and figuring out its purport. Up to about its primary school days a child thinks, naturally, only of play. But many a form of play contains disciplinary factors. "You can't do this," or "that puts you out," shows a child that it must think, practically, or fail. Now, if, throughout childhood, a brain has no opposition, it is plain that it will attain a position of "status quo," as with our ordinary animals. Man knows not why a cow, dog or lion was not born with a brain on a par with ours; why such animals cannot add, subtract, or obtain from books and schooling, that paramount position which Man holds today. But a human brain is not in that class. Constantly throbbing and pulsating, it rapidly forms opinions; attaining an ability of its own; a fact which is startlingly shown by an occasional child "prodigy" in music or school work. And as, with our dumb animals, a child's inability convincingly to impart its thoughts to us, should not class it as ignorant. Upon this basis I am going to show you how a bunch of bright young folks did find a champion; a man with boys and girls of his own; a man of so dominating and happy individuality that Youth is drawn to him as is a fly to a sugar bowl. It is a story about a small town. It is not a gossipy yarn; nor is it a dry, monotonous account, full of such customary "fill-ins" as "romantic moonlight casting murky shadows down a long, winding country road." Nor will it say anything about tinklings lulling distant folds; robins carolling at twilight, nor any "warm glow of lamplight" from a cabin window. No. It is an account of up-and-doing activity; a vivid portrayal of Youth as it is today; and a practical discarding of that worn-out notion that "a child don't know anything." Now, any author, from history's dawn, always had that most important aid to writing:--an ability to call upon any word in his dictionary in building up his story. That is, our strict laws as to word construction did not block his path. But in _my_ story that mighty obstruction _will_ constantly stand in my path; for many an important, common word I cannot adopt, owing to its orthography. I shall act as a sort of historian for this small town; associating with its inhabitants, and striving to acquaint you with its youths, in such a way that you can look, knowingly, upon any child, rich or poor; forward or "backward;" your own, or John Smith's, in your community. You will find many young minds aspiring to know how, and WHY such a thing is so. And, if a child shows curiosity in that way, how ridiculous it is for you to snap out:-- "Oh! Don't ask about things too old for you!" Such a jolt to a young child's mind, craving instruction, is apt so to dull its avidity, as to hold it back in its school work. Try to look upon a child as a small, soft young body and a rapidly growing, constantly inquiring brain. It must grow to maturity slowly. Forcing a child through school by constant night study during hours in which it should run and play, can bring on insomnia; handicapping both brain and body. Now this small town in our story had grown in just that way:--slowly; in fact, much _too_ slowly to stand on a par with many a thousand of its kind in this big, vigorous nation of ours. It was simply stagnating; just as a small mountain brook, coming to a hollow, might stop, and sink from sight, through not having a will to find a way through that obstruction; or around it. You will run across such a dormant town, occasionally; possibly so dormant that only outright isolation by a fast-moving world, will show it its folly. If you will tour Asia, Yucatan, or parts of Africa and Italy, you will find many sad ruins of past kingdoms. Go to Indo-China and visit its gigantic Ankhor Vat; call at Damascus, Baghdad and Samarkand. What sorrowful lack of ambition many such a community shows in thus discarding such high-class construction! And I say, again, that so will Youth grow dormant, and hold this big, throbbing world back, if no champion backs it up; thus providing it with an opportunity to show its ability for looking forward, and improving unsatisfactory conditions. So this small town of Branton Hills was lazily snoozing amidst up-and-doing towns, as Youth's Champion, John Gadsby, took hold of it; and shook its dawdling, flabby body until its inhabitants thought a tornado had struck it. Call it tornado, volcano, military onslaught, or what you will, this town found that it had a bunch of kids who had wills that would admit of no snoozing; for that is Youth, on its forward march of inquiry, thought and action. If you stop to think of it, you will find that it is customary for our "grown-up" brain to cast off many of its functions of its youth; and to think only of what it calls "topics of maturity." Amongst such discards, is many a form of happy play; many a muscular activity such as walking, running, climbing; thus totally missing that alluring "joy of living" of childhood. If you wish a vacation from financial affairs, just go out and play with Youth. Play "blind-man's buff," "hop-scotch," "ring toss," and football. Go out to a charming woodland spot on a picnic with a bright, happy, vivacious group. Sit down at a corn roast; a marshmallow toast; join in singing popular songs; drink a quart of good, rich milk; burrow into that big lunch box; and all such things as banks, stocks, and family bills, will vanish on fairy wings, into oblivion. But this is not a claim that Man should stay always youthful. Supposing that that famous Spaniard, landing upon Florida's coral strands, had found that mythical Fountain of Youth; what a calamity for mankind! A world without maturity of thought; without man's full-grown muscular ability to construct mighty buildings, railroads and ships; a world without authors, doctors, savants, musicians; nothing but Youth! I can think of but a solitary approval of such a condition; for such a horror as war would not,--could not occur; for a child is, naturally, a small bunch of sympathy. I know that boys will "scrap;" also that "spats" will occur amongst girls; but, at such a monstrosity as killings by bombing towns, sinking ships, or mass annihilation of marching troops, childhood would stand aghast. Not a tiny bird would fall; nor would any form of gun nor facility for manufacturing it, insult that almost Holy purity of youthful thought. Anybody who knows that wracking sorrow brought upon a child by a dying puppy or cat, knows that childhood can show us that our fighting, our policy of "a tooth for a tooth," is abominably wrong. So, now to start our story:-- Branton Hills was a small town in a rich agricultural district; and having many a possibility for growth. But, through a sort of smug satisfaction with conditions of long ago, had no thought of improving such important adjuncts as roads; putting up public buildings, nor laying out parks; in fact a dormant, slowly dying community. So satisfactory was its status that it had no form of transportation to surrounding towns but by railroad, or "old Dobbin." Now, any town thus isolating its inhabitants, will invariably find this big, busy world passing it by; glancing at it, curiously, as at an odd animal at a circus; and, you will find, caring not a whit about its condition. Naturally, a town should grow. You can look upon it as a child; which, through natural conditions, should attain manhood; and add to its surrounding thriving districts its products of farm, shop, or factory. It should show a spirit of association with surrounding towns; crawl out of its lair, and find how backward it is. Now, in all such towns, you will find, occasionally, an individual born with that sort of brain which, knowing that his town is backward, longs to start things toward improving it; not only its living conditions, but adding an institution or two, such as any _city_, big or small, maintains, gratis, for its inhabitants. But so forward looking a man finds that trying to instill any such notions into a town's ruling body is about as satisfactory as butting against a brick wall. Such "Boards" as you find ruling many a small town, function from such a soporific rut that any hint of digging cash from its cast iron strong box with its big brass padlock, will fall upon minds as rigid as rock. Branton Hills _had_ such a man, to whom such rigidity was as annoying as a thorn in his foot. Continuous trials brought only continual thorn-pricks; until, finally, a brilliant plan took form as John Gadsby found Branton Hills' High School pupils waking up to Branton Hills' sloth. Gadsby continually found this bright young bunch asking:-- "Aw! Why is this town so slow? It's nothing but a dry twig!!" "Ha!" said Gadsby; "A dry twig! That's it! Many a living, blossoming branch all around us, and this solitary dry twig, with a tag hanging from it, on which you will find: 'Branton Hills; A twig too lazy to grow!'" Now this put a "hunch" in Gadsby's brain, causing him to say; "A High School pupil is not a child, now. Naturally a High School boy has not a man's qualifications; nor has a High School girl womanly maturity. But such kids, born in this swiftly moving day, think out many a notion which will work, but which would pass our dads and granddads in cold disdain. Just as ships pass at night. But supposing that such ships should show a light in passing; or blow a horn; or, if--if--if--By Golly! I'll do it!" And so Gadsby sat on his blossom-bound porch on a mild Spring morning, thinking and smoking. Smoking can calm a man down; and his thoughts had so long and so constantly clung to this plan of his that a cool outlook as to its promulgation was not only important, but paramount. So, as his cigar was whirling and puffing rings aloft; and as groups of bright, happy boys and girls trod past, to school, his plan rapidly took form as follows:-- "Youth! What is it? Simply a start. A start of what? Why, of that most astounding of all human functions; thought. But man didn't start his brain working. No. All that an adult can claim is a continuation, or an amplification of thoughts, dormant in his youth. Although a child's brain can absorb instruction with an ability far surpassing that of a grown man; and, although such a young brain is bound by rigid limits, it contains a capacity for constantly craving additional facts. So, in our backward Branton Hills, I just _know_ that I can find boys and girls who can show our old moss-back Town Hall big-wigs a thing or two. Why! On Town Hall night, just go and sit in that room and find out just how stupid and stubborn a Council, (put _into_ Town Hall, you know, through popular ballot!), can act. Say that a road is badly worn. Shall it stay so? Up jumps Old Bill Simpkins claiming that it is a townsman's duty to fix up his wagon springs if that road is too rough for him!" As Gadsby sat thinking thus, his plan was rapidly growing; and, in a month, was actually starting to work. How? You'll know shortly; but first, you should know this John Gadsby; a man of "around fifty;" a family man, and known throughout Branton Hills for his high standard of honor and altruism on any kind of an occasion for public good. A loyal churchman, Gadsby was a man who, though admitting that an occasional fault in our daily acts is bound to occur, had taught his two boys and a pair of girls that, though folks do slip from what Scriptural authors call that "straight and narrow path," it will not pay to risk your own Soul by slipping, just so that you can laugh at your ability in staying out of prison; for Gadsby, having grown up in Branton Hills, could point to many such man or woman. So, with such firm convictions in his mind, this upstanding man was constantly striving so to act that no complaint from man, woman or child should bring a word of disapproval. In his mind, what a man might do was that man's affair only and could stain no Soul but his own. And his altruism taught that it is not difficult to find many ways in which to bring joy to such as cannot, through physical disability, go out to look for it; and that only a small bit of joy, brought to a shut-in invalid will carry with it such a warmth as can flow only from acts of human sympathy. For many days Gadsby had thought of ways in which folks with a goodly bank account could aid in building up this rapidly backsliding town of Branton Hills. But, how to show that class what a contribution could do? In this town, full of capitalists and philanthropists contributing, off and on, for shipping warming pans to Zulus, Gadsby saw a solution. In whom? Why, in just that bunch of bright, happy school kids, back from many a visit to a _city_, and noting its ability in improving its living conditions. So Gadsby thought of thus carrying an inkling to such capitalists as to how this stagnating town could claim a big spot upon our national map, which is now shown only in small, insignificant print. As a start, Branton Hills' "Daily Post" would carry a long story, outlining a list of factors for improving conditions. This it did; but it will always stay as a blot upon high minds and proud blood that not a man or woman amongst such capitalists saw, in his plan, any call for dormant funds. But did that stop Gadsby? Can you stop a rising wind? Hardly! So Gadsby took into council about forty boys of his vicinity and built up an Organization of Youth. Also about as many girls who had known what it is, compulsorily to pass up many a picnic, or various forms of sport, through a lack of public park land. So this strong, vigorous combination of both youth and untiring activity, avidly took up Gadsby's plan; for nothing so stirs up a youthful mind as an opportunity for accomplishing anything that adults cannot do. And did Gadsby _know_ Youth? I'll say so! His two sons and girls, now in High or Grammar school, had taught him a thing or two; principal amongst which was that all-dominating fact that, at a not too far distant day, our young folks will occupy important vocational and also political positions, and will look back upon this, _our_ day; smiling kindly at our way of doing things. So, to say that many a Branton Hills "King of Capital" got a bit huffy as a High School stripling was proving how stubborn a rich man is if his dollars don't aid so vast an opportunity for doing good, would put it mildly! Such downright _gall_ by a half-grown kid to inform _him_; an outstanding light on Branton Hills' tax list, that this town was sliding down hill; and would soon land in an abyss of national oblivion! And our Organization girls! _How_ Branton Hills' rich old widows and plump matrons did sniff in disdain as a group of High School pupils brought forth straightforward claims that cash paving a road, is doing good practical work, but, in filling up a strong box, is worth nothing to our town. Oh, that class of nabobs! How thoroughly Gadsby _did_ know its parsimony!! And how thoroughly did this hard-planning man know just what a constant onslaught by Youth could do. So, in about a month, his "Organization" had "waylaid," so to say, practically half of Branton Hills' cash kings; and had so won out, through that commonly known "pull" upon an adult by a child asking for what plainly is worthy, that his mail brought not only cash, but two rich landlords put at his disposal, tracts of land "for any form of occupancy which can, in any way, aid our town." This land Gadsby's Organization promptly put into growing farm products for gratis distribution to Branton Hills' poor; and that burning craving of Youth for activity soon had it sprouting corn, squash, potato, onion and asparagus crops; and, to "doll it up a bit," put in a patch of blossoming plants. Naturally any man is happy at a satisfactory culmination of his plans and so, as Gadsby found that public philanthropy was but an affair of plain, ordinary approach, it did not call for much brain work to find that, possibly also, a way might turn up for putting handicraft instruction in Branton Hills' schools; for schooling, according to him, did not consist only of books and black-boards. Hands also should know how to construct various practical things in woodwork, plumbing, blacksmithing, masonry, and so forth; with thorough instruction in sanitation, and that most important of all youthful activity, gymnastics. For girls such a school could instruct in cooking, suit making, hat making, fancy work, art and loom-work; in fact, about any handicraft that a girl might wish to study, and which is not in our standard school curriculum. But as Gadsby thought of such a school, no way for backing it financially was in sight. Town funds naturally, should carry it along; but town funds and Town Councils do not always form what you might call synonymous words. So it was compulsory that cash should actually "drop into his lap," via a continuation of solicitations by his now grandly functioning Organization of Youth. So, out again trod that bunch of bright, happy kids, putting forth such plain, straightforward facts as to what Manual Training would do for Branton Hills, that many saw it in that light. But you will always find a group, or individual complaining that such things would "automatically dawn" on boys and girls without any training. Old Bill Simpkins was loud in his antagonism to what was a "crazy plan to dip into our town funds just to allow boys to saw up good wood, and girls to burn up good flour, trying to cook biscuits." Kids, according to him, should go to work in Branton Hills' shopping district, and profit by it. "Bah! Why not start a class to show goldfish how to waltz! _I_ didn't go to any such school; and what am I now? _A Councilman!_ I can't saw a board straight, nor fry a potato chip; but I can show you folks how to hang onto your town funds." Old Bill was a notorious grouch; but our Organization occasionally did find a totally varying mood. Old Lady Flanagan, with four boys in school, and a husband many days too drunk to work, was loud in approval. "Whoops! Thot's phwat I calls a grand thing! Worra, worra! I wish Old Man Flanagan had had sich an opporchunity. But thot ignorant old clod don't know nuthin' but boozin', tobacca shmokin' and ditch-diggin'. And you know thot our Council ain't a-payin' for no ditch-scoopin' right now. So _I'll_ shout for thot school! For my boys can find out how to fix thot barn door our old cow laid down against." Ha, ha! What a circus our Organization had with such varying moods and outlooks! But, finally such a school was built; instructors brought in from surrounding towns; and Gadsby was as happy as a cat with a ball of yarn. As Branton Hills found out what it can accomplish if it starts out with vigor and a will to win, our Organization thought of laying out a big park; furnishing an opportunity for small tots to romp and play on grassy plots; a park for all sorts of sports, picnics, and so forth; sand lots for babyhood; cozy arbors for girls who might wish to study, or talk. (You might, possibly, find a girl who _can_ talk, you know!); also shady nooks and winding paths for old folks who might find comfort in such. Gadsby thought that a park is truly a most important adjunct to any community; for, if a growing population has no out-door spot at which its glooms, slumps and morbid thoughts can vanish upon wings of sunlight, amidst bright colorings of shrubs and sky, it may sink into a grouchy, fault-finding, squabbling group; and making such a showing for surrounding towns as to hold back any gain in population or valuation. Gadsby had a goodly plot of land in a grand location for a park and sold it to Branton Hills for a dollar; that stingy Council to lay it out according to his plans. And _how_ his Organization did applaud him for this, his first "solo work!" But schools and parks do not fulfill all of a town's calls. Many minds of varying kinds will long for an opportunity for finding out things not ordinarily taught in school. So Branton Hills' Public Library was found too small. As it was now in a small back room in our High School, it should occupy its own building; down town, and handy for all; and with additional thousands of books and maps. Now, if you think Gadsby and his youthful assistants stood aghast at such a gigantic proposition, you just don't know Youth, as it is today. But to whom could Youth look for so big an outlay as a library building would cost? Books also cost; librarians and janitors draw pay. So, with light, warmth, and all-round comforts, it was a task to stump a full-grown politician; to say nothing of a plain, ordinary townsman and a bunch of kids. So Gadsby thought of taking two bright boys and two smart girls to Washington, to call upon a man in a high position, who had got it through Branton Hills' popular ballot. Now, any politician is a convincing orator. (That is, you know, all that politics consists of!); and this big man, in contact with a visiting capitalist, looking for a handout for his own district, got a donation of a thousand dollars. But that wouldn't _start_ a public library; to say nothing of maintaining it. So, back in Branton Hills, again, our Organization was out, as usual, on its war-path. Branton Hills' philanthropy was now showing signs of monotony; so our Organization had to work its linguistic ability and captivating tricks full blast, until that thousand dollars had so grown that a library was built upon a vacant lot which had grown nothing but grass; and only a poor quality of it, at that; and many a child and adult quickly found ways of profitably passing odd hours. Naturally Old Bill Simpkins was snooping around, sniffing and snorting at any signs of making Branton Hills "look cityish," (a word originating in Bill's vocabulary.) "Huh!! _I_ didn't put in any foolish hours with books in my happy childhood in this good old town! But I got along all right; and am now having my say in its Town Hall doings. Books!! Pooh! Maps! BAH!! It's silly to squat in a hot room squinting at a lot of print! If you want to know about a thing, go to work in a shop or factory of that kind, and find out about it first-hand." "But, Bill," said Gadsby, "shops want a man who knows what to do without having to stop to train him." "Oh, that's all bosh! If a boss shows a man what a tool is for; and if that man is any good, at all, why bring up this stuff you call training? That man grabs a tool, works 'til noon; knocks off for an hour; works 'til----" At this point in Bill's blow-up an Italian Councilman was passing, and put in his oar, with:-- "Ha, Bill! You thinka your man can worka all right, firsta day, huh? You talka crazy so much as a fool! I laugha tinkin' of you startin' on a patcha for my boota! You lasta just a half hour. Thisa library all righta. This town too mucha what I call tight-wad!" Oh, hum!! It's a tough job making old dogs do tricks. But our Organization was now holding almost daily sittings, and soon a bright girl thought of having band music in that now popular park. And _what_ do you think that stingy Council did? It actually built a most fantastic band-stand; got a contract with a first-class band, and all without so much as a Councilman fainting away!! So, finally, on a hot July Sunday, two solid hours of grand harmony brought joy to many a poor Soul who had not for many a day, known that balm of comfort which can "air out our brains' dusty corridors," and bring such happy thrills, as Music, that charming Fairy, which knows no human words, can bring. Around that gaudy band-stand, at two-thirty on that first Sunday, sat or stood as happy a throng of old and young as any man could wish for; and Gadsby and his "gang" got hand-clasps and hand-claps, from all. A good band, you know, not only can stir and thrill you; for it can play a soft crooning lullaby, a lilting waltz or polka; or, with its wood winds, bring forth old songs of our childhood, ballads of courting days, or hymns and carols of Christmas; and can suit all sorts of folks, in all sorts of moods; for a Spaniard, Dutchman or Russian can find similar joy with a man from Italy, Norway or far away Brazil. II By now, Branton Hills was so proud of not only its "smarting up," but also of its startling growth, on that account, that an application was put forth for its incorporation as a city; a small city, naturally, but full of that condition of Youth, known as "growing pains." So its shabby old "Town Hall" sign was thrown away, and a black and gold onyx slab, with "CITY HALL" blazing forth in vivid colors, put up, amidst band music, flag waving, parading and oratory. In only a month from that glorious day, Gadsby found folks "primping up"; girls putting on bright ribbons; boys finding that suits could stand a good ironing; and rich widows and portly matrons almost out-doing any rainbow in brilliancy. An occasional shop along Broadway, which had a rattly door or shaky windows was put into first class condition, to fit Branton Hills' status as a city. Old Bill Simpkins was strutting around, as pompous as a drum-major; for, now, that old Town Council would function as a CITY council; HIS council! His own stamping ground! According to him, from it, at no far day, "Bill Simpkins, City Councilman," would show an anxiously waiting world how to run a city; though probably, I think, how _not_ to run it. It is truly surprising what a narrow mind, what a blind outlook a man, brought up with practically no opposition to his boyhood wants, can attain; though brought into contact with indisputably important data for improving his city. Our Organization boys thought Bill "a bit off;" but Gadsby would only laugh at his blasts against paying out city funds; for, you know, all bombs don't burst; you occasionally find a "dud." But this furor for fixing up rattly doors or shaky windows didn't last; for Old Bill's oratory found favor with a bunch of his old tight-wads, who actually thought of inaugurating a campaign against Gadsby's Organization of Youth. As soon as this was known about town, that mythical pot, known as Public Opinion, was boiling furiously. A vast majority stood back of Gadsby and his kids; so, old Bill's ranks could count only on a small group of rich old Shylocks to whom a bank-book was a thing to look into or talk about only annually; that is, on bank-balancing days. This small minority got up a slogan:--"Why Spoil a Good Old Town?" and actually did, off and on, talk a shopman out of fixing up his shop or grounds. This, you know, put additional vigor into our Organization; inspiring a boy to bring up a plan for calling a month,--say July,--"pick-up, paint-up and wash-up month;" for it was a plain fact that, all about town, was many a shabby spot; a lot of buildings could stand a good coat of paint, and yards raking up; thus showing surrounding towns that not only _could_ Branton Hills "doll up," but had a class of inhabitants who gladly would go at such a plan, and carry it through. So Gadsby got his "gang" out, to sally forth and any man or woman who did not jump, at first, at such a plan by vigorous Youth, was always brought around, through noticing how poorly a shabby yard did look. So Gadsby put in Branton Hills' "Post" this stirring call:-- "Raking up your yard or painting your building is simply improving it both in worth; artistically and from a utilization standpoint. I know that many a city front lawn is small; but, if it is only fairly big, a walk, cut curvingly, will add to it, surprisingly. That part of a walk which runs to your front door could show rows of small rocks rough and natural; and grading from small to big; but _no_ 'hit-or-miss' layout. You can so fix up your yard as to form an approach to unity in plan with such as adjoin you; though without actual duplication; thus providing harmony for all who may pass by. It is, in fact, but a bit of City Planning; and anybody who aids in such work is a most worthy inhabitant. So, _cut_ your scraggly lawns! _Trim_ your old, shaggy shrubs! Bring into artistic form, your grass-grown walks!" (Now, naturally, in writing such a story as this, with its conditions as laid down in its Introduction, it is not surprising that an occasional "rough spot" in composition is found. So I trust that a critical public will hold constantly in mind that I am voluntarily avoiding words containing that symbol which is, _by far_, of most common inclusion in writing our Anglo-Saxon as it is, today. Many of our most common words cannot show; so I must adopt synonyms; and so twist a thought around as to say what I wish with as much clarity as I can.) So, now to go on with this odd contraption: By Autumn, a man who took his vacation in July, would hardly know his town upon coming back, so thoroughly had thousands "dug in" to aid in its transformation. "Boys," said Gadsby, "you can pat your own backs, if you can't find anybody to do it for you. This city is proud of you. And, girls, just sing with joy; for not only is your city proud of you, but I am, too." "But how about you, sir, and your work?" This was from Frank; a boy brought up to think fairly on all things. "Oh," said Gadsby laughingly, "I didn't do much of anything but boss you young folks around. If our Council awards any diplomas, I don't want any. I would look ridiculous strutting around with a diploma with a pink ribbon on it, now wouldn't I!" This talk of diplomas was as a bolt from a bright sky to this young, hustling bunch. But, though Gadsby's words did sound as though a grown man wouldn't want such a thing, that wasn't saying that a young boy or girl wouldn't; and with this surprising possibility ranking in young minds, many a kid was in an anti-soporific condition for parts of many a night. But a kindly Councilman actually did bring up a bill about this diploma affair, and his collaborators put it through; which naturally brought up talk as how to award such diplomas. At last it was thought that a big public affair at City Hall, with our Organization on a platform, with Branton Hills' Mayor and Council, would furnish an all-round, satisfactory way. Such an occasion was worthy of a lot of planning; and a first thought was for flags and bunting on all public buildings; with a grand illumination at night. Stationary lights should glow from all points on which a light could stand, hang, or swing; and gigantic rays should swoop and swish across clouds and sky. Bands should play; boys and girls march and sing; and a vast crowd would pour into City Hall. As on similar occasions, a bad rush for chairs was apt to occur, a company of military units should occupy all important points, to hold back anything simulating a jam. Now, if you think our Organization wasn't all agog and wild, with youthful anticipation at having a diploma for work out of school hours, you just don't know Youth. Boys and girls, though not full grown inhabitants of a city, do know what will add to its popularity; and having had a part in bringing about such conditions, it was but natural to look back upon such, as any military man might at winning a difficult fight. So, finally our big day was at hand! That it might not cut into school hours, it was on a Saturday; and, by noon, about a thousand kids, singing, shouting and waving flags, stood in formation at City Park, awaiting, with growing thrills, a signal which would start as big a turn-out as Branton Hills had known in all its history. Up at City Hall awaiting arrivals of city officials, a big crowd sat; row upon row of chairs which not only took up all floor room, but also many a small spot, in door-way or on a balcony in which a chair or stool could find footing; and all who could not find such an opportunity willingly stood in back. Just as a group of officials sat down on that flag-bound platform, distant throbbing of drums, and bright, snappy band music told of Branton Hills' approaching thousands of kids, who, finally marching in through City Hall's main door, stood in a solid mass around that big room. Naturally Gadsby had to put his satisfaction into words; and, advancing to a mahogany stand, stood waiting for a storm of hand-clapping and shouts to quit, and said:-- "Your Honor, Mayor of Branton Hills, its Council, and all you out in front:--If you would only stop rating a child's ability by your own; and try to find out just _what_ ability a child has, our young folks throughout this big world would show a surprisingly willing disposition to try things which would bring your approbation. A child's brain is an astonishing thing. It has, in its construction, an astounding capacity for absorbing what is brought to it; and not only to think about, but to find ways for improving it. It is today's child who, tomorrow, will, you know, laugh at our ways of doing things. So, in putting across this campaign of building up our community into a municipality which has won acclaim, not only from its officials and inhabitants, but from surrounding towns I found, in our young folks, an out-and-out inclination to assist; and you, today, can look upon it as labor in which your adult aid was but a small factor. So now, my Organization of Youth, if you will pass across this platform, your Mayor will hand you your diplomas." Not in all Branton Hills' history had any boy or girl known such a thrill as upon winning that hard-won roll! And from solid banks of humanity roars of congratulation burst forth. As soon as Mayor Brown shook hands (and such tiny, warm, soft young hands, too!) with all, a big out-door lunch was found waiting on a charming lawn back of City Hall; and this was no World War mobilization lunch of doughnuts and a hot dog sandwich; but, as two of Gadsby's sons said, was "an all-round, good, big fill-up;" and many a boy's and girl's "tummy" was soon as round and taut as a balloon. As twilight was turning to dusk, boys in an adjoining lot shot skyward a crashing bomb, announcing a grand illumination as a fitting climax for so glorious a day; and thousands sat on rock-walls, grassy knolls, in cars or at windows, with a big crowd standing along curbs and crosswalks. Myriads of lights of all colors, in solid balls, sprays, sparkling fountains, and bursts of glory, shot, in criss-cross paths, up and down, back and forth, across a star-lit sky; providing a display without a par in local annals. But not only did Youth thrill at so fantastic a show. Adults had many a Fourth of July brought back from a distant past; in which our national custom wound up our most important holiday with a similar display; only, in our Fourths of long ago, horrifying, gigantic concussions would disturb old folks and invalids until midnight; at which hour, according to law, all such carrying-on must stop. But did it? Possibly in _your_ town, but not around _my_ district! All Fourth of July outfits don't always function at first, you know; and no kid, (or adult!) would think of quitting until that last pop should pop; or that last bang should bang. And so, many a dawn on July fifth found things still going, full blast. III Youth cannot stay for long in a condition of inactivity; and so, for only about a month did things so stand, until a particularly bright girl in our Organization, thought out a plan for caring for infants of folks who had to go out, to work; and this bright kid soon had a group of girls who would join, during vacation, in voluntarily giving up four days a month to such work. With about fifty girls collaborating, all districts had this most gracious aid; and a girl would not only watch and guard, but would also instruct, as far as practical, any such tot as had not had its first schooling. Such work by young girls still in school was a grand thing; and Gadsby not only stood up for such loyalty, but got at his boys to find a similar plan; and soon had a full troop of Boy Scouts; uniforms and all. This automatically brought about a Girl Scout unit; and, through a collaboration of both, a form of club sprang up. It was a club in which any boy or girl of a family owning a car would call mornings for pupils having no cars, during school days, for a trip to school and back. This was not only a saving in long walks for many, but also took from a young back, that hard, tiring strain from lugging such armfuls of books as you find pupils laboriously carrying, today. Upon arriving at a school building, many cars would unload so many books that Gadsby said:-- "You would think that a Public Library branch was moving in!" This car work soon brought up a thought of giving similar aid to ailing adults; who, not owning a car, could not know of that vast display of hill and plain so common to a majority of our townsfolks. So a plan was laid, by which a car would call two days a month; and for an hour or so, follow roads winding out of town and through woods, farm lands and suburbs; showing distant ponds, and that grand arch of sky which "shut-ins" know only from photographs. Ah; _how_ that plan did stir up joyous anticipation amongst such as thus had an opportunity to call upon old, loving pals, and talk of old customs and past days! Occasionally such a talk would last so long that a youthful motorist, waiting dutifully at a curb, thought that a full family history of both host and visitor was up for an airing. But old folks always _will_ talk and it will not do a boy or girl any harm to wait; for, you know, that boy or girl will act in just that way, at a not too far-off day! But, popular as this touring plan was, it had to stop; for school again took all young folks from such out-door activity. Nobody was so sorry at this as Gadsby, for though Branton Hills' suburban country is glorious from March to August, it is also strong in its attractions throughout Autumn, with its artistic colorings of fruits, pumpkins, corn-shocks, hay-stacks and Fall blossoms. So Gadsby got a big motor-coach company to run a bus a day, carrying, gratis, all poor or sickly folks who had a doctor's affidavit that such an outing would aid in curing ills arising from too constant in-door living; and so, up almost to Thanksgiving, this big coach ran daily. As Spring got around again, this "man-of-all-work" thought of driving away a shut-in invalid's monotony by having musicians go to such rooms, to play; or, by taking along a vocalist or trio, sing such old songs as always bring back happy days. This work Gadsby thought of paying for by putting on a circus. And _was_ it a circus? _It was!!_ It had boys forming both front and hind limbs of animals totally unknown to zoology; girls strutting around as gigantic birds of also doubtful origin; an array of small living animals such as trick dogs and goats, a dancing pony, a group of imitation Indians, cowboys, cowgirls, a kicking trick jack-ass; and, talk about clowns! Forty boys got into baggy pantaloons and fools' caps; and no circus, including that first of all shows in Noah's Ark, had so much going on. Gymnasts from our school gymnasium, tumbling, jumping and racing; comic dancing; a clown band; high-swinging artists, and a funny cop who didn't wait to find out who a man was, but hit him anyway. And, as no circus _is_ a circus without boys shouting wildly about pop-corn and cold drinks, Gadsby saw to it that such boys got in as many patrons' way as any ambitious youth could; and that is "going strong," if you know boys, at all! But what about profits? It not only paid for all acts which his Organization couldn't put on, but it was found that a big fund for many a day's musical visitations, was on hand. And, now a word or two about municipal affairs in this city; or _any_ city, in which nobody will think of doing anything about its poor and sick, without a vigorous prodding up. City Councils, now-a-days, willingly grant big appropriations for paving, lights, schools, jails, courts, and so on; but invariably fight shy of charity; which is nothing but sympathy for anybody who is "down and out." No man can say that Charity will not, during coming days, aid _him_ in supporting his family; and it was Gadsby's claim that _humans_:--_not blocks of buildings_, form what Mankind calls a city. But what would big, costly buildings amount to, if all who work in such cannot maintain that good physical condition paramount in carrying on a city's various forms of labor? And not only _physical_ good, but also a mind happy from lack of worry and of that stagnation which always follows a monotonous daily grind. So our Organization was soon out again, agitating City Officials and civilians toward building a big Auditorium in which all kinds of shows and sports could occur, with also a swimming pool and hot and cold baths. Such a building cannot so much as start without financial backing; but gradually many an iron-bound bank account was drawn upon (much as you pull a tooth!), to buy bonds. Also, such a building won't grow up in a night; nor was a spot upon which to put it found without a lot of agitation; many wanting it in a down-town district; and also, many who had vacant land put forth all sorts of claims to obtain cash for lots upon which a big tax was paid annually, without profits. But all such things automatically turn out satisfactorily to a majority; though an ugly, grasping landlord who lost out, would viciously squawk that "municipal graft" was against him. Now Gadsby was vigorously against graft; not only in city affairs but in any kind of transaction; and that stab brought forth such a flow of oratory from him, that as voting for Mayor was soon to occur, it, and a long list of good works, soon had him up for that position. But Gadsby didn't want such a nomination; still, thousands of townsfolks who had known him from childhood, would not hark to anything but his candidacy; and, soon, on window cards, signs, and flags across Broadway, was his photograph and "GADSBY FOR MAYOR;" and a campaign was on which still rings in Branton Hills' history as "hot stuff!" Four aspiring politicians ran in opposition; and, as all had good backing, and Gadsby only his public works to fall back on, things soon got looking gloomy for him. His antagonists, standing upon soap box, auto truck, or hastily built platforms, put forth, with prodigious vim, claims that "our fair city will go back to its original oblivion if _I_ am not its Mayor!" But our Organization now took a hand, most of which, now out of High School, was growing up rapidly; and anybody who knows anything at all about Branton Hills' history, knows that, if this band of bright, loyal pals of Gadsby's was out to attain a goal, it was mighty apt to start things humming. To say that Gadsby's rivals got a bad jolt as it got around town that his "bunch of warriors" was aiding him, would put it but mildly. _Two quit instantly_, saying that this is a day of Youth and no adult has half a show against it! But two still hung on; clinging to a sort of fond fantasy that Gadsby, not naturally a public sort of man, might voluntarily drop out. But, had Gadsby so much as thought of such an action, his Organization would quickly laugh it to scorn. "Why, good gracious!" said Frank Morgan, "if _anybody_ should sit in that Mayor's chair in City Hall, it's you! Just look at what you did to boost Branton Hills! Until you got it a-going it had but two thousand inhabitants; now it has sixty thousand! And just ask your rivals to point to any part of it that you didn't build up. Look at our Public Library, municipal band, occupational class rooms; auto and bus trips; and your circus which paid for music for sick folks. With you as Mayor, _boy!_ What an opportunity to boss and swing things your own way! Why, anything you might say is as good as law; and----" "Now, hold on, boy!" said Gadsby, "a Mayor can't boss things in any such a way as you think. A Mayor has a Council, which has to pass on all bills brought up; and, my boy, upon arriving at manhood, you'll find that a Mayor who _can_ boss a Council around, is a most uncommon bird. And as for a Mayor's word amounting to a law, it's a mighty good thing that it can't! Why, a Mayor can't do much of anything, today, Frank, without a bunch of crazy bat-brains stirring up a rumpus about his acts looking 'suspiciously shady.' Now that is a bad condition in which to find a city, Frank. You boys don't know anything about graft; but as you grow up you will find many flaws in a city's laws; but also many points thoroughly good and fair. Just try to think what a city would amount to if a solitary man could control its law making, as a King or Sultan of old. That was why so many millions of inhabitants would start wars and riots against a tyrant; for many a King _was_ a tyrant, Frank, and had no thought as to how his laws would suit his thousands of rich and poor. A law that might suit a rich man, might work all kinds of havoc with a poor family." "But," said Frank, "why should a King pass a law that would dissatisfy anybody?" Gadsby's parry to this rising youthful ambition for light on political affairs was:-- "Why will a duck go into a pond?" and Frank found that though a growing young man might know a thing or two, making laws for a city was a man's job. So, with a Mayoralty campaign on his hands, plus planning for that big auditorium, Gadsby was as busy as a fly around a syrup jug; for a mass of campaign mail had to go out; topics for orations thought up; and contacts with his now truly important Organization of Youth, took so many hours out of his days that his family hardly saw him, at all. Noon naturally stood out as a good opportunity for oratory, as thousands, out for lunch, would stop, in passing. But, also, many a hall rang with plaudits as an antagonist won a point; but many a throng saw Gadsby's good points, and plainly told him so by turning out voluminously at any point at which his oratory was to flow. It was truly miraculous how this man of shy disposition, found words in putting forth his plans for improving Branton Hills, town of his birth. Many an orator has grown up from an unassuming individual who had things worth saying; and who, through that curious facility which is born of a conviction that his plans had a practical basis, won many a ballot against such prolific flows of high-sounding words as his antagonists had in stock. Many a night Gadsby was "all in," as his worn-out body and an aching throat sought his downy couch. No campaign is a cinch. With so many minds amongst a city's population, just that many calls for this or that swung back and forth until that most important of all days,--voting day, was at hand. What crowds, mobs and jams did assail all polling booths, casting ballots to land a party-man in City Hall! If a voting booth was in a school building, as is a common custom pupils had that day off; and, as Gadsby was Youth's champion, groups of kids hung around, watching and hoping with that avidity so common with youth, that Gadsby would win by a majority unknown in Branton Hills. And Gadsby did! As soon as it was shown by official count, Branton Hills was a riot, from City Hall to City limits; throngs tramping around, tossing hats aloft; for a hard-working man had won what many thousands thought was fair and just. IV As soon as Gadsby's inauguration had put him in a position to do things with authority, his first act was to start things moving on that big auditorium plan, for which many capitalists had bought bonds. Again public opinion had a lot to say as to how such a building should look, what it should contain; how long, how high, how costly; with a long string of ifs and buts. Family upon family put forth claims for rooms for public forums in which various thoughts upon world affairs could find opportunity for discussion; Salvation Army officials thought that a big hall for a public Sunday School class would do a lot of good; and that, lastly, what I must, from this odd yarn's strict orthography, call a "film show," should, without doubt occupy a part of such a building. Anyway, talk or no talk, Gadsby said that it should stand as a building for man, woman and child; rich or poor; and, barring its "film show," without cost to anybody. Branton Hills' folks could thus swim, do gymnastics, talk on public affairs, or "just sit and gossip", at will. So it was finally built in a charming park amidst shrubs and blossoms; an additional honor for Gadsby. But such buildings as Branton Hills now had could not fulfill all functions of so rapidly growing a city; for you find, occasionally, a class of folks who cannot afford a doctor, if ill. This was brought up by a girl of our Organization, Doris Johnson, who, on Christmas Day, in taking gifts to a poor family, had found a woman critically ill, and with no funds for aid or comforts; and instantly, in Doris' quick young mind a vision of a big city hospital took form; and, on a following day Gadsby had his Organization at City Hall, to "just talk," (and you know how that bunch _can_ talk!) to a Councilman or two. Now, if any kind of a building in all this big world costs good, hard cash to build, and furnish, it is a hospital; and it is also a building which a public knows nothing about. So Mayor Gadsby saw that if his Council would pass an appropriation for it, no such squabbling as had struck his Municipal Auditorium plan, would occur. But Gadsby forgot Branton Hills' landlords, all of whom had "a most glorious spot," just right for a hospital; until, finally, a group of physicians was told to look around. And did Branton Hills' landlords call upon Branton Hills' physicians? I'll say so!! Anybody visiting town, not knowing what was going on, would think that vacant land was as common as raindrops in a cloudburst. Small plots sprang into public light which couldn't hold a poultry barn, to say nothing of a big City Hospital. But no grasping landlord can fool physicians in talking up a hospital location, so it was finally built, on high land, with a charming vista across Branton Hills' suburbs and distant hills; amongst which Gadsby's charity auto and bus trips took so many happy invalids on past hot days. Now it is only fair that our boys and girls of this famous Organization of Youth, should walk forward for an introduction to you. So I will bring forth such bright and loyal girls as Doris Johnson, Dorothy Fitts, Lucy Donaldson, Marian Hopkins, Priscilla Standish, Abigail Worthington, Sarah Young, and Virginia Adams. Amongst the boys, cast a fond look upon Arthur Rankin, Frank Morgan, John Hamilton, Paul Johnson, Oscar Knott and William Snow; as smart a bunch of Youth as you could find in a month of Sundays. As soon as our big hospital was built and functioning, Sarah Young and Priscilla Standish, in talking with groups of girls, had found a longing for a night-school, as so many folks had to work all day, so couldn't go to our Manual Training School. So Mayor Gadsby took it up with Branton Hills' School Board. Now school boards do not always think in harmony with Mayors and Councils; in fact, what with school boards, Councils, taxation boards, paving contractors, Sunday closing-hour agitations, railway rights of way, and all-round political "mud-slinging," a Mayor has a tough job. Two of Gadsby's School Board said "NO!!" A right out-loud, slam-bang big "NO!!" Two thought that a night school was a good thing; but four, with a faint glow of financial wisdom, (a rarity in politics, today!) saw no cash in sight for such an institution. But Gadsby's famous Organization won again! Branton Hills did not contain a family in which this Organization wasn't known; and many a sock was brought out from hiding, and many a sofa pillow cut into, to aid _any_ plan in which this group had a part. But, just as funds had grown to what Mayor Gadsby thought would fill all such wants, a row in Council as to this fund's application got so hot that "His Honor" got mad; _mighty mad!!_ And said:-- "Why is it that any bill for appropriations coming up in this Council has to kick up such a rumpus? Why can't you look at such things with a public mind; for nothing can so aid toward passing bills as harmony. This city is not holding off an attacking army. Branton Hills is not a pack of wild animals, snapping and snarling by day; jumping, at a crackling twig, at night. It is a city of _humans_; animals, if you wish, but with a gift from On High of a _brain_, so far apart from all dumb animals as to allow us to talk about our public affairs calmly and thoughtfully. All this Night School rumpus is foolish. Naturally, what is taught in such a school is an important factor; so I want to find out from our Organization----" At this point, old Bill Simpkins got up, with: "This Organization of Youth stuff puts a kink in my spinal column! Almost all of it is through school. So how can you bring such a group forward as 'pupils?'" "A child," said Gadsby, "who had such schooling as Branton Hills affords is, naturally, still a pupil; for many will follow up a study if an opportunity is at hand. Many adults also carry out a custom of brushing up on unfamiliar topics; thus, also, ranking as pupils. Possibly, Bill, if you would look up that word 'pupil,' you wouldn't find so much fault with insignificant data." "All right!" was Simpkins' snap-back; "but what I want to know is, what our big Public Library is for. Your 'pupils' can find all sorts of information in that big building. So why build a night school? It's nothing but a duplication!" "A library," said Gadsby, "is not a school. It has no instructors; you cannot talk in its rooms. You may find a book or two on your study, or you may not. You would find it a big handicap if you think that you can accomplish much with no aid but that of a Public Library. Young folks know what young folks want to study. It is foolish, say, to install a class in Astronomy, for although it _is_ a 'Night School,' its pupils' thoughts might not turn toward Mars, Saturn or shooting stars; but shorthand, including training for typists amongst adults who, naturally don't go to day schools, is most important, today; also History and Corporation Law; and I know that a study of Music would attract many. Any man or woman who works all day, but still wants to study at night, should find an opportunity for doing so." This put a stop to Councilman Simpkins' criticisms, and approval was put upon Gadsby's plan; and it was but shortly that this school's popularity was shown in a most amusing way. Branton Hills folks, in passing it on going out for a show or social call, caught most savory whiffs, as i

In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. Islaamic Sharia Law. Based on Quraan, Sunnah and Ijtihaad. by Irshad Mahmood-Global Auliyaa (PRESIDENT), Siraat-al-Mustaqeem Dawah Centre. Reformatted for Machine Speech, with references removed, 2023. Original PDF location: https://archive.org/details/islamic-sharia-law Preface. Sharia is the Arabic word for Islamic law, also known as the Law of Allah. Islam classically draws no distinction between religious, and secular life. Hence Sharia covers not only religious rituals, but many aspects of day-today life, politics, economics, banking, business or contract law, and social issues. There are three major components of Islaamic Sharia Law: 1. Quraan. 2. Sunnah. 3. Ijtihaad. Components of Islaamic Sharia Law: There are three major components of Islaamic Sharia Law (Quraan, Sunnah and Ijtihaad): 1. Quraanic Law. "Remember! The command is for none but Allah." In the Quraan there are certain laws (the details of) which have been determined (FIXED) and for others guidance has been provided only in principle (flexible according to time under the boundary limits). The determined laws shall be enforced as is. As far as those laws are concerned where only the principles are given, an Islamic State shall frame details thereof staying within the parameters of these principles according to the needs of their time. These principles shall remain immutable but the rules framed under their guidance shall be liable to change in accordance with the exigencies of advancing times. This is the expedience, on the basis of which Allah did not determine the by-laws Himself. If it had so happened, these laws could not remain consistent with the exigencies of time, and that could render the working of the way of life prescribed by Him, impracticable. The Book that was intended to remain a code of guidance for all times and for all the people, had to be thus, meaning the principles should be immutable (variable) and detailed (fixed) applicatory by-laws changeable with the change of time. Only this blend of permanence and change could keep the system permanently practicable through all times. This reality has been clarified by saying: O you who believe! (What is necessary for the guidance of mankind has been given through revelation and is prescribed in the Quraan). Do not put questions about things which if declared (fixed not flexible according to time) to you may trouble you, and if you question about them when the Quraan is being revealed, they shall be declared to you; Allah pardons this, and Allah is Forgiving, Forbearing. O people before you indeed asked such questions, and then became disbelievers on account of them. 2. Fiqh-us-Sunnah, Authentic Hadeeth and Sunnah. Allah already told us to Obey Rasool Allah as well. O ye who believe! Obey Allah and His Messenger (Peace-Be-Upon-Him), and turn not away from him when ye hear (him speak). Be not as those who say, we hear, and they hear not. Lo! The worst of beasts in Allah’s sight are the deaf, the dumb, who have no sense. O you who believe! Obey Allah and obey the Messenger, and do not make your deeds of no effect (by disobeying Allah and his Messenger). It is not fitting for a Believer, men or women, when a matter has been decided by Allah and His Messenger, to have any option about their decision: if anyone disobeys Allah and His Messenger (Peace-Be-Upon-Him), he is indeed on a clearly wrong Path. And obey Allah and His Messenger and do not quarrel (fall into no disputes) for then you will be weak in hearts and your power will depart, and be patient; surely Allah is with the patient. If you DIFFER in anything (Faith, Salaat, Sayaam, Zakaat, etc.) amongst yourself, then REFER to Allah and his Messenger, if you really believe in Allah and in the Last Day. That is better and more suitable for determinations. 3. Ijtihaad (progressive reasoning by analogy), Ijmaa (consensus), Qiyaas (analogy). Allah also told us to Obey Those Who are in Authority (Leader, Leader of the House). O you who believe! obey Allah and obey the Messenger and those in authority (Leader) from among you; then if you differ about anything, refer it to Allah and the Messenger, if you believe in Allah and the last day; this is better and very good in the end. And withhold yourself with those who call on their Lord morning and evening desiring His goodwill, and let not your eyes pass from them (always yes sir, till they follow the Quraan and Really Authentic Sunnah), desiring the beauties of this world's life; and do not follow him whose heart We have made unmindful to Our remembrance, and he follows his low desires and his case is one in which due bounds are exceeded. Allah has promised to those of you who believe and do good that He will most certainly make them rulers in the earth as He made rulers those before them, and that He will most certainly establish for them their religion which He has chosen for them, and that He will most certainly, after their fear, give them security in exchange; they shall serve Me, not associating aught with Me; and whoever is ungrateful after this, these it is who are the transgressors. Men are the Leader (Manager, Maintainers, Protectors, Responsible, Taking Care) of women because Allah has made some of them to excel others and (also) because they spend out of their property; the good women are therefore obedient, guarding the unseen as Allah has guarded; and (as to) those on whose part you fear desertion, admonish them, and leave them alone in the sleeping-places and beat them; then if they obey you, do not seek a way against them; surely Allah is High, Great. And do not covet that by which Allah has made some of you excel others; men shall have the benefit of what they earn and women shall have the benefit of what they earn; and ask Allah of His grace; surely Allah knows all things. The Quraan is the first and foremost source, followed by the Authentic Hadeeth and Sunnah, which do not contradict the Quraan, and FINALLY followed by the Ijmaa, Qiyaas, Ijtihaad according to the time and place, and may take benefits from modern sciences as well, of course, which do not contradict the Quraan and Authentic Hadeeth and Sunnah. State Affairs. 1. SOVEREIGNTY. Command. In an Islamic State, affairs are conducted within limits laid down by the Quraan. Nobody has the right to transgress these limits; in other words, the right to rule belongs to Allah alone. Say: Surely I have manifest proof from my Lord and you call it a lie; I have not with me that which you would hasten; the Decision (Command. Judgment) is only Allah's; He relates the truth and He is the best of deciders. You do not serve besides Him but names which you have named, you and your fathers; Allah has not sent down any authority for them; the command is for none but Allah; He has commanded that you shall not serve aught but Him; this is the right religion but most people do not know: Say: "Allah knows best how long they stayed: with Him is (the knowledge of) the secrets of the heavens and the earth: how clearly He sees, how finely He hears (everything)! They have no protector other than Him; nor does He share His Command with any person whatsoever (including Rasool Allah (Peace-Be-Upon-Him)). It is not meet for a mortal that Allah should give him the Book and the wisdom and prophethood, then he should say to men: Be my servants rather than Allah's; but rather (he would say): Be worshippers of the Lord because of your teaching the Book and your reading (it yourselves). Then We gave the Book for an inheritance to those whom We chose from among Our servants; but of them is he who makes his soul to suffer a loss, and of them is he who takes a middle course, and of them is he who is foremost in deeds of goodness by Allah's permission; this is the great excellence. The duty of the Ummah is to establish an Order according to this Book; thus an Islamic State is an agency that enforces the divine command: Surely We revealed the Taurat in which was guidance and light; with it the prophets who submitted themselves (to Allah) judged (matters) for those who were Jews, and the masters of Divine knowledge and the doctors, because they were required to guard (part) of the Book of Allah, and they were witnesses thereof; therefore fear not the people and fear Me, and do not take a small price for My communications; and whoever did not judge by what Allah revealed, those are they that are the unbelievers. 2. THE CODE OF LAWS IN AN ISLAMIC STATE is the Book of Allah (the Quraan). Surely We revealed the Taurat in which was guidance and light; with it the prophets who submitted themselves (to Allah) judged (matters) for those who were Jews, and the masters of Divine knowledge and the doctors, because they were required to guard (part) of the Book of Allah, and they were witnesses thereof; therefore fear not the people and fear Me, and do not take a small price for My communications; and whoever did not judge by what Allah revealed, those are they that are the unbelievers. (O Jamaa'atul Mu'mineen) Follow what has been revealed to you from your Lord (Allah alone) and do not follow guardians besides Him (The subservience to Divine Laws and not of any human being is the real freedom), how little do you mind. O followers of the Book! indeed Our Messenger has come to you making clear to you much of what you concealed of the Book and passing over much; indeed, there has come to you Light and a Clear Book from Allah. And certainly We have made the Quraan easy for remembrance, but is there anyone who will mind, Learn? Why do they not study the Quraan (Free from contradictions or Error and have Capacity to stand as a Judge) carefully? If it were from other than GOD, they would have found in it numerous contradictions. (All) people are a single nation; so Allah raised prophets as bearers of good news and as warners, and He revealed with them the Book with truth, that it might judge between people in that in which they differed; and none but the very people who were given it differed about it after clear arguments had come to them, revolting among themselves; so Allah has guided by His will those who believe to the truth about which they differed and Allah guides whom He pleases to the right path. The word of your Lord is complete (perfect), in truth and justice; there is none who can change His words, and He is the Hearing, the Knowing: In the Quraan there are certain laws (the details of) which have been determined (FIXED) and for others guidance has been provided only in principle (flexible according to time under the boundary limits). The determined laws shall be enforced as is. As far as those laws are concerned where only the principles are given, an Islamic State shall frame details thereof staying within the parameters of these principles according to the needs of their time. These principles shall remain immutable but the rules framed under their guidance shall be liable to change in accordance with the exigencies of advancing times. This is the expedience, on the basis of which Allah did not determine the by-laws Himself. If it had so happened, these laws could not remain consistent with the exigencies of time, and that could render the working of the way of life prescribed by Him, impracticable. The Book that was intended to remain a code of guidance for all times and for all the people, had to be thus, meaning the principles should be immutable (variable) and detailed (fixed) applicatory by-laws changeable with the change of time. Only this blend of permanence and change could keep the system permanently practicable through all times. This reality has been clarified by saying: O you who believe! (what is necessary for the guidance of mankind has been given through revelation and is prescribed in the Quraan). Do not put questions about things which if declared (fixed not flexible according to time) to you may trouble you, and if you question about them when the Quraan is being revealed, they shall be declared to you; Allah pardons this, and Allah is Forgiving, Forbearing. A people before you indeed asked such questions, and then became disbelievers on account of them. "Rather you wish to put questions to your Messenger, as Musa (Peace-Be-Upon-Him) was questioned before; and (it is a warning, so be careful) whoever adopts unbelief instead of faith, he indeed has lost the right direction of the way. Yet you it is who slay your people and turn a party from among you out of their homes, backing each other up against them unlawfully and exceeding the limits; and if they should come to you, as captives you would ransom them, while their very turning out was unlawful for you. Do you then believe in a part of the Book and disbelieve in the other? What then is the reward of such among you as do this but disgrace in the life of this world, and on the day of resurrection they shall be sent back to the most grievous chastisement, and Allah is not at all heedless of what you do. 3. THE ENTIRE UMMAH SHALL TAKE PART IN THE GOVERNMENT. The duty of an Islamic Ruler is: "To enforce what is lawful according to the Divine Law and prohibit what is unlawful." "They, True Muslim Leader of the Nation, State, House, etc, are those who if we establish them in the land, establish the way of life consistent with the Divine Laws and provide nourishment to individuals, enjoin the right and forbid the wrong." You (the Entire Muslim Ummah) are the best of the nations raised up for (the benefit of) men; you (the Entire Muslim Ummah) enjoin what is right and forbid the wrong and believe in Allah; and if the followers of the Book had believed it would have been better for them; of them (some) are believers and most of them are transgressors. Then We gave the Book for an inheritance to those whom We chose from among Our servants; but of them is he who makes his soul to suffer a loss, and of them is he who takes a middle course, and of them is he who is foremost in deeds of goodness by Allah's permission; this is the great excellence. 4. SYSTEM BASED ON CONSULTATION. And those who respond to their Lord and keep up prayer, and who (conduct) their affairs by Mutual Consultation, and who spend out of what We have given them. And when Our clear communications are recited to them, those who hope not for Our meeting say: Bring a Quraan other than this or change it. Say: It is not for me, of my own accord, to change it; I only follow that which is revealed to me; surely I fear, if I disobey my Lord (even slightly), the punishment of a mighty day. And if you obey most of those in the earth, they will lead you astray from Allah's way; they (majority) follow but conjecture and they (majority) only lie. And should the truth follow their low desires, surely the heavens and the earth and all those who are therein would have perished. Nay! We have brought to them their reminder, but from their reminder they turn aside. 5. STANDARD FOR THE ASSIGNMENT OF RANKS. And to all are (assigned) Ranks according to the deeds which they (have done), and in order that (Allah) may recompense their deeds, and no injustice be done to them. Surely Allah commands you to make over trusts to their owners and that when you judge between people you judge with justice; surely Allah admonishes you with what is excellent; surely Allah is Seeing, Hearing. O you men! surely We have created you of a male and a female, and made you tribes and families that you may know each other; surely the most honorable of you with Allah is the one among you most careful (of his duty); surely Allah is Knowing, Aware. 6. THE STATE ADMINISTRATION. O you who believe! obey Allah and obey the Messenger and those in authority (Leader, Legal Administrative Center, Local Authorities) from among you; then if you dispute about anything, refer it to Allah and the Messenger (Peace-Be-Upon-Him) (Central Authority), if you believe in Allah and the last day; this is better and very good in the end. 7. THE DECISIVE WORD. And withhold yourself with those who call on their Lord morning and evening desiring His goodwill, and let not your eyes pass from them, desiring the beauties of this world's life; and do not follow him whose heart We have made unmindful to Our remembrance, and he follows his low desires and his case is one in which due bounds are exceeded. And it is not right for a believing man and a believing woman that they should have any choice in their matter when Allah and His Messenger have decided a matter; and whoever disobeys Allah and His Messenger, he surely strays off a manifest straying. 8. PARTY SYSTEM. According to the Quraan the entire Ummah, as compared to the non-Muslims, is one party. Within the Ummah itself the presence of parties, may it be religious parties or political parties, is 'shirk' (assigning partners unto Allah). The Divine Command is: Turning to Him, and be careful of (your duty to) Him and keep up prayer and be not of the polytheists. Those who split up their Religion, and become (mere) Sects, each party rejoicing in that which is with itself! Surely they who divided their religion into parts and became sects, you have no concern with them (Not Muslim any longer); their affair is only with Allah, then He will inform them of what they did. And be not like those who became divided and disagreed after clear arguments had come to them, and these it is that shall have a grievous chastisement. From these and several other similar verses of the Quraan, this reality becomes apparent that when the Ummah gets divided into parties and sects, neither the Deen (way of life prescribed by Allah) survives, nor an Islamic State can come into existence under such circumstances. Deen is another name for the Islamic State which has one code of guidance (Book of Allah), one Ummah as its upholder, and one central authority of the state. In this state, the entire Ummah, in the form of a compact body, revolves around the pivot of the Quraan. Look how clearly the Quraan explains this reality when it says: And hold fast by the covenant (rope) of Allah all together (Entire Ummah) and be not disunited, and remember the favor of Allah on you when you were enemies, then He united your hearts so by His favor you became brethren; and you were on the brink of a pit of fire, then He saved you from it, thus does Allah make clear to you His communications that you may follow the right way. Surely Pharaoh exalted himself in the land and made its people into parties, weakening one party from among them; he slaughtered their sons and let their women live; surely he was one of the mischief makers. 9. RELIGIOUS HIERARCHY. In an Islamic State there shall be no separate existence of religious institutions, nor a separate group of 'religious Ulama'. In Islam there is NO dichotomy of Deeni and secular affairs. Every single aspect of life is governed by Deen. The Quraanic Laws and Values shall encompass aspects of human life whether personal or public. These laws and values shall be taught in the government educational institutions; and the literature based on them shall be publicized amongst the people. 10. THE INGREDIENTS OF AN ISLAMIC STATE. The Book of Allah, the scales of justice and the power of enforcement are the ingredients, or the three basics, of an Islamic state. If any one of these basics is missing, it no more remains an Islamic State. The basic object of Deen, is described in Surah Al-Hadeed as follows: Certainly We sent Our messengers with clear arguments, and sent down with them the Book and the balance that men may conduct themselves with equity; and We have made the iron, wherein is great strength and advantages to men, and that Allah may know who helps Him and His messengers, on faith, surely Allah is Strong, Mighty. "In order to obtain this objective, Allah arranged His Messengers to be sent to different people with clear signs (proofs); and every Rasool also brought with him a code of laws. They established 'social orders' on the basis of this code so that the deeds of each person could produce the exact results and thus induce people to remain steadfast on justice and equity. In order to provide stability to that social order, Almighty Allah, along with the code of laws, also sent sword (iron) in which there is great strength. And because this strength is utilized for the maintenance of a system of justice, as well as for the protection of the oppressed, it becomes useful for mankind instead of being harmful. This also brings to light as to who are those faithful people who assist and aid this Divine System which was established by the Messengers of Allah. Before the successful results had appeared before them in a visible form, they made all sorts of sacrifices on the basis of this strong belief that a social order embodying supremacy and strength will most definitely be achieved by their tireless efforts." In Surah Al-Noor the aims and objects of an Islamic state (Caliphate) have been introduced as: Allah has promised to those of you who believe and do good that He will most certainly make them rulers in the earth as He made rulers those before them, and that He will most certainly establish for them their religion which He has chosen for them, and that He will most certainly, after their fear, give them security in exchange; they shall serve Me, not associating aught with Me; and whoever is ungrateful after this, these it is who are the transgressors. And to establish them in the earth, and to show Pharaoh and Haman and their hosts that which they feared from them. And they shall say: (All) praise is due to Allah, Who has made good to us His promise, and He has made us inherit the land; we may abide in the garden where we please; so goodly is the reward of the workers. For his sake there are angels following one another, before him and behind him, who guard him by Allah's commandment; surely Allah does not change the condition of a people until they change their own condition; and when Allah intends evil to a people, there is no averting it, and besides Him they have no protector. 11. THE POSITION OF NON MUSLIMS IN AN ISLAMIC STATE. There is no compulsion in religion (non-Muslims have right to practice their faith); truly the right way has become clearly distinct from error; therefore, whoever disbelieves in the Shaitan and believes in Allah he indeed has laid hold on the firmest handle, which shall not break off, and Allah is Hearing, Knowing. And say: The truth is from your Lord, so let him who please believe, and let him who please disbelieve; surely We have prepared for the iniquitous a fire, the curtains of which shall encompass them about; and if they cry for water, they shall be given water like molten brass which will scald their faces; evil the drink and ill the resting-place. O you who believe! do not take for intimate friends from among others than your own people; they do not fall short of inflicting loss upon you; they love what distresses you; vehement hatred has already appeared from out of their mouths, and what their breasts conceal is greater still; indeed, We have made the communications clear to you, if you will understand (meaning the non-Muslims, cannot be admitted to participate in the affairs of the state including the key posts. BUT they shall get all the justice. As the communality of ideas and objectives is the basic condition for unity and concord, it is apparent that a true relationship can never come into being with those who oppose this ideology. So, those who believe in the permanent values given by the Revelation and make the establishment of the Divine System the goal of their life, are the members of one group). Lo! you are they who will love them while they do not love you, and you believe in the Book (in) the whole of it; and when they meet you they say: We believe (in your ideology), and when they are alone, they bite the ends of their fingers in rage against you. Say: Die in your rage; surely Allah knows what is in the breasts. If good befalls you, it grieves them, and if an evil afflicts you, they rejoice at it; and if you are patient and guard yourselves, their scheme will not injure you in any way; surely Allah comprehends what they do. O you who believe! do not take your fathers and your brothers for guardians (Even the relatives are not exempted) if they love unbelief more than belief; and whoever of you takes them for a guardian, these it is that are the unjust. Say: If your fathers and your sons and your brethren and your mates and your kinsfolk and property which you have acquired, and the slackness of trade which you fear and dwellings which you like, are dearer to you than Allah and His Messenger and striving in His way, then wait till Allah brings about His command: and Allah does not guide the transgressing people. Indeed, there is for you a good (Role Model) example (of lifestyle, character and deeds) in Ibrahim (Peace-Be-Upon-Him) and those with him (including Rasool Allah (Peace-Be-Upon-Him)), when they said to their people: Surely we are clear of you and of what you serve besides Allah; we declare ourselves to be clear of you, and enmity and hatred have appeared between us and you forever until you believe in Allah alone, but not in what Ibrahim said to his father: I would certainly ask forgiveness for you, and I do not control for you aught from Allah, Our Lord! on Thee do we rely, and to Thee do we turn, and to Thee is the eventual coming. The likeness of what they spend in the life of this world is as the likeness of wind in which is intense cold (that) smites the seed produce of a people who have done injustice to their souls and destroys it; and Allah is not unjust to them, but they are unjust to themselves. O you who believe! Be upright for Allah, bearers of witness with justice, and let not hatred of a people incite you not to act equitably; act equitably (non-Muslims shall get all the justice), that is nearer to piety, and he careful of (your duty to) Allah; surely Allah is Aware of what you do. Allah does not forbid you respecting (an extension of the best treatment) those who have not made war against you on account of (your) religion, and have not driven you forth from your homes, that you show them kindness and deal with them justly; surely Allah loves the doers of justice. Allah only forbids you respecting those who made war upon you on account of (your) religion, and drove you forth from your homes and backed up (others) in your expulsion, that you make friends with them, and whoever makes friends with them, these are the unjust. Those who have been expelled from their homes without a just cause except that they say: Our Lord is Allah. And had there not been Allah's repelling some people by others, certainly there would have been pulled down cloisters and Churches and Synagogues and Masjids in which Allah's name is much remembered (we need to protects the places of worship of the Muslims as well as non-Muslims); and surely Allah will help him who helps His cause; most surely Allah is Strong, Mighty. And do not abuse those whom they call upon besides Allah, lest exceeding the limits they should abuse Allah out of ignorance. This is likely to create disorder and chaos, therefore you do not treat their revered persons with insults, so you must respect others. Thus have We made fair seeming to every people their deeds; then to their Lord shall be their return, so He will inform them of what they did. Being the citizens of Islamic State, Islamic laws shall be applied to them. In their personal affairs, they shall be allowed to take their own decisions, subject to the laws of the Islamic State. 12. INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS. (All) people are a single nation (a universal brotherhood); so Allah raised prophets as bearers of good news and as warners, and He revealed with them the Book with truth, that it might judge between people in that in which they differed; and none but the very people who were given it differed about it after clear arguments had come to them, revolting among themselves; so Allah has guided by His will those who believe to the truth about which they differed and Allah guides whom He pleases to the right path. And people are naught but a single nation, one unified community, so they disagree; and had not a word already gone forth from your Lord, the matter would have certainly been decided between them in respect of that concerning which they disagree. O you who believe! do not violate the signs appointed by Allah nor the sacred month, nor (interfere with) the offerings, nor the sacrificial animals with garlands, nor those going to the sacred house seeking the grace and pleasure of their Lord; and when you are free from the obligations of the pilgrimage, then hunt, and let not hatred of a people, because they hindered you from the Sacred Masjid, incite you to exceed the limits, and help one another in goodness and piety, and do not help one another in sin and aggression; and be careful of (your duty to) Allah; surely Allah is severe in requiting (evil). He sends down water from the cloud, then watercourses flow (with water) according to their measure, and the torrent bears along the swelling foam, and from what they melt in the fire for the sake of making ornaments or apparatus arises a scum like it; thus does Allah compare truth and falsehood; then as for the scum, it passes away as a worthless thing; and as for that which profits the people, it tarries in the earth; thus does Allah set forth parables. And when Musa prayed for drink for his people, We said: Strike the rock with your staff So there gushed from it twelve springs; each tribe knew its drinking place: Eat and drink of the provisions of Allah and do not act corruptly in the land, making mischief. And surely We have honored the children of Adam, and We carry them in the land and the sea, and We have given them of the good things, and We have made them to excel by an appropriate excellence over most of those whom We have created. You shall prepare (well-guarded by reinforced cantonments, equipped with all the steeds of war) for them all the power you can muster, and all the equipment you can mobilize, that you may frighten the enemies of GOD, your enemies, as well as others who are not known to you; GOD knows them. Whatever you spend in the cause of GOD will be repaid to you generously, without the least injustice. 13. TREATIES. O you who believe! fulfill the obligations (in the maintenance of peace and the protection of human rights, treaties shall be set up with other nations). The cattle quadrupeds are allowed to you except that which is recited to you, not violating the prohibition against game when you are entering upon the performance of the pilgrimage; surely Allah orders what He desires. And if you fear treachery on the part of a people (nation), then throw back to them on terms of equality; (first informing them, and if you do not agree to the renewal of treaty, that should also be communicated to the other party as well) surely Allah does not love the treacherous. An ultimatum is herein issued from Allah and His messenger to the idol worshipers who enter into a treaty with you. So go about in the land for four months and know that you cannot weaken Allah and that Allah will bring disgrace to the unbelievers. And an announcement from Allah and His Messenger to the people on the day of the greater pilgrimage that Allah and His Messenger are free from liability to the idolaters; therefore if you repent, it will be better for you, and if you turn back, then know that you will not weaken Allah; and announce painful punishment to those who disbelieve. Except those of the idolaters with whom you made an agreement, then they have not failed you in anything and have not backed up any one against you, so fulfill their agreement to the end of their term; surely Allah loves those who are careful (of their duty). And if they break their oaths after their agreement and (openly) revile your religion, then fight the leaders of unbelief, surely their oaths are nothing, so that they may desist. What! will you not fight a people who broke their oaths and aimed at the expulsion of the Messenger, and they attacked you first; do you fear them? But Allah is most deserving that you should fear Him, if you are believers. Except those who reach a people between whom and you there is an alliance, or who come to you, their hearts shrinking from fighting you or fighting their own people; and if Allah had pleased, He would have given them power over you, so that they should have certainly fought you; therefore if they withdraw from you and do not fight you and offer you peace, then Allah has not given you a way against them. Surely those who believed and fled (their homes) and struggled hard in Allah's way with their property and their souls, and those who gave shelter and helped, these are guardians of each other; and (as for) those who believed and did not fly, not yours is their guardianship until they fly; and if they seek aid from you in the matter of religion, aid is incumbent on you except against a people between whom and you there is a treaty (even the Muslims will not be extended help), and Allah sees what you do. 14. REBELLION. The punishment of those who wage war against Allah and His messenger and strive to make mischief (creating dispersion, diminution of peace and to bring about lawlessness) in the land is only this, that they should be murdered or crucified or their hands and their feet should be cut off on opposite sides or will be expelled out of the land; this shall be as a disgrace for them in this world, and in the hereafter they shall have a grievous chastisement. And whoever commits a sin, he only commits it against his own soul; and Allah is Knowing, Wise. Except those who repent before you have them in your power; so know that Allah is Forgiving, Merciful. Do they not know that whoever acts in opposition to Allah and His Messenger, he shall surely have the fire of hell to abide in it? That is the grievous abasement. Surely those who act in opposition to Allah and His Messenger shall be laid down prostrate as those before them were laid down prostrate; and indeed We have revealed clear communications, and the unbelievers shall have an abasing chastisement. On the day when Allah will raise them up all together, then inform them of what they did: Allah has recorded it while they have forgotten it; and Allah is a witness of all things. Do you not see that Allah knows whatever is in the heavens and whatever is in the earth? Nowhere is there a secret counsel between three persons but He is the fourth of them, nor (between) five but He is the sixth of them, nor less than that nor more but He is with them where soever they are; then He will inform them of what they did on the day of resurrection: surely Allah is Cognizant of all things. Have you not seen those who are forbidden secret counsels, then they return to what they are forbidden, and they hold secret counsels for sin and revolt and disobedience to the Messenger, and when they come to you they greet you with a greeting with which Allah does not greet you, and they say in themselves: Why does not Allah punish us for what we say? Hell is enough for them; they shall enter it, and evil is the resort. O you who believe! when you confer together in private, do not give to each other counsel of sin and revolt and disobedience to the Messenger, and give to each other counsel of goodness and guarding (against evil); and be careful of (your duty to) Allah, to Whom you shall be gathered together. Secret counsels are only (the work) of the Shaitan that he may cause to grieve those who believe, and he cannot hurt them in the least except with Allah's permission, and on Allah let the believers rely. O you who believe! when it is said to you, Make room in (your) assemblies, then make ample room, Allah will give you ample, and when it is said: Rise up, then rise up. Allah will exalt those of you who believe, and those who are given knowledge, in high degrees; and Allah is Aware of what you do. O you who believe! when you consult the Messenger, then offer something in charity before your consultation; that is better for you and purer; but if you do not find, then surely Allah is Forgiving, Merciful. Do you fear that you will not (be able to) give in charity before your consultation? So when you do not do it and Allah has turned to you (mercifully), then keep up prayer and pay the poor-rate and obey Allah and His Messenger; and Allah is Aware of what you do. Have you not seen those who befriend a people with whom Allah is wroth? They are neither of you nor of them, and they swear falsely while they know. Allah has prepared for them a severe punishment; surely what they do is evil. They make their oaths to serve as a cover so they turn away from Allah's way; therefore they shall have an abasing chastisement. Neither their wealth nor their children shall avail them aught against Allah; they are the inmates of the fire, therein they shall abide. On the day that Allah will raise them up all, then they will swear to Him as they swear to you, and they think that they have something; now surely they are the liars. The Shaitan has gained the mastery over them, so he has made them forget the remembrance of Allah; they are the Shaitan's party; now surely the Shaitan's party are the losers. Surely (as for) those who are in opposition to Allah and His Messenger; they shall be among the most abased. You shall not find a people who believe in Allah and the latter day befriending those who act in opposition to Allah and His Messenger, even though they were their (own) fathers, or their sons, or their brothers, or their kinsfolk; these are they into whose hearts He has impressed faith, and whom He has strengthened with an inspiration from Him: and He will cause them to enter gardens beneath which rivers flow, abiding therein; Allah is well-pleased with them and they are well-pleased with Him these are Allah's party: now surely the party of Allah are the successful ones. The likeness of what they spend in the life of this world is as the likeness of wind in which is intense cold (that) smites the seed produce of a people who haw done injustice to their souls and destroys it; and Allah is not unjust to them, but they are unjust to themselves. Indeed, there is for you a good example in Ibrahim and those with him when they said to their people: Surely we are clear of you and of what you serve besides Allah; we declare ourselves to be clear of you, and enmity and hatred have appeared between us and you forever until you believe in Allah alone, but not in what Ibrahim said to his father: I would certainly ask forgiveness for you, and I do not control for you aught from Allah Our Lord! on Thee do we rely, and to Thee do we turn, and to Thee is the eventual coming: O you who believe! be not unfaithful to Allah and the Messenger, nor be unfaithful to your trusts while you know (unfaithful is a crime against and Islamic Government). And do not plead on behalf of those who act unfaithfully to their souls; surely Allah does not love him who is treacherous, sinful; Surely We have revealed the Book to you with the truth that you may judge between people by means of that which Allah has taught you; and be not an advocate on behalf of the treacherous. O you who believe! when you confer together in private, do not give to each other counsel of sin and revolt and disobedience to the Messenger, and give to each other counsel of goodness and guarding(against evil); and be careful of (your duty to) Allah, to Whom you shall be gathered together. Government Agencies. INSTRUCTIONS FOR GOVERNMENT EMPLOYEES: Although every law and code of an Islamic State shall be applicable to the government officials like the other individuals of society, but, in view of their special responsibilities, they shall have to be more circumspect in some particular aspects, for example: 1. Allah's Law of Requital is cognizant not only of the human deeds that are manifest, but also of those which are concealed, such as an idea that flashes across one's mind or even the impurity of one's glances. Therefore, in the performance of their duty if they commit any carelessness, negligence, irresponsibility or breach of trust, but somehow escape the consequences of the law, yet they must remember that they cannot escape the grip of Allah's Law of Requital. Allah's Law of requital is such that: "He knows the perfidy of the eye and that which the bosoms hide." 2. In each affair they shall have to ensure that they do not take a decision repugnant to Quraanic Teachings because "to enjoin what is right according to the Divine Laws and to forbid what is wrong", is their basic responsibility. Their decisions should not only fulfill the demands of justice but also that of Ihsaan. Thus it is said: "Whenever you decide the disputed affairs of the people, always do it with justice." At yet another place it is said: "Indeed Allah commands you to do justice and make good the deficiencies of others." Justice means that every individual in a human society gets what is his due and Ihsaan means making up the abatements of the individuals to restore the disturbed balance in the society. ADL and IHSAAN are the two basic terms of the Quraan which can be given a practical shape by pondering over the day to day affairs. For example a thief shall be punished according to law; this shall be a matter of justice. But the loss of one whose belongings have been stolen, is not compensated by this act. The Adl and Ihsaan demand that the loss of the victim should also be compensated. 3. You yourself must practice what you say to others; "O you who believe! You ought to present a practical proof of your belief (in the Divine Commands) by your own acts. You should never say to others what you do not do yourself. It is grievously odious in the sight of Allah that you say what you do not do." Harmony in what you say and what you do is the visible proof of what you profess. 4. All that belongs to the State (even the secrets of the State) are a trust with you. Do not betray this trust: "O you who believe! It is incumbent on you that you do not betray the trust placed in your hands by the Divine System (Allah and the Rasool) nor in the performance of the duties entrusted to you. You know what shall be the result of it." 5. Render back your trusts to whom they are due and fill up the vacancies in the government service on their merit. Both these concepts are present in the verse: 6. Never let people's confidence (trust) in you be shattered. Let the trustee faithfully discharge his trust: "If one of you places a thing in trust with another, let the trustee (faithfully) discharge his trust." Basically this command relates to properties entrusted to others but as a matter of principle this is applicable to all kinds of trusts. It means that no matter what is placed in your trust, you should always honor the trust reposed in you. 7. Do not take part in any type of intrigue and always stay conscious that: "The evil plan besets none save its own authors." 8. You should co-operate with one another in constructive matters. Co-operate with each other in matters of benefit to humanity and in matters consistent with the Divine Laws, "is the Divine Commandment; and "Be with those who are veracious", true to their commitments." "Be with those who are true, in words and deed, is an emphatic commandment." 9. If one finds that another officer is handing out a wrong decision on account of his being ill-informed, he should convey to him correct information. This act shall be called SHAFAA'AT-E-HASANAH commendable intercession. "If somebody stands in support of another person in a matter just and equitable (commendable intercession) he shall also share pleasant results. On the contrary, if one helps another person in matters of injustice and transgression (called evil intercession) he shall share its disastrous consequences." They shall neither take the side of those who are dishonest and betray the trust. "So be not (used) as an advocate by those who betray the trust, and never indulge in bribery", is Allah's Directive. The following verse is a comprehensive guide on the matter: "Do not eat up your property among yourselves by foul means, nor use it as a bait for the judges, with the intent that you may eat up wrongfully a part of (other) people's property, although you know its results." 10. Investigate all disputed matters yourself: never rely on hearsays: "And pursue not that of which you have no knowledge (meaning of which you have not made an investigation or personal enquiry) collecting relevant information employing your faculties of hearing and seeing, and then make the knowledge thus obtained the basis of your decisions, so as to reach the correct conclusion. If a single link of this chain is missing, your enquiry shall remain defective. Think what a great responsibility lies upon you, because Allah has endowed you with the power of discretion and determination; He has not made you a constrained machine. For the use of your discretion He has bestowed on you the mediums of knowledge and ascertainment. The one who does not make use of them, tries to escape from his responsibility." 11. Achieve prevention of evil with the beauty and proportion of your deeds. The principle is: "Repel evil with that which is best." 12. If one does wrong by mistake and there is a possibility of his correction, he ought to be pardoned. Thus it is said: "If there is an omission or negligence on somebody's part, thereafter he repents and makes amends in future, he ought to be given protection and forgiveness by the organization of the state." If anybody's guilt demands the fulfillment of justice, the punishment should not exceed his crime. In this respect the principle is: "The recompense of an evil is punishment equal thereto". 13. They should exercise self-control (maintain their composure) and not get enraged easily: "To control tempers and to forgive others" has been called trait of the believers. Self-restraint also implies talking in low and dulcet tones: "Soft talking and moderation in walk (gait) are the symbols of trustworthiness and solemnity." During discussions they should not try to compel others to accept their version on the basis of their awe inspiring presence as an officer; but "Argue with them in ways that are best and most gracious." 14. They should always fulfill their promise: "And fulfill (every) commitment, for (every) commitment will be enquired into on the Day of Reckoning." 15. They should not throw their responsibility on others. The principle is: "No bearer of burdens shall bear the burden of another." Everybody shall bear his own burden. 16. They should never wish to be praised for what they do not do. That is be not like those who like flattery and are thus the most dangerous enemies. The way of hypocrites is described as: "They desire to be praised for what they do not do." Justice. 1. To establish the rule of justice is a basic responsibility of an Islamic State. The demand for justice prevails in all walks of life, but here we shall talk only about the judicial justice, that which pertains to the domain of law. The Quraan also provides the required guidance for justice-dispensing agencies meaning the courts of law. It is necessary to understand one basic principle about JUSTICE. According to the common concept of justice in the world, the duty of a law-court is to decide the disputed affairs according to the code of law that is prevalent; therefore a decision made accordingly shall be considered as based on justice. But, if the law itself is not based on justice, then the decision based on it can never be considered just. Thus the principle laid down by the Quraan is that the law of the land should also be based on justice. In this respect the Quraan does not indulge in a philosophical debate as to what is meant by "law on the basis of justice" and what is the definition of justice. It addresses the Islamic sovereign state decisively as follows: "If any do fail to judge by what Allah has revealed, they are the infidels." It means that where the rule is based on Quraanic Laws, it shall be an Islamic government and if it is not based on Quraanic Law, it shall be a government of non-believers. Only that law shall be considered as based on truth which conforms to the Book of Allah; any law contrary to it shall be based on 'zulm' (injustice). Thus the judges are addressed as follows: "They guide people towards the Truth (the Quraan), and dispense justice in accordance with what it dictates." The real justice, in fact, is the justice based on Truth. If the law is not based on Truth, then any judgment according to this law cannot be considered as meeting the requirements of justice. Truth is, in fact, another name for the Book of Allah. The same is the difference between an Islamic state and a secular state. In Surah Saad it is said: "O David! We did indeed gave you the rule on the earth, so decide between men in truth, and do not follow the lust of their hearts, for they will mislead you from the path of Allah." This makes clear two issues: firstly that the law of the land ought to be based on Truth (the Book of Allah); secondly, that the court of law should remain above its personal sentiments that is it should remain neutral. That is what is called 'a just decision'. 2. For a system of justice the Quraan has ordained: "And when you decide between man and man, you must do so with justice." Even when you make peace between parties, do so with justice In Surah Al-Hujuraat it is ordained that if two factions of Muslims develop a dispute, and wage war against each other, "Sort out their mutual conflict with justice". 3. Even enmity with a nation should not incline you to act unjustly. "Let not the enmity of others make you swerve from justice; be just, that is only nearer to (Taqwa) piety." 4. Not only the cases of Muslims, but the cases of non-Muslims also should be decided with justice. The Rasoole was ordained: "Even if the non-Muslims come to you for the judgment of their cases: "Judge between them with equity". 5. The Rasool was told: "We have sent this Book to you with the truth": "So judge between them as Allah has revealed and follow not their vain desires." 6. Al-Kitaab (The code of Divine Laws), power to enforce this code and scales of justice are the basic ingredients of an Islamic government as stated earlier. The various aspects of the subject are thoroughly discussed in Surah Al-Hadeed: "For this purpose Allah has so arranged that He sends His Messengers to different people (nations) with clear, unambiguous arguments and each one of the messengers brings with him a code of law. He establishes an Order in accordance with this Code wherein every-body's deeds produce their designated results and thus people adhere to the rule of justice and equity. For the stability and strength of such a society We have sent, along with the code of laws, steel (to provide the enforcing power) in which there is much of stiffness (strength); because power provided by (the strength of) this steel becomes instrumental in establishing an order based on justice and equity and providing protection to the oppressed. Therefore, instead of being harmful, it becomes greatly beneficial to mankind. The establishment of this Order also brings into open those faithful and loyal persons who contribute towards achieving this goal (the establishment of the Order) which takes practical shape through the efforts of Allah's Messengers. Although the refulgent results of the establishment of this Order have not, as yet become visible, these faithful and loyal people, on the strength of their conviction only, offer every type of personal sacrifice and thus establish the system ordained by Allah, wherein lies inherent Power and Sovereignty." 7. During the course of justice, do not make any distinction between relatives and non-relatives or between your people and those of the other factions, neither the status of rich and poor, nor even your personal benefits, should affect your judgment. The judgment must be based on justice, even if it goes against yourself. Thus it is ordained: "When you say something, say it according to justice, even if the concerned person is your relative." Justice depends on evidence and for evidence the Holy Quraan has set up such a high standard the like of which you may not find elsewhere. Thus it is said: "In order to establish this system in which you find pleasures of the present life as well as of the future, the basic condition for justice is that you stand as a witness, neither from the plaintiff, nor defendant, but present your own evidence in all truth and equity, even if it goes against yourself or your parents or your other relatives. Do not differentiate between rich and poor in this respect: for Allah can best protect both, so much so that you must do justice even to your enemy. Do not favour anyone after swerving from what is just, as Allah Almighty himself takes care of them. Keep it in your mind that your sentiments may not come in the way of justice. Do not talk in a crooked manner, nor try to avoid being a witness. Remember that Allah's law of requital is well acquiantal with what you do. He knows the inclination of your mind as well as your sentiments." 8. As said earlier, Allah ordains both Adl and Ihsaan. To punish the criminal for his crime is Adl (justice) and making good the loss of the claimant is Ihsaan. This is the basic responsibility of an Islamic state. Basic orders about the enforcement of Justice. 1. To punish the criminal according to law is the duty of the government. This is called Qisaas. In this lies the secret of the life of people. There shall be no distinction between small or big. Thus it is said: "O you who believe! As regards punishment, it has been made incumbent upon you that the murderer must be punished. It means that the crime should be considered as a crime against society or against the system itself and not against the victim only. Thus while giving punishment, the basic principles of justice and equality must be kept in mind, which means that there should be no distinction between big and small. It is not a question of the position of the murderer or the murdered; the real question is the enforcement of justice according to which every human life is of equal value. For example if the murderer is a free man he alone shall be punished for his crime; likewise if she is a woman she shall not be spared because of her sex. She will have to undergo punishment. Murder can be of two types murder by intent, or murder by mistake. In the case of willful murder, the punishment is death (not ransom money) or any other punishment proportionate to the nature of the crime, meaning anything less than the capital punishment. But the punishment should not exceed the nature of the crime. "But if it is not a willful murder but a murder by mistake, the punishment according to verse is ransom money (blood money). But if a remission is made by the heirs of the slain out of their own goodwill, they are allowed to do so. In such a case it is incumbent on the murderer to abide by what has been settled and pay it in a commendable manner. In determining the punishment of murder by mistake, Allah has provided facility for relaxation, so that the potentialities of all of you may keep developing. But if anybody transgresses after the settlement has taken place, he shall be punished heavily." Thus it is clear that a compromise can take place only in case of unintentional murder, not in willful murder. In willful murder the murderer shall be punished. This is the law of QISAAS about which it has been ordained: "O you men of understanding! In the Law of Qisaas (Retribution) there is (saving of) collective life to you". It means that if you think over it dispassionately, the reality shall come to the surface that in the Law of Qisaas (Retribution) there is a secret of individual as well as collective life, so that society can be saved from the dangers inherent in lawlessness. 2. Only the criminal and not any other person in his place shall receive punishment, nor shall any innocent person be prosecuted in place of a guilty person. Everybody shall bear his own burden: "Every person draws the meed of his acts on none but himself; no bearer of burdens shall bear the burden of another." 3. The system of justice ought to be such that nobody might provide any benefit to the criminal, nor the recommendation of any person be accepted, nor the criminal be released through bribery, nor anybody could help him to escape punishment by any other means. Thus it is said: "Then guard yourself against a day when one person shall not avail of another, nor shall the intercession be accepted for any person, nor any compensation be taken from somebody, nor shall anyone be helped (against the law)." This will happen when the Quraanic System of Justice is established in this world; and in the life. Hereafter, all affairs shall be settled subject to the Law of Requital. 4. The punishment of a criminal shall be proportionate to, and not exceed his crime. In this respect the principle is "The recompense of an evil is punishment like it". 5. If there exists possibility of mending one's self, he can be forgiven. "But if a person forgives and makes reconciliation, his reward is due from Allah." 6. Before an offence is proved, the accused ought to be considered innocent. Thus during investigation he should not be treated with excess. To consider him guilty at this stage is against the Islamic Code. In Surah An-Noor there is a tale about a woman during the time of Rasoole. It is said that some evilmonger brought about a false accusation against a virtuous woman and gave it publicity. The Quraan took strong notice of it and said: Evil-mongers had given publicity to a false accusation but what had happened to you that you accepted it as true, without any investigation When you had heard about it, you ought to have a favorable opinion about her and your first reaction ought to have been "It is an obvious lie"; (This is an obvious lie) and: "This is most serious slander". From this the principle is deduced that unless a crime is proved against a person, he should not be considered guilty, meaning an accused should not be considered a criminal, but a favorable opinion should be formed about him until such time that he is proved guilty. 7. When a legislation is passed none shall be held accountable for what he has done before its enactment. "What has been done before (the enactment of a law) shall not be dealt with in accordance with this law." 8. Only a willful act shall be considered a crime. Thus it is said "There is no blame on you if you make a mistake: what counts is the intention of your hearts". Meaning, only an act committed intentionally is accountable; if someone commits an offence on account of ignorance and thereafter repents and amends (his conduct), he can be excused for it. But that does not mean that people may become careless about the law. Carelessness itself should be considered a separate offence. For example the punishment for willful murder is death and the punishment for murder by mistake is ransom money. It means that carelessness is also a crime but not as serious as a willful act. 9. If one is forcibly made to commit a crime he shall not be considered a criminal. The use of force may be of varied types; however, this is not the place for giving details about them. 10. A small mistake by those who always avoid big crimes may be considered excusable. About Mumineen it is said: "These are the people who avoid major crimes, though they may fall into small slips". 11. Anybody who puts another on the wrong path, he becomes a partner in crime. About such people it is said: "Let them bear on the Day of Judgment their own burden in full and also (something) of the burdens of those without knowledge, whom they misled. Alas! How grievous are the burdens they will bear!" Likewise is the one who commits a crime and throws it on another; he commits a double crime: "And if any one commits a mistake or a crime himself and then foists it on to the innocent, he carries (on himself) (both) the burden of a calumny and a flagrant sin." 12. While declaring a judgment, the circumstances, upbringing, mentality and psychological condition of the criminal must be kept in mind. That is why the punishment, for a slave woman who commits adultery (zina), is laid down as half of that for a free woman; and double for the consorts of the Rasoole. It should be clearly understood that this commandment pertains to that period of Arab history when slavery was still rampant. Since the Quraan closed the door of slavery, the question of the captive women, or of the consorts of Rasoole does not arise. However, principles can be deduced from such verses which could be applied to present-day society. 13. Remove evil by doing good. It means to create such an atmosphere in society that people shall avoid crime automatically is a universal principle of the Quraan. It means that bad deeds ought to be countervailed by doing good. This principle serves as a means to bring about a pleasant and comprehensive resolution. Thus while declaring punishment for a crime, the prevailing conditions in the society ought to be kept in mind. 14. The object of justice is not only to punish the offenders but also to compensate the loss of the oppressed. In this connection the example of the crime of murder as laid down in the Quraan, can be presented. The one who is murdered leaves this world but the compensation for the loss that his heirs suffer is also necessary. Thus it is said: "If anyone is slain wrongfully, We have given his heirs the right to demand (QISAAS) or to forgive.)" From this example you can draw a principle which can be applied to other occurrences like this. As far as the compensation of the loss of the oppressed is concerned, the oppressed shall be the plaintiff and the government shall be the defendant in such a case. Thus it shall be incumbent upon the government to protect the life, property, honor of all who live within its territory. Moreover, except for the loss suffered by a person on account of his own neglect or carelessness, its compensation shall lie on the government and this loss includes not only life and property but also mental torture, because the government guarantees to the people to provide for them an atmosphere wherein "on them there shall be no fear nor shall they grieve". In fear the physical loss, is included and in grief, mental torture is included. 15. The government shall be answerable to the judiciary for each of its responsibilities, like other individuals. Even the Rasoole who was the first head of an Islamic state, was made to declare: "I am the first to submit to Divine Law; and If I disobey Divine Command, I indeed fear the penalty of the Mighty Day." Therefore none is exempt from this law neither the government, nor its functionaries, nor even the head of state. 16. The Quraanic philosophy concerning crime is as under: a) Every crime leaves an effect on the offender himself (as well), so that, to begin with, the offender inflicts injury on his own person: "If anybody earns a sin, he earns it against his own self". It means that the first effect of committing wrong is on the personality of the offender and this effect cannot be erased by punishment from the court. b) The effect of some offences is limited to the personality of the offender; it does not affect another person for example the treachery of the eyes and evil intentions of the heart. These offences do not normally come under the jurisdiction of the courts of law: yet even such offences which affect only the personality of the offender (for example addiction to narcotics) if declared as crimes by the law, shall come under the jurisdiction of the court. c) Only those offences come under the jurisdiction of a court which the offender has actually committed. For example if one intends to commit theft but does not find an opportunity to do it, although the effect of his intention shall be imprinted on his own 'self', he shall not be considered a

https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html Tunnel In The Sky. Robert A. Heinlein. London Victor Gollancz LTD 1972 Copyright 1955 by Robert A. Heinlein First published March 1966 Second impression March 1966 Third impression September 1969 Fourth impression November 1972 Isbn 575 00432 0 Printed in Great Britain by Lowe and Brydone (printers) LTD.,Thetford, Norfolk For Jeannie and Bibs Reformatted for Machine speech, PukeOnaPlate 2023. CONTENTS 1. The Marching Hordes 2. The Fifth Way 3. Through the Tunnel 4. Savage 5. The Nova 6. “I Think He Is Dead” 7. ‘I Should Have Baked a Cake” 8. “Fish, or Cut Bait” 9. “A Joyful Omen” 10. “I So Move” 11. The Beach of Bones 12. “It Won’t Work, Rod” 13. Unkillable 14. Civilization 15. In Achilles ’ Tent 16. The Endles Road One. The Marching Hordes. The bulletin board outside lecture hall 1712-A of Patrick Henry High School showed a flashing red light. Rod Walker pushed his way into a knot of students and tried to see what the special notice had to say. He received an elbow in the stomach, accompanied by: “Hey! Quit shoving!” “Sorry. Take it easy, Jimmy.” Rod locked the elbow in a bone breaker but put no pressure on, craned his neck to look over Jimmy Throxton’s head. “What’s on the board?” “No class today.” “Why not?” A voice near the board answered him. “Because tomorrow it’s ‘Hail, Caesar, we who are about to die-’” “So?” Rod felt his stomach tighten as it always did before an examination. Someone moved aside and he managed to read the notice: PATRICK HENRY HIGH SCHOOL Department of Social Studies SPECIAL NOTICE to all students Course 410, elective senior seminar. Advanced Survival, instructor Doctor Matson, 1712-A MWF 1. There will be no class Friday the fourteenth. 2. Twenty-Four Hour Notice is hereby given of final examination in Solo Survival. Students will present themselves for physical check at 0900 Saturday in the dispensary of Templeton Gate and will start passing through the gate at 1000, using three-minute intervals by lot. 3. TEST CONDITIONS: (a) ANY planet, ANY climate, ANY terrain; (b) NO rules, ALL weapons, ANY equipment; (c) TEAMING IS PERMITTED but teams will not be allowed to pass through the gate in company; (d) TEST DURATION is not less than forty-eight hours, not more than ten days. 4. Doctor Matson will be available for advice and consultation until seventeen hundred Friday. 5. Test may be postponed only on recommendation of examining physician, but any student may withdraw from the course without administrative penalty up until ten-hundred Saturday. 6. Good luck and long life to you all! Signed, B P Matson, ScD. Approved: J R ROERICH, for the Board Rod Walker reread the notice slowly, while trying to quiet the quiver in his nerves. He checked off the test conditions-why, those were not “conditions” but a total lack of conditions, no limits of any sort! They could dump you through the gate and the next instant you might be facing a polar bear at forty below-or wrestling an Octopus deep in warm salt water. Or, he added, faced up to some three-headed horror on a planet you had never heard of. He heard a soprano voice complaining, “‘Twenty-four hour notice!’ Why, it’s less than twenty hours now. That’s not fair.” Another girl answered, “What’s the difference? I wish we were starting this minute. I won’t get a wink of sleep tonight.” “If we are supposed to have twenty-four hours to get ready, then we ought to have them. Fair is fair.” Another student, a tall, husky Zulu girl, chuckled softly. “Go on in. Tell the Deacon that.” Rod backed out of the press, taking Jimmy Throxton with him. He felt that he knew what “Deacon” Matson would say, something about the irrelevancy of fairness to survival. He chewed over the bait in paragraph five; nobody would say boo if he dropped the course. After all, “Advanced Survival’ was properly a college course; he would graduate without it. But he knew down deep that if he lost his nerve now, he would never take the course later. Jimmy said nervously, “What d’you think of it, Rod?” “All right, I guess. But I’d like to know whether or not to wear my long-handled underwear. Do you suppose the Deacon would give us a hint?” “Him? Not him! He thinks a broken leg is the height of humor. That man would eat his own grandmother, without salt.” “Oh, come now! He’d use salt. Say, Jim? You saw what it said about teaming.” “Yeah, what about it?” Jimmy’s eyes shifted away. Rod felt a moment’s irritation. He was making a suggestion as delicate as a proposal of marriage, an offer to put his own life in the same basket with Jimmy’s. The greatest risk in a solo test was that a fellow just had to sleep sometime, but a team could split it up and stand watch over each other. Jimmy must know that Rod was better than he was, with any weapon or bare hands; the proposition was to his advantage. Yet here he was hesitating as if he thought Rod might handicap him. “What’s the matter, Jim?” Rod said bleakly. “Figure you’re safer going it alone?” “Uh, no, not exactly.” “You mean you’d rather not team with me?” “No, no, I didn’t mean that!” “Then what did you mean?” “I meant, Look, Rod, I surely do thank you. I won’t forget it. But that notice said something else, too.” “What?” “It said we could dump this durned course and still graduate. And I just happened to remember that I don’t need it for the retail clothing business.” “Huh? I thought you had ambitions to become a wideangled lawyer?’ “So exotic jurisprudence loses its brightest jewel, so what do I care? It will make my old man very happy to learn that I’ve decided to stick with the family business.” “You mean you’re scared.” “Well, that’s one way of putting it. Aren’t you?” Rod took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m scared.” “Good! Now let’s both give a classic demonstration of how to survive and stay alive by marching down to the Registrar’s office and bravely signing our names to withdrawal slips.” “Uh, no, you go ahead.” “You mean you’re sticking?” “I guess so.” “Look, Rod, have you looked over the statistics on last year’s classes?” “No, and I don’t want to. So long.” Rod turned sharply and headed for the classroom door, leaving Jimmy to stare after him with a troubled look. The lecture room was occupied by a dozen or so of the seminar’s students. Doctor Matson, the “Deacon,” was squatting tailor-fashion on one corner of his desk and holding forth informally. He was a small man and spare, with a leathery face, a patch over one eye, and most of three fingers missing from his left hand. On his chest were miniature ribbons, marking service in three famous first expeditions; one carried a tiny diamond cluster that showed him to be the last living member of that group. Rod slipped into the second row. The Deacon’s eye flicked at him as he went on talking. “I don’t understand the complaints,” he said jovially. “The test conditions say ‘all weapons’ so you can protect yourself any way you like, from a slingshot to a cobalt bomb. I think final examination should be bare hands, not so much as a nail file. But the Board of Education doesn’t agree, so we do it this sissy way instead.” He shrugged and grinned. “Uh, Doctor, I take it then that the Board knows that we are going to run into dangerous animals?” “Eh? You surely will! The most dangerous animal known.” “Doctor, if you mean that literally.” “Oh, I do, I do!” “Then I take it that we are either being sent to Mithra and will have to watch out for snow apes, or we are going to stay on Terra and be dumped where we can expect leopards. Am I right?” The Deacon shook his head despairingly. “My boy, you had better cancel and take this course over. Those dumb brutes aren’t dangerous.” “But Jasper says, in Predators and Prey, that the two trickiest, most dangerous.” “Jasper’s maiden aunt! I’m talking about the real King of the Beasts, the only animal that is always dangerous, even when not hungry. The two-legged brute. Take a look around you!” The instructor leaned forward. “I’ve said this nineteen dozen times but you still don’t believe it. Man is the one animal that can’t be tamed. He goes along for years as peaceful as a cow, when it suits him. Then when it suits him not to be, he makes a leopard look like a tabby cat. Which goes double for the female of the species. Take another look around you. All friends. We’ve been on group-survival field tests together; we can depend on each other. So? Read about the Donner Party, or the First Venus Expedition. Anyhow, the test area will have several other classes in it, all strangers to you.” Doctor Matson fixed his eye on Rod. “I hate to see some of you take this test, I really do. Some of you are city dwellers by nature; I’m afraid I have not managed to get it through your heads that there are no policemen where you are going. Nor will I be around to give you a hand if you make some silly mistake.” His eye moved on; Rod wondered if the Deacon meant him. Sometimes he felt that the Deacon took delight in rawhiding him. But Rod knew that it was serious; the course was required for all the Outlands professions for the good reason that the Outlands were places where you were smart, or you were dead. Rod had chosen to take this course before entering college because he hoped that it would help him to get a scholarship, but that did not mean that he thought it was just a formality. He looked around, wondering who would be willing to team with him now that Jimmy had dropped out. There was a couple in front of him, Bob Baxter and Carmen Garcia. He checked them off, as they undoubtedly would team together; they planned to become medical missionaries and intended to marry as soon as they could. How about Johann Braun? He would make a real partner, all right-strong, fast on his feet, and smart. But Rod did not trust him, nor did he think that Braun would want him. He began to see that he might have made a mistake in not cultivating other friends in the class besides Jimmy. That big Zulu girl, Caroline something-unpronounceable. Strong as an ox and absolutely fearless. But it would not do to team with a girl; girls were likely to mistake a cold business deal for a romantic gambit. His eyes moved on until at last he was forced to conclude that there was no one there to whom he wished to suggest partnership. “Prof, how about a hint? Should we take suntan oil? Or chilblain lotion?” Matson grinned and drawled, “Son, I’ll tell you every bit that I know. This test area was picked by a teacher in Europe, and I picked one for his class. But I don’t know what it is any more than you do. Send me a post card.” “But.” The boy who had spoken stopped. Then he suddenly stood up. “Prof, this isn’t a fair test. I’m checking out.” “What’s unfair about it? Not that we meant to make it fair.” “Well, you could dump us any place.” “That’s right.” “The back side of the Moon, in vacuum up to our chins. Or onto a chlorine planet. Or the middle of an ocean. I don’t know whether to take a space suit, or a canoe. So the deuce with it. Real life isn’t like that.” “It isn’t, eh?” Matson said softly. “That’s what Jonah said when the whale swallowed him.” He added, “But I will give you some hints. We mean this test to be passed by anyone bright enough to deserve it. So we won’t let you walk into a poisonous atmosphere, or a vacuum, without a mask. If you are dumped into water, land won’t be too far to swim. And so on. While I don’t know where you are going, I did see the list of test areas for this year’s classes. A smart man can survive in any of them. You ought to realize, son, that the Board of Education would have nothing to gain by killing off all its candidates for the key professions.” The student sat down again as suddenly as he had stood up. The instructor said, “Change your mind again?” “Uh, yes, sir. If it’s a fair test, I’ll take it.” Matson shook his head. “You’ve already flunked it. You’re excused. Don’t bother the Registrar; I’ll notify him.” The boy started to protest; Matson inclined his head toward the door. “Out!” There was an embarrassed silence while he left the room, then Matson said briskly, “This is a class in applied philosophy and I am sole judge of who is ready and who is not. Anybody who thinks of the world in terms of what it ‘ought’ to be, rather than what it is, isn’t ready for final examination. You’ve got to relax and roll with the punch, not get yourself all worn out with adrenalin exhaustion at the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Any more questions?” There were a few more but it became evident that Matson either truthfully did not know the nature of the test area, or was guarding the knowledge; his answers gained them nothing. He refused to advise as to weapons, saying simply that the school armorer would be at the gate ready to issue all usual weapons, while any unusual ones were up to the individual. “Remember, though, your best weapon is between your ears and under your scalp, provided it’s loaded.” The group started to drift away; Rod got up to leave. Matson caught his eye and said, “Walker, are you planning to take the test?” “Why, yes, of course, sir.” “Come here a moment.” He led him into his office, closed the door and sat down. He looked up at Rod, fiddled with a paperweight on his desk and said slowly, “Rod, you’re a good boy, but sometimes that isn’t enough.” Rod said nothing. “Tell me,” Matson continued, “why you want to take this test?” “Sir?” “‘Sir’ yourself,” Matson answered grumpily. “Answer my question.” Rod stared, knowing that he had gone over this with Matson before he was accepted for the course. But he explained again his ambition to study for an Outlands profession. “So I have to qualify in survival. I couldn’t even get a degree in colonial administration without it, much less any of the planetography or planetology specialities.” “Want to be an explorer, huh?” “Yes, sir.” “Like me.” “Yes, Sir. Like you.” “Hum, would you believe me if I told you that it was the worst mistake I ever made?” “Huh? No, sir!” “I didn’t think you would. Son, the cutest trick of all is how to know then what you know now. No way to, of course. But I’m telling you straight: I think you’ve been born into the wrong age. “Sir?” “I think you are a romantic. Now this is a very romantic age, so there is no room in it for romantics; it calls for practical men. A hundred years ago you would have made a banker or lawyer or professor and you could have worked out your romanticism by reading fanciful tales and dreaming about what you might have been if you hadn’t had the misfortune to be born into a humdrum period. But this happens to be a period when adventure and romance are a part of daily existence. Naturally it takes very practical people to cope with it.” Rod was beginning to get annoyed. “What’s the matter with me?” “Nothing. I like you. I don’t want to see you get hurt. But you are ‘way too emotional, too sentimental to be a real survivor type.” Matson pushed a hand toward him. “Now keep your shirt on. I know you can make fire by rubbing a couple of dry words together. I’m well aware that you won merit badges in practically everything. I’m sure you can devise a water filter with your bare hands and know which side of the tree the moss grows on. But I’m not sure that you can beware of the Truce of the Bear.” “‘The Truce of the Bear?’” “Never mind. Son, I think you ought to cancel this course. If you must, you can repeat it in college.” Rod looked stubborn. Matson sighed. “I could drop you. Perhaps I should.” “But why, sir?” “That’s the point. I couldn’t give a reason. On the record, you’re as promising a student as I have ever had.” He stood up and put out his hand. “Good luck. And remember, when it gets down to fundamentals, do what you have to do and shed no tears.” Rod should have gone straight home. His family lived in an out-county of Greater New York City, located on the Grand Canyon plateau through Hoboken Gate. But his commuting route required him to change at Emigrants’ Gap and he found himself unable to resist stopping to rubberneck. When he stepped out of the tube from school he should have turned right, taken the rotary lift to the level above, and stepped through to Arizona Strip. But he was thinking about supplies, equipment, and weapons for tomorrow’s examination; his steps automatically bore left, he got on the slideway leading to the great hall of the planetary gates. He told himself that he would watch for only ten minutes; he would not be late for dinner. He picked his way through the crowd and entered the great hall, not Onto the emigration floor itself, but onto the spectator’s balcony facing the gates. This was the new gate house he was in, the one opened for traffic in ‘68; the original Emigrants’ Gap, now used for Terran traffic and trade with Luna, stood on the Jersey Flats a few kilometers east alongside the pile that powered it. The balcony faced the six gates. It could seat eighty-six hundred people but was half filled and crowded only in the center. It was here, of course, that Rod wished to sit so that he might see through all six gates. He wormed his way down the middle aisle, squatted by the railing, then spotted someone leaving a front row seat. Rod grabbed it, earning a dirty look from a man who had started for it from the other aisle. Rod fed coins into the arm of the seat; it opened out, he sat down and looked around. He was opposite the replica Statue of Liberty, twin to the one that had stood for a century where now was Bedloe Crater. Her torch reached to the distant ceiling; on both her right and her left three great gates let emigrants into the outer worlds. Rod did not glance at the statue; he looked at the gates. It was late afternoon and heavily overcast at east coast North America, but gate one was open to some planetary spot having glaring noonday sun; Rod could catch glimpses through it of men dressed in shorts and sun hats and nothing else. Gate number two had a pressure lock rigged over it; it carried a big skull and crossbones sign and the symbol for chlorine. A red light burned over it. While he watched, the red light flickered out and a blue light replaced it; the door slowly opened and a traveling capsule for a chlorine-breather crawled out. Waiting to meet it were eight humans in diplomatic full dress. One carried a gold baton. Rod considered spending another half pluton to find out who the important visitor was, but his attention was diverted to gate five. An auxiliary gate had been set up on the floor, facing gate five a nd almost under the balcony. Two high steel fences joined the two gates, forming with them an alley as wide as the gates and as long as the space between, about fifteen meters by seventy-five. This pen was packed with humanity moving from the temporary gate toward and through gate five-and onto some planet light-years away. They poured out of nowhere, for the floor back of the auxiliary gate was bare, hurried like cattle between the two fences, spilled through gate five and were gone. A squad of brawny Mongol policemen, each armed with a staff as tall as himself, was spread out along each fence. They were using their staves to hurry the emigrants and they were not being gentle. Almost underneath Rod one of them prodded an old coolie so hard that he stumbled and fell. The man had been carrying his belongings, his equipment for a new world, in two bundles supported from a pole balanced on his right shoulder. The old coolie fell to his skinny knees, tried to get up, fell flat. Rod thought sure he would be trampled, but somehow he was on his feet again, minus his baggage. He tried to hold his place in the torrent and recover his possessions, but the guard prodded him again and he was forced to move on barehanded. Rod lost sight of him before he had moved five meters. There were local police outside the fence but they did not interfere. This narrow stretch between the two gates was, for the time, extraterritory; the local police had no jurisdiction. But one of them did seem annoyed at the brutality shown the old man; he put his face to the steel mesh and called out something in lingua terra. The Mongol cop answered savagely in the same simple language, telling the North American what he could do about it, then went back to shoving and shouting and prodding still more briskly. The crowd streaming through the pen were Asiatics, Japanese, Indonesians, Siamese, some East Indians, a few Eurasians, but predominantly South Chinese. To Rod they all looked much alike, tiny women with babies on hip or back, or often one on back and one in arms, endless runny-nosed and shaven-headed children, fathers with household goods with enormous back packs or pushed ahead on barrows. There were a few dispirited ponies dragging two-wheeled carts much too big for them but most of the torrent had only that which they could carry. Rod had heard an old story which asserted that if all the Chinese on Terra were marched four abreast past a given point the column would never pass that point, as more Chinese would be born fast enough to replace those who had marched past. Rod had taken his slide rule and applied arithmetic to check it, to find, of course, that the story was nonsense; even if one ignored deaths, while counting all births, the last Chinese would pass the reviewing stand in less than four years. Nevertheless, while watching this mob being herded like brutes into a slaughterhouse, Rod felt that the old canard was true even though its mathematics was faulty. There seemed to be no end to them. He decided to risk that half pluton to find out what was going on. He slid the coin into a slot in the chair’s speaker; the voice of the commentator reached his ears: “The visiting minister. The prince royal was met by officials of the Terran Corporation including the Director General himself and now is being escorted to the locks of the Ratoonian enclave. After the television reception tonight staff level conversations will start. A spokesman close to the Director General has pointed out that, in view of the impossibility of conflict of interest between oxygen types such as ourselves and the Ratoonians, any outcome of the conference must be to our advantage, the question being to what extent. “If you will turn your attention again to gate five, we will repeat what we said earlier: gate five is on forty eight hour loan to the Australasian Republic. The temporary gate you see erected below is hyper folded to a point in central Australia in the Arunta Desert, where this emigration has been mounting in a great encampment for the past several weeks. His Serene Majesty Chairman Fung Chee Mu of the Australasian Republic has informed the Corporation that his government intends to move in excess of two million people in forty-eight hours, a truly impressive figure, more than forty thousand each hour. The target figure for this year for all planetary emigration gates taken together, Emigrants’ Gap, Peter the Great, and Witwatersrand Gates, is only seventy million emigrants or an average of eight thousand per hour. This movement proposes a rate five times as great using only one gate!” The commentator continued: “Yet when we watch the speed, efficiency and the, uh, forthrightness with which they are carrying out this evolution it seems likely that they will achieve their goal. Our own figures show them to be slightly ahead of quota for the first nine hours. During those same nine hours there have been one hundred seven births and eighty-two deaths among the emigrants, the high death rate, of course, being incident to the temporary hazards of the emigration. “The planet of destination, GO-8703-IV, to be called henceforth Heavenly Mountains according to Chairman Fung, is classed as a bounty planet and no attempt had been made to colonize it. The Corporation has been assured that the colonists are volunteers.” It seemed to Rod that the announcer’s tone was ironical. “This is understandable when one considers the phenomenal population pressure of the Australasian Republic. A brief historical rundown may be in order. After the removal of the remnants of the former Australian population to New Zealand, pursuant to the Peiping Peace Treaty, the first amazing effort of the new government was the creation of the great inland sea Rod muted the speaker and looked back at the floor below. He did not care to hear school-book figures on how the Australian Desert had been made to blossom like the rose, and nevertheless haa been converted into a slum with more people in it than all of North America. Something new was happening at gate four-Gate four had been occupied by a moving cargo belt when he had come in; now the belt had crawled away and lost itself in the bowels of the terminal and an emigration party was lining up to go through. This was no poverty-stricken band of refugees chivvied along by police; here each family had its own wagon, long, sweeping, boat-tight Conestogas drawn by three-pair teams and housed in sturdy glass canvas square and businesslike Studebakers with steel bodies, high mud cutter wheels, and pulled by one or two-pair teams. The draft animals were Morgans and lordly Clydesdales and jug-headed Missouri mules with strong shoulders and shrewd, suspicious eyes. Dogs trotted between wheels, wagons were piled high with household goods and implements and children, poultry protested the indignities of fate in cages tied on behind, and a little Shetland pony, riderless but carrying his saddle and just a bit too tall to run underneath with the dogs, stayed close to the tailgate of one family’s rig. Rod wondered at the absence of cattle and stepped up the speaker again. But the announcer was still droning about the fertility of Australasians; he muted it again and watched. Wagons had moved onto the floor and taken up tight echelon position close to the gate, ready to move, with the tail of the train somewhere out of sight below. The gate was not yet ready and drivers were getting down and gathering at the Salvation Army booth under the skirts of the Goddess of Liberty, for a cup of coffee and some banter. It occurred to Rod that there probably was no coffee where they were going and might not be for years, since Terra never exported food, on the contrary, food and fissionable metals were almost the only permissible imports; until an Outland colony produced a surplus of one or the other it could expect precious little help from Terra. It was extremely expensive in terms of uranium to keep an interstellar gate open and the people in this wagon train could expect to be out of commercial touch with Earth until such a time as they had developed surpluses valuable enough in trade to warrant reopening the gate at regular intervals. Until that time they were on their own and must make do with what they could take with them, which made horses more practical than helicopters, picks and shovels more useful than bulldozers. Machinery gets out of order and requires a complex technology to keep it going, but good old “hayburners” keep right on breeding, cropping grass, and pulling loads. Deacon Matson had told the survival class that the real hardships of primitive Outlands were not the lack of plumbing, heating, power, light, nor weather conditioning, but the shortage of simple things like coffee and tobacco. Rod did not smoke and coffee he could take or let alone; he could not imagine getting fretful over its absence. He scrunched down in his seat, trying to see through the gate to guess the cause of the hold up. He could not see well, as the arching canvas of a prairie schooner blocked his view, but it did seem that the gate operator had a phase error; it looked as if the sky was where the ground ought to be. The extradimensional distortions necessary to match places on two planets many light-years apart were not simply a matter of expenditure of enormous quantities of energy; they were precision problems fussy beyond belief, involving high mathematics and high art-the math was done by machine but the gate operator always had to adjust the last couple of decimal places by prayer and intuition. In addition to the dozen-odd proper motions of each of the planets involved, motions which could usually be added and canceled out, there was also the rotation of each planet. The problem was to make the last hyperfold so that the two planets were internally tangent at the points selected as gates, with their axes parallel and their rotations in the same direction. Theoretically it was possible to match two points in contra-rotation, twisting the insubstantial fabric of space-time in exact step with “real’ motions; practically such a solution was not only terribly wasteful of energy but almost unworkable, the ground surface beyond the gate tended to skid away like a slidewalk and tilt at odd angles. Rod did not have the mathematics to appreciate the difficulties. Being only about to finish high school his training had gone no farther than tensor calculus, statistical mechanics, simple transfinities, generalized geometries of six dimensions, and, on the practical side, analysis for electronics, primary cybernetics and robotics, and basic design of analog computers; he had had no advanced mathematics as yet. He was not aware of his ignorance and simply concluded that the gate operator must be thumb-fingered. He looked back at the emigrant party. The drivers were still gathered at the booth, drinking coffee and munching doughnuts. Most of the men were growing beards; Rod concluded from the beavers that the party had been training for several months. The captain of the party sported a little goatee, mustaches, and rather long hair, but it seemed to Rod that he could not be many years older than Rod himself. He was a professional, of course, required to hold a degree in Outlands arts, hunting, scouting, jackleg mechanics, gunsmithing, farming, first aid, group psychology, survival group tactics, law, and a dozen other things the race has found indispensable when stripped for action. This captain’s mount was a Palomino mare, lovely as a sunrise, and the captain was dressed as a California don of an earlier century-possibly as a compliment to his horse. A warning light flashed at the gate’s annunciator panel and he swung into saddle, still eating a doughnut, and cantered down the wagons for a final inspection, riding toward Rod. His back was straight, his seat deep and easy, his bearing confident. Carried low on a fancy belt he wore two razor guns, each in a silver-chased holster that matched the ornate silver of his bridle and saddle. Rod held his breath until the captain passed out of sight under the balcony, then sighed and considered studying to be like him, rather than for one of the more intellectual Outlands professions. He did not know just what he did want to be, except that he meant to get off Earth as soon as he possibly could and get out there where things were going on! Which reminded him that the first hurdle was tomorrow; in a few days he would either be eligible to matriculate for whatever it was he decided on, or he would be-but no use worrying about that. He remembered uneasily that it was getting late and he had not even decided on equipment, nor picked his weapons. This party captain carried razor guns; should he carry one? No, this party would fight as a unit, if it had to fight. Its leader carried that type of weapon to enforce his authority-not for solo survival. Well, what should he take? A siren sounded and the drivers returned to their wagons. The captain came back at a brisk trot. “Reins up!” he called out. “Reeeeeeiiiins up!” He took station by the gate, facing the head of the train; the mare stood quivering and tending to dance. The Salvation Army lassie came out from behind her counter carrying a baby girl. She called to the party captain but her voice did not carry to the balcony. The captain’s voice did carry. “Number four! Doyle! Come get your child!” A red-headed man with a spade beard climbed down from the fourth wagon and sheepishly reclaimed the youngster to a chorus of cheers and cat calls. He passed the baby up to his wife, who upped its skirt and commenced paddling its bottom. Doyle climbed to his seat and took his reins. “Call off!” the captain sang out. “One.” “Tuh!” “Three!” “Foah!” “Five!” The count passed under the balcony, passed down the chute out of hearing. In a few moments it came back, running down this time, ending with a shouted “ONE!” The captain held up his right arm and watched the lights of the order panel. A light turned green. He brought his arm down smartly with a shout of “Roll ‘em! Ho!” The Palomino took off like a race horse, cut under the nose of the nigh lead horse of the first team, and shot through the gate. Whips cracked. Rod could hear shouts of “Git, Molly! Git, Ned!” and “No, no, you jugheads!” The train began to roll. By the time the last one on the floor was through the gate and the much larger number which had been in the chute below had begun to show it was rolling at a gallop, with the drivers bracing their feet wide and their wives riding the brakes. Rod tried to count them, made it possibly sixty-three wagons as the last one rumbled through the gate, and was gone, already half a galaxy away. He sighed and sat back with a warm feeling sharpened with undefined sorrow. Then he stepped up the speaker volume: “Onto New Canaan, the premium planet described by the great Langford as ‘The rose without thorns.’ These colonists have paid a premium of sixteen thousand four hundred per person-not counting exempt or co-opted members-for the privilege of seeking their fortunes and protecting their posterity by moving to New Canaan. The machines predict that the premium will increase for another twenty-eight years; therefore, if you are considering giving your children the priceless boon of citizenship on New Canaan, the time to act is now. For a beautiful projection reel showing this planet send one pluton to Information, Box One, Emigrants Gap, New Jersey County, Greater New York. For a complete descriptive listing of all planets now open plus a special list of those to be opened in the near future add another half pluton. Those seeing this broadcast in person may obtain these items at the information booth in the foyer outside the great hall.” Rod did not listen. He had long since sent for every free item and most of the non-free ones issued by the Commission for Emigration and Trade. Just now he was wondering why the gate to New Canaan had not relaxed. He found out at once. Stock barricades rose up out of the floor, forming a fenced passage from gate four to the chute under him. Then a herd of cattle filled the gate and came flooding toward him, bawling and snorting. They were prime Hereford steers, destined to become tender steaks and delicious roasts for a rich but slightly hungry Earth. After them and among them rode New Canaan cowpunchers armed with long goads with which they urged the beasts to greater speed, the undesirability of running weight off the animals was offset by the extreme cost of keeping the gate open, a cost which had to be charged against the cattle. Rod discovered that the speaker had shut itself off; the half hour he had paid for was finished. He sat up with sudden guilt, realizing that he would have to hurry or he would be late for supper. He rushed out, stepping on feet and mumbling apologies, and caught the slide-way to Hoboken Gate. This gate, being merdy for Terra-surface commuting, was permanently dilated and required no operator, since the two points brought into coincidence were joined by a rigid frame, the solid Earth. Rod showed his commuter’s ticket to the electronic monitor and stepped through to Arizona, in company with a crowd of neighbors. “The (almost) solid Earth.” The gate robot took into account tidal distortions but could not anticipate minor seismic variables. As Rod stepped through he felt his feet quiver as if to a small earthquake, then the terra was again firma. But he was still in an airlock at sea-level pressure. The radiation from massed bodies triggered the mechanism, the lock closed and air pressure dropped. Rod yawned heavily to adjust to the pressure of Grand Canyon plateau, North Rim, less than three quarters that of New Jersey. But despite the fact that he made the change twice a day he found himself rubbing his right ear to get rid of an ear ache. The lock opened, he stepped out. Having come two thousand miles in a split second he now had ten minutes by slide tube and a fifteen minute walk to get home. He decided to dogtrot and be on time after all. He might have made it if there had not been several thousand other people trying to use the same facilities. Two. The Fifth Way. Rocket ships did not conquer space; they merely challenged it. A rocket leaving Earth at seven miles per second is terribly slow for the vast reaches beyond. Only the Moon is reasonably near-four days, more or less. Mars is thirty-seven weeks away, Saturn a dreary six years, Pluto an impossible half century, by the elliptical orbits possible to rockets. Ortega’s torch ships brought the Solar System within reach. Based on mass conversion, Einstein’s deathless E equals M C squared, they could boost for the entire trip at any acceleration the pilot could stand. At an easy one gravity the inner planets were only hours from Earth, far Pluto only eighteen days. It was a change like that from horseback to jet plane. The shortcoming of this brave new toy was that there was not much anywhere to go. The Solar system, from a human standpoint, is made up of remarkably unattractive real estate-save for lovely Terra herself, lush and green and beautiful. The steel-limbed Jovians enjoy gravity 2.5 times ours and their poisonous air at inhuman pressure keeps them in health. Martians prosper in near vacuum, the rock lizards of Luna do not breathe at all. But these planets are not for men. Men prosper on an oxygen planet close enough to a G-type star for the weather to cycle around the freezing point of water, that is to say, on Earth. When you are already there why go anywhere? The reason was babies, too many babies. Malthus pointed it out long ago; food increases by arithmetical progression, people increase by geometrical progression. By World War One half the world lived on the edge of starvation; by World War Two Earth’s population was increasing by 55,000 people every day; before World War Three, as early as 1954, the increase had jumped to 100,000 mouths and stomachs per day, 35,000,000 additional people each year, and the population of Terra had climbed well beyond that which its farm lands could support. The hydrogen, germ, and nerve gas horrors that followed were not truly political. The true meaning was more that of beggars fighting over a crust of bread. The author of Gulliver’s Travels sardonically proposed that Irish babies be fattened for English tables; other students urged less drastic ways of curbing population, none of which made the slightest difference. Life, all life, has the twin drives to survive and to reproduce. Intelligence is an aimless byproduct except as it serves these basic drives. But intelligence can be made to serve the mindless demands of life. Our Galaxy contains in excess of one hundred thousand Earth-type planets, each as warm and motherly to men as sweet Terra. Ortega’s torch ships could reach the stars. Mankind could colonize, even as the hungry millions of Europe had crossed the Atlantic and raised more babies in the New World. Some did, hundreds of thousands. But the entire race, working as a team, cannot build and launch a hundred ships a day, each fit for a thousand colonists, and keep it up day after day, year after year, time without end. Even with the hands and the will (which the race never had) there is not that much steel, aluminum, and uranium in Earth’s crust. There is not one hundredth of the necessary amount. But intelligence can find solutions where there are none. Psychologists once locked an ape in a room, for which they had arranged only four ways of escaping. Then they spied on him to see which of the four he would find. The ape escaped a fifth way. Doctor Jesse Evelyn Ramsbotham had not been trying to solve the baby problem; he had been trying to build a time machine. He had two reasons: first, because time machines are an impossibility; second, because his hands would sweat and he would stammer whenever in the presence of a nubile female. He was not aware that the first reason was compensation for the second, in fact he was not aware of the second reason, it was a subject his conscious mind avoided. It is useless to speculate as to the course of history had Jesse Evelyn Ramsbotham’s parents had the good sense to name their son Bill instead of loading him with two girlish names. He might have become an All-American halfback and ended up selling bonds and adding his quota of babies to a sum already disastrous. Instead he became a mathematical physicist. Progress in physics is achieved by denying the obvious and accepting the impossible. Any nineteenth century physicist could have given unassailable reasons why atom bombs were impossible if his reason were not affronted at the question; any twentieth century physicist could explain why time travel was incompatible with the real world of space-time. But Ramsbotham began fiddling with the three greatest Einsteinian equations, the two relativity equations for distance and duration and the mass-conversion equation; each contained the velocity of light. “Velocity” is first derivative, the differential of distance with respect to time; he converted those equations into differential equations, then played games with them. He would feed the results to the Rakitiac computer, remote successor to Univac, Eniac and Maniac. While he was doing these things his hands never sweated nor did he stammer, except when he was forced to deal with the young lady who was chief programmer for the giant computer. His first model produced a time-stasis or low-entropy field no bigger than a football-but a lighted cigarette placed inside with full power setting was still burning a week later. Ramsbotham picked up the cigarette, resumed smoking and thought about it. Next he tried a day-old chick, with colleagues to witness. Three months later the chick was unaged and no hungrier than chicks usually are. He reversed the phase relation and cut in power for the shortest time he could manage with his bread-boarded hook-up. In less than a second the newly-hatched chick was long dead, starved and decayed. He was aware that he had simply changed the slope of a curve, but he was convinced that he was on the track of true time travel. He never did find it, although once he thought that he had-he repeated by request his demonstration with a chick for some of his colleagues; that night two of them picked the lock on his lab, let the little thing out and replaced it with an egg. Ramsbotham might have been permanently convinced that he had found time travel and then spent the rest of his life in a blind alley had they not cracked the egg and showed him that it was hard-boiled. But he did not give up. He made a larger model and tried to arrange a dilation, or anomaly (he did not call it a “Gate”) which would let him get in and out of the field himself. When he threw on power, the space between the curving magnetodes of his rig no longer showed the wall beyond, but a steaming jungle. He jumped to the conclusion that this must be a forest of the Carboniferous Period. It had often occurred to him that the difference between space and time might simply be human prejudice, but this was not one of the times; he believed what he wanted to believe. He hurriedly got a pistol and with much bravery and no sense crawled between the magnetodes. Ten minutes later he was arrested for waving firearms around in Rio de Janeiro’s civic botanical gardens. A lack of the Portuguese language increased both his difficulties and the length of time he spent in a tropical pokey, but three days later through the help of the North American consul he was on his way home. He thought and filled notebooks with equations and question marks on the whole trip. The short cut to the stars had been found. Ramsbotham’s discoveries eliminated the basic cause of war and solved the problem of what to do with all those dimpled babies. A hundred thousand planets were no farther away than the other side of the street. Virgin continents, raw wildernesses, fecund jungles, killing deserts, frozen tundras, and implacable mountains lay just beyond the city gates, and the human race was again going out where the street lights do not shine, out where there was no friendly cop on the corner nor indeed a corner, out where there were no well-hung, tender steaks, no boneless hams, no packaged, processed foods suitable for delicate minds and pampered bodies. The biped omnivore again had need of his biting, tearing, animal teeth, for the race was spilling out (as it had so often before) to kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. But the human race’s one great talent is survival. The race, as always, adjusted to conditions, and the most urbanized, mechanized, and civilized, most upholstered and luxurious culture in all history trained its best children, its potential leaders, in primitive pioneer survival-man naked against nature. Rod Walker knew about Doctor J E Ramsbotham, just as he knew about Einstein, Newton, and Columbus, but he thought about Ramsbotham no oftener than he thought about Columbus. These were figures in books, each larger than life and stuffed with straw, not real. He used the Ramsbotham Gate between Jersey and the Arizona Strip without thinking of its inventor the same way his ancestors used elevators without thinking of the name “Otis.” If he thought about the miracle at all, it was a half-formed irritation that the Arizona side of Hoboken Gate was so far from his parents’ home. It was known as Kaibab Gate on this side and was seven miles north of the Walker residence. At the time the house had been built the location was at the extreme limit of tube delivery and other city utilities. Being an old house, its living room was above ground, with only bedrooms, pantry, and bombproof buried. The living room had formerly stuck nakedly above ground, an ellipsoid monocoque shell, but, as Greater New York spread, the neighborhood had been zoned for underground apartments and construction above ground which would interfere with semblance of virgin forest had been forbidden. The Walkers had gone along to the extent of covering the living room with soil and planting it with casual native foliage, but they had refused to cover up their view window. It was the chief charm of the house, as it looked out at the great canyon. The community corporation had tried to coerce them into covering it up and had offered to replace it with a simulacrum window such as the underground apartments used, with a relayed view of the canyon. But Rod’s father was a stubborn man and maintained that with weather, women, and wine there was nothing “just as good.” His window was still intact. Rod found the family sitting in front of the window, watching a storm work its way up the canyon-his mother, his father, and, to his great surprise, his sister. Helen was ten years older than he and an assault captain in the Amazons; she was seldom home. The warmth of his greeting was not influenced by his realization that her arrival would probably cause his own lateness to pass with little comment. “Sis! Hey, this is swell, I thought you were on Thule.” “I was, until a few hours ago.” Rod tried to shake hands; his sister gathered him in a bear hug and bussed him on the mouth, squeezing him against the raised ornaments of her chrome corselet. She was still in uniform, a fact that caused him to think that she had just arrived-on her rare visits home she usually went slopping around in an old bathrobe and goahead slippers, her hair caught up in a knot. Now she was still in dress armor and kilt and had dumped her side arms, gauntlets, and pluined helmet on the floor. She looked him over proudly. “My, but you’ve grown! You’re almost as tall as I am.” “I’m taller.” “Want to bet? No, don’t try to wiggle away from me; I’ll twist your arm. Slip off your shoes and stand back to back.” “Sit down, children,” their father said mildly. “Rod, why were you late?” “Uh,” He had worked out a diversion involving telling about the examination coming up, but he did not use it as his sister intervened. “Don’t heckle him, Pater. Ask for excuses and you’ll get them. I learned that when I was a sub-lieutenant.” “Quiet, daughter. I can raise him without your help.” Rod was surprised by his father’s edgy answer, was more surprised by Helen’s answer: “So? Really?” Her tone was odd. Rod saw his mother raise a hand, seem about to speak, then close her mouth. She looked upset. His sister and father looked at each other; neither spoke. Rod looked from one to the other, said slowly, “Say, what’s all this?” His father glanced at him. “Nothing. We’ll say no more about it. Dinner is waiting. Coming, dear?” He turned to his wife, handed her up from her chair, offered her his arm. “Just a minute,” Rod said insistently. “I was late because I was hanging around the Gap.” “Very well. You know better, but I said we would say no more about it.” He turned toward the lift. “But I wanted to tell you something else, Dad. I won’t be home for the next week or so.” “Very well, eh? What did you say?” “I’ll be away for a while, sir. Maybe ten days or a bit longer.” His father looked perplexed, then shook his head. “Whatever your plans are, you will have to change them. I can’t let you go away at this time.” “But, Dad.” “I’m sorry, but that is definite.” “But, Dad, I have to!” “No!” Rod looked frustrated. His sister said suddenly, “Pater, wouldn’t it be well to find out why he wants to be away?” “Now, daughter.” “Dad, I’m taking my solo survival, starting tomorrow morning!” Missus Walker gasped, then began to weep. Her husband said, “There, there, my dear!” then turned to his son and said harshly, “You’ve upset your mother.” “But, Dad, I,” Rod shut up, thinking bitterly that no one seemed to give a hoot about his end of it. Mter all, he was the one who was going to have to sink or swim. A lot they knew or- “You see, Pater,” his sister was saying. “He does have to be away. He has no choice, because.” “I see nothing of the sort! Rod, I meant to speak about this earlier, but I had not realized that your test would take place so soon. When I signed permission for you to take that course, I had, I must admit, a mental reservation. I felt that the experience would be valuable later when and if you took the course in college. But I never intended to let you come up against the final test while still in high school. You are too young. Rod was shocked speechless. But his sister again spoke for him. “Fiddlesticks!” “Eh? Now, daughter, please remember that.” “Repeat fiddlesticks! Any girl in my company has been up against things as rough and many of them are not much older than Buddy. What are you trying to do, Pater? Break his nerve?” “You have no reason to, I think we had best discuss this later.” “I think that is a good idea.” Captain Walker took her brother’s arm and they followed their parents down to the refectory. Dinner was on the table, still warm in its delivery containers; they took their places, standing, and Mister Walker solemnly lighted the Peace Lamp. The family was evangelical Monist by inheritance, each of Rod’s grandfathers having been converted in the second great wave of proselyting that swept out of Persia in the last decade of the previous century, and Rod’s father took seriously his duties as family priest. As the ritual proceeded Rod made his responses automatically, his mind on this new problem. His sister chimed in heartily but his mother’s answers could hardly be heard. Nevertheless the warm symbolism had its effect; Rod felt himself calming down. By the time his father intoned the last “One Principle, one family, one flesh!” he felt like eating. He sat down and took the cover off his plate. A yeast cutlet, molded to look like a chop and stripped with real bacon, a big baked potato, and a grilled green lobia garnished with baby’s buttons, Rod’s mouth watered as he reached for the catsup. He noticed that Mother was not eating much, which surprised him. Dad was not eating much either but Dad often just picked at his food, he became aware with sudden warm pity that Dad was thinner and greyer than ever. How old was Dad? His attention was diverted by a story his sister was telling: “And so the Commandant told me I would have to clamp down. And I said to her, Ma’am, girls will be girls. It I have to bust a petty officer everytime one of them does something like that, pretty soon I won’t have anything but privates. And Sergeant Dvorak is the best gunner I have.” “Just a second,” her father interrupted. “I thought you said Kelly, not Dvorak.” “I did and she did. Pretending to misunderstand which sergeant she meant was my secret weapon-for I had Dvorak cold for the same offense, and Tiny Dvorak, she’s bigger than I am, is the Squadron’s white hope for the annual corps-wide competition for best trooper. Of course, losing her stripes would put her, and us, out of the running. “So I straightened out the ‘mix up’ in my best wide-eyed, thick-headed manner, let the old gal sit for a moment trying not to bite her nails, then told her that I had both women confined to barracks until that gang of college boys was through installing the new ‘scope, and sang her a song about how the quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, and made myself responsible for seeing to it that she was not again embarrassed by scandalous-her word, not mine-scandalous incidents, especially when she was showing quadrant commanders around. “So she grumpily allowed as how the company commander was responsible for her company and she would hold me to it and now would I get out and let her work on the quarterly training report in peace? So I threw her my best parade ground salute and got out so fast I left a hole in the air.” “I wonder,” Mister Walker said judicially, “if you should oppose your commanding officer in such matters? After all, she is older and presumably wiser than you are.” Helen made a little pile of the last of her baby’s buttons, scooped them up and swallowed them. “Fiddlesticks squared and cubed. Pardon me, Pater, but if you had any military service you would know better. I am as tough as blazes to my girls myself, and it just makes them boast about how they’ve got the worst fire-eater in twenty planets. But if they’re in trouble higher up, I’ve got to take care of my kids. There always comes a day when there is something sticky up ahead and I have to stand up and walk toward it. And it will be all right because I’ll have Kelly on my right flank and Dvorak on my left and each of them trying to take care of Maw Walker all by her ownself. I know what I’m doing. ‘Walker’s Werewolves’ are a team.” Missus Walker shivered. “Gracious, darling, I wish you had never taken up a calling so, well, so dangerous.” Helen shrugged. “The death rate is the same for us as for anybody, one person, one death, sooner or later. What would you want, Mum? With eighteen million more women than men on this continent did you want me to sit and knit until my knight comes riding? Out where I operate, there are more men than women; I’ll wing one yet, old and ugly as I am. Rod asked curiously, “Sis, would you really give up your commission to get married?” “Would I! I won’t even count his arms and legs. If he is still warm and can nod his head, he’s had it. My target is six babies and a farm.” Rod looked her over. “I’d say your chances are good. You’re quite pretty even if your ankles are thick.” “Thanks, pardner. Thank you too much. What’s for dessert, Mum?” “I didn’t look. Will you open it, dear?” Dessert turned out to be iced mangorines, which pleased Rod. His sister went on talking. “The Service isn’t a bad shake, on active duty. It’s garrison duty that wears. My kids get fat and sloppy and restless and start fighting with each other from sheer boredom. For my choice, barracks casualties are more to be dreaded than combat. I’m hoping that our squadron will be tagged to take part in the pacification of Byer’s Planet.” Mister Walker looked at his wife, then at his daughter. “You have upset your mother again, my dear. Quite a bit of this talk has hardly been appropriate under the Light of Peace.” “I was asked questions, I answered.” “Well, perhaps so.” Helen glanced up. “Isn’t it time to turn it out, anyway? We all seem to have finished eating.” “Why, if you like. Though it is hardly reverent to hurry.” “The Principle knows we haven’t all eternity.” She turned to Rod. “How about making yourself scarce, mate? I want to make palaver with the folks.” “Gee, Sis, you act as if I was.” “Get lost, Buddy. I’ll see you later.” Rod left, feeling affronted. He saw Helen blow out the pax lamp as he did so. He was still making lists when his sister came to his room. “Hi, kid.” “Oh. Hello, Sis.” “What are you doing? Figuring what to take on your solo?” “Sort of.” “Mind if I get comfortable?” She brushed articles from his bed and sprawled on it. “We’ll go into that later.” Rod thought it over. “Does that mean Dad won’t object?” “Yes. I pounded his head until he saw the light. But, as I said, well go into that later. I’ve got something to tell you, youngster.” “Such as?” “The first thing is this. Our parents are not as stupid as you probably think they are. Fact is, they are pretty bright.” “I never said they were stupid!” Rod answered, comfortably aware of what his thoughts had been. “No, but I heard what went on before dinner and so did you. Dad was throwing his weight around and not listening. But, Buddy, it has probably never occurred to you that it is hard work to be a parent, maybe the hardest job of all, particularly when you have no talent for it, which Dad hasn’t. He knows it and works hard at it and is conscientious. Mostly he does mighty well. Sometimes he slips, like tonight. But, what you did not know is this: Dad is going to die.” “What?” Rod looked stricken. “I didn’t know he was ill!” “You weren’t meant to know. Now climb down off the ceiling; there is a way out. Dad is terribly ill, and he would die in a few weeks at the most, unless something drastic is done. But something is going to be. So relax.” She explained the situation bluntly: Mister Walker was suffering from a degenerative disease under which he was slowly starving to death. His condition was incurable by current medical art; he might linger on, growing weaker each day, for weeks or months, but he would certainly die soon. Rod leaned his head on his hands and chastised himself. Dad dying, and he hadn’t even noticed. They had kept it from him, like a baby, and he had been too stupid to see it. His sister touched his shoulder. “Cut it out. If there is anything stupider than flogging yourself over something you can’t help, I’ve yet to meet it. Anyhow, we are doing something about it.” “What? I thought you said nothing could be done?” “Shut up and let your mind coast. The folks are going to make a Ramsbotham jump, five hundred to one, twenty years for two weeks. They’ve already signed a contract with Entropy, Incorporated. Dad has resigned from General Synthetics and is closing up his affairs; they’ll kiss the world good-by this coming Wednesday, which is why he was being sterh about your plans to be away at that time. You’re the apple of his eye. Heaven knows why.” Rod tried to sort out too many new ideas at once. A time jump, of course! It would let Dad stay alive another twenty years. But, “Say, Sis, this doesn’t get them anything! Sure, it’s twenty years but it will be just two weeks to them, and Dad will be as sick as ever. I know what I’m talking about; they did the same thing for Hank Robbin’s great grandfather and he died anyhow, right after they took him out of the stasis. Hank told me.” Captain Walker shrugged. “Probably a hopeless case to start with. But Dad’s specialist, Doctor Hensley, says that he is morally certain that Dad’s case is not hopeless twenty years from now. I don’t know anything about metabolic medicine, but Hensley says that they are on the verge and that twenty years from now they ought to be able to patch Dad up as easily they can graft on a new leg today.” “You really think so?” “How should I know? In things like this you hire the best expert you can, then follow his advice. The point is, if we don’t do it, Dad is finished. So we do it.” “Yeah. Sure, sure, we’ve got to.” She eyed him closely and added, “All right. Now do you want to talk with them about it?” “Huh?” He was startled by the shift. “Why? Are they waiting for me?” “No, I persuaded them that it was best to keep it from you until it happened. Then I came straight in and told you. Now you can do as you please, pretend you don’t know, or go have Mum cry over you, and listen to a lot of last-minute, man-to-man advice from Dad that you will never take. About midnight, with your nerves frazzled, you can get back to your preparations for your survival test. Play it your own way, but I’ve rigged it so you can avoid that, if you want to. Easier on everybody. Myself, I like a cat’s way of saying good-by.” Rod’s mind was in a turmoil. Not to say good-by seemed unnatural, ungrateful, untrue to family sentiment, but the prospect of saying good-by seemed almost unbearably embarrassing. “What’s that about a cat?” “When a cat greets you, he makes a big operation of it, humping, stropping your legs, buzzing like mischief. But when he leaves, he just walks off and never looks back. Cats are smart.” “Well.” “I suggest,” She added, “that you remember that they are doing this for their convenience, not yours. “But Dad has to.” “Surely, Dad must, if he is to get well.” She considered pointing out that the enormous expense of the time jump would leave Rod practically penniless; she decided that this was better left undiscussed. “But Mum does not have to.” “But she has to go with Dad!” “So? Use arithmetic. She prefers leaving you alone for twenty years in order to be with Dad for two weeks. Or turn it around: she prefers having you orphaned to having herself widowed for the same length of time.” “I don’t think that’s quite fair to Mum,” Rod answered slowly. “I wasn’t criticizing. She’s making the right decision. Nevertheless, they both have a strong feeling of guilt about you and.” “About me?” “About you. I don’t figure into it. If you insist on saying good-by, their guilt will come out as self-justification and self-righteousness and they will find ways to take it out on you and everybody will have a bad time. I don’t want that. You are all my family.” “Uh, maybe you know best.” “I didn’t get straight A’s in emotional logic and military leadership for nothing. Man is not a rational animal; he is a rationalizing animal. Now let’s see what you plan to take with you.” She looked over his lists and equipment, then whistled softly. “Whew! Rod, I never saw so much plunder. You won’t be able to move. Who are you? Tweedledum preparing for battle, or the White Knight?” “Well, I was going to thin it down,” he answered uncomfortably. “I should think so!” “Uh, Sis, what sort of gun sh

Rahan. The son of the fierce ages. Text by Roger Lecureux. Drawing by Andre Cheret. Episode Fifty-two. The weapon with three arms. The fishing had been good. With his fish on his back, Crao's son was about to move away from the river when cries of terror arose. A panicked young woman appeared on the other bank. Quite far behind her, a cheetah emerged from the thickets. “Two-haired" cannot crawl on water! The woman, in fact, had been stopped in her escape by the river. Page Two. Courage “Two Hair”! Rahan won't let you be devoured by the spotted skin! Thrown with force, the three fish flutter above the river, towards the opposite bank. Freed from these fish which would have hindered his movements, the son of Crao had already dived and was swimming vigorously. Gathered up, the cheetah stared at the young woman who was paralyzed by fear. He was going to jump. When Rahan climbs onto the bank. What are you waiting for to attack?? Would you fear Rahan's claw, "Little Spot"!? Page Three. The beast stopped growling and suddenly relaxed. The son of Crao knew from experience that it was useless to dodge the attack. Knocked down by the cheetah, he delivered a first blow. But the ivory blade slipped on one side of the feline. The woman could have fled. But she remained there observing the wild melee. Few hunters in the clan would sacrifice themselves like this for Tanaou! She uttered a cry of anguish, because the man and the beast had just rolled into the river! Oh! Chlouf! But this was what the son of Crao wanted, who knew the repulsion of felines for water! The cheetah suddenly losing its means, offered its side to the ivory knife! Page Four. Ra-ha-ha! Rahan is Happy to have saved “Two-hair”!! The current was already carrying away the body of the feline, which was bleeding. I am not called “Two-Hair”, my name is Tanaou. Tanaou has a very curious style of hair! The son of Crao had never seen braided hair before. Tanaou's two braids intrigued him. All the girls in my clan are like this, it's the custom. If Tanaou reveals to him how this “Thing” is made. Rahan will give him his fish! As he pointed to the stump towards which he had thrown his fish, Rahan was transfixed as a statue. The vines were tied around a dead branch. Page Five: Just before diving into the river, he had glimpsed the fish circling around this branch. And the knots made themselves! If Rahan could not explain the phenomenon, this one registered in his memory. Here Tanaou! These fish are yours! Oh! What have you done with your "Two-Hairs"? Tanaou had untied her braids. And mischievously, began to braid her hair again. A strand in the middle. One on top. One Below. One on top. One underneath. This is how our mothers and our mothers' mothers did. The son of Crao, amazed, saw Tanaou’s braids reform. Page Six. Rahan would like to know your tribe! No! Do not try to know my clan! Death would fall on you! Karaikk, our chief, throws everyone who ventures into our territory into “The Pit of Enemies”! Tanaou owes you her life. She does not want to see you die! Run away, Rahan! Flee! As light as a "Two Horned Antelope", Tanaou fled herself, with the fish that the son of Crao had given her. It was easy for him to follow her trail, which led him to a clan similar to so many others. Karaikk is very brutal with his sisters! Why did you catch fish? Fishing is not a woman's business! It was a hunter with “Fire Hair” who gave them to Tanaou! The leader, recognizable by his collars, shook Tanaou roughly! Page Seven. Tanaou tells the truth Karaikk! It was Rahan who caught the fish! Rahan had revealed himself and was approaching calmly. This composure further irritated the leader. You admit to having violated our territory! You will lose your insolence in the “Enemies Pit”!! Imitating their leader, the hunters abandoned their weapons and rushed towards Crao's son. You want Rahan alive. But you have not finished it yet! It was a fight of rare violence. Rahan stood up, fiercely resisting the murder that assailed him. But the hunters who collapsed under his blows were immediately replaced by others! Page Eight. He was finally subdued, pinned to the ground. Karaikk grabbed his necklace of claws and the ivory knife. They will be useless to you in the kingdom of shadows! Tanaou looked away when his people led Rahan towards the "Pit", a few hundred steps from him. This pit was neither too wide nor too deep, but the swirls of the waves, over the centuries, had polished the wall. The son of Crao attempted a final and vain resistance. He was brutally pushed forward. Your agonies will be long, “Fire-hair”! Pushed into the void, he instinctively took a jumping position. Page Nine. And landed on his legs, shattering some of the bones with which the bottom of the pit was littered. Krock! They died of hunger and thirst! Is this the end that awaits Rahan? He heard the hunters returning to the village and felt the wall. The granite was as smooth as the ivory of his knife! The few vines that hung there, too thin, broke as soon as he clung to them. Rahan understands why you joined the territory of shadows. It is impossible to escape from this stone trap! Page Ten. The vines that snaked at his feet reminded him of the braids of Tanaou. An idea came to him. If Rahan could make just one, it would be much stronger! A moment later, scrupulously repeating the young woman's gestures, he braided three long vines. Rahan saw branches at the edge of the pit. Maybe he can catch one! He continued this work until the night, until a muffled voice reached him. Rahan! Tanaou! Tanaou would like to help “Fire-hair” But what can she do? Catch Tanaou! The young woman grabbed the braid of vines in flight. If Karaikk surprised Tanaou, he would kick her out of the clan! Page Eleven. Tanaou braced herself but in vain. Rahan's weight was dragging her down. This is impossible, “Fire-hair”! Tanaou does not have the strength of a hunter! The branches Tanaou! Branches! Try dragging one near the pit! Tanaou was pulling a long branch when angry calls rang out. My people are looking for me, Rahan! I have to abandon you! I will try to come back later! The son of Crao heard the young woman slip away. He saw the branch at the edge of the pit. Thank you Tanaou! Perhaps what you did was enough to save Rahan! Twice, three times, ten times, Rahan threw his braid of lines towards this branch. But this one could not find any hold! Page Twelve. The vine will never tie itself! All alone!? Oh! The son of Crao almost screamed with joy. He saw his fish again circling around the stump. Inspired by a phenomenon that was still unknown to him the day before, he perhaps invented what would be called, hundreds of centuries later, a "Bolas". Rahan can remake a "Three-armed weapon”! The skulls replaced the fish, and played the same role. Rahan twirled the three-armed weapon for a moment. And let it fly towards the branch. He had difficulty suppressing a cry of triumph. Ra-ha-ha! Page thirteen. The three vines, twisted around the target, were tied on it! From then on, getting out of the “Enemy Pit” was just a game. Rahan, hoisted himself up with the agility of a “Four hands" As he untied the three-armed weapon a vampire bat disappeared into the darkness. The night is gentle. It is a night of Vampires! But Rahan does not fear the vampires! He will only leave this territory with his cutlass and his collar! Murmurs arose from nearby villages. The hunters of Karaikk also mentioned the “Vampires”. But they were afraid! Page Fourteen. The blood-drinking birds are on the prowl! They threaten us! “Fire-hair” has sent them! Karaikk does not speak like a boss, but like a child!! “Those-who-walk-upright” can scare away the wampas! The sudden reappearance of Rahan initially caused astonishment and fear. Karaikk growled with rage, and he suddenly launched himself with his ax raised. How did you get out of the pit of enemies?! With this! The weapon with three arms flew away. And the leader, his ankles tied, collapsed forward! Page Fifteen. A moment later the son of Crao recovered his knife and his necklace. Karaikk was too worried to react. Are you. Are you going to kill Karaikk? No, Rahan doesn't kill "Those-Who-Walk-Upright"! Karaikk was confused. The Wampas!! The Wampas! Cries of terror suddenly arise. The panicked hunters scattered in all directions. Rahan rushed towards Tanaou who was fleeing. Fear nothing Tanaou! The “Wampas” are sent by the evil spirit! My tribe always flee when they arrive! The swarm of vampires suddenly fell on the village. Stay near the fire, Tanaou! The Wampas won't come near you! Page Sixteen. A howl rang out. A few vampire bats circled around Karaikk, who was trying to untie the three-armed weapon. The beasts suddenly attacked, clinging to the chief's arms and his hair. No! No! The "Wampas" are going to drain Karaikk of his blood! But no, Tanaou! You will see. These rat birds fear fire too much! The son of Crao rushed forward, brandishing a flaming branch. Frightened by this light which swirled above them, the vampire bats abandoned Karaikk. Page Seventeen. If the “Wampas” obey you, it is because you are their leader! What are you going to do? Rahan had drawn his knife. You, will you free me? But what being are you then? And Karaikk, surprised, saw the ivory blade cut the “three-armed weapon." The branch went out and the vampire bats returned to attack. You see clearly that the "Wampas" do not obey Rahan! It is the fire they fear! Ah! The son of Crao did not have time to dodge. A “Rat-bird” was plastered on his face! With anger and disgust he snatched the beast. The “Wampas” Want Blood! They are going to have it! Page Eighteen. The ivory blade slashed the vampire bat. And now Karaikk, let us go to join Tanaou! The chief was already rushing towards the fire. Karaikk was stupid to believe the "Wampas" were immortal! Come back, brothers! Let us drive them out of the villages! Come! Come! Let us chase away the "Wampas"! At the call of their leader, the still hesitant groups flushed out of the thickets. Setting an example, Karaikk waved two fire-brands. Frightened by the flaming torches, the vampire bats fled before him. Yours are finally acting like Braves Tanaou! The emboldened hunters had in turn armed themselves with Flaming Branches. Page Nineteen. And the panicked “Rat Birds” stalked between the huts. They didn't stop until the last "Wampa" had disappeared into the darkness. Thanks to you, we will now be able to repel the attacks of the "Wampas"! But who taught you that they feared fire so much? Rahan does not know more than any other. He has hunted in so many territories, he learned so many things, here and there! And, this morning, he did not know about the “Three-Armed Weapon”! If you are neither a god nor a demon. How did you escape from the Pit of Enemies? With the three-armed weapon and with the help of Tanaou!? Tanaou!! Page Twenty. The son of Crao felt a slight pinch in his back. He understood why Tanaou feared the chief's anger. Argh, Euh! And so, in order not to "betray" her, he only revealed part of the truth. That's to say. Uh. That Rahan tied vines like Tanaou ties her hair! Karaikk gave a curious smile. Maybe he was not fooled? Rahan seems to know many, many tricks! Will he teach them to our clan? Rahan will stay with you until the “Leafless Season”! For the first time, the words were kind and welcoming. The son of Crao responded warmly. Such was Rahan's destiny! Teaching to some what he learned from others! And other “Rahans”, elsewhere, did the same. And this is how, in these fierce times, “Knowledge” slowly infiltrated into “Those-who-walk-upright”, the men! Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

THE STAR BEAST Copyright (c) 1954 by Robert A. Heinlein Some excerpts from this book were first published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction under the title, “Star Lummox.” FOR DIANE AND CLARK. Reformatted 2023 PukeOnaPlate for Machine Speech, multiple sources consulted regarding ambiguous scanned text. CONTENTS I L-Day II The Department of Spatial Affairs III “-An Improper Question” IV The Prisoner at the Bars V A Matter of Viewpoint VI “Space Is Deep, Excellency” VII “Mother Knows Best” VIII The Sensible Thing To Do IX Customs and an Ugly Duckling X The Cygnus Decision XI “It’s Too Late, Johnnie” XII Concerning Pidgie-Widgie XIII “No, Mister Secretary” XIV “Destiny? Fiddlesticks!” XV Undiplomatic Relations XVI “Sorry We Messed Things Up” XVII Ninety-Seven Pickle Dishes One. L Day. Lummox was bored and hungry. The latter was a normal state; creatures of Lummox’s breed were always ready for a little snack, even after a full meal. Being bored was less usual and derived directly from the fact that Lummox’s chum and closest associate, John Thomas Stuart, had not been around all day, having chosen to go off somewhere with his friend Betty. One afternoon was a mere nothing; Lummox could hold his breath that long. But he knew the signs and understood the situation; John Thomas had reached the size and age when he would spend more and more time with Betty, or others like her, and less and less time with Lummox. Then there would come a fairly long period during which John Thomas would spend practically no time with Lummox but at the end of which there would arrive a new John Thomas which would presently grow large enough to make an interesting playmate. From experience Lummox recognized this cycle as necessary and inevitable; nevertheless the immediate prospect was excruciatingly boring. He lumbered listlessly around the back yard of the Stuart home, looking for anything-a grasshopper, a robin, anything at all that might be worth looking at. He watched a hill of ants for a while. They seemed to be moving house; an endless chain was dragging little white grubs in one direction while a countermarching line returned for more grubs. This killed a half hour. Growing tired of ants, he moved away toward his own house. His number-seven foot came down on the ant hill and crushed it, but the fact did not come to his attention. His own house was just big enough for him to back into it and was the end building of a row of decreasing size; the one at the far end would have made a suitable doghouse for a chihuahua. Piled outside his shed were six bales of hay. Lummox pulled a small amount off one bale and chewed it lazily. He did not take a second bite because he had taken as much as he thought he could steal and not have it noticed. There was nothing to stop him from eating the entire pile except the knowledge that John Thomas would bawl him out bitterly and might even refuse for a week or more to scratch him with the garden rake. The household rules required Lummox not to touch food other than natural forage until it was placed in his manger. Lummox usually obeyed as he hated dissension and was humiliated by disapproval. Besides, he did not want hay. He had had hay for supper last night, he would have it again tonight, and again tomorrow night. Lummox wanted something with more body and a more interesting flavor. He ambled over to the low fence which separated the several acres of back yard from Missus Stuart’s formal garden, stuck his head over and looked longingly at Missus Stuart’s roses. The fence was merely a symbol marking the line he must not cross. Lummox had crossed it once, a few years earlier, and had sampled the rose bushes, just a sample, a mere appetizer, but Missus Stuart had made such a fuss that he hated to think about it even now. Shuddering at the recollection, he backed hastily away from the fence: But he recalled some rose bushes that did not belong to Missus Stuart, and therefore in Lummox’s opinion, did not belong to anybody. They were in the garden of the Donahues, next door west. There was a possible way, which Lummox had been thinking about lately, to reach these “ownerless” rose bushes. The Stuart place was surrounded by a ten-foot concrete wall. Lummox had never tried to climb over it, although he had nibbled the top of it in places. In the rear there was one break in it, where the gully draining the land crossed the property line. The gap in the wall was filled by a massive grating of eight-by eight timbers, bolted together with extremely heavy bolts. The vertical timbers were set in the stream bed and the contractor who had erected it had assured Missus Stuart that it would stop Lummox, or a herd of elephants, or anything else too big-hipped to crawl between the timbers. Lummox knew that the contractor was mistaken, but his opinion had not been asked and he had not offered it. John Thomas had not expressed an Opinion either, but he had seemed to suspect the truth; he had emphatically ordered Lummox not to tear the grating down. Lummox had obeyed it. He had sampled it for flavor, but the wooden timbers had been soaked in something which gave them a really unbearable taste; he let them be. But Lummox felt no responsibility for natural forces. He had noticed, about three months back, that spring rains had eroded the gully so that two of the vertical timbers were no longer imbedded but were merely resting on the dry stream bed. Lummox had been thinking about this for several weeks and had found that a gentle nudge tended to spread the timbers at the bottom. A slightly heavier nudge might open up a space wide enough without actually tearing down the grating. Lummox lumbered down to check up. Still more of the stream bed had washed away in the last rain; one of the vertical timbers hung a few inches free of the sand. The one next to it was barely resting on the ground. Lummox smiled like a simple-minded golliwog and carefully, delicately insinuated his head between the two big posts. He pushed gently. Above his head came a sound of rending wood and the pressure suddenly relieved. Startled, Lummox pulled his head out and looked up. The upper end of one eight-by-eight had torn free of its bolts; it pivoted now on a lower horizontal girder. Lummox clucked to himself. Too bad, but it couldn’t be helped. Lummox was not one to weep over past events; what has been, must be. No doubt John Thomas would be vexed but in the meantime here was an opening through the grating. He lowered his head like a football linesman, set himself in low gear, and pushed’ on through. There followed several sounds of protesting and rending wood and sharper ones of broken bolts, but Lummox ignored it all; he was on the far side now, a free agent. He paused and raised up like a caterpillar, lifting legs one and three, two and four, off the ground, and looked around. It was certainly nice to be outside; he wondered why he had not done it sooner. It had been a long time since John Thomas had taken him out, even for a short walk. He was still looking around, sniffing free air, when an unfriendly character charged at him, yapping and barking furiously. Lummox recognized him, an oversized and heavily muscled mastiff that ran ownerless and free in the neighborhood; they had often exchanged insults through the grating. Lummox had nothing against dogs; in the course of his long career with the Stuart family he had known several socially and had found them pretty fair company in the absence of John Thomas. But this mastiff was another matter. He fancied himself boss of the neighborhood, bullied other dogs, terrorized cats, and repeatedly challenged Lummox to come out and fight like a dog. Nevertheless Lummox smiled at him, opened his mouth wide and, in a lisping, baby-girl voice from somewhere far back inside him, called the mastiff a very bad name. The dog gasped. It is likely that he did not comprehend what Lummox had said, but he did know that he had been insulted. He recovered himself and renewed the attack, barking louder than ever and raising an unholy ruckus while dashing around Lummox and making swift sorties at his flanks to nip at Lummox’s legs. Lummox remained reared up, watching the dog but making no move. He did add to his earlier remark a truthful statement about the dog’s ancestry and an untruthful one about his habits; they helped to keep the mastiff berserk. But on the dog’s seventh round trip he cut fairly close to where Lummox’s first pair of legs would have been had Lummox had all eight feet on the ground; Lummox ducked his head the way a frog strikes at a fly. His mouth opened like a wardrobe trunk and gobbled the mastiff. Not bad, Lummox decided as he chewed and swallowed. Not bad at all, and the collar made a crunchy tidbit. He considered whether or not to go back through the grating, now that he had had a little snack, and pretend that he had never been outside at all. However, there were still those ownerless rose bushes, and no doubt John Thomas would make it inconvenient for him to get out again soon. He ambled away parallel to the Stuart’s rear wall, then swung around the end onto the Donahue land. John Thomas Stuart xi got home shortly before dinner time, having already dropped Betty Sorensen at her home. He noticed, as he landed, that Lummox was not in sight, but he assumed that his pet was in his shed. His mind was not on Lummox, but on the age-old fact that females do not operate by logic, at least as logic is understood by males. He was planning to enter Western Tech; Betty wanted them both to attend the state university. He had pointed out that he could not get the courses he wanted at State U.; Betty had insisted that he could and had looked up references to prove her point. He had rebutted by saying that it was not the name of a course that mattered, but who taught it. The discussion had fallen to pieces when she had refused to concede that he was an authority. He had absent-mindedly unstrapped his harness copter, while dwelling on the illogic of the feminine mind, and was racking it in the hallway, when his mother burst into his presence. “John Thomas! Where have you been?” He tried to think what he could have slipped on now. It was a bad sign when she called him “John Thomas”, “John” or “Johnnie” was okay, or even “Johnnie Boy.” But “John Thomas” usually meant that he had been accused, tried, and convicted in absentia. “Huh? Why, I told you at lunch, Mum. Out hopping with Betty. We flew over to.” “Never mind that! Do you know what that beast has done?” Now he had it. Lummox. He hoped it wasn’t Mum’s garden. Maybe Lum had just knocked over his own house again. If so, Mum would level off presently. Maybe he had better build a new one, bigger. “What’s the trouble he asked cautiously. “What’s the trouble?” What isn’t the trouble? John Thomas, this time you simply will have to get rid of it. This is the last straw.” “Take it easy, Mum,” he said hastily. “We can’t get rid of Lum. You promised Dad.” She made no direct answer. “With the police calling every ten minutes and that great dangerous beast rampaging around and. “Huh? Wait a minute, Mum! Lum isn’t dangerous; he’s gentle as a kitten. What happened?” “Everything!” He gradually drew out of her some of the details. Lummox had gone for a stroll; that much was clear. John Thomas hoped without conviction that Lummox had not got any iron or steel while he was out; iron had such an explosive effect on his metabolism. There was the time Lummox had eaten that second-hand Buick. His thoughts were interrupted by his mother’s words and Missus Donahue is simply furious! And well she might be her prize roses.” Oh, oh, that was bad. He tried to recall the exact amount in his savings account. He would have to apologize, too, and think of ways to butter up the old biddy. In the meantime he would beat Lummox’s ears with an ax; Lummox knew about roses, there was no excuse.“Look, Mum, I’m awfully sorry. I’ll go right out and pound some sense into his thick head. When I get through with him, he won’t dare sneeze without permission.” John Thomas started edging around her. “Where are you going?” she demanded. “Huh? Out to talk with Lum, of course. When I get through with him.” “Don’t be silly. He isn’t here.” “Huh? Where is he?” John Thomas swiftly rearranged his prayers to hope that Lummox hadn’t found very much iron. The Buick hadn’t really been Lummox’s fault and anyhow it had belonged to John Thomas, but. “No telling where he is now. Chief Dreiser said.” “The police are after Lummox?” “You can just bet they are, young man! The entire safety patrol is after him. Mister Dreiser wanted me to come downtown and take him home, but I told him we would have to get you to handle that beast.” “But Mother, Lummox would have obeyed you. He always does. Why did Mister Dreiser take him downtown? He knows Lum belongs here. Being taken downtown would frighten Lum. The poor baby is timid; he wouldn’t like.” “Poor baby indeed! He wasn’t taken downtown.” “But you said he was.” “I said no such thing. If you’ll be quiet, I’ll tell you what happened.” It appeared that Missus Donahue had surprised Lummox when he had eaten only four or five of her rose bushes. With much courage and little sense she had run at him with a broom, to scream and belabor him about the head. She had not followed the mastiff, though he could have managed her with one gulp; Lummox had a sense of propriety as nice as that of any house cat. People were not food; in fact, people were almost invariably friendly. So his feelings were hurt. He had lumbered away from there, pouting. The next action report on Lummox was for a point two miles away and about thirty minutes later. The Stuarts lived in a suburban area of Westville; open country separated it from the main part of town. Mister Ito had a small farm in this interval, where he hand raised vegetables for the tables of gourmets. Mister Ito apparently had not known what it was that he had found pulling up his cabbages and gulping them down. Lummox’s long residence in the vicinity was certainly no secret, but Mister Ito had no interest in other people’s business and had never seen Lummox before. But he showed no more hesitation than had Missus Donahue. He dashed into his house and came out with a gun that had been handed down to him from his grandfather, a relic of the Fourth World War of the sort known affectionately as a “tank killer.” Mister Ito steadied the gun on a potting bench and let Lummox have it where he would have sat down had Lummox been constructed for such. The noise scared Mister Ito (he had never heard the weapon fired) and the flash momentarily blinded him. When he blinked his eyes and recovered, the thing had gone. But it was easy to tell the direction in which it had gone. This encounter had not humiliated Lummox as had the brush with Missus Donahue; this frightened him almost out of his wits. While busy with his fresh green salad he had been faced toward a triplet of Mister Ito’s greenhouses. When the explosion ticked him and the blast assailed his hearing, Lummox shifted into high gear and got underway in the direction he was heading. Ordinarily he used a leg firing order of 1, 4, 5, 8, 2, 3, 6, 7 and repeat, good for speeds from a slow crawl to fast as a trotting horse; he now broke from a standing start into a double-ended gallop, moving legs 1 and 2 and 5 and 6 together, alternated with 3 and 4 and 7 and 8. Lummox was through the three greenhouses before he had time to notice them, leaving a tunnel suitable for a medium truck. Straight ahead, three miles away, lay downtown Westville. It might have been better if he had been headed in the opposite direction toward the mountains. John Thomas Stuart listened to his mother’s confused account with growing apprehension. When he heard about Mister Ito’s greenhouses, he stopped thinking about his savings account and started wondering what assets he could convert into cash. His jump harness was almost new, but shucks! it wouldn’t pay the damage. He wondered if there was any kind of a dicker he could work with the bank? One sure thing: Mum wouldn’t help him out, not the state she was in. Later reports were spotty. Lummox seemed to have gone across country until he hit the highway leading into town. A transcontinental trucker had complained to a traffic officer, over a cup of coffee, that, he had just seen a robot pedatruck with no license plates and that the durned thing had been paying no attention to traffic lanes. But the trucker had used it as an excuse to launch a diatribe about the danger of robot drivers and how there was no substitute for a human driver, sitting in the cab and keeping his eyes open for emergencies. The traffic patrolman had not seen Lummox, being already at his coffee when Lummox passed, and had not been impressed since the trucker was obviously prejudiced. Nevertheless he had phoned in. Traffic control center in Westville paid no attention to the report; control was fully occupied with a reign of terror. John Thomas interrupted his mother. “Has anybody been hurt?” “Hurt? I don’t know. Probably. John Thomas, you’ve got to get rid of that beast at once.” He ignored that statement; it seemed the wrong time to argue it. “What else happened?” Missus Stuart did not know in detail. Near the middle of town Lummox came down a local chute from the overhead freeway. He was moving slowly now and with hesitation; traffic and large numbers of people confused him. He stepped off the street onto a slide-walk. The walk ground to a stop, not being designed for six tons of concentrated load; fuses had blown, circuit breakers had opened, and pedestrian traffic at the busiest time of day was thrown into confusion for twenty blocks of the shopping district. Women had screamed, children and dogs had added to the excitement, safety officers had tried to restore order, and poor Lummox, who had not meant any harm and had not intended to visit the shopping district anyway, made a perfectly natural mistake the big dis play windows of the Bon Marche looked like a refuge where he could get away from it all. The duraglass of the windows was supposed to be unbreakable, but the architect had not counted on Lummox mistaking it for empty air. Lummox went in and tried to hide in a model bedroom display. He was not very successful. John Thomas’s next question was cut short by a thump on the roof; someone had landed. He looked up. “You expecting anyone, Mum?” “It’s probably the police. They said they would.” “The police? Oh, my!” “Don’t go away, you’ve got to see them.” “I wasn’t going anywhere,” he answered miserably and punched a button to unlock the roof entrance. Moments later the lazy lift from the roof creaked to a stop and the door opened; a safety sergeant and a patrolman stepped out. “Missus Stuart?” the sergeant began formally. “In your service, ma’am. We.” He caught sight of John Thomas, who was trying not to be noticed. “Are you John T Stuart?” John gulped. “Yessir.” “Then come along, right away. ‘Scuse us, ma’am. Or do you want to come too?” “Me? Oh, no, I’d just be in the way.” The sergeant nodded relieved agreement. “Yes, ma’am. Come along, youngster. Minutes count.” He took John by the arm. John tried to shrug away. “Hey, what is this? You got a warrant or something?” The police officer stopped, seemed to count ten, then said slowly, Son, I do not have a warrant. But if you are the John T Stuart I’m looking for and I know you are, then unless you want something drastic and final to happen to that deep-space what-is-it you’ve been harboring, you’d better snap to and come with us.” “Oh, I’ll come,” John said hastily. “Okay. Don’t give me any more trouble.” John Thomas Stuart kept quiet and went with him. In the three minutes it took the patrol car to fly downtown John Thomas tried to find out the worst. “Uh, Mister Patrol Officer? There hasn’t been anybody hurt? Has there?” “Sergeant Mendoza,” the sergeant answered. “I hope not. I don’t know.” John considered this bleak answer. “Well, Lummox is still in the Bon Marche?” “Is that what you call it? Lummox? It doesn’t seem strong enough. No, we got it out of there. It’s under the West Arroyo viaduct. I hope.” The answer sounded ominous. “What do you mean: you hope?” “Well, first we blocked off Main and Hamilton, then we chivvied it out of the store with fire extinguishers. Nothing else seemed to bother it; solid slugs just bounced off. Say, what’s that beast’s hide made of? Ten-point steel?” “Uh, not exactly.” Sergeant Mendoza’s satire was closer to fact than John Thomas cared to discuss; he still was wondering if Lummox had eaten any iron. After the mishap of the digested Buick Lummox’s growth had taken an enormous spurt; in two weeks he had jumped from the size of a misshapen hippopotamus to his present unlikely dimensions, more growth than he had shown in the preceding generation. It had made him extremely gaunt, like a canvas tarpaulin draped over a scaffolding, his quite unearthly skeleton pushing through his skin; it had taken three years of a high-caloric diet to make him chubby again. Since that time John Thomas had tried to keep metal away from Lummox, most especially iron, even though his father and his grandfather had always fed him tidbits of scrap metal. “Urn. Anyhow the fire extinguishers dug him out only he sneezed and knocked two men down. After that we used more fire extinguishers to turn him down Hamilton, meaning to herd him into open country where he couldn’t do so much damage seeing as how we couldn’t find you. We were making out pretty well, with only an occasional lamp post knocked down, or ground car stepped on, or such, when we came to where we meant to turn him off on Hillcrest and head him back to your place. But he got away from us and headed out onto the viaduct, ran into the guard rail and went off, and, well, you’ll see, right now. Here we are.” Half a dozen police cars were hovering over the end of the viaduct surrounding the area were many private air cars and an air bus or two; the patrol cars were keeping them back from the scene. There were several hundred harness flyers as well, darting like bats in and out among the vehicles and making the police problem more difficult On the ground a few regular police, supplemented by emergency safety officers wearing arm bands, were trying to hold the crowd back and were diverting traffic away from the viaduct and from the freight road that ran under it down the arroyo. Sergeant Mendoza’s driver threaded his way through the cars in the air, while speaking into a hushophone on his chest. Chief Dreiser’s bright red command car detached itself from the knot over the end of the viaduct and approached them. Both cars stopped, a few yards apart and a hundred feet above the viaduct. John Thomas could see the big gap in the railing where Lummox had gone over, but could not see Lummox himself; the viaduct blocked his view. The door of the command car opened and Chief Dreiser leaned out; he looked harassed and his bald head was covered with sweat. “Tell the Stuart boy to stick his head out.” John Thomas ran a window down and did so. “Here, sir.” “Lad, can you control that monster?” “Certainly, sir.” “I hope you’re right. Mendoza! Land him. Let him try it.” “Yes, Chief.” Mendoza spoke to the driver, who moved the car past the viaduct and started letting down beyond it. Lummox could be seen then; he had taken refuge under the end of the bridge, making himself small, for him. John Thomas leaned out and called to him. “Lum! Lummie boy! Come to papa.” The creature stirred and the end of the viaduct stirred with him. About twelve feet of his front end emerged from under the structure and he looked around wildly. “Here, Lumi Up here!” Lummox caught sight of his friend and split his head in an idiot grin. Sergeant Mendoza snapped, “Put her down, Slats. Let’s get this over.” The driver lowered a bit, then said anxiously, “That’s enough, Sergeant. I saw that critter rear up earlier.” “All right, all right.” Mendoza opened the door and kicked out a rope ladder used in rescue work. “Can you go down that, son?” “Sure.” With Mendoza to give him a hand John Thomas shinnied out of the door and got a grip on the ladder. He felt his way down and came to the point where ‘there was no more ladder; he was still six feet above Lummox’s head. He looked down. “Heads up, baby. Take me down.” Lummox lifted another pair of legs from the ground and carefully placed his broad skull under John Thomas, who stepped onto it, staggering a little and grabbing for a hand hold. Lummox lowered him gently to the ground. John Thomas jumped off and turned to face him. Well, the fall apparently had not hurt Lum any; that was a relief. He would get him home first and then go over him inch by inch. In the meantime Lummox was nuzzling his legs and making a sound remarkably like a purr. John looked stern. “Bad Lummie! Bad, bad Lummie, you’re a mess, aren’t you?” Lummox looked embarrassed. He lowered his head to the ground, looked up at his friend, and opened his mouth wide. “I didn’t mean to,” he protested in his baby-girl voice. “You didn’t mean to. You didn’t mean to! Oh, no, you never do. I’m going to take your front feet and stuff them down your throat. You know that, don’t you? I’m going to beat you to a pulp and then use you for a rug. No supper for you. You didn’t mean to, indeed!” The bright red car came close and hovered. “Okay?” demanded Chief Dreiser. “Sure.” “All right. Here’s the plan. I’m going to move that barrier up ahead. You get him-back up on Hillcrest, going out the upper end of the draw. There will be an escort waiting; you fall in behind and stay with it all the way home. Get me?” “Okay.” John Thomas saw that in both directions the arroyo road had been blocked with riot shields, tractors with heavy armor mounted on their fronts, so that a temporary barrier could be thrown across a street or square. Such equipment was standard for any city safety force since the Riots of Ninety-One, but he could not recall that Westville had ever used them; he began to realize that the day that Lummox went to town would not soon be forgotten. But he was happy that Lummox had been too timid to munch on those steel shields. He was beginning to hope that his pet had been too busy all afternoon to eat any ferrous metal He turned back to him. “All right, get your ugly carcass out of that hole. We’re going home.” Lummox complied eagerly; the viaduct again trembled as he brushed against it. “Make me a saddle.” Lummox’s midsection slumped down a couple of feet. He thought about it very hard and his upper surface shaped itself into contours resembling a chair. “Hold still,” John Thomas ordered. “I don’t want any mashed fingers.” Lummox did so, quivering a little, and the young man scrambled up, grabbing at slip folds in Lummox’s durable hide. He sat himself like a rajah ready for a tiger hunt. “All right. Slow march now, up the road. No, no! Gee around, you numskull. Uphill, not down.” Docilely, Lummox turned and ambled away. Two patrol ground cars led the way, two others brought up the rear. Chief Dreiser’s tomato-red runabout hung over them at a safe distance. John Thomas lounged back and spent the time composing first, what he was going to say to Lummox, and second, what he was going to say to his mother. The first speech was much easier; he kept going back and embellishing it with fresh adjectives whenever he found himself running into snags on the second. They were halfway home when a single flier, hopping free in a copter harness, approached the little parade. The flier ignored the red warning light stabbing out from the police chief’s car and slanted straight down at the huge star beast. John Thomas thought that he recognized Betty’s slapdash style even before he could make out features; he was not mistaken. He caught her as she cut power. Chief Dreiser slammed a window open and stuck his head out. He was in full flow when Betty interrupted him. “Why, Chief Dreiser! What a terrible way to talk!” He stopped and took another look. “Is that Betty Sorenson?” “Of course it is. And I must say, chief, that after all the years you’ve taught Sunday School I never thought I would live to hear you use such language. If that is setting a good example, I think I’ll.” “Young lady, hold your tongue.” “Me? But you were the one who was using.” “Quiet! I’ve had all I can take today. You get that suit to buzzing and hop out Of here. This is Official business. Now get out.” She glanced at John Thomas and winked, then set her face in cherubic innocence. “But, Chief, I can’t.” “Huh? Why not?” “I’m out of juice. This was an emergency landing.” “Betty, you quit fibbing to me.” “Me? Fibbing? Why, Deacon Dreiser!” “I’ll deacon you. If your tanks are dry, get down off that beast and walk home. He’s dangerous.” “Lummie dangerous? Lummie wouldn’t hurt a fly. And besides, do you want me to walk home alone? On a country road? When it’s almost dark? I’m surprised at you.” Dreiser sputtered and closed the window. Betty wiggled out of her harness and settled back in the wider seat that Lummox had provided without being told. John Thomas looked at her. “Hi, Slugger.” “Hi, Knothead.” “I didn’t know you knew the Chief.” “I know everybody. Now shut up. I’ve gotten here, with all speed and much inconvenience, as soon as I heard the newscast. You and Lummox between you could not manage to think your way out of this, even with Lummox doing most of the work-so I rallied around. Now give me the grisly details. Don’t hold anything back from mama.” “Smart Alec.” “Don’t waste time on compliments. This will probably be our only chance for a private word before they start worrying you, so you had better talk fast.” “Huh? What do you think you are? A lawyer?” “I’m better than a lawyer, my mind is not cluttered with stale precedents. I can be creative about It.” “Well.” Actually he felt better now that Betty was present It was no longer just Lummox and himself against an unfriendly world. He poured out the story while she listened soberly. “Anybody hurt?” she asked at last. “I don’t think so. At least they didn’t mention it.” “They would have.” She sat up straight. “Then we’ve got nothing to worry about.” “What? With hundreds, maybe thousands, in damage? I’d like to know what you call trouble?” “People getting hurt,” she answered. “Anything else can be managed. Maybe we’ll have Lummox go through bankruptcy.” “Huh? That’s silly!” “if you think that is silly, you’ve never been in a law court.” “Have you?” “Don’t change the subject. After all, Lummox was attacked with a deadly weapon.” “It didn’t hurt him; it just singed him a little.” “Beside the point. It undoubtedly caused him great mental anguish. I’m not sure he was responsible for anything that happened afterwards. Be quiet and let me think.” “Do you mind if I think, too?” “Not as long as I don’t hear the gears grind. Pipe down. The parade continued to the Stuart home in silence. Betty gave him one piece of advice as they stopped. “Admit nothing. Nothing. And don’t sign anything. Holler if you need me.” Missus Stuart did not come out to meet them. Chief Dreiser inspected the gap in the grating with John Thomas, with Lummox hanging over their shoulders. The Chief watched in silence as John Thomas took a string and tied it across the opening. “There! No he can’t get out again.” Dreiser pulled at his lip “Son, are you all right in the head?” “You don’t understand, sir. The grating wouldn’t stop him even if we did repair it, not if he wanted to get out. I don’t know anything that would. But that string will. Lummox!” “Yes, Johnnie?” “See that string?” “Yes, Johnnie.” “You bust that string and I’ll bust your silly head. Understand me?” “Yes, Johnnie.” “You won’t go out of the yard again, not ever, unless I take you.” “All right, Johnnie.” “Promise? Cross your heart?” “Cross my heart.” “He hasn’t really got a heart,” Johnnie went on. “He has an uncentralized circulatory system. It’s like.” “I don’t care if he has rotary pumps, as long as he stays home.” “He will. He’s never broken Cross my heart, even if he hasn’t got one.” Dreiser chewed his thumb. “All right. I’ll leave a man out here with a portophone tonight. And tomorrow we’ll put some steel I-beams in there inplace of that wood.” John started to say, “Oh, not steel,” but he thought better of it. Dreiser said, “What’s the matter?” “Uh, nothing.” “You keep an eye on him, too.” “He won’t get out” “He had better not. You realize that you are both under arrest, don’t you? But I’ve got no way to lock that monstrosity up.” John Thomas did not answer. He had not realized it; now he saw that it was inevitable. Dreiser went on in a kindly voice, “Try not to worry about it. You seem like a good boy and everybody thought well of your father. Now I’ve got to go in and have a word with your mother. You had better stay here until my man arrives and then maybe sort of introduce him to, uh, this thing.” He passed a doubtful eye over Lummox. John Thomas stayed while the police chief went back to the house. Now was the time to give Lummox what for, but he did not have the heart for it. Not just then. Two. The Department of Spatial Affairs. TO John Thomas Stuart the eleventh the troubles of himself and Lummox seemed unique and unbearable, yet he was not alone, even around Westville. Little Mister Ito was suffering from an always fatal disease-old age. It would kill him soon. Behind uncounted closed doors in Westville other persons suffered silently the countless forms of quiet desperation which can close in on a man, or woman, for reasons of money, family, health, or face. Farther away, in the state capital, the Governor stared hopelessly at a stack of papers-evidence that would certainly send to prison his oldest and most trusted friend. Much farther away, on Mars, a prospector abandoned his wrecked sandmobile and got ready to attempt the long trek back to Outpost. He would never make it. Incredibly farther away, twenty-seven light years, the Starship Bolivar was entering an interspatial transition. A flaw in a tiny relay would cause that relay to operate a tenth of a second later than it should. The S-S Bolivar would wander between the stars for many years, but she would never find her way home. Inconceivably farther from Earth, half way across the local star cloud, a race of arboreal crustaceans was slowly losing to a younger, more aggressive race of amphibians. It would be several thousands Earth years before the crustaceans were extinct, but the issue was not in doubt. This was regrettable (by human standards) for the crustacean race had mental and spiritual abilities which complemented human traits in a fashion which could have permitted a wealth of civilized cooperation with them. But when the first Earth-humans landed there, some eleven thousand years in the future, the crustaceans would be long dead. Back on Earth at Federation Capital His Excellency the Right Honorable Henry Gladstone Kiku, M A (Oxon,) Lift D honoris causa (Capetown), O B E, Permanent Under Secretary for Spatial Affairs, was not worried about the doomed crustaceans because he would never know of them. He was not yet worried about S-S Bolivar but he would be. Aside from the ship, the loss of one passenger in that ship would cause a chain reaction of headaches for Mister Kiku and all his associates for years to come. Anything and everything outside Earth’s ionosphere was Mister Kiku’s responsibility and worry. Anything which concerned the relationships between Earth and any part of the explored universe was also his responsibility. Even affairs which were superficially strictly Earthside were also his concern, if they affected or were in any way affected by anything which was extra-terrestrial, interplanetary, or interstellar in nature-a very wide range indeed. His problems included such things as the importation of Martian sand grass, suitably mutated, for the Tibetan plateau. Mister Kiku’s office had not approved that until after a careful mathematical examination of the possible effect on the Australian sheep industry-and a dozen other factors. Such things were done cautiously, with the gruesome example of Madagascar and the Martian berryroot always before them. Economic decisions did not upset Mister Kiku, no matter how many toes he stepped on; other sorts kept him awake nights-such as his decision not to give police escorts to Goddard exchange students from Procyon VII despite the very real danger to them from provincial Earthmen with prejudices against beings having unearthly arrangements of limbs or eyes or such-the cephalopods of that planet were a touchy people and something very like a police escort was their own usual punishment for criminals. Mister Kiku had an extremely large staff to help him, of course, and, also of course, the help of the Secretary himself. The Secretary made speeches, greeted Very Important Visitors, gave out interviews, and in many other ways eased for Mister Kiku an otherwise unbearable load, Mister Kiku would be first to admit this. As long as the current Secretary behaved himself, minded his business, took care of public appearances, and let the Under Secretary get on with the department’s work, he had Mister Kiku’s approval. Of course, if he failed to pull his load or threw his weight around, Mister Kiku was capable of finding ways to get rid of him. But it had been fifteen years since he had found it necessary to be so drastic; even the rawest political appointee could usually be broken to harness. Mister Kiku had not-made up his mind about the current Secretary, but was not now thinking about him. Instead he was looking over the top-sheet synopsis for Project Cerberus, a power proposal for the research station on Pluto. A reminder light on his desk flashed and he looked up to see the door between his office and that of the Secretary dilate. The Secretary walked in, whistling Take Me Out to the Ball Game; Mister Kiku did not recognize the tune. He broke off. “Greetings, Henry. No, don’t get up.” Mister Kiku had not started to get up. “How do you do, Mister Secretary? What can I do for you?” “Nothing much, nothing much.” He paused by Mister Kiku’s desk and picked up the project folder. “What are you swotting now? Cerberus, eh? Henry, that’s an engineering matter. Why should we worry about it?” “There are aspects,” Mister Kiku answered carefully, “that concern us.” “I suppose so. Budget and so forth.” His eye sought the bold-faced line reading: ESTIMATED COST: 3.5 megabucks and 7.4 lives. “What’s this? I can’t go before the Council and ask them to approve this. It’s fantastic.” “The first estimate,” Mister Kiku said evenly, “was over eight megabucks and more than a hundred lives.” “I don’t mind the money, but this other. You are in effect asking the Council to sign death warrants for seven and four-tenths men: You can’t do that, it isn’t human. Say, what the deuce is four-tenths of a man anyway? How can you kill a fraction of a man?” “Mister Secretary,” his subordinate answered patiently, “any project bigger than a schoolyard swing involves probable loss of life. But that hazard factor is low; it means that working on Project Cerberus will be safer, on the average, than staying Earthside. That’s my rule of thumb.” “Eh?” The Secretary looked again at the synopsis. “Then why not say so? Put the thing in the best light and so forth?” “This report is for my eyes, for our eyes, only. The report to the Council will emphasize safety pre cautions and will not include an estimate of deaths, which, after all, is a guess.” “Hum, a guess. Yes, of course.” The Secretary put the report down, seemed to lose interest. “Anything else, sir?” “Oh, yes! Henry, old man, you know that Rargyllian dignitary I am supposed to receive today? Doctor What’s his-name?” “Doctor Ftaeml.” Mister Kiku glanced at his desk control panel. “Your appointment is, uh, an hour and seven minutes from now.” “That’s just it. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to substitute. Apologies to him and so forth. Tell him I’m tied up with affairs of state.” “Sir? I wouldn’t advise that. He will expect to be received by an official of your rank, and the Rargyllians are extremely meticulous about protocol.” “Oh, come now, this native won’t know the difference.” “But he will, sir.” “Well, let him think that you’re me. I don’t care. But I won’t be here and that’s that The Secretary General has invited me to go to the ball game with him and an invitation from the S G is a must, y’know.” Mister Kiku knew that it was nothing of the sort, had the commitment been explained. But he shut up. “Very well, sir.” “Thanks, old chap.” The Secretary left, again whistling. When the door closed, Mister Kiku with an angry gesture slapped a row of switches on the desk paneL He was locked in now and could not be reached by phone, video, tube, autowriter, or any other means, save by an alarm button which his own secretary had used only once in twelve years. He leaned elbows on his desk, covered his head with his hands and rubbed his fingers through his woolly pate. This trouble, that trouble, the other trouble, and always some moron to jiggle his elbow. Why had he ever left Africa? Where came this itch for public service? An itch that had long, since turned into mere habit. He sat up and opened his middle drawer. It was bulging with real estate prospectuses from Kenya; he took out a handful and soon was comparing relative merits of farms. Now here was a little honey, if a man had the price-better than eight hundred acres, half of it in cultivation, and seven proved wells on the property. He looked at map and photographs and presently felt better. After a while he put them away and closed the drawer. He was forced to admit that, while what he had told the chief was true, his own nervous reaction came mostly from his life-long fear of snakes. If Doctor Ftaeml were anything but a Rargyllian or if the Rargyllians had not been medusa humanoids, he wouldn’t have minded. Of course, he knew that those tentacles growing out of a Rargyllian’s head were not snakes-but his stomach didn’t know it. He would have to find time for a hypnotic treatment before-no, there wasn’t time; he’d have to take a pill instead. Sighing, he flipped the switches back on. His incoming basket started to fill up at once and all the communication instruments showed lights. But the lights were amber rather than blinking red; he ignored them and glanced through the stuff falling into his basket. Most of the items were for his information only: under doctrine his subordinates or their subordinates had taken action. Occasionally he would check a name and a suggested action and drop the sheet in the gaping mouth of the outgoing basket. A radiotype came in that was not routine, in that it concerned a creature alleged to be extra-terrestrial but unclassified as to type and origin. The incident involved seemed unimportant-some nonsense in one of the native villages in the western part of the continent. But the factor of an extraterrestrial creature automatically required the local police to report it to Spatial Affairs, and the lack of classification of the E T prevented action under doctrine and resulted in the report being kicked upstairs. Mister Kiku had never seen Lummox and would have had no special interest if he had. But Mister Kiku knew that each contact with “Out There” was unique. The universe was limitless in its variety. To assume without knowledge, to reason by analogy, to take the unknown for granted, all meant to invite disaster. Mister Kiku looked over his list to see whom he could send. Any of his career officers could act as a court of original and superior jurisdiction in any case involving extra-terrestrials, but who was on Earth and free? Sergei Greenberg, that was the man. System Trade Intelligence could get along without a chief for a day or two. He flipped a switch. “Sergei?” “Yes, boss?” “Busy?” “Well, yes and no, I’m paring my nails and trying to figure a reason why the taxpayers should pay me more money.” “Should they, now? I’m sending a bluesheet down.” Mister Kiku checked Greenberg’s name on the radiotype, dropped it in his outgoing basket, waited a few seconds until he saw Greenberg pick it out of his own incoming basket. “Read it.” Greenberg did so, then looked up. “Well, boss?” “Phone the local justice that we are assuming tentative jurisdiction, then buzz out and look into it.” “Thy wish is my command, O King. Even money the critter is terrestrial, after all, two to one I can identify if it isn’t.” “No wager, not at those odds. You’re probably right. But it might be a special situation; we can’t take chances.” “I’ll keep the local yokels in line, boss. Where is this hamlet? Westville? Or whatever it is?” “How would I know? You have the sheet in front of you. Greenberg glanced at it. “Hey! What do you know? It’s in the mountains, this may take two or three weeks, boss. Hot enough for you?” “Take more than three days and I’ll charge it off your annual leave.” Mister Kiku switched off and turned to other matters. He disposed of a dozen calls, found the bottom of his incoming basket and lost it again, then noticed that it was time for the Rargyllian. Goose flesh crawled over him and he dug hastily into his desk for one of the special pills his doctor had warned him not to take too frequently. He had just gulped it when his secretary’s light started blinking. “Sir? Doctor Ftaeml is here.” “Show him in.” Mister Kiku muttered in a language his ancestors had used in making magic-against snakes, for example. As the door dilated he hung on his face the expression suitable for receiving visitors. Three. “An Improper Question”. The intervention by the Department of Spatial Affairs in the case of Lummox did not postpone the hearing, it speeded it up. Mister Greenberg phoned the district judge, asked for the use of his courtroom, and asked him to have all parties and witnesses in court at ten o’clock the next morning including, of course, the extra-terrestrial that was the center of the fuss. Judge O’ Fairell questioned the last point. “This creature you need him, too?” Greenberg said that he most decidedly wanted the E T present, since his connection with the case was the reason for intervention. “Judge, we people in DepSpace don’t like to butt into your local affairs. After I’ve had a look at the creature and have asked half a dozen questions, I can probably bow out which will suit us both. This alleged E T is my only reason for coming out. So have the beastie present, will you?” “Eh, he’s rather too large to bring into the courtroom. I haven’t seen him for several years and I understand he has grown a bit but he would have been too large to bring indoors even then. Couldn’t you look at him where he is?” “Possibly, though I admit to a prejudice for having everything pertinent to a hearing in one spot. Where is he?” “Penned up where he lives, with his owner. They have a suburban place a few miles out” Greenberg thought about it. Although a modest man, one who cared not where he ate or slept, when it came to DepSpace business he operated on the rule of making the other fellow do the running around; otherwise the department’s tremendous load of business would never get done. “I would like to avoid that trip out into the country, as I intend to hold my ship and get back to Capital tomorrow afternoon, if possible. It’s rather urgent a matter of the Martian treaty.” This last was Greenberg’s standard fib when he wanted to hurry someone not in the department. Judge O’Farrell said that he would arrange it. “We’ll rig a temporary pen on the lawn outside the court house.” “Swell! See you tomorrow, Judge. Thanks for everything. Judge O’Farrell had been on a fishing trip two days earlier when Lummox had gone for his walk. The damage had been cleaned up by his return and, as a fixed principle, he avoided hearing or reading news reports or chitchat concerning cases he might have to try. When he phoned Chief-of-Safety Dreiser he expected no difficulty about moving Lummox. Chief Dreiser went through the roof. “Judge, are you out of your head?” “Eh? What’s ailing you, Deacon?” Dreiser tried to explain; the judge shrugged off his objections. Whereupon they both phoned the mayor. But the mayor had been on the same fishing trip; he threw his weight on O’Farrell’s side. His words were: “Chief, I’m surprised at you. We can’t have an important Federation official thinking that our little city is so backwoods that we can’t handle a small thing like that.” Dreiser groaned and called the Mountain States Steel and Welding Works. Chief Dreiser decided to move Lummox before day light, as he wished to get him penned up before the streets were crowded. But nobody had thought to notify John Thomas; he was awakened at four in the morning with a sickening shock; the wakening had interrupted a nightmare, he believed at first that something dreadful had happened to Lummox. Once the situation was clear he was non-cooperative; he was a “slow starter,” one of those individuals with a low morning blood-sugar count who is worth nothing until after a hearty breakfast-which he now insisted on. Chief Dreiser looked angry. Missus Stuart looked mother-knows-best and said, “Now, dear, don’t you think you had better.” “I’m going to have my breakfast. And Lummox, too.” Dreiser said, “Young man, you don’t have the right attitude. First thing you know you’ll be in even worse trouble; Come along. You can get breakfast downtown.” John Thomas looked stubborn. His mother said sharply, “John Thomas! I won’t have it, do you hear? You’re being difficult, just like your father was.” The reference to his father rubbed him even more the wrong way. He said bitterly, “Why don’t you stand up for me, Mum? They taught me in school that a citizen can’t be snatched out of his home any time a policeman gets a notion. But you seem anxious to help him instead of me. Whose side are you on?” She stared at him, astounded, as he had a long record of docile obedience. “John Thomas! You can’t speak to your mother that way!” “Yes,” agreed Dreiser. “Be polite to your mother, or I’ll give you the back of my hand-unofficially, of course. If there is one thing I can’t abide it’s a boy who is rude to his elders.” He unbuttoned his tunic, pulled out a folded paper. “Sergeant Mendoza told me about the quibble you pulled the other day so I came prepared, There’s my warrant. Now, will you come? Or will I drag you?” He stood there, slapping the paper against his palm, but did not offer it to John Thomas. But when John Thomas reached for it, he let him have it and waited while he read it. At last Dreiser said, “Well? Are you satisfied?” “This is a court order,” John Thomas said, “teffing me to appear and requiring me to bring Lummox.” “It certainly is.” “But it says ten o’clock. It doesn’t say I can’t eat breakfast first, as long as I’m there by ten.” The Chief took a deep breath, expanding visibly. His face, already pink, got red, but he did not answer. John Thomas said, “Mum? I’m going to fix my breakfast. Shall I fix some for you, too?” She glanced at Dreiser, then back at her son and bit her lip. “Never mind,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll get breakfast. Mister Dreiser, will you have coffee with us?” “Eh? That’s kind of you, ma’am. I don’t mind if I do. I’ve been up all night.” John Thomas looked at them. “I’ll run out and take a quick look at Lummox.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry I was rude, Mum.” “We’ll say no more about it, then,” she answered coldly. He had been intending to say several things, in self-justification, but he thought better of it and left. Lummox was snoring gently, stretched half in and half out of his house. His sentry eye was raised above his neck, as it always was when he was asleep; it swiveled around at John Thomas’s approach and looked him over, but that portion of Lummox that stood guard for the rest recognized the youth; the star creature did not wake. Satisfied, John Thomas went back inside. The atmosphere mellowed during breakfast; by the time John Thomas had two dishes of oatmeal, scrambled eggs and toast, and a pint of cocoa inside him, he was ready to concede that Chief Dreiser had been doing his duty and probably didn’t kick dogs for pleasure. In turn, the Chief, under the influence of food, had decided that there was nothing wrong with the boy that a firm hand and an occasional thrashing would not cure too bad his mother had to raise him alone; she seemed like a fine woman. He pursued a bit of egg with toast, captured it, and said, “I feel better, Missus Stuart, I really do. It’s a treat to a widower to taste home cooking, but I won’t dare tell my men.” Missus Stuart put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I forgot about them!” She added, “I can have more coffee in a moment. How many are there?” “Five. But don’t bother, ma’am; they’ll get breakfast when they go off duty.” He turned to John Thomas. “Ready to go, young fellow?” “Uh.” He turned to his mother. “Why not fix breakfast for them, Mum? I’ve still got to wake Lummox and feed him.” By the time Lummox had been wakened and fed and had had matters explained to him, by the time five patrolmen had each enjoyed a second cup of coffee after a hot meal, the feeling was more that of a social event than an arrest. It was long past seven before the procession was on the road. It was nine o’clock before they got Lummox backed into the temporary cage outside the courthouse. Lummox had been delighted by the smell of steel and had wanted to stop and nibble it; John Thomas was forced to be firm. He went inside with Lummox and petted him and talked to him while the door was welded shut, He had been worried when he saw the massive steel cage, for he had never got around to telling Chief Dreiser that steel was less than useless against Lummox. Now it seemed too late, especially as the Chief was proud of the pen. There had been no time to pour a foundation, so the Chief had ordered an open-work box of steel girders, top, bottom, and sides, with one end left open until Lummox could be shut in. Well, thought John Thomas, they all knew so much and they didn’t bother to ask me. He decided simply to warn Lummox not to eat a bite of the cage, under dire threats of punishment and hope for the best. Lummox was inclined to argue; from his point of view it was as silly as attempting to pen a hungry boy by stacking pies around him. One of the workmen paused, lowered his welding torch and said, “You know, it sounded just like that critter was talking.” “He was,” John Thomas answered briefly. “Oh.” The man looked at Lummox, then went back to work. Human speech on the part of extra-terrestrials was no novelty, especially on stereo programs; the man seemed satisfied. But shortly he paused again. “I don’t hold with animals talking,” he announced. John Thomas did not answer; it did not seem to be a remark to which an answer could be made. Now that he had time John Thomas was anxious to examine something on Lummox which had been worrying him. He had first noticed the symptoms on the morning following Lummox’s disastrous stroll two swellings located where Lummox’s shoulders would have been had he been so equipped. Yesterday they had seemed larger, which disturbed him, for he had hoped that they were just bruises not that Lummox bruised easily. But they fretted him. It seemed possible that Lummox had hurt himself during the accidental gymkhana he had taken part in. The shot that Mister Ito had taken at him had not damaged him; there had been a slight powder burn where the explosive charge had struck him but that was all; a charge that would destroy a tank was to Lummox about like a hearty kick to a mule startling, but not harmful Lummox might have bruised himself in plunging through the greenhouses, but that seemed unlikely. More probably he had been hurt in falling off the viaduct. John Thomas knew that such a fall would kill any Earth animal big enough to have an unfavorable cube square ratio, such as an elephant. Of course Lummox, with his unearthly body chemistry, was not nearly as fragile as an elephant. Still, he might have bruised himself badly. Dog take it! The swellings were bigger than ever, real tumors now, and the hide over them seemed softer and thinner, not quite the armor that encased Lummox elsewhere. John Thomas wondered if a person like Lummox could get cancer, say from a bruise? He did not know and he did not know anyone who would. Lummox had never been ill as far back as John Thomas could remember, nor had his father ever mentioned Lummox having anything wrong with him. Lummox was the same today, yesterday, and always-except that he kept getting bigger. He would have to look over his grandfather’s diary tonight and his great grandfather’s notes. Maybe he had missed something. He-pressed one of the swellings, trying to dig his fingers in; Lummox stirred restlessly. John Thomas stopped and said anxiously, “Does that hurt?” “No,” the childish voice answered, “it tickles.” The answer did not reassure him. He knew that Lummox was ticklish, but it usually took something like a pickaxe to accomplish it. The swellings must be very sensitive. He was about to investigate farther when he was hailed from behind. “John! Johnnie!” He turned. Betty Sorenson was outside the cage. “Hi, Slugger,” he called to her. “You got my message?” “Yes, but not until after eight o’clock. You know the dorm rules. Hi, Lummox. How’s my baby?” “Fine,” said Lummox. “That’s why I recorded,” John Thomas answered. The idiots rousted me out of bed before daylight. Silly.” “Do you good to see a sunrise. But what is all this rush? I thought the hearing was next week?” “It was supposed to be. But some heavyweight from the Department of Space is coming out from Capital. He’s going to try it,” “What?” “What’s the matter?” “The matter? Why, everything! I don’t know this man from Capital. I thought I was going to deal with Judge O’Farrell. I know what makes him tick. This new judge, well, I don’t know. In the second place, I’ve got ideas I haven’t had time to work out yet.” She frowned. “We’ll have to get a postponement.” “What for?” asked John Thomas. “Why don’t we just go into court and tell the truth?” “Johnnie, you’re hopeless. If that was all there was to it, there wouldn’t be any courts.” “Maybe that would be an improvement.” “But. Look, Knot head, don’t stand there making silly noises. If we have to appear in less than an hour.” She glanced up at the clock tower on the ancient courthouse. A good deal less. We’ve got to move fast. At the very least, we’ve got to get that homestead claim recorded.” “That’s silly. They won’t take it, I tell you. We can’t homestead Lummox. He’s not a piece of land.” “A man can homestead a cow, two horses, a dozen pigs. A carpenter can homestead his tools. An actress can homestead her wardrobe.” “But that’s not homesteading. I took the same course in commercial law that you did. They’ll laugh at you.” “Don’t quibble. It’s section two of the same law. If you were exhibiting Lummie in a carnival, he’d be the tools of your trade, wouldn’t he? It’s up to them to prove he isn’t. The thing is to register Lummox as exempt from lien before somebody gets a judgment against you.” “If they can’t collect from me, they’ll collect from my mother.” “No, they won’t. I checked that. Since your father put the money in a trust, legally she hasn’t got a dime.” “Is that the law?” he asked doubtfully. “Oh, hurry up! The law is whatever you can convince a court it is.” “Betty, you’ve got a twisted mind.” He slid out between the bars, turned and said, “Lummie, I’ll only be gone a minute. You stay right here.” “Why?” asked Lummox. “Never mind why. You wait for me here.” “All right.” There was a crowd on the courthouse lawn, people gawking at Lummox in his new notoriety. Chief Dreiser had ordered rope barriers erected and a couple of his men were present to see that they were respected, the two young people ducked under the ropes and pushed through the crowd to the courthouse steps. The county clerk’s office was on the second floor; there they found his chief deputy, an elderly maiden lady. Miss Schreiber took the same view of registering Lummox as free from judgment that John Thomas did. But Betty pointed out that it was not up to the county clerk to decide what was an eligible chattel under the law, and cited an entirely fictitious case about a man who homesteaded a multiple echo. Miss Schreiber reluctantly filled out forms, accepted the modest fee, and gave them a certified copy. It was almost ten o’clock. John Thomas hurried out and started downstairs. He stopped when he saw that Betty had paused at a penny weighing machine. “Come on, Betty,” he demanded. “This is no time for that.” “I’m not weighing myself,” she answered while staring into the mirror attached to it. “I’m checking my makeup. I’ve got to look my best.” “You look all right.” “Why, Johnnie, a compliment!” “It wasn’t a compliment. Hurry up. I’ve got to tell Lummox something.” “Throttle back and hold at ten thousand. I’ll bring you in.” She wiped off her eyebrows, painted them back in the smart Madame Satan pattern, and decided that it made her look older. She considered adding a rolling-dice design on her right cheek, but skipped it as Johnnie was about to boil over. They hurried down and outdoors. More moments were wasted convincing a policeman that they belonged inside the barrier. Johnnie saw that two men were standing by Lummox’s cage. He broke into a run. “Hey! You two! Get away from there!” Judge O’Farrell turned around and blinked. “What is your interest, young man?” The other man turned but said nothing. “Me? Why, I’m his owner. He’s not used to strangers. So go back of the rope, will you?” He turned to Lummox. “It’s all right, baby. Johnnie’s here.” “Howdy, Judge.” “Oh. Hello, Betty.” The judge looked at her as if trying to decide why she was present, then turned to John Thomas. “You must be the Stuart boy. I’m Judge O’Farrell” “Oh. Excuse me, Judge,” John Thomas answered, his ears turning pink. “I thought you were a sightseer.” “A natural error. Mister Greenberg, this is the Stuart boy. John Thomas Stuart. Young man, this is the Honorable Sergei Greenberg, Special Commissioner for the Department of Spatial Affairs.” He looked around. “Oh yes, this is Miss Betty Sorenson, Mister Commissioner. Betty, why have you done those silly things to your face?” She ignored him with dignity. “Honored to meet you, Mister Commissioner.” “Just ‘Mister Greenberg,’ please, Miss Sorenson.” Greenberg turned to Johnnie. “Any relation to the John Thomas Stuart?” “I’m John Thomas Stuart the Eleventh,” Johnnie answered simply. “I suppose you mean my great-great-great grandfather.” “I guess that would be it. I was born on Mars, almost within sight of his statue. I had no idea your family was mixed up in this. Perhaps we can have a gab about Martian history later.” “I’ve never been to Mars,” Johnnie admitted. “No? That’s surprising. But you’re young yet.” Betty listened, ears almost twitching, and decided that this judge, if that was what he was, would be an even softer mark than Judge O’Farrell. It was hard to remember that Johnnie’s name meant anything special, especially since it didn’t. Not around Westville. Greenberg went on, “You’ve made me lose two bets, Mister Stuart.” “Sir?” Heinlein Audiobooks: https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html

Index of Robert Heinlein Audiobooks. The Menace from Earth, by ROBERT A. HEINLEIN. The Year of the Jackpot. Galaxy Publishing Corp. 1952. By His Bootstraps. Street & Smith Publications, Inc. 1941. Columbus Was a Dope. Better Publications, Inc. 1947. The Menace from Earth. Fantasy House, Inc. 1957. Sky Lift. Greenleaf Publishing Co. 1953. Goldfish Bowl. Street & Smith Publications, Inc. 1942. Project Nightmare. Ziff-Davis Publishing Co. 1953. https://rumble.com/v3lg311-the-menace-from-earth-by-robert-a.-heinlein.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html The Worlds of Robert “A.” Heinlein, Copyright 1966. FREE MEN, First time in print, BLOWUPS HAPPEN. Copyright 1940. SEARCHLIGHT. Copyright 1962. LIFE-LINE Copyright 1939. SOLUTION UNSATISFACTORY. Copyright 1940. https://rumble.com/v3msm37-the-worlds-of-robert-a.-heinlein-copyright-1966.-a-puketm-audiobook.html ASSIGNMENT IN ETERNITY. 1953 by Robert “A.” Heinlein. 1. Gulf. 2. Elsewhen. 3. Lost Legacy. 4. Jerry Was a Man. https://rumble.com/v3kgocy-assignment-in-eternity.-1953-by-robert-a.-heinlein.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html TOMORROW, THE STARS, 1952 Edited RAH. I'M SCARED. By Jack Finney. THE SILLY SEASON. By C. M. KORNBLUTH. THE REPORT ON THE BARNHOUSE EFFECT. By KURT VONNEGUT, JUNIOR. THE TOURIST TRADE. By Bob TUCKER. RAINMAKER. By JOHN REESE. ABSALOM. BY HENRY KUTTNER. THE MONSTER. By LESTER DEL REY. JAY SCORE. By Eric Frank Russell. BETELGEUSE BRIDGE. By William TENN. SURVIVAL SHIP. By Judith Merril. KEYHOLE. By Murray Leinster. MISBEGOTTEN MISSIONARY. By Isaac Asimov. THE SACK. By William Morrison. POOR SUPERMAN. By Fritz Leiber. https://rumble.com/v3rp0n7-tomorrow-the-stars.-by-robert-a.-heinlein.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Robert Heinlein Short Story Collection 3. 1 The Roads Must Roll. Astounding Science Fiction, June 1940. 2 The Green Hills of Earth. The Saturday Evening post, February 1947. 3 Space Jockey. The Saturday Evening post, April 1947. 4 Waldo. Astounding Science Fiction 1942. 5 The Long Watch. American Legion Magazine 1949. 6 We Also Walk Dogs. Astounding Science Fiction, July 1941. 7 Black Pits of Luna. The Saturday Evening post, January 1948. 8 Witchs Daughter. 1946, Published New Destinies 1988. 9 Successful Operation. Futuria Fantasia, Spring 1940. https://rumble.com/v3z4m0q-robert-heinlein-short-story-collection-iii-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Robert Heinlein Short Story Collection 2. 1 Misfit. Astounding Science Fiction, November 1939. 2 Ordeal In Space. Town and Country, May 1948. 3 Orphans of the Sky. Astounding Science Fiction, May and October 1941. 4 Pied Piper. Astonishing stories, March 1942. 5 Poor Daddy. Calling All Girls, 1949. 6 Requiem. Astounding, January 1940. 7 All you Zombies. The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, March 1959. 8 The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag. Unknown Worlds, October 1942. https://rumble.com/v3yp1wp-robert-heinlein-short-story-collection-2.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Robert Heinlein Short Story Collection 1. Beyond Doubt. Astonishing Stories. April 1941 as "Lyle Monroe and Elma Wentz". Bulletin Board. Delilah and the Space-Rigger. Gentlemen Be Seated. It’s great to be back. Let there be light. Magic Inc. Water is for washing. https://rumble.com/v3yh18m-short-stories-by-robert-heinlein-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html A TENDERFOOT IN SPACE. https://rumble.com/v3ty81p-a-tenderfoot-in-space.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Between Planets. 1951 Robert A. Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v3tjjpp-robert-a.-heinlein.-between-planets.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Beyond this Horizon, Robert A. Heinlein https://rumble.com/v1dm087-beyond-this-horizon-robert-a.-heinlein.html Columbus Was a Dope by Robert A. Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v1avxm3-columbus-was-a-dope-by-robert-a.-heinlein.-a-puketm-audiobook.html Coventry by Robert A. Heinlein https://rumble.com/v1bd86n-coventry-by-robert-a.-heinlein-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Double Star. Robert Anson Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v3piwm5-double-star.-robert-anson-heinlein.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html FOR US, THE LIVING A Comedy of Customs By Robert “A.” Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v3msy21-for-us-the-living-robert-a.-heinlein.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Friday. Robert A. Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v1mwyg4-friday-robert-a.-heinlein.-a-puketm-audiobook.html I will fear no Evil by Robert Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v3euiku-i-will-fear-no-evil-by-robert-heinlein.html If This Goes On. Robert A. Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v1dv6af-if-this-goeson.-robert-a.-heinlein.html Job, A Comedy Of Justice. 1984 Robert A. Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v43pij8-job-a-comedy-of-justice.-robert-a.-heinlein-1984.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Logic Of Empire By Robert A. Heinlein https://rumble.com/v1a1sa2-logic-of-empire-by-robert-a.-heinlein.html PODKAYNE OF MARS 1963, Robert A. Heinlein https://rumble.com/v3zt03w-podkayne-of-mars-1963-robert-a.-heinlein-a-puke-tm-audioboo.html Red Planet. 1949 by Robert A Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v3w0xxs-red-planet.-1949-by-robert-a-heinlein.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Rocket Ship Galileo. Robert A. Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v3w130a-rocket-ship-galileo.-robert-a.-heinlein.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html SIXTH COLUMN. 1949 by Robert A. Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v3routm-sixth-column.-by-robert-a.-heinlein.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Space Cadet. Robert Anson Heinlein. 1948. https://rumble.com/v3zzrah-space-cadet.-robert-anson-heinlein.-1948.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Starman Jones 1953 Robert Anson Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v43pnnt-starman-jones-1953-by-robert-a.-heinlein.-a-puketm-audiobook.html The Door into Summer. https://rumble.com/v46on3i-the-door-into-summer.-copyright-1956-by-robert-a.-heinlein-a-puke-tm-audiob.html The last days of the United States by Robert A. Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v17ru0c-the-last-days-of-the-united-states-by-robert-a.-heinlein..html The Rolling Stones https://rumble.com/v436kq2-the-rolling-stones.-aka-space-family-stone.-robert-a.-heinlein-1952-a-puke-.html The Star Beast. 1954, by Robert A. Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v406jgp-the-star-beast-1954-by-robert-a.-heinlein-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Tunnel in the Sky. https://rumble.com/v41hx2s-tunnel-in-the-sky.-1955-by-robert-a.-heinlein.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Variable Star.Post humus By Robert A. Heinlein. https://rumble.com/v3qg90g-variable-star.-by-robert-a.-heinlein.-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html

Space Cadet. Robert Anson Heinlein. 1948. Reformatted from a scan, 2023. CONTENTS I TERRA BASE II ELIMINATION PROCESS III OVER THE BUMPS IV FIRST MUSTER V INTO SPACE VI “READING, AND ‘RITING, AND ‘RITHMETIC.” VII TO MAKE A SPACEMAN VIII TERRA STATION IX LONG HAUL X GUIS CUSTODIET IPSOS CUSTODES? XI P.R.S. AES TRIPLEX XII P.R.S. PATHFINDER XIII LONG WAY HOME XIV “THE NATIVES ARE FRIENDLY.” XV PIE WITH A FORK XVI P.R.S. ASTARTE XVII HOTCAKES FOR BREAKFAST XVIII IN THE COMMANDANT’S OFFICE Space Cadet. Robert Anson Heinlein. 1948. Reformatted from a scan, 2023. SNAFU ON VENUS. “I gather that you were sent here, in answer to my message?” “Certainly,” Matt said. “Thank heaven for that-even if you guys were stupid enough to stumble right into it. Now tell me-how many are there in the expedition. This is going to be a tough nut to crack.” “This is the expedition, right in front of you.” “What? This is no time to joke. I sent for a regiment of marines, equipped for amphibious operations.” “Maybe you did, but this is what you got. What’s the situation?” Burke seemed dazed. “It’s no use,” he said. “It’s utterly hopeless.” “What’s so hopeless? The natives seem friendly, on the whole. Tell us what the difficulty was, so we can work it out with them.” “Friendly!” Burke gave a bitter laugh. “They killed all of my men. They’re going to kill me. And they’ll kill you too.” One. TERRA BASE. “To MATTHEW BROOKS DODSON,” the paper in his hand read, “greetings: “Having successfully completed the field elimination tests for appointment to the position of cadet in the Interplanetary Patrol you are authorized to report to the Commandant, Terra Base, Santa Barbara Field, Colorado, North American Union, Terra, on or before One July 2075, for further examination. “You are cautioned to remember that the majority of candidates taking these final tests usually fail and you should provide.” Matt folded the paper and stuck it back in his belt pouch. He did not care to think about the chance of failure. The passenger across from him, a boy about his own age, caught his eye. “That paper looks familiar, you a candidate too?” “That’s right.” “Well, shake! M’name’s Jarman-I’m from Texas.” “Glad to know you, Tex. I’m Matt Dodson, from Des Moines.” “Howdy, Matt. We ought to be about there.” The car sighed softly and slowed; their chairs rocked to meet the rapid deceleration. The car stopped and their chairs swung back to normal position. “We are there,” Jarman finished. The telescreen at the end of the car, busy a moment before with a blonde beauty demonstrating Sorkin’s Super-Stellar Soap, now read: TERRA BASE STATION. The two boys grabbed their bags, and hurried out. A moment later, they were on the escalator, mounting to the surface. Facing the station a half mile away in the cool, thin air stood Hayworth Hall, Earth headquarters of the fabulous Patrol. Matt stared at it, trying to realize that he was at last seeing it. Jarman nudged him. “Come on.” “Huh? Oh-sure.” A pair of slidewalks stretched from the station to the hall; they stepped onto the one running toward the building. The slidewalk was crowded; more boys streamed out of the station behind them. Matt noticed two boys with swarthy, thin features who were wearing high, tight turbans, although dressed otherwise much like himself. Further down the walk he glimpsed a tall, handsome youth whose impassive face was shiny black. The Texas boy hooked his thumbs in his belt and looked around. “Granny, kill another chicken!” he said. “There’s company for dinner. Speaking of that,” he went on, “I hope they don’t wait lunch too long. I’m hungry.” Matt dug a candy bar out of his pouch, split it and gave half to Jarman, who accepted it gratefully. “You’re a pal, Matt, I’ve been living on my own fat ever since breakfast, and that’s risky. Say, your telephone is sounding.” “Oh!” Matt fumbled in his pouch and got out his phone. “Hello?” “That you, son?” came his father’s voice. “Yes, Dad.” “Did you get there all right?” “Sure, I’m about to report in.” “How’s your leg?” “Leg’s all right, Dad.” His answer was not frank; his right leg, fresh from a corrective operation for a short Achilles’ tendon, was aching as he spoke. “That’s good. Now see here, Matt-if it should work out that you aren’t selected, don’t let it get you down. You call me at once and.” “Sure, sure, Dad,” Matt broke in. “I’ll have to sign off-I’m in a crowd. Good-by. Thanks for calling.” “Good-by, son. Good luck.” Tex Jarman looked at him understandingly. “Your folks always worry, don’t they? I fooled mine-packed my phone in my bag.” The slidewalk swung in a wide curve preparatory to heading back; they stepped off with the crowd, in front of Hayworth Hall. Tex paused to read the inscription over the great doorway. “Quis custody, what does it say, Matt?” “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes. That’s Latin for: Who will watch the guardians?” “You read Latin, Matt?” “No, I just remember that bit from a book about the Patrol.” The rotunda of Hayworth Hall was enormous and seemed even larger, for, despite brilliant lighting at the floor level, the domed ceiling gave back no reflection at all; it was midnight black-black and studded with stars. Familiar stars-blazing Orion faced the tossing head of Taurus; the homely shape of the Dipper balanced on its battered handle at north-northeast horizon; just south of overhead the Seven Sisters shone. The illusion of being outdoors at night was most persuasive. The lighted walls and floor at the level at which people walked and talked and hurried seemed no more than a little band of light, a circle of warmth and comfort, against the awful depth of space, like prairie schooners drawn up for the night under a sharp desert sky. The boys caught their breaths, as did everyone who saw it for the first time. But they could not stop to wonder as something else demanded their attention. The floor of the rotunda was sunk many feet below the level at which they entered; they stood on a balcony which extended around the great room to enclose a huge, shallow, circular pit. In this pit a battered spaceship lurched on a bed of rock and sand as if it had crash-landed from the mimic sky above. “It’s the Kilroy.” Tex said, almost as if he doubted it. “It must be,” Matt agreed in a whisper. They moved to the balcony railing and read a plaque posted there: USSF Rocket Ship Kilroy Was Here. FIRST INTERPLANETARY SHIP. From Terra to Mars and return-Lieut. Colonel Robert deFries Sims, Commanding; Captain Saul S. Abrams; Master Sergeant Malcolm MacGregor. None survived the return landing. Rest in Peace. They crowded next to two other boys and stared at the Kilroy. Tex nudged Matt. “See the gash in the dirt, where she skidded? Say, do you suppose they just built right over her, where she lays’ One of the other two-a big-boned six-footer with tawny hair-answered, “No, the Kilroy landed in North Africa.” “Then they must have fixed it to look like where she crashed. You a candidate too?” “That’s right.” Tm Bill Jarman-from Texas. And this is Matt Dodson.” “I’m Oscar Jensen-and this is Pierre Armand.” “Howdy, Oscar. Glad to know you, Pierre.” “Call me Pete,” Armand acknowledged. Matt noticed that he spoke Basic English with an accent, but Matt was unable to place it. Oscar’s speech was strange, too-a suggestion of a lisp. He turned back to the ship. “Imagine having the guts to go out into space in a cracker box like that,” he said. “It scares me to think about it” “Me, too,” agreed Oscar Jensen. “It’s a dirty shame,” Pierre said, softly. “What is, Pete?” Jarman demanded. “That their luck didn’t hold. You can see it was an almost perfect landing-they didn’t just crash in, or there would have been nothing left but a hole in the ground.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Say, there’s a stairway down over on the far side-see it, Matt? Do you suppose we could look through her?” “Maybe,” Matt told him, “but I think we had better put it off. We’ve got to report in, you know.” “We had all better check in,” agreed Jensen. “Coming, Pete?” Armand reached for his bag. Oscar Jensen pushed him aside and picked it up with his own. “That’s not necessary!” Armand protested, but Oscar ignored him. Jarman looked at Pierre. “You sick, Pete?” he asked. “I noticed you looked kind of peaked. What’s the trouble?” “If you are,” put in Matt, “ask for a delay.” Armand looked embarrassed. “He’s not sick and he’ll pass the exams,” Jensen said firmly. “Forget it.” “Sho’, sho’,” Tex agreed. They followed the crowd and found a notice which told all candidates to report to room 3108, third corridor. They located corridor three, stepped on the slideway, and put down their baggage. “Say, Matt,” said Tex, “tell me-who was Kilroy?” “Let me see,” Matt answered. “He was somebody in the Second Global War, an admiral, I think. Yeah, Admiral Bull Kilroy, that sounds right.” “Funny they’d name it after an admiral.” “He was a flying admiral.” “You’re a savvy cuss,” Tex said admiringly. “I think I’ll stick close to you during the tests.” Matt brushed it off. “Just a fact I happened to pick up.” In room 3108 a decorative young lady waved aside their credentials but demanded their thumb prints. She fed these into a machine at her elbow. The machine quickly spit out instruction sheets headed by the name, serial number, thumb print, and photograph of each candidate, together with temporary messing and rooming assignments. The girl handed out the sheets and told them to wait next door. She abruptly turned away. “I wish she hadn’t been so brisk,” complained Tex, as they went out. “I wanted to get her telephone code. Say,” he went on, studying his sheet, “there’s no time left on here for a siesta.” “Did you expect it?” asked Matt. “Nope-but I can hope, can’t I?” The room next door was filled with benches but the benches were filled with boys. Jarman stopped at a bench which was crowded by three large cases, an ornate portable refresher kit, and a banjo case. A pink-faced youth sat next to this. “Your stuff?” Tex asked him. The young man grudgingly admitted it. “You won’t mind if we move it and sit down,” Tex went on. He started putting the items on the floor. The owner looked sulky but said nothing. There was room for three. Tex insisted that the others sit down, then sat down on his bag and leaned against Matt’s knees, with his legs stretched out. His footwear, thus displayed, were seen to be fine western boots, high-heeled and fancy. A candidate across from them stared at the boots, then spoke to the boy next to him. “Pipe the cowboy!” Tex snorted and started to get up. Matt put a hand on his shoulder, shoving him back. “It’s not worth it, Tex. We’ve got a busy day ahead.” Oscar nodded agreement. “Take it easy, fellow.” Tex subsided. “Well-all right. Just the same,” he added, “my Uncle Bodie would stuff a man’s feet in his mouth for less than that.” He glared at the boy across from him. Pierre Armand leaned over and spoke to Tex. “Excuse me-but are those really shoes for riding on horses?” “Huh? What do you think they are? Skis?” “Oh, I’m sorry! But you see, I’ve never seen a horse.” “What?” “I have,” announced Oscar, “in the zoo, that is.” “In a zoo?” repeated Tex. “In the zoo at New Auckland.” “Oh.” said Tex. “I get it. You’re a Venus colonial.” Matt then recalled where he had heard Oscar’s vaguely familiar lisp before-in the speech of a visiting lecturer. Tex turned to Pierre. “Pete, are you from Venus, too?” “No, I’m.” Pete’s voice was drowned out. “Attention, please! Quiet!” The speaker was dressed in the severely plain, oyster-white uniform of a space cadet. “All of you,” he went on, speaking into a hand amplifier, “who have odd serial numbers come with me. Bring your baggage. Even numbers wait where you are.” “Odd numbers?” said Tex. “That’s me!” He jumped up. Matt looked at his instructions. “Me, too!” The cadet came down the aisle in front of them. Matt and Tex waited for him to pass. The cadet did not hold himself erectly; he crouched the merest trifle, knees relaxed and springy, hands ready to grasp. His feet glided softly over the floor. The effect was catlike, easy grace; Matt felt that if the room were suddenly to turn topsy-turvy the cadet would land on his feet on the ceiling-which was perfectly true. Matt wanted very much to look like him. As the cadet was passing, the boy with the plentiful baggage plucked at his sleeve. “Hey, mister!” The cadet turned suddenly and crouched, then checked himself as quickly. “Yes?” “I’ve got an odd number, but I can’t carry all this stuff. Who can I get to help me?” “You can’t.” The cadet prodded the pile with his toe. “All of this is yours?” “Yes. What do I do? I can’t leave it here. Somebody’ll steal it.” “I can’t see why anyone would.” The cadet eyed the pile with distaste. “Lug it back to the station and ship it home. Or throw it away.” The youngster looked blank. “You’ll have to, eventually,” the cadet went on. “When you make the lift to the school ship, twenty pounds is your total allowance.” “But. Well, suppose I do, who’s to help me get it to the station?” “That’s your problem. If you want to be in the Patrol, you’ll have to learn to cope with problems.” “But.” “Shut up.” The cadet turned away. Matt and Tex trailed along. Five minutes later Matt, naked as an egg, was stuffing his bag and clothes into a sack marked with his serial number. As ordered, he filed through a door, clutching his orders and a remnant of dignity. He found himself in a gang refresher which showered him, scrubbed him, rinsed him, and blew him dry again, assembly-line style. His instruction sheet was waterproof; he shook from it a few clinging drops. For two hours he was prodded, poked, thumped, photographed, weighed, X-rayed, injected, sampled, and examined until he was bewildered. He saw Tex once, in another queue. Tex waved, slapped his own bare ribs, and shivered. Matt started to speak but his own line started up. The medicos examined his repaired leg, making him exercise it, inquired the date of the operation, and asked if it hurt him. He found himself admitting that it did. More pictures were taken; more tests were made. Presently he was told, “That’s all. Get back into line.” “Is it all right, sir?” Matt blurted out. “Probably. You’ll be given some exercises. Get along.” After a long time he came into a room in which several boys were dressing. His path took him across a weighing platform; his body interrupted electric-eye beams. Relays closed, an automatic sequence took place based on his weight, height, and body dimensions. Presently a package slid down a chute and plunked down in front of him. It contained an undergarment, a blue coverall, a pair of soft boots, all in his size. The blue uniform he viewed as a makeshift, since he was anxious to swap it for the equally plain, but oyster white, uniform of a cadet. The shoes delighted him. He zipped them on, relishing their softness and glovelike fit. It seemed as if he could stand on a coin and call it, heads or tails. “Cat feet”, his first space boots! He took a few steps, trying to walk like the cadet he had seen earlier. “Dodson!” “Coming.” He hurried out and shortly found himself thrust into a room with an older man in civilian clothes. “Sit down. I’m Joseph Kelly.” He took Matt’s instruction sheet. “Matthew Dodson, nice to know you, Matt.” “How do you do, Mister Kelly.” “Not too badly. Why do you want to join the Patrol, Matt?” “Why, uh, because.” Matt hesitated. “Well, to tell the truth, sir, I’m so confused right now that I’m darned if I know!” Kelly chuckled. “That’s the best answer I’ve heard today. Do you have any brothers or sisters, Matt?” The talk wandered along, with Kelly encouraging Matt to talk. The questions were quite personal, but Matt was sophisticated enough to realize that “Mister Kelly” was probably a psychiatrist; he stammered once or twice but he tried to answer honestly. “Can you tell me now why you want to be in the Patrol?” Matt thought about it “I’ve wanted, to go out into space ever since I can remember.” “Travel around, see strange planets and strange people, that’s understandable, Matt. But why not the merchant service? The Academy is a long, hard grind, and it’s three to one you won’t finish, even if you are sworn in as a cadet, and not more than a quarter of the candidates will pass muster. But you could enter the merchant school-I could have you transferred today-and with your qualifications you’d be a cinch to win your pilot’s ticket before you are twenty. How about it?” Matt looked stubborn. “Why not, Matt? Why insist on trying to be an officer of the Patrol? They’ll turn you inside out and break your heart and no one will thank you for your greatest efforts. They’ll make you over into a man your own mother wouldn’t recognize-and you won’t be any happier for it. Believe me, fellow-I know.” Matt did not say anything. “You still want to try it, knowing chances are against you?” “Yes. Yes, I think I do.” “Why, Matt?” Matt still hesitated. Finally he answered in a low voice. “Well, people look up to an officer in the Patrol.” Mister Kelly looked at him. “That’s enough reason for now, Matt. You’ll find others-or quit.” A clock on the wall suddenly spoke up: “Thirteen o’clock! Thirteen o’clock!” Then it added thoughtfully, “I’m hungry.” “Mercy me!” said Kelly. “So am I. Let’s go to lunch, Matt.” Two. ELIMINATION PROCESS. Mattes instructions told him to mess at table 147, East Refectory. A map on the back of the sheet showed where East Refectory was; unfortunately he did not know where Matt was-he had gotten turned around in the course of the morning’s rat race. He ran into no one at first but august personages in the midnight black of officers of the Patrol and he could not bring himself to stop one of them. Eventually he got oriented by working back to the rotunda and starting over, but it made him about ten minutes late. He walked down an endless line of tables, searching for number 147 and feeling very conspicuous. He was quite pink by the time he located it. There was a cadet at the head of the table; the others wore the coveralls of candidates. The cadet looked up and said, “Sit down, mister-over there on the right. Why are you late?” Matt gulped. “I got lost, sir.” Someone tittered. The cadet sent a cold glance down the table. “You. You with the silly horse laugh-what’s your name?” “Uh, Schultz, sir.” “Mister Schultz, there is nothing funny about an honest answer. Have you never been lost?” “Why, Well, uh, once or twice, maybe.” “Hum, I shall be interested in seeing your work in astrogation, if you get that far.” The cadet turned back to Matt. “Aren’t you hungry? What’s your name?” “Yes, sir. Matthew Dodson, sir.” Matt looked hurriedly at the controls in front of him, decided against soup, and punched the “entree,” “dessert,” and “milk” buttons. The cadet was still watching him as the table served him. “I am Cadet Sabbatello. Don’t you like soup, Mister Dodson?” “Yes, sir, but I was in a hurry.” “There’s no hurry. Soup is good for you.” Cadet Sabbatello stretched an arm and punched Matt’s “soup” button. “Besides, it gives the chef a chance to clean up the galley.” The cadet turned away, to Matt’s relief. He ate heartily. The soup was excellent, but the rest of the meal seemed dull compared with what he had been used to at home. He kept his ears open. One remark of the cadet stuck in his memory. “Mister van Zook, in the Patrol we never ask a man where he is from. It is all right for Mister Romolus to volunteer that he comes from Manila; it is incorrect for you to ask him.” The afternoon was jammed with tests; intelligence, muscular control, reflex, reaction time, sensory response. Others required him to do two or more things at once. Some seemed downright silly. Matt did the best he could. He found himself at one point entering a room containing nothing but a large, fixed chair. A loudspeaker addressed him: “Strap yourself into the chair. The grips on the arms of the chair control a spot of light on the wall. When the lights go out, you will see a lighted circle. Center your spot of light in the circle and keep it centered.” Matt strapped himself down. A bright spot of light appeared on the wall in front of him. He found that the control in his right hand moved the spot up and down, while the one in his left hand moved it from side to side. “Easy!” Matt told himself. “I wish they would start.” The lights in the room went out; the lighted target circle bobbed slowly up and down. He found it not too difficult to bring his spot of light into the circle and match the bobbing motion. Then his chair turned upside down. When he recovered from his surprise at finding himself hanging head down in the dark, he saw that the spot of light had drifted away from the circle. Frantically he brought them together, swung past and had to correct. The chair swung one way, the circle another, and a loud explosion took place at his left ear. The chair bucked and teetered; a jolt of electricity convulsed his hands and he lost the circle entirely. Matt began to get sore. He forced his spot back to the circle and nailed it. “Gotcha!” Smoke poured through the room, making him cough, watering his eyes, and veiling the target. He squinted and; hung on grimly, intent only on hanging onto that pesky circle of light-through more explosions, screaming painful noise, flashing lights, wind in his eyes, and endless, crazy emotions of his chair. Suddenly the room lights flared up, and the mechanical voice said: “Test completed. Carry out your next assignment.” Once he was given a handful of beans and a small bottle, and was told to sit down and place the bottle at a mark on the floor and locate in his mind the exact position of the bottle. Then he was to close his eyes and drop the beans one at a time into the bottle-if possible. He could tell from the sound that he was not making many hits, but he was mortified to find, when he opened his eyes, that only one bean rested in the bottle. He hid the bottom of his bottle in his fist and queued up at the examiner’s desk. Several of those lined up had a goodly number of beans in their bottles, although he noted two with no beans at all. Presently he handed his bottle to the examiner. “Dodson, Matthew, sir. One bean.” The examiner noted it without comment. Matt blurted out, “Excuse me, sir-but what’s to keep a person from cheating by peeking?” The examiner smiled. “Nothing at all. Go on to your next test.” Matt left, grumbling. It did not occur to him that he might not know what was being tested. Late in the day he was ushered into a cubbyhole containing a chair, a gadget mounted on a desk, pencil and paper, and framed directions. “If any score from a previous test,” Matt read, “appears in the window marked SCORE, return the starting lever to the position marked NEUTRAL to clear the board for your test.” Matt found the window labeled “SCORE”; it had a score showing in it.”37.” Well, he thought, that gives me a mark to shoot at. He decided not to clear the board until he had read the instructions. “After the test starts,” he read, “a score of 1 will result each time you press the left hand button except as otherwise provided here below. Press the Left hand button whenever the red light appears provided the green light is not lighted as well except that no button should be pressed when the right hand gate is open unless all lights are out. If the right-hand gate is open and the left hand gate is closed, no score will result from pressing any button, but the left hand button must nevertheless be pressed under these circumstances if all other conditions permit a button to be pressed before any score may be made in succeeding phases of the test. To put out the green light, press the right hand button. If the left hand gate is not closed, no button may be pressed. If the left hand gate is closed while the red light is lighted, do not press the left hand button if the green light is out unless the right hand gate is open. To start the test move the starting lever from neutral all the way to the right. The test runs for two minutes from the time you move the starting lever to the right. Study these instructions, then select your own time for commencing the test. You are not permitted to ask questions of the examiner, so be sure that you understand the instructions. Make as high a score as possible.” “Whew!” said Matt. Still, the test looked simple-one lever, two pushbuttons, two colored lights, two little gates. Once he mastered the instructions, it would be as easy as flying a kite, and a durn sight simpler than flying a copter! Matt had had his copter license since he was twelve. He got to work. First, he told himself, there seems to be just two ways to make a score, one with the red light on and one with both lights out and one gate open. Now for the other instructions. Let’s see, if the left hand gate is not closed-no, if the left hand gate is closed-he stopped and read them over again. Some minutes later he had sixteen possible positions of gates and conditions of lights listed. He checked them against the instructions, Seeking scoring combinations. When he was through he stared at the result, then checked everything over again. After rechecking he stared at the paper, whistled tunelessly, and scratched his head. Then he picked up the paper, left the booth, and went to the examiner. That official looked up. “No questions, please.” “I don’t have a question,” Matt said. “I want to report something. There’s something wrong with that test. Maybe the wrong instructions sheet was put in there. In any case, there is no possible way to make a score under the instructions that are in there.” “Oh, come, now!” the examiner answered. “Are you sure of that?” Matt hesitated, then answered firmly, “I’m sure of it, Want to see my proof?” “No, your name is Dodson?” The examiner glanced at a timer, then wrote on a chart. “That’s all.” “But. Don’t I get a chance to make a score?” “No questions, please! I’ve recorded your score. Get along, it’s dinner time.” There were a large number of vacant places at dinner. Cadet Sabbatello looked down the long table. “I see there have been some casualties,” he remarked. “Congratulations, gentlemen, for having survived thus far.” “Sir-does that mean we’ve passed all the tests we took today?” one of the candidates asked. “Or at least won a retest. You haven’t flunked.” Matt sighed with relief. “Don’t get your hopes up. There will be still fewer of you here tomorrow.” “Does it get worse?” the candidate went on. Sabbatello grinned wickedly. “Much worse. I advise you all to eat little at breakfast. However,” he went on, “I have good news, too. It is rumored that the Commandant himself is coming down to Terra to honor you “with his presence when you are sworn in-if you are sworn in.” Most of those present looked blank. The cadet glanced around. “Come, come, gentlemen!” he said sharply. “Surely not all of you are that ignorant. You!” He addressed Matt. “Mister, uh-Dodson. You seem to have some glimmering of what I am talking about. Why should you feel honored at the presence of the Commandant?” Matt gulped. “Do you mean the Commandant of the Academy, sir?” “Naturally. What do you know about him?” “Well, sir, he’s Commodore Arkwright.” Matt stopped, as if the name were explanation. “And what distinguishes Commodore Arkwright?” “Uh, he’s blind, sir.” “Not blind, Mister Dodson, not blind! It simply happens that he had his eyes burned out. How did he lose his eyesight?” The cadet stopped him. “No don’t tell them. Let them find out for themselves.” The cadet resumed eating and Matt did likewise, while thinking about Commodore Arkwright. He himself had been too young to pay attention to the news, but his father had read an account of the event to him-a spectacular, single-handed rescue of a private yacht in distress, inside the orbit of Mercury. He had forgotten just how the Patrol officer had exposed his eyes to the Sun-something to do with transferring the yacht’s personnel-but he could still hear his father reading the end of the report: “These actions are deemed to be in accordance with the tradition of the Patrol.” He wondered if any action of his would ever receive that superlative distinction. Unlikely, he decided; “duty satisfactorily performed” was about the best an ordinary man could hope for. Matt ran into Tex Jarman as he left the mess hall. Tex pounded him on the back. “Glad to see you, kid. Where are you rooming?” “I haven’t had time to look up my room yet.” “Let’s see your sheet.” Jarman took it. “We’re in the same corridor-swell. Let’s go up.” They found the room and walked in. Sprawled on the lower of two bunks, reading and smoking a cigarette, was another candidate. He looked up. “Enter, comrades,” he said, “Don’t bother to knock.” “We didn’t,” said Tex. “So I see.” The boy sat up. Matt recognized the boy who had made the crack about Tex’s boots. He decided to say nothing-perhaps they would not recognize each other. The lad continued, “Looking for someone?” “No,” Matt answered, “this is the room I’m assigned to.” “My roommate, eh? Welcome to the palace. Don’t trip over the dancing girls. I put your stuff on your bed.” The sack containing Matt’s bag and civilian clothes rested on the upper bunk. He dragged it down. “What do you mean, his bed?” demanded Tex. “You ought to match for the lower bunk.” Matt’s roommate shrugged. “First come, first served.” Tex clouded up. “Forget it, Tex,” Matt told him. “I prefer the upper. By the way,” he went on, to the other boy, “I’m Matt Dodson.” “Girard Burke, at your service.” The room was adequate but austere. Matt slept in a hydraulic bed at home, but he had used mattress beds in summer camp. The adjoining refresher was severely functional but very modern. Matt noted with pleasure that the shower was installed with robot massage. There was no shave mask, but shaving was not yet much of a chore. In his wardrobe he found a package, marked with his serial number, containing two sets of clothing and a second pair of space boots. He stowed them and his other belongings; then turned to Tex. “Well, what’ll we do now?” “Let’s look around the joint.” “Fine. Maybe we can go through the Kilroy.” Burke chucked his cigarette toward the oubliette. “Wait a sec. I’ll go with you.” He disappeared into the ‘fresher. Tex said in a low voice. “Tell him to go fly a kite, Matt.” “It’ud be a pleasure. But I’d rather get along with him, Tex.” “Well, maybe they’ll eliminate him tomorrow.” “Or me.” Matt smiled wryly. “Or me. Shucks, no, Matt-we’ll get by. Have you thought about a permanent roomie? Want to team up?” “It’s a deal.” They shook hands. “I’m glad that’s settled,” Tex went on. “My cellmate is a nice little guy, but he’s got a blood brother, or some such, he wants to room with. Came to see him before dinner. They chattered away in Hindustani, I guess it was. Made me nervous. Then they shifted to Basic out of politeness, and that made me more nervous.” “You don’t look like the nervous type.” “Oh, all us Jarmans are high strung. Take my Uncle Bodie. Got so excited at the county fair he jumped between the shafts of a sulky and won two heats before they could catch him and throw him.” “Is that so?” “My solemn word. Didn’t pay off, though. They disqualified him because he wasn’t a two-year-old.” Burke joined them and they sauntered down to the rotunda. Several hundred other candidates had had the same idea but the administration had anticipated the rush. A cadet stationed at the stairway into the pit was permitting visitors in parties of ten only, each party supervised by a cadet. Burke eyed the queue. “Simple arithmetic tells me there’s no point in waiting.” Matt hesitated. Tex said, “Come on, Matt. Some will get tired and drop out.” Burke shrugged, said, “So long, suckers,” and wandered away. Matt said doubtfully, “I think he’s right, Tex.” “Sure-but I got rid of him, didn’t I?” The entire rotunda was a museum and memorial hall of the Patrol. The boys found display after display arranged around the walls-the original log of the first ship to visit Mars, a photo of the take-off of the disastrous first Venus expedition, a model of the German rockets used in the Second Global War, a hand-sketched map of the far side of the Moon, found in the wrecked Kilroy. They came to an alcove the back wall of which was filled by a stereo picture of an outdoor scene. They entered and found themselves gazing, in convincing illusion, out across a hot and dazzling lunar plain, with black sky, stars, and Mother Terra herself in the background. In the foreground, life size, was a young man dressed in an old-fashioned pressure suit. His features could be seen clearly through his helmet, big mouth, merry eyes, and thick sandy hair cut in the style of the previous century. Under the picture was a line of lettering: Lieutenant Ezra. Dahlquist, Who Helped Create the Tradition of the Patrol. 1969 to 1996. Matt whispered, “There ought to be a notice posted somewhere to tell us what he did.” “I don’t see any,” Tex whispered back. “Why are you whispering?” “I’m not-yes, I guess I was. After all, he can’t hear us, can he? Oh-there’s a vocal!” “Well, punch it.” Matt pressed the button; the alcove filled with the first bars of Beethoven’s Fifth. The music gave way to a voice: “The Patrol was originally made up of officers sent to it by each of the nations then in the Western Federation. Some were trustworthy, some were not. In 1996 came a day shameful and glorious in the history of the Patrol, an attempted coup d’etat, the so called Revolt of the Colonels. A cabal of high-ranking officers, acting from Moon Base, tried to seize power over the entire world. The plot would have been successful had not Lieutenant Dahlquist disabled every atom-bomb rocket at Moon Base by removing the fissionable material from each and wrecking the triggering mechanisms. In so doing he received so much radiation that he died of his burns.” The voice stopped and was followed by the Valhalla theme from Gotterdammerung. Tex let out a long sigh; Matt realized that he had been holding his own breath. He let it go, then took another; it seemed to relieve the ache in his chest. They heard a chuckle behind them. Girard Burke was leaning against the frame of the alcove. “They go to a lot of trouble to sell it around here,” he remarked. “Better watch it, me lads, or you will find yourselves buying it.” “What do you mean by that? Sell what?” Burke gestured toward the picture. “That. And the plug that goes with it. If you care for that sort of thing, there are three more, one at each cardinal point of the compass.” Matt stared at him. “What’s the matter with you, Burke? Don’t you want to be in the Patrol?” Burke laughed. “Sure I do. But I’m a practical man; I don’t have to be bamboozled into it by a lot of emotional propaganda.” He pointed to the picture of Ezra Dahlquist. “Take him. They don’t tell you he disobeyed orders of his superior officer-if things had fallen the other way, he’d be called a traitor. Besides that, they don’t mention that it was sheer clumsiness that got him burned. Do you expect me to think he was a superman?” Matt turned red. “No, I wouldn’t expect it.” He took a step forward. “But, since you are a practical man, how would you like a nice, practical punch in the snoot?” Burke was no larger than Matt and a shade shorter, but he leaned forward, balanced on the balls of his feet, and said softly, “I’d love it. You and who else?” Tex stepped forward. “I’m the who else.” “Stay out of this, Tex!” Matt snapped. “I will not! I don’t believe in wasting fair fighting on my social inferiors.” “Stay out, I tell you!” “Nope, I want a piece of this. You slug him and I’ll kick him in the stomach as he goes down.” Burke looked at Jarman, and relaxed, as if he knew that the fighting moment was past. “Tut, tut, Gentlemen! You’re squabbling among yourselves.” He turned away. “Goodnight, Dodson. Don’t wake me coming in.” Tex was still fuming. “We should have let him have it. He’ll make your life miserable until you slap him down. My Uncle Bodie says the way to deal with that sort of pimple is to belt him around until he apologizes.” “And get kicked out of the Patrol before we’re in it? I let him get me mad, so that puts him one up. Come on, let’s see what else there is to see.” But Call-to-Quarters sounded before they worked around to the next of the four alcoves. Matt said good night to Tex at his door and went inside. Burke was asleep or shamming. Matt peeled off his clothes, shinnied up into his bunk, looked for the light switch, spotted it, and ordered it to switch off. The unfriendly presence under him made him restless, but he was almost asleep when he recalled that he had not called his father back. The thought awakened him. Presently he became aware of a vague ache somewhere inside him. Was he coming down with something? Could it be that he was homesick? At his age? The longer he considered it the more likely it seemed, much as he hated to admit it. He was still pondering it when he fell asleep. THREE. OVER THE BUMPS. The next morning Burke ignored the trouble they had had; he made no mention of it. He was even moderately cooperative about sharing the fresher. But Matt was glad to hear the call to breakfast. Table 147 was not where it should be. Puzzled, Matt moved down the line until he found a table marked “147 to 149,” with Cadet Sabbatello in charge. He found a place and sat down, to find himself sitting next to Pierre Armand. “Well! Pete!” he greeted him. “How are things going?” “Glad to see you, Matt. Well enough, I guess.” His tone seemed doubtful. Matt looked him over. Pete seemed “dragged through a knothole” was the phrase Matt settled on. He was about to ask what was wrong when Cadet Sabbatello rapped on the table. “Apparently,” said the cadet, “some of you gentlemen have forgotten my advice last night, to eat sparingly this morning. You are about to go over the bumps today-and ground-hogs have been known to lose their breakfasts as well as their dignity.” Matt looked startled. He had intended to order his usual lavish breakfast; he settled for milk toast and tea. He noticed that Pete had ignored the cadet’s advice; he was working on a steak, potatoes, and fried eggs-whatever ailed Pete, Matt decided, it had not affected his appetite. Cadet Sabbatello had also noticed it. He leaned toward Pete. “Mister, uh.” “Armand, sir,” Pete answered between bites. “Mister Armand, either you have the digestion of a Martian sandworm, or you thought I was joking. Don’t you expect to be dropsick?” “No, sir.” “No?” “You see, sir, I was born on Ganymede.” “Oh! I beg your pardon. Have another steak. How are you doing?” “Pretty well, on the whole, sir.” “Don’t be afraid to ask for dispensations. You’ll find that everyone around here understands your situation.” “Thank you, sir.” “I mean it. Don’t play iron man. There’s no sense in it.” After breakfast, Matt fell in step with Armand. “Say, Pete, I see why Oscar carried your bag yesterday. Excuse me for being a stupe.” Pete looked self-conscious. “Not at all. Oscar has been looking out for me-I met him on the trip down from Terra Station.” Matt nodded. “I see.” He had no expert knowledge of interplanetary schedules, but he realized that Oscar, coming from Venus, and Pete, coming from one of Jupiter’s moons, would-have to change ships at the artificial satellite of Earth called Terra Station, before taking the shuttle rocket down. It accounted for the two boys being well acquainted despite cosmically different backgrounds. “How do you feel?” he went on. Pete hesitated. “As a matter of fact, I feel as if I were wading in quicksand up to my neck. Every move is an effort.” “Gee, that’s too bad! Just what is the surface gravity on Ganymede? About one-third Gee isn’t it?” “Thirty-two percent. Or from my point of view, everything here weighs three times as much as it ought to. Including me.” Matt nodded. “As if two other guys were riding on you, one on your shoulders, and one on your back.” “That’s about it. The worst of it is, my feet hurt all the time. I’ll get over it.” “Sure you will! “Since. I’m of Earth ancestry and potentially just as strong as my grandfather was. Back home, I’d been working out in the centrifuge the last couple of earth-years. I’m a lot stronger than I used to be. There’s Oscar.” Matt greeted Oscar, then hurried to his room to phone his father in private. A copter transport hopped Matt and some fifty other candidates to the site of the variable acceleration test-in cadet slang, the “Bumps.” It was west of the base, in the mountains, in order to have a sheer cliff for free fall. They landed on a loading platform at the edge of this cliff and joined a throng of other candidates. It was a crisp Colorado morning. They were near the timberline; gaunt evergreens, twisted by the winds, surrounded the clearing. From a building just beyond the platform two steel skeletons ran vertically down the face of the two-thousand-foot cliff. They looked like open frames for elevators, which one of them was. The other was a guide for the testing car during the drop down the cliff. Matt crowded up to the rail and leaned over. The lower ends of the skeleton frameworks disappeared, a dizzy distance below, in the roof of a building notched into the sloping floor of the canyon. He was telling himself that he hoped the engineer who had designed the thing knew what he was doing when he felt a dig in the ribs. It was Tex. “Some roller coaster, eh, Matt?” “Hi, Tex. That’s an understatement if I ever heard one.” The candidate on Matt’s left spoke up. “Do you mean to say we ride down that thing?” “No less,” Tex answered. “Then they gather the pieces up in a basket and haul ‘em up the other one.” “How fast does it go?” “You’ll see in a mom, Hey! Thar she blows!” A silvery, windowless car appeared inside one guide frame, at its top. It poised for a split second, then dropped. It dropped and dropped and dropped, gathering speed, until it disappeared with what seemed incredible velocity, actually about two hundred and fifty miles per hour-into the building below. Matt braced himself for the crash. None came, and he caught his breath. Seconds later the car reappeared at the foot of the other framework. It seemed to crawl; actually it was accelerating rapidly during the first half of the climb. It passed from view into the building at the top of the cliff. “Squad nine!” a loudspeaker bawled behind them. Tex let out a sigh “Here I go, Matt,” he said. “Tell mother my last words were of her. You can have my stamp collection.” He shook hands and walked away. The candidate who had spoken before gulped; Matt saw that he was quite pale. Suddenly he took off in the same direction but did not line up with the squad; instead he went up to the cadet mustering the squad and spoke to him, briefly and urgently. The cadet shrugged and motioned him away from the group. Matt found himself feeling sympathetic rather than contemptuous. His own test group was mustered next. He and his fellows were conducted into the upper building, where a cadet explained the test: “This test examines your tolerance for high acceleration, for free fall or weightlessness, and for violent changes in acceleration. You start with centrifugal force of three gravities, then all weight is removed from you as the car goes over the cliff. At the bottom the car enters a spiraling track which reduces its speed at deceleration of three gravities. When the car comes to rest, it enters the ascending tower; you make the climb at two gravities, dropping to one gravity, and momentarily to no weight, as the car reaches the top. Then the cycle is repeated, at higher accelerations, until each of you has reacted. Any questions?” Matt asked, “How long is the free fall, sir?” “About eleven seconds. We would increase it, but to double it would take four times as high a cliff. However, you will find this one high enough.” He smiled grimly. A timid voice asked, “Sir, what do you mean by ‘react’?” “Any of several things-hemorrhage, loss of consciousness.” “It’s dangerous?” The cadet shrugged. “What isn’t? There has never been any mechanical failures. Your pulse, respiration, blood pressure, and other data are telemetered to the control room. We’ll try not to let you die under test.” Presently he led them out of the room, down a passage and through a door into the test car. It had pendulum seats, not unlike any high-speed vehicle, but semi-reclining and heavily padded. They strapped down and medical technicians wired them for telemetering their responses. The cadet inspected, stepped out and returned with an officer, who repeated the inspection. The cadet then distributed “sick kits”, cloth bags of double thickness to be tied and taped to the mouth, so that a person might retch without inundating his companions. This done, he asked, “Are you all ready?” Getting no response, he went out and closed the door. Matt wished that he had stopped him before it was too late. For a long moment nothing happened. Then the car seemed to incline; actually, the seats inclined as the car started to move and picked up speed. The seats swung back to the at-rest position but Matt felt himself getting steadily heavier and knew thereby that they were being centrifuged. He pressed against the pads, arms leaden, legs too heavy to move. The feeling of extra weight left him, he felt his normal weight again, when suddenly that, too, was taken from him. He surged against the safety belts. His stomach seemed to drop out of him. He gulped and swallowed; his breakfast stayed down. Somebody yelled, “We’re falling!” It seemed to Matt the most unnecessary statement he had ever heard. He set his jaw and braced himself for the bump. It did not come-and still his stomach seemed trying to squirm its way out of his body. Eleven seconds? Why, he had been falling more than eleven seconds already. What had gone wrong? And still they fell, endlessly. And fell. Then he was forced back against the pads. The pressure increased smoothly until he was as heavy as he had been just before the drop. His abused stomach tried to retch but the pressure was too much for it. The pressure eased off to normal weight. A short while later the car seemed to bounce and momentarily he was weightless, while his insides grabbed frantically for anchorage. The feeling of no weight lasted only an instant; he sagged into the cushions. The door was flung open; the cadet strode in, followed by two medical technicians. Someone yelled, “Let me out of here! Let me out of here!” The cadet paid no attention but went to the seat in front of Matt. He unstrapped the occupant and the two medical assistants carried him out. His head lolled loosely as they did so. The cadet then went to the candidate who was kicking up the fuss, unstrapped him, and stepped back. The boy got up, staggered, and shuffled out. “Anyone need a fresh sick kit?” There were muffled responses. Working swiftly, the cadet helped those who needed it. Matt felt weakly triumphant that his own kit was still clean. “Stand by for five gravities,” commanded the cadet. He made them answer to their names, one by one. While he was doing so another boy started clawing at his straps. Still calling the roll, the cadet helped him free and let him leave. He followed the lad out the door and shut it. Matt felt himself tensing unbearably. He was relieved when the pressure took hold-but only momentarily, for he found that five gravities were much worse than three. His chest seemed paralyzed, he fought for air. The giant pressure lifted-they were over the edge again, falling. His mistreated stomach revenged itself at once; he was sorry that he had eaten any breakfast at all. They were still falling. The lights went out-and someone screamed. Falling and still retching, Matt was sure that the blackness meant some sort of accident; this time they would crash-but it did not seem to matter. He was well into the black whirlpool of force that marked the deceleration at the bottom before he realized that he had come through without being killed. The thought brought no particular emotion; breathing at five gravities fully occupied him. The ride up the cliff, at double weight dropping off to normal weight, seemed like a vacation-except that his stomach protested when they bounced to a stop. The lights came on and the cadet re-entered the room. His gaze stopped at the boy on Matt’s right. The lad was bleeding at his nose and ears. The candidate waved him away feebly. “I can take it,” he protested. “Go on with the test.” “Maybe you can,” the cadet answered, “but you are through for today.” He added, “Don’t feel bad about it. It’s not necessarily a down check.” He inspected the others, then called in the officer. The two held a whispered consultation over one boy, who was then half led, half carried from the test chamber. “Fresh sick kits?” asked the cadet. “Here,” Matt answered feebly. The change was made, while Matt vowed to himself never to touch milk toast again. “Seven gravities,” announced the cadet. “Speak up, or stand by.” He called the roll again. Matt was ready to give up, but he heard himself answer “ready” and the cadet was gone before he could make up his mind. There were only six of them left now. It seemed to him that the lights were going out again, gradually, as the weight of his body built up to nearly a thousand pounds. But the lights “came on” again as the car dropped over the cliff; he realized dully that he had blacked out. He had intended to count seconds on this fall to escape the feeling of endless time, but he was too dazed. Even the disquiet in his middle section seemed remote. Falling-falling, again the giant squeezed his chest, drained the blood from his brain, and shut the light from his eyes. The part that was Matt squeezed out entirely. “How do you feel?” He opened his eyes, saw a double image, and realized dimly that the cadet was leaning over him. He tried to answer. The cadet passed from view; he felt someone grasping him; he was being lifted and carried. Someone wiped his face with a wet, cold towel. He sat up and found himself facing a nurse. “You’re all right now,” she said cheerfully. “Keep this until your nose stops bleeding.” She handed him the towel. “Want to get up?” “Yes, I think so.” “Take my arm. We’ll go out into the air.” Out on the loading platform Matt sat in the sunshine, dabbling at his nose and regaining his strength. He could hear sounds of excitement from the rail behind each time the car dropped. He sat there, soaking in the sun and wondering whether or not he really wanted to be a spaceman. “Hey, Matt.” It was Tex, looking pale and not too sure of himself. There was a blood stain down the front of his coverall. “Hello, Tex. I see you’ve had it.” “Yeah.” “How many gees?” “Seven.” “Same here. What do you think of it?” “Well.” Tex seemed at a loss. “I wish my Uncle Bodie could have tried it. He wouldn’t talk so much about the time he rassled the grizzly.” There were many vacant seats at lunch. Matt thought about those who had gone-did they mind being “bumped out,” or were they relieved? He was hungry but ate little, for he knew what was ahead that afternoon-rocket indoctrination. He had looked forward to this part of the schedule most eagerly. Space flight! Just a test jump, but the real thing nevertheless. He had been telling himself that, even if he failed, it would be worth it to get this first flight. Now he was not sure; the “bumps” had changed his viewpoint. He had a new, grim respect for acceleration and he no longer thought drop-sickness funny; instead he was wondering whether or not he would ever get adjusted to free fall. Some never did, he knew. His test group was due in Santa Barbara Field at fourteen-thirty. He had a long hour to kill with nothing to do but fret. Finally it was time to go underground, muster, and slidewalk out to the field. The cadet in charge led them up to the surface into a concrete trench about four feet deep. Matt blinked at the sunlight. His depression was gone; he was anxious to start. On each side and about two hundred yards away were training rockets, lined up like giant birthday candles, poised on their fins with sharp snouts thrusting against the sky. “If anything goes wrong,” the cadet said, “throw yourself flat in the trench. Don’t let that get your goat-I’m required to warn you. “The jump lasts nine minutes, with the first minute and a half under power. You’ll feel three gravities, but the acceleration is only two gravities, because you are still close to the Earth. “After ninety seconds you’ll be travelling a little faster than a mile a second and you will coast on up for the next three minutes for another hundred miles to an altitude of about one hundred fifty miles. You fall back toward the earth another three minutes, brake your fall with the jet and ground at the end of the ninth minute. “A wingless landing on an atmosphere planet with gravity as strong as that of Earth is rather tricky. The landing will be radar-robot controlled, but a human pilot will stand by and check the approach against the flight plan. He can take over if necessary. Any questions?” Someone asked, “Are these atomic-powered ships?” The cadet snorted. “These jeeps? These are chemically powered, as you can see from the design. Monatomic hydrogen. They are much like the first big rockets ever built, except that they have variable thrust, so that the pilot and the passengers won’t” be squashed into strawberry jam as the mass-ratio drops off.” A green signal flare arched up from the control tower. “Keep your eyes on the second rocket from the end, on the north,” advised the cadet. There was a splash of orange flame, sun bright, at the base of the ship. “There she goes!” The ship lifted majestically, and poised for an instant, motionless as a hovering helicopter. The noise reached Matt, seemed to press against his chest. It was the roar of an impossibly huge blowtorch. A searchlight in the tower blinked, and the ship mounted, up and up, higher and faster, its speed increasing with such smoothness that it was hard to realize how fast it was going-except that the roar was gone. Matt found himself staring straight at the zenith, watching a dwindling artificial sun, almost as dazzling as Sol himself. Then it was gone. Matt closed his mouth and started to look away, when his attention was seized by the ice trail left as the rocket sliced its way through the outer atmosphere. White and strange, it writhed like a snake with a broken back. Under the driving force of the many-hundred-miles-anhour winds of that far altitude it twisted visibly as he watched. “That’s all!” the cadet shouted. “We can’t wait for the landing.” They went underground, down a corridor, and entered an elevator. It went up right out of the ground and into the air, supported by a hydraulic piston. It mounted close by the side of a rocket ship; Matt was amazed to see how large it was close up. The elevator stopped and its door let down drawbridge fashion into the open hatch in the rocket’s side. They trooped across; the cadet raised the bridge and went down again. They were in a conical room. Above them the pilot lay in his acceleration rest. Beside them, feet in and head out, were acceleration couches for passengers. “Get in the bunks!” shouted the pilot. “Strap down.” Ten boys jostled one another to reach the couches. One hesitated. “Uh, oh, Mister!” he called out. “Yes? Get in your couch.” “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going.” The pilot used language decidedly not officer like and turned to his control board. Tower! Remove passenger from number nineteen.” He listened, then said, “Too late to change the flight plan. Send up mass.” He shouted to the waiting boy, “What do you weigh?” “Uh, a hundred thirty-two pounds, sir.” “One hundred and thirty-two pounds and make it fast!” He turned back to the youngster. “You better get off this base fast, for if I have to skip my take-off I’ll wring your neck.” The elevator climbed into place presently and three cadets poured across. Two were carrying sandbags, one had five lead weights. They strapped the sandbags to the vacant couch, and clamped the weights to its sides. “One thirty-two mass,” announced one of the cadets. “Get going,” snapped the pilot and turned back to the board. “Don’t blow your tubes, Harry,” advised the cadet addressed. Matt was amazed, then decided the pilot must be a cadet, too. The three left, taking with them the boy; the hatch door shut with a whish. “Stand by to raise!” the pilot called out, then looked down to check his passengers. “Passengers secure, nineteen,” he called to the tower. “Is that confounded elevator clear?” There was silence as the seconds trickled away. The ship shivered. A low roar, muffled almost below audibility, throbbed in Matt’s head. For a moment he felt slightly heavy, the feeling passed, then he was pressed strongly against the pads. Matt was delighted to find that three gravities were not bad, flat on his back as he was. The minute and a half under power stretched out; there was nothing to hear but the muted blast of the reactor, nothing to see but the sky through the pilot’s port above. But the sky was growing darker. Already it was purple; as he watched it turned black. Fascinated, he watched the stars come out. “Stand by for free fall!” the pilot called out, using an amplifier. “You’ll find sick kits under each pillow. If you need em, put em on. I don’t want to have to scrape it off the port.” Matt fumbled with heavy fingers under his head, found the kit. The sound of the jet died away, and with it the thrust that had kept them pinned down. The pilot swung out of his rest and floated, facing them. “Now look, sports, we’ve got six minutes. You can unstrap, two at a time and come up for a look-see. But get this: Hang oh tight. Any man who starts floating free, or skylarking, gets a down check.” He pointed to a boy. “You-and the next guy.” The “next guy” was Matt. His stomach was complaining and he felt so wretched that he did not really want the privilege offered-but his face was at stake; he clamped his jaws, swallowed the saliva pouring into his mouth, and unstrapped. Free, he clung to one strap, floating loosely, and tried to get his bearings. It was curiously upsetting to have no up-and-down; it made everything swim-he had trouble focusing his eyes. “Hurry up there!” he heard the pilot shout, “or you’ll miss your turn.” “Coming, sir.” “Hang on-I’m going to turn the ship.” The pilot unclutched his gyros and cut in his processing flywheels. The ship turned end over end. By the time Matt worked his way to the control station, moving like a cautious and elderly monkey, the rocket was pointed toward Earth. Matt stared out at the surface, nearly a hundred miles below and still receding. The greens and browns seemed dark by contrast with the white dazzle of clouds. Off to the left and right he could see the inky sky, stabbed with stars. “That’s the Base, just below,” the pilot was saying. “Look sharp and you can make out Hayworth Hall, maybe, by its shadow.” It did not seem “just below” to Matt; it seemed “out”, or no direction at all. It was disquieting. “Over there-see? Is the crater where Denver used to be. Now look south-that brown stretch is Texas; you can see the Gulf beyond it.” “Sir,” asked Matt, “can we see Des Moines from here?” “Hard to pick out. Over that way-let your eye slide down the Kaw River till it strikes the Missouri, then up river. That dark patch-that’s Omaha and Council Bluffs. Des Moines is between there and the horizon.” Matt strained his eyes, trying to pick out his home. He could not be sure, but he did see that he was staring over the bulge of the Earth at a curved horizon; he was seeing the Earth as round. “That’s all,” ordered the pilot. “Back to your bunks. Next pair!” He was glad to strap a belt across his middle. The remaining four minutes or so stretched endlessly; he resigned himself to never getting over space sickness. Finally the pilot chased the last pair back, swung ship jet toward Earth, and shouted, “Stand by for thrust-we’re about to ride her down on her tail!” Blessed weight pressed down on him and his stomach stopped complaining. The ninety seconds of deceleration seemed longer; it made him jumpy to know that the Earth was rushing up at them and not be able to see it. But at last there came a slight bump and his weight dropped suddenly to normal. “Grounded,” announced the pilot, “and all in one piece. You can unstrap, sports.” Presently a truck arrived, swung a telescoping ladder up to the hatch, and “they climbed down. On the way back they passed a great unwieldy tractor, crawling out to retrieve the rocket. Someone stuck his head out of the tractor. “Hey! Harry-why didn’t you land it in Kansas?” Their pilot waved at the speaker. “Be grateful I didn’t!” Matt was free until mess; he decided to return to the observation trench; he still wanted to see a ship land on its jet. He had seen winged landings of commercial stratosphere rockets, but never a jet landing. Matt had just found a vacant spot at the trench when a shout went up-a ship was coming in. It was a ball of flame, growing in the sky, and then a pillar of flame, streaking down in front of him. The streamer of fire brushed the ground, poised like a ballet dancer, and died out. The ship was down. He turned to a candidate near him. “How long till the next one?” “They’ve come in about every five minutes. Stick around.” Presently a green flare went up from the control tower and he looked around, trying to spot the ship about to take off, when another shout caused him to turn back. There again was a ball of fire in the sky, growing. Unbelievably, it went out. He stood there, stupefied, to hear a cry of “Down! Down, everybody! Flat on your faces!” Before he could shake off his stupor, someone tackled him and threw him. He was rocked by a sharp shock, on top of it came the roar of an explosion. Something snatched at his breath. He sat up and looked around. A cadet near him was peering cautiously over the parapet. “Allah the Merciful,” he heard him say softly. “What happened?” “Crashed in. Dead, all dead.” The cadet seemed to see him for the first time. “Get back to your quarters,” he said sharply. “But how did it happen?” “Never mind-this is no time for sightseeing.” The cadet moved down the line, clearing out spectators. Four. First muster. Matt’s boom was empty, which was a relief. Heinlein AudioBooks https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html

PODKAYNE OF MARS Robert A. Heinlein This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. Formatted from a Scan for computer speech, 2023. Copyright (c) 1963 by Robert A. Heinlein Postlude to Podkayne of Mars, original version (c) 1989 by Robert A. & Virginia Heinlein Trust UDT 20 June 1983 All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. A Baen Book Baen Publishing Enterprises P.O. Box 1403 Riverdale, N.Y. 10471 ISBN: 0-671-72179-8 Cover art by Stephen Hickman First Baen printing, August 1993 Distributed by SIMON & SCHUSTER 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10020 Printed in the United States of America For Gale and Astrid. Chapter One. All my life I’ve wanted to go to Earth. Not to live, of course-just to see it. As everybody knows, Terra is a wonderful place to visit but not to live. Not truly suited to human habitation. Personally, I’m not convinced that the human race originated on Earth. I mean to say, how much reliance should you place on the evidence of a few pounds of old bones plus the opinions of anthropologists who usually contradict each other anyhow when what you are being asked to swallow so obviously flies in the face of all common sense? Think it through-the surface acceleration of Terra is clearly too great for the human structure; it is known to result in flat feet and hernias and heart trouble. The incident solar radiation on Terra will knock down dead an unprotected human in an amazingly short time, and do you know of any other organism which has to be artificially protected from what is alleged to be its own natural environment in order to stay alive? As to Terran ecology. Never mind. We humans just couldn’t have originated on Earth. Nor (I admit) on Mars, for that matter-although Mars is certainly as near ideal as you can find in this planetary system today. Possibly the Missing Planet was our first home-even though I think of Mars as “home” and will always want to return to it no matter how far I travel in later years, and I intend to travel a long, long way. But I do want to visit Earth as a starter, not only to see how in the world eight billion people manage to live almost sitting in each other’s laps, less than half of the land area of Terra is even marginally habitable, but mostly to see oceans, from a safe distance. Oceans are not only fantastically unlikely but to me the very thought of them is terrifying. All that unimaginable amount of water, unconfined. And so deep that if you fell into it, it would be over your head. Incredible! But now we are going there! Perhaps I should introduce us. The Fries Family, I mean. Myself: Podkayne Fries, “Poddy” to my friends and we might as well start off being friendly. Adolescent female: I’m eight plus a few months, at a point in my development described by my Uncle Tom as “frying size and just short of husband high,” a fair enough description since a female citizen of Mars ma contract plenary marriage without guardian’s waiver on her ninth birthday, and I stand 157 centimeters tall in my bare feet and mass 49 kilograms. “Five feet two and eyes of blue” daddy calls me, but he is a historian and romantic. But I am not romantic and would not consider even a limited marriage on my ninth birthday; I have other plans. Not that I am opposed to marriage in due time, nor do I expect to have any trouble snagging the male of my choice. In these memoirs I shall be frank rather than modest because they will not be published until I am old and famous, and I will certainly revise them before then. In the meantime I am taking the precaution of writing English in Martian Oldscript, a combination which I’m sure Daddy could puzzle out, only he wouldn’t do such a thing unless I invited him to. Daddy is a dear and does not snoopervise me. My brother Clark would pry, but he regards English as a dead language and would never bother his head with Oldscript anyhow. Perhaps you have seen a book titled: Eleven Years Old: The Pre-Adolescent Adjustment Crisis in the Male. I read it, hoping that it would help me to cope with my brother. Clark is just six, but the “Eleven Years” referred to in that title are Terran years because it was written on Earth. If you will apply the conversion factor of 1.8808 to attain real years, you will see that my brother is exactly eleven of those undersized Earth years old. That book did not help me much. It talks about “cushioning the transition into the social group”, but there is no present indication that Clark ever intends to join the human race. He is more likely to devise a way to blow up the universe just to hear the bang. Since I am responsible for him much of the time and since he has an I.Q. of 160 while mine is only 145, you can readily see that I need all the advantage that greater age and maturity can give me. At present my standing rule with him is: Keep your guard up and never offer hostages. Back to me-I’m colonial mongrel in ancestry, but the Swedish part is dominant in my looks, with Polynesian and Asiatic fractions adding no more than a not unpleasing exotic flavor. My legs are long for my height, my waist is 48 centimeters and my chest is 90, not all of which is rib cage, I assure you, even though we old colonial families all run to hypertrophied lung development; some of it is burgeoning secondary sex characteristic. Besides that, my hair is pale blond and wavy and I’m pretty. Not beautiful-Praxiteles would not have given me a second look-but real beauty is likely to scare a man off, or else make him quite unmanageable, whereas prettiness, properly handled, is an asset. Up till a couple of years ago I used to regret not being male, in view of my ambitions, but I at last realized how silly I was being; one might as well wish for wings. As Mother says: “One works with available materials”, and I found that the materials available were adequate. In fact I found that I like being female; my hormone balance is okay and I’m quite well adjusted to the world and vice versa. I’m smart enough not unnecessarily to show that I am smart; I’ve got a long upper lip and a short nose, and when I wrinkle my nose and look baffled, a man is usually only too glad to help me, especially if he is about twice my age. There are more ways of computing a ballistic than by counting it on your fingers. That’s me: Poddy Fries, free citizen of Mars, female. Future pilot and someday commander of deep-space exploration parties. Watch for me in the news. Mother is twice as good-looking as I am and much taller than I ever will be; she looks like a Valkyrie about to gallop off into the sky. She holds a system wide license as a Master Engineer, Heavy Construction, Surface or Free Fall, and is entitled to wear both the Hoover Medal with cluster and the Christiana Order, Knight Commander, for bossing the rebuilding of Deimos and Phobos. But she’s more than just the traditional hairy engineer; she has a social presence which she can switch from warmly charming to frostily intimidating at will, she holds honorary degrees galore, and she publishes popular little gems such as “Design Criteria with Respect to the Effects of Radiation on the Bonding of Pressure-Loaded Sandwich Structures.” It is because Mother is often away from home for professional reasons that I am, from time to time, the reluctant custodian of my younger brother. Still, I suppose it is good practice, for how can I ever expect to command my own ship if I can’t tame a six-year-old savage? Mother says that a boss who is forced to part a man’s hair with a wrench has failed at some point, so I try to control our junior nihilist without resorting to force. Besides, using force on Clark is very chancy; he masses as much as I do and he fights dirty. It was the job Mother did on Deimos that accounts for Clark and myself. Mother was determined to meet her construction dates; and Daddy, on leave from Ares U. with a Guggenheim grant, was even more frantically determined to save every scrap of the ancient Martian artifacts no matter how much it delayed construction; this threw them into such intimate and bitter conflict that they got married and for a while Mother had babies. Daddy and Mother are Jack Spratt and his wife; he is interested in everything that has already happened, she is interested only in what is going to happen, especially if she herself is making it happen. Daddy’s title is Van Loon Professor of Terrestrial History but his real love is Martian history, especially if it happened fifty million years ago. But do not think that Dad is a cloistered don given only to contemplation and study. When he was even younger than I am now, he lost an arm one chilly night in the attack on the Company Offices during the Revolution-and he can still shoot straight and fast with the hand he has left. The rest of our family is Great-Uncle Tom, Daddy’s father’s brother. Uncle Tom is a parasite. So he says. It is true that you don’t see him work much, but he was an old man before I was born. He is a Revolutionary veteran, same as Daddy, and is a Past Grand Commander of the Martian Legion and a Senator-at-Large of the Republic, but he doesn’t seem to spend much time on either sort of politics, Legion or public; instead he hangs out at the Elks Club and plays pinochle with other relics of the past. Uncle Tom is really my closest relative, for he isn’t as intense as my parents, nor as busy, and will always take time to talk with me. Furthermore he has a streak of Original Sin which makes him sympathetic to my problems. He says that I have such a streak, too, much wider than his. Concerning this, I reserve my opinion. That’s our family and we are all going to Earth. Wups! I left out three-the infants. But they hardly count now and it is easy to forget them. When Daddy and Mother got married, the PEG Board-Population, Ecology, and Genetics-pegged them at five and would have allowed them seven had they requested it, for, as you may have gathered, my parents are rather high grade citizens even among planetary colonials all of whom are descended from, or are themselves, highly selected and drastically screened stock. But Mother told the Board that five was all that she had time for and then had us as fast as possible, while fidgeting at a desk job in the Bureau of Planetary Engineering. Then she popped her babies into deep-freeze as fast as she had them, all but me, since I was the first. Clark spent two years at constant entropy, else he would be almost as old as I am-deepfreeze time doesn’t count, of course, and his official birthday is the day he was decanted. I remember how jealous I was, Mother was just back from conditioning Juno and it didn’t seem fair to me that she would immediately start raising a baby. Uncle Tom talked me out of that, with a lot of lap sitting, and I am no longer jealous of Clark-merely wary. So we’ve got Gamma, Delta, and Epsilon in the subbasement of the creche at Marsopolis, and we’ll uncork and name at least one of them as soon as we get back from Earth. Mother is thinking of revivifying Gamma and Epsilon together and raising them as twins (they’re girls) and then launching Delta, who is a boy, as soon as the girls are housebroken. Daddy says that is not fair, because Delta is entitled to be older than Epsilon by natural priority of birth date. Mother says that is mere worship of precedent and that she does wish Daddy would learn to leave his reverence for the past on the campus when he comes home in the evening. Daddy says that Mother has no sentimental feelings-and Mother says she certainly hopes not, at least with any problem requiring rational analysis-and Daddy says let’s be rational, then, twin older sisters would either break a boy’s spirit or else spoil him rotten. Mother says that is unscientific and unfounded. Daddy says that Mother merely wants to get two chores out of the way at once-whereupon Mother heartily agrees and demands to know why proved production engineering principles should not be applied to domestic economy? Daddy doesn’t answer this. Instead he remarks thoughtfully that he must admit that two little girls dressed just alike would be kind of cute name them “Margret” and “Marguerite” and call them “Peg” and “Meg”, Clark muttered to me, “Why uncork them at all? Why not just sneak down some night and open the valves and call it an accident?” I told him to go wash out his mouth with prussic acid and not let Daddy hear him talk that way. Daddy would have walloped him properly. Daddy, although a historian, is devoted to the latest, most progressive theories of child psychology and applies them by canalizing the cortex through pain association whenever he really wants to ensure that a lesson will not be forgotten. As he puts it so neatly: “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” I canalize most readily and learned very early indeed how to predict and avoid incidents which would result in Daddy’s applying his theories and his hand. But in Clark’s case it is almost necessary to use a club simply to gain his divided attention. So it is now clearly evident that we are going to have twin baby sisters. But it is no headache of mine, I am happy to say, for Clark is quite enough maturing trauma for one girl’s adolescence. By the time the twins are a current problem I expect to be long gone and far away. Interlude. Hi, Pod. So you think I can’t read your worm tracks. A lot you know about me! Poddy-oh, excuse me, “Captain” Podkayne Fries, I mean, the famous Space Explorer and Master of Men-Captain Poddy dear, you probably will never read this because it wouldn’t occur to you that I not only would break your “code” but also write comments in the big, wide margins you leave. Just for the record, Sister dear, I read Old Anglish just as readily as I do System Ortho. Anglish isn’t all that hard and I learned it as soon as I found out that a lot of books I wanted to read had never been translated. But it doesn’t pay to tell everything you know, or somebody comes along and tells you to stop doing whatever it is you are doing. Probably your older sister. But imagine calling a straight substitution a “code”! Poddy, if you had actually been able to write Old Martian, it would have taken me quite a lot longer. But you can’t. Shucks, even Dad can’t write it without stewing over it and he probably knows more about Old Martian than anyone else in the System. But you won’t crack my code-because I haven’t any. Try looking at this page under ultraviolet light-a sun lamp, for example. Chapter Two. Oh, Unspeakables! Dirty ears! Hangnails! Snel-frockey! Spit! WE AREN’T GOING! At first I thought that my brother Clark had managed one of his more charlatanous machinations of malevolent legerdemain. But fortunately (the only fortunate thing about the whole miserable mess) I soon perceived that it was impossible for him to be in fact guilty no matter what devious subversions roil his id. Unless he has managed to invent and build in secret a time machine, which I misdoubt he would do if he could, nor am I prepared to offer odds that he can’t. Not since the time he rewired the delivery robot so that it would serve him midnight snacks and charge them to my code number without (so far as anyone could ever prove) disturbing the company’s seal on the control box. We’ll never know how he did that one, because, despite the fact that the company offered to Forgive All and pay a cash bonus to boot if only he would please tell them how he managed to beat their unbeatable seal-despite this, Clark looked blank and would not talk. That left only circumstantial evidence, meaning, it was clearly evident to anyone who knew us both (Daddy and Mother, namely) that I would never order candy-stripe ice cream smothered in hollandaise sauce, or, no, I can’t go on; I feel ill. Whereas Clark is widely known to eat anything which does not eat him first. Even this clinching psychological evidence would never have convinced the company’s adjuster had not their own records proved that two of these obscene feasts had taken place while I was a house guest of friends in Syrtis Major, a thousand kilometers away. Never mind, I simply want to warn all girls not to have a Mad Genius for a baby brother. Pick instead a stupid, stolid, slightly subnormal one who will sit quietly in front of the solly box, mouth agape at cowboy classics, and never wonder what makes the pretty images. But I have wandered far from my tragic tale. We aren’t going to have twins. We already have triplets. Gamma, Delta, and Epsilon, throughout all my former life mere topics of conversation, are now Grace, Duncan, and Elspeth in all too solid flesh-unless Daddy again changes his mind before final registration; they’ve had three sets of names already. But what’s in a name?-they are here, already in our home with a nursery room sealed on to shelter them, three helpless unfinished humans about canal-worm pink in color and no features worthy of the name. Their limbs squirm aimlessly, their eyes don’t track, and a faint, queasy odor of sour milk permeates every room even when they are freshly bathed. Appalling sounds come from one end of each-in which they heterodyne each other-and even more appalling conditions prevail at the other ends. I’ve yet to find all three of them dry at the same time. And yet there is something decidedly engaging about the little things; were it not that they are the proximate cause of my tragedy I could easily grow quite fond of them. I’m sure Duncan is beginning to recognize me already. But, if I am beginning to be reconciled to their presence, Mother’s state can only be described as atavistically maternal. Her professional journals pile up unread, she has that soft Madonna look in her eyes, and she seems somehow both shorter and wider than she did a week ago. First consequence: she won’t even discuss going to Earth, with or without the triplets. Second consequence: Daddy won’t go if she won’t go-he spoke quite sharply to Clark for even suggesting it. Third consequence: since they won’t go, we can’t go. Clark and me, I mean. It is conceivably possible that I might have been permitted to travel alone, since Daddy agrees that I am now a “young adult” in maturity and judgment even though my ninth birthday lies still some months in the future, but the question is formal and without content since I am not considered quite old enough to accept full responsible control of my brother with both my parents some millions of kilometers away, nor am I sure that I would wish to, unless armed with something at least as convincing as a morning star, and Daddy is so dismayingly fair with that he would not even discuss permitting one of us to go and not the other when both of us had been promised the trip. Fairness is a priceless virtue in a parent-but just at the moment I could stand being spoiled and favored instead. But the above is why I am sure that Clark does not have a time machine concealed in his wardrobe. This incredible contretemps, this idiot’s dream of interlocking mishaps, is as much to his disadvantage as it is to mine. How did it happen? Gather ye round. Little did we dream that, when the question of a family trip to Earth was being planned in our household more than a month ago, this disaster was already complete and simply waiting the most hideous moment to unveil itself. The facts are these: the creche at Marsopolis has thousands of newborn babies marbleized at just short of absolute zero, waiting in perfect safety until their respective parents are ready for them. It is said, and I believe it, that a direct hit with a nuclear bomb would not hurt the consigned infants; a thousand years later a rescue squad could burrow down and find that automatic, self-maintaining machinery had not permitted the tank temperatures to vary a hundredth of a degree. In consequence, we Marsmen, not “Martians,” please!-Martians are a non-human race, now almost extinct, Marsmen tend to marry early, have a full quota of babies quickly, then rear them later, as money and time permit. It reconciles that discrepancy, so increasingly and glaringly evident ever since the Terran Industrial Revolution, between the best biological age for having children and the best social age for supporting and rearing them. A couple named Breeze did just that, some ten years ago, married on her ninth birthday and just past his tenth, while he was still a pilot cadet and she was attending Ares U. The applied for three babies, were pegged accordingly, and got them all out of the way while they were both finishing school. Very sensible. The years roll past, he as a pilot and later as master, she as a finance clerk in his ship and later as purser, a happy life. The spacelines like such an arrangement; married couples spacing together mean a taut, happy ship. Captain and Missus Breeze serve their ten-and-a-half (twenty Terran) years and put in for half-pay retirement, have it confirmed-and immediately radio the creche to uncork their babies, all three of them. The radio order is received, relayed back for confirmation; the creche accepts it. Five weeks later the happy couple pick up three babies, sign for them, and start the second half of a perfect life. So they thought. But what they had deposited was two boys and a girl; what they got was two girls and a boy. Ours. Believe this you must-it took them the better part of a week to notice it. I will readily concede that the difference between a brand-new boy baby and a brand-new girl baby is, at the time, almost irrelevant. Nevertheless there is a slight difference. Apparently it was a case of too much help-between a mother, a mother-in-law, a temporary nurse, and a helpful neighbor, and much running in and out, it seems unlikely that any one person bathed all three babies as one continuous operation that first week. Certainly Missus Breeze had not done so-until the day she did, and noticed, and fainted-and dropped one of our babies in the bath water, where it would have drowned had not her scream fetched both her husband and the neighbor lady. So we suddenly had month-old triplets. The lawyer man from the creche was very vague about how it happened; he obviously did not want to discuss how their “foolproof” identification system could result in such a mixup. So I don’t know myself, but it seems logically certain that, for all their serial numbers, babies’ footprints, record machines, et cetera, there is some point in the system where one clerk read aloud “Breeze” from the radioed order and another clerk checked a file, then punched “Fries” into a machine that did the rest. But the fixer man did not say. He was simply achingly anxious to get Mother and Daddy to settle out of court-accept a check and sign a release under which they agreed not to publicize the error. They settled for three years of Mother’s established professional earning power while the little fixer man gulped and looked relieved. But nobody offered to pay me for the mayhem that had been committed on my life, my hopes, and my ambitions. Clark did offer a suggestion that was almost a sensible one, for him. He proposed that we swap even with the Breezes, let them keep the warm ones, we could keep the cold ones. Everybody happy-and we all go to Earth. My brother is far too self-centered to realize it, but the Angel of Death brushed him with its wings at that point. Daddy is a truly noble soul, but he had had almost more than he could stand. And so have I. I had expected today to be actually on my way to Earth, my first space trip farther than Phobos-which was merely a school field trip, our “Class Honeymoon.” A nothing thing. Instead, guess what I’m doing. Do you have any idea how many times a day three babies have to be changed? Chapter Three. Hold it! Stop the machines! Wipe the tapes! Cancel all bulletins. WE ARE GOING TO EARTH AFTER ALL! Well, not all of us. Daddy and Mother aren’t going, and of course, the triplets are not. But. Never mind; I had better tell it in order. Yesterday things just got to be Too Much. I had changed them in rotation, only to find as I got the third one dry and fresh that number one again needed service. I had been thinking sadly that just about that moment I should have been entering the dining saloon of S S Wanderlust to the strains of soft music. Perhaps on the arm of one of the officers perhaps even on the arm of the Captain himself had I the chance to arrange an accidental Happy Encounter, then make judicious use of my “puzzled kitten” expression. And, as I reached that point in my melancholy daydream, it was then that I discovered that my chores had started all over again. I thought of the Augean Stables and suddenly it was just Too Much and my eyes got blurry with tears. Mother came in at that point and I asked if I could please have a couple of hours of recess? She answered, “Why, certainly dear,” and didn’t even glance at me. I’m sure that she didn’t notice that I was crying; she was already doing over, quite unnecessarily, the one that I had just done. She had been tied up on the phone, telling someone firmly that, while it was true as reported that she was not leaving Mars, nevertheless she would not now accept another commission even as a consultant-and no doubt being away from the infants for all of ten minutes had made her uneasy, so she just had to get her hands on one of them. Mother’s behavior had been utterly unbelievable. Her cortex has tripped out of circuit and her primitive instincts are in full charge. She reminds me of a cat we had when I was a little girl- Miss Polka Dot Ma’am and her first litter of kittens. Miss Pokie loved and trusted all of us-except about kittens. If we touched one of them, she was uneasy about it. If a kitten was taken out of her box and placed on the floor to be admired, she herself would hop out, grab the kitten in her teeth and immediately return it to the box, with an indignant waggle to her seat that showed all too plainly what she thought of irresponsible people who didn’t know how to handle babies. Mother is just like that now. She accepts my help simply because there is too much for her to do alone. But she doesn’t really believe that I can even pick up a baby without close supervision. So I left and followed my own blind instincts, which told me to go look up Uncle Tom. I found him at the Elks Club, which was reasonably certain at that time of day, but I had to wait in the ladies’ lounge until he came out of the card room. Which he did in about ten minutes, counting a wad of money as he came. “Sorry to make you wait,” he said, “but I was teaching a fellow citizen about the uncertainties in the laws of chance and I had to stay long enough to collect the tuition. How marches it, Podkayne mavourneen?” I tried to tell him and got all choked up, so he walked me to the park under the city hail and sat me on a bench and bought us both packages of Chokiatpops and I ate mine and most of his and watched the stars on the ceiling and told him all about it and felt better. He patted my hand. “Cheer up, Flicka. Always remember that, when things seem darkest, they usually get considerably worse.” He took his phone out of a pocket and made a call. Presently he said, “Never mind the protocol routine, miss. This is Senator Fries. I want the Director.” Then he added, in a moment, “Hymie? Tom Fries here. How’s Judith? Good, good. Hymie, I just called to tell you that I’m coming over to stuff you into one of your own liquid helium tanks. Oh, say about fourteen or a few minutes after. That’ll give you time to get out of town. Clearing.” He pocketed his phone. “Let’s get some lunch. Never commit suicide on an empty stomach, my dear; it’s bad for the digestion.” Uncle Tom took me to the Pioneers Club where I have been only once before and which is even more impressive than I had recalled. It has real waiters men so old that they might have been pioneers themselves, unless they met the first ship. Everybody fussed over Uncle Tom and he called them all by their first names and they all called him “Tom” but made it sound like “Your Majesty” and the master of the hostel came over and prepared my sweet himself with about six other people standing around to hand him things, like a famous surgeon operating against the swift onrush of death. Presently Uncle Tom belched behind his napkin and I thanked everybody as we left while wishing that I had had the forethought to wear my unsuitable gown that Mother won’t let me wear until I’m nine and almost made me take back-one doesn’t get to the Pioneers Club every day. We took the James Joyce Fogarty Express Tunnel and Uncle Tom sat down the whole way, so I had to sit, too, although it makes me restless; I prefer to walk in the direction a tunnel is moving and get there a bit sooner. But Uncle Tom says that he gets plenty of exercise watching other people work themselves to death. I didn’t really realize that we were going to the Marsopolis Creche until we were there, so bemused had I been earlier with my own tumultuous emotions. But when we were there and facing a sign reading: OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR-PLEASE USE OTHER DOOR, Uncle Tom said, “Hang around somewhere; I’ll need you later,” and went on in. The waiting room was crowded and the only magazines not in use were Kiddie Kapers and Modern Homemaker, so I wandered around a bit and presently found a corridor that led to the Nursery. The sign on the door said that visiting hours were from 16 to 18 thirty. Furthermore, it was locked, so I moved on and found another door which seemed much more promising. It was marked: POSITIVELY NO ADMITANCE. But it didn’t say “This Means You” and it wasn’t locked, so I went in. You never saw so many babies in your whole life! Row upon row upon row, each in its own little transparent cubicle. I could really see only the row nearest me, all of which seemed to be about the same age, and much more finished than the three we had at home. Little brown dumplings they were, cute as puppies. Most of them were asleep, some were awake and kicking and cooing and grabbing at dangle toys that were just in reach. If there had not been a sheet of glass between me and them I would have grabbed me a double armful of babies. There were a lot of girls in the room, too-well, young women, really. Each of them seemed to be busy with a baby and they didn’t notice me. But shortly one of the babies nearest me started to cry whereupon a light came on over its cubicle, and one of the nurse girls hurried over, slid back the cover, picked it up and started patting its bottom. It stopped crying. “Wet?” I inquired. She looked up, saw me. “Oh, no, the machines take care of that. Just lonely, so I’m loving it.” Her voice came through clearly in spite of the glass, a hear and speak circuit, no doubt, although the pickups were not in evidence. She made soft noises to the baby, then added, “Are you a new employee? You seem to be lost. “Oh, no,” I said hastily, “I’m not an employee. I just.” “Then you don’t belong here, not at this hour. Unless,” she looked at me rather skeptically, “just possibly you are looking for the instruction class for young mothers?” “Oh, no, no!” I said hastily. “Not yet.” Then I added still more hastily, “I’m a guest of the Director.” Well, it wasn’t a fib. Not quite. I was a guest of a guest of the Director, one who was with him by appointment. The relationship was certainly concatenative, if not equivalent. It seemed to reassure her. She asked, “Just what did you want? Can I help you?” “Uh, just information. I’m making a sort of a survey. What goes on in this room?” “These are age six-month withdrawal contracts,” she told me. “All these babies will be going home in a few days.” She put the baby, quiet now, back into its private room, adjusted a nursing nipple for it, made some other sort of adjustments on the outside of the cubicle so that the padding inside sort of humped up and held the baby steady against the milk supply, then closed the top, moved on a few meters and picked up another baby. “Personally,” she added, “I think the age six month contract is the best one. A child twelve months old is old enough to notice the transition. But these aren’t. They don’t care who comes along and pets them when they cry, but nevertheless six months is long enough to get a baby well started and take the worst of the load off the mother. We know how, we’re used to it, we stand our watches in rotation so that we are never exhausted from being ‘up with the baby all night’, and in consequence we aren’t short-tempered and we never yell at them-and don’t think for a minute that a baby doesn’t understand a cross tone of voice simply because he can’t talk yet. He knows! And it can start him off so twisted that he may take it out on somebody else, years and years later. There, there, honey,” she went on but not to me, “feel better now? Feeling sleepy, huh? Now you just hold still and Martha will keep her hand on you until you are fast asleep.” She watched the baby for a moment longer, then withdrew her hand, closed the box and hurried on to where another light was burning. “A baby has no sense of time,” she added as she removed a squalhing lump of fury from its crib. “When it needs love, it needs it right now. It can’t know that.” An older woman had come up behind her. “Yes, Nurse?” “Who is this you’re chatting with? You know the rules.” “But, she’s a guest of the Director.” The older woman looked at me with a stern no nonsense look. “The Director sent you in here?” I was making a split-second choice among three non-responsive answers when I was saved by Fate. A soft voice coming from everywhere at once announced: “Miss Podkayne Fries is requested to come to the office of the Director. Miss Podkayne Fries, please come to the office of the Director.” I tilted my nose in the air and said with dignity, “That is I. Nurse, will you be so kind as to phone the Director and tell him that Miss Fries is on her way?” I exited with deliberate haste. The Director’s office was four times as big and sixteen times as impressive as the principal’s office at school. The Director was short and had a dark brown skin and a gray goatee and a harried expression. In addition to him and to Uncle Tom, of course, there was present the little lawyer man who had had a bad time with Daddy a week earlier-and my brother Clark. I couldn’t figure out how he got there, except that Clark has an infallible homing instinct for trouble. Clark looked at me with no expression; I nodded. The Director and his legal beagle stood up. Uncle Tom didn’t but he said, “Doctor Hyman Schoenstein, Mister Poon Kwai Yau-my niece Podkayne Fries. Sit down, honey; nobody is going to bite you. The Director has a proposition to offer you.” The lawyer man interrupted. “I don’t think.” “Correct,” agreed Uncle Tom. “You don’t think. Or it would have occurred to you that ripples spread out from a splash.” “But, Doctor Schoenstein, the release I obtained from Professor Fries explicitly binds him to silence, for separate good and sufficient consideration, over and above damages conceded by us and made good. This is tantamount to blackmail. I.” Then Uncle Tom did stand up. He seemed twice as tall as usual and was grinning like a fright mask. “What was that last word you used?” “I?” The lawyer looked startled. “Perhaps I spoke hastily. I simply meant.” “I heard you,” Uncle Tom growled. “And so did three witnesses. Happens to be one of the words a man can be challenged for on this still free planet. But, since I’m getting old and fat, I may just sue you for your shirt instead. Come along, kids.” The Director spoke quickly. “Tom, sit down, please. Mister Poon, please keep quiet unless I ask for your advice. Now, Tom, you know quite well that you can’t challenge nor sue over a privileged communication, counsel to client.” “I can do both or either. Question is: will a court sustain me? But I can always find out.” “And thereby drag out into the open the very point you know quite well I can’t afford to have dragged out. Simply because my lawyer spoke in an excess of zeal. Mister Poon?” “I tried to withdraw it. I do withdraw it.” “Senator?” Uncle Tom bowed stiffly to Mister Poon, who returned it. “Accepted, sir. No offense meant and none taken.” Then Uncle Tom grinned merrily, let his potbelly slide back down out of his chest, and said in his normal voice, “Okay, Hymie, let’s get on with the crime. Your move.” Doctor Schoenstein said carefully, “Young lady, I have just learned that the recent disruption of family planning in your home-which we all deeply regret, caused an additional sharp disappointment to you and your brother.” “It certainly did!” I answered, rather shrilly I’m afraid. “Yes. As your uncle put it, the ripples spread out. Another of those ripples could wreck this establishment, make it insolvent as a private business. This is an odd sort of business we are in here, Miss Fries. Superficially we perform a routine engineering function, plus some not unusual boarding nursery services. But in fact what we do touches the most primitive of human emotions. If confidence in our integrity, or in the perfection with which we carry out the service entrusted to us, were to be shaken.” He spread his hands helplessly. “We couldn’t last out the year. Now I can show you exactly how the mishap occurred which affected your family, show you how wildly unlikely it was to have it happen even under the methods we did use, prove to you how utterly impossible it now is and always will be in the future for such a mistake to take place again, under our new procedures. Nevertheless”, he looked helpless again, “if you were to talk, merely tell the simple truth about what did indeed happen once you could ruin us.” I felt so sorry for him that I was about to blurt out that I wouldn’t even dream of talking! Even though they had ruined my life-when Clark cut in. “Watch it, Pod! It’s loaded.” So I just gave the Director my Sphinx expression and said nothing. Clark’s instinctive self-interest is absolutely reliable. Doctor Schoenstein motioned Mister Poon to keep quiet. “But, my dear lady, I am not asking you not to talk. As your uncle the Senator says, you are not here to blackmail and I have nothing with which to bargain. The Marsopolis Creche Foundation, Limited, always carries out its obligations even when they do not result from formal contract. I asked you to come in here in order to suggest a measure of relief for the damage we have unquestionably-though unwittingly-done you and your brother. Your uncle tells me that he had intended to travel with you and your family, but that now he intends to go via the next Triangle Line departure. The Tricorn, I believe it is, about ten days from now. Would you feel less mistreated if we were to pay first-class fares for your brother and you-round trip, of course-in the Triangle Line?” Would I! The Wanderlust has, as her sole virtue, the fact that she is indeed a spaceship and she was shaping for Earth. But she is an old, slow freighter. Whereas the Triangle Liners, as everyone knows, are utter palaces! I could but nod. “Good. It is our privilege and we hope you have a wonderful trip. But, uh, young lady, do you think it possible that you could give us some assurance, for no consideration and simply out of kindness, that you wouldn’t talk about a certain regrettable mishap?” “Oh? I thought that was part of the deal?” “There is no deal. As your uncle pointed out to me, we owe you this trip, no matter what.” “Why-why, Doctor, I’m going to be so busy, so utterly rushed, just to get ready in time, that I won’t have time to talk to anyone about any mishaps that probably weren’t your fault anyhow!” “Thank you.” He turned to Clark. “And you, son?” Clark doesn’t like to be called “son” at best. But don’t think it affected his answer. He ignored the vocative and said coldly, “What about our expenses?” Doctor Schoenstein flinched. Uncle Tom guffawed and said, “That’s my boy! Doc, I told you he had the simple rapacity of a sand gator. He’ll go far-if somebody doesn’t poison him.” “Any suggestions?” “No trouble. Clark. Look me in the eye. Either you stay behind and we weld you into a barrel and feed you through the bunghole so that you can’t talk-while your sister goes anyhow-or you accept these terms. Say a thousand each-no, fifteen hundred-for travel expenses, and you keep your snapper shut forever about the baby mix-up, or I personally, with the aid of four stout, black hearted accomplices, will cut your tongue out and feed it to the cat. A deal?” “I ought to get ten percent commission on Sis’s fifteen hundred. She didn’t have sense enough to ask for it.” “No cumshaw. I ought to be charging you commission on the whole transaction. A deal?” “A deal,” Clark agreed. Uncle Tom stood up. “That does it, Doc, in his own unappetizing way he is as utterly reliable as she is. So relax. You, too, Kwai Yau, you can breathe again. Doe, you can send a check around to me in the morning. Come on, kids.” “Thanks, Tom. If that is the word. I’ll have the cheek over before you get there. Uh, just one thing.” “What, Doe?” “Senator, you were here long before I was born, so I don’t know too much about your early life. Just the traditional stories and what it says about you in Who’s Who on Mars. Just what were you transported for? You were transported? Weren’t you?” Mister Poon looked horror-stricken, and I was. But Uncle Tom didn’t seem offended. He laughed heartily and answered, “I was accused of freezing babies for profit. But it was a frame up-I never did no such thing no how. Come on, kids. Let’s get out of this ghouls’ nest before they smuggle us down into the subbasement.” Later that night in bed I was dreamily thinking over the trip. There hadn’t even been the least argument with Mother and Daddy; Uncle Tom had settled it all by phone before we got home. I heard a sound from the nursery, got up and paddled in. It was Duncan, the little darling, not even wet but lonely. So I picked him up and cuddled him and he cooed and then he was wet, so I changed him. I decided that he was just as pretty, or prettier than all those other babies, even though he was five months younger and his eyes didn’t track. When I put him down again, he was sound asleep; I started back to bed. And stopped. The Triangle Line gets its name from serving the three leading planets, of course, but which direction a ship makes the Mars-Venus-Earth route depends on just where we all are in our orbits. But just where were we? I hurried into the living room and searched for the Daily War Whoop-found it, thank goodness, and fed it into the viewer, flipped to the shipping news, found the predicted arrivals and departures. Yes, yes, yes! I am going not only to Earth-but to Venus as well! Venus! Do you suppose Mother would let me. No, best just say nothing now. Uncle Tom will be more tractable, after we get there. I’m going to miss Duncan-he’s such a little doll. Chapter Four. I haven’t had time to write in this journal for days. Just getting ready to leave was almost impossible-and would have been truly impossible had it not been that most preparations-all the special Terra inoculations and photographs and passports and such-were mostly done before Everything Came Unstuck. But Mother came out of her atavistic daze and was very helpful. She would even let one of the triplets cry for a few moments rather than leave me half pinned up. I don’t know how Clark got ready or whether he had any preparations to make. He continued to creep around silently, answering in grunts if he answered at all. Nor did Uncle Tom seem to find it difficult. I saw him only twice during those frantic ten days (once to borrow baggage mass from his allowance, which he let me have, the dear!) and both times I had to dig him out of the card room at the Elks Club. I asked him how he managed to get ready for so important a trip and still have time to play cards? “Nothing to it,” he answered. “I bought a new toothbrush. Is there something else I should have done?” So I hugged him and told him he was an utterly utter beast and he chuckled and mussed my hair. Query: Will I ever become that blase about space travel? I suppose I must if I am to be an astronaut. But Daddy says that getting ready for a trip is half the fun, so perhaps I don’t want to become that sophisticated. Somehow Mother delivered me, complete with baggage and all the myriad pieces of paper-tickets and medical records and passport and universal identification complex and guardians’ assignment-and-guarantee and three kinds of money and travelers’ cheques and birth record and police certification and security clearance and I don’t remember-all checked off, to the city shuttle port. I was juggling one package of things that simply wouldn’t go into my luggage, and I had one hat on my head and one in my hand; otherwise everything came out even. I don’t know where that second hat went. Somehow it never got aboard with me. But I haven’t missed it. Good-bye at the shuttle port was most teary and exciting. Not just with Mother and Daddy, which was to be expected (when Daddy put his arm around me tight, I threw both mine around him and for a dreadful second I didn’t want to leave at all), but also because about thirty of my classmates showed up (which I hadn’t in the least expected), complete with a banner that two of them were carrying reading: BON VOYAGE-PODKAYNE. I got kissed enough times to start a fair-sized epidemic if any one of them had had anything, which apparently they didn’t. I got kissed by boys who had never even tried to, in the past-and I assure you that it is not utterly impossible to kiss me, if the project is approached with confidence and finesse, as I believe that one’s instincts should be allowed to develop as well as one’s overt cortical behavior. The corsage Daddy had given me for going away got crushed and I didn’t even notice it until we were aboard the shuttle. I suppose it was somewhere about then that I lost that hat, but I’ll never know-I would have lost the last-minute package, too, if Uncle Tom had not rescued it. There were photographers, too, but not for me-for Uncle Tom. Then suddenly we had to scoot aboard the shuttle right now because a shuttle can’t wait; it has to boost on the split second even though Deimos moves so much more slowly than Phobos. A reporter from the War Whoop was still trying to get a statement out of Uncle Tom about the forthcoming Three-Planets conference but he just pointed at his throat and whispered, “Laryngitis”, then we were aboard just before they sealed the airlock. It must have been the shortest case of laryngitis on record; Uncle Tom’s voice had been all right until we got to the shuttle port and it was okay again once we were in the shuttle. One shuttle trip is exactly like another, whether to Phobos or Deimos. Still, that first tremendous whoosh! of acceleration is exciting as it pins you down into your couch with so much weight that you can’t breathe, much less move-and free fall is always strange and eerie and rather stomach fluttering even if one doesn’t tend to be nauseated by it, which, thank you, I don’t. Being on Deimos is just like being in free fall, since neither Deimos nor Phobos has enough surface gravitation for one to feel it. They put suction sandals on us before they unstrapped us so that we could walk, just as they do on Phobos. Nevertheless Deimos is different from Phobos for reasons having nothing to do with natural phenomena. Phobos is, of course, legally a part of Mars; there are no formalities of any sort about visiting it. All that is required is the fare, a free day, and a yen for a picnic in space. But Deimos is a free port, leased in perpetuity to Three-Planets Treaty Authority. A known criminal, with a price on his head in Marsopolis, could change ships there right under the eyes of our own police, and we couldn’t touch him. Instead, we would have to start most complicated legal doings at the Interplanetary High Court on Luna, practically win the case ahead of time and, besides that, prove that the crime was a crime under Three-Planet rules and not just under our own laws, and then all that we could do would be to ask the Authority’s proctors to arrest the man if he was still around-which doesn’t seem likely. I knew about this, theoretically, because there had been about a half page on it in our school course Essentials of Martian Government in the section on “Extraterritoriality.” But now I had plenty of time to think about it because, as soon as we left the shuttle, we found ourselves locked up in a room misleadingly called the “Hospitality Room” while we waited until they were ready to “process” us. One wall of the room was glass and I could see lots and lots of people hurrying around in the concourse beyond, doing all manner of interesting and mysterious things. But all we had to do was to wait beside our baggage and grow bored. I found that I was growing furious by the minute, not at all like my normally sweet and lovable nature. Why, this place had been built by my own mother! And here I was, caged up in it like white mice in a bio lab. Well, I admit that Mother didn’t exactly build Deimos; the Martians did that, starting with a spare asteroid that they happened to have handy. But some millions of years back they grew tired of space travel and devoted all their time to the which ness of what and how to unscrew the inscrutable, so when Mother took over the job, Deimos was pretty run down; she had to start in from the ground up and rebuild it completely. In any case, it was certain that everything that I could see through that transparent wall was a product of Mother’s creative, imaginative and hardheaded engineering ability. I began to fume. Clark was off in a corner, talking privately to some stranger, “stranger” to me, at least; Clark, for all his antisocial disposition, always seems to know somebody, or to know somebody who knows somebody, anywhere we go. I sometimes wonder if he is a member of some vast underground secret society; he has such unsavory acquaintances and never brings any of them home. Clark is, however, a very satisfactory person to fume with, because, if he isn’t busy, he is always willing to help a person hate anything that needs hating; he can even dig up reasons why a situation is even more vilely unfair than you thought it was. But he was busy, so that left Uncle Tom. So I explained to him bitterly how outrageous I thought it was that we should be penned up like animals-free Mars citizens on one of Mars’ own moons!-simply because a sign read: Passengers must wait until called-by order of Three Planets Treaty Authority. “Politics!” I said bitterly. “I could run it better myself.” “I’m sure you could,” he agreed gravely, “but, Flicka, you don’t understand.” “I understand all too well!” “No, honey bun. You understand that there is no good reason why you should not walk straight through that door and enjoy yourself by shopping until it is time to go inboard the Tricorn. And you are right about that, for there is no need at all for you to be locked up in here when you could be out there making some freeport shopkeeper happy by paying him a high price which seems to you a low price. So you say Politics! as if it were a nasty word-and you think that settles it.” He sighed. “But you don’t understand. Politics is not evil; politics is the human race’s most magnificent achievement. When politics is good, it’s wonderful and when politics is bad-well, it’s still pretty good.” “I guess I don’t understand,” I said slowly. “Think about it. Politics is just a name for the way we get things done, without fighting. We dicker and compromise and everybody thinks he has received a raw deal, but somehow after a tedious amount of talk we come up with some jury-rigged way to do it without getting anybody’s head bashed in. That’s politics. The only other way to settle a dispute is by bashing a few heads in, and that is what happens when one or both sides is no longer willing to dicker. That’s why I say politics is good even when it is bad because the only alternative is force-and somebody gets hurt.” “Uh, it seems to me that’s a funny way for a revolutionary veteran to talk. From what I’ve heard, Uncle Tom, you were one of the bloodthirsty ones who started the shooting. Or so Daddy says.” He grinned. “Mostly I ducked. If dickering won’t work, then you have to fight. But I think maybe it takes a man who has been shot at to appreciate how much better it is to fumble your way through a political compromise rather than have the top of your head blown off.” He frowned and suddenly looked very old. “When to talk and when to fight. That is the most difficult decision to make wisely of all the decisions in life.” Then suddenly he smiled and the years dropped away. “Mankind didn’t invent fighting; it was here long before we were. But we invented politics. Just think of it, hon, Homo sapiens is the most cruel, the most vicious, the most predatory, and certainly the most deadly of all the animals in this solar system. Yet he invented politics! He figured out a way to let most of us, most of the time, get along well enough so that we usually don’t kill each other. So don’t let me hear you using politics as a swear word again.” “I’m sorry, Uncle Tom,” I said humbly. “Like fun you are. But if you let that idea soak for twenty or thirty years, you may, Oh, oh! There’s your villain, baby girl-the politically appointed bureaucrat who has most unjustly held you in durance vile. So scratch his eyes out. Show him how little you think of his silly rules.” I answered this with dignified silence. It is hard to tell when Uncle Tom is serious because he loves to pull my leg, always hoping that it will come off in his hand. The Three-Planets proctor of whom he was speaking had opened the door to our bullpen and was looking around exactly like a zookeeper inspecting a cage for cleanliness. “Passports!” he called out. “Diplomatic passports first.” He looked us over, spotted Uncle Tom. “Senator?” Uncle Tom shook his head. “I’m a tourist, thanks.” “As you say, sir. Line up, please-reverse alphabetical order”, which put us near the tail of the line instead of near the head. There followed maddening delays for fully two hours passports, health clearance, outgoing baggage inspection-Mars Republic does not levy duties on exports but just the same there is a whole long list of things you can’t export without a license, such as ancient Martian artifacts (the first explorers did their best to gut the place and some of the most priceless are in the British Museum or the Kremlin; I’ve heard Daddy fume about it), some things you can’t export under any circumstances, such as certain narcotics, and some things you can take aboard ship only by surrendering them for safekeeping by the purser, such as guns and other weapons. Clark picked outgoing inspection for some typical abnormal behavior. They had passed down the line copies of a long list of things we must not have in our baggage-a fascinating list; I hadn’t known that there were so many things either illegal, immoral, or deadly. When the Fries contingent wearily reached the inspection counter, the inspector said, all in one word: “Nything-t’-d’clare?” He was a Marsman and as he looked up he recognized Uncle Tom. “Oh. Howdy, Senator. Honored to have you with us. Well, I guess we needn’t waste time on your baggage. These two young people with you?” “Better search my kit,” Uncle Tom advised. “I’m smuggling guns to an out-planet branch of the Legion. As for the kids, they’re my niece and nephew. But I don’t vouch for them; they’re both subversive characters. Especially the girl. She was soap-boxing revolution just now while we waited.” The inspector smiled and said, “I guess we can allow you a few guns, Senator-you know how to use them. Well, how about it, kids? Anything to declare?” I said, “Nothing to declare,” with icy dignity-when suddenly Clark spoke up. “Sure!” he piped, his voice cracking. “Two kilos of happy dust! And whose business is it? I paid for it. I’m not going to let it be stolen by a bunch of clerks.” His voice was surly as only he can manage and the expression on his face simply ached for a slap. That did it. The inspector had been just about to glance into one of my bags, a purely formal inspection, I think-when my brattish brother deliberately stirred things up. At the very word “happy dust” four other inspectors closed in. Two were Venus men, to judge by their accents, and the other two might have been from Earth. Of course, happy dust doesn’t matter to us Mars men. The Martians use it, have always used it, and it is about as important to them as tobacco is to humans, but apparently without any ill effects. What they get out of it I don’t know. Some of the old sand rats among us have picked up the habit from the Martians-but my entire botany class experimented with it under our teacher’s supervision and nobody got any thrill out of it and all I got was blocked sinuses that wore off before the day was out. Strictly zero squared. But with the native Venerians it is another matter, when they can get it. It turns them into murderous maniacs and they’ll do anything to get it. The (black market) price on it there is very high indeed, and possession of it by a human on Venus is at least an automatic life sentence to Saturn’s moons. They buzzed around Clark like angry jetta wasps. But they did not find what they were looking for. Shortly Uncle Tom spoke up and said, “Inspector? May I make a suggestion?” “Eh? Certainly, Senator.” “My nephew, I am sorry to say, has caused a disturbance. Why don’t you put him aside-chain him up, I would-and let all these other good people go through?” The inspector blinked. “I think that is an excellent idea.” “And I would appreciate it if you would inspect myself and my niece now. Then we won’t hold up the others.” “Oh, that’s not necessary.” The inspector slapped seals on all of Uncle’s bags, closed the one of mine he had started to open, and said, “I don’t need to paw through the young lady’s pretties. But I think we’ll take this smart boy and search him to the skin and X-ray him.” “Do that.” So Uncle and I went on and checked at four or five other desks-fiscal control and migration and reservations and other nonsense-and finally wound up with our baggage at the centrifuge for weighing in. I never did get a chance to shop. To my chagrin, when I stepped off the merry-go-round the record showed that my baggage and myself were nearly three kilos over my allowance, which didn’t seem possible. I hadn’t eaten more breakfast than usual-less actually-and I hadn’t drunk any water because, while I do not become ill in free fall, drinking in free fall is very tricky; you are likely to get water up your nose or something and set off an embarrassing chain reaction. So I was about to protest bitterly that the weight master had spun the centrifuge too fast and produced a false mass reading. But it occurred to me that I did not know for surely certain that the scales Mother and I had used were perfectly accurate. So I kept quiet. Uncle Tom just reached for his purse and said, “How much?” The weight master said, “Hum, let’s spin you first, Senator.” Uncle Tom was almost two kilos under his allowance. The weight master shrugged and said, “Forget it, Senator. I’m minus on a couple of other things; I think I can swallow it. If not, I’ll leave a memo with the purser. But I’m fairly sure I can.” “Thank you. What did you say your name was?” “Mio. Miles M. Milo-Aasvogel Lodge number seventy-four. Maybe you saw our crack drill team at the Legion convention two years ago, I was left pivot.” “I certainly did, I certainly did!” They exchanged that secret grip that they think other people don’t know and Uncle Tom said, “Well, thanks, Miles. Be seeing you.” “Not at all-Tom. No, don’t bother with your baggage.” Mister Mio touched a button and called out, “In the Tricorn! Get somebody out here fast for the Senator’s baggage.” It occurred to me, as we stopped at the passenger tube sealed to the transfer station to swap our suction sandals for little magnet pads that clipped to our shoes, that we need not have waited for anything at anytime, if only Uncle Tom had been willing to use the special favors he so plainly could demand. But, even so, it pays to travel with an important person-even though it’s just your Uncle Tom whose stomach you used to jump up and down on when you were small enough for such things. Our tickets simply read FIRST CLASS-Im sure, for I saw all three of them-but where we were placed was in what they call the “Owner’s Cabin,” which is actually a suite with three bedrooms and a living room. I was dazzled! But I didn’t have time to admire it just then. First they strapped our baggage down, then they strapped us down-to seat couches which were against one wall of the living room. That wall plainly should have been the floor, but it slanted up almost vertically with respect to the tiny, not-quite-nothing weight that we had. The warning sirens were already sounding when someone dragged Clark in and strapped him to one of the couches. He was looking mussed up but cocky. “Hi, smuggler,” Uncle Tom greeted him amiably. “They find it on you?” “Nothing to find.” “That’s what I thought. I trust they gave you a rough time.” “Naah!” I wasn’t sure I believed Clark’s answer; I’ve heard that a skin and person search can be made quite annoying indeed, without doing anything the least bit illegal, if the proctors are feeling unfriendly. A “rough time” would be good for Clark’s soul, I am sure-but he certainly did not act as if the experience had caused him any discomfort. I said, “Clark, that was a very foolish remark you made to the inspector. And it was a lie, as well-a silly, useless lie.” “Sign off,” he said curtly. “If I’m smuggling anything, it’s up to them to find it; that’s what they’re paid for. Any-thing-t’-d’clare?”, he added in a mimicking voice. “What nonsense! As if anybody would declare something he was trying to smuggle.” “Just the same,” I went on, “if Daddy had heard you say.” “Podkayne.” “Yes, Uncle Tom?” “Table it. We’re about to start. Let’s enjoy it.” “But. Yes, Uncle.” There was a slight drop in pressure, then a sudden surge that would have slid us out of our couches if we had not been strapped-but not a strong one, not at all like that giant whoosh! With which we had left the surface. It did not last long, then we were truly in free fall for a few moments, then there started a soft, gentle push in the same direction, which kept on. Then the room started very slowly to turn around almost unnoticeable except for a slight dizziness it gave one. Gradually, gradually (it took almost twenty minutes) our weight increased, until at last we were back to our proper weight, at which time the floor, which had been all wrong when we came in, was where it belonged, under us, and almost level. But not quite. Here is what had happened. The first short boost was made by the rocket tugs of Deimos Port picking up the Tricorn and hurling her out into a free orbit of her own. This doesn’t take much, because the attraction between even a big ship like the Tricorn and a tiny, tiny satellite such as Deimos isn’t enough to matter; all that matters is getting the very considerable mass of the ship shoved free. The second gentle shove, the one that kept up and never went away, was the ship’s own main drive-one tenth of a standard gee. The Tricorn is a constant boost ship; she doesn’t dillydally around with economical orbits and weeks and months in free fall. Heinlein Audiobooks: https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html

INTRODUCTION. INTO THE LIGHT. THISBOOKis a celebration of the female body, its anatomy, its chemistry, its evolution, and its laughter. It is a personal book, my attempt to find a way to think about the biology of being female without falling into the sludge of biological determinism. It is a book about things that we traditionally associate with the image of woman, the womb, the egg, the breast, the blood, the almighty clitoris, and things that we don't, movement, strength, aggression, and fury. It is a book about rapture, a rapture grounded firmly in the flesh, the beauties of the body. The female body deserves Dionysian respect, and to make my case I summon the spirits and cranks that I know and love best. I call on science and medicine, to sketch a working map of the parts that we call female and to describe their underlying dynamism. I turn to Darwin and evolutionary theory, to thrash out the origins of our intimate geography, why our bodies look and behave as they do, why they look rounded and smooth, but act ragged and rough. I cull from history, art, and literature, seeking insight into how a particular body part or body whim has been phrased over time. I pick and choose, discriminately and impulsively, from the spectacular advances in our understanding of genetics, the brain, hormones, and development, to offer possible scripts for our urges and actions. I toss out ideas and theories, about the origins of the breast, the purpose of orgasm, the blistering love that we have for our mothers, the reason that women need and spurn each other with almost equal zeal. Some of the theories are woolier than others. Some theories I offer up because I stumbled on them in the course of research and found them fascinating, dazzling, like Kusten Hawkes's proposal that grandmothers gave birth to the human race simply by refusing to die when their ovaries did. Other theories I pitch for their contrariety, their power to buck the party line of woman's "nature," while still others I throw out like rice at a bride, for luck, cheer, hope, and anarchy. Admittedly, a Dionysian state of body is not easily won, for the female body has been abominably regarded over the centuries. It has been made too much of or utterly ignored. It has been conceived of as the second sex, the first draft, the faulty sex, the default sex, the consolation prize, the succubus, the male interruptus. We are lewd, prim, bestial, ethereal. We have borne more illegitimate metaphors than we have unwanted embryos. But, women, we know how much of this is trash: very pretty, very elaborate, almost flattering in its ferocity, but still, in the end, trash. We may love men and we may live with men, but some of them have said stupendously inaccurate things about us, our bodies, and our psyches. Take the example of the myth of the inner sanctum. Men look at our bodies and they can't readily see our external genitals; our handy chamois triangle, that natural leaf ofpubisficus,obscures the contours of the vulva. At the same time men hunger to breach the portal of fur and the outer pleats, to reach the even more concealed internal genitalia, the sacred nave of the vagina. No wonder, then, that woman becomes conflated with interiority. Men want what they cannot see, and so they assume we relish, perhaps smugly, the moatness of ourselves. Woman the bowl, the urn, the cave, the musky jungle. We are the dark mysterium! We are hidden folds and primal wisdom and always, always the womb, bearing life, releasing life, and then sucking it back in again, into those moist, chthonic plaits. "Male sexuality, then, returning to this primal source, drinks at the spring of being and enters the murky region, where up is down and death is life, of mythology," John Updike has written. But, sisters, are we cups and bottles, vessels and boxes? Are we orb-weaving spiders crouched in the web of our wombs, or blind spiders living in the underground of our furtivity? Are we so interior and occult? Hecate, no! No more or less than men. True, men have penises that appear to externalize them, to give them thrust and parry in the world beyond their bodies, but the sensations their penises bring them, like those the clitoris brings us, are splendidly, internally, globally felt; do not even the toes feel orgasm, whatever the sex of the toes' owner may be? Men have external testes, while women's ovaries are tucked inside, not far below the line of the hipbones. But both organs release their products and exert their endocrinological and reproductive effects internally. Men live in their heads, as we do, trapped in the fable of the universal mind. At the same time, neither we nor men have a good sense of what our interior bodies are doing from one moment to the next, of the work performed by liver, heart, hormones, neurons. Yet the possession of all this powerful, covert organic activity in no way imposes on any of us, male or female, an aura of mystique. I have pancreas: I am Enigma. Even during pregnancy, the event that perhaps epitomizes the notion of woman as a subterranean sorceress, the mother is often not in tune with her great endarkened magic. I recall sitting in the thickness of my third trimester and feeling my baby fidget within me practically nonstop. But I had no idea whether she was kicking with her foot, jabbing with her elbow, or butting her head against the amniotic trampoline, let alone whether she was blissful, anxious, or bored. Before undergoing amniocentesis, I was convinced that my intuition, feminine? maternal? reptilian?, had figured out the fetus's sex. It was the ultimate gut feeling, and it growled like a boy. I dreamed about an egg colored a bright royal blue, and I woke up embarrassed at the crude exhibitionism of the symbol. At least that clinches it, I thought; Mama is about to hatch a son. Well, the amniocentesis spoke otherwise: he was a she. The equation of the female body with mystery andsanctum sanctorumextends its foolish villi in all directions. We become associated with the night, the earth, and of course the moon, which like the bouncing ball of old Hollywood musicals so deftly follows our "inescapable" cyclicity. We wax toward ovulation, we wane with blood. The moon pulls us, it tugs at our wombs, even gives us our menstrual cramps. My dearestdamas, do you ever feel like creeping out at night to howl at the full moon? Maybe so; the full moon is so beautiful, after all, particularly when it's near the horizon and smeared slightly into buttery breastiness. Yet this desire to howl with joy has little to do with our likelihood of buying tampons; in fact, I'd guess that most of us, those of us who menstruate, haven't a clue where in the lunar cycle our period falls. Nevertheless, flatulisms die hard, and so we continue to encounter slickly tired descriptions of woman as an ingredient on an organic food label, like the following from Camille PagliasSexual Personae: Nature's cycles are woman's cycles. Biologic femaleness is a sequence of circular returns, beginning and ending at the same point. Woman does not dream of transcendental or historical escape from the natural cycle, since she is that cycle. Her sexual maturity means marriage to the moon, waxing and waning in lunar phases. The ancients knew that woman is bound to nature's calendar, an appointment she cannot refuse. She knows there is no free will, since she is not free. She has no choice but acceptance. Whether she desires motherhood or not, nature yokes her into the brute inflexible rhythm of procreative law. Menstrual cycle is an alarming clock that cannot be stopped until nature wills it. Moon, month, menses: same word, same world. Ah, yes. Etymology is ever the arbiter of truth. It makes a gal so alarmed, so lunatic really, to witness the resuscitation in recent times of all the fetid cliches that I, and probably you, my sisters, thought had been drawn, quartered, and cremated long ago. I have been writing and reading about biology and evolution for years now, and I am frankly getting sick of how "science" is pinned to our she-butts like donkey tails and then glued in place with talk of hardheaded realism. I am tired of reading in books on evolutionary psychology or neo-Darwinism or gender biology about how women are really like all the old canards: that we have a lackadaisical sex drive compared to men and a relatively greater thirst for monogamy, and, outside the strictly sexual arena, a comparative lack of interest in achievement and renown, a preference forbeingrather thandoing,a quiet, self-contained nature, a greater degree of "friendliness," a deficient mathematical ability, and so on et cetera back to the bleary Cro-Magnon beginnings. I'm tired of hearing about how there are sound evolutionary explanations for such ascriptions of woman's nature and how we must face them full square, chin up and smiling. I'm tired as well of being told I mustn't let my feminist, pro-woman beliefs get in the way of seeing "reality" and acknowledging "the facts." I am tired of all this because I love animalism, and I love biology, and I love the body, particularly the female body. I love what the body brings to the brain when the brain gets depressed and uppity. But many of the current stories of the innate feminine are so impoverished, incomplete, and inaccurate, so remarkably free of real proof, that they simply do not ring true, not for me and not, I suspect, for many other women, who mostly ignore what science has to say to them and about them anyway. At the same time, the standard arguments against Darwinism and the biological view of womanhood don't always succeed either, predicated as they often are on a rejection of the body, or at least of the impact that the body has on behavior. It is as though we were pure mind, and pure will, capable of psychospiritual rebirth throughout our lives, in no way beholden to the body or even encouraged to take a few tips from it now and again. Many of those who have criticized Darwinism and biologism are, alas, feminists and progressives, noble, necessary citizens, among whom I normally strive to count myself. Admittedly, the critics are often justified in their animadversion, whether they're attacking the myth of the passive female or the studies that purport to show immutable differences between male and female math skills. Nevertheless, they disappoint when all they can do is say nay. They pick out flaws, they grumble, they reject. Hormones don't count, appetites don't count, odors, sensations, and genitals don't count. The body is strictly vehicle, never driver. All is learned, all is social construct, all is the sequela of cultural conditioning. Critics also work from a premise, often unspoken, that human beings arespecial, maybe better, maybe worse, but ultimately different from the rest of evolution's handicraft. As such, they imply, we have little to learn about ourselves by studying other species, and we gals especially have a lot to lose. When, after all, have we ever benefited from being compared to a female lab rat? In fact, we have a great deal to learn about ourselves by studying other species. Of course we do. If you watch other animals and don't see pieces of yourself in their behaviors, then you're not quite human, are you? I, for one, want to learn from other animals. I want to learn from a prairie vole about the unassailable logic of spending as much time as possible cuddled up with friends and loved ones. I want to learn from my cats, professional recreationists that they are, how to get a good night's sleep. I want to learn from pygmy chimpanzees, our bonobo sisters, how to settle arguments peacefully and pleasantly, with a bit of genito-genital rubbing; and I want to discover anew the value of sisterhood, of females sticking up for each other, which the bonobos do to such a degree that they are rarely violated or even pestered by males, despite the males' being larger and stronger. If women have managed to push the issues of sexual harassment, wife abuse, and rape into the public eye and onto legislative platters, they have succeeded only through persistent, organized, and sororal activity, all of which female bonobos perfected in their own protocognitive style long ago. I believe that we can learn from other species, and from our pasts, and from our parts, which is why I wrote this book as a kind of scientific fantasia of womanhood. As easily as we can be abused by science, we can use it to our own ends. We can use it to exalt ourselves or amuse ourselves. Phylogeny, ontogeny, genetics, endocrinology: all are there to be sampled, and I am a shameless carpetbagger. I rifle through the female chromosome, the giant one called X, and ask why it is so big and whether it has any outstanding features (it does). I ask why women's genitals smell the way they do. I explore the chemical shifts that occur in a woman's life, during breastfeeding, menstruation, the onset of puberty, and menopause, among others, and consider how each breaks the monotony of physical homeostasis to bring the potential for clarity, a sharpening of the senses. And because we are none of us a closed system but, rather, suspended in the solution of our local universe, I ask how the body breathes in chemical signals from the outside and how that act of imbibing the world sways our behavior, how inspiration becomes revelation. The book is organized roughly from the small to the large, from the compactness and tangibility of the egg to the great sweet swamp of the sensation we call love. It divides into two overall sections, the first focused on body structures, the art objects of our anatomy, and the second on body systems, the hormonal and neural underpinnings of our actions and longings. I want to say a few words about what this book is not. It is not about the biology of gender differences and how similar or dissimilar men and women may be. Of necessity, the book contains many references to men and male biology. We define ourselves in part by how we compare to the other, and the nearest other at hand is, as it happens, man. Nevertheless, I don't delve into the research on the way that different regions of the brain light up in men and women while they're remembering happy events or shopping lists, or what those differences might mean about why you want to talk about the relationship while he wants to watch hockey. I don't compare male and female scholastic aptitude scores. I don't ask which sex has a better sense of smell or sense of direction or innate inability to ask for directions. Even in Chapter 18, when I dissect some of the arguments put forth by evolutionary psychologists to explain the supposed discrepancies in male and female reproductive strategies, I'm interested less in the debate over gender differences than in challenging evolutionary psychology's anemic view of female nature. In sum, this book is not a dispatch from the front lines of the war between the sexes; it is a book about women. And though I hope my audience will include men as well as women, I write with the assumption that my average reader is a gal, a word, by the way, that I use liberally throughout the book, because I like it and because I keep thinking, against all evidence, that it is on the verge of coming back into style. Another thing the book is not is practical. It is not a guide to women's health. I am scientifically and medically accurate where I can be, opinionated where there is room for argument. For example, on the subject of estrogen. This hormone is one of my favorites; it is a structural tone poem, as I try to convey in the chapter that honors it. But estrogen can be a Janus-faced hormone, bringing life and brain function on the one hand, death on the other; whatever the roots of breast cancer, the disease is often negotiated through estrogen. So while I'm glad to have been born with my female quotient of it, I have never sought it in supplement form. I have never taken birth control pills, and I have reservations about estrogen replacement therapy, an issue I discuss where appropriate but with absolutely no attempt at proselytizing. My book is not a spinoff ofOur Bodies, Ourselves,which is a wonderful, ovarial work from which all we womanists hatched and needs no tepid imitations. My book sets out to tackle the question "What makes a woman?" But I can only sidle up to the subject of femaleness clumsily, idiosyncratically, with my biases, impressions, and desires flapping out like the tongue of an untucked blouse. Ultimately, of course, every woman must decide for herself, from her clay of givens and takings, what has made her a woman. I hope simply to show how the body is part of the answer, is a map to meaning and freedom. Mary Carlson, of Harvard Medical School, has coined the term "liberation biology" to describe the use of biological insights to heal our psychic wounds, understand our fears, and make the most of what we have and of those who will have us and love us. It's a superb phrase. We need liberation, perpetual revolution. What better place to begin the insurrection than at the doors to the palace we've lived in all these years? One. UNSCRAMBLING THE EGG. IT BEGINS WITH ONE PERFECT SOLAR CELL. PUTAFEWADULTSin a room with a sweet-tempered infant, and you may as well leave a tub of butter sitting out in the midday sun. Within moments of crowding around the crib, their grown-up bones begin to soften and their spines to bend. Their eyes mist over with cataracts of pleasure. They misplace intellect and discover new vocal ranges, countertenor, soprano, piglet. And when they happen on the baby's hands, prepare for a variant on the ancient Ode to the Fingernail. Nothing so focuses adult adoration as a newborn's fingernail, its lovely condensed precocity. See the tiny cuticle below, the white eyebrow of keratin on top, the curved buff of the nail body, the irresistible businesslike quality of the whole: it looks like it really works! We love the infant fingernail for its capacity to flatter, its miniature yet faithful recreation of our own form. More than in the thigh or the eye or even the springy nautilus shell of the ear, in the baby's nail sits the homunculus, the adult in preview. And so, we are reminded, the future is assured. Myself, I prefer eggs. At some point midway through my pregnancy, when I knew I was carrying a daughter, I began to think of myself as standing in a room with two facing mirrors, so that looking into one mirror you see the other mirror reflecting it, and you, off into something approaching an infinity of images. At twenty weeks' gestation, my girl held within her nine-ounce, banana-sized body, in a position spatially equivalent to where she floated in me, the tangled grapevines of my genomic future. Halfway through her fetal tenure, she already had all the eggs she would ever have, packed into ovaries no bigger than the lettersovayou just passed. My daughter's eggs are silver points of potential energy, the light at the beginning of the tunnel, a near-life experience. Boys don't make sperm, their proud "seed", until they reach puberty. But my daughter's sex cells,ourseed, are already settled upon prenatally, the chromosomes sorted, the potsherds of her parents' histories packed into their little phospholipid baggies. The image of the nested Russian dolls is used too often. I see it everywhere, particularly in descriptions of scientific mysteries (you open one mystery, you encounter another). But if there were ever an appropriate time to dust off the simile, it's here, to describe the nested nature of the matriline. Consider, if you will, the ovoid shape of the doll and the compelling unpredictability and fluidity of dynasty. Open the ovoid mother and find the ovoid girl; open the child and the next egg grins up its invitation to crack it. You can never tell a priori how many iterations await you; you hope they continue forever. My daughter, my matryoshka. I said a moment ago that my daughter had all her eggs in mid-fetushood. In fact she was goosed up way beyond capacity, a fatly subsidized poultry farm. She had all her eggs and many more, and she will lose the great majority of those glittering germ cells before she begins to menstruate. At twenty weeks' gestation, the peak of a female's oogonial load, the fetus holds 6 to 7 million eggs. In the next twenty weeks of wombing, 4 million of those eggs will die, and by puberty all but 400,000 will have taken to the wing, without a squabble, without a peep. The attrition continues, though at a more sedate pace, throughout a woman's youth and early middle age. At most, 450 of her eggs will be solicited for ovulation, and far fewer than that if she spends a lot of time being pregnant and thus not ovulating. Yet by menopause, few if any eggs remain in the ovaries. The rest have vanished. The body has reclaimed them. This is a basic principle of living organisms. Life is profligate; life is a spendthrift; life can persist only by living beyond its means. You make things in extravagant abundance, and then you shave back, throw away, kill off the excess. Through extensive cell death the brain is molded, transformed from a teeming pudding of primitive, overpopulous neurons into an organized structure of convolutions and connections, recognizable lobes and nuclei; by the time the human brain has finished developing, in infancy, 90 percent of its original cell number has died, leaving the privileged few to sustain the hard work of dwelling on mortality. This is also how limbs are built. At some point in embryo-genesis, the fingers and toes must be relieved of their interdigital webbing, or we would emerge from our amniotic aquarium with flippers and fins. And this too is how the future is laid down. The millions of eggs that we women begin with are cleanly destroyed through an innate cell program called apoptosis. The eggs do not simply die, they commit suicide. Their membranes ruffle up like petticoats whipped by the wind and they break into pieces, thence to be absorbed bit by bit into the hearts of neighboring cells. By graciously if melodramatically getting out of the way, the sacrificial eggs leave their sisters plenty of hatching room. I love the wordapoptosis,the onomatopoeia of it:a-POP-tosis. The eggs pop apart like poked soap bubbles, a brief flash of taut, refracted light and then, ka-ping!And while my girl grew toward completion inside me, her fresh little eggs popped by the tens of thousands each day. By the time she is born, I thought, her eggs will be the rarest cells in her body. Scientists have made much of apoptosis in the past few years. They have sought to link every disease known to granting agencies, whether cancer, Alzheimer's, or AIDS, to a breakdown in the body's ability to control when pieces of itself must die. Just as a pregnant woman sees nothing but a sea of swollen bellies all around her, so scientists see apoptosis gone awry in every ill person or sickly white mouse they examine, and they promise grand paybacks in cures and amelioratives if they ever master apoptosis. For our purposes, let us think not of disease or dysfunction; let us instead praise the dying hordes, and lubricate their departure with tears of gratitude. Yes, it's wasteful, yes, it seems stupid to make so much and then immediately destroy nearly all of it, but would nature get anywhere if she were stingy? Would we expect to see her flagrant diversity, her blowsy sequins and feather boas, if she weren't simply and reliablytoo much?Think of it this way: without the unchosen, there can be no choosing. Unless we break eggs, there can be no souffle. The eggs that survive the streamlining process could well be the tastiest ones in the nest. And so, from an eggy perspective, we may not be such random, sorry creatures after all, such products of contingency or freak odds as many of us glumly decided during our days of adolescent sky-punching (Why me, oh Lord? How did that outrageous accident happen?). The chances of any of us being, rather than not being, may not be so outrageous, considering how much was winnowed out before we ever arrived at the possibility of being. I used to wonder why life works as well as it does, why humans and other animals generally emerge from incubation in such beautiful condition, why there aren't more developmental horrors. We all know about the high rate of spontaneous miscarriages during the first trimester of pregnancy, and we have all heard that the majority of those miscarriages are blessed expulsions, eliminating embryos with chromosomes too distorted for being. Yet long before that point, when imperfect egg has met bad sperm, came the vast sweeps of the apoptotic broom, the vigorous judgment of no, no, no. Not you, not you, and most definitely not you. Through cell suicide, we at last get to yes, a rare word, but beautiful in its rarity. We are all yeses. We are worthy enough, we passed inspection, we survived the great fetal oocyte extinctions. In that sense, at least, call it a mechanospiritual sense, we are meant to be. We are good eggs, every one of us. If you have never had trouble with your eggs, if you have never had to worry about your fecundity, you probably haven't given your eggs much thought, or dwelled on their dimensions, the particular power that egg cells enclose. You think of eggs, you think food: poached, scrambled, or forbidden. Or maybe you were lucky enough as a child to find in your back yard a nest with two or three robin's eggs inside, each looking so tender and pale that you held your breath before venturing to touch one. I was unhappily familiar in my girlhood with another sort of animal egg, that of a cockroach; usually I found the empty egg case after its cargo had safely departed, a sight as disturbing as that of a spent shotgun shell and more evidence of the insect's supremacy. The symbolic impact of the egg in many cultures is as an oval. The egg of the world, thick toward the bottom to ground us, thinner at the apex as though pointing toward the heavens. In medieval paintings and cathedral tympana, Christus Regnans sits in a heavenly ovoid: he who gave birth to the world was born unto the world to secure it from death. At Easter we paint eggs to celebrate rebirth, resurrection; in the egg is life, as life is cradled in the cupped, ovoid palms of the hands. The Hindu gods Ganesha and Shiva Nataraja sit or dance in egg-shaped, flame-tipped backdrops. In painting her vulval flowers, the petals opening onto other petals like abstract pastel matryoshkas, Georgia O'Keeffe evoked as well the image of the egg, as though female genitalia recapitulate female procreative powers. The egg of a chicken or other bird is a triumph in packaging. A female bird makes the bulk of the egg inside her reproductive tract long before mating with a male. She supplies the egg with all the nutrients the chick embryo will require to reach pecking independence. The reason that an egg yolk is so rich in cholesterol, and thus that people see it as gastronomically risque, is that a growing fetus needs ample cholesterol to build the membranes of the cells of which the body, any body, is constructed. The bird gives the egg protein, sugars, hormones, growth factors. Only after the cupboards are fully stocked will the egg be fertilized by sperm, sealed with a few calciferous layers of eggshell, and finally laid. Bird eggs are usually oval, in part for aerodynamic reasons: the shape makes their odyssey down the cloaca, the bird's equivalent of a birth canal, that much smoother. We gals have been called chicks, and in Britain we've been birds, but if our eggs are any indication, the comparison is daft. A woman's egg, like that of any other mammal, has nothing avian about it. There is no shell, of course, and there really is no yolk, although the aqueous body of the egg, the cytoplasm, would feel a bit yolky to the touch if it were big enough to stick your finger in. But a human egg has no food with which to feed an embryo. And though one springs to fullness upon ovulation each month, it most certainly is not the pit-faced, frigid moon. I have another suggestion. Let's reject the notion that men have exclusive rights to the sun. Must Helios, Apollo, Ra, Mithras, and the other golden boys take up every seat in the solar chariot that lights each day and coaxes forth all life? This is a miscarriage of mythology, for a woman's egg resembles nothing so much as the sun at its most electrically alive: the perfect orb, speaking in tongues of fire. Doctor Maria Bustillo is a short, barrel-bodied woman in her mid-forties who frequently smiles small, private smiles, as though life dependably amuses her. She is a Cuban American. Her features are round but not pudgy, and she wears her dark hair neither short nor long. As an infertility expert, Bustillo is a modern Demeter, a harvester and deft manipulator of human eggs, a magician in a minor key. She helps some couples who are desperate for parenthood get pregnant, and to them she is a goddess. But others she cannot help. For those others, it is no metaphor to say they flush many thousands of dollars down the toilet with each cycle of IVF or GIFT or other prayers by alphabet. That is the reality of infertility treatment today, as we have read and heard and read again: it is very expensive, and it often fails. Nevertheless, Bustillo smiles her small amused smiles and does not coddle gloom. She manages to seem simultaneously brisk and easygoing. Her staff loves working with her; her patients appreciate her candor and her refusal to condescend. I liked her instantly and almost without qualification. Only once did she say something that reminded me, oh, yes, she is a surgeon, a wisecracking cowgirl in scrubs. As she washed her hands before performing a vaginal procedure, she repeated a smirking remark that she'd heard from one of her instructors years earlier. "He told me, Washing your hands before doing vaginal surgery is like taking a Shower before taking a crap," Bustillo said. The vagina is quite dirty, she continued, so there is nothing you could introduce into it with your hands that would be worse than what's already there. This bit of orificial wisdom, by the way, is an old husbands' tale, a load of crap, as we will discuss in Chapter 4. The vagina is not dirty at all. Really, is it too much for us who mount the gynecologist's unholy stirrups to ask, "Physician, clean thyself"? I am visiting Bustillo at the Mount Sinai School of Medicine in New York to look at eggs. I have seen the eggs of many species, but I have never seen the eggs of my own kind, except in pictures. Seeing a human egg is not easy. It is the largest cell in the body, but it is nonetheless very small, a tenth of a millimeter across. If you could poke a hole in a piece of paper with a baby's hair, you'd get something the size of an egg. Moreover, an egg isn'tmeantto be seen. The human egg, like any mammalian egg, is built for darkness, for spinning stories in visceral privacy, and you can thank that trait, in part, for your smart, fat, amply convoluted brain. An internally conceived and gestated fetus is a protected fetus, and a protected fetus is a fetus freed to loll about long enough to bloom a giant brain. So we lend new meaning to the termegghead:from the cloistered egg is born the bulging frontal lobe. How different is the status of the sperm. A sperm cell may be tinier than an egg, measuring only a small fraction of the volume, so it is not exactly a form of billboard art either. Nevertheless, because it is designed to be externalized, publicly consumed, sperm lends itself to easy technovoyeurism. One of the first things Anton van Leeuwenhoek did after inventing a prototype of the microscope three hundred years ago was to smear a sample of human ejaculate onto a glass slide and slip it under his magic lens. And men, I will set aside my zygotic bias here to say that your sperm are indeed magnificent when magnified, vigorous, slaphappy, whip-tailed tears, darting, whirling, waggling, heading nowhere and everywhere at once, living proof of our primordial flagellar past. For mesmerizing adventures in microscopy, a dribble of semen will far outperform the more scholastically familiar drop of pond scum. A woman's body may taketh eggs away by apoptosis, but it giveth not without a fight. How then to see an egg? One way is to find an egg donor: a woman who is part saint, part lunatic, part romantic, part mercenary, and all parts about to be put under the anesthesia that Bustillo calls the "milk of amnesia," so she will not feel her body crying bloody hell on the battlefield. Beth Derochea pats her belly and booms, "Bloated! I'm full of hormones! I tell my husband, Stay away!" She is twenty-eight but looks a good five years younger. She is an administrative assistant at a publishing company who hopes to work her way up to an editing position. Her hair is long, dark, parted on the side, casual, and her smile is slightly gappy and toothy. "I hope nobody inherits my teeth!" she says. "Anything but that, I've got really weak teeth." Derochea is a woman of gleeful, elaborated extroversion; even being in a flimsy hospital gown doesn't make her act shy or tentative. She bounces; she laughs; she gestures. "She's so good!" a nurse in the room exclaims. "I'm so broke," Derochea says. "I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but I'm in debt." That's one of the reasons she's here, at Mount Sinai, to donate eggs, her pelvis tender, her ovaries swollen to the size of walnuts when normally they would be almonds, tubing about to be slipped into her nostrils to bathe her in milky amnesia. If somebody were to design a line of fertility fetishes, Beth Derochea could be the model. Clips of her hair or fingernails could be incorporated into the amulets as saints' parts are encased in reliquaries. This is her third time at playing egg donor. She gave eggs twice during graduate school, and each time she yielded up a bumper crop of twenty-nine or so. Now she is back, in part for the fee of $2,500. But only in part. There are other reasons that she doesn't mind, even enjoys, donating eggs. She and her husband don't yet have children of their own, but she told me she likes playing mama. She mothers her friends; she urges them to dress warmly in the winter and to eat their fruits and vegetables. She likes changing diapers on other people's babies and rocking the infants to sleep. She likes the idea of her seed seeding other people's joy. She doesn't feel proprietary about her gametes. A fan of science fiction of the eggheaded variety, she tells me about something that Robert “A.” Heinlein once wrote. “Your genes don't belong to you, he said. They belong to all humanity. I really believe that My eggs, my genes, they're not even something that's me, they're something I'm sharing. It's like donating blood." By this generous, almost communistic imagery, we are all aswim in the same great gene pool, or fishers from the river of human perpetuity. If my line comes up empty, perhaps you will share your catch with me. For such reasons of heart and Tightness, Derochea said she would donate eggs even if she weren't paid. "I might not have done it three times, but I definitely would have done it at least once," she says. Her sentiment is rare. In many European countries, where it is illegal to pay a woman for donating eggs, almost nobody does it. Bustillo said that when she attended a conference on bioethics recently, the audience of doctors, scientists, lawmakers, and professional ponderers was asked, just out of curiosity, whether anybody there would donate eggs. "Nobody raised her hand," Bustillo said. "Though two people later said they'd consider doing it for a relative or good friend." Derochea is not donating eggs for relatives or friends. She never meets the couples who receive her eggs, she will never see any progeny that might come of them, and she doesn't care. She doesn't moon over sequelae, she doesn't fantasize about her mystery children. "I've managed to disengage myself from any sense of investment," she says, as calm as a Renaissance madonna. I say to Bustillo that it's a good thing the best egg donors, women at the peak of their fertility, in their early thirties or younger, are at a point in life when they are likeliest to need the cash. An egg donor earns every dime of her blood money. Three weeks before I met her, Derochea had begun injecting herself with Lupron, a synthetic version of gonadotropin-releasing hormone, a potent chemical bred in the brain that begins the entire cycle of egg-dropping. For a week she injected herself nightly in the thigh with a narrow needle of the type diabetics use. No big deal, she said. Barely noticeable. Uh-huh, I said, thinking, Oh, sure, sure, anybody could do it, anybody except me, who's always thought the worst thing about heroin addiction is not the way it ruins your life or may give you AIDS but that you have to injectyourselfwith aneedle. After the Lupron came the hard stuff. She had to switch to a double-barreled shot of Pergonal and Metrodin, a mix of ovulatory hormones designed to spur the ovaries into a state of hyperactivity. Pergonal, incidentally, is isolated from the urine of postmenopausal women, whose bodies have become so accustomed to the menstrual cycle that they generate ovulatory hormones in extremely high concentrations because of a lack of feedback from the ovaries. Preparing this sweet brew demanded concentration, to assure that as she pulled the fluid into the hypodermic syringe, no potentially embolizing bubbles were pulled up with it. She also needed to use a much heavier-gauge needle than she did for the Lupron, which means a bigger and more painful shot. This time Derochea had to aim for the rear part of her hip, every night for about two weeks. Not terrible, not an ordeal, but something she admitted she wouldn't want to do each month. Toward the end of this non-ordeal, to stimulate the final stage of ovulation, Derochea gave herself a single shot of human chorionic gonadotropin, again through an ominously large hypodermic. All the while, between nightly inoculations, she had to return repeatedly to the hospital for sonograms, to check on the expansion of her ovaries. She thickened with excess fluid and jested about her snappishness. When I talked to her, she was more than ready to give up her grams of flesh. Her two ovaries were like overstuffed sacks of oranges, each orange an egg ripened with unnatural haste by three weeks of hormone treatments. In a normal cycle, only one egg would be pushing its way from its ovarian pocket. But at the moment Derochea was an Olympic cycler, and two or three years' worth of oocytic offerings had been condensed into a single month. There's no evidence that she has lost those years, that her childbearing potential has in any way been compromised or truncated. We are, after all, overbudgeted with eggs, and think of what management does at the end of the fiscal period to budgets that don't get used:ha-ping!So the medical Demeters of the world simply cannibalize what otherwise would apoptose into the void. In any event, fertility fetishism runs in Derochea's family: all of her siblings have already reproduced repeatedly. "Having babies is just something we do," she says. Derochea also doesn't worry about the risk of ovarian cancer, which some experts have proposed is heightened by the use of fertility drugs. The data on this question remain inconclusive, and in any case are more associated with the drug Clomid than with any of the follicular stimulants that Derochea has received. "If my family had a history of ovarian cancer, I'd be more concerned about it," she says. "But at this point, I'm not worried. Maybe that's stupid, but I'm not worried." She lies down on the operating table. They pump her first with oxygen, then with anesthesia. They ask her if she's sleepy yet. "Mrrph!" she mumbles. A moment later she's as limp as a Dali clock. The surgical assistants stick her legs in stirrups and douse her genitals with iodine, which looks like menstrual blood as it dribbles along the inner folds of her thighs and onto the table. Bustillo barrels into the room, washes her hands, and jokes about crap and vaginas, but no matter, she scrubs. She sits down at the end of the table, at the gynecologist's stirrup-side post, ready for one of the easier breaches of the body's barrier. Her assistants wheel a portable ultrasound machine over to the table and hand her the ultrasound probe, an instrument shaped like a dildo. She slips a stretchy latex casing over the probe, "the condom!" she says, and threads a needle through the device that will suck the readied eggs from their pockets. Bustillo inserts the wand into Derochea's vagina and up into one of the two fornices, the culs-de-sac of the vaginal canal that pouch up around either side of the cervix. The needle pierces the fornix wall, moves across the pelvic peritoneum, the oily membrane that surrounds most of the abdominal viscera, and finally perforates the ovary. Bustillo does the entire extraction procedure by watching the ultrasound screen, where the image of the ovary looms in black and white, made visible by bouncing high-frequency sound waves. Coming in on the top lefthand side of the screen is the needle. The ovary looks like a giant beehive honeycombed with dark bloated egg pockets, or follicles, each measuring two millimeters across. These are all the follicles that were matured by Derochea's diligent nocturnal injections. The sonogram screen is full of them. Manipulating the needle-headed probe with her eyes fixed on the sonogram, Bustillo punctures every dark honeycomb and sucks all the fluid out of the follicle. The fluid travels down the tube of the probe and into a catchment beaker. You can't see the egg suspended in that fluid, but it's there. Immediately after the fluid has been extracted from the follicle, the pocket collapses in on itself and disappears from the screen. A few moments later it slightly distends again, this time with blood. Prick! Prick! Prick! Bustillo pierces and vacuums out every follicle so quickly that the honeycomb seems alive with accordian motion: pockets fall in, reengorge with blood. Prick! Prick! Prick! It hurts vicariously to watch; I want to cross my legs in discomfort except that I'm standing up. One of the surgical assistants tells me that sometimes the women who have this procedure done demand that it be performed without anesthesia. They regret their choice. At some point they start screaming. When the left ovary is picked clean of ripe eggs, Bustillo moves the probe over to the other vaginal fornix and repeats the maneuver on the right ovary. The entire bilateral pricking and sucking takes ten minutes or so. "Okay, that's it," Bustillo says as she withdraws the probe. A stream of blood flows from Derochea's vagina, like a fire set by a departing army. The nurses clean her up and start calling her name and shaking her arm to wake her. Beth! Beth! You're done, we're done, we've plucked you clean. Your genes are now floating in the communal pool in which another woman soon will immerse herself, seeking baptism with baby. Back in the lab, Carol-Ann Cook, an embryologist, separates and counts the day's plunder: twenty-nine eggs, the same number harvested from Beth Derochea twice before. This woman's vineyards are fruitful! Cook prepares the eggs, these grapes of Beth, for fertilization with the sperm of another woman's husband, a woman who lacks viable eggs of her own. The use of donor eggs for in vitro fertilization is one of the few promising things that have happened to the technique since its introduction in the 1970s. Most women who attempt IVF are nearing the end of their patience and fecundity. They are in their late thirties, early forties. For reasons that remain entirely opaque, the eggs of an "older" woman, and it annoys me to use that term for anybody under eighty, let alonemy peers, have lost some of their plasticity and robustness. They don't ripen as readily, they don't fertilize as well, and once fertilized, they don't implant in the womb as firmly as the eggs of a younger woman do. Older women usually start by trying IVF with their own eggs. They are partial to their particular genomes, their molecular ancestry, and why not? There's little difference between a baby and a book, and it's usually best to write about what you know. So they go through what Beth Derochea went through, weeks of preparatory hormonal injections. At the other end, though, they give forth not dozens of eggs but perhaps three or four, and some of those may be barely breathing. The fertility gods do their best. They join the healthiest-looking eggs and a partner's sperm in a petri dish to form embryos. After two days or so, they deliver the embryos back to the woman by squirting the clusters of cells, afloat in liquid, through a thin tube inserted into the vagina, across the cervix, and into the uterus. No big deal: blink and you miss it. Alas, for the women too it's a case of blink and you lose it. In the vast majority of patients, the technique fails. The chance of an older woman giving birth to a baby conceived from her eggs through IVF is maybe 12 to 18 percent. If you heard that these were your odds of surviving cancer, you'd feel very, very depressed. An older woman may try IVF once or twice, even a third time, but if by then she hasn't conceived with her own harvest of DNA, she probably never will. At that point a doctor may recommend donor eggs, combining the seeds of a younger woman with the sperm of the older woman's husband, or lover or male donor, and then implanting the resulting embryo in said senior's uterus. Using donor eggs can make a woman of forty act like a twenty-five-year-old, reproductively speaking. Who knows why? But it works, oh girl does it work, so well that suddenly you're no longer in the teens of probability but instead have about a 40 percent chance of giving birth in a single cycle of in vitro maneuvers. That number starts to sound like a real baby bawling. If the wine is young enough, it seems, the bottle and its label be damned. And so the egg rules the roost. It, not the womb, sets the terms of tomorrow. Carol-Ann Cook takes one of Derochea's eggs and puts it under a high-powered microscope, which transmits the image to a video monitor. "This is a beautiful egg," Bustillo says. "All her eggs are beautiful," Cook adds. They are eggs from a healthy young woman. They have no choice but to shine. To think of the egg, think of the heavens, and of weather. The body of the egg is the sun; it is as round and as magisterial as the sun. It is the only spherical cell in the body. Other cells may be shaped like cinched in boxes or drops of ink or doughnuts that don't quite form a hole in the middle, but the egg is a geometer's dream. The form makes sense: a sphere is among the most stable shapes in nature. If you want to protect your most sacred heirlooms, your genes, bury them in spherical treasure chests. Like pearls, eggs last for decades and they're hard to crush, and when they're solicited for fertilization, they travel jauntily down the fallopian tube. Carol-Ann Cook points out the details of the egg. Surrounding the great globe that glows silver-white on the screen is a smear of what looks like whipped cream, or the fluffy white clouds found in every child's sketch of a sky. This is in fact called the cumulus, for its resemblance to a cloud. The cumulus is a matting of sticky extracellular material that serves to bind the egg to the next celestial feature, the corona radiata. Like the corona of the sun, the corona of the egg is a luminous halo that extends out a considerable distance from the central orb. It is a crown fit for a queen, its spikes and phalanges emphasizing the unerring sphericity of the egg. The corona radiata is a dense network of interlocking cells called nurse cells, because they nurse and protect the egg, and it may also act as a kind of flight path or platform for sperm, steering the rather bumbling little flagellates toward the outer coat of the egg. That thick, extracellular coat is the famed zona pellucida, the translucent zone, the closest thing a mammalian egg has to a shell. The zona pellucida is a thick matrix of sugar and protein that is as cunning as a magnetic field. It invites sperm to explore its contours, but then it repels what doesn't suit it. It decides who is friend and who is alien. The zona pellucida can be considered the mother lode of biodiversity, the place where speciation in nature often begins, for it takes only a minor change in the structure of its sugars to make incompatible what before was connubial. The genes of a chimpanzee, for example, are more than 99 percent identical to ours, and it is possible that if the DNA of a chimpanzee sperm cell were injected directly into the heart of a human egg, the artificial hybridization would produce a viable, if ethically repulsive, embryo. But under the natural constraints of sexual reproduction, a chimpanzee sperm could not breach the forbidding zona pellucida of a human egg. The zona also thwarts the entry of more than one sperm of its own kind. Before fertilization, its sugars are open and genial and seeking similar sugars on the head of a sperm. Once the zona has attached to the head of a sperm, it imbibes the sperm, and then it stiffens, almost literally. Its sugars turn inward. The egg is sated; it wants no more DNA. Any sperm that remain at its threshold soon will die. Still, the zona's task is not through. It is thick and strong, an anorak, and it protects the tentative new embryo during the slow descent down the fallopian tube and into the uterus. Only when the embryo is capable of attaching to the uterine wall, a week or so after fertilization, does the zona pellucida burst apart and allow the embryo to join its blood with mother blood. The corona, cumulus, and zona all are extracellular, auxiliaries to the egg but not the egg. The egg proper is the true sun, the light of life, and I say this without exaggeration. The egg is rare in the body and rare in its power. No other cell has the capacity to create the new, to begin with a complement of genes and build an entire being from it. I said earlier that the mammalian egg is not like a bird's egg, insofar as it lacks the nutrients to sustain embryonic development. A mammalian embryo must tether itself to the mother's circulatory system and be fed through the placenta. But from a genetic perspective, the cytoplasm of a mammalian egg is complete, a self-contained universe. Somewhere in its custardy cytoplasm are factors, proteins, or bits of nucleic acid, that allow a genome to stir itself to purpose, to speak every word its species has ever spoken. These maternal factors have not yet been identified, but their skills have been showcased in sensational ways. When Scottish scientists announced in 1997 that they had cloned an adult sheep and named her Dolly, the world erupted with babble about human clones and human drones and God deposed. The endless exercises in handwringing resolved very little of the ethical dilemma that surrounds the prospect of human cloning, if dilemma there be. But what the sweet ovine face of Dolly demonstrates without equivocation is the wonder of the egg. The egg made the clone. In the experiments, the scientists extracted a cell from the udder of an adult sheep, and they removed the nucleus from the cell, the nucleus being the storehouse of the cell's genes. They wanted those adult genes, and they could have taken them from any organ. Every cell in an animal's body has the same set of genes in it. What distinguishes an udder cell from a pancreatic cell from a skin cell is which of those tens of thousands of genes are active and which are silenced. The egg is democratic. It gives all genes a voice. And so the scientists harvested a sheep egg cell and enucleated it, taking the egg's genes away and leaving behind only the egg body, the cytoplasm, the nonyolk yolk. In place of the egg nucleus they installed the nucleus of the udder cell, and then they implanted the odd chimera, the manufactured minotaur, into the womb of another sheep. The egg body resurrected the entire adult genome. It wiped the slate clean, washed the milky stains from the dedicated udder cell, and made its old genes new again. Maternal factors in the egg body allowed the genome to recapitulate the mad glory of gestation, to recreate all organs, all tissue types, the sum of sheep. The egg alone of the body's cells can effect the whole. If you put a liver cell or a pancreatic cell into a uterus, no infant would grow of it. It has the genes to make a new being, but it has not the wit. Small wonder, then, that the egg is such a large cell. It must hold the secrets of genesis. And perhaps the molecular complexity of the egg explains why we can't produce new eggs in adulthood, why we are born with all the eggs we will ever have, when men can sprout new sperm throughout their lives. Scientists often make much of the contrast between egg and sperm, the prolificacy and renewability of the man's gametes compared to the limitations and degradative quality of a woman's eggs. They speak in breathless terms of sperm production. "Every time a man's heart beats, he makes a thousand sperm!" Ralph Brinster burbled to theWashington Postin May of 1996. But a woman is born with all the eggs she'll ever have, he continued, and they only senesce from there. Yet the mere ability to replicate is hardly cause for a standing ovation. Bacteria will double their number every twenty minutes. Many cancer cells can divide in a dish for years after their founder tumors have killed the patient. Perhaps eggs are like neurons, which also are not replenished in adulthood: they know too much. Eggs must plan the party. Sperm only need to show up, wearing top hat and tails, of course. Two. THE MOSAIC IMAGINATION. UNDERSTANDING THE "FEMALE" CHROMOSOME. KEITHANDADELEfought all the time, like a pair of tomcats, like two drunken lumberjacks. Keith would find grist for the arguments in his reading. He read widely and thirstily, and sometimes he would come across a stray fact that fed his theorizing about the natural cosmology of male and female. Males are the seekers, he had decided, the stragglers and the creators; they build all that we see around us, the artifactual world of towering cities and invented divinity, yet they suffer for their brilliance and busyness. Females are the stabilizers, the salve for man's impatient expansionism, the mortar between bricks. Nothing surprising there: it's a familiar dialectic, between the doers and the be-ers, the seethers and the soothers, complexity and simplicity. Then one day Keith read about chromosomes. He read that humans have twenty-three pairs of chromosomes and that the pairs of chromosomes are the same in men and in women, with the exception of pair number 23, the sex chromosomes. In that case, women have two X chromosomes and men have one X and one Y. Moreover, a woman's two X chromosomes look pretty much like all her other chromosomes. Chromosomes resemble X’s. Not when they're inside the cells of the body, at which point they're so squashed and snarled together they resemble nothing so much as a hair knot. But when they're taken out of the cell and combed apart for viewing under a microscope by a geneticist or a lab technician who is checking a fetus's chromosomes as part of amniocentesis, they look like fat and floppy X’s. So women have twenty-three pairs, or forty-six, of these X-shaped structures, while men have forty-five X’s and that one eccentric, the Y chromosome. The Y physically resembles the letter it was named for, being stubby and tripartite and quite distinct in shape from all the other chromosomes in the cell. It struck Keith that even on a microscopic level, even as inscribed in the genetic clay from which human beings are constructed, men demonstrate their edge over women. Women have as their sex chromosomes two Xs: monotony. The story we've heard before. Men have an X and a Y: diversity. Genetic innovation and an escape from primal tedium. The Y as synecdoche for creativity, for genius. And so he said to Adele, The chromosomes prove the case for male superiority. You have two Xs and hence are dull, while I have an X and a Y and am accordingly interesting. Neither Adele nor Keith knew much about genetics, but Adele knew enough to recognize mental manure when she smelled it. She dismissed his theory with a sneer. He grew angry at her refusal to submit to his logic. The argument escalated, as their arguments always did. Keith wasn't talking about all men, of course, but about himself. He was insisting that his needs and insights took precedence over Adele's, and that she acknowledge as much. She refused to surrender. Of the many arguments that my parents had in the theater of our apartment before the reluctant audience of their children, this is the only one whose substance I remember. The clash of the century, Y versus X. I remember it in part because it seemed so oddly theoretical, and because it was the first time I heard an argument put forth for all around, across-the-board male dominance. I took it personally. My feelings were hurt. It was one thing for my father to attack my mother, that I was accustomed to. But there he was, describing all females, including me, as chromosomal bores. The chromosome case remains very much open, a source of irritation and debate. In some ways, sex is fundamentally determined by the sex chromosomes. If you're female, you're assumed to have a pair of X’s tucked into just about every cell of your body, along with a set of those twenty-two other pairs of chromosomes. If you're a male, you know of your Y and you just might be proud of it, as your molecular phallus, and for the koanic wordplay of it: Y? Why? Why? Y! The sex chromosomes tell a technician, and you the parent, if you choose to know, whether the fetus under scrutiny in an amniocentesis screen is a girl or a boy. So in one sense the demarcation between X and Y is clear, clean, an inarguable separation between femaleness and maleness. And my father was right about the predictability and monochromaticky of the female chromosomal complement. Not only will you find two X chromosomes in every body cell of a woman, from the cells that line the fallopian tubes to the cells in the liver and brain, but break open an egg cell and look within the nucleus, and you'll find one X chromosome in each (again with the other twenty-two chromosomes). It is indeed the sperm cell that can add diversity to an embryo, and that determines the embryo's sex by delivering either another X, to create a female, or a Y chromosome, to make a male. X marks the egg. An egg never has a Y chromosome within it. An ejaculate of sperm is bisexual, offering a more or less equal number of female and male whip-tailed sperm, but eggs are inherently female. So in thinking again about the mirrors into infinity, the link between mother and daughter, the nesting of eggs within woman within eggs, we can go a step further and see the continuity of the chromosomes. No maleness tints any part of us gals, no, not a molar drop or quantum. But of course it is not that simple. We are not that simple, appealing though the idea of a molecularly untainted matriline may be. Let us consider the nature of the sex chromosomes, the X counterpoised against the Y. To begin with, the X is bigger, much, much bigger, both in sheer size and in density of information. The X chromosome is in fact one of the largest of the twenty-three chromosomes that humans cart around, and is about six times larger than the Y, which is among the tiniest of the lot (and it would be the smallest of all if it didn't have some nonfunctional stuffing added to it just to keep it stable). Gentlemen, I'm afraid it's true: size does make a difference. In addition, many more genes are strung along the female chromosome than along its counterpart, and it is as a shoetree for genes that a chromosome takes on its meaning. Nobody knows exactly how many genes sit on either the X or the Y chromosome; nobody yet knows how many genes, in total, a human being has. Estimates range from 68,000 to 100,000. What is incontestable, though, is the vastly higher gene richness of the X than of the Y. The male chromosome is a depauperated little stump, home to perhaps two dozen, three dozen genes, and that's the range scientists come up with when they're feeling generous. On the X, we will find thousands of genes, anywhere from 3,500 to 6,000. What does this mean to us women? Are we the mother load of genes, so to speak? After all, if we have two Xs, and each X holds about 5,000 genes, whereas a man has but one X with 5,000 genes and a Y with its 30 genes, then you don't even need a calculator to figure that we should have about 4,970 more genes than a man. So why on Gaia are men bodily bigger than we are? The answer is among the neat twists of genetics: all those extra genes are just sitting around doing nothing, and that's just the way we want them. In fact, if they were all doing something, we'd be dead. Here is what I love about a female's X chromosomes: they are unpredictable. They do surprising things. They do not act like any of the other chromosomes in the body. As we shall see, to the extent that chromosomes can be said to have manners, the X chromosomes behave with great courtesy. Esmeralda, Rosa, and Maria live in Zacadecas, Mexico, a village of 10,000 people that, though obscure to Americans north of the border, is big enough to be a center for the smaller and more obscure towns around it. Many people in Zacadecas earn their living picking chilis and packing them up for export. Esmeralda and Rosa are sisters, both in their teens, and Maria, two years old, is their niece. They share an extremely rare condition, so rare that their extended family may be the only people in the world to carry it. Called generalized congenital hypertrichosis, the syndrome is an atavism, a throwback to our ancient mammalian state, when we were happily covered in homegrown fur and had no need of sweatshops and Calvin Klein's soft-core porn. The termhypertrichosisexplains all,trichosismeaning hair growth, andhypermeaning exactly what it says. Atavisms result when a normally dormant gene from our prehistoric roots is for some reason reactivated. Atavisms remind us, in the most palpable and surreal manner possible, of our bonds with other species. They tell us that evolution, like the pueblo builders of the Southwest, does not obliterate what came before but builds on top of and around it. Atavisms are not uncommon. Some people possess an extra nipple or two beyond the usual pair, a souvenir of the ridge of mammary tissue that extends from the top of the shoulder down to the hips and that in most mammals terminates in multiple teats. Babies on occasion are born with small tails or with webbing between their fingers, as though they are reluctant to leave the forest or the seas. In the case of congenital hypertrichosis, a gene that fosters the generous growth of hair across the face and body has been rekindled. Nothing else happens out of the ordinary, no skeletal deformities or mental retardation or any of the other sorrows that often accompany a genetic change. The people with the condition, this large and locally renowned family living on the border of Zacadecas, simply grow a kind of pelt. They make you wonder why human beings ever shed their fur in the first place, a puzzle that evolutionary biologist

Rahan. The son of the ferocious ages. Episode Fifty-One. The one who killed the river. Text by Roger Lecureux. Drawings by Andre Cheret. The son of Crao did not care about the earth that shook in the distance, upstream of the river. He was too disappointed not to have seen any fish caught since daybreak. A hundred times he had almost succeeded. But the fish were small and lively, and his bamboo spear only brushed against them. Rahan will have to find his food elsewhere! Irritated by his clumsiness, he struck the pebbles with his spear. Page Two. He exclaimed suddenly. A stuck pebble had shattered the end of the bamboo. Ooh! Fish cannot avoid a spear like this! These spread slats gave him an idea. With a three-pronged spear Rahan will have a better chance of hitting true! Observant and thoughtful, the son of Crao once again took advantage of a banal detail. He sharpened the slats, holding them apart using a vine. And the “three-pointed” spear immediately proved its effectiveness! Ra-ha-ha! But the first fish he speared slipped from the too-smooth point and fell back into the water. Rahan knows how to hold you back! He should have thought of that sooner! Page Three. A moment later he cut fine teeth into the three bamboo points which would hold the fish. It was an astonishing catch. Almost every blow landed and Crao's son let out a cry of joy every time he pulled a fish from the river. Ra-ha-ha! He could not have known he was being watched. The fiery-haired man has a magic weapon! He is killing the river! Considering his catch sufficient, Rahan began to make a fire. It was then that the strong smell of a gray bear came to him. Emerging from the thickets, the beast appeared almost immediately. If the "Balouas" wants to compete for his fish with Rahan, let him come closer! Let him look for them!! Page Four. Swinging its big head, the bear advanced heavily. Rahan knew that he must at all costs avoid melee with this formidable adversary. The son of Crao brandished his harpoon. The "Balouas" has dangerous claws. But Rahan has his own! As the bear stood up three steps from him he struck. The fine bamboo points disappeared into the hairy chest, breaking when Rahan snatched his weapon. Crack! This wound was not fatal but the bear, annoyed by the spikes remaining in his flesh, and undoubtedly worried, nevertheless turned around. Page Five. This danger had barely been averted when another already threatened the son of Crao. Busy stoking his fire, he did not hear the man. Traam has avenged the river people! Trou! The blow would perhaps have been fatal to a hunter less robust than Rahan. But he regained his senses shortly after. Who hit Rahan? Who wanted to steal their fish? ooh! The fish were still there. But the bamboo spear had disappeared! When Rahan has eaten, he will seek out the one who disdains fish! In these fierce times "Those-who-walk-up" too often fought over food. That his attacker had abandoned his fish to him amazed Rahan. Page Six. However, a few dozen arrow ranges away. Traam saw! The man with the fiery hair was massacring the people of the river with this weapon!! He struck! He struck! Then, with the magic weapon, he put a “Balouas” to flight! Kaor-the-chief must believe what Traam saw!! The clan leader gravely examined the bamboo spear. It is just a simple spear, similar to ours. “Firehair” is probably just a hunter who. No! It's an enemy!! Traam saw it hit the river! Oh! Look! Traam was Right!! The river is bleeding!! The river is losing its blood!! “Fire-hair" has killed the river!! The river was indeed carrying reddish scents. The river was bleeding! Page Seven. The swirls stirred up these scents and the surface became scarlet. The river was losing its blood like a “Two-tooth” put to death! One bank to the other, and wherever you looked, the waves were red! The river was nothing more than a horrible open vein! As the dread of the clan retreated, the voice of Kaor-the-chief thundered. Cast out fear from you spirit, brothers! Let us avenge the river!! All to the hunt! Death to he who killed the river!! These words stirred up the clan, all of whose able-bodied members, women and children included, soon began the hunt. Page Eight. The son of Crao, too, was amazed by the phenomenon. The water was the color of leaves. Why does she have the blood one now?? Has she become dangerous for Rahan? Rahan did not believe in evil spirits. But he remained cautious about what he could not explain. He gently dipped his hand into the water. When he took it out, it was pinkish, but he felt no pain. The danger will not come from the river, but from the forest! He had just heard the vengeful clamor. Death to he-who-killed-the-river! Death to him who killed the river!! As these clamors grew closer he threw himself into the red waves. Page Nine. It would have been easier for him to let himself be carried away by the current. But his instinct told him that the explanation of the mystery lay upstream. So while the clan of Kaor searched for him downstream, the son of Krao went up the river of blood. He soon discovered the deserted village. Those here think that Rahan killed the river! Rahan will wait for them to return and tell them that they are wrong! In front of each hut hung strings of small birds. Do the men here live only on game from the sky? An instant later. It is strange! In a village built near water they should be drying fish! Page Ten. Death to the one who killed the river. When these cries arose, the son of Crao just wanted time to turn around. But he was not able to avoid a club thrown with remarkable skill! Kloc! Half-conscious, he caught a glimpse of the old men crawling out of the huts. Kaor will no longer be able to say that we are useless to the clan!! Although still dazed, Rahan could have resisted these hunters that were exhausted by the years. He preferred to let himself be tied up. The elders are wrong. Wrong but Rahan respects the elders! Why do you treat Rahan like an enemy!? Because he wanted to wipe out the people of the river! Because he killed the river! Page Eleven. Look at! These omens of malevolence are telling us of their anger! As the old man pointed out the fish that jumped to the surface, the son of Crao suddenly understood. This clan worshiped fish! That was why they did not steal those caught by Rahan! But in their eyes, Rahan had committed a sacrilege! In all the territories that Rahan has crossed, "Those-who-walk-up" did not hesitate to eat what they call the “Pascos”! It is impossible! Because their body would be covered in scales like that of the Pascos! Wah-Oh! Wah-Oh! And the clan soon reappeared. We have captured “Fire Hair” Kaor! He admits to killing the fish! The chief observed the son of Crao with amazement. Page Twelve. We found your fire. We know you ate pascos! So, why do you keep this hunter's skin? Quite simply because Rahan is a hunter! Like Kaor! You lie! If your skin is not covered with scales, it means you are not a man, but an evil spirit! Besides since you pretend to be a hunter. You must be as skillful as Kaor! If you are not, you lied. And you will be put to death! Kaor cut the captive's bonds and, brandishing his spear, aimed at the trunk of a tree. All my brothers are capable of achieving what you are about to see! Schtock! The spear whistled and stuck in the exact center of a knot! It was impossible to do so well!! And yet, Rahan was going to do better! Page thirteen. Holding his breath, the son of Crao raised his knife! If Rahan does not prove his skill, all his words will be useless! The ivory weapon swirled and a clamor arose. The blade had stuck in the wood of the spear! The feat is even more remarkable than that of Kaor! He gave a bitter smile. We'll see if you're as good with a bow! Euh! The bow was not Rahan's favorite weapon. That was why his throat closed when Kaor's arrow. It hit the bird in mid-flight. Rahan will never do as well as Kaor! It is so difficult to hit a bird! At least, At least. Page Fourteen. Well? Who are you waiting for? What are you doing? Rahan has his own way of hunting! The arrow split in four will multiply its chances as the thrown harpoon did that very morning! Schlak! The bird that flew over the village was so small that it seemed invulnerable. However, he was struck down by one of the four points. Kaor himself could only salute the shot, but. You prove that you have the gifts of a true hunter! But why do you have the river?! Rahan did not kill the river! Page Fifteen. Rahan does not know why water is the color of blood. But he knows that every mystery has its explanation! If Kaor lets Rahan go, he will discover this mystery! And he will reveal it to the clan! What being are you? You eat pascos without your body becoming covered in scales! You are more skillful than Kaor. And you let yourself be captured by old men! Yes, you are strange! Does your tongue speak a lie or the truth? If the clan releases you, what proof do they have that you will return!? This Kaor! These are the most precious possessions Rahan owns! Take them! You can be sure that Rahan will come back for them! Page Sixteen. Kaor having accepted these pledges, the son of Crao, shortly after, ran along the river. He ran like this all night, taking only rare breaks. It was during one of them that. A Bear! The bear moaned softly and rubbed itself against a tree, trying in vain to get rid of the bamboo spikes. Rahan simply wanted to keep the bear away and not make him suffer! Rahan could stop his pain. But he would not let himself get near! Rahan took a step and the bear, indeed, immediately did so, waving its formidable clawed paws. Rahan will help you in spite of yourself! A moment later, the loop of a solid vine transformed into a lasso encircled his claws! Page Seventeen. Quick and agile, the son of Crao threw the vine over a branch, using a strong root to stretch it. Be calm, Baloua, be calm. Rahan is relaxed. The bear growled furiously but was momentarily harmless. The bamboo points, fortunately, were only half-embedded in the flesh. Rahan was able to quickly extract them. And there you have it, baloua! Rahan hopes you will not try to steal his fish again! The bear, finally relieved, no longer growled. He looked for a long time at this strange hunter who was heading back along the river. Then, peacefully, he began to gnaw the vine to free his paws. Page Eighteen. The sun was high when the son of Crao discovered the mystery. The Red Hills! Rahan finally knows why the river bleeds! He remembered this distant earthquake that he had felt the day before, just before the waters changed color. And the explanation was there! The earthquake had shaken high hills, causing red earth to slide, which was still continuing. Proof that this earth colored the river, was that upstream of the hills, it had its reassuring green color. Rahan will be able to prove that he did not kill the river! Page Nineteen. The next day, the son of Crao was back in the village. And you claim that this land turns water into blood! No. It only changes its color! As you will see! Rahan threw a pinch of earth into the clear water of the spring. And it turned red!! But quickly renewed, it regained its clarity. It will be the same for the river! When the earth in the hills stops sliding, it will become like it once was! The skepticism of the hunters dissipated as the reddish scents carried by the flow became less thick. The next day the river had regained its color. You were right! If the thing were to happen again, we would not accuse an evil spirit of having killed the river! Page Twenty. The son of Crao was happy. Happy to find his knife and his necklace. Happy to have relieved the baloua. Happy to have convinced these hunters. As Kaor watched him secretly, he smiled. No Kaor, No Rahan's skin is not yet covered with the scales of pascos! Euh? Eating fish is not dangerous for “Those-who-walk-upright”! Euh! Euh? Maybe Kaor will try. Maybe. Rahan remained among this clan until the day when, amused, he surprised the chief lying in wait in the rushes. Kaor was fishing! The son of Crao knew that Kaor and his people, freed from a stupid belief, lived better lives. When he set off towards his destiny, the great river glowed red at the bottom of the valley. But this time it was only the reflections of the setting sun. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

Reformatted for Machine Text 2023. 1 The Roads Must Roll. Astounding Science Fiction, June 1940. 2 The Green Hills of Earth. The Saturday Evening post, February 1947. 3 Space Jockey. The Saturday Evening post, April 1947. 4 Waldo. Astounding Science Fiction 1942. 5 The Long Watch. American Legion Magazine 1949. 6 We Also Walk Dogs. Astounding Science Fiction, July 1941. 7 Black Pits of Luna. The Saturday Evening post, January 1948. 8 Witchs Daughter. 1946, Published New Destinies 1988. 9 Successful Operation. Futuria Fantasia, Spring 1940. THE ROADS MUST ROLL. by Robert Anson Heinlein. First published in 1940. "Who makes the roads roll?" The speaker stood still on the rostrum and waited for his audience to answer him. The reply came in scattered shouts that cut through the ominous, discontented murmur of the crowd. "We do! We do! Damn right!" "Who does the dirty work 'down inside', so that Joe Public can ride at his ease?" This time it was a single roar: "We do!" The speaker pressed his advantage, his words tumbling out in a rasping torrent. He leaned toward the crowd, his eyes picking out individuals at whom to fling his words. "What makes business? The roads! How do they move the food they eat? The roads! How do they get to work? The roads! How do they get home to their wives? The roads!" He paused for effect, then lowered his voice. "Where would the public be if you boys didn't keep them roads rolling? Behind the eight ball, and everybody knows it. But do they appreciate it? Pfui! Did we ask for too much? Were our demands unreasonable? 'The right to resign whenever we want to.' Every working stiff in any other job has that. 'The same Pay as the engineers.' Why not? Who are the real engineers around here? D'yuh have to be a cadet in a funny little hat before you can learn to wipe a bearing, or jack down a rotor? Who earns his keep: The gentlemen in the control offices, or the boys down inside? What else do we ask? "The right to elect our own engineers.' Why the hell not? Who's competent to pick engineers? The technicians, or some damn dumb examining board that's never been down inside, and couldn't tell a rotor bearing from a field coil?" He changed his pace with natural art, and lowered his voice still further. "I tell you, brother, it's time we quit fiddlin' around with petitions to the Transport Commission, and use a little direct action. Let 'em yammer about democracy; that's a lot of eyewash, we've got the power, and we're the men that count!" A man had risen in the back of the hall while the speaker was haranguing. He spoke up as the speaker paused. "Brother Chairman," he drawled, "may I stick in a couple of words?" "You are recognized, Brother Harvey." "What I ask is: What's all the shootin' for? We've got the highest hourly rate of pay of any mechanical guild, full insurance and retirement, and safe working conditions, barring the chance of going deaf." He pushed his antinoise helmet farther back from his ears. He was still in dungarees, apparently just up from standing watch. "Of course we have to give ninety days' notice to quit a job, but, cripes, we knew that when we signed up. The roads have got to roll, they can't stop every time some lazy punk gets tired of his billet. "And now Soapy", the crack of the gavel cut him short, "Pardon me, I mean Brother Soapy, tells us how powerful we are, and how we should go in for direct action. Rats! Sure, we could tie up the roads, and play hell with the whole community, but so could any screwball with a can of nitroglycerin, and he wouldn't have to be a technician to do it, neither. "We aren't the only frogs in the puddle. Our jobs are important, sure, but where would we be without the farmers, or the steel workers, or a dozen other trades and professions?" He was interrupted by a sallow little man with protruding upper teeth, who said: "Just a minute, Brother Chairman, I'd like to ask Brother Harvey a question," then turned to Harvey and inquired in a sly voice: "Are you speaking for the guild, brother, or just for yourself? Maybe you don't believe in the guild? You wouldn't by any chance be", he stopped and slid his eyes up and down Harvey's lank frame, "a spotter, would you?" Harvey looked over his questioner as if he had found something filthy in a plate of food. "Sikes," he told him, "if you weren't a runt, I'd stuff your store teeth down your throat. I helped found this guild. I was on strike in '60. Where were you in '60? With the finks?" The chairman's gavel pounded. "There's been enough of this," he said. "Nobody that knows anything about the history of this guild doubts the loyalty of Brother Harvey. We'll continue with the regular order of business.'' He stopped to clear his throat.' 'Ordinarily, we don't open our floor to outsiders, and some of you boys have expressed a distaste for some of the engineers we work under, but there is one engineer we always like to listen to whenever he can get away from his pressing duties. I guess maybe it's because he's had dirt under his nails the same as us. Anyhow, I present at this time Mister Shorty Van Kleeck,'' A shout from the floor stopped him. "Brother Van Kleeck," "O K, Brother Van Kleeck, chief deputy engineer of this roadtown." "Thanks, Brother Chairman." The guest speaker came briskly forward, and grinned expansively at the crowd. He seemed to swell under their approval. "Thanks, brothers. I guess our chairman is right. I always feel more comfortable here in the guild hall of the Sacramento Sector, or any guild hall for that matter, than I do in the engineers' clubhouse. Those young punk cadet engineers get in my hair. Maybe I should have gone to one of the fancy technical institutes, so I'd have the proper point of view, instead of coming up from down inside. "Now, about those demands of yours that the Transport Commission just threw back in your face, Can I speak freely?'' "Sure you can, Shorty! You can trust us!" "Well, of course I shouldn't say anything, but I can't help but understand how you feel. The roads are the big show these days, and you are the men who make them roll. It's the natural order of things that your opinions should be listened to, and your desires met. One would think that even politicians would be bright enough to see that. Sometimes, lying awake at night, I wonder why we technicians don't just take things over, and." "Your wife is calling, Mister Gaines." "Very well." He flicked off the office intercommunicator and picked up a telephone handset from his desk. "Yes, darling, I know I promised, but, You're perfectly right, darling, but Washington has especially requested that we show Mister Blekinsop anything he wants to see. I didn't know he was arriving today. No, I can't turn him over to a subordinate. It wouldn't be courteous. He's Minister of Transport for Australia. I told you that. Yes, darling, I know that courtesy begins at home, but the roads must roll. It's my job; you knew that when you roamed me. And this is part of my job. That's a good girl. We'll positively have breakfast together. Tell you what, order horses and a breakfast pack and we'll make it a picnic. I'll meet you in Bakersfield, usual place. Good-by, darling. Kiss Junior good night for me." He replaced the handset, whereupon the pretty but indignant features of his wife faded from the visor screen. A young woman came into his office. As she opened the door, she exposed momentarily the words painted on its outer side: "Diego-Reno Roadtown, Office of the Chief Engineer." He gave her a harassed glance. "Oh, it's you. Don't marry an engineer, Dolores, marry an artist. They have more home life." "Yes, Mister Gaines. Mister Blekinsop is here, Mister Gaines." "Already? I didn't expect him so soon. The Antipodes ship must have grounded early." "Yes, Mister Gaines." "Dolores, don't you ever have any emotions?" "Yes, Mister Gaines." "Hum, it seems incredible, but you are never mistaken. Show Mister Blekinsop in." "Very good, Mister Gaines." Larry Gaines got up to greet his visitor. Not a particularly impressive little guy, he thought, as they shook hands and exchanged formal amenities. The rolled umbrella, the bowler hat, were almost too good to be true. An Oxford accent partially masked the underlying clipped, flat, nasal twang of the native Australia. "It's a pleasure to have you here, Mister Blekinsop, and I hope we can make your stay enjoyable." The little man smiled. "I'm sure it will be. This is my first visit to your wonderful country. I feel at home already. The eucalyptus trees, you know, and the brown hills." "But your trip is primarily business?" "Yes, yes. My primary purpose is to study your roadcities and report to my government on the advisablity of trying to adapt your startling American methods to our social problems Down Under. I thought you understood that such was the reason I was sent to you." "Yes, I did, in a general way. I don't know just what it is that you wish to find out. I suppose that you have heard about our roadtowns, how they came about, how they operate, and so forth." "I've read a good bit, true, but I am not a technical man, Mister Gaines, not an engineer. My field is social and political. I want to see how this remarkable technical change has affected your people. Suppose you tell me about the roads as if I were entirely ignorant. And I will ask questions." "That seems a practical plan. By the way, how many are there in your party?" "Just myself. My secretary went on to Washington." "I see." Gaines glanced at his wrist watch. "It's nearly dinner time. Suppose we run up to the Stockton Sector for dinner. There is a good Chinese restaurant up there that I'm partial to. It will take us about an hour and you can see the ways in operation while we ride." "Excellent." Gaines pressed a button on his desk, and a picture formed on a large visor screen mounted on the opposite wall. It showed a strong-boned, angular young man seated at a semicircular control desk, which was backed by a complex instrument board. A cigarette was tucked in one corner of his mouth. The young man glanced up, grinned, and waved from the screen. "Greetings and salutations, chief. What can I do for you?" "Hi, Dave. You've got the evening watch, eh? I'm running up to the Stockton Sector for dinner. Where's Van Kleeck?" "Gone to a meeting somewhere. He didn't say." "Anything to report?" "No, sir. The roads are rolling, and all the little people are going ridey-ridey home to their dinners." "O K, keep 'em rolling." "They'll roll, chief." Gaines snapped off the connection and turned to Bleckinsop. "Van Kleeck is my chief deputy. I wish he'd spend more time on the road and less on politics. Davidson can handle things, however. Shall we go?" They glided down an electric staircase, and debouched on the walkway which bordered the north-bound five-mile-an-hour strip. After skirting a stairway trunk marked "Overpass to Southbound Road," they paused at the edge of the first strip. "Have you ever ridden a conveyor strip before?" Gaines inquired. "It's quite simple. Just remember to face against the motion of the strip as you get on." They threaded their way through homeward-bound throngs, passing from strip to strip. Down the center of the twenty-mile-an-hour strip ran a glassite partition which reached nearly to the spreading roof. The Honorable Mister Blekinsop raised his eyebrows inquiringly as he looked at it. "Oh, that?" Gaines answered the unspoken question as he slid back a panel door and ushered his guest through. "That's a wind break. If we didn't have some way of separating the air currents over the strips of different speeds, the wind would tear our clothes off on the hundred mile an hour strip." He bent his head to Blekinsop's as he spoke, in order to cut through the rush of air against the road surfaces, the noise of the crowd, and the muted roar of the driving mechanism concealed beneath the moving strips. The combination of noises inhibited further conversation as they proceeded toward the middle of the roadway. After passing through three more wind screens located at the forty, sixty, and eighty-mile-an hour strips, respectively, they finally reached the maximum-speed strip, the hundred-mile-an-hour strip, which made the round trip, San Diego to Reno and back, in twelve hours. Blekinsop found himself on a walkway, twenty feet wide, facing another partition. Immediately opposite him an illuminated show-window proclaimed: JAKE'S STEAK HOUSE Number 4. The Fastest Meal on the Fastest Road! "To dine on the fly Makes the miles roll by!" "Amazing!" said Mister Blekinsop. "It would be like dining in a tram. Is this really a proper restaurant?" "One of the best. Not fancy, but sound." "Oh, I say, could we." Gaines smiled at him. "You'd like to try it, wouldn't you, sir?" "I don't wish to interfere with your plans." "Quite all right. I'm hungry myself, and Stockton is a long hour away. Let's go in." Gaines greeted the manageress as an old friend. "Hello, Missus McCoy. How are you tonight?" "If it isn't the chief himself! It's a long time since we've had the pleasure of seeing your face." She led them to a booth somewhat detached from the crowd of dining commuters. "And will you and your friend be having dinner?" "Yes, Missus McCoy. Suppose you order for us, but be sure it includes one of your steaks." "Two inches thick, from a steer that died happy." She glided away, moving her fat frame with surprising grace. With sophisticated foreknowledge of the chief engineer's needs, Missus McCoy had left a portable telephone at the table. Gaines plugged it into an accommodation jack at the side of the booth, and dialed a number. "Hello, Davidson? Dave, this is the chief. I'm in Jake's Steak House Number 4 for supper. You can reach me by calling 10-L-6-6." He replaced the handset, and Blekinsop inquired politely: "Is it necessary for you to be available at all times?" "Not strictly necessary," Gaines told him, "but I feel safer when I am in touch. Either Van Kleeck, or myself, should be where the senior engineer of the watch, that's Davidson this shift, can get hold of us in a pinch. If it's a real emergency, I want to be there, naturally." "What would constitute a real emergency?" "Two things, principally. A power failure on the rotors would bring the road to a standstill, and possibly strand millions of people a hundred miles, or more, from their homes. If it happened during a rush hour, we would have to evacuate those millions from the road, not too easy to do." "You say millions, as many as that?" "Yes, indeed. There are twelve million people dependent on this roadway, living and working in the buildings adjacent to it, or within five miles of each side." The Age of Power blends into the Age of Transportation almost imperceptibly, but two events stand out as landmarks in the change: The invention of the Sun-power screen, and the opening of the first moving road. The power resources of oil and coal of the United States had, save for a few sporadic outbreaks of common sense, been shamefully wasted in their development all through the first half of the twentieth century. Simultaneously, the automobile, from its humble start as a one-lunged horseless carriage, grew into a steel-bodied monster of over a hundred horsepower and capable of making more than a hundred miles an hour. They boiled over the countryside, like yeast in ferment. In the middle of the century it was estimated that there was a motor vehicle for every two persons in the United States. They contained the seeds of their own destruction. Seventy million steel juggernauts, operated by imperfect human beings at high speed, are more destructive than war. In the same reference year the premiums paid for compulsory liability and property damage insurance by automobile owners exceeded in amount the sum paid the same year to purchase automobiles. Safe driving campaigns were chronic phenomena, but were mere pious attempts to put Humpty-Dumpty together again. It was not physically possible to drive safely in those crowded metropolises. Pedestrians were sardonically divided into two classes, the quick and the dead. But a pedestrian could be defined as a man who had found a place to park his car. The automobile made possible huge cities, then choked those same cities to death with their numbers. In 1900 Herbert George Wells pointed out that the saturation point in the size of a city might be mathematically predicted in terms of its transportation facilities. From a standpoint of speed alone the automobile made possible cities two hundred miles in diameter, but traffic congestion, and the inescapable, inherent danger of high-powered, individually operated vehicles canceled out the possibility. Federal Highway Number 66 from Los Angeles to Chicago, "The Main Street of America," was transformed into a superhighway for motor vehicles, with an under-speed limit of sixty miles per hour. It was planned as a public works project to stimulate heavy industry; it had an unexpected byproduct. The great cities of Chicago and St. Louis stretched out urban pseudopods toward each other, until they met near Bloomington, Illinois. The two parent cities actually shrank in population. The city of San Francisco replaced its antiquated cable cars with moving stairways, powered with the Douglas-Martin Solar Reception Screens. The largest number of automobile licenses in history had been issued that calendar year, but the end of the automobile was in sight. The National Defense Act closed its era. This act, one of the most bitterly debated ever to be brought out of committee, declared petroleum to be an essential and limited material of war. The army and navy had first call on all oil, above or below the ground, and seventy million civilian vehicles faced short and expensive rations. Take the superhighways of the period, urban throughout their length. Add the mechanized streets of San Franciso's hills. Heat to boiling point with an imminent shortage of gasoline. Flavor with Yankee ingenuity. The first mechanized road was opened between Cincinnati and Cleveland. It was, as one would expect, comparatively primitive in design. The fastest strip moved only thirty miles per hour, and was quite narrow, for no one had thought of the possibility of locating retail trade on the strips themselves. Nevertheless, it was a prototype of the social pattern which was to dominate the American scene within the next two decades, neither rural nor urban, but partaking equally of both, and based on rapid, safe, cheap, convenient transportation. Factories, wide, low buildings whose roofs were covered with solar power screens of the same type that drove the road, lined the roadway on each side. Back of them and interspersed among them were commercial hotels, retail stores, theaters, apartment houses. Beyond this long, thin, narrow strip was the open countryside, where much of the population lived. Their homes dotted the hills, hung on the banks of creeks, and nestled between the farms. They worked in the "city," but lived in the "country", and the two were not ten minutes apart. Missus McCoy served the chief and his guest in person. They checked their conversation at the sight of the magnificent steaks. Up and down the six-hundred-mile line, sector engineers of the watch were getting in their hourly reports from their subsector technicians. "Subsector One, check!" "Subsector Two, check!" Tensiometer readings, voltage, load, bearing temperatures, synchrotachometer readings, "Subsector Seven, check!" Hard-bitten, able men in dungarees, who lived much of their lives down inside amidst the unmuted roar of the hundred-mile strip, the shrill whine of driving rotors, and the complaint of the relay rollers. Davidson studied the moving model of the road, spread out before him in the main control room at Fresno Sector. He watched the barely perceptible crawl of the miniature hundred-mile strip and subconsciously noted the reference number on it which located Jake's Steak House Number 4. The chief would be getting into Stockton soon; he'd give him a ring after the hourly reports were in. Everything was quiet; traffic tonnage normal for rush hour; he would be sleepy before this watch was over. He turned to his cadet engineer of the watch. "Mister Barnes." "Yes, sir." "I think we could use some coffee." "Good idea, sir. I'll order some as soon as the hourlies are in." The minute hand of the control board chronometer reached twelve. The cadet watch officer threw a switch. "All sectors, report!" he said, in crisp, self-conscious tones. The faces of two men flicked into view on the visor screen. The younger answered him with the same air of acting under supervision. "Diego Circle, rolling!" They were at once replaced by two more. "Angeles Sector, rolling!" Then: "Bakersfield Sector, rolling!" And: "Stockton Sector, rolling!'' Finally, when Reno Circle had reported, the cadet turned to Davidson and reported: "Rolling, sir." "Very well, keep them rolling!" The visor screen flashed on once more. "Sacramento Sector, supplementary report." "Proceed." "Cadet Engineer Guenther, while on visual inspection as cadet sector engineer of the watch, found Cadet Engineer Alec Jeans, on watch as cadet subsector technician, and R. J. Ross, technician second class, on watch as technician for the same subsector, engaged in playing cards. K was not possible to tell with any accuracy how long they had neglected to patrol their subsector." "Any damage?" "One rotor running hot, but still synchronized. It was jacked down, and replaced." "Very well. Have the paymaster give Ross his time, and turn him over to the civil authorities. Place Cadet Jeans under arrest and order him to report to me." "Very well, sir." "Keep them rolling!" Davidson turned back to control desk and dialed Chief Engineer Games' temporary number. "You mentioned that there were two things that could cause major trouble on the road, Mister Gaines, but you spoke only of power failure to the rotors." Gaines pursued an elusive bit of salad before answering. "There really isn't a second major trouble, it won't happen. However, we are traveling along here at one hundred miles per hour. Can you visualize what would happen if this strip under us should break?" Mister Blekinsop shifted nervously in his chair. "Hum! Rather a disconcerting idea, don't you think? I mean to say, one is hardly aware that one is traveling at high speed, here in this snug room. What would the result be?" "Don't let it worry you; the strip can't part. It is built up of overlapping sections in such a fashion that it has a safety factor of better than twelve to one. Several miles of rotors would have to shut down all at once, and the circuit breakers for the rest of the line fail to trip out before there could possibly be sufficient tension on the strip to cause it to part. "But it happened once, on the Philadelphia-Jersey City road, and we aren't likely to forget it. It was one of the earliest high-speed roads, carrying a tremendous passenger traffic, as well as heavy freight, since it serviced a heavily industrialized area. The strip was hardly more than a conveyor belt, and no one had foreseen the weight it would carry. It happened under maximum load, naturally, when the high-speed way was crowded. The part of the strip behind the break buckled for miles, crushing passengers against the roof at eighty miles per hour. The section forward of the break cracked like a whip, spilling passengers onto the slower ways, dropping them on the exposed rollers and rotors down inside, and snapping them up against the roof. "Over three thousand people were killed in that one accident, and there was much agitation to abolish the roads. They were even shut down for a week by presidential order, but he was forced to reopen them again. There was no alternative." "Really? Why not?" "The country had become economically dependent on the roads. They were the principal means of transportation in the industrial areas, the only means of economic importance. Factories were shut down; food didn't move; people got hungry, and the president was forced to let them roll again. It was the only thing that could be done; the social pattern had crystallized in one form, and it couldn't be changed overnight. A large, industrialized population must have large-scale transportation, not only for people, but for trade." Mister Blekinsop fussed with his napkin, and rather diffidently suggested: "Mister Gaines, I do not intend to disparage the ingenious accomplishments of your great people, but isn't it possible that you may have put too many eggs in one basket in allowing your whole economy to become dependent on the functioning of one type of machinery?" Gaines considered this soberly. "I see your point. Yes, and no, every civilization above the peasant-and-village type is dependent on some key type of machinery. The old South was based on the cotton gin. Imperial England was made possible by the steam engine. Large populations have to have machines for power, for transportation, and for manufacturing in order to live. Had it not been for machinery the large populations could never have grown up. That's not a fault of the machine; that's its virtue. "But it is true that whenever we develop machinery to the point where it will support large populations at a high standard of living we are then bound to keep that machinery running, or suffer the consequences. But the real hazard in that is not the machinery, but the men who run the machinery. These roads, as machines, are all right. They are strong and safe and will do everything they were designed to do. No, it's not the machines, it's the men. "When a population is dependent on a machine, they are hostages of the men who tend the machines. If their morale is high, their sense of duty strong." Someone up near the front of the restaurant had turned up the volume control of the radio, letting out a blast of music that drowned out Gaines' words. When the sound had been tapered down to a more nearly bearable volume, he was saying: "Listen to that. It illustrates my point." Blekinsop turned an ear to the music. It was a swinging march of compelling rhythm, with a modern interpretive arrangement. One could near the roar of machinery, the repetitive clatter of mechanisms. A Pleased smile of recognition spread over the Australian's face. "It's your field artillery song, 'The Roll of the Caissons,' isn't it? But I don't see the connection." "You're right; it was 'The Roll of the Caissons,' but we adapted it to our own purposes. It's "The Road Song of the Transport Cadets,' too. Wait!" The persistent throb of the march continued, and seemed to blend with the vibration of the roadway underneath into a single timpano. Then a male chorus took up the verse: "Hear them hum! Watch them run! Oh, our job is never done, For our roadways go rolling along! While you ride, While you glide, We are watching down inside, So your roadways keep rolling along! "Oh, it's Hie! Hie! Hee! The rotor men are we, Check off the sectors loud and strong! ONE! TWO! THREE! Anywhere you go, You are bound to know, That your roadways are rolling along! KEEP THEM ROLLING! That your roadways are rolling along!" "See?" said Gaines, with more animation in his voice. "See? That is the real purpose of the United States Academy of Transport. That is the reason why the transport engineers are a semi-military profession, with strict discipline. We are the bottle neck, the sine qua non, of all industry, all economic life. Other industries can go on strike, and only create temporary and partial dislocations. Crops can fail here and there, and the country takes up the slack. But if the roads stop rolling, everything else must stop; the effect would be the same as a general strike, with this important difference: It takes a majority of the population, fired by a real feeling of grievance, to create a general strike; but the men that run the roads, few as they are, can create the same complete paralysis. "We had just one strike on the roads, back in '60. It was justified, I think, and it corrected a lot of real abuses, but it mustn't happen again." "But what is to prevent it happening again, Mister Gaines?" "Morale, esprit de corps. The technicians in the road service are indoctrinated constantly with the idea that their job is a sacred trust. Besides, we do everything we can to build up their social position. But even more important is the academy. We try to turn out graduate engineers imbued with the same loyalty, the same iron self-discipline, and determination to perform their duty to the community at any cost, that Annapolis and West Point and Goddard are so successful in inculcating in their graduates." "Goddard? Oh, yes, the rocket field. And have you been successful, do you think?" "Not entirely, perhaps, but we will be. It takes time to build up a tradition. When the oldest engineer is a man who entered the academy in his teens we can afford to relax a little and treat it as a solved problem." "I suppose you are a graduate?" Gaines grinned. "You flatter me, I must look younger than I am. No, I'm a carry-over from the army. You see, the war department operated the roads for some three months during reorganization after the strike in '60. I served on the conciliation board that awarded pay increases and adjusted working conditions, then I was assigned." The signal light of the portable telephone glowed red. Gaines said, "Excuse me," and picked up the handset. "Yes?" Blekinsop could overhear the voice at the other end. "This is Davidson, chief. The roads are rolling." "Very well. Keep them rolling!" "Had another trouble report from the Sacramento Sector." "Again? What this time?" Before Davidson could reply he was cut off. As Gaines reached out to dial him back, his coffee cup, half full, landed in his lap. Blekinsop was aware, even as he was lurched against the edge of the table, of a disquieting change in the hum of the roadway. "What has happened, Mister Gaines?" "Don't know. Emergency stop, God knows why." He was dialing furiously. Shortly he flung the phone down, without bothering to return the handset to its cradle. "Phones are out. Come on! No! You'll be safe here. Wait." "Must I?" 'Well, come along then, and stick close to me." He turned away, having dismissed the Australian cabinet minister from his mind. The strip ground slowly to a rest, the giant rotors and myriad rollers acting as flywheels in preventing a disastrous sudden stop. Already a little knot of commuters, disturbed at their evening meal, were attempting to crowd out the door of the restaurant. "Halt!" There is something about a command issued by one used to being obeyed which enforces compliance. It may be intonation, or possibly a more esoteric power, such as animal tamers are reputed to be able to exercise in controlling ferocious beasts. But it does exist, and can be used to compel even those not habituated to obedience. The commuters stopped in their tracks. Gaines continued: "Remain in the restaurant until we are ready to evacuate you. I am the chief engineer. You will be in no danger here. You!" He pointed to a big fellow near the door. "You're deputized. Don't let anyone leave without proper authority. Missus McCoy, resume serving dinner." Gaines strode out the door, Blekinsop tagging along. The situation outside permitted no such simple measures. The hundred-mile strip alone had stopped; twenty feet away the next strip flew by at an unchecked ninety-five miles an hour. The passengers on it flickered past, unreal cardboard figures. The twenty-foot walkway of the maximum speed strip had been crowded when the breakdown occurred. Now the customers of shops, of lunch stands, and of other places of business, the occupants of lounges, of television theaters, all came crowding out onto the walkway to see what had happened. The first disaster struck almost immediately. The crowd surged, and pushed against a middle-aged woman on its outer edge. In attempting to recover her balance she put one foot over the edge of the flashing ninety-five-mile strip. She realized her gruesome error, for she screamed before her foot touched the ribbon. She spun around and landed heavily on the moving strip, and was rolled by it, as the strip attempted to impart to her mass, at one blow, a velocity of ninety-five miles per hour, one hundred and thirty-nine feet per second. As she rolled she mowed down some of the cardboard figures as a sickle strikes a stand of grass. Quickly, she was out of sight, her identity, her injuries, and her fate undetermined, and already remote. But the consequences of her mishap were not done with. One of the flickering cardboard figures bowled over by her relative moment fell toward the hundred-mile strip, slammed into the shockbound crowd, and suddenly appeared as a live man, but broken and bleeding, amidst the luckless, fallen victims whose bodies had checked his wild flight. Even there it did not end. The disaster spread from its source, each hapless human ninepin more likely than not to knock down others so that they fell over the danger-laden boundary, and in turn ricocheted to a dearly-bought equilibrium. But the focus of calamity sped out of sight, and Blekinsop could see no more. His active mind, accustomed to dealing with large numbers of individual human beings, multiplied the tragic sequence he had witnessed by twelve hundred miles of thronged conveyor strip, and his stomach chilled. To Blekinsop's surprise, Gaines made no effort to succor the fallen, nor to quell the fear-infected mob, but turned an expressionless face back to the restaurant. When Blekinsop saw that he was actually reentering the restaurant, he plucked at Gaines' sleeve. "Aren't we going to help those poor people?" The cold planes of the face of the man who answered him bore no resemblance to his genial, rather boyish host of a few minutes before. "No, bystanders can help them, I've got the whole road to think of. Don't bother me." Crushed, and somewhat indignant, the politician did as he was ordered. Rationally, he knew that the chief engineer was right, a man responsible for the safety of millions cannot turn aside from his duty to render personal service to one, but the cold detachment of such viewpoint was repugnant to him. Gaines was back in the restaurant. "Missus McCoy, where is your getaway?" "In the pantry, sir." Gaines hurried there, Blekinsop at his heels. A nervous Filipino salad boy shrank out of Gaines' way as he casually swept a supply of prepared green stuffs onto the floor, and stepped up on the counter where they had rested. Directly above his head and within reach was a circular manhole, counterweighted and operated by a handwheel set in its center. A short steel ladder, hinged to the edge of the opening, was swung up flat to the ceiling and secured by a hook. Blekinsop lost his hat in his endeavor to clamber quickly enough up the ladder after Gaines. When he emerged on the roof of the building, Gaines was searching the ceiling of the roadway with a pocket flashlight. He was shuffling along, stooped double in the awkward four feet of space between the roof underfoot and ceiling. He found what he sought, some fifty feet away, another manhole similar to the one they had used to escape from below. He spun the wheel of the lock, and stood up in the space, then rested his hands on the sides of the opening, and with a single lithe movement vaulted to the roof of the roadways. His companion followed him with more difficulty. They stood in darkness, a fine, cold rain feeling at their faces. But underfoot, and stretching beyond sight on each hand, the Sun-power screens glowed with a faint opalescent radiance, their slight percentage of inefficiency as transformers of radiant Sun power to available electrical power being evidenced as a mild induced radioactivity. The effect was not illumination, but rather like the ghostly sheen of a snow-covered plain seen by starlight. The glow picked out the path they must follow to reach the rain-obscured wall of buildings bordering the ways. The path was a narrow black stripe which arched away into the darkness over the low curve of the roof. They started away on this path at a dogtrot, making as much speed as the slippery footing and the dark permitted, while Blekinsop's mind still fretted at the problem of Gaines' apparently callous detachment. Although possessed of a keen intelligence, his nature was dominated by a warm, human sympathy, without which no politician, irrespective of other virtues or shortcomings, is long successful. Because of this trait he distrusted instinctively any mind which was guided by logic alone. He was aware that, from a standpoint of strict logic, no reasonable case could be made out for the continued existence of human race, still less for the human values he served. Had he been able to pierce the preoccupation of his companion, he would have been reassured. On the surface, Gaines' exceptionally intelligent mind was clicking along with the facile ease of an electromechanical integrator, arranging data at hand, making tentative decisions, postponing judgments without prejudice until necessary data were available, exploring alternatives. Underneath, in a compartment insulated by stern self discipline from the acting theater of his mind, his emotions were a torturing storm of self reproach. He was heartsick at the suffering he had seen, and which he knew too well was duplicated up and down the line. Although he was not aware of any personal omission, nevertheless the fault was somehow his, for authority creates responsibility. He had carried too long the superhuman burden of kingship, which no sane mind can carry lightheartedly, and was at this moment perilously close to the frame of mind which sends captains down with their ships. But the need for immediate, constructive action sustained him. But no trace of this conflict reached his features. At the wall of buildings glowed a green line of arrows, pointing to the left. Over them, at the terminus of the narrow path, shone a sign: "Access down." They pursued this, Blekinsop puffing in Gaines' wake, to a door let in the wall, which gave into a narrow stairway lighted by a single glow tube. Gaines plunged down this, still followed, and they emerged on the crowded, noisy, stationary walkway adjoining the northbound road. Immediately adjacent to the stairway, on the right, was a public tele-booth. Through the glassite door they could see a portly, well-dressed man speaking earnestly to his female equivalent, mirrored in the visor screen. Three other citizens were waiting outside the booth. Gaines pushed past them, flung open the door, grasped the bewildered and indignant man by the shoulders and hustled him outside, kicking the door closed after him. He cleared the visor screen with one sweep of his hand, before the matron pictured therein could protest, and pressed the emergency-priority button. He dialed his private code number, and was shortly looking into the troubled face of his engineer of the watch, Davidson. "Report!" "It's you, chief! Thank God! Where are you?" Davidson's relief was pathetic. "Report!" The senior watch officer repressed his emotion, and complied in direct, clipped phrases: "At 7:09 p.m. the consolidated tension reading, Strip 20, Sacramento Sector, climbed suddenly. Before action could be taken, tension on Strip 20 passed emergency level; the interlocks acted, and power to subject strip cut out. Cause of failure unknown. Direct communication to Sacramento control office has failed. They do not answer the auxiliary, nor commercial. Effort to reestablish communication continues. Messenger dispatched from Stockton Subsector 10. "No casualties reported. Warning broadcast by public announcement circuit to keep clear of Strip 19. Evacuation has commenced." "There are casualties," Gaines cut in. "Police and hospital emergency routine. Move!" "Yes, sir!" Davidson snapped back, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder, but his cadet officer of the watch had already jumped to comply. "Shall I cut out the rest of the road, chief?" "No, no more casualties are likely after the first disorder. Keep up the broadcast warnings. Keep those other strips rolling, or we will have a traffic jam the devil himself couldn't untangle." Gaines had in mind the impossibility of bringing the strips up to speed under load. The rotors were not powerful enough to do this. If the entire road was stopped, he would have to evacuate every strip, correct the trouble on Strip 20, bring all strips up to speed, and then move the accumulated peak-load traffic. In the meantime, over five million stranded passengers would constitute a tremendous police problem. It was simpler to evacuate passengers on Strip 20 over the roof, and allow them to return home via the remaining strips. "Notify the mayor and the governor that I have assumed emergency authority. Same to the chief of police and place him under your orders. Tell the commandant to arm all cadets available and await orders. Move!" "Yes, sir. Shall I recall technicians off watch?" "No, this isn't an engineering failure. Take a look at your readings; that entire sector went out simultaneously. Somebody cut out those rotors by hand. Place off-watch technicians on standby status, but don't arm them, and don't send them down inside. Tell the commandant to rush all available senior-class cadets to Stockton Subsector Office Number 10 to report to me. I want them equipped with tumblebugs, pistols, and sleepgas bombs." "Yes, sir." A clerk leaned over Davidson's shoulder and said something in his ear. "The governor wants to talk to you, chief." "Can't do it, nor can you. Who's your relief? Have you sent for him?" "Hubbard, he's just come in." "Have him talk to the governor, the mayor, the press, anybody that calls, even the White House. You stick to your watch. I'm cutting off. I'll be back in communication as quickly as I can locate a reconnaissance car." He was out of the booth almost before the screen cleared. Blekinsop did not venture to speak, but followed him out to the northbound twenty-mile strip. There Gaines stopped, short of the windbreak, turned, and kept his eyes on the wall beyond the stationary walkway. He picked out some landmark or sign, not apparent to his companion, and did an Eliza crossing the ice back to the walkway, so rapidly that Blekinsop was carried some hundred feet beyond him, and almost failed to follow when Gaines ducked into a doorway, and ran down a flight of stairs. They came out on a narrow lower walkway, down inside. The pervading din claimed them, beat upon their bodies as well as their ears. Dimly, Blekinsop perceived their surroundings, as he struggled to face that wall of sound. Facing him, illuminated by the red monochrome of a neon arc, was one of the rotors that drove the five-mile strip, its great, drum-shaped armature revolving slowly around the stationary field coils in its core. The upper surface of the drum pressed against the under side of the moving way and imparted to it its stately progress. To the left and right, a hundred yards each way, and beyond at similar intervals, farther than he could see, were other rotors. Bridging the gaps between the rotors were the slender rollers, crowded together like cigars in a box, in order that the strip might have a continuous rolling support. The rollers were supported by steel-girder arches through the gaps of which he saw row after row of rotors in staggered succession, the rotors in each succeeding row turning over more rapidly than the last. Separated from the narrow walkway by a line of supporting steel pillars, and lying parallel to it on the side away from the rotors, ran a shallow paved causeway, joined to the walk at this point by a ramp. Gaines peered up and down this tunnel in evident annoyance. Blekinsop started to ask him what troubled him, but found his voice snuffed out by the sound. He could not cut through the roar of thousands of rotors and the whine of hundreds of thousands of rollers. Gaines saw his lips move, and guessed at the question. He cupped his hands around Blekinsop's right ear, and shouted: "No car, I expected to find a car here." The Australian, wishing to be helpful, grasped Gaines' arm and pointed back into the jungle of machinery. Gaines' eye followed the direction indicated and picked out something that he had missed in his preoccupation, a half dozen men working around a rotor several strips away. They had jacked down a rotor until it was no longer in contact with the road surface, and were preparing to replace it in toto. The replacement rotor was standing by on a low, heavy truck. The chief engineer gave a quick smile of acknowledgment and thanks, and aimed his flashlight at the group, the beam focused down to a slender, intense needle of light. One of the technicians looked up, and Gaines snapped the light on and off in a repeated, irregular pattern. A figure detached itself from the group and ran toward them. It was a slender young man, dressed in dungarees, and topped off with ear pads and an incongruous, pillbox cap, bright with gold braid and insignia. He recognized the chief engineer and saluted, his face falling into humorless, boyish intentness. Gaines stuffed his torch into a pocket and commenced to gesticulate rapidly with both hands, clear, clean gestures, as involved and as meaningful as deaf-mute language. Blekinsop dug into his own dilettante knowledge of anthropology and decided that it was most like an American Indian sign language, with some of the finger movements of hula. But it was necessarily almost entirely strange, being adapted for a particular terminology. The cadet answered him in kind, stepped to the edge of the causeway, and flashed his torch to the south. He picked out a car, still some distance away, but approaching at headlong speed. It braked, and came to a stop alongside them. It was a small affair, ovoid in shape, and poised on two centerline wheels. The forward, upper surface swung up and disclosed the driver, another cadet. Gaines addressed him briefly in sign language, then hustled Blekinsop ahead of him into the cramped passenger compartment. As the glassite hood was being swung back into place, a blast of wind smote them, and the Australian looked up in time to glimpse the last of three much larger vehicles hurtle past them. They were headed north, at a speed of not less than two hundred miles per hour. Blekinsop thought that he had made out the little hats of cadets through the windows of the last of the three, but he could not be sure. He had no time to wonder, so violent was the driver's getaway. Gaines ignored the accelerating surge, he was already calling Davidson on the built-in communicator. Comparative silence had settled down once the car was closed. The face of a female operator at the relay station showed on the screen. "Get me Davidson, senior watch office!" "Oh! It's Mister Gaines! The Mayor wants to talk to you, Mister Gaines." "Refer him, and get me Davidson. Move!" "Yes, sir." "And see here, leave this circuit hooked in to Davidson's board until I tell you personally to cut it." "Right." Her face gave way to the watch officer's. "That you, chief? We're moving, progress O K, no change." "Very well. You'll be able to raise me on this circuit, or at Subsector 10 office. Clearing now." Davidson's face gave way to the relay operator. "Your wife is calling, Mister Gaines. Will you take it?" Gaines muttered something not quite gallant, and answered: "Yes." Missus Gaines flashed into facsimile. He burst into speech before she could open her mouth. "Darling I'm all right don't worry I'll be home when I get there I've got to go now." It was all out in one breath, and he slapped the control that cleared the screen. They slammed to a breath-taking stop alongside the stair leading to the watch office of Subsector 10, and piled out. Three big lorries were drawn up on the ramp, and three platoons of cadets were ranged in restless ranks alongside them. Tumblebugs, small, open monocycles, used to patrol down inside, were ready nearby. A cadet trotted up to Gaines and saluted. "Lindsay, sir, cadet engineer of the watch. The engineer of the watch requests that you come at once to the control room." The engineer of the watch looked up as they came in. "Chief, Van Kleeck is calling you." "Put him on." When Van Kleeck appeared in the big visor, Gaines greeted him with: "Hello, Van. Where are you?" "Sacramento office. Now listen." "Sacramento? That's good! Report." Van Kleeck looked disgruntled. "Report, hell! I'm not your deputy any more, Gaines. Now, you." "What the hell are you talking about?" "Listen, and don't interrupt me, and you'll find out. You're through, Gaines. I've been picked as Director of the Provisional Control Committee for the New Order." "Van, have you gone off your rocker? What do you mean, the 'New Order'?" "You'll find out. This is it, the Functionalist revolution. We're in; you're out. We stopped Strip 20 just to give you a little taste of what we can do." Concerning Function: A Treatise on the Natural Order in Society, the Bible of the Functionalist movement, was first published in 1930. It claimed to be a scientifically accurate theory of social relations. The author, Paul Decker, disclaimed the "outworn and futile" ideas of democracy and human equality, and substituted a system in which human beings were evaluated "functionally", that is to say, by the role each filled in the economic sequence. The underlying thesis was that it was right and proper for a man to exercise over his fellows whatever power was inherent in his function, and that any other form of social organization was silly, visionary, and contrary to the "natural order." The complete interdependence of modern economic life seems to have escaped him entirely. His ideas were dressed up with a glib mechanistic pseudo-psychology based on the observed orders of precedence among barnyard fowls, and on the famous Pavlov conditioned reflex experiments on dogs. He failed to note that human beings are neither dogs nor chickens. Old Doctor Pavlov ignored him entirely, as he had ignored so many others who had blindly and unscientifically dogmatized about the meaning of his important, but strictly limited, experiments. Functionalism did not take hold at once, during the '30s almost everyone, from truck driver to hatcheck girl, had a scheme for setting the world right in six easy lessons; and a surprising percentage managed to get their schemes published. But it gradually spread. Functionalism was particularly popular among little people everywhere who could persuade themselves that their particular jobs were the indispensable ones, and that therefore, under the "natural order," they would be top dogs. With so many different functions actually indispensable such self-persuasion was easy. Gaines stared at Van Kleeck for a moment before replying. "Van," he said slowly, "you don't really think you can get away with this, do you?" The little man puffed out his chest. “Why not? We have gotten away with it. You can't start Strip 20 until I am ready to let you, and I can stop the whole road, if necessary.” Gaines was becoming uncomfortably aware that he was dealing with unreasonable conceit, and held himself patiently in check. "Sure you can, Van, but how about the rest of the country? Do you think the United States army will sit quietly by and let you run California as your private kingdom?" Van Kleeck looked sly. "I've planned for that. I've just finished broadcasting a manifesto to all the road technicians in the country, telling them what we have done, and telling them to arise, and claim their rights. With every road in the country stopped, and people getting hungry, I reckon the President will think twice before sending the army to tangle with us. Oh, he could send a force to capture, or kill, me, I'm not afraid to die!, but he doesn't dare start shooting down road technicians as a class, because the country can't get along without us, consequently, he'll have to get along with us, on our terms!" There was much bitter truth in what he said. If an uprising of the road technicians became general, the government could no more attempt to settle it by force than a man could afford to cure a headache by blowing out his brains. But was the uprising general? "Why do you think that the technicians in the rest of the country will follow your lead?" "Why not? It's the natural order of things. This is an age of machinery; the real power everywhere is in the technicians, but they have been kidded into not using their power with a lot of obsolete catch phrases. And of all the classes of technicians, the most important, the absolutely essential, are the road technicians. From now on they run the show, it's the natural order of things!" He turned away for a moment and fussed with some papers on the desk before him; then he added: "That's all for now, Gaines, I've got to call the White House, and let the president know how things stand. You carry on, and behave yourself, and you won't get hurt." Gaines sat quite still for some minutes after the screen cleared. So that's how it was. He wondered what effect, if any, Van Kleeck's invitation to strike had had on road technicians elsewhere. None, he thought, but then he had not dreamed that it could happen among his own technicians. Perhaps he had made a mistake in refusing to take time to talk to anyone outside the road. No, if he had stopped to talk to the Governor, or the newspapermen, he would still be talking. Still, He dialed Davidson. "Any trouble in any other sectors, Dave?" "No, chief." "Or on any other road?" "None reported." "Did you hear my talk with Van Kleeck?" "I was cut in, yes." "Good. Have Hubbard call the President and the Governor, and tell them that I am strongly opposed to the use of military force as long as the outbreak is limited to this one road. Tell them that I will not be responsible if they move in before I ask for help." Davidson looked dubious. "Do you think that is wise, chief?" "I do! If we try to blast Van and his red-hots out of their position, we may set off a real, countrywide uprising. Futhermore, he could wreck the road so that God himself couldn't put it back together. What's your rolling tonnage now?" "Fifty-three percent under evening peak." "How about Strip 20?" "Almost evacuated." "Good. Get the road clear of all traffic as fast as possible. Better have the chief of police place a guard on all entrances to the road to keep out new traffic. Van may stop all the strips any time, or I may need to myself. Here is my plan: I'm going down inside with these armed cadets. We will work north, overcoming any resistance we meet. You arrange for watch technicians and maintenance crews to follow immediately behind us. Each rotor, as they come to it, is to be cut out, then hooked into the Stockton control board. It will be a haywire rig, with no safety interlocks, so use enough watch technicians to be able to catch trouble before it happens. "If this scheme works, we can move control of the Sacramento Sector right out from under Van's feet, and he can stay in his Sacramento control office until he gets hungry enough to be reasonable." He cut off and turned to the subsector engineer of the watch. "Edmunds, give me a helmet, and a pistol." "Yes, sir." He opened a drawer, and handed his chief a slender, deadly-looking weapon. Gaines belted it on, and accepted a helmet, into which he crammed his head, leaving the antinoise ear flaps up. Blekinsop cleared his throat. "May, uh, may I have one of those helmets?" he inquired. "What?" Gaines focused his attention. "Oh, You won't need one, Mister Blekinsop. I want you to remain right here until you hear from me." "But," The Australian statesman started to speak, thought better of it, and subsided. From the doorway the cadet engineer of the watch demanded the chief engineer's attention. "Mister Gaines, there is a technician out here who insists on seeing you, a man named Harvey." "Can't do it." "He's from the Sacramento Sector, sir." "Oh! Send him in." Harvey quickly advised Gaines of what he had seen and heard at the guild meeting that afternoon. "I got disgusted and left while they were still jawin', chief. I didn't think any more about it until Strip 20 stopped rolling. Then I heard that the trouble was in Sacramento Sector, and decided to look you up." "How long has this been building up?" "Quite some time, I guess. You know how it is. There are a few sore heads everywhere, and a lot of them are Functionalists. But you can't refuse to work with a man just because he holds different political views. It's a free country." "You should have come to me before, Harvey." Harvey looked stubborn. Gaines studied his face. "No, I guess you are right. It's my business to keep tabs on your mates, not yours. As you say, it's a free country. Anything else?" "Well, now that it has come to this, I thought maybe I could help you pick out the ringleaders." "Thanks. You stick with me. We are going down inside and try to clear up this mess." The office door opened suddenly, and a technician and a cadet appeared, lugging a burden between them. They deposited it on the floor, and waited. It was a young man, quite evidently dead. The front of his dungaree jacket was soggy with blood. Gaines looked at the watch officer. "Who is he?" Edmunds broke his stare and answered: "Cadet Hughes. He's the messenger I sent to Sacramento when communication failed. When he didn't report, I sent Marston and Cadet Jenkins after him." Gaines muttered something to himself, and turned away. "Come along, Harvey." The cadets waiting below had changed in mood. Gaines noted that the boyish intentness for excitement had been replaced by something uglier. There was much exchange of hand signals and several appeared to be checking the loading of their pistols. He sized them up, then signaled to the cadet leader. There was a short interchange of signals. The cadet saluted, turned to his men, gesticulated briefly, and brought his arm down smartly. They filed upstairs, and into an empty standby room, Gaines following. Once inside, and the noise shut out, he addressed them: "You saw Hughes brought in. How many of you want a chance to kill the louse that did it?" Three of the cadets reacted almost at once, breaking ranks and striding forward. Gaines looked at them coldly. "Very well. You three turn in your weapons, and return to your quarters. Any of the rest of you that think this is a matter of private revenge, or a hunting party, may join them." He permitted a short silence to endure before continuing. "Sacramento Sector has been seized by unauthorized persons. We are going to retake it—if possible, without loss of life on either side, and, if possible, without stopping the roads. The plan is to take over down inside, rotor by rotor, and cross-connect through Stockton. The task assignment of this group is to proceed north down inside, locating and overpowering all persons in your path. You will bear in mind the probability that most of the persons you will arrest are completely innocent. Consequently, you will favor the use of sleep-gas bombs, and will shoot to kill only as a last resort. "Cadet captain, assign your men in squads of ten each, with squad leader. Each squad is to form a skirmish line across down inside, mounted on tumblebugs, and will proceed north at fifteen miles per hour. Leave an interval of one hundred yards between successive waves of skirmishers. Whenever a man is sighted, the entire leading wave will converge on him, arrest him, and deliver him to a transport car, then reform in the rear of the last wave. You will assign the transports that delivered you here to hold prisoners. Instruct the drivers to keep abreast of the second wave. "You will assign an attack group to recapture subsector control officers, but no office is to be attacked until its subsector has been cross connected with Stockton. Arrange liaison accordingly. "Any questions?" He let his eyes run over the faces of the young men. When no one spoke up, he turned back to the cadet in charge. "Very well, sir. Carry out your orders!" By the time the dispositions had been completed, the follow-up crew of technicians had arrived, and Gaines had given the engineer in charge his instructions. The cadets "stood to horse" alongside their poised tumblebugs. The cadet captain looked expectantly at Gaines. He nodded, the cadet brought his arm down smartly, and the first wave mounted and moved off. Gaines and Harvey mounted tumblebugs, and kept abreast of the cadet captain, some twenty-five yards behind the leading wave. It had been a long time since the chief engineer had ridden one of these silly-looking little vehicles, and he felt awkward. A tumblebug does not give a man dignity, since it is about the size and shape of a kitchen stool, gyro-stabilized on a single wheel. But it is perfectly adapted to patrolling the maze of machinery down inside, since it can go through an opening the width of a man's shoulders, is easily controlled, and will stand patiently upright, waiting, should its rider dismount. Heinlein: https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html

Contents: 1 Misfit. Astounding Science Fiction, November 1939. 2 Ordeal In Space. Town and Country, May 1948. 3 Orphans of the Sky. Astounding Science Fiction, May and October 1941. 4 Pied Piper. Astonishing stories, March 1942. 5 Poor Daddy. Calling All Girls, 1949. 6 Requiem. Astounding, January 1940. 7 All you Zombies. The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, March 1959. 8 The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag. Unknown Worlds, October 1942. Misfit. By Robert “A.” Heinlein. “For the purpose of conserving and improving our interplanetary resources, and providing useful, healthful occupations for the youth of this planet.” Excerpt from the enabling act, H R 7118, setting up the Cosmic Construction Corps. “Attention to muster!” The parade ground voice of a First Sergeant of Space Marines cut through the fog and drizzle of a nasty New Jersey morning. “As your names are called, answer ‘Here’, step forward with your baggage, and embark. “Atkins!” “Here!” “Austin!” “Hyar!” “Ayres!” “Here!” One by one they fell out of ranks, shouldered the hundred and thirty pounds of personal possessions allowed them, and trudged up the gangway. They were young, none more than twenty-two, in some cases luggage outweighed the owner. “Kaplan!” “Here!” “Keith!” “Heah!” “Libby!” “Here!” A thin gangling blonde had detached himself from the line, hastily wiped his nose, and grabbed his belongings. He slung a fat canvas bag over his shoulder, steadied it, and lifted a suitcase with his free hand. He started for the companionway in an unsteady dogtrot. As he stepped on the gangway his suitcase swung against his knees. He staggered against a short wiry form dressed in the powder-blue of the Space Navy. Strong fingers grasped his arm and checked his fall. “Steady, son. Easy does it.” Another hand readjusted the canvas bag. “Oh, excuse me, uh”, the embarrassed youngster automatically counted the four bands of silver braid below the shooting star, “Captain. I didn’t.” “Bear a hand and get aboard, son.” “Yes, sir.” The passage into the bowels of the transport was gloomy. When the lad’s eyes adjusted he saw a gunners mate wearing the brassard of a Master-at-Arms, who hooked a thumb toward an open airtight door. “In there. Find your locker and wait by it.” Libby hurried to obey. Inside he found a jumble of baggage and men in a wide low-ceilinged compartment. A line of glowtubes ran around the junction of bulkhead and ceiling and trisected the overhead: the 50 foot roar of blowers made a background to the voices of his shipmates. He picked his way through heaped luggage and located his locker, seven-ten, on the far wall outboard. He broke the seal on the combination lock, glanced at the combination, and opened it. The locker was very small, the middle of a tier of three. He considered what he should keep in it. A loudspeaker drowned out the surrounding voices and demanded his attention: “Attention! Man all space details; first section. Raise ship in twelve minutes. Close airtight doors. Stop blowers at minus two minutes. Special orders for passengers; place all gear on deck, and tie down on red signal light. Remain down until release is sounded. Masters-at-Arms check compliance.” The gunner’s mate popped in, glanced around and immediately commenced supervising rearrangement of the baggage. Heavy items were lashed down. Locker doors were closed. By the time each boy had found a place on the deck and the Master-at-Arms had okayed the pad under his head, the glowtubes turned red and the loudspeaker brayed out. “All hands. Up Ship! Stand by for acceleration.” The Master-at-Arms hastily reclined against two cruise bags, and watched the room. The blowers sighed to a stop. There followed two minutes of dead silence. Libby felt his heart commence to pound. The two minutes stretched interminably. Then the deck quivered and a roar like escaping high pressure steam beat at his ear drums. He was suddenly very heavy and a weight lay across his chest and heart. An indefinite time later the glowtubes flashed white, and the announcer bellowed: “Secure all getting underway details; regular watch, first section.” The blowers droned into life. The Master-at-Arms stood up, rubbed his buttocks and pounded his arms, then said: “Okay, boys.” He stepped over and undogged the airtight door to the passageway. Libby got up and blundered into a bulkhead, nearly falling. His legs and arms had gone to sleep, besides which he felt alarmingly light, as if he had sloughed off at least half of his inconsiderable mass. For the next two hours he was too busy to think, or to be homesick. Suitcases, boxes, and bags had to be passed down into the lower hold and lashed against angular acceleration. He located and learned how to use a waterless water closet. He found his assigned bunk and learned that it was his only eight hours in twenty-four; two other boys had the use of it too. The three sections ate in three shifts, nine shifts in all, twenty-four youths and a master-at-arms at one long table which jam-filled a narrow compartment off the galley. After lunch Libby restowed his locker. He was standing before it, gazing at a photograph which he intended to mount on the inside of the locker door, when a command filled the compartment: “Attention!” Standing inside the door was the Captain flanked by the Master-at-Arms. The Captain commenced to speak. “At rest, men. Sit down. McCoy, tell control to shift this compartment to smoke filter.” The gunner’s mate hurried to the communicator on the bulkhead and spoke into it in a low tone. Almost at once the hum of the blowers climbed a half-octave and stayed there. “Now light up if you like. I’m going to talk to you. “You boys are headed out on the biggest thing so far in your lives. From now on you’re men, with one of the hardest jobs ahead of you that men have ever tackled. What we have to do is part of a bigger scheme. You, and hundreds of thousands of others like you, are going out as pioneers to fix up the solar system so that human beings can make better use of it. “Equally important, you are being given a chance to build yourselves into useful and happy citizens of the Federation. For one reason or another you weren’t happily adjusted back on Earth. Some of you saw the jobs you were trained for abolished by new inventions. Some of you got into trouble from not knowing what to do with the modern leisure. In any case you were misfits. Maybe you were called bad boys and had a lot of black marks chalked up against you. “But everyone of you starts even today. The only record you have in this ship is your name at the top of a blank sheet of paper. It’s up to you what goes on that page. “Now about our job, We didn’t get one of the easy repair-and-recondition jobs on the Moon, with week-ends at Luna City, and all the comforts of home. Nor did we draw a high gravity planet where a man can eat a full meal and expect to keep it down. Instead we’ve got to go out to Asteroid HS-5388 and turn it into Space Station E-M3. She has no atmosphere at all, and only about two per cent Earth-surface gravity. We’ve got to play human fly on her for at least six months, no girls to date, no television, no recreation that you don’t devise yourselves, and hard work every day. You’ll get space sick, and so homesick you can taste it, and agoraphobia. If you aren’t careful you’ll get ray-burnt. Your stomach will act up, and you’ll wish to God you’d never enrolled. “But if you behave yourself, and listen to the advice of the old spacemen, you’ll come out of it strong and healthy, with a little credit stored up in the bank, and a lot of knowledge and experience that you wouldn’t get in forty years on Earth. You’ll be men, and you’ll know it. “One last word. It will be pretty uncomfortable to those that aren’t used to it. Just give the other fellow a little consideration, and you’ll get along all right. If you have any complaint and can’t get satisfaction any other way, come see me. Otherwise, that’s all. Any questions?” One of the boys put up his hand. “Captain?” he enquired timidly. “Speak up, lad, and give your name.” “Rogers, sir. Will we be able to get letters from home?” “Yes, but not very often. Maybe every month or so. The chaplain will carry mail, and any inspection and supply ships.” The ship’s loudspeaker blatted out, “All hands! Free flight in ten minutes. Stand by to lose weight.” The Master-at-Arms supervised the rigging of grablines. All loose gear was made fast, and little cellulose bags were issued to each man. Hardly was this done when Libby felt himself get light on his feet, a sensation exactly like that experienced when an express elevator makes a quick stop on an upward trip, except that the sensation continued and became more intense. At first it was a pleasant novelty, then it rapidly became distressing. The blood pounded in his ears, and his feet were clammy and cold. His saliva secreted at an abnormal rate. He tried to swallow, choked, and coughed. Then his stomach shuddered and contracted with a violent, painful, convulsive reflex and he was suddenly, disastrously nauseated. After the first excruciating spasm, he heard McCoy’s voice shouting. “Hey! Use your sick-kits like I told you. Don’t let that stuff get in the blowers.” Dimly Libby realized that the admonishment included him. He fumbled for his cellulose bag just as a second temblor shook him, but he managed to fit the bag over his mouth before the eruption occurred. When it subsided, he became aware that he was floating near the overhead and facing the door. The chief Master-at-Arms slithered in the door and spoke to McCoy. “How are you making out?” “Well enough. Some of the boys missed their kits.” “Okay. Mop it up. You can use the starboard lock.” He swam out. McCoy touched Libby’s arm. “Here, Pinkie, start catching them butterflies.” He handed him a handful of cotton waste, then took another handful himself and neatly dabbed up a globule of the slimy filth that floated about the compartment. “Be sure your sick-kit is on tight. When you get sick, just stop and wait until it’s over.” Libby imitated him as best as he could. In a few minutes the room was free of the worst of the sickening debris. McCoy looked it over, and spoke: “Now peel off them dirty duds, and change your kits. Three or four of you bring everything along to the starboard lock.” At the starboard spacelock, the kits were put in first, the inner door closed, and the outer opened. When the inner door was opened again the kits were gone, blown out into space by the escaping air. Pinkie addressed McCoy. “Do we have to throw away our dirty clothes too?” “Huh uh, we’ll just give them a dose of vacuum. Take ‘em into the lock and stop ‘em to those hooks on the bulkheads. Tie ‘em tight.” This time the lock was left closed for about five minutes. When the lock was opened the garments were bone dry, all the moisture boiled out by the vacuum of space. All that remained of the unpleasant rejecta was a sterile powdery residue. McCoy viewed them with approval. “They’ll do. Take them back to the compartment. Then brush them, hard, in front of the exhaust blowers.” The next few days were an eternity of misery. Homesickness was forgotten in the all-engrossing wretchedness of space sickness. The Captain granted fifteen minutes of mild acceleration for each of the nine meal periods, but the respite accentuated the agony. Libby would go to a meal, weak and ravenously hungry. The meal would stay down until free flight was resumed, then the sickness would hit him all over again. On the fourth day he was seated against a bulkhead, enjoying the luxury of a few remaining minutes of weight while the last shift ate, when McCoy walked in and sat down beside him. The gunner’s mate fitted a smoke filter over his face and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and started to chat. “How’s it going, bud?” “All right, I guess. This space sickness. Say, McCoy, how do you ever get used to it?” “You get over it in time. Your body acquires new reflexes, so they tell me. Once you learn to swallow without choking, you’ll be all right. You even get so you like it. It’s restful and relaxing. Four hours sleep is as good as ten.” Libby shook his head dolefully. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.” “Yes, you will. You’d better anyway. This here asteroid won’t have any surface gravity to speak of; the Chief Quartermaster says it won’t run over two percent Earth normal. That ain’t enough to cure space sickness. And there won’t be any way to accelerate for meals either.” Libby shivered and held his head between his hands. Locating one asteroid among a couple of thousand is not as easy as finding Trafalgar Square in London, especially against the star-crowded backdrop of the galaxy. You take off from Terra with its orbital speed of about nineteen miles per second. You attempt to settle into a composite conoid curve that will not only intersect the orbit of the tiny fast-moving body, but also accomplish an exact rendezvous. Asteroid HS-5388, “Eighty-eight”, lay about two and two-tenths astronomical units out from the sun, a little more than two hundred million miles; when the transport took off it lay beyond the sun better than three hundred million miles. Captain Doyle instructed the navigator to plot the basic ellipsoid to tack in free flight around the sun through an elapsed distance of some three hundred and forty million miles. The principle involved is the same as used by a hunter to wing a duck in flight by “leading” the bird in flight. But suppose that you face directly into the sun as you shoot; suppose the bird cannot be seen from where you stand, and you have nothing to aim by but some old reports as to how it was flying when last seen? On the ninth day of the passage Captain Doyle betook himself to the chart room and commenced punching keys on the ponderous integral calculator. Then he sent his orderly to present his compliments to the navigator and to ask him to come to the chartroom. A few minutes later a tall heavyset form swam through the door, steadied himself with a grabline and greeted the captain. “Good morning, Skipper.” “Hello, Blackie.” The Old Man looked up from where he was strapped into the integrator’s saddle. “I’ve been checking your corrections for the meal time accelerations.” “It’s a nuisance to have a bunch of ground-lubbers on board, sir.” “Yes, it is, but we have to give those boys a chance to eat, or they couldn’t work when we got there. Now I want to decelerate starting about ten o’clock, ship’s time. What’s our eight o’clock speed and co-ordinates?” The Navigator slipped a notebook out of his tunic. “Three hundred fifty-eight miles per second; course is right ascension fifteen hours, eight minutes, twenty-seven seconds, declination minus seven degrees, three minutes; solar distance one hundred and ninety-two million four hundred eighty thousand miles. Our radial position is twelve degrees above course, and almost dead on course in R.A. Do you want Sol’s co-ordinates?” “No, not now.” The captain bent over the calculator, frowned and chewed the tip of his tongue as he worked the controls. “I want you to kill the acceleration about one million miles inside Eighty-eight’s orbit. I hate to waste the fuel, but the belt is full of junk and this damned rock is so small that we will probably have to run a search curve. Use twenty hours on deceleration and commence changing course to port after eight hours. Use normal asymptotic approach. You should have her in a circular trajectory abreast of Eighty-eight, and paralleling her orbit by six o’clock tomorrow morning. I shall want to be called at three.” “Aye, aye, sir.” “Let me see your figures when you get ‘em. I’ll send up the order book later.” The transport accelerated on schedule. Shortly after three the Captain entered the control room and blinked his eyes at the darkness. The sun was still concealed by the hull of the transport and the midnight blackness was broken only by the dim blue glow of the instrument dials, and the crack of light from under the chart hood. The Navigator turned at the familiar tread. “Good morning, Captain.” “Morning, Blackie. In sight yet?” “Not yet. We’ve picked out half a dozen rocks, but none of them checked.” “Any of them close?” “Not uncomfortably. We’ve overtaken a little sand from time to time.” “That can’t hurt us, not on a stern chase like this. If pilots would only realize that the asteroids flow in fixed directions at computable speeds nobody would come to grief out here.” He stopped to light a cigarette. “People talk about space being dangerous. Sure, it used to be; but I don’t know of a case in the past twenty years that couldn’t be charged up to some fool’s recklessness.” “You’re right, Skipper. By the way, there’s coffee under the chart hood.” “Thanks; I had a cup down below.” He walked over by the lookouts at stereoscopes and radar tanks and peered up at the star-flecked blackness. Three cigarettes later the lookout nearest him called out. “Light ho!” “Where away?” His mate read the exterior dials of the stereoscope. “Plus point two, abaft one point three, slight drift astern.” He shifted to radar and added, “Range seven nine oh four three.” “Does that check?” “Could be, Captain. What is her disk?” came the Navigator’s muffled voice from under the hood. The first lookout hurriedly twisted the knobs of his instrument, but the Captain nudged him aside. “I’ll do this, son.” He fitted his face to the double eye guards and surveyed a little silvery sphere, a tiny moon. Carefully he brought two illuminated cross-hairs up until they were exactly tangent to the upper and lower limbs of the disk. “Mark!” The reading was noted and passed to the Navigator, who shortly ducked out from under the hood. “That’s our baby, Captain.” “Good.” “Shall I make a visual triangulation?” “Let the watch officer do that. You go down and get some sleep. I’ll ease her over until we get close enough to use the optical range finder.” “Thanks, I will.” Within a few minutes the word had spread around the ship that Eighty-eight had been sighted. Libby crowded into the starboard troop deck with a throng of excited mess mates and attempted to make out their future home from the view port. McCoy poured cold water on their excitement. “By the time that rock shows up big enough to tell anything about it with your naked eye we’ll be at our grounding stations. She’s only about a hundred miles thick, yuh know.” And so it was. Many hours later the ship’s announcer shouted: “All hands! Man your grounding stations. Close all airtight doors. Stand by to cut blowers on signal.” McCoy forced them to lie down throughout the ensuing two hours. Short shocks of rocket blasts alternated with nauseating weightlessness. Then the blowers stopped and check valves clicked into their seats. The ship dropped free for a few moments, a final quick blast, five seconds of falling, and a short, light, grinding bump. A single bugle note came over the announcer, and the blowers took up their hum. McCoy floated lightly to his feet and poised, swaying, on his toes. “All out, troops, this is the end of the line.” A short chunky lad, a little younger than most of them, awkwardly emulated him, and bounded toward the door, shouting as he went, “Come on, fellows! Let’s go outside and explore!” The Master-at-Arms squelched him. “Not so fast, kid. Aside from the fact that there is no air out there, go right ahead. You’ll freeze to death, burn to death, and explode like a ripe tomato. Squad leader, detail six men to break out spacesuits. The rest of you stay here and stand by.” The working party returned shortly loaded down with a couple of dozen bulky packages. Libby let go the four he carried and watched them float gently to the deck. McCoy unzipped the envelope from one suit, and lectured them about it, “This is a standard service type, general issue, Mark Four, Modification 2.” He grasped the suit by the shoulders and shook it out so that it hung like a suit of long winter underwear with the helmet lolling helplessly between the shoulders of the garment. “It’s self-sustaining for eight hours, having an oxygen supply for that period. It also has a nitrogen trim tank and a carbon dioxide water-vapor cartridge filter.” He droned on, repeating practically verbatim the description and instructions given in training regulations. McCoy knew these suits like his tongue knew the roof of his mouth; the knowledge had meant his life on more than one occasion. “The suit is woven from glass fibre laminated with nonvolatile asbesto-cellutite. The resulting fabric is flexible, very durable; and will turn all rays normal to solar space outside the orbit of Mercury. It is worn over your regular clothing, but notice the wire-braced accordion pleats at the major joints. They are so designed as to keep the internal volume of the suit nearly constant when the arms or legs are bent. Otherwise the gas pressure inside would tend to keep the suit blown up in an erect position and movement while wearing the suit would be very fatiguing. “The helmet is moulded from a transparent silicone, leaded and polarized against too great ray penetration. It may be equipped with external visors of any needed type. Orders are to wear not less than a number-two amber on this body. In addition, a lead plate covers the cranium and extends on down the back of the suit, completely covering the spinal column. “The suit is equipped with two-way telephony. If your radio quits, as these have a habit of doing, you can talk by putting your helmets in contact. Any questions?” “How do you eat and drink during the eight hours?” “You don’t stay in ‘em any eight hours. You can carry sugar balls in a gadget in the helmet, but you boys will always eat at the base. As for water, there’s a nipple in the helmet near your mouth which you can reach by turning your head to the left. It’s hooked to a built-in canteen. But don’t drink any more water when you’re wearing a suit than you have to. These suits ain’t got any plumbing.” Suits were passed out to each lad, and McCoy illustrated how to don one. A suit was spread supine on the deck, the front zipper that stretched from neck to crotch was spread wide and one sat down inside this opening, whereupon the lower part was drawn on like long stockings. Then a wiggle into each sleeve and the heavy flexible gauntlets were smoothed and patted into place. Finally an awkward backward stretch of the neck with shoulders hunched enabled the helmet to be placed over the head. Libby followed the motions of McCoy and stood up in his suit. He examined the zipper which controlled the suit’s only opening. It was backed by two soft gaskets which would be pressed together by the zipper and sealed by internal air pressure. Inside the helmet a composition mouthpiece for exhalation led to the filter. McCoy bustled around, inspecting them, tightening a belt here and there, instructing them in the use of the external controls. Satisfied, he reported to the conning room that his section had received basic instruction and was ready to disembark. Permission was received to take them out for thirty minutes acclimatization. Six at a time, he escorted them through the air-lock, and out on the surface of the planetoid. Libby blinked his eyes at the unaccustomed luster of sunshine on rock. Although the sun lay more than two hundred million miles away and bathed the little planet with radiation only one fifth as strong as that lavished on mother Earth, nevertheless the lack of atmosphere resulted in a glare that made him squint. He was glad to have the protection of his amber visor. Overhead the sun, shrunk to penny size, shone down from a dead black sky in which unwinking stars crowded each other and the very sun itself. The voice of a mess mate sounded in Libby’s earphones. “Jeepers! That horizon looks close. I’ll bet it ain’t more’n a mile away.” Libby looked out over the flat bare plain and subconsciously considered the matter. “It’s less,” he commented, “than a third of a mile away.” “What the hell do you know about it, Pinkie? And who asked you, anyhow?” Libby answered defensively, “As a matter of fact, it’s one thousand six hundred and seventy feet, figuring that my eyes are five feet three inches above ground level.” “Nuts. Pinkie, you are always trying to show off how much you think you know.” “Why, I am not,” Libby protested. “If this body is a hundred miles thick and as round as it looks: why, naturally the horizon has to be just that far away.” “Says who?” McCoy interrupted. “Pipe down! Libby is a lot nearer right than you were.” “He is exactly right,” put in a strange voice. “I had to look it up for the navigator before I left control.” “Is that so?” McCoy’s voice again, “If the Chief Quartermaster says you’re right, Libby, you’re right. How did you know?” Libby flushed miserably. “I, I don’t know. That’s the only way it could be.” The gunner’s mate and the quartermaster stared at him but dropped the subject. By the end of the “day”, ship’s time, for Eighty-eight had a period of eight hours and thirteen minutes, work was well under way. The transport had grounded close by a low range of hills. The Captain selected a little bowl-shaped depression in the hills, some thousand feet long and half as broad, in which to establish a permanent camp. This was to be roofed over, sealed, and an atmosphere provided. In the hill between the ship and the valley, quarters were to be excavated; dormitories, mess hall, officers’ quarters, sick bay, recreation room, offices, store rooms, and so forth. A tunnel must be bored through the hill, connecting the sites of these rooms, and connecting with a ten foot airtight metal tube sealed to the ship’s portside air-lock. Both the tube and tunnel were to be equipped with a continuous conveyor belt for passengers and freight. Libby found himself assigned to the roofing detail. He helped a metalsmith struggle over the hill with a portable atomic heater, difficult to handle because of a mass of eight hundred pounds, but weighing here only sixteen pounds. The rest of the roofing detail were breaking out and preparing to move by hand the enormous translucent tent which was to be the “sky” of the little valley. The metalsmith located a landmark on the inner slope of the valley, set up his heater, and commenced cutting a deep horizontal groove or step in the rock. He kept it always at the same level by following a chalk mark drawn along the rock wall. Libby enquired how the job had been surveyed so quickly. “Easy,” he was answered, “two of the quartermasters went ahead with a transit, leveled it just fifty feet above the valley floor, and clamped a searchlight to it. Then one of ‘em ran like hell around the rim, making chalk marks at the height at which the beam struck.” “Is this roof going to be just fifty feet high?” “No, it will average maybe a hundred. It bellies up in the middle from the air pressure.” “Earth normal?” “Half Earth normal.” Libby concentrated for an instant, then looked puzzled. “But look. This valley is a thousand feet long and better than five hundred wide. At half of fifteen pounds per square inch, and allowing for the arch of the roof, that’s a load of one and an eighth billion pounds. What fabric can take that kind of a load?” “Cobwebs.” “Cobwebs?” “Yeah, cobwebs. Strongest stuff in the world, stronger than the best steel. Synthetic spider silk, This gauge we’re using for the roof has a tensile strength of four thousand pounds a running inch.” Libby hesitated a second, then replied, “I see. With a rim about eighteen hundred thousand inches around, the maximum pull at the point of anchoring would be about six hundred and twenty-five pounds per inch. Plenty safe margin.” The metalsmith leaned on his tool and nodded. “Something like that. You’re pretty quick at arithmetic, aren’t you, bud?” Libby looked startled. “I just like to get things straight.” They worked rapidly around the slope, cutting a clean smooth groove to which the ‘cobweb’ could be anchored and sealed. The white-hot lava spewed out of the discharge vent and ran slowly down the hillside. A brown vapor boiled off the surface of the molten rock, arose a few feet and sublimed almost at once in the vacuum to white powder which settled to the ground. The metalsmith pointed to the powder. “That stuff ‘ud cause silicosis if we let it stay there, and breathed it later.” “What do you do about it?” “Just clean it out with the blowers of the air conditioning plant” Libby took this opening to ask another question. “Mister ?” “Johnson’s my name. No mister necessary.” “Well, Johnson, where do we get the air for this whole valley, not to mention the tunnels? I figure we must need twenty-five million cubic feet or more. Do we manufacture it?” “Naw, that’s too much trouble. We brought it with us.” “On the transport?” “Uh huh, at fifty atmospheres.” Libby considered this. “I see, that way it would go into a space eighty feet on a side.” “Matter of fact it’s in three specially constructed holds, giant air bottles. This transport carried air to Ganymede. I was in her then, a recruit, but in the air gang even then.” In three weeks the permanent camp was ready for occupancy and the transport cleared of its cargo. The storerooms bulged with tools and supplies. Captain Doyle had moved his administrative offices underground, signed over his command to his first officer, and given him permission to proceed on ‘duty assigned’, in this case; return to Terra with a skeleton crew. Libby watched them take off from a vantage point on the hillside. An overpowering homesickness took possession of him. Would he ever go home? He honestly believed at the time that he would swap the rest of his life for thirty minutes each with his mother and with Betty. He started down the hill toward the tunnel lock. At least the transport carried letters to them, and with any luck the chaplain would be by soon with letters from Earth. But tomorrow and thedays after that would be no fun. He had enjoyed being in the air gang, but tomorrow he went back to his squad. He did not relish that, the boys in his squad were all right, he guessed, but he just could not seem to fit in. This company of the C.C.C. started on its bigger job; to pock-mark Eighty-eight with rocket tubes so that Captain Doyle could push this hundred-mile marble out of her orbit and herd her in to a new orbit between Earth and Mars, to be used as a space station, a refuge for ships in distress, a haven for life boats, a fueling stop, a naval outpost. Libby was assigned to a heater in pit H-16. It was his business to carve out carefully calculated emplacements in which the blasting crew then set off the minute charges which accomplished the major part of the excavating. Two squads were assigned to H-16, under the general supervision of an elderly marine gunner. The gunner sat on the edge of the pit, handling the plans, and occasionally making calculations on a circular slide rule which hung from a lanyard around his neck. Libby had just completed a tricky piece of cutting for a three-stage blast, and was waiting for the blasters, when his phones picked up the gunner’s instructions concerning the size of the charge. He pressed his transmitter button. “Mister Larsen! You’ve made a mistake!” “Who said that?” “This is Libby. You’ve made a mistake in the charge. If you set off that charge, you’ll blow this pit right out of the ground, and us with it.” Marine Gunner Larsen spun the dials on his slide rule before replying, “You’re all het up over nothing, son. That charge is correct.” “No, I’m not, sir,” Libby persisted, “you’ve multiplied where you should have divided.” “Have you had any experience at this sort of work?” “No, sir.” Larsen addressed his next remark to the blasters. “Set the charge.” They started to comply. Libby gulped, and wiped his lips with his tongue. He knew what he had to do, but he was afraid. Two clumsy stiff-legged jumps placed him beside the blasters. He pushed between them and tore the electrodes from the detonator. A shadow passed over him as he worked, and Larsen floated down beside him. A hand grasped his arm. “You shouldn’t have done that, son. That’s direct disobedience of orders. I’ll have to report you.” He commenced reconnecting the firing circuit. Libby’s ears burned with embarrassment, but he answered back with the courage of timidity at bay. “I had to do it, sir. You’re still wrong.” Larsen paused and ran his eyes over the dogged face. “Well, it’s a waste of time, but I don’t like to make you stand by a charge you’re afraid of. Let’s go over the calculation together.” Captain Doyle sat at his ease in his quarters, his feet on his desk. He stared at a nearly empty glass tumbler. “That’s good beer, Blackie. Do you suppose we could brew some more when it’s gone?” “I don’t know. Cap’n. Did we bring any yeast?” “Find out, will you?” he turned to a massive man who occupied the third chair. “Well, Larsen, I’m glad it wasn’t any worse than it was.” “What beats me, Captain, is how I could have made such a mistake. I worked it through twice. If it had been a nitro explosive, I’d have known off hand that I was wrong. If this kid hadn’t had a hunch, I’d have set it off.” Captain Doyle clapped the old warrant officer on the shoulder. “Forget it, Larsen. You wouldn’t have hurt anybody; that’s why I require the pits to be evacuated even for small charges. These isotope explosives are tricky at best. Look what happened in pit A-9. Ten days’ work shot with one charge, and the gunnery officer himself approved that one. But I want to see this boy. What did you say his name was?” “Libby, A J.” Doyle touched a button on his desk. A knock sounded at the door. A bellowed “Come in!” produced a stripling wearing the brassard of Corpsman Mate-of-the-Deck. “Have Corpsman Libby report to me.” “Aye, aye, sir.” Some few minutes later Libby was ushered into the Captain’s cabin. He looked nervously around, and noted Larsen’s presence, a fact that did not contribute to his peace of mind. He reported in a barely audible voice, “Corpsman Libby, sir.” The Captain looked him over. “Well, Libby, I hear that you and Mister Larsen had a difference of opinion this morning. Tell me about it.” “I, I didn’t mean any harm, sir.” “Of course not. You’re not in any trouble; you did us all a good turn this morning. Tell me, how did you know that the calculation was wrong? Had any mining experience?” “No sir. I just saw that he had worked it out wrong.” “But how?” Libby shuffled uneasily. “Well, sir, it just seemed wrong, it didn’t fit.” “Just a second, Captain. May I ask this young man a couple of questions?” It was Commander “Blackie” Rhodes who spoke. “Certainly. Go ahead.” “Are you the lad they call ‘Pinkie’?” Libby blushed. “Yes, sir.” “I’ve heard some rumors about this boy.” Rhodes pushed his big frame out of his chair, went over to a bookshelf, and removed a thick volume. He thumbed through it, then with open book before him, started to question Libby. “What’s the square root of ninety-five?” “Nine and seven hundred forty-seven thousandths.” “What’s the cube root?” “Four and five hundred sixty-three thousandths.” “What’s its logarithm?” “Its what, sir?” “Good Lord, can a boy get through school today without knowing?” The boy’s discomfort became more intense. “I didn’t get much schooling, sir. My folks didn’t accept the Covenant until Pappy died, and we had to.” “I see. A logarithm is a name for a power to which you raise a given number, called the base, to get the number whose logarithm it is. Is that clear?” Libby thought hard. “I don’t quite get it, sir.” “I’ll try again. If you raise ten to the second power, square it, it gives one hundred. Therefore the logarithm of a hundred to the base ten is two. In the same fashion the logarithm of a thousand to the base ten is three. Now what is the logarithm of ninety-five?’ Libby puzzled for a moment. “I can’t make it come out even. It’s a fraction.” “That’s O.K.” “Then it’s one and nine hundred seventy-eight thousandths, just about.” Rhodes turned to the Captain. “I guess that about proves it, sir.” Doyle nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, the lad seems to have intuitive knowledge of arithmetical relationships. But let’s see what else he has.” “I am afraid we’ll have to send him back to Earth to find out properly.” Libby caught the gist of this last remark. “Please, sir, you aren’t going to send me home? Maw would be awful vexed with me.” “No, no, nothing of the sort. When your time is up, I want you to be checked over in the psychometrical laboratories. In the meantime I wouldn’t part with you for a quarter’s pay. I’d give up smoking first. But let’s see what else you can do.” In the ensuing hour the Captain and the Navigator heard Libby: one, deduce the Pythagorean proposition; two, derive Newton’s laws of motion and Kepler’s laws of ballistics from a statement of the conditions in which they obtained; three, judge length, area, and volume by eye with no measurable error. He had jumped into the idea of relativity and nonrectilinear space-time continua, and was beginning to pour forth ideas faster than he could talk, when Doyle held up a hand. “That’s enough, son. You’ll be getting a fever. You run along to bed now, and come see me in the morning. I’m taking you off field work.” “Yes, sir.” “By the way, what is your full name?” “Andrew Jackson Libby, sir.” “No, your folks wouldn’t have signed the Covenant. Good night.” “Good night, sir.” After he had gone, the two older men discussed their discovery. “How do you size it up, Captain?” “Well, he’s a genius, of course, one of those wild talents that will show up once in a blue moon. I’ll turn him loose among my books and see how he shapes up. Shouldn’t wonder if he were a page-at-a-glance reader, too.” “It beats me what we turn up among these boys, and not a one of ‘em any account back on Earth.” Doyle nodded. “That was the trouble with these kids. They didn’t feel needed.” Eighty-eight swung some millions of miles further around the sun. The pock-marks on her face grew deeper, and were lined with durite, that strange close-packed laboratory product which (usually) would confine even atomic disintegration. Then Eighty-eight received a series of gentle pats, always on the side headed along her course. In a few weeks’ time the rocketblasts had their effect and Eighty-eight was plunging in an orbit toward the sun. When she reached her station one and three-tenths the distance from the sun of Earth’s orbit, she would have to be coaxed by another series of pats into a circular orbit. Thereafter she was to be known as E-M3, Earth-Mars Space Station Spot Three. Hundreds of millions of miles away two other C.C.C. companies were inducing two other planetoids to quit their age-old grooves and slide between Earth and Mars to land in the same orbit as Eighty-eight. One was due to ride this orbit one hundred and twenty degrees ahead of Eighty-eight, the other one hundred and twenty degrees behind. When E-M1, E-M2, and EM3 were all on station no hard-pushed traveler of the spaceways on the Earth-Mars passage would ever again find himself far from land, or rescue. During the months that Eighty-eight fell free toward the sun, Captain Doyle reduced the working hours of his crew and turned them to the comparatively light labor of building a hotel and converting the little roofed-in valley into a garden spot. The rock was broken down into soil, fertilizers applied, and cultures of anaerobic bacteria planted. Then plants, conditioned by thirty-odd generations of low gravity at Luna City, were set out and tenderly cared for. Except for the low gravity, Eighty-eight began to feel like home. But when Eighty-eight approached a tangent to the hypothetical future orbit of E-M3, the company went back to maneuvering routine, watch on and watch off, with the Captain living on black coffee and catching catnaps in the plotting room. Libby was assigned to the ballistic calculator, three tons of thinking metal that dominated the plotting room. He loved the big machine. The Chief Fire Controlman let him help adjust it and care for it. Libby subconsciously thought of it as a person, his own kind of person. On the last day of the approach, the shocks were more frequent. Libby sat in the right-hand saddle of the calculator and droned out the predictions for the next salvo, while gloating over the accuracy with which the machine tracked. Captain Doyle fussed around nervously, occasionally stopping to peer over the Navigator’s shoulder. Of course the figures were right, but what if it didn’t work? No one had ever moved so large a mass before. Suppose it plunged on and on, and on. Nonsense! It couldn’t. Still he would be glad when they were past the critical speed. A marine orderly touched his elbow. “Helio from the Flagship, sir.” “Read it.” “Flag to Eighty-eight; private message, Captain Doyle; am lying off to watch you bring her in, Kearney.” Doyle smiled. Nice of the old geezer. Once they were on station, he would invite the Admiral to ground for dinner and show him the park. Another salvo cut loose, heavier than any before. The room trembled violently. In a moment the reports of the surface observers commenced to trickle in. “Tube nine, clear!” “Tube ten, clear!” But Libby’s drone ceased. Captain Doyle turned on him. “What’s the matter, Libby? Asleep? Call the polar stations. I have to have a parallax.” “Captain.” The boy’s voice was low and shaking. “Speak up, man!” “Captain, the machine isn’t tracking.” “Spiers!” The grizzled head of the Chief Fire Controlman appeared from behind the calculator. “I’m already on it, sir. Let you know in a moment.” He ducked back again. After a couple of long minutes he reappeared. “Gyros tumbled. It’s a twelve hour calibration job, at least.” The Captain said nothing, but turned away, and walked to the far end of the room. The Navigator followed him with his eyes. He returned, glanced at the chronometer, and spoke to the Navigator. “Well, Blackie, if I don’t have that firing data in seven minutes, we’re sunk. Any suggestions?” Rhodes shook his head without speaking. Libby timidly raised his voice. “Captain.” Doyle jerked around. “Yes?” “The firing data is tube thirteen, seven point six three; tube twelve, six point nine oh; tube fourteen, six point eight nine.” Doyle studied his face. “You sure about that, son?” “It has to be that, Captain.” Doyle stood perfectly still. This time he did not look at Rhodes but stared straight ahead. Then he took a long pull on his cigarette, glanced at the ash, and said in a steady voice, “Apply the data. Fire on the bell.” Four hours later, Libby was still droning out firing data, his face gray, his eyes closed. Once he had fainted but when they revived him he was still muttering figures. From time to time the Captain and the Navigator relieved each other, but there was no relief for him. The salvos grew closer together, but the shocks were lighter. Following one faint salvo, Libby looked up, stared at the ceiling, and spoke. “That’s all, Captain.” “Call polar stations!” The reports came back promptly, “Parallax constant, sidereal-solar rate constant.” The Captain relaxed into a chair. “Well, Blackie, we did it, thanks to Libby!” Then he noticed a worried, thoughtful look spread over Libby’s face. “What’s the matter, man? Have we slipped up?” “Captain, you know you said the other day that you wished you had Earth-normal gravity in the park?” “Yes. What of it?” “If that book on gravitation you lent me is straight dope. I think I know a way to accomplish it.” The Captain inspected him as if seeing him for the first time. “Libby, you have ceased to amaze me. Could you stop doing that sort of thing long enough to dine with the Admiral?” “Gee, Captain, that would be swell!” The audio circuit from Communications cut in. “Helio from Flagship: ‘Well done, Eighty-eight.’” Doyle smiled around at them all. “That’s pleasant confirmation.” The audio brayed again. “Helio from Flagship: ‘Cancel last signal, stand by for correction.’” A look of surprise and worry sprang into Doyle’s face, then the audio continued: “Helio from Flagship: ‘Well done, E-M3’” Ordeal in Space. Robert Anson Heinlein. Maybe we should never have ventured out into space. Our race has but two basic, innate fears; noise and the fear of falling. Those terrible heights. Why should any man in his right mind let himself be placed where he could fall, and fall, and fall. But all spacemen are crazy. Everybody knows that. The medicos had been very kind, he supposed. “You’re lucky. You want to remember that, old fellow. You’re still young and your retired pay relieves you of all worry about your future. You’ve got both arms and legs and are in fine shape.” “Fine shape!” His voice was unintentionally contemptuous. “No, I mean it,” the chief psychiatrist had persisted gently. “The little quirk you have does you no harm at all, except that you can’t go into space again. I can’t honestly call acrophobia a neurosis; fear of falling is normal and sane. You’ve just got it a little more strongly than most, but that is not abnormal, in view of what you have been through.” The reminder set him to shaking again. He closed his eyes and saw the stars wheeling below him again. He was falling, falling endlessly. The psychiatrist’s voice came through to him and pulled him back. “Steady, old man! Look around you.” “Sorry.” “Not at all. Now tell me, what do you plan to do?” “I don’t know. Get a job, I suppose.” “The Company will give you a job, you know.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to hang around a spaceport.” Wear a little button in his shirt to show that he was once a man, be addressed by a courtesy title of captain, claim the privileges of the pilots’ lounge on the basis of what he used to be, hear the shop talk die down whenever he approached a group, wonder what they were saying behind his back, no, thank you! “I think you’re wise. Best to make a clean break, for a while at least, until you are feeling better.” “You think I’ll get over it?” The psychiatrist pursed his lips. “Possible. It’s functional, you know. No trauma.” “But you don’t think so?” “I didn’t say that. I honestly don’t know. We still know very little about what makes a man tick.” “I see. Well, I might as well be leaving.” The psychiatrist stood up and shoved out his hand. “Holler if you want anything. And come back to see us in any case.” “Thanks.” “You’re going to be all right. I know it.” But the psychiatrist shook his head as his patient walked out. The man did not walk like a spaceman; the easy, animal self-confidence was gone. Only a small part of Great New York was roofed over in those days; he stayed underground until he was in that section, then sought out a passageway lined with bachelor rooms. He stuck a coin in the slot of the first one which displayed a lighted “vacant” sign, chucked his jump bag inside, and left. The monitor at the intersection gave him the address of the nearest placement office. He went there, seated himself at an interview desk, stamped in his finger prints, and started filling out forms. It gave him a curious back-to-the-beginning feeling; he had not looked for a job since pre-cadet days. He left filling in his name to the last and hesitated even then. He had had more than his bellyful of publicity; he did not want to be recognized; he certainly did not want to be throbbed over, and most of all he did not want anyone telling him he was a hero. Presently he printed in the name “William Saunders” and dropped the forms in the slot. He was well into his third cigarette and getting ready to strike another when the screen in front of him at last lighted up. He found himself staring at a nice-looking brunette. “Mister Saunders,” the image said, will you come inside, please? Door seventeen.” The brunette in person was there to offer him a seat and a cigarette. “Make yourself comfortable, Mister Saunders. I’m Miss Joyce. I’d like to talk with you about your application.” He settled himself and waited, without speaking. When she saw that he did not intend to speak, she added, “Now take this name “William Saunders” which you have given us, we know who you are, of course, from your prints. “I suppose so.” “Of course I know what everybody knows about you, but your action in calling yourself “William Saunders”, Mister.” “Saunders.” “Mister Saunders, caused me to query the files.” She held up a microfilm spool, turned so that he might read his own name on it. “I know quite a lot about you now, more than the public knows and more than you saw fit to put into your application. It’s a good record, Mister Saunders.” “Thank you.” “But I can’t use it in placing you in a job. I can’t even refer to it if you insist on designating yourself as “Saunders.” “The name is Saunders.” His voice was flat, rather than emphatic. “Don’t be hasty, Mister Saunders. There are many positions in which the factor of prestige can be used quite legitimately to obtain for a client a much higher beginning of pay than.” “I’m not interested.” She looked at him and decided not to insist. “As you wish. If you will go to reception room B, you can start your classification and skill tests.” “Thank you.” “If you should change your mind later, Mister Saunders, we will be glad to reopen the case. Through that door, please.” Three days later found him at work for a small firm specializing in custom-built communication systems. His job was calibrating electronic equipment. It was soothing work, demanding enough to occupy his mind, yet easy for a man of his training and experience. At the end of his three months’ probation he was promoted out of the helper category. He was building himself a well-insulated rut, working, sleeping, eating, spending an occasional evening at the public library or working out at the YMCA, and never, under any circumstances, going out under the open sky nor up to any height, not even a theater balcony. He tried to keep his past life shut out of his mind, but his memory of it was still fresh; he would find himself daydreaming, the star-sharp, frozen sky of Mars, or the roaring night life of Venus burg. He would see again the swollen, ruddy bulk of Jupiter hanging over the port on Ganymede, its oblate bloated shape impossibly huge and crowding the sky. Or he might, for a time, feel again the sweet quiet of the long watches on the lonely reaches between the planets. But such reveries were dangerous; they cut close to the edge of his new peace of mind. It was easy to slide over and find himself clinging for life to his last handhold on the steel sides of the Valkyrie, fingers numb and failing, and nothing below him but the bottomless well of space. Then he would come back to Earth, shaking uncontrollably and gripping his chair or the workbench. The first time it had happened at work he had found one of his bench mates, Joe Tully, staring at him curiously. “What’s the trouble, Bill?” he had asked. “Hangover?” “Nothing,” he had managed to say. “Just a chill.” “You better take a pill. Come on, let’s go to lunch.” Tully led the way to the elevator; they crowded in. Most of the employees, even the women, preferred to go down via the drop chute, but Tully always used the elevator. “Saunders”, of course, never used the drop chute; this had eased them into the habit of lunching together. He knew that the chute was safe, that, even if the power should fail, safety nets would snap across at each floor level, but he could not force himself to step off the edge. Tully said publicly that a drop-chute landing hurt his arches, but he confided privately to Saunders that he did not trust automatic machinery. Saunders nodded understandingly but said nothing. It warmed him toward Tully. He began feeling friendly and not on the defensive with another human being for the first time since the start of his new life. He began to want to tell Tully the truth about himself. If he could be sure that Joe would not insist on treating him as a hero, not that he really objected to the role of hero. As a kid, hanging around spaceports, trying to wangle chances to go inside the ships, cutting classes to watch take-offs, he had dreamed of being a “Hero” someday, a hero of the spaceways, returning in triumph from some incredible and dangerous piece of exploration. But he was troubled by the fact that he still had the same picture of what a hero should look like and how he should behave; it did not include shying away from open windows, being fearful of walking across an open square, and growing too upset to speak at the mere thought of boundless depths of space. Tully invited him home for dinner. He wanted to go, but fended off the invitation while he inquired where Tully lived. The Shelton Homes, Tully told him, naming one of those great, boxlike warrens that used to disfigure the Jersey flats. “It’s a long way to come back,” Saunders said doubtfully, while turning over in his mind ways to get there without exposing himself to the things he feared. “You won’t have to come back,” Tully assured him. “We’ve got a spare room. Come on. My old lady does her own cooking, that’s why I keep her.” “Well, all right,” he conceded. “Thanks, Joe.” The La Guardia Tube would take him within a quarter of a mile; if he could not find a covered way he would take a ground cab and close the shades. Tully met him in the hall and apologized in a whisper. “Meant to have a young lady for you, Bill. Instead we’ve got my brother-in-law. He’s a louse. Sorry.” “Forget it, Joe. I’m glad to be here.” He was indeed. The discovery that Bill’s flat was on the thirty-fifth floor had dismayed him at first, but he was delighted to find that he had no feeling of height. The lights were on, the windows occulted, the floor under him was rock solid; he felt warm and safe. Missus Tully turned out in fact to be a good cook, to his surprise, he had the bachelor’s usual distrust of amateur cooking. He let himself go to the pleasure of feeling at home and safe and wanted; he managed not even to hear most of the aggressive and opinionated remarks of Joe’s in-law. After dinner he relaxed in an easy chair, glass of beer in hand, and watched the video screen. It was a musical comedy; he laughed more heartily than he had in months. Presently the comedy gave way to a religious program, the National Cathedral Choir; he let it be, listening with one ear and giving some attention to the conversation with the other. The choir was more than half way through Prayer for Travelers before he became fully aware of what they were singing: Hear us when we pray to Thee! For those in peril on the sea. “Almighty Ruler of them all, Whose power extends to great and small, Who guides the stars and steadfast law, Whose least creation fills with awe; Oh, grant Thy mercy and Thy grace, To those who venture into space.” He wanted to switch it off, but he had to hear it out, he could not stop listening to it, though it hurt him in his heart with the unbearable homesickness of the hopelessly exiled. Even as a cadet this one hymn could fill his eyes with tears; now he kept his face turned away from the others to try to hide from them the drops wetting his cheeks. When the choir’s “Amen” let him do so he switched quickly to some other, any other, program and remained bent over the instrument, pretending to fiddle with it, while he composed his features. Then he turned back to the company, outwardly serene, though it seemed to him that anyone could see the hard, aching knot in his middle. The brother-in-law was still sounding off. “We ought to annex ‘em,” he was saying. “That’s what we ought to do. Three-Planets Treaty, what a lot of ruddy rot! What right have they got to tell us what we can and can’t do on Mars?” “Well, Ed,” Tully said mildly, “it’s their planet, isn’t it? They were there first.” Ed brushed it aside. “Did we ask the Indians whether or not they wanted us in North America? Nobody has any right to hang on to something he doesn’t know how to use. With proper exploitation.” “You been speculating, Ed?” “Huh? It wouldn’t be speculation if the government wasn’t made up of a bunch of weak-spined old women. “Rights of Natives”, indeed. What rights do a bunch of degenerates have?” Saunders found himself contrasting Ed Schultz with Knath Sooth, the only Martian he himself had ever known well. Gentle Knath, who had been old before Ed was born, and yet was rated as young among his own kind. Knath, why, Knath could sit for hours with a friend or trusted acquaintance, saying nothing, needing to say nothing. ‘Growing together’ they called it, his entire race had so grown together that they had needed no government, until the Earthman came. Saunders had once asked his friend why he exerted himself so little, was satisfied with so little. More than an hour passed and Saunders was beginning to regret his inquisitiveness when Knath replied, “My fathers have labored and I am weary.” Saunders sat up and faced the brother-in-law. “They are not degenerate.” “Huh? I suppose you are an expert!” “The Martians aren’t degenerate, they’re just tired,” Saunders persisted. Tully grinned. His brother-in-law saw it and became surly. ‘What gives you the right to an opinion? Have you ever been to Mars?” Saunders realized suddenly that he had let his censors down. “Have you?” he answered cautiously. “That’s beside the point. The best minds all agree.” Bill let him go on and did not contradict him again. It was a relief when Tully suggested that, since they all had to be up early, maybe it was about time to think about beginning to get ready to go to bed. He said goodnight to Missus. Tully and thanked her for a wonderful dinner, then followed Tully into the guest room. ‘Only way to get rid of that family curse we’re saddled with, Bill,” he apologized. “Seay up as long as you like.” Tully stepped to the window and opened it. “You’ll sleep well here. We’re up high enough to get honest-to-goodness fresh air.” He stuck his head out and took a couple of big breaths. “Nothing like the real article,” he continued as he withdrew from the window. “I’m a country boy at heart. What’s the matter, Bill?” “Nothing. Nothing at all.” “I thought you looked a little pale. Well, sleep tight. I’ve already set your bed for seven; that’ll give us plenty of time.” “Thanks, Joe. Goodnight.” As soon as Tully was out of the room he braced himself, then went over and closed the window. Sweating, he turned away and switched the ventilation back on. That done, he sank down on the edge of the bed. He sat there for a long time, striking one cigarette after another. He knew too well that the peace of mind he thought he had regained was unreal. There was nothing left to him but shame and a long, long hurt. To have reached the point where he had to knuckle under to a tenth-rate knothead like Ed Schultz, it would have been better if he had never come out of the Valkyrie business. Presently he took five grains of “Fly-Rite” from his pouch, swallowed it, and went to bed. He got up almost at once, forced himself to open the window a trifle, then compromised by changing the setting of the bed so that it would not turn out the lights after he got to sleep. He had been asleep and dreaming for an indefinitely long time. He was back in space again, indeed, he had never been away from it. He was happy, with the full happiness of a man who has awakened to find it was only a bad dream. The crying disturbed his serenity. At first it made him only vaguely uneasy, then he began to feel in some way responsible, he must do something about it. The transition to falling had only dream logic behind it, but it was real to him. He was grasping, his hands were slipping, had slipped, and there was nothing under him but the black emptiness of space. He was awake and gasping, on Joe Tully’s guest-room bed; the lights burned bright around him. But the crying persisted. He shook his head, then listened. It was real all right. Now he had it identified, a cat, a kitten by the sound of it. He sat up. Even if he had not had the spaceman’s traditional fondness for cats, he would have investigated. However, he liked cats for themselves, quite aside from their neat shipboard habits, their ready adaptability to changing accelerations, and their usefulness in keeping the ship free of those other creatures that go wherever man goes. So he got up at once and looked for this one. A quick look around showed him that the kitten was not in the room, and his ear led him to the correct spot; the sound came in through the slightly opened window. He shied off, stopped, and tried to collect his thoughts. He told himself that it was unnecessary to do anything more; if the sound came in through the window, then it must be because it came out of some nearby window. But he knew that he was lying to himself; the sound was close by. In some impossible way the cat was just outside his window, thirty-five stories above the street. He sat down and tried to strike a cigarette, but the tube broke in his fingers. He let the fragments fall to the floor, got up and took six nervous steps toward the window, as if he were being jerked along. He sank down to his knees, grasped the window and threw it wide open, then clung to the windowsill, his eyes tight shut. After a time the sill seemed to steady a bit. He opened his eyes, gasped, and shut them again. Finally he opened them again, being very careful not to look out at the stars, not to look down at the street. He had half expected to find the cat on a balcony outside his room, it seemed the only reasonable explanation. But there was no balcony, no place at all where a cat could reasonably be. However, the mewing was louder than ever. It seemed to come from directly under him. Slowly he forced his head out, still clinging to the sill, and made himself look down. Under him, about four feet lower than the edge of the window, a narrow ledge ran around the side of the building. Seated on it was a woe-begone ratty-looking kitten. It stared up at him and meowed again. It was barely possible that, by clinging to the sill with one hand and making a long arm with the other, he could reach it without actually going out the window, he thought, if he could bring himself to do it. He considered calling Tully, then thought better of it. Tully was shorter than he was, had less reach. And the kitten had to be rescued now, before the fluff-brained idiot jumped or fell. He tried for it. He shoved his shoulders out, clung with his left arm and reached down with his right. Then he opened his eyes and saw that he was a foot or ten inches away from the kitten still. It sniffed curiously in the direction of his hand. He stretched till his bones cracked. The kitten promptly skittered away from his clutching fingers, stopping a good six feet down the ledge. There it settled down and commenced washing its face Heinlein: https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html

Japanese Short Stories. Reformatted for machine Reading 2023. Contents. The Fox by KAFU NAGAI. Flash Storm by TON SATOMI. The Garden by RYUNOSUKE AKUTAGAWA. Grass by GISABURO JUICHIYA. Mount Hiei by RIICHI YOKOMITSU. Ivy Gates by KANOKO OKAMOTO. Autumn Wind by GISHU NAKAYAMA. The Titmouse by YASUNARI KAWABATA. One Woman and the War by ANGO SAKAGUCHI. Borneo Diamond by FUMIKO HAYASHI. Along the Mountain Ridge by MORIO KITA. Ugly Demons by YUMIKO KURAHASHI. Bamboo Flowers by TSUTOMU MIZUKAMI. Invitation to Suicide by JUN’ICHI WATANABE. The Fox. KAFU NAGAI. The sound of dry leaves racing through the garden, the sound of wind rattling the paper doors. One afternoon in my winter study, by a dim little window, as if in memory of the autumn-evening field where I’d parted from my lover some years ago, I was leaning lonelily against a brazier and reading a biography of Turgenev. One summer evening, when he was still a child without knowledge of things, Turgenev wandered through his father’s garden, densely overgrown with trees and shrubs. By the weedy edge of an old pond, he came upon the miserable sight of a frog and a snake trying to devour each other. In his innocent, childish heart, Turgenev had immediately doubted the goodness of God. As I read this passage, for some reason I remembered the frightening old garden of my father’s house in Koishikawa, where I was born. In those days, already more than thirty years ago, the canal of the Suido district flowed through fields of spiderwort like a rural stream. At that time the vacant residences of vassals and lower-grade retainers of the old shogunate were coming on the market here and there. Buying up a group of them, my father built a spacious new mansion, while leaving the old groves and gardens intact. By the time I was born, the ornamental alcove posts of the new house had already acquired some of the soft luster of the polishing cloth. On the stones of the garden, which was just as it had always been, the moss grew deeper and deeper, and the shade of the trees and shrubs grew darker and darker. Far back, in the darkest part of those groves, there were two old wells, said to be vestiges of the original households. One of them, during a period of five or six years from before my birth, had been gradually filled in by our gardener, Yasukichi, with all the garden trash, such as dead pine needles, broken-off cryptomeria branches, and fallen cherry leaves. One evening at the beginning of winter, when I had just turned four, I watched Yasu at work. Having finished the job of getting the pines, palms, and bananas ready for the frost, he broke down the sides of the well, which were covered all over with mushrooms dried white like mold. This is one of my many frightening memories of the garden. Ants, millipedes, centipedes, galley worms, earthworms, small snakes, grubs, earwigs, and various other insects that had been asleep in their winter home, crawling out from between the rotten boards in great numbers, began to squirm and writhe slipperily in the cold, wintry gale. Many of them, turning up their dingy white undersides, died on the spot. With a helper whom he’d brought along, Yasu gathered the day’s fallen leaves and dead branches together with the chopped-up boards of the well and set it all on fire. Raking in with a bamboo broom the insects and wriggling snakes that had begun to crawl away, he burned them alive. The fire made sharp, crackling noises. There was no flame, only a damp whitish smoke, which as it climbed through the high tops of the old trees, gave off an indescribably bad smell. The wintry wind, howling desolately in those old treetops, seemed to blow down dark night all through the garden. From the direction of the invisible house, the voice of the wet nurse was calling loudly for me. Abruptly bursting into tears, I was led by the hand by Yasu back to the house. Yasu neatly leveled the ground over the plugged-up old well, but during the spring rains, evening showers, stormy days, and other spells of heavy rain the surface of the ground would subside a foot or two. Afterward the area was roped off and no one allowed to go near it. I remember being told with a special sternness by both my parents to stay away from there. As for the other old well, it indeed is the most terrifying memory I have of that period, which I could not forget even if I tried to. The well seemed to be extraordinarily deep, so that even Yasu did not attempt to fill it up. I don’t know what kind of house now stands on that property, but no doubt the well, with the old tree alongside it, is still there in a corner of the grounds. All around in back of the well, like the precinct of a shrine that’s said to be haunted, a grove of cedars stood in dense, dark quietude both summer and winter. It made that part of the garden all the more frightening. Behind the grove there was a black wooden fence with sharp-pointed stakes atop it. On the other side there was, on one hand, the unfrequented thoroughfare of Kongo Temple at the top of a slope and, on the other, a shantytown that my father had always disliked, saying, “If they would only pull that place down.” My father had bought up what originally had been three small estates. It was all our property now, but the old well was on a patch of wasteland at the base of a cliff that, since it was far down the slope from where the house had been built, was almost forgotten about by the people of the household. My mother often asked my father why he’d bought that useless piece of land. My father’s reply was that if he hadn’t, a slum would have gone up at the foot of the hill. We’d have had to look at dirty tile roofs and laundry drying in the sun. By buying it up and leaving it the same, he kept it nice and quiet down there. Probably for my father, the sinister forms of the old trees that howled in the wind, wept in the rain, and held the night in their arms were not frightening at all. There were even times when my father’s formal, angular face seemed more vaguely alarming than the wen-shaped knot of a pine. One night a thief got into the house and stole a padded silk garment of my mother’s. The next morning our regular fireman, the foreman of the carpenters, and a detective from the police station came by. As they went along examining the footprints by the edge of the veranda outside my father’s sitting room, they found more prints in the trodden and crushed frost that led clear through the midwinter garden. It became evident that the thief had sneaked onto the grounds from the black wooden fence in back of the old well. In front of the well, there was a dirty old towel that he must have dropped in his getaway. Taken by the hand by the chief carpenter, Seigoro, who in feudal days had served the house of Mito, for the first time in my life I walked around this old well off in a corner of the old garden. A solitary willow tree stood by the side of the well. Half-rotten, the trunk had become hollowed and many sad-looking dead branches hung down from it. Struck by an indescribable eeriness, I didn’t so much as think of trying to peer down to the bottom of this well that was too deep to fill up even if one had wanted to. It was not only myself who was afraid. After the robbery, that part of the garden at the base of the cliff and around the old well became a place of dread for everyone in the family except my father. The Satsuma Rebellion had just ended, and the world was full of stories of conspirators, assassins, armed burglars, and bloodthirsty cruelty. Dark, paranoid suspicions hovered everywhere in the air. One could not tell when, under cover of night, lurking under the veranda of the stately gated house of a well-to-do person or of a merchant with a big storehouse, listening for the sleeping breath of the master, a terrorist or assassin would thrust his sword up through the tatami mat. At our house, without the proposal coming from my father or mother, it was decided to have the regular fireman make a watchman’s rounds at night. Night after cold night, as I lay in my wet nurse’s arms, I heard the clacking of his wooden clapper sound out loud and clear all through the sleeping house. There was nothing so unpleasant and frightening as the night. After having a Beniya bean-jam wafer from a shop on Ando Slope as my snack, I would have just started playing house with my mother when the yellow evening sunlight on the translucent paper sliding door would fade away even as I looked. The wind rattled drearily through the bare-branched trees and shrubs. It started getting dark first by the black walls of the ornamental alcove in the parlor. When my mother, saying that she was going to wash her hands, stood up and slid open the door, it was dusky all through the garden to the base of the cliff, where it was completely dark. Of anywhere on the grounds, the place where it became night earliest was at the base of the cliff, where that old well was. But wasn’t it from the bottomless depth of that old well that the night welled up? Such feelings did not leave me until long afterward. Even after I had begun to go to grade school, along with the tale of O-Kiki of the Plate House advertised on the notices for peep shows on temple festival days and the picture book Mysterious Lights on the Sea from which my wet nurse read to me, not merely the old well but the ancient, half-decayed willow tree alongside it took on the force of a natural spell. I could not tell how many times they had frightened me in dreams. I wanted to see the frightening thing itself. But when I timidly asked about it, the wet nurse snipped off the buds of my young awareness with the scissors of superstition. As for my father, when he scolded me for disobedience one of his worst threats was that he would drive me out of the house and tie me up to the willow tree by the well. Ah, what terrible memories of childhood. Even when I was twelve or thirteen, I was afraid to go to the bathroom by myself at night. But I dare say I was not alone in this among the children who grew up in that period. My father was a government official. In those days the cabinet was called the Great Hall of Government, and a minister was addressed as My Lord. At one time my father had been passionately devoted to horsemanship. Four or five years later, when that enthusiasm had died down, he suddenly took up archery. Every morning, before going to the office, he would place a target halfway up the cliff. Standing by the side of the well with his back to the willow tree, he twanged the bowstring in the cool morning breezes of summer. Soon, however, autumn came around. One chilly morning my father, who practiced with one shoulder bare, having excitedly dashed up the cliff path and back down with the bow still in his hand, called out in a loud, hoarse voice, “Tazaki! Tazaki! Come quickly. There’s a fox in the garden.” Tazaki was a youth of sixteen or seventeen who, by virtue of being from my father’s native village, was living at our house as a student-houseboy. Because of an imposing physique and a way of throwing back his shoulders and giving loud harangues larded with many Chinese words, he seemed to me like a pompous adult. “What is the matter, sir?” “Damned nuisance. There’s a fox in this garden. It was startled by the sound of my bow and jumped out of the beargrass at the foot of the cliff. It must have a hole around there.” Together with his rickshaw man, Kisuke, and Tazaki, my father searched the dense growth of low, striped bamboo from around halfway down the cliff. But soon it was time to go to the office. “Tazaki, search this place thoroughly.” “Yes, sir. I will do so.” Tazaki prostrated himself in the entryway as my father’s rickshaw, with a crunching sound over the gravel, went out through the front gate. The minute it was gone, he tucked up his formal divided skirt and with a shoulder pole in one hand stepped out into the garden. When I think of the student-houseboys of those days, it all comes back, the laughable distinctions observed between master and servant, just as in the old feudal days. My mother, who was gentle and kind to everyone, seeing the preparations of Tazaki, said to him, “It’s dangerous. The fox might well bite you, and then what would you do? Please don’t go.” “Madam. Are you suggesting that I’m not a match for a fox? There’s nothing to it. I’ll beat it to death and have it ready to show the master when he gets back.” Squaring his shoulders in that way of his, Tazaki put on a blustering front. Later this man was to become an army officer, and in the Sino-Japanese War achieved a bloody death in the field. Perhaps he felt a natural affinity for slaughter. Our cook, O-Etsu, who was not on good terms with Tazaki and who was a country-bred person full of superstitions, paled and explained to him that it would be bad luck for the house if he killed the fox-god. Tazaki rejected this point-blank, saying it was not for the likes of a rice cook to poke her nose in where the master’s orders were concerned. O-Etsu, puffing out her full red cheeks as she talked, and my wet nurse then told me all about fox possession and fox curses, instances of people being bewitched by foxes and of the miracles of the fox-god, Takezo Inari, whose shrine was in back of Denzu Temple. Although thinking uneasily of such things like the much talked-about method of divination called table-turning, I halfway sided with Tazaki’s bravado and wanted to go with him on his fox conquest. But half of me doubted, wondering if there was anything in the world as strange as this. Tazaki, thrashing about in the beargrass thickets until he was called back for lunch, his shins scratched and bleeding from the raspy-edged bamboo blades and thorns, his face all covered with cobwebs for nothing, came back without having found anything that even looked like a fox hole. In the evening my father returned, followed by an old man called Yodoi. Yodoi, who was my father’s chess and drinking companion almost every night, was a lower-grade civil official who did some money-lending on the side, an underling from my father’s office who made the maids cry because he stayed so long. He drew pictures for me of the horse-drawn trolley cars downtown that were coming into use at that time, and for my mother he had stories of such heroes as Tasuku Hikosaburo and Tanosuke. Accompanied by Yodoi as Tazaki led the way with a paper lantern, my father searched all around the garden twice. In the late evening air, the noise of myriads of insects sounded like falling rain. It was my first discovery of the purity, coldness, and pallor of an autumn night. My mother told a story of having been awakened in the small hours that same night, it was no dream, by an unmistakable wailing sound in the garden. From the next day on the maids would not set foot outside the house after dark no matter what. Our devotedly loyal O-Etsu, believing that bad luck was in store for us, caught a cold from sprinkling well water over herself at daybreak and praying to the god of fire. Hearing about this, Tazaki secretly reported it to my father, and the upshot was that poor O-Etsu was harshly scolded and told that there was a limit even to making a fool of oneself. My wet nurse, after talking it over with my mother, just happened to get a dog from our regular fish dealer, Iroha. In addition, she now and then left out scraps of fried bean curd in the beargrass thickets at the base of the cliff. Early each morning, paying no mind to the chill that deepened day by day, my father went out to the rear of the garden by the old well and practiced his archery. But the fox did not show itself again. Once an emaciated stray dog that had wandered in from somewhere had its ear bitten off by our dog, who set on it savagely as it was eating the fried bean curd. By slow degrees, a mood of relief had spread through the household. Perhaps the fox had escaped to somewhere. Or it hadn’t been a fox at all, but some other stray dog. Already it was winter. “Isn’t there anyone to clean out the brazier in this cold weather? All the servants in this house are blockheads.” One morning, these chiding words of my father’s were heard all through the house. Throughout the house the storm shutters, the paper sliding doors, and the openwork panels over lintels banged and rattled. At the edge of the veranda, like water poured out on the ground, the lonely sound of the wind in the shrubbery was suddenly heard and as suddenly not. When it was time to go to school, my mother, saying that I should wear a scarf, pulled out the drawers of the clothes chest. In the chill, empty air of the big parlor, the smell of camphor seemed to spread through my whole body. But it was still warm in the afternoons. When my mother, the wet nurse, and I went out onto a sunny part of the porch, the appearance of the garden, compared with the time of excitement about the fox, was as changed as if it were another world. I took it strangely to heart. The branches of the plum tree and the blue paulownia were bare and barren. The luxuriant growth of fall plants, such as the rose mallow and the chickenhead clover, had all faded away and died. Unfiltered by the leaves, the brilliant sunlight fell full on the ground. From the filled-in well, where Yasu had burnt alive the small snakes and grubs, to the dark, scary grove of cedars at the base of the cliff, you could see everywhere in the garden through the wintry skeletons of the treetops. As for the maples among the pines on the lower slope of the cliff, their scarlet autumn foliage had turned into dirty old leaves that pell-mell flew and scattered in the wind. In the bonsai landscape tray, set out on a stepping stone at the edge of the veranda, one or two solitary leaves, dyed red as blood, were left on the miniature waxtree. Outside the circular window of my father’s study, the leaves of the yatsude were blacker than any ink, and its jewel-like flowers pallidly glittered. By the water basin, where the fruit of the nandin was still green, the low twittering of the bush warbler was always to be heard. On the roof, under the eaves, about the windows, and everywhere in the garden, the chirruping voice of the sparrow seemed almost noisy. I did not think that the garden in early winter was either lonely or sad. At least I did not feel that it was any more frightening than on a slightly overcast day of autumn. On the contrary, it was a pleasure to tread underfoot the carpet of fallen leaves, to walk about amid its crackling noise. But from the time that Yasukichi, wearing his livery coat dyed with the family crest, came with his helper to make the pines and banana trees ready for winter as he always did, it was not long before the first morning frost did not melt until the afternoon. After that, there was no setting foot in the garden anymore. Before we were aware of it, our house dog had vanished somewhere. Various explanations were given, such as that he had been done in by the dogcatcher or that he was a valuable dog so somebody had stolen him. I begged my father to let us have another dog. But saying that if he did so, other strange dogs would hang around when it was in heat, breaking down the hedges and laying waste to the garden, my father refused to allow another dog in the household. Sometime before this, a small poultry yard had been built by the well outside the kitchen. I used to love to feed the chickens every day when I got back from school. For that reason I didn’t complain very much about not having a dog. It was the happy, peaceful season of midwinter seclusion. As for the mysterious affair of the fox, it faded out of the fancies of the maidservants and the other people of the house. There was no dog now to bark at the footsteps of a person going by late in the night. In the sound of the wind that swayed the tall trees of the garden, there was only the thin, distant peal of the temple bell of Denzuin. Sitting at the warm, sunken hearth with my mother and the wet nurse, I turned and spread out the pages of storybooks and of woodblock color prints under the quiet lamplight. My father, with his subordinate and crony, Yodoi, played go with a crisp, clinking sound of the stones behind the six-leafed screen that had been drawn around them in the inner hall. Sometimes he would clap his hands and shout at the maid for her faulty way of pouring the sakay. My mother, saying that such things could not be left to the servants, would get up and go through the cold dark of the house to the kitchen. In my child’s heart, I almost hated my father for his lack of consideration. It drew near the end of the year. A man who had been a palanquin-bearer in the old days, lately reduced to making frames for paper lanterns at the foot of the hill, hung himself. At the top of Ando Slope, not far from us, a gang of five thieves broke into a pawnshop and killed a sixteen-year-old girl. An arsonist set fire to a secondary temple in the precinct of the Denzuin. A restaurant called the Tatsumiya, which had flourished on Tomi Slope in the days of Lord Mito, went bankrupt. We heard these stories in turn from such people as Kyusai, the family masseur, the fish dealer Kichi, and the fireman Seigoro, who frequented our back door, but they left hardly any impression on me. All I wanted was to attach a humming string to my nine-crested dragon kite with the old man Kansaburo, who was a porter at my father’s office and who came to visit us only on New Year’s Day. I thought only of such things as whether the wind would be blowing that day. At some point or other, however, the family greengrocer, Shunko, and our parlormaid, O-Tama, had become secret lovers. One night, hand in hand and carrying their clothes on their backs, they tried to elope. Tazaki nabbed them as they were going over the wooden fence by the back gate. The ensuing household uproar and the decision to send O-Tama back to her parents’ house in Sumiyoshi, although I did not understand what was happening, seemed terrible to me. The sight of O-Tama’s retreating figure, in tears as she was dragged through the back gate by her white-haired mother, seemed sad even in my eyes. After this, I felt that there was something grim and hateful about Tazaki. My father was well pleased with him, but my mother and the rest of us could not abide him. He was a lowdown person who had done a bad thing. All of New Year’s Day I did nothing but fly my kite. On Sundays, when there was no school, I would get up especially early to play. I begrudged the fact that the winter sun went down so soon. But before long it was February, and then came a Sunday when it was no use getting up early: there was snow. Out by the back door, where my father almost never went, there was the sound of his thick, husky voice. With him was Tazaki, doing most of the talking. There was also the voice of my father’s rickshaw man, Kisuke, who’d come by as he did every morning. Not listening to the wet nurse, who was trying to change my sleeping kimono, I ran toward their voices. When I saw my mother, standing on the threshold with her back to me and her arms folded, a sort of sad happiness filled me. Clinging to her soft sleeve, I wept. “What are you crying about so early in the morning?” My father’s voice was sharp. But my mother, taking out one hand from her bosom, gently stroked my head. “The fox has come back. He’s eaten one of Mune-chan’s favorite chickens. Isn’t that terrible? Be a good boy, now.” The snow was blowing in fitful gusts through the back door into the dirt-floored entryway. Half-melted lumps of snow that had been tracked in under everybody’s high clogs quickly made mud of the floor. The cook, O-Etsu, the new parlormaid, one other maidservant, and my wet nurse, all aflutter over their master’s unexpected appearance at the back door and shivering with cold, sat as if glued to the floorboards of the raised part of the kitchen. My father, putting on the snow clogs that Tazaki set out for him and taking the paper umbrella that Kisuke held over his head, started on a tour of inspection out in back of the house and around the chicken yard by the well. “Mother, I want to go too.” “No, I can’t have you catching cold. Please don’t ask.” Just then the wicket of the back gate was opened and Seigoro, the head fireman, came in, saying, “It’s been quite a heavy snowfall.” Dressed in his firefighting outfit of quilted hood, livery coat, and old-fashioned Japanese gloves, he was making the rounds of the neighborhood on his initial snow inspection. “What’s that? Oh, how terrible. A fox took one of your chickens, you say? Why, it’s the most exciting thing to happen since the Restoration. Just like the samurais, the fox-god was deprived of his stipend. And he couldn’t smell the fried bean curd under all that snow. So he wandered over to your chicken house. It’s no great matter. Your folks will catch him for sure.” Seigoro kindly carried me on his back to the side of the chicken yard. Apparently that morning at daybreak the fox had craftily stolen with rapid strides across the accumulated snowdrifts, dug a hole under the bamboo fence, and crawled through it into the yard. Snow and dirt were scattered all about where he had scratched and scrabbled his way through. Inside the bamboo enclosure, on the snow that had blown into it, not only were chicken feathers mercilessly tossed about but a drop or two of bright red blood was to be seen. “It’ll be no trouble this morning. There are prints all over the snow. ‘If you follow my tracks, you’ll soon find me in the Shinoda woods,’ as the old line goes. Eh, it’s been living in the cliff in your garden since last year?” Just as Seigoro said, a trail of fox prints was found that led from the garden down the cliff and vanished at the base of a pine tree. My father at their head, the band of trackers raised a spontaneous cry of triumph. When Tazaki and the rickshaw man scraped away the snow with a spade and a long-handled hoe, the fox’s lair, that all the last year had been searched for without success, was nakedly exposed in a thicket of beargrass that grew densely even in winter. At length a consultation began on the best method of killing the fox. Kisuke held that if they smoked it out with red pepper, the fox, unable to bear the pungent smoke, would come yelping out of its hole, and they then could dispatch it. Tazaki, saying that it would be a shame if the fox got away, was for setting a snare at the mouth of the hole or, failing that, gunpowder. But then Seigoro, unfolding his arms and tilting his head to one side, broached a difficult matter. “Foxes usually have more than one hole. There’s bound to be an exit somewhere. If we only stop up the entrance, we’ll look like real fools when the fox sneaks out the back door.” This started everybody thinking again. To find the back hole, however, in all this heavy snow, would not just be very difficult but almost impossible. Finally, after another conference that lasted so long that everyone began to shudder with the cold, it was decided that all they could do was to smoke out the hole at this end with sulfur. Tazaki made ready for firing a gun from the house. My father laid an arrow on the string of his great bow. Kisuke with a shoulder pole, Seigoro with a fire axe, and the gardener, Yasu, who just then had come by a trifle belatedly to shovel snow and was pressed into service, also with a shoulder pole, were ready for action. My father returned briefly to the house to change into some old Western clothes. Tazaki went to the apothecary’s in front of Denzuin to buy sulfur and gunpowder. The others noisily whiled away the interval with a two-quart keg of sakay, from which they drank with teacups. What with one delay and another, it was almost noon by the time they finally began smoking out the mouth of the hole. I said I wanted to watch the subjugation of the fox with all the others but I was sternly kept indoors by my mother. With her and the wet nurse, I turned over and spread out as usual the pages of a storybook at the sunken hearth. Unable to stay still, however, I got up and sat down again and again. The only sound of a gun that we heard was the muffled dun of the noonday cannon at Marunouchi. Although so far away, it surprised us on clear days by rattling even the translucent paper sliding doors of our parlor. And yet the sharp report of the gun, shooting the fox dead right at the base of the cliff, would have split both my ears, I thought. The women in the house were as agitated as myself. Wouldn’t somebody get bitten by the fox? Wouldn’t the fox-god come rampaging into the house? Some of the women were even intoning Buddhist prayers and putting on amulets. My mother, however, gave detailed instructions for the sakay treat to be served to all the people of the house. From time to time I went out onto the veranda but not a sound came up from the bottom of the cliff. It was as if nobody was down there. There was no sign of any smoke. There was only the lonely sound of the accumulated snow slipping off from the nearby shrubbery. Although the dark sky hung low over the tops of the groves, which were shrouded by a cloudlike mist, in the snow, scattered about or lying piled in silvery, gleaming drifts, the garden was everywhere a shadowy brightness that was more than mere twilight. After I had lunch with my mother, another short while went by. I was slightly tired of waiting, and also starting to feel a sort of heartweariness. All of a sudden, there was an indescribably piteous shriek, followed by a triumphant shout of many people. Almost kicking down the paper doors, everyone rushed from the house onto the veranda. From what I heard later, the fox, suffocated by the smoking sulfur, had timorously stuck its head out at the mouth of the hole. Seigoro, waiting for it with his axe, had struck the animal a single blow. It was a lucky hit. The blade had split the fox’s head right between the eyes, and the fox had dropped dead on the spot. My portly father in the vanguard, carrying his great bow, then Tazaki and Kisuke between them shouldering the long pole from which the dead fox dangled by its paws, and Seigoro and Yasukichi bringing up the rear, an orderly procession appeared at the top of the cliff. As it tramped through the snowdrifts, I was reminded of the long file of warriors, the Treasury of Loyal Retainers, which I’d seen in my picture book. How manly and heroic they all looked, I thought. Tazaki, the intrepid student-houseboy, advanced toward me and in his usual high-flown, classical manner announced, “Young master. Thus it goes. Heaven’s net is wide and slow, but lets none escape.” With that, he thrust the fox right under our noses. When I saw the axe-cleft skull, the muddy drops of life’s blood that dripped from between the clenched fangs onto the snow, I had to hide my face behind my mother’s soft sleeve. It was decided to hold a great sakay banquet in the house that afternoon. Because the heavy snowfall had prevented the fish dealer from laying in supplies, my father resolved to regale the servants and regular tradespeople with some of our freshly killed chickens. Everyone was in a great good humor. In the little yard where the fox had crept in by stealth, they grabbed two chickens and openly dispatched them. The previous fall, those two black-and-white mottled hens, chicks then, had chirped to me each day as I set out for school and when I got back. Their bodies had been enfolded in fluffy golden wings like cotton puffs. Tossing them feed and giving them small plants to eat, I’d cherished them. By now they had grown into splendidly plump mother birds. Both of them, alas, with the same pathetic squawk, had their necks wrung by the hands of Tazaki. Their feathers were plucked by the hands of Kisuke, their stomachs were cut open and the guts pulled out by the hands of Yasu. The flushed faces of the feasters, who sat up until late at night drinking sakay and licking and smacking their lips, seemed to me like those of the goblins that I’d seen in my picture book. In bed that night, I thought, Why did those people hate the fox so? Saying it was because it had killed the chicken, they had killed the fox and two more chickens besides. From the struggle of the snake and the frog, Turgenev in his child’s heart had doubted the benevolence of God. As soon as I’d begun to read literature, I doubted the meaning of the words “trial” and “punishment,” as they are used in the world. Perhaps it was that killing of the fox in the distant past. Perhaps those memories had, without my knowing it, become the source of my doubt. Flash Storm. TON SATOMI. The light, at about two o’clock in the July afternoon, bore down intensely everywhere on the wide parade grounds. Along the earthen outer wall of a barracks that stood at the western edge of the grounds ran an uneven road. Like the dried up, irregular channels of a stream bed, in several places it had been pounded into two or three ruts by wagon wheels, horses’ hooves, and men’s feet, in other places flowing together into one. If you stood there and looked east, far away in the gently undulant landscape the tops of a dark forest faintly appeared and disappeared. They were like the eastern edge of the enormous grounds. To the north and south also, large groves of tall and short trees stood in lines that, shimmering in the heat, linked up with the forest on the remote eastern side. Within these borders, aside from the summer grasses that, barely surviving the hobnailed boots of soldiers, grew here and there in islands of lifeless green, there were hardly any trees. The blue sky, saturated with the blazing light, trembling with its fever, glared down at the red dirt grounds wherever you looked. They were like two faces, each growing angry at the other’s obduracy, each browbeating the other with swollen, sullen grimaces. There was not a breath of air. Unless something came between them and made peace, there would be war between these two any minute now, no small birds, of course, but not even big birds dared to fly across the sky. Instead the cicadas, an insect kind relying on its numbers, from the deep, leafy shade of the surrounding groves, drew out their long, monotonous song of the hot, stuffy smell of grass, the irritable, heat-mirage ague of summer, a song with a touch of mockery. Even the blue-tail lizard, as if its pride and joy, the tail that gleamed blue and then green, were too much for it, left it limply extended as it stuck its head under the meager shade of the grass, its silvery white belly pulsing as if out of breath. Some very energetic ants, lugging around the body of a dragonfly left half-uneaten by a praying mantis on their black, shiny, little backs, were hard at work even in this heat. As for human beings, there were none to be seen anywhere. But no, there was just one, the arsenal sentry standing guard on the wall of the barracks. Of course, even though he was a man, anything like human mental activity had come to a halt in him. His brain simmering steadily like gray soup, he stood bolt upright. Even if the arson of the sun, like a red-hot iron, had touched off a tremendous explosion in the arsenal, surely he would not have budged an inch. Just then a certain young man, on his way to see a friend who lived on the far side of the parade grounds, took off his hat in the suburban trolley and let the warm wind that fitfully blew in at the window fan and tease his soft crew cut. His business being somewhat urgent, he had braved the blazing heat, but he dreaded the long walk across the parade grounds. Suddenly at the southeast corner of the grounds, a cloud of reddish-brown smoke or dust arose. As he looked, it fanned out and hid all the view behind it. Quickly spreading across the field, it created patterns of light and shadow, spiraled about like a tornado and rushed this way like a tidal wave. In less than a minute it had swept across the parade grounds and invaded the grove on the north side. Hit head on, the trees, waving their heads and soughing in wavelike rhythms, were simultaneously deluged with red dust. At the same instant the attacking dust storm was thrown back by the earth wall on the west side, somersaulting as it danced up into the air. Caught by another blast of wind, it whirled crazily and was hurled against the barracks. Just then the young man, having gotten off the trolley, happened by. Coming up against this wall of dust at the corner where he’d meant to turn onto the grounds, he instantly clamped down his hat and spun right around so that his back faced the wind. His summer kimono and haori over it were plastered to his body so that his rear outline down to the knot of his obi was clearly shown. Any looseness in his clothes was at once blown out streaming and flapping in front of him. His body was bent from the waist in the shape of a bow. But while leaning back into the wind, he was trying hard to straighten up again. (In a print by Hokusai, a man in a strong wind is also bent over like a bow. But that is a pictorial exaggeration.) “Puh. It’s too much.” Just as he thought this, he was blown downwind two or three steps. The next moment, made fun of by the wind he’d been leaning against, he staggered backward. As it reversed itself, the wind flung dust and sand in his face. Self-defensively he’d shut his eyes tight. Even so, “This is awful!” After listening intently to the sound of the wind’s retreat, he slowly turned around and looked out over the parade grounds. Often while crossing this field, he had run into little dust flurries, but never before this kind of hurricane-force gale. He felt a curiosity, as if now he would be able to see something absolutely new to him. Like ripplets that rise in the wake of a surge, small, whispering afterwaves of the wind blew here and there and any which way, swirling up the dust. Then in the distance, a second wall of dust, densely expanding as he looked at it, began heading his way full tilt. Although thinking “I can’t take any more of this,” he gazed at it now, rather with a feeling of awestruck excitement, before he knew it, from the eastern horizon a low, black cloud had closed in on him until it was almost overhead. Up to then he’d thought that the sudden dusk all around him was due simply to the clouds of dust that were blowing across the sun. Astonished by this theatrically abrupt change in the weather, he thought, “Here it comes!” Trying to decide if he should retreat to the trolley stop or make a run for it to his friend’s house, he calculated the distance in both directions and, by the look of the sky, how soon the rain would start coming down. He made up his mind to go forward. Letting the second gale sweep past him, he deftly tucked up the skirt of his kimono in back and, lowering his head, began to charge. In the wind that now came at him from the side, his feet, in white tabi that in a few seconds had been dyed yellowish-brown, raced along alternately beneath his narrowed eyes. By degrees a sad, gloomy darkness completely unlike the calm darkness of night, a mysterious darkness that in old times had made men dread the unusual phenomena of heaven and earth, fell over all. It was like looking through a yellow glass. Everything lost its own colors. With the blurred contours of a volcanic region that has been showered with ashes, the scene turned a sad and dreary hue. Five or six times the wind went by, with an eerie echo that crawled along the ground. Each time the young man struck the same haughty, gallant attitude. For as far as he could see, he was the only man in the field. In the intervals of the wind, from the groves near and far, like the sand and pebbles drawn after a retreating wave, a chafing, uniform sound of a going, a long sighing and soughing, followed from the tops of the trees. During such lulls, piercing the thunderheads that blackly piled up in the east, lavender flashes of lightning sprinted hither and yon. Just as he thought, “Don’t thunder!” a wave of thunder broke with a roar. Ducking despite himself, he felt an unease as if the thunder were reverberating in his gut. Yet he also felt a deep pleasure, somehow as if he had stood up inside himself. (This kind of extraordinary scene is often accompanied by a sublime extravagance that draws men to it.) Anyway, he was already halfway across the parade grounds. That isolated cottage on the far side of the field was his friend’s place. Just when the first drops of rain like glass pellets had begun to pelt against his straw hat, the young man slid open the lattice door of his friend’s house. He was welcomed by his friend’s wife, who said her husband had gone for a swim in the nearby river but would soon be back. The young guest, somehow proud of himself like a boy who has gotten himself all muddy in a war game or nicked himself on his fingertip, showed off his yellowish-brown stained tabi and the traces of rain-streaked dust smeared on his sweaty shins. Almost boastfully he told her about the bursts of thunder and gusts of wind that he’d met with on the way. Drawn into the spirit of the thing, the wife became lively and gay. Busying herself, she drew some water for him in a bucket. By the time the guest, his bare feet not quite wiped dry, stepped up into the house proper and damply padded into the parlor, it had got even darker outside. Only the rain, pallidly gleaming as it came down like a Niagara, seemed to keep it from getting as dark as midnight. The guest and the wife, dumbfounded by this torrential downpour, it really was like a vertically plunging river, stood on the veranda and vaguely stared out at it awhile. As it often is in such storms, the rain did nothing to diminish the force of the wind. On the contrary, it was now blowing harder than ever. The shrubs planted around the outhouse were easily blown almost flat against the ground. No sooner had they lifted up their heads than, swaying and shuddering as if there was no willpower or fight left in them, they were pounded down again. Even the big oaks and cedars that towered up along the east side of the garden attached to this house, even they, which most of the time stood quietly steadfast like old giants whom nothing could move, shaking their great heads in a fine trembling apart of masses of foliage, raised an alarming shriek in the wind and rain. In the trees whose leaves had pale undersides, here and there among the leaf clusters patches of grayish-white flowed together and vanished and flowed together again. As the thick branches that they’d trusted to for safety were terribly shaken, small birds were all but blown out of the trees. In a panic, madly beating their wings, with frantic-sounding chirps that seemed to bode ill, the birds all tried to hide themselves deeper within the foliage. From the lofty treetops that one had to crane one’s neck to look at, leaves and even snapped-off twigs went flying off into the distance like green sparks. The thunder, as if it were beside itself by now, pealed in a continual fury. A lightning bolt zigzagged as if to earth itself right in front of the veranda. Without a second’s letup the rain came down in cataracts. The smooth garden lawn, almost instantly flooded under several inches of water, was like a rice paddy. The rodlike lines of rain, bouncing off its surface with the force of flung pebbles, shattered in spray. Uttering only an amazed “Yaaaa,” the young man looked on spellbound. As with many people who are possessed of a powerful curiosity, he had a nature that derived an obscure thrill from this kind of unusual scene. Once during a summer flood in Tokyo, wading about knee deep in such neighborhoods as Shitaya, Asakusa, and Mukojima, he had stayed away from home for three days. “My, did you ever see such a storm!” These were the wife’s words when she came out on the porch again after having gone to make preparations for tea. The guest had observed for himself that the wind was blowing the spray not only onto the porch but, according to their exposure, into the rooms. The tatami mats were turning a damp yellow. “This won’t do at all.” Having looked all around him, the guest suddenly stood up on his tiptoes. With the wife he went about closing all the rain shutters in the house. Like a trolley car that as it races along the rails sends flying the muddy water that has collected in the grooves, the rain shutters ran swiftly along their slots as they sliced through the accumulated water. The guest, his skirts tucked up, had as much fun as a boy as he slid the doors shut with bangs that echoed throughout the house. He had worked his way around to the kitchen in back. There, at that moment, the wife was trying to shut the water gate. Never in good order, it was stuck fast now. The eaves being shallow on this side of the house that also faced the wind, the big raindrops splashed against the wife’s impatiently frowning face and stylish Western coiffure. She was about to get soaked to the skin. Already the translucent paper of the high-paneled sliding doors was being blown to tatters. “Here, let me try.” Saying this, the guest stepped down into the garden by the wife’s side. But his efforts didn’t go too well either. Constantly bucking himself up with cries of “Yo!” and “Umm!” he put his back into it. Nervously wringing her hands, the wife muttered, “This gate always gets stuck. I can’t do anything with it.” She put out a hand to help. Her cold, wet hand touched the guest’s hand. Standing back, he let her try again. Under his eyes, on the wife’s perspiring nape, the muscles stood out roundly with the force of her effort or relaxed to their former rounded smoothness. From her soaking-wet clothes, from her skin, the scent of a woman was especially strong, at last the gate slid to. Thinking to do so before it got pitch-dark, the guest made his way back through the almost completely shuttered and darkened house to the parlor. Stumbling over the tea things, he’d seated himself tailor-style in what seemed to be the middle of the room when he heard the heavy, thudding beat of his heart. He thought back to that moment when, looking up at the sky over the parade grounds, he’d decided to go on. He now regretted that he hadn’t turned back then and there. And as he did so, he listened hard to the mighty thunderstorm outside. Inside, in the shut-up house, drumming in torrents on the roof, the eaves, and all around, the rain sounded as if it had lost any outlet. It resonated eerily, as if it were falling indoors. The guest, in this isolated house surrounded and cut off by the storm, was very much bothered by his consciousness that he was alone with his friend’s wife. In the darkness there floated up a picture of O-Shichi in the tale by Saikaku, as she lay inside the mosquito net on a night of thunder and rain, murmuring to herself, “Oh dear, the master will scold me for this.” On a pilgrimage she had taken refuge in a wayside shrine. The illustration from an old-fashioned storybook of O-Shichi being grabbed by the hand by the rōnin in his stage wig of a warrior’s shaven head drew itself in the guest’s mind. The round muscles of the wife’s nape worked smoothly in his mind’s eye. “Even though you’re easily swayed by the emotions of a situation, to let yourself act like those characters in old stories who forget themselves because they’re alone with a young woman in a dark house in a thunderstorm, it’s rating yourself too cheap.” The guest tried to upbraid himself. But in the dark a series of sensual apparitions passed before him. As if it was stamped there, he felt the touch of the woman’s cold, wet palm on the back of his right hand. About ten feet away from the main part of the house the twenty-one-year-old houseboy crouched in the servant’s room. Afraid of the thunder, he had blushed scarlet with shame when, at intervals in the storm, he’d heard the rain shutters being slid shut across the way. (In this house it was the custom to employ a young male student rather than a maid.) Starting to his feet, he bounded at two strides into the entryway. “Takebe-san, have you been cowering in your room all this time?’’ In the dark corridor, looking startled and ready to flee, the wife was caught in the pallid light that just reached her from the entryway. Dripping wet, her sleeves were rolled up all the way to her shoulders, like those of the villain Sadakuro in the puppet play The Treasury of Loyal Retainers. Her white, plump arms hung limply at her sides. The inner front skirt of her summer kimono, pulled high up on her thighs and tucked into her half-width obi, revealed a slightly damp-looking white muslin slip and, beneath it, her bare feet to clear above her ankles. The houseboy, who’d literally taken a leap in the dark, stood as if fixed to the spot when he saw the wife before his eyes in a state of undress. The pale face, dimly afloat in the half light, gave a casual laugh and asked again, “You have been, haven’t you?” “pause.” The houseboy’s answer, drowned out by the sound of the rain, did not reach the wife’s ears. But that does not matter much. What’s more interesting is that the houseboy himself had no memory of how he’d replied. He knew that the husband had gone for a swim. But he did not at all know that the guest had dashed into the house just before the downpour began. That was how mesmerized he had been by the thunder. The thought now took hold in him that he was alone with the wife in the darkened house. Until that moment when, working himself up with a desire to do his duty, he had rushed inside the main house, he’d been as good as ignorant of this fact. But now that he stood face to face with his mistress, it flashed through his mind like a lightning bolt. His knowledge of it at once took on a weird clarity that clung around his heart. From here on he would follow a psychological path that was more or less the same as that described for the guest. He too heard the thudding of his heart. He too regretted having come into the house. And in listening hard to the storm outside as he did so, he was also like the guest. That the wife, with a levity unusual for her, had teased him this way went far to stir up a certain thought in him. In the darkness before his eyes, he repeatedly visualized and erased the wife’s face that had just now sunken into them. Thanks to that “certain thought,” this houseboy who was even younger than the guest was finely trembling. There was a tightness in his chest, as if his breath was coming and going only in his mouth. When he heard the wife’s voice from over toward the entryway, the guest, his heart beating harder than ever, stood up to go to that part of the house. He thought he’d heard her say “Kato-san, will you please help me” or words like these. Then he heard a man’s voice, mumbling what sounded like an apology. When only now he realized that it was the houseboy, he tried to feel relieved. But that was not at all what he really felt. At once the sallow face of the houseboy came back to him. Even more than before, it seemed the face of someone who belonged to the lower classes. It irked him extremely that the vulgar houseboy should make his appearance in what up until now had been a splendid pantomime. But when he guessed at the passions that even in the oafish servant must be making his heart pound with exactly the same temptation as his own, he felt an almost unbearable self-contempt. “This hackneyed role is just right for him. It’s quite clear that he’s not the leading man. As for the woman’s part, h’m, I’ll let you have it. Here it is. Eat.” As if tossing a piece of tainted meat to a dog, the guest did his best to hold aloof from the scene. Just then he heard the wife’s footsteps coming his way. The wife was not at all concerned about her husband’s whereabouts. A very good friend of his lived on the bank of the river where he’d gone for a swim. He always invited this man to join him, so it was almost certain that having encountered this sudden storm her easygoing husband was enjoying himself at his friend’s house. He was not one to come home if it meant charging through wind and rain. When, having changed out of her wet kimono, she came into the eight-mat guest room, this fact floated across the wife’s heart with a strange clarity. But unlike the two men (the guest and the houseboy) she did not at all feel bothered and menaced by her awareness of it. Like most women, as she considered a fact that she had placed center stage in her consciousness, if she felt it was an inconvenient fact that might make for trouble in a given situation, she at once and skillfully pushed it back down under the threshold of her thoughts, using sensitivity, guile, timidity, and wisdom to make sure it didn’t raise its head again. This is a characteristic of women that might well be called intelligent foolishness. It gives a lot of men difficulty. “My, my, it’s pitch-dark. Where are you?” “Shall I open one of the shutters a little? It’s too dark.” From the darkness came the guest’s voice, tinged with a faint trembling and heavy, as if he were sighing. “But it’s still teeming.” The wife was the same age of twenty-eight as the guest. But she had always tended to treat this young man, who was much younger than her husband, as if he were a child. In fact, this young bachelor who as the child of a good family had known no hardship, was quite often startled and hurt by her sharp-tongued way with him. The wife, liking to watch the look on the young man’s face at such times and enjoying herself often so, had decided that he was easily manipulated, a man whose strings she could pull as she pleased. However, this belief of hers was mistaken, in that she observed only his momentary expression and not the movements of his heart afterward. It was not that she had the bad nature to flaunt her superiority and torment the young man. On the contrary, at ease in her superiority, she did not grudge him her special loving friendship. Now when the wife heard the young man’s voice, she was immediately able to picture to herself his rigid attitude in the dark. Lured by the usual pleasure of her superiority, an utterly female playfulness reared its head in her. “My word, it was simply awful out there. I was absolutely soaked, oh, and you too, surely? You must have gotten all wet. Why don’t you change? I’ll give you some of my husband’s clothes, if it won’t make you feel odd.” “No, it’s all right. I’m fine this way.” “Really, though, do change. You’ll catch your death of cold. You must have been drenched.” “No, not all that much.” As he said this, the guest patted his clothes here and there. Wouldn’t the wife’s hand, any second now, reach out to feel how wet his clothes were and happen to touch his hand? It was this fear that made him say “No, not all that much” and move his hand around on his clothes. But in the dark where the wife’s voice had come from, there was only silence. He did not know how to interpret it. A fear arose in him that it would be broken by the wife’s all-too-innocent surprise attack. Against the dusky light that leaked through cracks and knotholes in the shutters, opening his eyes wide, the guest studied even the faint tremors of air. Suddenly a flash of lightning shone into the room. As he saw her at that instant, the wife’s figure had a calmness about it that disappointed him. Leaning on her left hand planted on the tatami behind her, her half-opened right hand lightly resting palm upward on her relaxed, slightly sideways lap, she sat at an angle across from him. His fear had been like a sumo wrestler grappling with himself. And yet the space between their knees was much smaller than he’d thought. Pushing himself back a little, he said, “That brightened it up a lot.” No sooner had he spoken than an earsplitting peal of thunder broke with a shattering roar that seemed right outside the room. It rattled the glass panes in the sliding doors. The guest felt as if his blood had leapt all at once into his head. “That was a big one.” He spoke these words to himself to quell his uneasiness. The next moment, however, he already felt somewhat free of his unease. “It really came down that time. And it seemed rather nearby.” Even when he spoke out loud to her, from where the wife sat in darkness there was neither an answer nor the sound of any slight movement of her body. Because of this, how the wife looked and what she was feeling at a moment that had struck fear even into him were completely beyond the guest. Unless the wife didn’t have a nerve in her body for thunderstorms, an intense emotion must have been roiled up in her that was stronger than any fear for her life. Unable to relax, the guest felt a disquiet that would not be dispelled until he’d gotten a word, any word, out of the wife. “The thunder doesn’t bother you?” Even to this, there was no reply. Beginning to feel slightly forlorn, he mumbled as if to himself, “It’s coming down like a waterfall, there’s some more thunder.” “Don’t you like it?” Coming as abruptly as they did, the wife’s words seemed to explode in his ears. “What?” The guest leaned forward despite himself. He deliberately left an interval in which a certain meaning of these words, which could be taken in two ways, might be broached, either by what the wife said or did (if she was going to make an overture). But soon becoming unable to endure that interval, the pressure of its silence, he asked again, “The thunder?” If this conversation had taken place in a bright room, he would not even have had to ask “What?” Now brusquely, he flung out the words that were appropriate to the other meaning (an extremely ordinary one), words that should have been said right away. At the same time, aware of his satisfaction in having warded off a danger and not waiting for what the wife would, of course, reply, he went on, “It’s not that I particularly dislike it. But that last one was a bit too close for comfort. Anyone would have.” Covering his words, the wife said, “I don’t mind it at all myself.” “Not again!” the guest thought. It was getting ridiculous. He felt as if he were being told the same joke many times. The “snake,” as long as one was afraid of it, was like a real snake. But if one deftly parried its lunge, it was nothing but a rotten straw rope that was starting to unravel. Not to have grabbed that rope and tossed it in a ditch was going too easy on the perpetrator of the prank. And for her to twirl the old rope around yet again! “This sort of woman is anathema in Soseki’s stories,” the guest muttered to himself. This time, for his own part, he took up the passive defense of “the silence of darkness.” After a while the wife said, “What a scaredy-cat you are.” But he obstinately held his tongue. The silence went on and on. Meanwhile, the guest sobered up from the delicious sakay of superiority. Had he been wrestling himself again? If the wife’s words had only the ordinary, apparent meaning of the like or dislike of thunder and held no hidden message, had he run on a little too far ahead? Yet mulling over once more their affected simplicity and their context, he did not think he was mistaken. “But if from the start she meant that other thing, and wasn’t talking about the thunder at all, how banal. What does she take me for?” The guest began to grow angry. “It’s all because of this darkness. I wish I could open the rain shutters right now. These silly thoughts would vanish with the dark.” This was suddenly called out by the wife in a loud voice. It startled the guest. Only now he remembered the houseboy. What had the oaf been doing with himself all this while? “Takebe-san.” The wife raised her voice again, louder this time. She had seen some leaks in the ceiling of her husband’s study and had sent the houseboy in with an empty bucket, but now thinking there might be other leaks, she wanted him to look around the rest of the house. She too wondered where he’d been in the interval. Much to her surprise the houseboy answered her from the next room, the morning room. Realizing at once that their conversation had been overheard in its entirety, she and the guest felt some displeasure. But the wife hesitated to show hers openly. Instead, in a pleasant voice, she said, “Are you all right? After that great big thunderbolt? Shall I put up the mosquito netting for you?” From the next room came a laugh that was completely lacking in mirth. “Takebe-san.” This time the guest spoke. “I’m sorry to bother you, but will you bring some matches and a tobacco tray?” “Oh, forgive me. I was so distracted by this uproar that I forgot all about them.” Getting to her feet, the wife went into the breakfast room. “Oh dear. The fire has gone out.” “Do you want me to light it?” “No, it doesn’t matter. Now, where are they? They were around here somewhere. How about the utility charcoal? You don’t know?” “I think it’s in that cupboard.” There was a sound of sticky, padding footsteps as the houseboy went to fetch it. “Ouch!” “Oh, excuse me.” “You hurt me. Where? At the bottom?” “That’s where it was last time.” There was a clattering sound. In the parlor the guest started to get exasperated. “Just matches will be fine. Matches.” “It was here somewhere, isn’t it in this box?” “Yes, that’s right. Probably in there.” “And the matches?” Then a moment later, “What are you doing?” In his gradually heightened state of desire, from this kind of talk the guest could see it all, the small space between the wife’s body and the houseboy’s, their contact, the wife’s damp, fragrant hair, the houseboy’s thudding heart and trembling body, much more vividly than if he were looking at it in a well-lighted room. And he could feel it all, the subtle inner excitement that he could not have perceived with his eyes. Once again a jealousy that was without reason raised its serpent’s head in him. From the morning room there was the sound of a match being struck and a little while afterward the wife’s voice. “Takebe-san. You’re pale.” “It’s nothing. It’s the candle.” “Are you quite sure?” Presently the wife, the tobacco tray in one hand and a candlestick in the other, came back into the room. By then the guest had noticed that the rain had tapered off to a drizzle. “We no longer need a light. Probably we can open the shutters now.” Saying this, he got to his feet and opened two or three himself. The pale, whitish light abruptly shone in. The darkness was gone. The wife of his friend was standing at his side. Wonderingly he looked at her. She was his friend’s wife, and nothing else. “Why are you staring at me so?” “Because somehow it’s as if I’d met you again after a long time.” “Why, you’re right! For a while there I could only hear your voice. I haven’t seen you in a long time.” “Good afternoon. How have you been?” “Fine, thank you. And you?” The storm, as in its onset, was rapid in its ending. Each minute the raindrops were finer and farther apart. The wind died away. The sky kept on getting brighter. After twenty minutes or so the rain had completely stopped. Already patches of blue sky appeared here and there in the upper cloud cover. In the lower sky clouds like white cotton puffs still sailed before the wind at a fairish speed. Heaven and earth, in the explosion of their magnificent quarrel, the electrical enmity that each had harbored against the other until it couldn’t be held back, had bared their hearts to each other. Now both were cool and refreshed, as if they’d revived. The cicadas also, which had been struck dumb by the thunder, took heart again and started up their raucous, sultry cry in chorus. The rooster, which when sky and earth had closed with each other in darkness had flown up in a panic to the perch hung from a rafter in the shed, now came down and, getting its bearings, gave a loud war cry. From far across the rice paddies there was a brave answering cry. The dog, as wet as any drowned rat, its head hanging low, entered the garden shaking off the muddy water in a spray of droplets. When it saw the wife and guest, a fond, friendly look came over its face. Licking its jaws, it propped its chin on the edge of the porch and whined emptily. Chided for that, it gave itself a violent shake that sent the spray flying every which way. Sitting back on its legs, its forepaws exactly side by side, it swiveled its head around and began licking its shoulders. Even those plants and trees that had gotten the worst of the storm, now green and dripping, washed and clean again, respired the faint, fresh sce

Beyond Doubt. Astonishing Stories. April 1941 as "Lyle Monroe and Elma Wentz". Bulletin Board. Delilah and the Space-Rigger. Gentlemen Be Seated. It’s great to be back. Let there be light. Magic Inc. Water is for washing. Reformatted for Machine Text, 2023 PukeOnAPlate. BEYOND DOUBT, By Robert Anson Heinlein, SAVANT SOLVES SECRET OF EASTER ISLAND IMAGES. According to Professor J Howard Erlenmeyer, director of the Archeological Society’s Easter Island Expedition. Professor Erlenmeyer was quoted as saying, “There can no longer be any possible doubt as to the significance of the giant monolithic images which are found in Easter Island. When one considers the primary place held by religious matters in all primitive cultures, and compares the design of these images with artifacts used in the rites of present day Polynesian tribes, the conclusion is inescapable that these images have a deep esoteric religious significance. Beyond doubt, their large size, their grotesque exaggeration of human form, and the seemingly aimless, but actually systematic, distribution gives evidence of the use for which they were carved, to wit; the worship of.” WARM, and incredibly golden, the late afternoon sun flooded the white-and-green city of Nuria, gilding its maze of circular criss-crossed streets. The Towers of the Guardians, rising high above the lushly verdant hills gleamed like translucent ivory. The hum from the domed buildings of the business district was muted while merchants rested in the cool shade of luxuriant, moistly green trees, drank refreshing okrada, and gazed out at the great hook-prowed green-and-crimson ships riding at anchor in the harbor-ships from Hindos, from Cathay, and from the far-flung colonies of Atlantis. In all the broad continent of Mu there was no city more richly beautiful than Muria, capital of the province of Lac. But despite the smiling radiance of sun, and sea, and sky, there was an undercurrent of atmospheric tenseness, as though the air itself were a tight coil about to be sprung, as though a small spark would set off a cosmic explosion. Through the city moved the sibilant whispering of a name-the name was everywhere, uttered in loathing and fear, or in high hope, according to the affiliations of the utterer-but in any mouth the name had the potency of thunder. The name was Talus. Talus, apostle of the common herd; Talus, on whose throbbing words hung the hopes of a million eager citizens; Talus, candidate for governor of the province of Lac. In the heart of the tenement district, near the smelly waterfront, between a narrow side street and a garbage alley was the editorial office of Mu Regenerate, campaign organ of the Talus-for-Governor organization. The office was as quiet as the rest of Nuria, but with the quiet of a spent cyclone. The floor was littered with twisted scraps of parchment, overturned furniture, and empty beer flagons. Three young men were seated about a great, round, battered table in attitudes that spoke their gloom. One of them was staring cynically at an enormous poster which dominated one wall of the room. It was a portrait of a tall, majestic man with a long, curling white beard. He wore a green toga. One hand was raised in a gesture of benediction. Over the poster, under the crimson-and-purple of crossed Murian banners, was the legend: TALUS FOR GOVERNOR! The one who stared at the poster let go an unconscious sigh. One of his companions looked up from scratching at a sheet of parchment with a stubby stylus. “What’s eating on you, Robar?” THE one addressed waved a hand at the wall. “I was just looking at our white hope. Ain’t he beautiful? Tell me, Dolph, how can anyone look so noble, and be so dumb?” “God knows. It beats me.” “That’s not quite fair, fellows,” put in the third, “the old boy ain’t really dumb; he’s just unworldly. You’ve got to admit that the Plan is the most constructive piece of statesmanship this country has seen in a generation.” Robar turned weary eyes on him. “Sure. Sure. And he’d make a good governor, too. I won’t dispute that; if I didn’t think the Plan would work, would I be here, living from hand to mouth and breaking my heart on this bloody campaign? Oh, he’s noble all right. Sometimes he’s so noble it gags me. What I mean is: Did you ever work for a candidate that was so bullheaded stupid about how to get votes and win an election?” “Well, no” “What gets me, Clevum,” Robar went on, “is that he could be elected so easily. He’s got everything; a good sound platform that you can stir people up with, the correct background, a grand way of speaking, and the most beautiful appearance that a candidate ever had. Compared with Old Bat Ears, he’s a natural. It ought to be just one-two-three. But Bat Ears will be re-elected, sure as shootin’.” “I’m afraid you’re right,” mourned Clevum. “We’re going to take such a shellacking as nobody ever saw. I thought for a while that we would make the grade, but now, did you see what the King’s Men said about him this morning?” “That dirty little sheet. What was it?” “Besides some nasty cracks about Atlantis gold, they accused him of planning to destroy the Murian home and defile the sanctity of Murian womanhood. They called upon every red-blooded one hundred per cent Murian to send this subversive monster back where he came from. Oh, it stank! But the yokels were eating it up.” “Sure they do. That’s just what I mean. The governor’s gang slings mud all the time, but if we sling any mud about governor Vortus, Talus throws a fit. His idea of a news story is a nifty little number about comparative statistics of farm taxes in the provinces of Mu. What are you drawing now, Dolph?” “This.” He held up a ghoulish caricature of Governor Vortus himself, with his long face, thin lips, and high brow, atop of which rested the tall crimson governor’s cap. Enormous ears gave this sinister face the appearance of a vulture about to take flight. Beneath the cartoon was the simple caption: BAT EARS FOR GOVERNOR. “There!” exclaimed Robar, “that’s what this campaign needs. Humor! If we could plaster that cartoon on the front page of Mu Regenerate and stick one under the door of every voter in the province, it‘d be a landslide. One look at that mug and they’d laugh themselves sick-and vote for our boy Talus!” HE held the sketch at arm’s length and studied it, frowning: Presently he locked up. “Listen, dopes. Why not do it? Give me one last edition with some guts in it. Are you game?” Clevum looked worried. “Well, I don’t know. What are you going to use for money? Besides, even if Oric would crack loose from the dough, how would we get an edition of that size distributed that well? And even if we did get it done, it might boomerang on us-the opposition would have the time and money to answer it.” Robar looked disgusted. “That’s what a guy gets for having ideas in this campaign-nothing but objections, objections!” “Wait a minute, Robar,” Dolph interposed. “Clevum’s kicks have some sense to them, but maybe you got something. The idea is to make Joe Citizen laugh at Vortus, isn’t it? Well, why not fix up some dodgers of my cartoon and hand ‘em out at the polling places on election day?” Robar drummed on the table as he considered this. “Umm, no, it wouldn’t do. Vortus’ goon squads would beat the hell out of our workers and highjack our literature.” “Well, then how about painting some big banners with old Bat Ears on them? We could stick them up near each polling place where the voters couldn’t fail to see them.” “Same trouble. The goon squads would have them down before the polls open.” “Do you know what, fellows,” put in Clevum, “what we need is something big enough to be seen and too solid for Governor’s plug-uglies to wreck. Big stone statues about two stories high would be about right.” Robar looked more pained than ever. “Clevum, il you can’t be helpful, why not keep quiet? Sure, statues would be fine-if we had forty years and ten million simoleons.” “Just think, Robar.” Dolph jibed, with an irritating smile, “if your mother had entered you for the priesthood, you could integrate all the statues you want-no worry, no trouble, no expense.” “Yeah, wise guy, but in that case I wouldn’t be in politics-Say!” ” ‘S trouble?” “Integration! Suppose we could integrate enough statues of old Picklepuss.“ “How?” “Do you know Kondor?” “The moth-eaten old duck that hangs around the Whirling Whale?” “That’s him. I’ll bet he could do it!” “That old stumblebum? Why, he’s no adept; he’s just a cheap unlicensed sorcerer. Reading palms in saloons and a little jackleg horoscopy is about all he’s good for. He can’t even mix a potent love philter. I know; I’ve tried him.” “Don’t be too damn certain you know all about him. He got all tanked up one night and told me the story of his life. He used to be a priest back in Egypt.” “Then why isn’t he now?” “That’s the point. He didn’t get along with the high priest. One night he got drunk and integrated a statue of the high priest right where it would show up best and too big to be missed-only he stuck the head of the high priest on the body of an animal.” “Whew!” “Naturally when he sobered up the next morning and saw what he had done all he could do was to run for it. He shipped on a freighter in the Red Sea and that’s how come he’s here.” Clevum’s face had been growing longer and longer all during the discussion. He finally managed to get in an objection. “I don’t suppose you two red hots have stopped to think about the penalty for unlawful use of priestly secrets?” “Oh, shut up, Clevum. If we win the election, Talus’ll square it. If we lose the election. Well, if we lose, Mu won’t be big enough to hold us whether we pull this stunt or not.” ORIC was hard to convince. As a politician he was always affable; as campaign manager for Talus, and consequently employer of Robar, Dolph, and Clevum, the boys had sometimes found him elusive, even though chummy. “Ummm, well, I don’t know.” He had said, “I’m afraid Talus wouldn’t like it.” “Would he need to know until it’s all done?” “Now, boys, really, ah, you wouldn’t want me to keep him in ignorance.” “But Oric, you know perfectly well that we are going to lose unless we do something, and do it quick.” “Now, Robar, you are too pessimistic.” Oric’s pop eyes radiated synthetic confidence. “How about that straw poll? We didn’t look so good; we were losing two to one in the back country.” “Well, perhaps you are right, my boy.” Oric laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “But suppose we do lose this election; Mu wasn’t built in a day. And I want you to know that we appreciate the hard, unsparing work that you boys have done, regardless of the outcome. Talus won’t forget it, and neither shall, uh, I, It’s young men like you three who give me confidence in the future of Mu.” “We don’t want appreciation; we want to win this election.” “Oh, to be sure! To be sure! So do we all-none more than myself. Uh-how much did you say this scheme of yours would cost?” “The integration won’t cost much. We can offer Kondor a contingent fee and cut him in on a spot of patronage. Mostly we’ll need to keep him supplied with wine. The big item will be getting the statues to the polling places. We had planned on straight commercial apportation.” “Well, now, that will be expensive.” “Dolph called the temple and got a price.” “Good heavens, you haven’t told the priests what you plan to do?” “No, sir. He just specified tonnage and distances.” “What was the bid?” Robar told him. Oric looked as if his first born were being ravaged by wolves. “Out of the question, out of the question entirely,” he protested. But Robar pressed the matter. “Sure it’s expensive, but it’s not half as expensive as a campaign that is just good enough to lose. Besides-I know the priesthood isn’t supposed to be political, but isn’t it possible with your connections for you to find one who would do it on the side for a smaller price, or even on credit? It’s a safe thing for him; if we go through with this we’ll win-it’s a cinch.” Oric looked really interested for the first time. “You might be right. Mum, yes.” He fitted the tips of his fingers carefully together. “You boys go ahead with this. Get the statues made. Let me worry about the arrangements for apportation.” He started to leave, a preoccupied look on his face. “Just a minute,” Robar called out, “we’ll need some money to oil up old Kondor.” Oric paused. “Oh, yes, yes. How stupid of me.” He pulled out three silver pieces and handed them to Robar. “Cash, and no records, eh?” He winked. “While you’re about it, sir,” added Clevum, “how about my salary? My landlady’s getting awful temperamental.” Oric seemed surprised. “Oh, haven’t I paid you yet?” He fumbled at his robes. “You’ve been very patient; most patriotic. You know how it is-so many details on my mind, and some of our sponsors haven’t been prompt about meeting their pledges.” He handed Clevum one piece of silver. “See me the first of the week, my boy. Don’t let me forget it.” He hurried out. THE three picked their way down the narrow crowded street, teeming with vendors, sailors, children, animals, while expertly dodging refuse of one kind or another, which was unceremoniously tossed from balconies. The Whirling Whale tavern was apparent by its ripe, gamey odor some little distance before one came to it. They found Kondor draped over the bar, trying as usual to cadge a drink from the seafaring patrons. He accepted their invitation to drink with them with alacrity. Robar allowed several measures of beer to mellow the old man before he brought the conversation around to the subject. Kondor drew himself up with drunken dignity in answer to a direct question. “Can I integrate simulacra? My son you are looking at the man who created the Sphinx.” He hiccoughed politely. “But can you still do it, here and now?” Robar pressed him, and added, “For a fee, of course.” Kondor glanced cautiously around. “Careful, my son. Someone might be listening. Do you want original integration, or simply re-integration?” “What’s the difference?” Kondor rolled his eyes up, and inquired of the ceiling, “What do they teach in these modern schools? Full integration requires much power, for one must disturb the very heart of the aether itself; re-integration is simply a re-arrangement of the atoms in a predetermined pattern. If you want stone statues, any waste stone will do.” “Re-integration, I guess. Now here’s the proposition.” “THAT will be enough for the first run. Have the porters desist.” Kondor turned away and buried his nose in a crumbling roll of parchment, his rheumy eyes scanning faded hieroglyphs. They were assembled in an abandoned gravel pit on the rear of a plantation belonging to Dolph’s uncle. They had obtained the use of the pit without argument, for, as Robar had reasonably pointed out, if the old gentleman did not know that his land was being used for illicit purposes, he could not possibly have any objection. Their numbers had been augmented by six red-skinned porters from the Land of the Inca-porters who were not only strong and untiring but possessed the desirable virtue ofspeaking no Murian. The porters had filled the curious ventless hopper with grey gravel and waited impassively for more toil to do. Kondor put the parchment away somewhere in the folds of his disreputable robe, and removed from the same mysterious recesses a tiny instrument of polished silver. “Your pattern, son.” Dolph produced a small waxen image, modeled from his cartoon of Bat Ears. Kondor placed it in front of him, and stared through the silver instrument at it. He was apparently satisfied with what he saw, for he commenced humming to himself in a tuneless monotone, his bald head weaving back and forth in time. Some fifty lengths away, on a stone pedestal, a wraith took shape. First was an image carved of smoke. The smoke solidified, became translucent. It thickened, curdled. Kondor ceased his humming and surveyed his work. Thrice as high as a man stood an image of Bat Ears, good honest stone throughout. “Clevum, my son,” he said, as he examined the statue, “will you be so good as to hand me that jug?” The gravel hopper was empty. ORIC called on them two days before the election. Robar was disconcerted to find that he had brought with him a stranger who was led around through the dozens of rows of giant statues. Robar drew Oric to one side before he left, and asked in a whisper, “Who is this chap?” Oric smiled reassuringly. “Oh, he’s all right. Just one of the boys-a friend of mine.” “But can he be trusted? I don’t remember seeing him around campaign headquarters.” “Oh, sure! By the way, you boys are to be congratulated on the job of work you’ve done here. Well, I must be running on, I’ll drop in on you again.” “Just a minute, Oric. Are you all set on the apportation?” “Oh, yes. Yes indeed. They’ll all be distributed around to the polling places in plenty of time-every statue.” “When are you going to do it?” “Why don’t you let me worry about those details, Robar?” “Well, you are the boss, but I still think I ought to know when to be ready for the apportation.” “Oh, well, if you feel that way, shall we say, ah, midnight before election day?” “That’s fine. We’ll be ready.” ROBAR watched the approach of the midnight before election with a feeling of relief. Kondor’s work was all complete, the ludicrous statues were lined up, row on row, two for every polling place in the province of Lac, and Kondor himself was busy getting reacquainted with the wine jug. He had almost sobered up during the sustained effort of creating the statues. Robar gazed with satisfaction at the images. “I wish I could see the Governor’s face when he first catches sight of one of these babies. Nobody could possibly mistake who they were. Dolph, you’re a genius; I never saw anything sillier looking in my life.” “That’s high praise, pal,” Dolph answered. “Isn’t it about time the priest was getting here? I’ll feel easier when we see our little dollies flying through the air on their way to the polling places.” “Oh, I wouldn’t worry. Oric told me positively that the priest would be here in plenty of time. Besides, apportation is fast. Even the images intended for the back country and the far northern peninsula will get there in a few minutes-once he gets to work.” But as the night wore on it became increasingly evident that something was wrong. Robar returned from his thirteenth trip to the highway with a report of no one in sight on the road from the city. “What’ll we do?” Clevum asked. “I don’t know. Something’s gone wrong; that’s sure.” “Well, we’ve got to do something. Let’s go back to the temple and try to locate him.” “We can’t do that; we don’t know what priest Oric hired. We’ll have to find Oric.” They left Kondor to guard the statues and hurried back into town. They found Oric just leaving campaign headquarters. With him was the visitor he had brought with him two days before. He seemed surprised to see them. “Hello, boys. Finished with the job so soon?” “He never showed up,” Robar panted. “Never showed up? Well, imagine that! Are you sure?” “Of course we’re sure; we were there!” “Look,” put in Dolph, “what is the name of the priest you hired to do this job? We want to go up to the temple and find him.” “His name? Oh, no, don’t do that. You might cause all sorts of complications. I’ll go to the temple myself.” “We’ll go with you.” “That isn’t necessary,” he told them testily. “You go on back to the gravel pit, and be sure everything is ready.” “Good grief, Oric, everything has been ready for hours. Why not take Clevum along with you to show the priest the way?” “I’ll see to that. Now get along with you.” Reluctantly they did as they were ordered. They made the trip back in moody silence. As they approached their destination Clevum spoke up, “You know, fellows.” “Well? Spill it.” “That fellow that was with Oric-wasn’t he the guy he had out here, showing him around?” “Yes; why?” “I’ve been trying to place him. I remember now. I saw him two weeks ago, coming out of Governor Vortus’ campaign office.” AFTER a moment of stunned silence Robar said bitterly, “Sold out. There’s no doubt about it; Oric has sold us out.” “Well, what do we do about it?” “What can we do?” “Blamed if I know.” “Wait a minute, fellows,”’ came Clevum’s pleading voice, “Kondor used to be a priest. Maybe he can do apportation.” “Say! There’s a chance! Let’s get going.” But Kondor was dead to the world. They shook him. They poured water in his face. They walked him up and down. Finally they got him sober enough to answer questions. Robar tackled him. “Listen, pop, this is important; Can you perform apportation?” “Huh? Me? Why, of course. How else did we build the pyramids?” “Never mind the pyramids. Can you move these statues here tonight?” Kondor fixed his interrogator with a bloodshot eye. “My son, the great Arcane laws are the same for all time and space. What was done in Egypt in the Golden Age can be done in Mu tonight.” Dolph put in a word. “Good grief, pop, why didn’t you tell us this before.” The reply was dignified and logical. “No one asked me.” KONDOR set about his task at once, but with such slowness that the boys felt they would scream just to watch him. First, he drew a large circle in the dust. “This is the house of darkness,” he announced solemnly, and added the crescent of Astarte. Then he drew another large circle tangent to the first. “And this is the house of light.” He added the sign of the sun god. When he was done, he walked widdershins about the whole three times the wrong way. His feet nearly betrayed him twice, but he recovered, and continued his progress. At the end of the third lap he hopped to the center of the house of darkness and stood facing the house of light. The first statue on the left in the front row quivered on its base, then rose into the air and shot over the horizon to the east. The three young men burst out with a single cheer, and tears streamed down Robar’s face. Another statue rose up. It was just poised for flight when old Kondor hiccoughed. It fell, a dead weight, back to its base, and broke into two pieces. Kondor turned his head. “I am truly sorry,” he announced; “I shall be more careful with the others.” And try he did-but the liquor was regaining its hold. He wove to and fro on his feet, his aim with the images growing more and more erratic. Stone figures flew in every direction, but none travelled any great distance. One group of six flew off together and landed with a high splash in the harbor. At last, with more than three fourths of the images still untouched he sank gently to his knees, keeled over, and remained motionless. Dolph ran up to him, and shook him. There was no response. He peeled back one of Kondor’s eyelids and examined the pupil. “It’s no good,” he admitted. “He won’t come to for hours.” Robar gazed heartbrokenly at the shambles around him. There they are, he thought, worthless! Nobody will ever see them-just so much left over campaign material, wasted! My biggest idea! Clevum broke the uncomfortable silence. “Sometimes,” he said, “I think what this country needs is a good earthquake.” “The worship of their major deity. Beyond doubt, while errors are sometimes made in archeology, this is one case in which no chance of error exists. The statues are clearly religious in significance. With that sure footing on which to rest the careful scientist may deduce with assurance the purpose of.” THE BULLETIN BOARD. Our campus is not a giant, factory-size job with a particle accelerator and a two-hundred-man football squad, but it's chummy. The chummiest thing about it is the bulletin board in Old Main. You may find a stray glove fastened up with a thumbtack, or you can pick up a baby-sitting job if a married veteran doesn't beat you to it. Or you can buy a car cheap if you tow it from where it gave up. There are items like: "Will the person who removed a windbreaker from the Library please return same and receive a punch in the nose?" But the main interest is the next four sections, "A To-G," "H-To-L," "M-To-T," and "U-to-Z," for they are what we use in place of the U.S. Postal "Service" at enormous saving in postage. Everybody inspects his section before class in the morning. If there's nothing for you, at least you can see who does get mail and sometimes from whom. You'll look again at lunch time and before going home. A person with a busy social life will check the board six or seven times. Mine isn't that busy but I frequently find a note from Cliff. He knows I like to, so he indulges me. It’s fun to get mail on the board. There was a girl I used to run across because we were both in "H-to-L", Gabrielle Lamont. I would say hello and she would say hello and there it stopped. Gabrielle was a sad one, not a total termite, but dampish. Her face had the usual features but she let them live their own lives, not even lipstick. She skinned her hair back and her clothes looked as if they had been bought in France. Not Paris, just France. There's a difference. Which they probably were. Her father is in Modern Languages and he sent her three years to school in France. It did something. I don't think she ever had a date. We both had eight o'clocks and she would check "H-to-L" every morning when I did and then go quietly away. There was never a note for her. Until this one morning. Georgia Lammers, who is purely carnivorous, took a note off the board as Gabrielle came up. I heard this soft little voice say, "Excuse me. That's mine." Georgia said, "Huh? Don't be silly!" Gabrielle looked scared but she put out her hand. "Read the name, please. You've made a mistake." Georgia snatched the note away. She is a junior and wouldn't bother to speak to me if Daddy weren't on the staff, but I'm not afraid of her. "Do it," I insisted. "Let's see the name." Georgia stuck the envelope in my face and snapped, "Read it yourself, snoopy!" "Gabrielle Lamont," I read Out loud. "Hand it over, Georgia." "What?" she yelped, and looked at it. Her cheeks got very red. "Hand it over," I repeated. "Well!" said Georgia. "Anybody can make a mistake!" She flung the note at Gabrielle and flounced off. Gabrielle picked it up. "Thanks," she whispered. "Usual Yellow Cab Service," I said. "A pleasure", which it was. Georgia Lammers is popular in a cheap, plunging-neckline way, but not with me. She acts as if she had invented sex. Gabrielle started getting mail every day some in envelopes, some just with a thumbtack shoved through folds. I wondered who it was; but every time I saw Gabrielle she was alone. I decided it must be someone her father did not like so they had to use notes to arrange secret dates. I told Cliff so, but he said I had an uncontrolled romantic imagination. Gabrielle got eleven notes that week and, I got only four, all from Cliff. I pointed this out and he said I did not appreciate my blessings and he was going to ration me to three a week. Men are exasperating. I came up one morning as Gabriehle was taking down a note; this time Georgia Lammers was there. As Gabrielle left I said sweetly, "Nothing for you, Georgia? Too bad. Or was it Gabrielle's turn to swipe your note?" Georgia sniffed and went into the Registrar's office, where she is a part-time clerk. I thought no more about it until after five, when I was waiting in Old Main for Daddy, intending to ride home with him. There was nothing on "H-To-L" for me, or for Gabrielle, or Georgia. Nobody was around so I sat down on the Senior Bench and rested my feet. I jumped when I heard someone behind me, but it was only Gabrielle. She's a freshman, too, and anyhow she wouldn't tell. But I didn't sit down again, our senior committee thinks up fantastic punishments for ignoring their sacred privileges. A good thing I didn't, Georgia came out Of the office then. But she did not notice me. She went straight to "H-To-L" and unpinned a note. I thought: Maureen, your memory is slipping; there was nothing for her a minute ago. Georgia turned and saw me. She flushed and said, "What are you staring at?" "Sorry," I said. "I didn't think there was a note for you, I just looked at the board." She started to flare up, then she put on a catty smile. "Want to read it?" "Heavens, no!" "Go ahead!" She shoved it at me. "It's very interesting." Puzzled, I took it. It was a blank sheet, nothing but creases and thumb tack holes. "Somebody is playing jokes on you," I said. "Not on me." I turned it over. The address read: "Miss Gabrielle Lamont." It finally soaked in that the address should have been "Georgia Lammers." Or should have been for Georgia to touch it. I said, "This note isn't yours. You have no right to it." "What note?" "This note." "I don't see any note. I see a blank sheet of paper." "But. Look, you thought it was a note to Gabrielle. And you took it down anyway." Her smile got nastier. "No, I knew it wasn't a note. That's the point." "Huh?" She explained and I wanted to scratch her. Poor little Gabrielle had been sending notes to herself, just to get mail when everybody else did, and Georgia had caught on. Both girls had campus jobs which kept them late; Georgia had seen Gabrielle come in late a week earlier, look around, and pin up a note. Being a sneak, she had ducked out to find out to whom Gabrielle was writing, only to find that it was addressed to Gabrielle herself. Poor Gabby! No wonder I had never seen her with anyone. There wasn't anyone. Georgia licked her lips. "Isn't it a scream? That snip trying to make us think she's popular? I should write a real note on this, let her know that her public isn't fooled." "Don't you dare!" "Oh, don't be dull!" She pinned it up, putting the tack back in-the same holes. "I'll let the joke ride until I think of something good." I grabbed her arm, "Don't you touch her notes again or I'll." She shook me off. "You'll what? Tell her that you know her notes are phony? I can just see you!" "I'll tell the Dean, that's what! I'll tell the Dean you've been opening Gabrielle's notes." "Oh, yes? You looked at it, too." "But you handed it to me!" "Did I? My word against yours, sweetie pie." "But." "And if you talk, the whole campus will know about Gabrielle's fake notes. Think it over." She marched off. I was so quiet on the way home that Daddy said, "Smatter, Puddin'? Flunk a quiz?" I assured him that my academic status was satisfactory. "Then why the mourning?" Before Daddy let me register he had warned me that the First Law of the Jungle for a professor's child was not to be a pipeline to the faculty. "But, Daddy, you're a professor." "Student stuff, eh? Better sweat it out alone. Good. Luck." I did not tell Mother either, because with Mother free speech is not just a theory. I did nothing but worry. Poor Gabrielle! She took her "note" down next morning, looking pleased, and I wanted to cry. Then I saw the smirk on Georgia Lammers' face and I felt like murder and mayhem. There was another "note" Friday and I wanted to shout to her not to touch it. I didn't dare. It was like a time bomb, watching Gabrielle's pitiful make believe and knowing that Georgia meant to wreck it as soon as she thought up something nasty enough. I was in the Registrar's office Monday, not to see Georgia, though I couldn't avoid her, but because I am a freshman reporter for the Campus Crier. One of my chores is, getting up the "Happy Birthday" column. I thumbed through the files, noting dates from the coming Friday through the following Thursday. Gabrielle's name turned up for Friday and I decided to send her a birthday card, via the bulletin board, so for once she would have real mail. Next I listed Bun Peterson's name; her birthday was the same as Gabrielle's. Bun is president of the Student Council and head cheerleader and honorary football captain; it seemed a shame she had to have Gabrielle's birthday as well. I decided to get Gabrielle a really nice card, with a hanky. As I finished Georgia picked up my list and said, "Who's getting senile?” I said, "You are," and took it back. She said, "Don't get too big for your beanie, freshman." She went on, "Going to the party for Bun Peterson?" Then added, "Oh, I forgot, it's upper classmen only." I looked her in the eye. "A double choc malt against a used candy bar you aren't either!" She didn't answer and I swaggered out. It was a busy week. Junior sprained his arm, Mother was away two days and I kept house, the cat had to be wormed, and I typed a term paper for Cliff. I didn't think about Gabrielle until late Friday when I stopped by the board on the chance that there might be a note from Cliff. There wasn't, but there was another of Gabnelle's notes, in an envelope with her name typed. I realized with a shock that I had forgotten her birthday card. I was wondering whether to get one and let her find it Monday, when I heard a pisst! It was Georgia Lammers, motioning me to come to the office. Curiosity got me; I went. She pulled me inside; there was no one else in the outer office. "Keep back," she whispered. "If she sees anyone, she may not stop. She's due now, it's after five." I shook her off. "Who?" "Gabrielle, of course. Shut up!" "Huh?" I said. "She's already been there. Her note for Monday is up." "A lot you know! Hush!" She crowded me into the corner, then peeked out. "Quit shoving!" I said and looked out. Gabrielle was pinning something up, her back to us. She saw the envelope with her name, took it down, and hurried away. I turned to Georgia. "If you've monkeyed with one of her notes, I will go to the Dean." "Go ahead, see how far it gets you." "Did you touch that note?" "Sure I did, I wrote it. What's wrong with that?" She had me; anybody can send anyone a note. "Well, what did you say?" "What business is it of yours? Still," she went on, "I'll tell you. It's too good to keep." She dug a paper out of her purse. It was a typewritten rough draft, full of x-outs and inserts; it read: Dear Gabrielle, Today is Bun Peterson's birthday, and we are giving her the finest surprise party this school has ever seen. We would like to invite everybody, but we can't, and you have been picked as one of the girls to represent the freshman class. We are gathering in groups and will descend on her in a body. Your group will meet at seven o'clock in the Snack Shoppe. Put on your best bib and tucker, and don't breathe a word to anyone! The Committee. "It's a shabby trick," I said, "to invite her to another girl's party on her own birthday. You knew it was her birthday." "What of it?" "It's mean, but just like you. How did you get them to invite her? You aren't on the committee, are you?" She stared, then laughed. "She's not invited to anything." "Huh? You mean there's no party? But there is. "Oh, sure, there's a party for Bun Peterson. But that little snip won't be there. That's the joke." It finally sank in. Gabrielle would go to the Snack Shoppe and wait, and wait, and wait, while the party she thought she had been invited to went on without her. "That strikes you as funny?" I said. "That's just the beginning," this Lammers person answered. "About eight-thirty, when she is beginning to wonder 'Wha Hoppen?' a messenger will bring another note. It will be blank paper, just like those she sends to herself, then she'll know." She giggled and wet her lips. "The little fake will have her comeuppance." I started after her and she ducked back of the counter. "You're not allowed back here!" she yelped. I stopped. "You'll have to come out some time. Then we'll find Gabrielle and you will tell her the truth, all of it!" "Tell her yourself!" she snapped. Two boys drifted in and the Registrar came out of the inner office and Georgia became briskly official. I left. Cliff was waiting at "H-To-L"; I was never so glad to see him. "Well," Cliff said a bit later, "phone her. Tell her she's been had and not to go to the Snack Shoppe." "But, Cliff, I can't! That would be almost as cruel as the way Georgia planned it. Look, can't you get somebody to take her to Bun's party?" Cliff wrinkled his forehead. "I don't see how." "Cliff, you've got to!" "Puddin', today is Gabnelte's birthday, too. Right?" "Yes, yes, that's what makes it so mean." "You don't want to send her to Bun's party. What we do is give her a surprise party of her own. Simple." I stared with open-mouthed adoration. "Cliff, you're a genius." "No," he, said modestly, "just highly intelligent and with a heart of gold. Let's get busy, chica." First I phoned Mother. She said, "Tonight, Maureen? I like to entertain your friends but" I cut in with a quick up-to-date. Presently she said, "I'll check the deep freeze. Sommers Market may still be open. How about turkey legs and creamed mushrooms on toast?" "And ice cream," I added. "Birthday parties need ice cream." "But the cake? I'm short on time." "Uh, we'll get the cake." As I hung up Cliff came out of the other booth. "I got the Downbeat Campus Combo," he announced. "Oh, Cliff, an orchestra!" "If you can call those refugees from a juke box that." "But how will we pay for it?" "Don't ask, it was a promotion. They bid on Bun's party and got left, So they listened to reason. But I'm not doing well on guests, baby." "You called your house?" "Yes. A lot of the boys have other plans." "You call again and tell those free loaders that they will never eat another Dagwood in my house if they are not there, on time, and each with a present. No excuses. This is total war." "Aye aye, sir!" We went to Helen Hunt's Tasty Pastry Shoppe. Mr. Helen Hunt was just closing but he let us in. No birthday cake. Not a baker in the place until four the next morning, sorry. I spotted a three-tier wedding cake. "Is that a prop?" "Frankly, that's a disappointment. My wife and I each entered the same order." “You're stuck with it?” "Oh, we may get a wedding cake order unexpectedly." "Eight dollars," I said. He looked at the cake. "Ten dollars", then added, "Cash." I looked at Cliff. He looked at me. I opened my purse and he got out his wallet. We had six fifty-seven. Mr. Helen Hunt stared at the ceiling. Cliff sighed and unpinned his fraternity pin from my blouse, handed it over, and Mr Helen Hunt dropped it into the cash register. He took the little bride-and-groom off the cake, set candles around each tier, then fetched an icing gun. "What name?" "Gabrielle," I replied. "No, make it 'Gabby', G, A, double-B, Y." I called Madame O'Toole from there. Madame bends hair for half the girls on the campus. She lives back of her beauty salon and agreed to be panting and ready at seven-fifteen. Fast driving let Cliff drop me at six-ten. Junior was stringing Christmas tree lights across the front porch and Daddy was moving furniture. Mother was swooshing like a restless tornado, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. I kissed Daddy but Mother wouldn't hold still. I made three calls while the tub was filling, then dunked, put my face on, and inserted myself into my almost-strapless formal. Cliff honked at five minutes to seven; he looked swell in a tuxedo a little too small and the darling had two gardenia corsages, one for me and one for Gabrielle. We roared away toward the Snack Shoppe, hitting on all three. We got there at seven-fifteen. I looked in and saw Gabrielle at a rear table, looking forlorn and nursing a half-empty coke. She was in a long dress which was not too bad but she, had tried to hse makeup and did not know how. Her lipstick was smeared, crooked, and the wrong color, and she had done awful things with rouge and powder. Underneath she was scared green. I walked in. "Hello, Gabby." She tried to smile. "Oh, hello, Maureen." "Ready to go? We're from the committee." "Uh. I don't know. I don't feel well. I'd better go home." "Nonsense! Come on. We'll be late." We got on each side and hustled her out to Cliff's open-air special. "Where is the party?" Gabrielle asked nervously. "Don't be nosy. It's a surprise." Which it was. Cliff pulled up at Madame O'Toole's before she could ask more questions. Gabrielle looked puzzled but her will to resist was gone. Inside I said to Madame O'Toole, "You have seventeen minutes." Madame looked her over like a pile of wet clay. "Two hours is what I need." "Twenty minutes," I conceded. "Can you do it?" Over the phone I had told her that she had to create Cleopatra herself, starting from zip. She pursed her lips and looked the kid over again. "We'll see. Come along, child." Gabrielle looked dazed. "But Maureen." "Hush," I said firmly. "Do exactly what Madame tells you." Madame led her away. While we waited Cliff called the Deke house and the senior dorm and stirred out five more men and two couples. It was thirty minutes before they reappeared, and I nearly fainted. Madame was wasted here. She belonged at the court of Louis Quinze. And so did Gabrielle. At first I thought she was wearing no makeup. Then I, saw that it had been put on so skillfully that you thought it had grown there. Her eyes were eight times as big as they had been and looked like pools of secret sorrow, if you know, a woman who has lived her hair was still brushed straight back but Madame had done it over. What had been a bun was now a chignon, "bun" wasn't the word. Her cheekbones were higher, too. And Madame had done. Something to the dress. It clung more and seemed more low-cut. Riding high on her shoulder was the corsage and her skin blended into the petals. Instead of the beads she had been wearing there was a single strand of pearls, resting where pearls love to rest. They must have been Madame's very own. They looked real. Cliff gasped so I poked him to remind him not to touch. Gabrielle smiled timidly. "Do I look all right?" I said, "Sister, Conover would shoot Powers for your contract. Madame, you're wonderful! Let's go; kids. We're late." You can't talk when Cliff is driving, which was good. We got there at twenty past eight; our block was jammed and our house stood out in colored lights. Junior was on guard; he ducked inside. Cliff took our coats I gave Gabrielle a shove and said, "Go on in." As she appeared in the living room the Downbeat boys bit it and they all sang: "Happy birthday, dear Gabby! "Happy birthday to you!" And then I was almost sorry, for the poor baby covered her face and sobbed. And so did I. Everybody began laughing and talking and shouting and the Downbeat Combo went into dance music, not good but solid, and I knew the party would do. Mother and I smuggled Gabby upstairs and I fixed my face and Mother shook Gabby and told her to stop crying. Gabby stopped and Mother did a perfect job fixing what damage had been done. I didn't know Mother owned mascara but I am always finding Out new things about Mother. So we went back down. Cliff showed up with a strange man and said, "Mademoiselle Lamont, permettez-moi de vous presenter M'sieur Jean Allard," which was more French than I knew he had. Jean Allard was an exchange student that one of the boys had brought along. He was slender and dark and he fastened himself to Gabby, his English was spotty and here was a woman that spoke his language… that and Madame O'Toole's handiwork. Be had competition; most of the stags seemed to want to get close to the new-model Gabby. I sighed with relief and slipped out to the kitchen, being suddenly aware that I had missed dinner, a disaster for one of my metabolism. Daddy was there in an apron; he gave me a turkey leg. I ate that and a few other things that wouldn't fit on the plates. Then I went back and danced with Cliff and some of the stags that had gotten crowded out around Gabby. When the orchestra took ten it turned Out that Johnny Allard could play piano, and he and Gabby sang French songs, the kind that sound naughty, what with the eye-rolling, but probably aren't. Then we all sang Alouette which is more my speed. Gabby was gaining a reputation as a woman of the world. I heard one ex-Boy Scout say, "You've really seen the Folies Bergere?" Gabby looked puzzled and said, "Why not?" He said, "Gee!" while his eyebrows crowded his scalp. Finally we brought out the cake and everybody sang "Happy Birthday" again and Mother had to repair Gabby's face a second time. But by now Gabby could have washed her face and it wouldn't have mattered. Professor Lamont arrived while we were killing the ice cream and cake. Daddy's doing. He and Jean Allard talked French, then I heard Jean ask him, in schoolbook English, for permission to call on his daughter. Doctor Lamont agreed in the same stilted fashion. I blinked. Cliff never asked Daddy; he just started eating at our house, off and on. Around midnight Doctor Lamont took his daughter home, loaded with swag. At the last minute I remembered to run upstairs and wrap up a new pair of nylons that would never fit. Gabby but she could exchange them. So Gabby cried again and clung to me and got incoherent in two languages and I cried some, too. Finally everybody left and Cliff and Daddy and I tidied up the place, sort of. When I hit the bed, I died. Cliff showed up next morning. We gloated over the party, at least I did. Presently he said, "What about Georgia?" I said, "Huh?" He said, "You can't leave it at this. It ought to be poisoned needles, or boiling lava, but the police are narrow-minded." "Any ideas?" He pulled out the bill for the cake. "I'd like to see her pay this." "So would I! But how in the world?" Cliff explained, then we composed the letter together, like this: Dear Georgia, Yesterday was Gabrielle Lamont's birthday, and we gave her the finest party this school has ever seen. Too bad you were hanging around the Snack Shoppe while the fun was going on. But we know you would like to give her a present anyway, you can still pay for the cake. Put on your best bib and tucker and trot around to Helen Hunt's. It was a surprise party, so don't breathe a word to anyone! Nor shall we. The Committee. P S. On second thought it will be-more fun if you don't pay for the cake! It wasn't anonymous; the bill had our names on it and we pinned it to the letter. I bet Cliff two hamburgers that she wouldn't knuckle under. I was wrong. Half an hour after it was delivered Helen Hunt phoned to say that Cliff could have his pin back, the mortgage was lifted. Monday morning I was at the board earlier than either Cliff or Gabby. Gabby's poor little "note" was still pinned up, where she had put it Friday. I wondered what she would do; start pretending all over again? I spotted her coming up the steps, walking alone and lonely, same as always, and again I wondered if it had done any good. Then somebody shouted, "Hey, Gabby! Wait a minute." She stopped and two boys joined her. I watched her and then Cliff growled at my back, "Why the sniffles? Got a cold?" I said, "Oh, Cliffy Give me your hanky and don't ask silly questions." Delilah and the Space-Rigger. Audiobook Dedicated to Ryan Kinel. SURE, WE HAD TROUBLE building Space Station One-but the trouble was people. Not that building a station twenty-two thousand three hundred miles out in space is a breeze. It was an engineering feat bigger than the Panama Canal or the Pyramids-or even the Susquehanna Power Pile. But “Tiny” Larsen built her and a job Tiny tackles gets built. I first saw Tiny playing guard on a semi-pro team, working his way through Oppenheimer Tech. He worked summers for me thereafter till he graduated. He stayed in construction and eventually I went to work for him. Tiny wouldn’t touch a job unless he was satisfied with the engineering. The Station had jobs designed into it that called for six-armed monkeys instead of grown men in space suits. Tiny spotted such boners; not a ton of material went into the sky until the specs and drawings suited him. But it was people that gave us the headaches. We bad a sprinkling of married men, but the rest were wild kids, attracted by high pay and adventure. Some were busted spacemen. Some were specialists, like electricians and instrument men. About half were deep-sea divers, used to working in pressure suits. There were sandhogs and riggers and welders and ship fitters and two circus acrobats. We fired four of them for being drunk on the job; Tiny had to break one stiff’s arm before he would stay fired. What worried us was where did they get it? Turned out a ship fitter had rigged a heatless still, using the vacuum around us. He was making vodka from potatoes swiped from the commissary. I hated to let him go, but he was too smart. Since we were falling free in a 24-hour circular orbit, with everything weightless and floating, you’d think that shooting craps was impossible. But a radioman named Peters figured a dodge to substitute steel dice and a magnetic field. He also eliminated the element of chance, so we fired him. We planned to ship him back in the next supply ship, the R S Half Moon. I was in Tiny’s office when she blasted to match our orbit. Tiny swam to the view port “Send for Peters, Dad,” he said, “and give him the old heave ho. Who’s his relief?” “Party named G Brooks McNye,” I told him. A line came snaking over from the ship. Tiny said, “I don’t believe she’s matched.” He buzzed the radio shack for the ship’s motion relative to the Station. The answer didn’t please him and he told them to call the Half Moon. Tiny waited until the screen showed the rocket ship. C.O. “Good morning, Captain. Why have you placed a line on us?” “For cargo, naturally. Get your hopheads over here. I want to blast off before we enter the shadow.” The Station spent about an hour and a quarter each day passing through Earth’s shadow; we worked two eleven-hour shifts and skipped the dark period, to avoid rigging lights and heating suits. Tiny shook his head. “Not until you’ve matched course and speed with us.” “I am matched!” “Not to specification, by my instruments.” “Have a heart, Tiny! I’m short on maneuvering fuel. If I juggle this entire ship to make a minor correction on a few lousy tons of cargo, I’ll be so late I’ll have to put down on a secondary field. I may even have to make a dead-stick landing.” In those days all ships had landing wings. “Look, Captain,” Tiny said sharply, “the only purpose of your lift was to match orbits for those same few lousy tons. I don’t care if you land in Little America on a pogo stick. The first load here was placed with loving care in the proper orbit, and I’m making every other load match. Get that covered wagon into the groove.” “Very well, Superintendent!” Captain Shields said stiffly. “Don’t be sore, Don,” Tiny said softly. “By the way, you’ve got a passenger for me?” “Oh, yes, so I have!” Shields’ face broke out in a grin. “Well, keep him aboard until we unload. Maybe we can beat the shadow yet.” “Fine, fine! After all, why should I add to your troubles?” The skipper switched off, leaving my boss looking puzzled. We didn’t have time to wonder at his words. Shields whipped his ship around on gyros, blasted a second or two, and put her dead in space with us pronto-and used very little fuel, despite his bellyaching. I grabbed every man we could spare and managed to get the cargo clear before we swung into Earth’s shadow. Weightlessness is an unbelievable advantage in handling freight; we gutted the Half Moon-by hand, mind you-in fifty-four minutes. The stuff was oxygen tanks, loaded, and aluminum mirrors to shield them, panels of outer skin-sandwich stuff of titanium alloy sheet with foamed glass filling-and cases of jato units to spin the living quarters. Once it was all out and snapped to our cargo line I sent the men back by the same line-I won’t let a man work outside without a line no matter how space happy he figures he is. Then I told Shields to send over the passenger and cast off. This little guy came out the ship’s air lock, and hooked on to the ship’s line. Handling himself like he was used to space, he set his feet and dived, straight along the stretched line, his snap hook running free. I hurried back and motioned him to follow me. Tiny, the new man, and I reached the air locks together. Besides the usual cargo lock we had three Kwikloks. A Kwiklok is an Iron Maiden without spikes; it fits a man in a suit, leaving just a few pints of air to scavenge, and cycles automatically. A big time saver in changing shifts. I passed through the middle-sized one; Tiny, of course, used the big one. Without hesitation the new man pulled himself into the small one. We went into Tiny’s office. Tiny strapped down, and pushed his helmet back. “Well, McNye,” he said. “Glad to have you with us.” The new radio tech opened his helmet. I heard a low, pleasant voice answer, “Thank you.” I stared and didn’t say anything. From where I was I could see that the radio tech was wearing a hair ribbon. I thought Tiny would explode. He didn’t need to see the hair ribbon; with the helmet up it was clear that the new “man” was as female as Venus deMilo. Tiny sputtered, then he was unstrapped and diving for the view port. “Dad!” he yelled. “Get the radio shack. Stop that ship!” But the Half Moon was already a ball of fire in the distance. Tiny looked dazed. “Dad,” he said, “who else knows about this?” “Nobody, so far as I know.” He thought a bit. “We’ve got to keep her out of sight. That’s it-we keep her locked up and out of sight until the next ship matches in.” He didn’t look at her. “What in the world are you talking about?” McNye’s voice was higher and no longer pleasant. Tiny glared. “You, that’s what. What are you-a stowaway?’ “Don’t be silly! I’m G B McNye, electronics engineer. Don’t you have my papers?” Tiny turned to me. “Dad, this is your fault. How in Chr, pardon me, Miss. How did you let them send you a woman? Didn’t you even read the advance report on her?” “Me?” I said. “Now see here, you big squarehead! Those forms don’t show sex; the Fair Employment Commission won’t allow it except where it’s pertinent to the job.” “You’re telling me it’s not pertinent to the job here?” “Not by job classification it ain’t. There’s lots of female radio and radar men, back Earthside.” “This isn’t Earthside.” He had something. He was thinking of those two-legged wolves swarming over the job outside. And G B McNye was pretty. Maybe eight months of no women at all affected my judgment, but she would pass. “I’ve even heard of female rocket pilots,” I added, for spite. “I don’t care if you’ve heard of female archangels; I’ll have no women here!” “Just a minute!” If I was riled, she was plain sore. “You’re the construction superintendent, are you not?” “Yes,” Tiny admitted. “Very well, then, how do you know what sex I am?’ “Are you trying to deny that you are a woman?” “Hardly! I’m proud of it. But officially you don’t know what sex G. Brooks McNye is. That’s why I use ‘G’ instead of Gloria. I don’t ask favors.” Tiny grunted. “You won’t get any. I don’t know how you sneaked in, but get this, McNye, or Gloria, or whatever. You’re fired. You go back on the next ship. Meanwhile we’ll try to keep the men from knowing we’ve got a woman aboard.” I could see her count ten. “May I speak,” she said finally, “or does your Captain Bligh act extend to that, too?” “Say your say.” “I didn’t sneak in. I am on the permanent staff of the Station, Chief Communications Engineer. I took this vacancy myself to get to know the equipment while it was being installed. I’ll live here eventually; I see no reason not to start now.” Tiny waved it away. “There’ll be men and women both here someday. Even kids. Right now it’s stag and it’ll stay that way.” “We’ll see. Anyhow, you can’t fire me; radio personnel don’t work for you.” She had a point; communicators and some other specialists were lent to the contractors, Five Companies, Incorporated, by Harriman Enterprises. Tiny snorted. “Maybe I can’t fire you; I can send you home. Requisitioned personnel must be satisfactory to the contractor, meaning me. Paragraph seven, clause M; I wrote that clause myself.” “Then you know that if requisitioned personnel are refused without cause the contractor bears the replacement cost.” “I’ll risk paying your fare home, but I won’t have you here.” “You are most unreasonable!” “Perhaps, but I’ll decide what’s good for the job. I’d rather have a dope peddler than have a woman sniffing around my boys!” She gasped. Tiny knew he had said too much; he added, “Sorry, Miss. But that’s it. You’ll’ stay under cover until I can get rid of you.” Before she could speak I cut in. “Tiny-look behind you!” Staring in the port was one of the riggers, his eyes bugged out. Three or four more floated up and joined him. Then Tiny zoomed up to the port and they scattered like minnows. He scared them almost out of their suits; I thought he was going to shove his fists through the quartz. He came back looking whipped. “Miss,” he said, pointing, “Wait in my room.” When she was gone he added, “Dad, what’ll we do?” I said, “I thought you had made up your mind, Tiny.” “I have,” he answered peevishly. “Ask the Chief Inspector to come in, will you?” That showed how far gone he was. The inspection gang belonged to Harriman Enterprises, not to us, and Tiny rated them mere nuisances. Besides, Tiny was an Oppenheimer graduate; Dalrymple was from M I T. He came in, brash and cheerful. “Good morning, Superintendent. Morning, Mister Witherspoon. What can I do for you?” Glumly, Tiny told the story. Dalrymple looked smug. “She’s right, old man. You can send her back and even specify a male relief. But I can hardly endorse ‘for proper cause’ now, can I?” “Damnation. Dalrymple, we can’t have a woman around here!” “A moot point. Not covered by contract, y’know.” “If your office hadn’t sent us a crooked gambler as her predecessor I wouldn’t be in this am!” “There, there! Remember the old blood pressure. Suppose we leave the endorsement open and arbitrate the cost. That’s fair, eh?” “I suppose so. Thanks.” “Not at all. But consider this: when you rushed Peters off before interviewing the newcomer, you cut yourself down to one operator. Hammond can’t stand watch twenty-four hours a day.” “He can sleep in the shack. The alarm will wake him.” “I can’t accept that. The home office and ships’ frequencies must be guarded at all times. Harriman Enterprises has supplied a qualified operator; I am afraid you must use her for the time being.” Tiny will always cooperate with the inevitable; he said quietly, “Dad, she’ll take first shift. Better put the married men on that shift.” Then he called her in. “Go to the radio shack and start makee-learnee, so that Hammond can go off watch soon. Mind what he tells you. He’s a good man.” “I know,” she said briskly. “I trained him.” Tiny bit his lip. The C.I. said, “The Superintendent doesn’t bother with trivia-I’m Robert Dalrymple, Chief Inspector. He probably didn’t introduce his assistant either, Mister Witherspoon.” “Call me Dad,” I said. She smiled and said, “Howdy, Dad.” I felt warm clear through. She went on to Dalrymple, “Odd that we haven’t met before.” Tiny butted in. “McNye, you’ll sleep in my room-“ She raised her eyebrows; he went on angrily, “Oh, I’ll get my stuff out-at once. And get this: keep the door locked, off shift.’ “You’re darn tootin’ I will!” Tiny blushed. I was too busy to see much of Miss Gloria. There was cargo to stow, the new tanks to install and shield. That left the most worrisome task of all: putting spin on the living quarters. Even the optimists didn’t expect much interplanetary traffic for some years; nevertheless Harriman Enterprises wanted to get some activities moved in and paying rent against their enormous investment. I T and T had leased space for a microwave relay station several million a year from television alone. The Weather Bureau was itching to set up its hemispheric integrating station; Palomar Observatory had a concession (Harriman Enterprises donated that space); the Security Council had, some hush-hush project; Fermi Physical Labs and Kettering Institute each had space-a dozen tenants wanted to move in now, or sooner, even if we never completed accommodations for tourists and travelers. There were time bonuses in it for Five Companies, Incorporated-and their help. So we were in a hurry to get spin on the quarters. People who have never been out have trouble getting through their heads-at least I had-that there is no feeling of weight, no up and down, in a free orbit in space. There’s Earth, round and beautiful, only twenty-odd thousand miles away, close enough to brush your sleeve. You know it’s pulling you towards it. Yet you feel no weight, absolutely none. You float. Floating is fine for some types of work, but when it’s time to eat, or play cards, or bathe, it’s good to feel weight on your feet. Your dinner stays quiet and you feel more natural. You’ve seen pictures of the Station, a huge cylinder, like a bass drum, with ships’ nose pockets dimpling its sides. Imagine a snare drum, spinning around inside the bass drum; that’s the living quarters, with centrifugal force pinch-hitting for gravity. We could have spun the whole Station but you can’t berth a ship against a whirling dervish. So we built a spinning part for creature comfort and an outer, stationary part for docking, tanks, storerooms, and the like. You pass from one to the other at the hub. When Miss Gloria joined us the inner part was closed in and pressurized, but the rest was a skeleton of girders. Mighty pretty though, a great network of shiny struts and ties against black sky and stars-titanium alloy 1403, light, strong, and non-corrodible. Heinlein: https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html

“It’s so clear what’s happening in America. If you can’t see it, you’re either blind or you are part of the problem.” Wayne Allyn Root. Reformatted for Machine Text, 2023. Author’s Note. I dare you. I double dare you. Because of the provocative title, and my high-profile conservative credentials, I’m certain vicious and biased liberal “hit men and women” will try to spin this book as “racist.” It’s not. I dare you to find a racist word in this book. You won’t. This book doesn’t attack any racial, religious, ethnic, or sexual orientation group. What it does is defend a group that is being targeted, attacked, intimidated and persecuted, the great American middle class. I titled itAngry White Malebecause the current American middle class happens to be predominantly white. I am an angry white male defending it. But I’m also defending the millions of middle-class women and religious and ethnic minorities who are also part of America’s middle class. I guess Obama, Hillary, and liberals just consider them expendable, “collateral damage.” This book points out the reverse racism and hypocrisy aimed at America’s middle class. We are under attack. We are marked for extinction.Weare the victims of racism. It’s time to stand up in self-defense. Additional note:Any product or endorsement I make in this book is for companies and products that I use and believe in, the sponsors of my radio show. Foreword by Roger Stone. Wayne Allyn Root has written “The Handbook of the Trump Revolution.” Wayne Allyn Root is an acquired taste. Brash, combative, outspoken, and self-created American businessman, politician, television and radio personality, author, television producer, and political pundit, he is an unabashed advocate for smaller government and American sovereignty. Wayne, who often signs his emails with his initials “WAR,” is probably the most famous celebrity you’ve never heard of (until now). In fact, Wayne has a large body of bestselling books, hit television shows, and reverberating political commentary to his credit. Let’s just say Wayne Allyn Root is a man who understands the odds. Root’s media career began in New York City on WNBC radio (now WFAN) in the early 1980s. He moved onto NBC’sThe Sourceradio network, syndicated around the country in over one hundred markets, as a sports talk host. A free market advocate, Root is a shrewd analyst of market trends, Wall Street, and Vegas gambling odds, a rare combination. This has allowed the optimistic and gregarious conservative to make and lose many fortunes. Wayne is a man who knows how to hustle and knows how to make a buck. That the Obama IRS targeted Wayne for his outspoken opposition to our current president is undeniable. The prolific author and political commentator has undergone vigorous audits and harassments by the Internal Revenue Service yet the stalwart Root has refused to buckle under to the obvious political pressure. Like Donald Trump, Wayne is relentless and unstoppable. Deeply tanned with a wide smile and perfect gleaming white teeth, and always perfectly coiffed, Wayne Allyn Root gives off the air of a Hollywood movie star, or a TV newsman, but he is neither. Dogged in his advocacy for economic growth and opportunity and smaller, less intrusive government, Wayne has gladly taken the slings and arrows of the liberal elite who seek to mock him because they cannot rebut his ideas. There is something about Wayne that is perfectly American. Perhaps it’s his sunny optimism, or his steadfast belief in the bedrock principles of this country. In 2008, disgusted with the free spending and Wall Street bailouts by establishment Republicans, Wayne bolted the party of Lincoln to launch his candidacy for the Libertarian party nomination for president. The ever-ebullient Root would have been a much stronger candidate than former Congressman Barr, Barr posed as a libertarian just long enough to grab that party’s presidential nomination, although he was required to take Root as his vice presidential running mate in order to garner the delegate votes necessary for nomination. The better man was on the lower half of the ticket. Undaunted, Root has continued to pummel Obama over his job-killing economic policies, disastrous foreign policies, and the mountain of debts in borrowing that his administration is bequeathing us. The unflappable Root has now reinvented himself yet again. He was one of the first figures in America to see the potential for the presidential candidacy of Donald J. Trump, and has been a constant presence on cable television and talk radio, defending the New York billionaire and his controversial platform on cutting taxes, regulations, and the size of government; repealing Obamacare; securing the border; reforming trade policies to save the American middle class; and rebuilding America’s military strength. Even worse for the Democrats, Wayne has emerged as one of the most effective critics of Hillary Clinton and her entire record of incompetence, corruption, and lies. Root’s skewering of the former first couple has been relentless and effective. That could be why he has come under constant attack by liberal cable television icons like Jon Stewart, Rachel Maddow, and Bill Maher. Always controversial and never willing to be quiet in the face of wrong-headed government policies, anything Wayne Allyn Root writes is worth reading. In fact, Wayne has an annoying habit of being ahead of the curve in gauging the public’s disgust with the failed policies of the two-party duopoly and the neo-cons who have driven us to endless wars, while bankrupting the nation. Wayne was among the first to recognize the inherent danger of radical Islam, as well as the unchecked flood of illegal immigrants who are sucking dry the American system, while perpetrating a crime wave against the American people. Wayne calls it as he sees it, unvarnished, blunt, and plainspoken. Another Trump-like attribute. Now inAngry White Male, Root provides a manifesto for Donald Trump’s silent majority, and outlines how immigrants and non-Americans flood here by the millions to sign up for America’s generous taxpayer-financed welfare state. Wayne is the quintessential “Angry White Male.” Roger Stone, New York City, June 2016. Introduction. Bill Maher and the Apology. In the middle of writing this book Bill Maher asked me to be the “sacrificial conservative guest” on his HBO showReal Time with Bill Maher. On the show I was asked about Obama’s visit to Japan. I was asked if Obama should have visited Hiroshima, the site of our nuclear attacks that ended World War II. I was asked, “Was it appropriate for Obama to visit?” This gets to the very core of this book, to the core of why I’m an “Angry White Male.” As I said to host Bill Maher on the show, I’m not a fan of apologies, especially if you’re apologizing for responding to something terrible the other guy did. Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. They started the war; we merely ended it. They committed terrible atrocities against our soldiers and American POWs throughout the war. My father, David Root, served in the South Pacific. He fought at Okinawa, the bloodiest battle of World War II. He saw firsthand the atrocities of the Japanese. Our nuclear bombs didn’t just take lives, they saved lives. Ironically, probably more Japanese than American lives. Experts estimated the invasion of Japan would have cost at least one million lives. One of them might have been my father’s. So my answer to Bill Maher was that I’m not a fan of eventhe appearanceof apologizing for those atomic bombs, unless of course Japan’s prime minister is willing to come to Hawaii to apologize to the American victims of Pearl Harbor. I pointed out that that is a negotiation that only a President Donald Trump could win. But I found the response from Bill Maher’s liberal viewers interesting. I received death threats, and people wishing me a “long slow painful death.” Some lectured me on all the apologies we owe to Japanese survivors, American Indians, and, of course, African American slaves. I suddenly realized it’s time for Obama’s victims, middle-class America (which is predominantly white), to speak up. Here is my answer to liberals across the country. You’re 100 percent right, apologies are sometimes necessary. Obama and his socialist cabal should apologize to every middle-class American for the harm they’ve done to the US economy, upward mobility, middle-class jobs, there are none, and the American Dream, it’s dead. They’ve created an unimaginable DISASTER. They’ve destroyed the greatest nation, greatest economy, greatest economic system, capitalism, and greatest middle class in world history. We are living in an Obama Great Depression. Obama should also apologize for adding well over $10 trillion to the national debt (by the time he leaves office), which could lead to a severe debt crisis and the eventual collapse of the US economy, but at a minimum will certainly cripple the quality of life for our children and grandchildren. Obama should also apologize for the lies and fraud of Obamacare. He lied when he said, “If you like your insurance, you can keep your insurance.” Really? I lost mine. So did millions of other Americans. We are owed an apology. Obama should also apologize for the disastrous effects of Obamacare, which has doubled and tripled premiums, copays, deductibles, and prescription costs; killed quality high-wage middle-class jobs; and made it almost impossible to start or run a successful small business. But in the case of Obamacare, apologies alone won’t do. The architects of Obamacare are owed a prison sentence for committing the biggest fraud in American history. Obama should apologize for the vicious IRS attacks, trying to persecute people for their political and religious beliefs. Or didn’t you know the IRS was ordered to go after conservative, Tea Party, Christian, and pro-Israel groups? I was one of the victims. Where’s my apology? Obama should apologize for cutting $2.6 billion for veterans, while adding $4.5 billion to the budget for the importing of Syrian migrants into the United States. Every veteran in America is owed an apology. Obama should apologize for demanding in his last budget as president that Congress allocate almost $18,000 for every illegal alien child or teen that enters America. That’s $3,000 more than an American-born senior citizen gets for Social Security, even though they paid into the system. Every American-born senior citizen is owed an apology. Obama should apologize for the disastrous economy he has created with his radical leftist agenda. Obama and his buddies in the Democratic Party should apologize for what they’ve done to Detroit, Chicago, Baltimore, Memphis, New Orleans, and every other urban city run 100 percent by Democrats for the past fifty-plus years that are now all bankrupt, choked by debt, dominated by abandoned homes, shrinking population, streetlights out, violent crime, murder, and hopelessness. They’ve been under 100 percent Democratic rule. What’s the excuse? Obama should apologize for demoralizing every business owner in America by saying, “You didn’t build that.” And Hillary should apologize for saying “Businesses don’t create jobs, government does.” As soon as Obama, Hillary, their socialist cabal, and every guilt-ridden white liberal apologizes for all that. Then and only then should we worry about things done seventy, one hundred, and two hundred years ago. I wasn’t there for any of the things liberals want us to apologize for. Since I bear no responsibility, I don’t see what I have to apologize for. But Obama, Hillary, and their liberal friends should apologize for what they just did to the great American middle class. That group is predominantly white, but there are many millions of other Americans of all races caught up in the attack. I guess they are just considered the victims of unintended consequences. They should also apologize to every small businessman and woman in America. Every business I personally own and every friend I have who owns a small business is in trouble, struggling to overcome the burdens of business under Obama: dramatically increased taxes, regulations, energy costs (because of the fraud of “green energy”), health care costs, legal bills, and IRS attacks. The liberal policies of Obama’s administration have damaged and demoralized every small business owner and job creator in this country. There are twenty-eight million small business owners in America. Over 85 percent happen to be owned by non-Hispanic white Americans, according to CNBC. Hence the reason there are so many angry white males. But that still means millions of small business owners are women, black, Hispanic, Asian, or Native American. They have every right to be angry, too. Where is our apology? Obama, Hillary, Bernie, their socialist cabal, and the guilt-ridden white elite liberals ruining this great country called America are not about to apologize. As a matter of fact, they have no intention of resting until America is no longer exceptional, the American Dream is dead, and we, the middle class (but not them), are leading crappy lives of equality (meaning, shared misery). Whywon’tthey apologize? Because this destruction of America is not happening due to ignorance or ineptitude. Instead, it is part of a conscious, coordinated plan to destroy this country. You probably didn’t know that this plan to “bring down America” is actually taught in our ultra-liberal universities. Obama learned it at Columbia. How do I know? I was Obama’s college classmate, I learned the plan as well, and in this book I’ll expose it to all of you. I’m an angry white male. This is my story. Part One. I’m an Angry White Male. One. I Am an S O B. Every author, no matter how fair and impartial he might try to be, comes with his own life experiences and point of view. So before we get into the meat of this book, let me give you a little background on me. I am the perfect Angry White Male because I was born into the perfect, and classic, white middle-class life. I can’t speak to the black experience, or Hispanic experience, or any other kind of experience. Because I was born white. This book is my story and my experience. It isn’t better or inferior to anyone else’s. But it’s mine. I am an S O B, son of a butcher. I’m also a G O B, grandson of a butcher. My father and grandfather were special people. They represented the greatness of America, the salt-of-the-earth drive, ambition, morality, patriotism, work ethic, faith in God, and love of family and country. They both aimed for the American Dream. My grandfather found it. He turned his four-man butcher store into a big success. My father struggled, his two-man butcher store achieved only mediocre success. Yet my dad was happy, loved America, and believed he had achieved his version of the American Dream. Despite never making any serious money, my dad fulfilled the only real dream he had: to be his own boss. The important point here is that they both had a shot, and that’s what makes America great. In America, anyone can become an owner, of their own home, business, life. It may not be pretty. It may not be perfect. But it’s yours. Owning a business, even a small one, is a little piece of heaven. And what has made America great for centuries was that through hard work, ambition, tenacity, and personal responsibility, anyone could build what my father and grandfather did. Sorry Obama, but “we DID build it.” A small businessman in my father’s and grandfather’s day was no Kennedy or Rockefeller or J P Morgan, no mogul, no billionaire. But he or she could move up in class, be their own boss, and stake a claim to a better life and a better future for their kids. My grandparents and parents could pay their bills, buy a new car every four years, go on annual vacations, pay for their children’s college, and live a great middle-class life. You didn’t need to be a millionaire or billionaire to live a great life in the old America. My grandfather and father both did well, to varying degrees. They both died satisfied. They both believed their kids and grandkids would do better than they did. They knew America was exceptional. They knew firsthand the American Dream was real. They knew firsthand the streets were paved with gold. Here’s the crucial question: why would anyone want to purposely aim to “fundamentally change” that? Obama admitted publicly that was his goal. And little by little, that life enjoyed by my father and grandfather is gone. Today, owning a small business is a struggle. Paying the bills is a struggle. Paying thelegalbills is a struggle. Paying the taxes is a struggle. Paying the landlord is a struggle. Filling out the IRS tax returns is a struggle. The cost of regulations makes it almost impossible to start a business or keep a business running. Between high income taxes, payroll taxes, property taxes, workers’ compensation bills, legal bills, energy bills, skyrocketing health care bills, incorporation fees, minimum wage laws for employees, the threat of lawsuits, IRS audits, government regulations, it never ends, and nowadays it rarely endswell. Later in this book you’ll hear the statistics about the dramatic decline of small business and the death of business start-ups (the lifeblood of middle-class job creation). What I’m talking about isn’t an opinion. What’s happening is a fact. Today, anyone who starts or owns a business is targeted, persecuted, and marked for extinction by both Democrats looking to tax, spend, and redistribute us to death; and Republicans looking to keep us “small” and struggling to give the advantage to their big business donors. We get creamed by both sides and on both ends. The hits just keep on coming! If anyone would know, it’s me. I am a small businessman. Except for an eighteen-month period when I was a national television anchorman, I’ve never worked for anyone in my life. I’ve always been a small business owner, independent contractor, and “One-Man Army.” I’ve never taken a check from the government in my life. I’ve never worked for the government. I’ve never done business with the government. I’ve never had a “safe” weekly paycheck from a big corporation. I’ve never had a pension. No company has paid my health insurance. My income has always been based on performance, meaning, commission. I am the “Last of the Mohicans.” I’m capitalismsquared. I’m the American Dream on steroids. I’m Willie Loman (fromDeath of a Salesman) come to real life and updated for 2016. I don’t depend on anyone but me. I eat what I kill. I’m a real-life Renaissance man. Sadly, there aren’t too many like me left anymore. But that’s not a mistake or coincidence. It’s a purposeful plan. Small businessmen, performance-based and commission-based salesmen, and independent contractors are being systematically driven to extinction. While the GOP is no friend of mine and rarely does anything to help me succeed, the Democrats are my sworn enemy. They are out todestroyme. Could it be a coincidence that everything Obama believes in, everything he’s done, every goal, every policy, is aimed directly at me and Americans just like me? He’s raised my income taxes. He’s raised my payroll taxes. He’s raised my Obamacare taxes. He’s raised my capital gains taxes. He’s dramatically raised taxes on dividends and bank interest. He’s limited my tax deductions. He’s limited my exemptions. He’s phased out my child credits. He’s ruined the quality of my health care and dramatically raised my insurance premiums. He’s added draconian regulations. He’s dramatically raised my legal and accounting bills because of the new complicated taxes and regulations. He’s dramatically raised my energy bills with his climate change and green energy obsession. To educate those who are ignorant or delusional, fossil fuels are dirt cheap. “Alternative energy” is sky high. Pretty simple stuff. He’s tried to hurt the tax advantages of Subchapter S companies. He’s tried to eliminate or drastically restrict the use of independent contractor status (ask Uber). He’s made life almost impossible with rampant use of tax liens by the IRS. Once the IRS places a lien on you or your business, your credit is ruined, all funding from lenders dries up, and you are effectively prevented from earning a living. He’s hit small business with Obamacare rules, overtime rules, and minimum wage raises. He wants to eliminate the cap on FICA (Social Security taxes). I could not survive that one. He wants to eliminate my lifesaving deductions for business expenses, mortgage deduction, and charitable donations. I could not survive that either. He’s passed laws making it almost impossible to choose to leave America and do business or banking overseas. He wants to pass TPP, which would kill middle-class jobs by the millions and place all of us under foreign laws. He’s aimed IRS tax audits at small business. He’s passed new laws allowing the IRS to seize your passport if you owe $50,000 or more, so you are no longer free to leave the country. How scary is that? Any successful small businessman could easily ring up a $50,000 tax bill after only sixty days of being late for payroll taxes. We’re all in grave danger. Think about this: without a passport you can no longer take a business trip overseas. So the IRS has taken away your right to earn a living. He’s passed laws that make it all but impossible for small business owners to set aside money for retirement. He’s handed over the country to lawyers and class action lawsuits. He’s passed Dodd-Frank regulations that make it almost impossible to raise money anymore for a small business. He’s passed draconian banking laws that make it impossible for small business owners like me to ever qualify for a mortgage on an expensive home. So I can never again qualify to own the very home I live in right now. He’s made the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) king and tyrant ruler of America, imposing draconian regulations and fines on small businesses, farmers, ranchers, landowners, and anyone with a puddle on their property. Of course, this same out-of-control EPA has put coal out of business, and with it, hundreds of thousands of high-paying middle-class jobs. He even tried to badly hurt businesses by attempting to ban us from using criminal background checks on potential employees. Can you imagine flying blind when you interview murderers, rapists, and financial scammers for a job? Then if you hire them to interact with your customers and something goes wrong, you get sued.Thatshould be good for your business! And get this one: Obama tried to impose 442 different taxes that were never passed by the Republican Congress, or all of us would already be out of business. What a list. What a madman. How much worse could it get if we had a pure communist tyrant out of the old Soviet Union in charge? It’s like a personal attack directed straight at my life by the Obama administration. And there’s a new attack every day.Literally. Is anything I donotunder attack? There is no point even trying to debate: Obama, Hillary, Bernie, and their socialist cabal clearly want to wipe small business owners, landowners, property owners, farmers, ranchers, any and all salesmen, and independent contractors off the face of the earth. And all of those groups just happen to include about twenty-eight million Americans just like me, predominantly white, small business owners or independent contractors. CNBC estimates this group is 85 percent white. Most of us vote Republican and are supportive of conservative policies, candidates, and causes. Most of us are homeowners. Most of us are high-income earners. Most of us are churchgoers. Most of us are married with children. Every bill, policy, and tax I listed above is aimed to cripple us. So this is clearly no coincidence.It’s crystal clear.Our way of life is under attack. Obama and his socialist cabal hate us for our work ethic, success, and ownership. They want to take it all away, punish us, and redistribute our income and assets. They want us to live in misery. They want us to be serfs: dependent on only big government and big business for our survival. They want us poor, broke, helpless, and hopeless, with nowhere else to turn. So they need to slowly bankrupt us and dry up our money. That is the life Obama, Hillary, Bernie, and their socialist cabal are trying to kill in the name of guilt, equality, fairness, social justice, and, of course, revenge and reparations. But, again, let me stress that the GOP establishment is not much better. They fight for their biggest donors only. The rest of us don’t matter because we have no lobbyists, or DC law firms, or million-dollar checks for the politicians. The middle class made America great, not the other way around. It wasn’t the rich elites, academics, politicians, or bureaucrats. Small business was (and still is) the economic engine of the greatest economy in world history. Capitalism, social mobility, and the economic and individual freedoms guaranteed by the US Constitution have lifted more people out of poverty than all other political systems in world historycombined. They are the very foundation of the American Dream. The middle class is quite simply the class that produces almost everything. Today, the middle class is being targeted, persecuted, and systematically wiped out. I, and millions of others like me, are angry about it. Hence the title of this book,Angry White Male. This group isn’t the super wealthy “1 percent.” But they are the “top 10 percent,” who pay over 70 percent of the taxes in America. And they are the “top 20 percent,” who pay 92.9 percent of the taxes. And they certainly are the “top 40 percent,” who pay 106 percent of the taxes. Yes, the correct figure is 106 percent. Like I said, we pay just about everything (and then some). The middle class and small business owners built America with our blood, sweat, and tears. Our ambition, sacrifice, and courage to risk our own money in pursuit of the American Dream provides virtually all the trillions of dollars in taxes. Without us, the taxes we pay, and the jobs we create, there is no government. We pay for the government agencies, programs, and bureaucrats. We pay for the public works projects, highways, schools, hospitals, and airports. We pay for the welfare state. Yes, Mister Obama,we did build it. Big government politicians like Obama should be praising and celebrating us, not denigrating us. Politicians and government bureaucrats survive and prosper because of us, not the other way around. My vision as a conservative and capitalist has always been to provide opportunity and lift everyone up regardless of race, sex, or social status. My vision of equality is everyone doing well, independent of government. The leftist’s vision of equality is to make everyone equally miserable, poor, hopeless, helpless, and dependent on government. By destroying the middle class, power and control is centralized in the hands of the elite, privileged, political class and the super wealthy who fund them. By the way, this is how most societies have functioned throughout history. Think about the dark days of kings, aristocracy, and serfs. ThinkDownton Abbey. ThinkBraveheart. What’s standing in the way of an elitist, aristocratic, serf society is an independent middle class that doesn’t need or want government’s help. For the progressive elites, that’s a big problem. The middle class gets in the way of big government’s control. That’s why liberals believe the middle class must be eliminated and along with it the capitalist economy that fosters independence, rewards ambition and personal responsibility, and provides upward mobility to achieve the American Dream. So you see, it isn’t about black or white. It’s about a leftist vision of tearing people down, instead of lifting them up. Never forget: the tools being used are social justice, guilt, revenge, reparations, and redistribution, versus empowerment and personal responsibility. And, of course, an open border that allows in millions of foreigners who have no understanding of, or love for, capitalism or economic freedom. They’re interested only in survival. And they demand high taxes on the middle class to pay for their survival. America itself is central to this plan. America is the beacon, the shining light on the hill. America is the proof for millions of “serfs” trapped under the rule of tyrants the world over that freedom exists, that the individual can triumph. America gives hope to the masses that one day they can be free, happy, and wealthy. Therefore, in the eyes of these leftist tyrants, the ideals of America must be stamped out. Ironically, guilty white liberals chose a black American to do the dirty deed. They were smart. They knew that because of guilt and a fear of being called “racist,” white America would allow Obama to do things no white liberal could ever get away with. It’s truly ironic that the man whose slogan was “HOPE” is well on his way to snuffing out the very last hope for mankind. What has been done to the predominantly white middle class in the past eight years is unimaginable and mind-numbing. You need to face the truth before you can act on it. Taking action is the only way to reverse fear and desperation. Complaining doesn’t help. Only taking action will set you free. That action starts with putting a plan in place to protect yourself and save our nation. The great news is this book will present that plan and provide you with options. I hope you’re now starting to understand why I believe we have every right to be Angry White Males. Our livelihoods are being taken away. Our freedom and future as productive members of society hangs in the balance. Two. Angry White Male. The definition of a racist: “Anyone winning an argument with a liberal.” In many ways,Angry White Maleis an autobiography. This book is my story, my testimony to being an angry white male. The things I believe in are under attack: God, country, American exceptionalism, capitalism, Judeo-Christian values, and the great American middle class. As I’ve noted previously, this book is not an indictment of or attack on anyone who is not a white male. This book is simply making the case for self-defense of the great American middle class, which Pew Research has shown to be predominantly white. Pew broke the middle class up into four distinct groups basically representing upper middle class, middle class, working middle class, and the anxious, struggling, trying-to-hang-on class. Pew reports the first group is 79 percent white, the second group is 75 percent white, the third group is 73 percent white, and the fourth group is 56 percent white. My defense of the middle class is not only that of white Americans. It is also the defense of millions of ethnic minorities who have sacrificed and worked hard to achieve the American Dream of being part of the middle class. They are also under attack, and I am defending them, too. This book takes a detailed look at what’s happening to an entire group of good people: law-abiding, tax-paying, hardworking middle-class citizens, most of whom happen to be white. We’re being targeted, intimidated, persecuted, demonized, silenced, financially brutalized, annihilated, literally wiped off the map. Let’s look closer at why the “progressive” political, media, and big business elites have targeted the American middle class for extinction. First, it’s happening to self-medicate wealthy white liberals who feel guilt, embarrassment, and self-hatred about the power, money, and connections they inherited. It’s open season on middle-class white males so these spoiled brat, lucky sperm club, white liberals can feel better about themselves. Second, it’s happening in the name of a mental illness called liberalism, whose adherents believe they are the intellectual elite who know what is best for the masses. And to control the masses they must make them all dependent on government, run by the elite, to survive. As I’ll show throughout the book, in order to achieve that goal, guilty white liberals have to destroy the middle class. They know that can only be done by destroying America’s foundations of God, country, patriotism, capitalism, American exceptionalism, individual responsibility, economic mobility, and the very existence of the American Dream. Third, it’s happening because bankers, Wall Street, and the very wealthy are more comfortable with us as dependent serfs than as potential upwardly mobile middle-class competitors. They don’t care about white or black. They only care about the color green, money. They are greedy. They want the whole ball of wax. They want all the chips on the table. They don’t like true capitalism. They favorcrony capitalism. They want open borders, not because they care about bringing foreigners into America in order to elect Democrats. They just want cheap labor so they can get richer. They want government contracts, government investments, and tons of quantitative easing (QE, Federal Reserve money printing). Because it all goes to them. They also like government regulations and high taxes. Why? Because the more regulations, the better it is for them. They have armies of lawyers, accountants, lobbyists, and compliance officers. They can afford to navigate the thousands of pages of onerous regulations. They don’t care about high taxes. They have tax lawyers and tax shelters. All these rules, regulations, and taxes kill the little guy, the middle class, small business. This kills the competition. These big boys don’t want any of us to be able to compete with them. They want a society that favors giant multinational companies and puts little guys out of business. Look around, it’s happening every day. Small stores struggle to compete with Wal-Mart; small restaurants struggle to compete with national chains; small hardware or food stores struggle to compete with big box stores. And every new government tax or regulation makes the struggle just that much harder and more unfair. Clearly, liberals and big business crony capitalists can never be honest about their goals. If so, we would kick them out of power. Instead, they look us in the eye and lie, saying the actions they are taking to destroy the middle class are only about achieving equality, fairness, and “social justice.” Are you starting to get the picture? We’re screwed. We’re the target. The super wealthy and politically connected elites are against us. They’re all looking out for their own selfish interests. And we, the predominantly white middle class, are not in their best interests. So we’re being targeted. Their laser gun sights are aimed right at us. So you’re damn right I’m angry. And every one of you, regardless of ethnic background, has every right to be angry. This may be my personal angry white male story, but it also belongs to tens of millions of angry middle-class Americans of all ethnic backgrounds. We didn’t attack first; we’re responding in self-defense. Our backs have been put against the wall, and we have no choice but to stand up for ourselves and our children before we are legislated out of existence, penniless, powerless, and, of course, afraid to speak for fear of being shouted down and immediately labeled “racist.” Three. #ObamaWorstPresidentEver The very definition of an angry white male is someone willing to state the truth no matter how politically incorrect. Even more specifically, it is someone willing to state the politically incorrect truth about our nation’s first black president. The truth is, he SUCKS. He’s horrible. He’s terrible. He is the God-awful worst. None of that has anything whatsoever to do with the color of his skin. It has to do with only one thing:facts. Despite eight long years of lies and propaganda from government and the mainstream media, it’s time to call Obama exactly what he is: #OBAMAWORSTPRESIDENTEVER. The problem is that there are two Americas. Obama’s America is filled with poor people, illegal aliens, and people addicted to welfare, food stamps, Obamacare, and hundreds of other government programs. Oh, and let’s not forget all the academicians and people who work for the government. Obama’s voters have no part in the private sector (where all the jobs and tax monies come from). Their lives are tied to government checks and government payrolls. They have their hands perpetually out. Obama’s voters signthe backof checks. Obama’s voters think the economy looks peachy keen. Nothing has changed. As long as their government checks keep on coming, they don’t notice anything wrong with the economy. And why should they? For them, everything is fine. It’s easy to live in denial when you’re living on OPM (other people’s money). But for the rest of America, aka middle-class America and small business owners, it’s a very different story. For Americans who signthe frontof checks and spend their lives paying taxesintothe system, America is a mess, the economy is a disaster, there are no jobs. For that group, the conclusion is pretty simple and straightforward: #OBAMAWORSTPRESIDENTEVER. These two groups come from different worlds. Some might say different planets. You might even say “Republicans are from Mars, and Democrats are from UrANUS.” As if on cue, to prove my point, the latest job report came out while I was writing this book. Under Obama, I’m used to “good jobs reports” that show 200,000 crappy part-time low-wage jobs being created in any given month. Those same “good reports” forget to mention that the 200,000 new crappy part-time jobs are mitigated by 300,000 Americans giving up and dropping out of the workforce that month. The unemployment rate keeps dropping not because Americans are getting jobs but because they have given up looking for work anymore. And the reason we’ve had some “job growth” under Obama is because Obamacare has created a dysfunctional economy where three part-time jobs are needed for a middle-class family to make less than one good job used to pay. So those 200,000 jobs per month being reported are total B.S. Everyone needs three jobs to just live a miserable life. But the jobs report that came out in June 2016 was far worse. It is so bad that the Obama frauds can’t even cover it up with fake stats. Things are so bad, even the cover-up is no longer possible. The jig is up! The results announced in June were pure DISASTER. Experts predicted 160,000 new jobs for May 2016. The actual total: 38,000. The “whisper (best case scenario) number” had been 200,000 new jobs. Instead, the number was far closer to zero than either 160,000 or 200,000. It was the worst jobs number since September 2010. But it was worse than it looked because the Labor Department also revised downward the previous two months’ jobs reports by 59,000 less jobs. Even worse, the number of working-age Americansnotworking went up to a modern record of 94.7 million. Why? Because a mass exodus of 664,000 workers gave up trying to find a job and left the job market in one month (May). Six hundred sixty-four thousand is the population of Washington, DC. The equivalent of the entire population of Washington, DC, just left the US workforce in one month! Instead of working and contributing to the economy by paying taxes, where are these people going? To welfare, food stamps, disability, Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, and free Obamacare. Most of them will never work again because it just isn’t worth it anymore. A family is better off on welfare, food stamps, housing allowances, and free Obamacare. Don’t forget the free Obama phones. If the same family were working, they might make less money and owe taxes and have to pay for their own health care. It pays better to live off government. And who gets the bill for these millions of Americans who will never work again, forever trapped in poverty and government dependency? The American middle class. We’rescrewed. It’s important to note this is happening at the same time gross domestic product (GDP) is close to zero. Zero economic growth, of course, is why there are zero new jobs. Sounds like an “Obama Great Depression” to me. And if these numbers don’t constitute a Great Depression, I’m afraid to ask, “What does?” Keep in mind that, even with good jobs reports under Obama, it’s been all part-time, low-wage jobs. I call it “the Obama Illegal Immigrant Economy.” The only jobs are mowing lawns, cleaning toilets, or washing dishes. Don’t believe me? Then how do you explain that of the one million net jobs gained by women since 2007, the entire net gain went to “foreigners.” That statistic is provided by Obama’s own Labor Department. Foreigners (people not born in the United States) had theentirenet gain. Among native-born American women there was a net loss of 143,000 jobs during that period. The Obama economy is in free fall. But wait, the news gets worse. Layoffs are up 24 percent in 2016 versus 2015. Rail traffic is down fourteen months in a row. Shipping traffic is down. Retail sales are down. Manufacturing is down. Unsold inventories are piling up. Commercial bankruptcies are soaring. So without further ado, here are the facts of the Obama economy. These facts prove three things beyond a shadow of a doubt: 1. The US economy under Obama is in terrible decline, crisis, and on the verge of collapse. 2. The American middle class, which happens to be predominantly white, has been slaughtered by the liberal policies of Obama. 3. There is no doubt: #OBAMAWORSTPRESIDENT EVER Look at the nine charts onZeroHedge.com, my favorite economic website. Student loan debt, dramatically up. Food stamp use, dramatically up. Federal debt, dramatically up; by the time Obama leaves office, up more than all other presidents in history COMBINED. Federal Reserve money printing, dramatically up, to keep the economy artificially afloat. Health insurance costs, dramatically up (and going much higher). Labor force participation rate, down dramatically. Workers’ share of economy, down dramatically. Median family income, down dramatically. Homeownership, down dramatically. The Obama Economy Is in Free Fall. Here is a powerful list of shocking, damning, specific facts about the Obama economy: Gross domestic product (GDP) is the only real determinant of economic growth. Barack Obama is the only president in the history of America to preside over seven straight years of GDP growth under 3 percent. The year 2016 is off to a pace that virtually guarantees this will be the eighth straight year with GDP under 3 percent. If so, Obama will become the only president in America’s history to never produce a single year of 3 percent or higher GDP. The longest previous streak of under 3 percent GDP in the history of America was four years (1930 to 1933) during the depths of the Great Depression. From 1790 to 2000, America’s economy averaged GDP growth of 3.79 percent. Obama’s eight years are on pace to average GDP of 1.55 percent, substantially less than half of our country’s average economic growth for 210 years. For the first time in American history, more businesses are being destroyed each day than are being created. More Americans now receive entitlements than work full-time. Thirteen of the twenty-three Obamacare State Co-Op Exchanges have failed (gone bust and broke). The remaining ten have losses of over $200 million per year. In this Obama economy, 40 percent of American workers now earn less (adjusted for inflation) than a full-time minimum wage worker in 1968. Twenty percent of US families don’t have a single member who is employed. A record numbers of Americans are not in the workforce (over 94 million). More young Americans now live with their parents than at any time since Great Depression. Forty-three percent of the twenty-two million student loan borrowers aren’t making any loan payments. Two-thirds of Americans don’t have $500 for an emergency bill. Food stamp use under Obama is up by 43 percent. The number of new food stamp recipients under Obama is three times higher than new job recipients (13,298,000 added to food stamp rolls versus 4,276,000 new jobs since January 2009). #OBAMAWORSTPRESIDENTEVER. But here’s thetrulyamazing thing. Hillary Clinton openly brags she is running for Obama’s third term. She wants to extend and expand his presidency. She wants to support andprotecthis legacy. She wants us to vote for more of the same. Amazing. I guess that makes her. #HILLARYWORSTPRESIDENTIALCANDIDATE EVER As I’ve said repeatedly, nothing I’m writing is a condemnation of any racial, religious, ethnic, or sexual orientation group. This book is merely an act of self-defense. There is no question what is happening. There is no question the target is the predominantly white middle class. But the perpetrators aren’t black or minority. As a matter of fact, most of them are guilt-ridden white liberals like Hillary Clinton, Bernie Sanders, Harry Reid, Nancy Pelosi, John Kerry, Debbie Wasserman Schultz, Elizabeth Warren, and Joe Biden. To succeed in their goal of destroying the middle class and the American Dream they can’t allow the middle class to understand what is really happening to them. They can’t allow the middle class to understand there is an actual plan and they are the target. So this is where the lies, slander, and cover-up begin. Four. Rachel Maddow, Angry White Liberal. Wow, this book just keeps writing itself! I had barely finished writing the Introduction about my Bill Maher experience when out of the blue comes a six-minute diatribe about me from Rachel Maddow to open her MSNBC show. Instantly, I thought, “There’s another chapter.” Ms. Maddow is the polar opposite of me. She is the reason I’m writing this book. She is the classic “Angry White Liberal.” She hates me and people like me with such passion, it’s frightening. How do I know? Just watch her talk about me on her TV show. This was the third time in two years Rachel has led off her show with a diatribe about me. Keep in mind Rachel’s television time is valuable “real estate.” A minute on national TV is valuable like beachfront property. No one wastes five to ten minutes talking about someone or something to start their national TV show unless it’s damn important. I must be damn important to Rachel, or damn effective, or damn annoying, or all of the above. I’ve clearly got the attention of liberal icons like Maddow. What I’m doing and saying is resonating loud and clear, and they are scared stiff. The left has aimed its cannons at me for a reason: what I’m doing and saying is clearlyworking! So effective conservatives like me must be slandered and discredited. This strategy is right out of the playbook of Marxist legend Saul Alinsky. As I’ll detail later, Obama studied Alinsky. So did Hillary. I’m sure Rachel Maddow learned from him, too. When Rachel talks about me, she quivers. She looks like a volcano about to explode. She taps her pen with nervous energy and is clearly obsessed. I take it as a gigantic compliment. Thank you, Rachel. It’s quite an honor when radical liberals like you clearly see me as one of the most hated conservatives in America. It’s an honor to know you obsess about me all the time. It’s an honor to know you get a “shiver running down your leg” when thinking about me. No TV host in the world opens three shows with five- to ten-minute diatribes about Wayne Allyn Root unless I’m a threat to your plan, to your philosophy, to everything you believe in. Liberals must divide and slander to conquer. That’s the Saul Alinsky way. The issue they use to divide and slander is always money. Conservatives, as I pointed out in the last chapter, understand money; they want to earn it and enjoy it. We don’t see money as a sin. We don’t see success as a slur or embarrassment. Liberals have a very different relationship with money. They don’t understand it or how it is made. They think money grows on trees. Or comes from government. They have a distaste for anyone who makes it. That’s why instead of appreciating a successful businessman like me and calling me CEO, or entrepreneur, or small businessman, or author, or international business speaker (which all describe what I do), Maddow called me “a get-rich-quick guy.” This is how angry white liberals see and portray anyone who is successful in business. They sneer at us. They smear us. They denigrate us. They slander us. They look down on us. We are just like money to them:dirty. Many Democrats have no clue the economy is in terrible decline, crisis, and near-collapse. To quote Ronald Reagan, “It isn’t so much that liberals are ignorant [in this case about money and the economy]. It’s just that they know so many things that aren’t so.” After reading the last chapter, you now understand what Obama’s liberal anti-business policies have done to America, the economy, and the formerly great American middle class. They haven’t lifted anyone out of poverty. Just the opposite, these policies have added three times more Americans to the food stamp rolls than the job rolls. We’ve been decimated, annihilated, targeted for extinction, and it’s working. This is a theme I’ve been harping on for eight long years of the Obama presidency. Every prediction and warning I’ve released has come true. My predictions have been uncannily accurate. Each economic fact makes me look smarter. Liberals like Maddow have no choice; they can’t point to the results so they’re only weapon is to distract the masses from the truth. They’ve got to discredit anyone telling the truth about the economy. They must smear, denigrate, and slander truth tellers like me. As if on cue, the morning after Rachel Maddow’s rant against me, the disastrous job report I reported on in the last chapter came out. It was suddenly clear that the emperor (Obama) had no clothes, and no leg to stand on. The results are right in front of everyone’s eyes: decline, crisis, and economic free fall. That’s why angry liberals like Rachel Maddow need to distract you. I have spent eight long years talking about the economy and middle-class jobs. Ninety-nine percent of my commentaries and 99 percent of my TV and radio appearances are about the economy and how close we are to disaster and collapse because of liberal policies designed topurposelydestroy capitalism and American exceptionalism. Their goal is to destroy America’s middle class and make them dependent on government. And, sadly, I’ve been proven correct for eight long years as the decline deepens and accelerates. Let me state it again. As sorry as I am to say it:I was right. Of course, angry white liberals have to close their eyes to the facts or everything they believe in will be discredited. So Maddow and her liberal cohorts must distract you. Hence, when it comes to me, she ignores the many books and hundreds of editorials I’ve written about the economy and my economic predictions, and instead focuses on one story I wrote about my days at Columbia University with my college classmate, Obama. Then she uses that one story out of hundreds to falsely label me as a “conspiracy theorist.” Interesting phrase. In this case, it’s simply a mean-spirited, distorted way to say that I don’t drink the Obama Kool-Aid. I ask questions, I investigate, I search for the truth. To liberals, anyone who asks questions, seeks truth, or questions motives for what a politician does is a “conspiracy theorist.” Worse, since the president happens to be black, I’m also labeled a “racist.” To compound matters, Maddow even distorted what I said. What is true is that as a Class of ’83 Columbia graduate (the same as Obama) I’ve been asked by the media if I knew Obama at Columbia. I’ve always answered honestly that I didn’t know him, never saw him, never heard of him, never met a single classmate who ever saw him or knew him. I simply told the truth. What I never said, ever, is that he didn’t go there. Never. But she reported on her national TV show that I am a “conspiracy theorist” who says Obama never went to Columbia. What I am is a commonsense citizen and taxpayer asking questions about the most powerful man in the world. Questions the mainstream media, led by guilt-ridden white liberals like Rachel Maddow, have never asked of a black president for fear of being called a “racist.” Unless you’re blind, deaf, or really dumb, it’s clear that Obama’s story at Columbia smells rotten. There’s something wrong with the narrative. The words to describe Obama’s time at Columbia are suspicious, mysterious, strange, weird, and just plain rotten. And to top it off, his college records have been sealed for all eight years of his presidency. So when asked about my classmate, I answered honestly. Then I asked questions anyone with a brain would ask about the man whose finger rests on the nuclear button. Questions like. Why did I never see or hear of Barack Obama at Columbia, even though I knew virtually every other political science major? How come I’ve asked so many of my fellow classmates and none of them admits ever knowing him or even seeing him at Columbia? How come Professor Henry Graff, perhaps the most honored professor in Columbia history, and Columbia’s “Presidential Historian,” says no one named Barack Obama ever took one of his classes? How did Obama get into Columbia with poor grades from a very average college (Occidental)? Students like that are never accepted for transfer into Columbia. Why are his college records sealed? What is he hiding? When I was asked by the media what I thought Obama was hiding, I again answered honestly. I said to the media, “My educated guess is he got into Columbia by committing fraud: by posing as a foreign exchange student from Indonesia (where Obama was raised as a boy). Columbia loves diversity. That lie would have catapulted Obama to the front of the line. Now he’s embarrassed to admit he committed fraud by being an American posing as a foreigner. Just an educated guess. But a damn good one. Even several of my liberal pro-Obama Columbia classmates have told me they suspect I’ve hit the nail on the head. I think asking questions of a president is the duty not only of journalists but of all citizens. That is especially true when the media, filled with biased, corrupted, angry white liberals like Rachel Maddow, have abdicated that duty. Funny how angry white liberals spew hatred, sling names, and ask questions all the time. But no one calls them “conspiracy theorists.” Doesn’t Obama calling conservatives like me racists, hatemongers, radicals, or extremists make him a “conspiracy theorist”? If Hillary blames her never-ending criminal problems on a “vast right wing conspiracy,” doesn’t that make her a “conspiracy theorist”? Even Wikipedia defines the phrase “vast wing conspiracy” as a conspiracy theory created by Hillary Clinton. When Hillary likens Trump to nuclear war, Hitler, and the Holocaust, doesn’t that make her a “conspiracy theorist”? If Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid says he “heard” Mitt Romney didn’t pay taxes for ten years, he’s not called a “birther” or “taxer” or labeled a “conspiracy theorist.” Even after everything Reid said was proven a lie and headmittedhe made it up just to win the election for Obama, the media never labeled or called him a nasty name. The angry white liberals of the world like Rachel Maddow control the media, so they get to lie, slander, libel, ask questions, and assign the name “conspiracy theorist” without ever being labeled or maligned themselves. They do it to distract the masses from the truth. And that truth is that Obama really is a bad guy who is purposely overwhelming the system and bringing down the economy with the goal of “fundamentally changing America.” Those were his words. Either that or he’s a stupid, clueless, ignorant idiot who is trying to help the economy, but failing every step of the way. I believe he’s a very bright man who knows exactly what he’s doing. I’m no “conspiracy theorist” for asking important questions and pointing out the truth. Or for merely wondering why Obama won’t release his college records. Prove me wrong, Mister Obama. Make me look foolish. Rachel, beg Obama to do it. Tell your hero he can destroy me with one simple step. It’s so easy. I challenge you Mister President:release your college records. But he won’t. Because he can’t. Because the emperor has no clothes. Obama has a deep, dark secret that could destroy his legacy buried in those college records. That’s my guess. No different than Harry Reid’s guess about Mitt Romney’s taxes. The only difference is Romney proved Reid a fool and a liar. Obama has never unsealed his college records. And he never will. But angry white liberals like Rachel will never admit the truth. They want to outlaw the truth. They would ban free speech and free thought if they could. Since they can’t, they slander and libel people like me to destroy their political opposition. And even worse, they do it to distract the American people from the truth, that the disastrous liberal, anti-business policies of Obama, Hillary, and their liberal cronies have destroyed the economy. Angry white males like me want to expose the truth. Angry white liberals like Rachel Maddow are scared to death of the truth. Like Jack Nicholson said in the movieA Few Good Men,“You can’t handle the truth.” Five. The Roots of This Disaster. Obama and I at Columbia. The decline of America, the economy, and the predominantly white middle class under Obama isn’t due to mistake, ignorance, or incompetence at the hands of a “community organizer.” It’s a purposeful, brilliant plan hatched at Columbia University to destroy capitalism, American exceptionalism, Judeo-Christian values, and the American Dream. At its root, this plan is about destroying the predominantly white middle class and small business owners. Because as a great bank robber once said, “That’s where the money is.” I am Obama’s classmate, Class of ’83, Columbia University. Columbia was and is a radical leftist Ivy League college at the corner of Marx Street and Lenin Avenue. The professors taught us many things, some good, many bad. But the worst thing we learned at Columbia was a hatred for America. We were taught to be guilty for “white privilege”, to be guilty for the racism and discrimination of America, to be guilty for poverty caused by white people and our greed, to be guilty for how women, blacks, minorities, and gays were held down in America. It was all “the white man’s fault.” We were also taught a plan to change it all, or as Obama says today, “to fundamentally change America.” The plan was called Cloward-Piven. It was named after a Columbia husband-and-wife professor team. The plan was brilliant in its simplicity. The plan was to “overwhelm the system” so that the US economy would collapse. This was how we could kill capitalism once and for all. Then we could start over. How do you do that? By putting as many Americans as possible “on the dole.” Crush the middle class, make them dependent on government, get everyone you can on welfare and food stamps, and then crush the budget with spending, entitlements, and debt. The country and economy eventually collapse under the weight of everyone getting checks from the government. You’ve “overwhelmed the system.” Now that the economy is dead, and the people are poor and starving and desperate to feed their families, there is complete panic. Now you’ve got them. They’ll buy any promise at this point. They just want hope. They just want to save their children. So now you offer them a new start with socialism (to replace the old capitalist system). Of course, you blame capitalism for all their problems. You’re offering something new and fresh. You’re offering a second chance. You’re offering to pay for everything in return for total government control. “You’ll never have to worry again. We’ll take care of you.” And, of course, you’re also offering lots of “free stuff” to a starving populace. How could they say no? Any of this sound familiar? To one degree or another, this is exactly what’s been happening to America under the last eight years of Obama. Obama is a smart man. He added a couple of new wrinkles. He super-charged the system. How could you overwhelm the system even faster? First, you pass Obamacare. That is the world’s biggest tax increase and redistribution plan. You pile the spending and debt up even faster to overwhelm the system, all under the guise of helping the sick. Brilliant. The second new wrinkle is to purposely leave the border open for eight years. You dismantle any and all border enforcement. You order border agents to “stand down.” You create a twenty-four-hour hotline for illegal aliens to call to complain about poor treatment by border agents. You spend millions of dollars of taxpayer money to provide free lawyers and free legal representation to every illegal child. You shield almost every illegal alien criminal from deportation, and you spend millions of taxpayer dollars to advertise in Mexico that even illegal aliens qualify for food stamps in America, so tell your friends and relatives in America to ask. “Spread the word.” This has all really happened under Obama. It’s hard to even believe. So Obama came up with a more powerful partner to Cloward-Piven. He allowed in millions of foreigners, both legal and illegal, to overwhelm the system much faster. You might say he wanted to “explode the system.” But Columbia University wasn’t unique. This philosophy was taught at many Ivy League and elite universities by radical leftist professors with contempt for America and “those rich white people who control the system.” The brightest students at the elite colleges all learned how to “fundamentally change America.” They learned how to channel Fidel Castro. Remember when Rudy Giuliani said he thought “Obama doesn’t love America,” and it set off a media firestorm? The media literally wanted to tar and feather poor Rudy. But who are these members of the media? I met many of them at Columbia. Many, if not most, of my classmates wound up in the mainstream media. That explains everything. The same biased-leftist media members who ripped Rudy Giuliani to shreds for stating the obvious were the same students thirty years earlier in class at Columbia with me on the day Ronald Reagan was shot. Guess what their reaction was back then? They cheered the assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan. They clapped, high-fived, and hugged, celebrated like it was New Year’s. Today, when I read about my former classmates in our Columbia college alumni magazine, they are almost all either in the media or lawyers in the Obama administration creating regulations on business. This explains everything. Today, they no doubt support students at California state university system campuses who voted to remove the American flag. Nothing has changed. Once a radical America hater, always a radical America hater. Naturally, that same biased-leftist media (mostly made up of my Columbia classmates and those from other Ivy League schools) decided to play “gotcha” with the 2016 Republican presidential candidates. They asked them, “Do you agree that Obama doesn’t love America?” As usual, GOP candidates panicked and ran away from Giuliani’s statement, which is precisely why Donald Trump became the GOP Presidential nominee. We were waiting for a candidate who would not run for cover when the media attacked, who played on offense, who would hit back, HARD. Trump fit the bill. But the point here is that I know my Columbia classmates like the back of my hand. I understand what makes them tick. Thirty-plus years ago, they were at least honest in their beliefs. They called themselves communists, Marxists, socialists, and even Bolsheviks. They liked being called “radical.” They bragged that they hated America and wanted to bring the system down. And here’s the really

Rahan. Episode Fifty. Those of the high country. On the high cliff, the three hunters observed the strange being. Although he had the appearance of “Those-who-walk-upright”. This being astounded them. It crawled on the grand lake! Text by Roger Lecureux. Drawings by Andre Cheret. In these fierce times, everything that was unusual was a mystery, and all mystery concealed danger. Only demons can float on water! The fish-man brings misfortune!! Ignorant of the worry he inspired, the son of Crao swam towards the rubble from where he could scale the rock wall. Page Two. Nothing forced him to face this obstacle, but his knife had pointed out the cliff to him. And Rahan always obeyed his knife. It was a long and perilous climb throughout which his nerves and muscles were put to the test. He finally reached the crest. Rahan is more exhausted than if he had run all day! And to discover what? Few things! He certainly overlooked a grandiose landscape, but he was used to these visions. And the forest porch was like all the others. You could have sent Rahan to a more welcoming territory! One day he will refuse to obey you! In the cool shade of a large tree, the son of Crao soon fell asleep. Page Three. His sleep was populated by short and inconsequential dreams. The blue mountain decimating his family, while he was still only a child Crao, the dying sage bequeathing to him, the sole survivor of the horde, the necklace with which he would never part again, this necklace, each claw of which symbolized a virtue of "Those-who-walk-upright." Courage, loyalty, goodness. The dreams accelerated, rapid, tumultuous as had been his adventurous destiny. Kill to survive. Survive to extract ithe secrets from nature. The dangers overcome would become entangled. The "Blue-skins", the "Two-tooths", the "long-noses", the "hooked-noses", the "four-handers", the "leather-skins", the "long-manes". Page Four. A fearsome "four-hands" struck him down, crushing his wrists. The cry he uttered tore him from this dream. Argh! And he saw that his wrists were indeed restrained. Not by the hands of the gorilla. But by a strong vine! What?! What?! Three hunters threatened him with their spears! The evil spirit sleeps very heavy! I am not an evil spirit! I am Rahan, the son of Crao! Rahan is a hunter like you! Lies! Hunters don't crawl on water! Since water is your territory, you will return there! And you will never come out again! The son of Crao saw that the long vine which encircled his wrists was tied to a large rock. Page Five. The men suddenly pushed this rock into the void and Rahan was almost thrown to the ground! Ha-ha-ha! You are going to return to your realm, demon! He felt like his muscles were bursting, like his arms were going to be torn off. He braced himself desperately. But the weight of the rock was such that he was gradually dragged towards the void. And the impatient hunters goaded him with their spears! Rahan is lost! The rock will drag him into the depths of the lake! The abyss was only three steps away. Two steps. A step. One last effort, one last press of the lances. And that was the fall! Argh! Page Six. The son of Crao closed his eyes. But as he fell, head forward, his whole body was suddenly turned upside down, torn, bruised. The time has not come for Rahan to join the “Territory of Shadows”! The rock, above him, was stuck on a ledge! But it was only a reprieve. After being dragged by this rock, he in turn risked dragging this one! Was he heavier than the rock? No doubt, because the falling of small stones indicated to him how it slipped on the wall! Trying in vain to "make himself light", he looked under him. He saw the lake which, in an instant, would swallow him up! He also saw the tree. Page Seven. This tree that sprung from a fault as a symbol of life could perhaps save his own. Crao said it at the border of the kingdom of the dead, the hunter must try everything, even the impossible! Pushing his body to sway, Rahan attempted the impossible! Let the rock slip while he was on the wrong trajectory and that would be the end of him! With a violent thrust, he had just propelled himself towards the tree. Ra-ha-ha! He glimpsed everything at once. The green foliage, the brown trunk, the blue eye, the gray cliff. And the rock he dragged! Page Eight. His victorious clamor was strangled. The rock fell upon him like a granite slab! It buzzed above his head, two fingers from his head! It swung away, and returned to the attack, swung away, and came back again. The incredible chase finally ended. The rock swayed an instant at the height of Rahan. And. Slowly rose! Everything could have started again if the son of Crao had not understood the mysterious phenomenon. His legs relaxed. Stay with Rahan! He needs you! A curious balance was then established. Rahan no longer felt his own weight. He could move, draw his knife. Page Nine. The ivory blade attacked the bonds. As soon as they are cut, Rahan and the rock will fall into the lake. Once the vine was cut, there was an instant fall. But this time, the son of Crao was free to move. Ra-ha-ha! Bloom! The rock broke the surface a second after him, brushed him dangerously, and disappeared into the depths. He was saved. Rahan will return to the cliff! He will show the stupid hunters that he is neither a demon nor an evil spirit! The sun was beginning to set when he found himself on the high plateau. The hunters' tracks proved that they had returned to the forest. Page Ten. He followed these tracks until the moment when. Ooh! They will never know that Rahan was not a demon! Three bodies lay in the small clearing, their lacerated torsos and torn limbs leaving no doubt. They were surprised by "long-manes"! The tall, trodden grass and the sharpened points of the spears showed how fierce the confrontation between these men and the wild beasts must have been. Some would have been satisfied to be avenged in this way. But the son of Crao was not of that species. You had stupid beliefs, but you had to be brave! Your people will know how you joined the “Territory of Shadows”. Rahan will bring them your weapons!! Page Eleven. Following the trail of these hunters, Rahan walked for a long time. And the forest in front of him gave way to another cliff. This was low, but steep. He was approaching it when roars rang out. Emerging from the thickets, two lions darted. Rahan does not fear the “Long-manes”! Klonk! Ra-ha-ha! The first lance was thrown with as much force as precision. Barely had it reached its goal when the second struck down the other beast in full leap! Ra-ha-ha! Clamors rose on the cliff, saluting the double, and dazzling feat of the son of Crao. They did not see Rahan crawling on the water. They welcome him like a hunter and not like a demon! Page Twelve. He helped himself to one of the vines hanging from the side of the cliff. Your brothers were killed by "long manes"! Rahan brings you their weapons. The warm clamors suddenly became repulsive. "Fire-hair" has violated the custom which requires that our dead keep their weapons! The sorcerer was the most virulent. “Fire Hair” must be punished immediately! Perhaps he was unaware of our custom, Oaka!? Yes, Rahan did not know it, but he did not know that he made a mistake. And he will return their spears to the three brave men! These words restore calm. Only Oaka-the-sorcerer remained angry. Ouham, the chief, seemed on the contrary to appreciate the courage and loyalty of the son of Crao. He spoke to him at length about his clan. And life on this plateau, which rose like an island, in the heart of the forest. Page Thirteen. You could see that the forest is infested with "Long-manes". The high ground is our only refuge! Alas, no game lives there and we have to go hunting down there. Every day we take great risks to bring back very little meat! We cannot hoist the animals we kill onto the high ground. We cut them up at the foot of the cliff, when the “long-manes” give us time! Sometimes we take several hunters to bring together a section of meat that is barely enough to satisfy the children's hunger. The son of Crao observed the lions he had killed. It was in fact impossible for a hunter on the cliff to hoist the heavy animals. Page Fourteen. But he saw the vines. He saw the trees. He saw the rocks. Rahan knows how to hoist game up to the “Highland” Ouham!! Do not listen to "Fire Hair"! He wants to make you forget his sacrilege! Ouham will listen to him Oaka! The hunter from elsewhere perhaps knows things that we do not know! The son of Crao was already busy choosing the strongest vine, and getting help to push a heavy rock to the edge of the cliff. A little later. Rahan will descend. When he has attached the "Long Mane", you will push the rock into the void. So, once again, Rahan capitalized on his recent adventure. He was going to recreate the strange counterweight phenomenon that he had discovered by chance. Page Fifteen. The lion's paws were firmly bound. Come on, brothers! May the long mane come to you!! Howls of joy drowned out the wary cries of Osaka-the-sorcerer. Counterbalanced by the rock, the heavy corpse of the beast rose towards the high ground! Everyone will have something to eat tonight! Enthusiastic hunters pulled the beast onto the platform. “Fire-hair” is a great wizard! He will not fool the clan for long! Look! The bushes parted in front of other lions. Armed only with his knife, the son of Crao could not face this roaring pack. Page Sixteen. He narrowly escaped the fastest of the beasts. Rahan is wasting too much time tying the "Long-mane"! He must find a quicker way to bring back the game to the hunters! Your idea is wonderful! We will no longer have to skin the game before mounting it. We run less risk! The risks are still too great, Ouham! But Rahan has another idea! The son of Crao went back to work. He built a sort of raft. “Fire-hair” defies nature. The clan has always suffered from hunger. It will always be like this! Do you not think that Rahan especially challenges your authority, Oaka?? All together, the hunters had returned the rock back onto the cliff. And Rahan had finished his strange hoist. This time Rahan will be able to gather the second "Long-mane" without wasting time tying it up! Page Seventeen. Ouham and his people slowly lowered the platform on which the son of Crao was standing. Although the lions had disappeared, their growls proved that they were near. They reappeared at the instant where Rahan was dragging the corpse of the second beast towards the "Raft-hoist." Ha-ha-ha! Rahan will be faster than you "Long-manes"! He will fly away from under your noses!! He rushed towards the platform where his knife was stuck, when. Oh! Furiously braced against a lever, Oaka-the sorcerer pushed the rock into the void. Let the evil spirits over-take you, “Fire-hair”! Page Eighteen. Rahan did not have time to grab onto the platform which rose at breakneck speed! Rahan adored us and you delivered him to the “Long-manes”! You will respond for this gesture in front of the clan, Oaka!! With no other weapon than his bare hands, the son of Crao could not escape the wild beasts that surrounded him! Nothing could save him! Nothing more? But! Faster! Faster! Obeying Ouham's orders, the hunters crowded onto the platform. As soon as their weight exceeded that of the rock, it started to descend. Courage Rahan! The Highland Clan will not abandon you! Page Nineteen. Since Ouham cares so much about “Fire-hair”, let him join the “Territory of Shadows” with him! Oaka was going to cut the vine. But the clan did not give him time to commit this new crime. Chlok! Argh! Rahan saw the sorcerer's body spinning. The hunters who came to his rescue broke the circle of lions. Grab your knife brother! The fierce fight that followed sealed the friendship between Ouham and the son of Crao. Ra-ha-ha! Thank you “Fire-hair”! They will undoubtedly come back. But thanks to the “Thing-that-goes-up-and-goes-down” we will fear them no more! This confrontation, which was talked about for a long time on the high ground, only ceased with the flight of the last wild animals. Page Twenty. A little later. Oaka was a deceiver and a bad sorcerer. Ours are asking you to take his place! Rahan is not a wizard! Rahan is just a hunter. Who lives to learn, to learn, to teach what he knows to his brothers. This is his destiny! The son of Crao left this clan at daybreak. He wielded three spears. Rahan will keep his promise! Crao taught him to respect the customs of "Those-who-walk-upright." The sun was high when he thrust these spears down for those who, through ignorance, had considered him a demon. Then he jumped into the thickets. Roars of the "Long-manes" reached him, but did not worry him. Nothing could stop Rahan when he set out to discover new horizons! Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

Why Women Have Sex. Understanding Sexual Motivations, from Adventure to Revenge, and Everything in Between. DOCTOR CINDY MESTON. AND DOCTOR DAVID BUSS. Formatted for Machine speech, 2023 First Edition 2009. "...we identified 237 distinct sexual motivations" Inside the Sexual Mind. Why women have sex is an extraordinarily important but surprisingly little-studied topic. One reason for its neglect is that scientists and everyone else have assumed that the answers are already obvious, to experience pleasure, to express love, or, at the very heart of the biological drive to have sex, to reproduce. So, more than five years ago, we decided to undertake an intensive research project, involving more than three thousand individuals, to uncover the mysteries of women’s sexuality. When our scientific article “Why Humans Have Sex” was published in the August 2007 issue of Archives of Sexual Behavior, it generated an avalanche of interest. What that media coverage revealed, however, was just the tip of the iceberg. In that original study, we identified 237 distinct sexual motivations that covered an astonishing variety of psychological nuance. These motives ranged from the mundane, “I was bored”, to the spiritual, “I wanted to get closer to God”, from altruistic, “I wanted my man to feel good about himself”, to vengeful, “I wanted to punish my husband for cheating on me”. Some women have sex to feel powerful, others to debase themselves. Some want to impress their friends. Others want to harm their enemies, “I wanted to break up a rival’s relationship by having sex with her boyfriend”. Some express romantic love, “I wanted to become one with another person”. Others express disturbing hate, “I wanted to give someone else a sexually transmitted disease”. But none of these reasons conveyed the “why” that hid behind each motive. Through statistical procedures, we clustered the motivations into natural groupings. We then set out to explore women’s sex lives in richer detail in a new study designed specifically for this book. And we integrated our research with all the latest scientific findings, from our labs and from the labs of other scientists throughout the world, to present what we believe is one of the richest and deepest understandings of women’s sexuality yet achieved. Why Women Have Sex brings these insights to life with detailed descriptions of women’s actual sexual encounters, the motives that impel women to have sex, and the theory behind why each of those motives exists in women’s sexual psychology. Although human sexuality has been the primary focus of our scientific research for many years, this project proved to be more illuminating about women’s sexuality than we ever expected. How did we end up collaborating on this extraordinary project? As it happens, we have offices right next door to each other in the psychology department at the University of Texas at Austin, where we are both professors. Given our shared professional interests, we’ve had many conversations about human sexuality. The topic of conversation turned one day to sexual motivation, and we started discussing a simple question: Why do people have sex? As coauthors, we combine uniquely complementary domains of expertise. One of us, Cindy M Meston, is a clinical psychologist and one of the world’s leading experts on the psychophysiology of women’s sexuality. The other, David M Buss, is an evolutionary psychologist and one of the world’s scientific experts on strategies of human mating. Our collaboration allowed us to develop a deeper understanding of women’s sexuality than either of us could have achieved working alone. Viewed from both clinical and evolutionary perspectives, women’s sexuality poses interesting questions. Why do women desire some qualities in a mate, yet are repulsed by others? What tactics do women use to attract their preferred sex partners? Why do some women fuse love and sex psychologically? Why are erotic romance novels so much more appealing to women than to men? Why do some women have sex to keep a mate, whereas other women use sex to get rid of an unwanted mate? The scientific study of sex, or “sexology,” is a multifaceted field spanning the disciplines of psychology, sociology, anthropology, evolutionary biology, and medicine. For the past several decades, sexology has focused on three core issues. Defining and understanding what sexual behaviors, attitudes, and relationships are normal or healthy. Ascertaining how biological factors, life events, and personal preferences or circumstances shape our sexual identities and desires. And discovering how human sexuality affects, and is affected by, social relationships. Clinical psychologists are especially interested in the extent to which a person’s sexual choices and responses can be modified or improved. Evolutionary psychologists study adaptive functions of the components of human sexual psychology, as well as why sexual motivations sometimes malfunction in the modern environment. Since the late nineteenth century, sex researchers have primarily used three scientific methodologies for investigating human sexual behavior: case studies, questionnaires and surveys, and behavioral observation and assessment. The case study method involves careful, in-depth description of individuals with sexual problems or anomalies. For example, early sexologist Richard von Krafft-Ebing (1840 to 1902) observed a high prevalence of masturbation among his patients, which led him to conclude (erroneously) that masturbation was the source of all sexual variation. Based on case studies, psychologist Sigmund Freud (1856 to 1939) theorized that childhood erotic drives shaped adult sexual behavior. The forerunner of survey research was Havelock Ellis (1859 to 1939), who emphasized the vast individual diversity in sexual behavior, and wrote a memoir detailing his “open marriage” to a self-identified lesbian. In the nineteen forties and fifties, Alfred Kinsey (1894 to 1956) and his collaborators Wardell B. Pomeroy, Paul H Gebhard, and Clyde E Martin redefined the way Americans viewed their sex lives with the publication of two reports describing the sexual activities of men and women. Kinsey and his team fashioned a standardized interview that they used to gather the detailed sex histories of approximately 18,000 men and women across the United States, the largest survey ever of human sexual practices. Kinsey personally recorded 7,985 of the histories. Robert Latou Dickinson (1861 to 1950), a practicing gynecologist in New York, pioneered the laboratory observation of women’s sexuality with his development of a glass observation tube to view and document women’s internal sexual anatomy. Kinsey also used direct observational techniques to study sexual response, but the current era of laboratory sex research began with the work of William H Masters (1915 to 2001) and Virginia E Johnson, who were married from 1971 until 1992. In contrast to the limited observations made by their predecessors, Masters and Johnson recruited nearly seven hundred men and women to participate in studies at their lab, where they documented the physiological changes that occur with sexual arousal and orgasm. They uncovered the role of vaginal lubrication in sexual arousal, the physiology of multiple orgasms, and the similarity between vaginal and clitoral orgasms in women. Since the publication in 1966 of Masters and Johnson’s landmark book The Human Sexual Response, a relatively distinct branch of lab research has emerged: sexual psychophysiology. Studies in sexual psychophysiology investigate the complex interplay between the psychological (feelings, emotions and thought processes) and the physiological (hormones, brain chemicals, genital engorgement, and lubrication) in human sexual behavior. Psychological sexual arousal is typically measured using questionnaires that ask how “turned on” or “turned off” a person feels in a certain context and whether his or her mood is positive, negative, relaxed, or anxious. In the early days of sexual psychophysiology, researchers interested in measuring human physiological arousal with adapted devices used in other species. For instance, penile erection monitors for men can be traced to machines used by horse breeders in the late nineteenth century to prevent masturbation in stud horses! In the early 1970s, two doctors developed a probe that could be used to measure thermal conductance in sheep vaginas. They claimed the device “caused no discomfort for the waking sheep” during the experiments, which lasted up to four hours. Although the device proved too cumbersome and invasive for use in women, its design is not terribly different from modern vaginal probes. Today, researchers measure physiological sexual responses, particularly genital blood flow, using a number of techniques. In women, studies involve vaginal photoplethysmography (a light-sensing device), pulsed wave Doppler ultrasonography,pelvic magnetic resonance imaging, sensors that measure changes in the temperature of the vagina or labia, and thermal imaging of thighs and genitals. In addition, sexual psychophysiologists often record changes in heart rate, respiration rate, body temperature, blood pressure, and sweat gland activity. While these nongenital measures can provide information about a person’s physiological state during sexual arousal, they do not specifically indicate sexual response, since emotions such as anger, fear, anxiety, and even laughter can also trigger these changes. More recently, researchers have turned to functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) to identify the areas of the brain involved in human sexual response and behavior. All of these contemporary techniques allow researchers at the Meston Sexual Psychophysiology Lab and similar labs around the world to study the full spectrum of sexual response. Over the past eleven years, the Meston Lab has investigated questions such as: What is the relation between levels of genital arousal and feeling psychologically aroused? How do early traumatic sexual experiences impact a woman’s ability to become aroused physically and mentally in adulthood? How does a woman’s body image impact her overall sexual function and satisfaction? What is the impact of cigarette smoking and other drugs on men’s and women’s ability to become sexually aroused? How do antidepressants impair women’s ability to become aroused and have an orgasm and how can we overcome these sexual side effects? Does the act of having sexual intercourse alter sex hormones in a way that can impact a woman’s overall sex drive? And why does anxiety sometimes increase and sometimes decrease women’s sexual functioning? Psychological and physiological methods are also used to test evolution-based hypotheses about women’s sexual psychology. To some, it may seem odd to consider these questions through the lens of evolved sexual desires, evolved mate preferences, and an evolved psychology of sexual competition. Indeed, in the field of biology proper, until the Nineteen fifties it was viewed as unrespectable to speak of evolutionary processes having sculpted “behavior” at all, with proper biologists sticking closely to anatomy and physiology. The science of evolutionary biology has changed radically since then. The sexual organs, after all, are designed for sexual behavior! Anatomy, physiology, and psychology cannot be divorced from the behavior they were designed to produce. Many people, when they think about evolution, draw up images such as “nature red in tooth and claw” and “survival of the fittest.” Although competition for survival is certainly part of evolutionary theory, in fact it is not the most important part. Indeed, Darwin himself was deeply troubled by phenomena that could not be explained by this so-called “survival selection.” Marvels such as the brilliant plumage of peacocks, for example, simply defied explanation by survival selection. How could this dazzling plumage possibly have evolved, since it is energetically costly and an open advertisement to predators, qualities clearly detrimental to survival? Darwin wrote in his private correspondence that the sight of a peacock gave him nightmares, since it defied the logic of his theory of natural selection. Darwin’s nightmares subsided when he arrived at a second evolutionary theory that turns out to be central to the understanding of women’s sexual psychology: the theory of sexual selection. Sexual selection deals with the evolution of characteristics not because of the survival advantage they afford organisms, but rather because of mating advantage. Sexual selection operates through two distinct processes, same-sex or intra-sexual competition and preferential mate choice, also called intersexual selection. In intra-sexual competition, members of one sex compete with one another, and the victors gain sexual access to the mates of their choice. Two stags locking horns in combat is the stereotypical image of intra-sexual competition. Although Darwin stressed male-male competition, when it comes to humans, female-female competition is equally intense. Since males of every species differ in qualities such as physical attractiveness, health status, resource acquisition ability, and genetic quality, females who succeed in outcompeting other females for sexual access to males with beneficial qualities have a reproductive advantage over other females. And the evolutionary process is ultimately not about differential survival success, but differential reproductive success. In intra-sexual competition the qualities that lead to access to more desirable mates get passed on in greater numbers because the victors mate more successfully and produce more or higher quality offspring. The characteristics that commonly lead to loss in these competitions bite the evolutionary dust, since they are passed on in fewer offspring. Although this process is sometimes easier to see in males, for whom competition is often ostentatious, the same logic applies to females, for whom competition is generally more subtle. Among humans, for example, social reputation is a key component of same-sex competition. Social reputation is often gained or lost through subtle verbal signals, gossip, alliance formation, and other tactics that sometimes fly under the radar. Evolution, which simply means change over time, occurs as a consequence of same-sex competition because the victors have greater access to desirable sex partners. Preferential mate choice, on the other hand, involves desiring qualities in a mate that ultimately lead to greater reproductive success for the chooser. Women who choose to have sex with healthy men, for example, gain reproductive advantages over women who choose to have sex with disease ridden men. Women remain healthier themselves, since they do not pick up the man’s communicable diseases. Their children remain healthier, since they too avoid picking up the man’s diseases through close contact. And if the qualities linked to health are partly heritable, as we now know they are, then the women’s children will inherit genes for good health. Women’s mating desires and the qualities they find sexually attractive have evolved because they led ancestral mothers to make wise choices, both in sex partners and in long-term mates. Evolved psychological mechanisms go far beyond reproduction to include women’s sexual desires, patterns of sexual attraction, mate preferences, the emergence of the emotion of love, sexual jealousy, and much more. Each major component of women’s sexual psychology solves an adaptive problem, providing a specific benefit to women, or more precisely, provided a benefit to ancestral women that modern women have inherited. So when evolutionary psychologists use phrases such as “evolved psychological mechanisms” or “psychological adaptations,” they do not mean rigid, robotlike instincts expressed in behavior regardless of circumstances. Rather, human psychological adaptations are extremely flexible, highly sensitive to circumstance, and activated only in some social contexts. An evolved emotion such as sexual jealousy, for example, might motivate a woman to have sex with her partner to keep his mind off other women. But a woman usually experiences sexual jealousy only if there is a sexual threat to her relationship. Moreover, a woman might deal with a sexual threat in a multitude of other ways, such as increased vigilance or an increased outpouring of love. Even when women’s sexual adaptations are activated, it does not mean that they must invariably act on them. A woman’s sexual desire, for instance, might be activated by a chance encounter with a tall, dark, and handsome stranger, but she may choose not to act on that evolved desire due to a wish to remain loyal to her regular partner, a concern about damage to her reputation, or moral or religious convictions. Psychological adaptations are not inflexible instincts that ineluctably get expressed in behavior, but rather are flexible mechanisms whose expression is highly contingent on context. Over the past twenty years, the Buss Evolutionary Psychology Lab has used a variety of research methods to explore human sexual psychology. The methods range from observational studies of women’s tactics of sexual attraction in singles bars to physiological recordings to imagining a romantic partner having sexual intercourse with someone else. They include self-reports of sexual mate poaching, experimental studies of women’s sexual attraction to aspects of men’s physique, and hormonal assays of the effects of ovulation on women’s sexual desire. Samples include college undergraduates, dating couples, newlywed couples, older couples, and a culturally diverse sample of more than ten thousand individuals from thirty-three countries worldwide. The Buss Lab has studied the dangerous passion of sexual jealousy, why women have affairs, parental tactics to constrain the sexuality of their daughters, the evolution of love, sexual deception, the effects of ovulation on women’s sexuality, whether men and women can be “just friends,” personality predictors of sexual satisfaction, cues that foretell a partner’s affair, derogation and gossip about sexual competitors, and “sexual intelligence.” The notion that many components of women’s sexual psychology have an evolutionary function does not imply that all features are adaptive, or that every woman’s sexual behavior serves a benefit. Quite the contrary. As we will see throughout this book, some reasons that propel women into sexual encounters are self-destructive and cause personal problems, the loss of self-esteem, and even life tragedies. Some reach clinical proportions and develop into distressing sexual disorders. We cover the entire range of women’s sexual psychology, from the lows of sexual disorders and how they can be treated to the highs of attaining and maintaining a fulfilling sexual life. Our new and never-before-reported study of why women have sex was conducted online between June 2006 and April 2009. Web links and online classified advertisements requested women’s participation in a study designed to understand sexual motivations. The survey itself was hosted by a database using 128-bit encryption technology to protect the information from hackers and to ensure the utmost anonymity to the study’s participants. The women who participated first completed an informed consent during which they received full disclosure of the survey’s subject matter and were assured that they could discontinue the survey at any time. We have shared the women’s exact words, after eliminating any details that might identify them to maintain the confidentiality of their responses. We also let the participants know that if they had any concerns about the study or became distressed after answering the questions or sharing their stories, a clinical psychologist would be available to discuss their concerns with them. The survey began by asking the women if they had ever had sex for one of the 237 reasons we identified in our original study. If a woman’s answer was yes, she would then be prompted to describe a specific experience, if no, she was asked about another reason for having sex. The women’s answers confirmed, enhanced, and enriched the quantitative findings of our initial investigation of why humans have sex. Most important, they gave real women an opportunity to explain in their own words their motivations for having sex, providing a depth of insight into sexual psychology beyond what could be captured from statistical analysis. In the course of the study, 1,006 women from a variety of backgrounds shared their experiences with us. They hailed from forty-six of the fifty states (all except Alaska, Montana, Nebraska, and Delaware), eight of the ten provinces of Canada (all but Saskatchewan and Prince Edward Island) and one of the two territories (Northwest Territory), three European countries (Germany, Belgium, and France), and Australia, New Zealand, Israel, and China. The women ranged in age from eighteen (the youngest we accepted into the study) to eighty-six and identified ethnically as American Indian, Asian, black, white (non-Hispanic), and Latino. About 57 percent considered themselves to be part of a specific religious tradition, Christian (Anglican, Baptist, Catholic, Episcopalian, Lutheran, Methodist, Mormon, Pentecostal, Protestant, and Seventh Day Adventists), Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, Taoist, Unitarian Universalist, and pagan or Wicca, while 26 percent said they were agnostics and 14 percent said they were atheists. Though the survey was conducted through the Internet, the participants came from diverse socioeconomic situations: 17 percent reported a family income of $25,000 or less a year, 31 percent an income between $25,001 and $50,000, 33 percent an income between $50,001 and $100,000, and 19 percent an income of more than $100,000. Of course, we also asked the women about their relationship status and sexual orientation. Approximately 80 percent reported being in a relationship at the time, whereas 10 percent were currently dating but were not in a long-term relationship. Ninety-three percent of the women said they were predominantly or exclusively heterosexual, with 2 percent identifying as bisexual and 5 percent identifying as predominantly or exclusively homosexual. Eleven percent actually did not choose one of these labels, opting for “other”, including gay, lesbian, asexual, bi-curious, heteroflexible, omnisexual, pansexual, queer, straight-plus, fluid, open, polyamorous, still questioning, and various combinations such as “mostly heterosexual plus a touch of gay.” One of the surprises in our study was that for each reason that impels a woman to have sex, we discovered both successes and failures. Sex was often incredibly pleasurable, giving women a sense of excitement, love, connection, and self-exploration: I have found, two things are important, being able to be really intense sexually with the person, while simultaneously being able to laugh heartily and really enjoy the experience of being with the person in a different way. It’s almost like the laughter and the sex satisfy two basic human urges simultaneously, heterosexual woman, age 42. Women enjoy their sexiness and their sexuality. But goals sought through sex are sometimes not reached. Indeed, sex sometimes leaves women feeling lonely, bitter, and regretful. One woman in our study sought sex in order to relieve her loneliness and feelings of being unattractive, but it didn’t work out that way: I had sex in my last relationship so I would not feel so damned lonely and unlovable. It was a stupid thing because it ended up worsening the feelings for me. I regret it now because we didn’t really know each other very well and were not really sure where we were going. We split up after another month, heterosexual woman, age 39. For every failure, however, we discovered sexual encounters of great success and true poignancy. Here is how one woman described sex as a way of boosting her self confidence: I had sex with a couple of guys because I felt sorry for them. These guys were virgins and I felt bad that they had never had sex before so I had sex with them. I felt like I was doing them a big favor that no one else had ever done. I felt power over them, like they were weaklings under me and I was in control. It boosted my confidence to be the teacher in the situation and made me feel more desirable, heterosexual woman, age 25. Another believed sex was a means of experiencing God: I can’t really describe this experience, but pure joy and connection with another person I feel is becoming closer to the cycles of life and the underlying palpable energy of the world, in essence, God, heterosexual woman, age 21. Through the voices of real women, wide-ranging scientific and clinical findings, and our own original research, women’s sexuality can be seen in all of its textures, whether a sexual encounter leads to pleasure, remorse, emotional connection, or transcendent love. We believe the end result will aid more informed sexual decision making, when, how, and, of course, why to have sex, in a relationship or outside one. Although this is not designed as a “self-help” book, we believe that readers will glean information that they can use in their own lives and share with their sexual partners. We hope that this book provides readers with a new set of lenses for viewing the many nuanced facets of women’s sexual psychology. One. What Turns Women On? Scent, Body, Face, Voice, Movement, Personality, and, Yes, Humor. Personal beauty is a greater recommendation than any letter of introduction, Aristotle. Sexual attraction is an elixir of life, from love at first sight to the spark of romance that enlivens a relationship for years. It imbues the great love affairs of literature and film, whether the star-crossed lovers of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet or James Cameron’s Titanic or the long-smoldering attraction between Humphrey Bogart’s and Ingrid Bergman’s characters in Casablanca. And despite the reigning conventional wisdom, the basic biochemistry of attraction is the number one reason women give for why they have sex. Despite its relative neglect in the history of psychology, sexual attraction is not simply a topic of titillation. It permeates our conversations, from gossip columns highlighting celebrity fashion missteps to Web sites devoted to ranking who is hot and who is not, advertisers exploit it to sell everything from cars to iPods. Lack of sexual attraction is often a deal breaker in romances, killing possible partnerships before they even get off the ground. And when sexual attraction fades with time, it can propel a partner into the arms of another. For many, sex provides a deep sense of exhilaration that makes them feel alive. We often cannot describe what it is that attracts us to another person. Sometimes we resort to types, latching on to an easily identifiable trait or pointing to a celebrity who has many of the qualities we, and apparently many other people, find most appealing. Many women in our study mentioned a specific physical or personality characteristic that sexually attracted them, yet as many others chose to describe their sexual motivation in the simplest terms: I was attracted to the person. Women also said the person had a beautiful face, the person had a desirable body, the person had beautiful eyes, the person smelled nice, the person’s physical appearance turned me on, the person was a good dancer, or more graphically, the person was too physically attractive for me to resist. This chapter explores what, exactly, women find sexually attractive, and why. Why do musky aromas and resonant voices stir women’s sexual desires? If women really are less sexually stimulated by visual images than men are, why do the faces of, say, Antonio Banderas and George Clooney excite so many women? Is there actually something in the way another person moves that can affect women’s sexual drives? How can a dazzling personality sometimes turn an average Joe into a man who exudes an irresistible animal magnetism? When does physical attraction overpower everything else? Because the spark of attraction often operates beneath our consciousness, some of our answers to these questions come from an evolutionary perspective. Evolutionary psychologists start with the working premise that at least some of the characteristics that women find attractive are not culturally arbitrary. (The same is true of the characteristics that men find attractive.) Could the qualities that define sex appeal unconsciously provide signals of the benefits a woman might get from a potential mate? Biologists distinguish two broad classes of evolutionary benefits. Genetic benefits are the high quality genes that can endow a woman’s children with a better ability to survive and reproduce. Resource benefits, including food, shelter from the hostile forces of nature, and physical protection from aggressive men, help a woman and her children to survive and thrive. As we will see, some of the things that make women want to have sex with men have their roots in humans’ evolutionary past, while others have taken on a life of their own because of how we live, work, dress, and socialize today. Where Attraction Begins. People are constantly coming into contact with one another, we are nestled into adjoining seats in college lecture halls, bump into strangers at coffee shops, move into neighboring houses on suburban cul-de-sacs, or spend long hours in cattycorner cubicles at the office. This proximity is often the first step in becoming attracted to someone. Historically, you can see this in who people choose as their mates. Back in the 1930s, a study examined five thousand marriages performed in a single year, 1931, to determine where the bride and groom lived before their wedding. One third lived within five blocks of each other and more than one half lived within a twenty-block radius. Several studies over the decades have uncovered similar patterns. For example, in classrooms with assigned seating, relationships develop as a function of how far people are seated from each other. Students assigned to a middle seat are more likely to make acquaintances than those who are seated at the end of a row. With alphabetical seating, friendships form between those whose names start with nearby letters. Although being near someone does not guarantee that a sexual spark will be struck, repeated contact, up to a point, with someone increases the odds. One study found that a series of brief, that is, no more than thirty-five-second, face-to-face contacts without even talking to the person increased positive responses. That is, we tend to like the people we see often more than those we see less frequently. In another study, four women research assistants with comparable physical attractiveness attended a college class. One research assistant attended the class fifteen times during the semester, one assistant attended ten times, another five times, and one not at all. None of the women had any verbal contact with the students in the class. At the end of the semester, the students, both men and women, rated how much they liked each of the research assistants. Attraction increased as the number of exposures increased, even though all of the research assistants were fundamentally strangers to the people in the class. As it turns out, some amount of familiarity creates liking whether you’re talking about a person, a drawing, a word in an unknown foreign language, a song, a new product being advertised, a political candidate, or even a nonsense syllable. The more frequent a person’s exposure during the crucial early period of introduction, the more positive the response. Why? We often respond to anyone or anything strange or novel with at least mild discomfort, if not a certain degree of anxiety. With repeated exposure, our feelings of anxiety decrease, the more familiar we are with someone, the better we are able to predict his or her behavior and thus to feel more comfortable around the person. Once people are in close proximity, eye contact becomes important. The effect of mutual eye gaze is especially strong for women and men who are “romantics” by nature, those who believe in love at first sight, love for “the one and only,” and love as the key to relationships. In one study, forty-eight women and men came to a lab and were asked to stare into each other’s eyes while talking. The effect of mutual gaze proved powerful. Many reported that deep eye contact with an opposite-sex stranger created feelings of intense love. As one woman in our study put it: I find it very arousing when someone is mysterious and doesn’t give too much of themselves away upon cursory review. I once had sex with a man because he was looking at me longingly but wouldn’t say much. It was a very passionate experience, heterosexual woman, age 33. Another study had strangers first reveal intimate details of their lives to each other for half an hour, and then asked them to stare into each other’s eyes for four minutes, without breaking eye contact or making any conversation. Participants again reported deep attraction to their study partners. Two of these total strangers even ended up getting married! Too much familiarity, however, can backfire. Traits that are initially deemed positive can become a source of annoyance. Men who were once described as “funny and fun” become “embarrassing in public.” An attractive “spontaneity”, transforms into an unattractive “irresponsibility,” “successful and focused” into “workaholic,” and “strong willed” into “stubborn.” Indeed, a certain amount of “mystery” can be sexually motivating for women, or for men for that matter. Not only can mystery stoke attraction, too much familiarity can quash it. As one woman said in her sexual memoir, “proximity can kill sex faster than fainting.” Just as overexposure can douse the fire of sexual attraction, its opposite, novelty, can stoke its flames. Psychologist Daryl Bem sums it up with the phrase “the exotic becomes erotic.” Indeed, in college classes in which instructors ask women to list the qualities they find sexually attractive, “mysterious” invariably emerges on the list. Humans come blessed with five known senses, sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste, and the sensory cues that enter into attraction tend to have greater effect with physical closeness. That’s particularly true when considering one of the strongest ingredients in sex appeal, one long neglected by the scientific community: women’s acute sense of smell. The Scent of Sexiness. Scents are famously known to carry strong psychological associations, think about how a whiff of a loved one’s favored perfume or cologne can bring to mind the person who wore it, along with a cascade of emotions. Partly, this is due to the unusual design of the olfactory nerve, which extends in a network throughout the brain, unlike the nerves carrying information for the other major senses, which are less wide ranging. This architecture helps the brain to tie memories of emotional events with olfactory information. The emotion stirring aspect of smell is important, but smell also turns out to be surprisingly important to women when it comes to basic sexual attraction. Using an instrument called the “Sensory Stimuli and Sexuality Survey,” researchers at Brown University found that women rate how someone smells as the most important of the senses in choosing a lover, edging out sight (a close second), sound, and touch. One woman in our study ranked the attractions of a sexual partner: I was attracted to his smell, his eyes, and his demeanor. Also, his French accent, heterosexual woman, age 23. How a woman smells to a man, in contrast, figures less heavily in his sexual attraction. Perhaps it is because men’s sense of smell is less acute than women’s. Perhaps it is because visual cues loom so much larger in what turns men on. And it’s not just that women think smell matters in whether they are attracted to someone, it’s that women’s sexual arousal is enhanced by good body odors, and killed by bad ones. One reason why body odors play such an important role in women’s sexual attraction has come to scientific light only recently. The first clue came from an unusual discovery: that a woman’s olfactory acuity reaches its peak around the time of her ovulation, the narrow twenty-four-hour window during the monthly menstrual cycle in which she can become pregnant. This led scientists to suspect that women’s sense of smell might play a role in reproduction. It was not until researchers began to explore the body’s defenses against disease, however, that the connection was made. The genes responsible for immune functioning, fighting off disease-causing bacteria and viruses, are located within the major histocompatibility complex, or MHC, found on chromosome 6. Different people have different versions, or alleles, of these MHC genes, in the jargon of geneticists, the MHC genes are “polymorphic.” It turns out that women can benefit in two ways from mating with men who are dissimilar to themselves in MHC genes. First, a mate with dissimilar MHC genes likely has more dissimilar genes in general, and so finding an MHC-dissimilar person attractive might help to prevent inbreeding. Reproducing with close genetic relatives can be disastrous for the resulting children, leading to birth defects, lower intelligence, and other problems. But a second benefit of mating with someone with complementary MHC genes is that any resulting children will have better immune functioning, making them better able to fight off many of the parasites that cause disease. The puzzle is how women could possibly be able to choose mates who have complementary MHC genes in order to give these benefits to their offspring. In a revealing study, Brazilian researchers had twenty-nine men wear patches of cotton on their skin for five days to absorb their sweat, and thus their body odors. A sample of twenty-nine women then smelled each cotton patch and evaluated the odor on a dimension from attractive to unattractive. Scientists identified the specific MHC complex of each man and woman through blood assays. Women found the aromas of men who had an MHC complex complementary to their own smelled the most desirable. The odors of men who had an MHC complex similar to their own made them recoil in disgust. Amazing as it may seem, women can literally smell the scent of a gene complex known to play a key role in immune functioning. This highly developed sense of smell can have a profound effect on women’s sexuality. University of New Mexico evolutionary psychologist Christine Garver-Apgar and her colleagues studied MHC similarity in forty-eight romantically involved couples. They found that as the degree of MHC similarity between each woman and man increased, the woman’s sexual responsiveness to her partner decreased. Women whose partners had similar MHC genes reported wanting to have sex less often with them. They reported less motivation to please their partner sexually compared to the women romantically involved with men with complementary MHC genes. Perhaps even more disturbing to their mates (if they knew), women with MHC-similar partners reported more frequent sexual fantasies about other men, particularly at the most fertile phase of their ovulation cycle. And their sexual fantasies about other men did not just remain in their heads. They found themselves in the arms of other men more often, reporting higher rates of actual sexual infidelity, a 50 percent rate of infidelity among couples who had 50 percent of their MHC alleles in common. So when a woman says that she had sex with a man because he smelled nice, her sexual motivation has hidden roots in an evolutionary adaptation. At an unconscious level, women are drawn to men with whom they are genetically compatible. Another reason why a man’s scent is so important comes from the unusual discovery that body symmetry has sexual allure. Most human bodies are bilaterally symmetrical: The left wrist generally has the same circumference as the right wrist, the left ear is generally as long as the right ear, from the eyes to the toes, the left and right halves of people’s bodies roughly mirror each other. Each individual, however, carries small deviations from perfect symmetry. Two forces can cause faces and bodies to become more asymmetrical. One is genetic, the number of mutations an individual has, which geneticists call mutation load. Although everyone carries some genetic mutations (estimates are that the average person has a few hundred), some people have a higher mutation load than others, and those with more mutations tend to be more asymmetrical. The second force is environmental. During development, some individuals sustain more illnesses, diseases, parasites, and bodily injuries than others, and these environmental insults create asymmetries in the body and face. Symmetry, in short, is a sign of good health, an indication that a person carries a low mutation load and has experienced few environmental injuries, or at least possesses the capacity to sustain environmental injuries without their leaving much of a mark. If body symmetry is attractive because of how we evolved, so is the fact that women are able to detect the scent signature for symmetry, a useful skill when you consider that some asymmetries may not be immediately visible. But could a woman possibly smell body symmetry? In one study, men wore white cotton T-shirts for two nights. The Tshirts were then sealed in plastic bags. In the laboratory, scientists used calipers to measure the various physical components of the men’s bodies, including their wrists, ankles, and earlobes, in order to evaluate their degree of symmetry. Then women smelled each T-shirt and provided a rating of how pleasant or unpleasant it smelled. Women judged the T shirt odors of symmetrical men to be the most attractive and deemed the odors of asymmetrical men to be repulsive. Four independent studies have replicated the finding. Women find the scent of symmetry particularly attractive when they are in the fertile phase of their ovulation cycle, precisely the time in which they are most likely to conceive. This apparently reflects an evolutionary adaptation in women to reproduce with men possessing honest signals of good health, including high-quality genes. When women have extramarital affairs, they tend to choose symmetrical men as partners, yet another indication of the importance of symmetry in sexual attraction. The Power of a Man’s Musk. A person’s scent can influence not only a woman’s mate choice, but also when and how frequently she chooses to have sex and possibly the chance she will become pregnant. Researchers have shown that exposure to male pheromones can increase a woman’s fertility. Pheromones are substances secreted from the glands at the anus, underarms, urinary outlet, breasts, and mouth. In nonhuman mammals, a specialized olfactory structure, the vomeronasal organ, acts as the locus for receiving pheromonal signals, which control most animals’ and insects’ mating rituals. One study found that frequent sexual exposure to men (at least once a week) regularized women’s menstrual cycles, increased fertile basal body temperature, and increased estrogen in the phase of the menstrual cycle following ovulation, called the luteal phase. Another study showed that women who slept with a man two or more times during a forty-day period had a significantly higher incidence of ovulation than those who had slept with a man less often. Once again, sexual attraction plays a role. Doctor Winnifred Cutler, the director of the Athena Institute, found that exposure to male pheromones influences a woman’s sexual attraction to a man. In her study, thirty-eight heterosexual men aged twenty-six to forty-two recorded their baseline levels of sexual behavior and dating experiences for a two-week period. Then for a month they wore either their regular aftershave, or the same aftershave but with an added synthetic version of a pheromone naturally secreted by men. The men did not know which aftershave they were wearing. During the test month, the men continued to record their sexual and dating experiences. The results showed that compared to their baseline levels of sexual activity, the men who wore the “pheromone-charged” aftershave engaged in higher rates of sexual petting and intercourse, had more frequent informal dates, and spent more time sleeping next to a partner. Over the same period, they reported no change in their frequency of masturbation, so the increase in the rest of their sexual activity could not simply have resulted from men having a higher sex drive due to their own exposure to the extra pheromone. Sensitivity to scent does not just provide a means for identifying good hygiene or emotionally resonant perfumes. Scent also gives women cues about a partner’s immune system and body symmetry, and pheromones can unconsciously shape how women become sexually attracted and aroused. Size Matters. We’ve seen how body symmetry, because it indicates good health, is attractive to women. Body symmetry is also linked with men’s muscularity, and studies conducted both in the United States and on the Caribbean island of Dominica have found that symmetrical men have a larger number of sex partners than asymmetrical men. When women identify the specific qualities that attract them to a sexual partner, they frequently mention “the person had a desirable body”, the sixteenth most frequent reason cited for having sex in our original study. But what sorts of bodies do women find sexually desirable? Perhaps the most obvious characteristic is height. Studies consistently find that women consider tall men to be attractive, although only to an extent, taller than average, but not too tall. In analyses of personal ads, 80 percent of women state a desire for a man six feet tall or taller. Men who indicated in their personal ads that they were tall received far more responses from women. Women prefer tall men as marriage partners, and place an even greater emphasis on height in shorter-term sex partners. Women even take height into consideration when selecting sperm donors! A study of British men found that taller than average men have had a greater number of live-in girlfriends than their shorter peers. Two studies found that taller than average men tend to have more children, and hence are more reproductively successful. Women seem to find tall men better candidates for romance and reproduction. Could there be a logic underlying women’s desires for tall men? In traditional cultures, tall men tend to have higher status. “Big men” in hunter-gatherer societies, high-status men who command respect, are literally big men, physically. In Western cultures, tall men tend to have higher socioeconomic status than short men. Another study found that recruiters choose the taller of two applicants for a sales job 72 percent of the time. Each added inch of height adds several thousand dollars to a man’s annual salary. One study estimated that men who are six feet tall earn, on average, $166,000 more across a thirty-year career than men seven inches shorter. Taller policemen are assaulted less often than shorter policemen, indicating that their stature either commands more respect from criminals or causes them to think twice before attacking. Height deters aggression from other men. In the jargon of evolutionary biology, height is an “honest signal” of a man’s ability to protect. Women report simply feeling safer with tall mates. Another answer comes from recently discovered correlates of male height. Tall men, on average, tend to be healthier than short men, although men at the extreme high and low end of the distribution have more health problems. So tall men tend to have better job prospects, to have more economic resources, to enjoy elevated social status, to afford physical protection, and to be healthy, a bounty of adaptive benefits. We will see how sizes in other arenas matter in chapters 2 and 7. Fit for Sex. Height, of course, is not the only aspect of men’s bodies that sexually excites women. Studies of mate preferences reveal that women desire strong, muscular, athletic men for long-term mating as well as for sexual liaisons. Most women show a distinct preference for a particular body morphology, namely, a V-shaped torso that reveals a high shoulder-to-hip ratio (broad shoulders relative to hips). They are attracted to a lean stomach combined with a muscular (but not muscle-bound) upper torso. In fact, both sexes judge men with a high shoulder-to-hip ratio to be more physically and socially dominant, which may give a clue to its appeal, since women generally are not attracted to men who appear as though they could be easily dominated by other men. Men exhibiting a high shoulder-tohip ratio begin having sexual intercourse at an early age, sixteen or younger. They report having more sex partners than their slim-shouldered peers. They have more sexual affairs with outside partners while in a relationship. And they report more instances of being chosen by already-mated women for sexual affairs on the side. Shoulder-to-hip ratio also arouses the green-eyed monster: Potential rivals with a high shoulder-to-hip ratio trigger jealousy in men. Men with strong, athletic, V-shaped bodies tend to succeed in competitions with other men compared to their frailer peers. Across cultures, physical contests such as wrestling, racing, and throwing allow women to gauge men’s physical abilities, including speed, endurance, and strength. Scientific research, though, has discovered that men overestimate the degree of muscularity that women actually find attractive, assuming that they need to pump up more, or puff up more, to be attractive. One study compared the muscularity of men’s bodies in Cosmopolitan (whose readership is 89 percent women) with Men’s Health (whose readership is 85 percent men). Researchers rated the muscularity of men’s bodies depicted in each magazine. The level of muscularity depicted in Cosmopolitan (4.26) was nearly identical to the level of muscularity women rate as ideal in a sexual partner (4.49). Men, in contrast, mistakenly believe that women desire a more muscular sex partner (5.04), which corresponds more closely with the muscularity of men shown in Men’s Health (5.77). Images of muscle-bound men have almost certainly fostered men’s misperception of what women find most sexually attractive, just as photo spreads of impossibly thin women have led women to overestimate the degree of thinness that men find most attractive. After viewing repeated images of V shaped bodies, men become more dissatisfied with their own bodies, just as women become more unhappy with their bodies after seeing images of size zero models. Fully 90 percent of American men report that they want to be more muscular. The figure among the less media-saturated Ghana is 49 percent. Ukrainian men lie in between, with 69 percent reporting a desire to be more muscular. As one researcher summed it up, the average man “feels like Clark Kent but longs to be like Superman.” The Face of Attraction. He could have been a model. When he acted interested in me, I couldn’t believe it. We had sex once. Strangely enough, he kept calling me afterward. I didn’t continue with the relationship for several reasons. One, he was just a pretty face, but I think he was really crazy about me. Two, never date a guy prettier than you are. It’s terrible for your self-esteem and your sanity, heterosexual woman, age 26. Masculine facial features are heavily influenced by the production of testosterone during adolescence, when the bones in the face take their adult form. From an evolutionary perspective, puberty marks the time when men and women enter the arena of mate competition. They begin to allocate time, energy, and effort to the tasks of mate selection and mate attraction. In men, the amount of muscle mass, as we have seen, contributes to success in competition with other men and sexual attractiveness to women. And testosterone turns out to be the magical hormone that promotes men’s muscle mass and masculine facial features. So why don’t all men have masculine faces and ripped bodies? The answer strangely hinges on a negative side effect of testosterone. High testosterone production compromises the body’s immune functioning, leaving men less able to fight off diseases and parasites. Now here is the paradox: Only men who are above average in healthiness during adolescence can “afford” to produce the high levels of testosterone that masculinize the face. Less healthy adolescents cannot afford to compromise their already precarious immune systems, and so produce lower levels of testosterone at precisely the time when facial bones take their adult form. A masculine-looking face signals a man’s health, his ability to succeed in competing with other men, and his ability to protect. And that is the best explanation for why most women find somewhat more masculine faces (but not the most masculine faces) to be the most attractive. But when we consider a woman’s fertility status and whether she is evaluating a man as a casual sex partner or a husband, the dynamics shift. In a series of scientific studies, women were asked to judge the attractiveness of a variety of men’s faces at different points during their ovulation cycle, during the most fertile phase (the five days leading up to ovulation) and during the least fertile, post-ovulation luteal phase. The subjects evaluated the faces for sexiness, their attractiveness as a casual sex partner, and their attractiveness as a long-term mate. Women found above-average masculine faces to be the sexiest and the most attractive for a casual sexual encounter. In contrast, women judged somewhat less masculine faces to be more attractive for a long-term relationship. Women’s sexual desires for testosterone-fueled facial cues of masculinity were especially strong during the fertile window of their cycle. The most plausible interpretation of these results is that women are attracted to men who are likely to be “good dads” when choosing long-term mates, but are attracted to the honest signals of health that masculinity provides when they are most likely to become impregnated. This interpretation, however, raises a puzzle: Why wouldn’t women be attracted to highly masculine males for all mating relationships, from dangerous liaisons through lifelong love? The answer lies in the fact that the more masculine men are less sexually faithful. They are more likely to be the risk taking womanizing “bad boys” among the male population. Consequently, most women face a trade-off: If they choose the less masculine-looking man, they get a better father and a more sexually loyal mate, but they lose out in the currency of genes for good health. If they choose the more masculine man, they can endow their children with good genes for health, but must suffer the costs of a man who channels some of his sexual energy toward other women. So women’s preferences reveal a dual mating strategy, an attempt to get the best of both worlds. They can choose to have a long-term relationship with a slightly less masculine man who will be sexually loyal and invest in her children, while opportunistically having sex with the more masculine men when they are most likely to get pregnant. DNA fingerprinting studies reveal that roughly 12 percent of women get pregnant by men other than their long term mates, suggesting that some, but certainly not all, women pursue this dual mating strategy. Cultures differ, however, in how much women are attracted to facial masculinity. Psychologist Ian Penton-Voak and his colleagues found that Jamaican women found masculine looking men sexier than did British women. They interpret this cultural difference as a product of the higher rates of infectious diseases in Jamaica compared to England. In cultures in which infectious disease is a more pervasive problem, women seem to shift their sexual choices to men who possess honest signals of good health, men whose faces have been shaped by testosterone. Conventionally Handsome. People are drawn to those who are collectively considered attractive, so much so that a number of women in our study reported having sex with attractive people even when they had no desire to pursue a long-term relationship: I became friends with a man who was very handsome, but for whom I felt no desire to pursue a relationship. He asked me to stay the night in his bed, and despite having misgivings. I couldn’t resist. He was conventionally handsome but very edgy and nonconformist and he liked me a lot, predominantly heterosexual woman, age 36. What does it mean for someone to be “conventionally” handsome? Developmental psychologist Judith Langlois studies the meaning of “attractiveness” in human faces by having subjects rate composite faces, made up of sixteen or more images morphed together, against the individual faces used to create the composites. The composite faces were rated more attractive, and, according to Langlois, if “you take a female composite (averaged) face made of thirty-two faces and overlay it on the face of an extremely attractive female model, the two images line up almost perfectly, indicating that the model’s facial configuration is very similar to the composites’ facial configuration.” The same was true of men’s composite faces. Langlois has also found that infants as young as one year old respond to this kind of “averaged” attractiveness in adult faces. Researchers varied their attractiveness levels by putting on attractive and unattractive masks that were carefully and realistically molded to their faces. The men and women then interacted with, and attempted to initiate play with, the one year-olds. They discovered that the infants expressed more positive moods and were more involved in play when they interacted with the researchers who were wearing the attractive masks. Even when the stimulus is a doll, studies show that infants spend more time playing with attractive versus unattractive dolls. There is also a large body of research showing that we are drawn to good-looking people because we make assumptions that they possess a whole host of other desirable traits. They are rated as also being interesting, sociable, independent, dominant, exciting, sexy, well adjusted, socially skilled, and successful. There is some support for these stereotypes. Attractiveness is moderately linked with popularity, good interpersonal skills, and occupational success, and, to some extent, with physical health, mental health, and sexual experience, which may be partly because attractive people are treated more favorably. A Knee-Knocking Voice. Singers such as Elvis Presley in the Nineteen fifties, the Beatles in the Sixties, and Jim Morrison of the Doors in the seventies through contemporary rappers such as Kanye West, Jay-Z, and 50 Cent are, and have always been, famously attractive to women. Part of their sex appeal has undoubtedly been a result of the popularity and social status they command. But there is also a sound of sexiness, something about male voices that gives women a sexual buzz. Voice pitch is the most striking feature of human speech. Before puberty, male and female voices are quite similar. At puberty, remarkable changes occur. Boys experience a dramatic increase in the length of their vocal folds, which become 60 percent longer than those of girls. Longer vocal folds and vocal tracts produce a deeper, more resonant voice pitch. Testosterone triggers the change in boys at puberty, and high levels of testosterone predict deeper voices among adult men. The first scientific evidence of women’s preferences for deeper male voices came from a study in which women rated the deep, resonant voices such as that of Luciano Pavarotti more attractive than the higher-pitched voices such as that of Truman Capote. This may not come as much of a surprise. But three more recent investigations show that mating context is critical in how women choose among men’s voices. Evolutionary anthropologist David Puts obtained voice recordings of thirty men attempting to persuade a woman to go out on a romantic date. Then 142 heterosexual women listened to the recordings and rated each man’s attractiveness in two mating contexts, for a short-term sexual encounter and for a long-term committed relationship. Although women said the deeper voices were more attractive in both mating contexts, they dramatically preferred the deeper voices when considering them as prospects for purely sexual, short-term encounters. Moreover, women in the fertile phase of their ovulation cycle showed the strongest sexual attraction to men with deep voices. One hint as to why is found in studies of female frogs, which gravitate toward deep, resonant croaks of male bullfrogs, a reliable signal, for frogs, of a mate’s size and health. Now, research on people has revealed two similar reasons that help to explain why women find some men’s voices more attractive than others. The first involves bilateral body symmetry, the health-and-good-genes signal that a person can better withstand the stresses of diseases, injuries, and genetic mutations during development. Body symmetry is more likely to produce deep voices. So when a woman finds the resonance of a man’s voice even sexier during her fertile, ovulatory phase, she is attracted to the sound of symmetry for her possible offspring. Attractive-sounding voices also indicate a man’s body morphology. Psychologist Susan Hughes found that men with sexy voices, in contrast to their strident-sounding peers, have a higher shoulder-to-hip ratio, the attractive V-shaped body. Women judge men with lower-pitched voices to be healthier, more masculine, more physically dominant, somewhat older, more socially dominant, and more well-respected by their peers. Do women’s attractions to sexy voices translate into higher sexual success for lower-pitched men? One study found that American men with lower-pitched voices had experienced a larger number of sex partners than men with higher-pitched voices. A second study, of the Hadza, a population of hunter gatherers living in Tanzania, found that men with lower pitched voices had a greater number of children, possibly as a consequence of having greater sexual access to fertile women. So it’s not that carrying a tune makes much difference, a baritone voice like the actor James Earl Jones’s might be mesmerizing because of all it signals about good health, good genes, the capacity to protect, and success in social hierarchies. Many of those sexually alluring musicians had another attractive quality to their credit, a body in motion. Something in the Way He Moves. Physical movement depends on the strength of a person’s bones, muscle tone, and motor control. The ability to move in a coordinated manner, especially through repetitive motions such as walking or dancing, reveals information about a person’s phenotype: It broadcasts information about age, notice the difference between the dancing prowess of younger versus older dancers. It also conveys information about energy level, health, and biomechanical efficiency, whether we know it or not. We found that some women had sex with men simply because they were good dancers: I was told that if a man could dance he could perform in bed. I did not believe this and wanted to see if it was true. I met someone who danced on the same order of a stripper. He danced for me a couple of times. We ended up having sex and yes he was as good in bed as he was on the dance floor. He literally danced while having sex. It was wonderful, heterosexual woman, age 29. He was hot. The fact that he was a good dancer made him that much more appealing. I really enjoy dancing myself, so when I see that a person has rhythm, it turns me on, heterosexual woman, age 26. Research reveals that women find certain body movements to be more attractive than others. One study had women view digitally masked or pixelated images of men dancing. Women were more attracted to men who displayed larger and more sweeping movements. They also rated these men more erotic. Just as men’s faces differ from one another in their de

Rahan, son of the fierce ages. Episode Forty Nine. The Blue shells. Text by Roger Lecureux. Since he knew how to use the wind, the son of Crao no longer hesitated to face the great river. That day he was sailing towards unknown islands, when Rahan does not know these fish! Are they dangerous like the "blue-skins"? The dolphins jumped around the raft, passed under it, and reappeared further away. They want to scare Rahan! But as they did not push the skiff, Crao's son understood that it was a game. He had proof of it a moment later. Page Two. Rahan will find food on the island. He no longer needs these fish. Catch! One after the other he threw his fish. And he laughed at the curious spectacle of dolphins leaping out of the water to catch them in flight! Ha-ha-ha! Higher! Even higher! Ah, why aren't the "Blue-skins" as amusing, as harmless as you! As he had just thrown away the last fish. The great dolphin sprang up very close to the raft, not to menace it, but to beg. He placed his heavy head on the skiff. And the son of Crao, surprised, lost his balance and slipped into the water. Argh! Page Three. Worry once again took hold of him. The dolphins were pushing him with their “noses” They could strike, or bite Rahan. But it looked like they wanted to play with him! He dove and the dolphins followed him. His fears dissipated when he was certain that these strange beasts were indeed playing! Amused, he grabbed one of them and let himself be carried towards the surface. Since you want to play, let's play! The dolphin and his "Rider" sprang out of the water and dove back together! Ra-ha-ha! Page Four. From the shore, astonished men watched this astonishing ride. Twice, three times, ten times, they saw Rahan and the dolphin reappear. It was the son of Crao who was the first to get tired. Thank you “Beast with-no-Name!” But Rahan is not a fish and you tired him! The herd escorted the Raft for a moment longer then disappeared into the depths. Goodbye, “Beasts with-no-Name!” The skiff, shortly after, ran aground on a beach, near a village. Would Rahan have frightened “Those-Who-Walk-Upright”? The village was deserted. The fire that still burned proved that it had just been abandoned. Where are you men of the Shore!? Why are you hiding? Page Five. Rahan is not an enemy!! He swears it on the “mother of mothers”!! In the nearby thickets where they had taken refuge the fishermen hesitated. Their leader was the first to come out. Since you do not belong to Mbong's clan, Tamak believes you! Let us exchange gifts of friendship! Removing his blue shell necklace, Tamak put it around the neck of the son of Crao. Welcome to our island, brother! Rahan thanks you, Tamak. Alas, he has no gift to offer you in exchange. What are you saying?! And this necklace? And this weapon?!! The chief pointed to the ivory knife and the claw necklace. No, Tamak! No. Rahan cannot give you either! Page Six. Rahan would also like to make an offering to Tamak, but he could not give this necklace that his father left to him when he died. And the idea of being dispossessed of the knife which had so often saved his life was unbearable to him! Rahan has nothing to offer you Tamak. Take back your necklace and. No! Custom requires that we exchange presents! Indignant, the chief issued an order. Seize him! Seize him! We will release him when he decides to respect custom!! They could take the collar or the knife! But they want to let Rahan make the offering himself!! Page Seven. A clamor suddenly arose. Boats, coming from a neighboring island, were approaching the shore. Mbong is coming! Mbong is coming! Panic gripped the fishermen who rushed towards the forest. No one thought of the son of Crao. Who saw the arrivals jump onto the beach and rush towards the huts. All brandished sturdy harpoons. Search everywhere! Do not leave any "Gonuk" in these houses! Hum. Tamak harshly enforces the customs of his clan, but Rahan prefers him to Mbong. While his men pillaged the village. Mbong had just caught sight of the son of Crao. Look! Tamak offers us one of his own and a necklace of Gonuks!! Page Eight. The colossus approached with his gaze fixed on the necklace of blue shells. Never has Mbong seen so many Gonuks at once. Tamak gifted Rahan this necklace as a token of friendship. You have no right to take it! Ha-ha-ha! As Mbong stretched out a greedy hand, the captive's legs rose, throwing the colossus to the ground. From a height the fishermen had seen. Rahan gives us a lesson in courage! Even tied up, he dares to resist Mbong! Men rushed in and tied up the ankles of the son of Crao. You will see what it costs to oppose Mbong!! Page Nine. It is with this fat that we attract birds from the sea! A strong smell of decomposed fish welled up when Mbong opened the skin pouch. And smeared the face and torso of the captive with Grease. It would have been too easy to kill you immediately! Mbong and his men moved away. Rahan had been let his ivory knife, but tied up as he was, he could not reach it. Large screaming seagulls were already circling above the beach. One of them dived then another. A moment later their swarm attacked the son of Crao. The beaks struck from all sides. The chest, the neck. The face. Page Ten. Fearful for his eyes, Rahan could only shake his head. And Mbong, over there, laughed, and laughed. However. If Rahan is suffering this torment, it is our fault! We must save him, brothers! We have always been afraid of facing Mbong, but this time, we have to! A moment later Tamack and his Clan emerged from the forest. The panicked seagulls fled towards the sea. And the son of Crao was finally able to open his eyes. He saw the fishermen rushing towards Mbong's men. Tamak has arrived in time! Tamak had to redeem himself! Surprised by the ardor of the fishermen, the plunderers returned to their boats. Do not back down! Fight! Fight!! Page Eleven. Ra-ha-ha! The clamor of Rahan who threw himself into the melee drowned out the exhortations of Mbong. Will you show yourself as “Courageous” as when Rahan was at your mercy!? The harpoon flew towards the son of Crao. Who plunged towards the legs of the colossus, who dodged on dry land, but the water hindered his movements and he was thrown off balance. It was a brief melee and. No more movements, Mbong! Rahan's cutlass is more formidable than the beaks of seagulls! If you don't return to your territory, Mbong will join "The territory of the Shadows"! Already surprised by the fishermen's response, the raiders were dismayed by the defeat of their leader. Page Twelve. A moment later they moved away on the great river, towards the island from which they had come Rahan pushed Mbong towards Tamak. Rahan owed you a present. Here he is Tamak! It is the most beautiful present! For many moons Mbong and his family. Pillaged our village to take over the "Gronuks"! Rahan does not understand very well. So these shells are so precious!? Yes. They are of great value in all these islands. They allow clans to obtain what they want. So this jar is worth two “Gonuks”! Each clan therefore has its reserve of shells. Alas no. The “blue Gonuks”, the most sought after, are only found on our island!! Page Thirteen. The bottom of the moon lagoon is covered in them! And the other clans envy us Why doesn't Tamak share "Gonuks" with them? Tamak would like it! But it is dangerous to fish for the "Gonuks", because the moon lagoon is infested with blue-skins!! Shortly after Tamak, led the son of Crao to the Lagoon. This one evoked a crescent moon. Rahan wants to see. It is dangerous, brother! Rahan dove into the clear water and was immediately amazed. The bottom of the lagoon was indeed lined with blue shells! This is the “treasure” that the clans are fighting over! Oh! Rahan had expected an attack. But he did not expect it to be led by so many sharks! Page Fourteen. If Rahan does not strike first, he is lost! These sharks reminded him of playful dolphins. But, this time, it was no longer a game! The son of Crao knew the ferocity of the "Blue-skins" whom he had often fought. He narrowly avoided one of them. Tamak watched with anxiety the swarming of sharks. His heart sank when reddish scents rose to the surface. But this blood was not Rahan's! It was that of the shark he had just gutted. Fight over his insides, “Blue-skins”! Ra-ha-ha! The victorious cry rolled across the moon lagoon. Tamak was already extending a brotherly hand. Page Fifteen. Does Rahan understand why blue “Gonuks” are so rare! Our fishermen no longer dare to dive into the lagoon! And the rarer the "Gonuks" are, the more value the clans of other islands place on them!! Rahan got it right! The son of Crao was pensive. Today Mbong pillages a village to obtain "Gonuks". Tomorrow, another clan will plunder Mbong's! Why are “Those Who Walk Upright” fighting over common shells! Like “Blue-skins” killing each other! These ideas tormented Rahan all night. The clans do not quarrel over the leaves of these trees because they are innumerable! If we caught as many "Gonuks", happiness would return to the islands! Page Sixteen. Returning to the lagoon, he looked for a long time at the surface which was sometimes crisscrossed by the fin of a shark. There, between the rocky pass, the great river shimmered. And his heart suddenly beat harder. He had found it! He knew how to rid the lagoon of “Blue-skins”! But Rahan will need all the fishermen! Mbong, still bound, saw him running back. If the clan is successful, you will soon have more "Gonuks" than ten seasons of pillaging would bring you! A moment later he son of Crao explained his project to Tamak. If I understand correctly Rahan wants to set a trap in reverse! The chef was skeptical. Do you think the gods will help us? Will the courage and strength of your brothers replace the gods? Trust, Tamak! Page Seventeen. Daybreak found Rahan on the lookout. The breeze brought him a scent and he regretted that it was that of a harmless gazelle. The fate of “Those Who Walk Upright” is well worth the life of a “Two-Horned”!! He would have preferred another prey. But he had no choice. The animal appeared. As the Gazelle passed under the tree, he let himself fall. And the beast had no time to suffer. The ivory cutlass struck only once! Mbong, who had seen the fishermen, their women and children abandon the village, saw him return carrying the “two-horned”. MBong does not understand?! He understood even less when the raft sailed away, carrying the son of Crao and the animal's body! Page Eighteen. Clamors greeted Rahan when the skiff stopped in front of the moon lagoon. All the fishermen were up there, on each side of the gully, as he had asked them to be. You will not have been sacrificed in vain "Two-horned"! He disemboweled the animal and pushed the body into the waves. The reddening waves rolled toward the lagoon. Tamak and his people saw the "Blue-skins" appear from all sides, rushing towards the entrance to the great river. Rahan had to hold on to avoid being thrown into the water by the swirls. Around the Raft the waves were bristling with countless fins. All the sharks in the lagoon wanted to participate in the wild feast!! Page Nineteen. Dull growls rang out. The clan pushed heavy rocks which, as expected caused avalanches! Clamors of joy arose when the crest of the dam broke the surface and the pass was blocked! The lagoon was forever forbidden to the formidable “Blue-skins”! From now on, fishermen could grapple without risk in the inexhaustible carpet of blue shells! A little after. The “Gonuks” will lose this value that they should never have had! The clans will no longer fight to possess them. Rahan had no other desire! Oh yes! Rahan still wants Mbong to be spared! Rahan will punish him in his own way. The captive belongs to you! Page Twenty. The son of Crao left this shore a few days later. May your lust be satisfied Mbong! All these “Gonuks” are yours!! Shortly after, he abandoned Mbong on a desert island. It is a less cruel torture than that of seagulls! You can fish and hunt while you wait for your people to find you! You will understand that “Gonuks” do not bring happiness! Farewell, Mbong! It was a harsh but fair punishment for Mbong-the-greedy. Who would, for a whole season, live as a hermit next to his useless “treasure” of blue shells! But that's another story. As the raft moved away the playful dolphins reappeared. Escorting the skiff. They seemed to invite the son of wild ages to follow them towards the open sea, towards a horizon embroiled in the sun. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

Red Planet. Copyright 1949 by Robert Anson Heinlein. For Tish. Reformatted from a scan 2023. Chapter One. Willis. The thin air of Mars was chill but not really cold. It was not yet winter in southern latitudes and the daytime temperature was usually above freezing. The queer creature standing outside the door of a dome shaped building was generally manlike in appearance, but no human being ever had a head like that. A thing like a coxcomb jutted out above the skull, the eye lenses were wide and staring, and the front of the face stuck out in a snout. The unearthly appearance was increased by a pattern of black and yellow tiger stripes covering the entire head. The creature was armed with a pistol-type hand weapon slung at its belt and was carrying, crooked in its right arm, a ball, larger than a basketball, smaller than a medicine ball. It moved the ball to its left arm, opened the outer door of the building and stepped inside. Inside was a very small anteroom and an inner door. As soon as the outer door was closed the air pressure in the anteroom began to rise, accompanied by a soft sighing sound. A loudspeaker over the inner door shouted in a booming bass, “Well? Who is it? Speak up! Speak up!” The visitor placed the ball carefully on the floor, then with both hands grasped its ugly face and pushed and lifted it to the top of its head. Underneath was disclosed the face of an Earth human boy. “It’s Jim Marlowe, Doc,” he answered. “Well, come in. Come in! Don’t stand out there chewing your nails.” “Coming.” When the air pressure in the anteroom had equalized with the pressure in the rest of the house the inner door opened automatically. Jim said, “Come along, Willis,” and went on in. The ball developed three spaced bumps on its lower side and followed after him, in a gait which combined spinning, walking, and rolling. More correctly, it careened, like a barrel being manhandled along a dock. They went down a passage and entered a large room that occupied half the floor space of the circular house plan. Doctor MacRae looked up but did not get up. “Howdy, Jim. Skin yourself. Coffee on the bench. Howdy, Willis,” he added and turned back to his work. He was dressing the hand of a boy about Jim’s age. “Thanks, Doc, oh, hello, Francis. What are you doing here?” “Hi, Jim. I killed a water-seeker, then I cut my thumb on one of its spines.” “Quit squirming!” commanded the doctor. “That stuff stings,” protested Francis. “I meant it to.” “How in the world did you do that?” persisted Jim. “You ought to know better than to touch one of those things. Just burn “Em down and burn “Em up.” He zipped open the front of his outdoor costume, peeled it off his arms and legs and hung it on a rack near the door. The rack held Francis’s suit, the headpiece of which was painted in bright colours like an Indian brave’s war paint, and the doctor’s suit, the mask of which was plain. Jim was now stylishly and appropriately dressed for indoors on Mars, in bright red shorts. “I did burn it,” explained Francis, “But it moved when I touched it. I wanted to get the tail to make a necklace.” “Then you didn’t burn it right. Probably left it full of live eggs. Who’re you making a necklace for?” “None of your business. And I did so burn the egg sac. What do you take me for? A tourist?” “Sometimes I wonder. You know those things don’t die until sundown.” “Don’t talk nonsense, Jim,” the doctor advised. “Now, Frank, I’m going to give you an antitoxin shot. “Twon’t do you any good but it’ll make your mother happy. Long about tomorrow your thumb will swell up like a poisoned pup; bring it back and I’ll lance it.” “Am I going to lose my thumb?” the boy asked. “No, but you’ll do your scratching with your left hand for a few days. Now, Jim, what brings you here? Tummy ache?” “No, Doc, it’s Willis.” “Willis, eh? He looks pert enough to me.” The doctor stared down at the creature. Willis was at his feet, having come up to watch the dressing of Frank’s thumb. To do so he had protruded three eye stalks from the top of his spherical mass. The stalks stuck up like thumbs, in an equal-sided triangle, and from each popped a disturbingly human eye. The little fellow turned around slowly on his tripod of bumps, or pseudopeds, and gave each of his eyes a chance to examine the doctor. “Get me up a cup of Java, Jim,” commanded the doctor, then leaned over and made a cradle of his hands. “Here, Willis, upsidaisy!” Willis gave a little bounce and landed in the doctor’s hands, withdrawing all protuberances as he did so. The doctor lifted him to the examining table; Willis promptly stuck out legs and eyes again. They stared at each other. The doctor saw a ball covered with thick, close-cropped fur, like sheared sheepskin, and featureless at the moment save for supports and eye stalks. The Mars creature saw an elderly male Earthman almost completely covered with wiry grey-and-white hair. The middle portion of this strange, un Martian creature was concealed in snow-white shorts and shirt. Willis enjoyed looking at him. “How do you feel, Willis?” inquired the doctor. “Feel good? Feel bad?” A dimple showed at the very crown of the ball between the stalks, dilated to an opening. “Willis fine!” he said. His voice was remarkably like Jim’s. “Fine, eh?” Without looking around the doctor added, “Jim! Wash those cups again. And this time, sterilize them. Want everybody around here to come down with the pip?” “Okay, Doc,” Jim acknowledged, and added to Francis, “You want some coffee, too?” “Sure. Weak, with plenty of cow.” “Don’t be fussy.” Jim dipped into the laboratory sink and managed to snag another cup. The sink was filled with dirty dishes. Nearby a large flask of coffee simmered over a Bunsen burner. Jim washed three cups carefully, put them through the sterilizer, then filled them. Doctor MacRae accepted a cup and said, “Jim, this citizen says he’s okay. What’s the trouble?” “I know he says he’s all right, Doc, but he’s not. Can’t you examine him and find out?” “Examine him? How, boy? I can’t even take his temperature because I don’t know what his temperature ought to be. I know as much about his body chemistry as a pig knows about patty cake. Want me to cut him open and see what makes him tick?” Willis promptly withdrew all projections and became as featureless as a billiard ball. “Now you’ve scared him,” Jim said accusingly. “Sorry.” The doctor reached out and commenced scratching and tickling the furry ball. “Good Willis, nice Willis. Nobody’s going to hurt Willis. Come on, boy, come out of your hole.” Willis barely dilated the sphincter over his speaking diaphragm. “Not hurt Willis?” he said anxiously in Jim’s voice. “Not hurt Willis. Promise.” “Not cut Willis?” “Not cut Willis. Not a bit.” The eyes poked out slowly. Somehow he managed an expression of watchful caution, though he had nothing resembling a face. “That’s better,” said the doctor. “Let’s get to the point, Jim. What makes you think there’s something wrong with this fellow, when he and I can’t see it?” “Well, Doc, it’s the way he behaves. He’s all right indoors, but outdoors, He used to follow me everywhere, bouncing around the landscape, poking his nose into everything.” “He hasn’t got a nose,” Francis commented. “Go to the head of the class. But now, when I take him out, he just goes into a ball and I can’t get a thing out of him. If he’s not sick, why does he act that way?” “I begin to get a glimmering,” Doctor MacRae answered. “How long have you been teamed up with this balloon?” Jim thought back over the twenty-four months of the Martian year. “Since along toward the end of Zeus, nearly November.” “And now here it is the last of March, almost Ceres, and the summer gone. That suggest anything to your mind?” “Uh, no,” “You expect him to go hopping around through the snow? We migrate when it gets cold; he lives here.” Jim’s mouth dropped open. “You mean he’s trying to hibernate?” “What else? Willis’s ancestors have had a good many millions of years to get used to the seasons around here; you can’t expect him to ignore them.” Jim looked worried. “I had planned to take him with me to Syrtis Minor.” “Syrtis Minor? Oh, yes, you go away to school this year, don’t you? You, too, Frank.” “You bet!” “I can’t get used to the way you kids grow up. I came to Mars so that the years would be twice as long, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference, they spin faster.” ‘Say, Doc, how old are you?” inquired Francis. “Never mind. Which one of you is going to study medicine and come back to help me with my practice?” Neither one answered. “Speak up, speak up!” urged the doctor. “What are you going to study?” Jim said, “Well, I don’t know. I’m interested in areography, but I like biology, too. Maybe I’ll be a planetary economist, like my old man.” “That’s a big subject. Ought to keep you busy a long time. You, Frank?” Francis looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, uh, shucks, I still think I’D like to be a rocket pilot.” “I thought you had outgrown that.” “Why not?” Francis answered. “I might make it.” “On your own head be it. Speaking of such things, you younkers go to school before the colony migrates, don’t you?” Since Earth-humans do not hibernate, it was necessary that the colony migrate twice each Martian year. The southern summer was spent at Charax, only thirty degrees from the southern pole; the colony was now about to move to Copais in Utopia, almost as far to the north, there to remain half a Martian year, or almost a full Earth year. There were year-around establishments near the equator, New Shanghai, Marsport, Syrtis Minor, others, but they were not truly colonies, being manned mainly by employees of the Mars Company. By contract and by charter the Company was required to provide advanced terrestrial education on Mars for colonists; it suited the Company to provide it only at Syrtis Minor. “We go next Wednesday,” said Jim, “On the mail scooter.” “So soon?” “Yes, and that’s what worries me about Willis. What ought I to do, Doc?” Willis heard his name and looked inquiringly at Jim. He repeated, in exact imitation of Jim, “What ought I to do, Doc?” “Shut up, Willis.” “Shut up, Willis.” Willis imitated the doctor just as perfectly. “Probably the kindest thing would be to take him out, find him a hole, and stuff him in it. You can renew your acquaintance when he’s through hibernating.” “But, Doc, that means I’ll lose him! He’ll be out long before I’m home from school. Why, he’ll probably wake up even before the colony comes back.” “Probably.” MacRae thought about it. “It won’t hurt him to be on his own again. It’s not a natural life he leads with you, Jim. He’s an individual, you know; he’s not property.” “Of course he’s not! He’s my friend.” “I can’t see,” put in Francis, “Why Jim sets such store by him. Sure, he talks a lot, but most of it is just parrot stuff. He’s a moron, if you ask me.” “Nobody asked you. Willis is fond of me, aren’t you, Willis? Here, come to papa.” Jim spread his arms; the little Martian creature hopped into them and settled in his lap, a warm, furry mass, faintly pulsating. Jim stroked him. “Why don’t you ask one of the Martians?” suggested MacRae. “I tried to, but I couldn’t find one that was in a mood to pay any attention.” “You mean you weren’t willing to wait long enough. A Martian will notice you if you’re patient. Well, why don’t you ask him? He can speak for himself.” “What should I say?” “I’ll try it. Willis!” Willis turned two eyes on the doctor; MacRae went on, “Want to go outdoors and find a place to sleep?” “Willis not sleepy.” “Get sleepy outdoors. Nice and cold, find hole in ground. Curl up and take good long sleep. How about it?” “No!” The doctor had to look sharply to see that it was not Jim who had answered; when Willis spoke for himself he always used Jim’s voice. Willis’s sound diaphragm had no special quality of its own, any more than has the diaphragm of a radio loudspeaker. It was much like a loudspeaker’s diaphragm, save that it was part of a living animal. “That seems definite, but we’ll try it from another angle. Willis, do you want to stay with Jim?” “Willis stay with Jim.” Willis added meditatively, “Warm!” “There’s the key to your charm, Jim,” the doctor said dryly. “He likes your blood temperature. But ipse dixit, keep him with you. I don’t think it will hurt him. He may live fifty years instead of a hundred, but he’ll have twice as much fun.” “Do they normally live to be a hundred?” asked Jim. “Who knows? We haven’t been around this planet long enough to know such things. Now come on, get out. I’ve got work to do.” The doctor eyed his bed thoughtfully. It had not been made in a week; he decided to let it wait until wash day. “What does ipse dixit mean, Doc?” asked Francis. “It means, He sure said a mouthful.” “Doc,” suggested Jim, “Why don’t you have dinner with us tonight. I’ll call mother. You, too, Frank.” “Not me,” Frank said. “I’D better not. My mother says I eat too many meals with you folks.” “My mother, if she were here, would undoubtedly say the same thing,” admitted the doctor. “Call your mother, Jim.” Jim went to the phone, turned out two colonial housewives gossiping about babies, and finally reached his home on an alternate frequency. When his mother’s face appeared on the screen he explained his wish. “Delighted to have the doctor with us,” she said. “Tell him to hurry along, Jimmy.” “Right away, Mom!” Jim switched off and reached for his outdoor suit. “Don’t put it on,” advised MacRae. “It’s too chilly out. We’ll go through the tunnels.” “It’s twice as far,” objected Jim. “We’ll leave it up to Willis. Willis, how do you vote?” “Warm,” said Willis smugly. Areography: equivalent to “Geography” for Earth. From “Ares,” Greek for Mars. Chapter Two. South Colony, Mars. South colony was arranged like a wheel. The administration building was the hub; tunnels ran out in all directions and buildings were placed over them. A rim tunnel had been started to join the spokes at the edge of the wheel; thus far a forty-five degree arc had been completed. Save for three Moon huts erected when the colony was founded and since abandoned, all the buildings were shaped alike. Each was a hemispherical bubble of silicone plastic, processed from the soil of Mars and blown on the spot. Each was a double bubble, in fact; first one large bubble would be blown, say thirty or forty feet across; when it had hardened, the new building would be entered through the tunnel and an inner bubble, slightly smaller than the first, would be blown. The outer bubble “Polymerized”, that is to say, cured and hardened, under the rays of the sun; a battery of ultra-violet and heat lamps cured the inner. The walls were separated by a foot of dead air space, which provided insulation against the bitter subzero nights of Mars. When a new building had hardened, a door would be cut to the outside and a pressure lock installed; the colonials maintained about two-thirds Earth-normal pressure indoors for comfort and the pressure on Mars is never as much as half of that. A visitor from Earth, not conditioned to the planet, will die without a respirator. Among the colonists only Tibetans and Bolivian Indians will venture outdoors without respirators and even they will wear the snug elastic Mars suits to avoid skin hemorrhages. Buildings had not even view windows, any more than a modern building in New York has. The surrounding desert, while beautiful, is monotonous. South Colony was in an area granted by the Martians, just north of the ancient city of Charax, there is no need to give the Martian name since an Earthman can’t pronounce it, and between the legs of the double canal Strymon. Again we follow colonial custom in using the name assigned by the immortal Doctor Percival Lowell. Francis accompanied Jim and Doctor MacRae as far as the junction of the tunnels under city hall, then turned down his own tunnel. A few minutes later the doctor and Jim, and Willis, ascended into the Marlowe home. Jim’s mother met them; Doctor MacRae bowed. “Madame, I am again imposing on your good nature.” “Fiddlesticks, Doctor. You are always welcome at our table.” “I would that I had the character to wish that you were not so superlative a cook, that you might know the certain truth: it is yourself, my dear, that brings me here.” Jim’s mother blushed. She changed the subject. “Jim, hang up your pistol. Don’t leave it on the sofa where Oliver can get it.” Jim’s baby brother, hearing his name, immediately made a dash for the pistol. Jim and his sister Phyllis both saw this, both yelled, “Ollie!”, and were immediately mimicked by Willis, who performed the difficult trick, possible only to an atonal diaphragm, of duplicating both voices simultaneously. Phyllis was nearer; she grabbed the gun and slapped the child’s hands. Oliver began to cry, reinforced by Willis. “Children!” said Missus Marlowe, just as Mister Marlowe appeared in the door. “What’s all the ruckus?” he inquired mildly. Doctor MacRae picked up Oliver, turned him upside down, and sat him on his shoulders. Oliver forgot that he was crying. Missus Marlowe turned to her husband. “Nothing, darling. I’m glad you’re home. Children, go wash for dinner, all of you.” The second generation trooped out. “What was the trouble?” Mister Marlowe repeated. A few moments later Mister Marlowe joined Jim in his son’s room. “Jim?” “Yes, Dad.” “What’s this about your leaving your gun where the baby could reach it?” Jim flushed. “It wasn’t charged, Dad.” “If all the people who had been killed with unloaded guns were laid end to end it would make quite a line up. You are proud of being a licensed gun wearer, aren’t you?” “Uh, yes, sir.” “And I’m proud to have you be one. It means you are a responsible, trusted adult. But when I sponsored you before the Council and stood up with you when you took your oath, I guaranteed that you would obey the regulations and follow the code, wholeheartedly and all the time, not just most of the time. Understand me?” “Yes, sir. I think I do.” “Good. Let’s go in to dinner.” Doctor MacRae dominated the dinner table talk, as he always did, with a soft rumble of salty comments and outrageous observations. Presently he turned to Mister Marlowe and said, “You said something earlier about another twenty years and we could throw away our respirators; tell me: is there news about the Project?” The colony had dozens of projects, all intended to make Mars more livable for human beings, but the Project always meant the atmosphere, or oxygen, project. The pioneers of the Harvard-Carnegie expedition reported Mars suitable for colonization except for the all-important fact that the air was so thin that a normal man would suffocate. However they reported also that many, many billions of tons of oxygen were locked in the Martian desert sands, the red iron oxides that give Mars its ruddy color. The Project proposed to free this oxygen for humans to breathe. “Didn’t you hear the Deimos newscast this afternoon?” Mister Marlowe answered. “Never listen to newscasts. Saves wear and tear on the nervous system.” “No doubt. But this was good news. The pilot plant in Libya is in operation, successful operation. The first day’s run restored nearly four million tons mass of oxygen to the air, and no breakdowns.” Missus Marlowe looked startled. “Four million tons? That seems a tremendous lot.” Her husband grinned. “Any idea how long it would take that one plant at that rate to do the job, that is, increase the oxygen pressure by five mass-pounds per square inch?” “Of course I haven’t. But not very long I should think.” “Let me see, “His lips moved soundlessly. “Uh, around two hundred thousand years, Mars years, of course.” “James, you’re teasing me!” “No, I’m not. Don’t let big figures frighten you, my dear; of course we won’t depend on one plant; they’ll be scattered every fifty miles or so through the desert, a thousand mega-horsepower each. There’s no limit to the power available, thank goodness; if we don’t clean up the job in our lifetimes, at least the kids will certainly see the end of it.” Missus Marlowe looked dreamy. “That would be nice, to walk outside with your bare face in the breeze. I remember when I was a little girl, we had an orchard with a stream running through it,” She stopped. “Sorry we came to Mars, Jane?” her husband asked softly. “Oh, no! This is my home.” “Good. What are you looking sour about, Doctor?” “Eh? Oh, nothing, nothing! I was just thinking about the end result. Mind you, this is fine work, all of it, hard work, good work, that a man can get his teeth into. But we get it done and what for? So that another two billion, three billion sheep can fiddle around with nonsense, spend their time scratching themselves and baaing. We should have left Mars to the Martians. Tell me, sir, do you know what television was used for when it first came out?” “No, how would I?” “Well, I didn’t see it myself of course, but my father told me about it. It seems. ’ “Your father? How old was he? When was he born?” “My grandfather then. Or it may have been my great grandfather. That’s beside the point. They installed the first television sets in cocktail bars, amusement places, and used them to watch wrestling matches.” “What’s a wrestling match?” demanded Phyllis. “An obsolete form of folk dancing,” explained her father. “Never mind. Granting your point, Doctor, I see no harm.” “What’s folk dancing?” persisted Phyllis. “You tell her, Jane. She’s got me stumped.” Jim looked smug. “It’s when folks dance, silly.” “That’s near enough,” agreed his mother. Doctor MacRae stared. “These kids are missing something. I think I’ll organize a square dancing club. I used to be a pretty good caller, once upon a time.” Phyllis turned to her brother. “Now I suppose you’ll tell me that square dancing is when a square dances.” Mister Marlowe raised his eyebrows. “I think the children have all finished, my dear. Couldn’t they be excused?” “Yes, surely. You may leave, my dears. Say Excuse me, please, Ollie.” The baby repeated it, with Willis in mirror chorus. Jim hastily wiped his mouth, grabbed Willis, and headed for his own room. He liked to hear the doctor talk but he had to admit that the old boy could babble the most fantastic nonsense when other grown-ups were around. Nor did the discussion of the oxygen project interest Jim; he saw nothing strange nor uncomfortable about wearing his mask. He would feel undressed going outdoors without it. From Jim’s point of view Mars was all right the way it was, no need to try to make it more like Earth. Earth was no great shakes anyway. His own personal recollection of Earth was limited to vague memories from early childhood of the emigrants’ conditioning station on the high Bolivian plateau, cold, shortness of breath, and great weariness. His sister trailed after him. He stopped just inside his door and said, “What do you want, shorty?” “Well, Lookie, Jimmy, seeing as I’m going to have to take care of Willis after you’ve gone away to school, maybe it would be a good idea for you to sort of explain it to him, so he would do what I tell him without any trouble.” Jim stared. “Whatever gave you the notion I was going to leave him behind?” She stared back. “But you are! You’ll have to. You can’t take him to school. You ask mother.” “Mother hasn’t anything to do with it. She doesn’t care what I take to school.” “Well, you oughtn’t to take him, even if she doesn’t object. I think you’re mean.” “You always think I’m mean if I don’t cater to your every wish!” “Not to me, to Willis. This is Willis’s home; he’s used to it. He’ll be homesick away at school.” “He’ll have me!” “Not most of the time, he won’t. You’ll be in class. Willis wouldn’t have anything to do but sit and mope. You ought to leave him here with me, with us, where he’d be happy.” Jim straightened himself up. “I’m going to find out about this, right away.” He walked back into the living compartment and waited aggressively to be noticed. Shortly his father turned toward him. “Yes? What is it, Jim? Something eating you?” “Uh, well, look, Dad, is there any doubt about Willis going with me when I go away to school?” His father looked surprised. “It had never occurred to me that you would consider taking him.” “Huh? Why not?” “Well, school is hardly the place for him.” “Why?” “Well, you wouldn’t be able to take care of him properly. You’ll be awfully busy.” “Willis doesn’t take much care. Just feed him every month or so and give him a drink about once a week and he doesn’t ask for anything else. Why can’t I take him, Dad?” Mister Marlowe looked baffled; he turned to his wife. She started in, “Now, Jimmy darling, we don’t want you to.” Jim interrupted, “Mother, every time you want to talk me out of something you start out, Jimmy darling!” Her mouth twitched but she kept from smiling. “Sorry, Jim. Perhaps I do. What I was trying to say was this: we want you to get off to a good start at school. I don’t believe that having Willis on your hands will help any.” Jim was stumped for the moment, but was not ready to give up. “Look, Mother. Look, Dad. You both saw the pamphlet the school sent me, telling me what to do and what to bring and when to show up and so forth. If either one of you can find anything anywhere in those instructions that says I can’t take Willis with me, I’ll shut up like a Martian. Is that fair?” Missus Marlowe looked inquiringly at her husband. He looked back at her with the same appeal for help in his expression. He was acutely aware that Doctor MacRae was watching both of them, not saying a word but wearing an expression of sardonic amusement. Mister Marlowe shrugged. “Take Willis along, Jim. But he’s your problem.” Jim’s face broke out in a grin. “Thanks, Dad!” He left the room quickly in order not to give his parents time to change their minds. Mister Marlowe banged his pipe on an ashtray and glowered at Doctor MacRae. “Well, what are you grinning at, you ancient ape? You think I’m too indulgent, don’t you?” “Oh, no, not at all! I think you did perfectly right.” “You think that pet of Jim’s won’t cause him trouble at school?” “On the contrary. I have some familiarity with Willis’s peculiar social habits.” “Then why do you say I did right?” “Why shouldn’t the boy have trouble? Trouble is the normal condition for the human race. We were raised on it. We thrive on it.” “Sometimes, Doctor, I think that you are, as Jim would put it, crazy as a spin bug.” “Probably. But since I am the only medical man around, I am not likely to be committed for it. Missus Marlowe, could you favor an old man with another cup of your delicious coffee?” “Certainly, Doctor.” She poured for him, then went on. “James, I am not sorry you decided to let Jim take Willis. It will be a relief.” “Why, dear? Jim was correct when he said that the little beggar isn’t much trouble.” “Well, he isn’t really. But, I just wish he weren’t so truthful.” “So? I thought he was the perfect witness in settling the children’s squabbles?” “Oh, he is. He’ll play back anything he hears as accurately as a transcriber. That’s the trouble.” She looked upset, then chuckled. “You know Missus Pottle?” “Of course.” The doctor added, “How can one avoid it? I, unhappy man, am in charge of her nerves.” Missus Marlowe asked, “Is she actually sick, Doctor?” “She eats too much and doesn’t work enough. Further communication is forbidden by professional ethics.” “I didn’t know you had any.” “Young lady, show respect for my white hairs. What about this Pottle female?” “Well, Luba Konski had lunch with me last week and we got to talking about Missus Pottle. Honest, James, I didn’t say much and I did not know that Willis was under the table.” “He was?” Mister Marlowe covered his eyes. “Do go on.” “Well, you both remember that the Konskis housed the Pottles at North Colony until a house was built for them. Sarah Pottle has been Luba’s pet hate ever since, and Tuesday Luba was giving me some juicy details on Sarah’s habits at home. Two days later Sarah Pottle stopped by to give me advice on how to bring up children. Something she said triggered Willis, I knew he was in the room but I didn’t think anything of it, and Willis put on just the wrong record and I couldn’t shut him up. I finally carried him out of the room. Missus Pottle left without saying goodbye and I haven’t heard from her since.” “That’s no loss.” her husband commented. ‘True, but it got Luba in Dutch. No one could miss Luba’s accent and Willis does it better than she does herself. I don’t think Luba minds, though, and you should have heard Willis’s playback of Luba’s description of how Sarah Pottle looks in the morning, and what she does about it.” “You should hear,” answered MacRae, “Missus Pottle’s opinions on the servant problem.” “I have. She thinks it’s a scandal that the Company doesn’t import servants for us.” The doctor nodded. “With collars riveted around their necks.” “That woman! I can’t see why she ever became a colonist.” “Didn’t you know?” her husband said. “They came out here expecting to get rich in a hurry.” “Humph!” Doctor MacRae got a far-away look. “Missus Marlowe, speaking as her physician, it might help me to hear what Willis has to say about Missus Pottle. Do you suppose he would recite for us?” “Doctor, you’re an old fraud, with a taste for gossip.” “Granted. I like also eavesdropping.” “You’re shameless.” “Again granted. My nerves are relaxed. I haven’t felt ashamed in years.” “Willis may just give a thrilling account of the children’s chit-chat for the past two weeks.” “Perhaps if you coaxed him?” Missus Marlowe suddenly dimpled. “It won’t hurt to try.” She left the room to fetch Jim’s globular friend. Chapter Three. Gekko. Wednesday morning dawned clear and cold, as mornings have a habit of doing on Mars. The Suttons and the Marlowes, minus Oliver, were gathered at the Colony’s cargo dock on the west leg of Strymon canal, ready to see the boys off. The temperature was rising and the dawn wind was blowing firmly, but it was still at least thirty below. Strymon canal was a steel-blue, hard sheet of ice and would not melt today in this latitude. Resting on it beside the dock was the mail scooter from Syrtis Minor, its boat body supported by razor-edged runners. The driver was still loading it with cargo dragged from the warehouse on the dock. The tiger stripes on Jim’s mask, the war paint on Frank’s, and a rainbow motif on Phyllis’s made the young people easy to identify. The adults could be told apart only by size, shape, and manner; there were two extras, Doctor MacRae and Father Cleary. The priest was talking in low, earnest tones to Frank. He turned presently and spoke to Jim. “Your own pastor asked me to say good-bye to you, son. Unfortunately the poor man is laid up with a touch of Mars throat. He would have come anyhow had I not hidden his mask.” The Protestant chaplain, as well as the priest, was a bachelor; the two shared a house. “Is he very sick?” asked Jim. “Not that sick. But take his blessing, and mine too.” He offered his hand. Jim dropped his travel bag, shifted his ice skates and Willis over to his left arm and shook hands. There followed an awkward silence. Finally Jim said, “Why don’t you all go inside before you freeze to death?” “Yeah,” agreed Francis. “That’s a good idea.” “I think the driver is about ready now,” Mister Marlowe countered. “Well, son, take care of yourself. We’ll see you at migration.” He shook hands solemnly. “So long, Dad.” Missus Marlowe put her arms around him, pressed her mask against his and said, “Oh, my little boy, you’re too young to go away from home!” “Oh, Mother, please!” But he hugged her. Then Phyllis had to be hugged. The driver called out: “Board!” ”Bye everybody!” Jim turned away, felt his elbow caught. It was the doctor. “Take care of yourself, Jim. And don’t take any gruff off of anybody.” “Thanks, Doc,” Jim turned and presented his school authorization to the driver while the doctor bade Francis good-bye. The driver looked it over. “Both deadheads, eh? Well, seeing as how there aren’t any pay passengers this morning you can ride in the observatory.” He tore off his copy; Jim climbed inside and went up to the prized observation seats behind and above the driver’s compartment. Frank joined him. The craft trembled as the driver jacked the runners loose from the ice, then with a roar from the turbine and a soft, easy surge the car got under way. The banks flowed past them and melted into featureless walls as the speed picked up. The ice was mirror smooth; they soon reached cruising speed of better than two hundred fifty miles per hour. Presently the driver removed his mask; Jim and Frank, seeing him, did likewise. The car was pressurized now by an air ram faced into their own wind of motion; it was much warmer, too, from the air’s compression. “Isn’t this swell?” said Francis. “Yes. Look at Earth.” Their mother planet was riding high above the Sun in the north eastern sky. It blazed green against a deep purple background. Close to it, but easy to separate with the naked eye, was a lesser, pure white star, Luna, Earth’s moon. Due north of them, in the direction they were going, Deimos, Mars’ outer moon, hung no more than twenty degrees above the horizon. Almost lost in the rays of the sun, it was a tiny pale disc, hardly more than a dim star and much outshone by Earth. Phobos, the inner moon, was not in sight. At the latitude of Charax it never rose more than eight degrees or so above the northern horizon and that for an hour or less, twice a day. In the daytime it was lost in the blue of the horizon and no one would be so foolhardy as to watch for it in the bitter night. Jim did not remember ever having seen it except during migration between colonies. Francis looked from Earth to Deimos. “Ask the driver to turn on the radio,” he suggested. “Deimos is up.” “Who cares about the broadcast?” Jim answered. “I want to watch.” The banks were not so high now; from the observation dome he could see over them into the fields beyond. Although it was late in the season the irrigated belt near the canal was still green and getting greener as he watched, as the plants came out of the ground to seek the morning sunlight. He could make out, miles away, an occasional ruddy sand dune of the open desert. He could not see the green belt of the east leg of their canal; it was over the horizon. Without urging, the driver switched on his radio; music filled the car and blotted out the monotonous low roar of the turbo-jet. It was terrestrial music, by Sibelius, a classical composer of another century. Mars colony had not yet found time to develop its own arts and still borrowed its culture. But neither Jim nor Frank knew who the composer was, nor cared. The banks of the canal had closed in again; there was nothing to see but the straight ribbon of ice; they settled back and day-dreamed. Willis stirred for the first time since he had struck the outer cold. He extended his eye stalks, looked inquiringly around, then commenced to beat time with them. Presently the music stopped and a voice said: “This is station D-M-S, the Mars Company, Deimos, circum Mars. We bring you now by relay from Syrtis Minor a program in the public interest. Doctor Graves Armbruster will speak on Ecological Considerations involved in Experimental Artificial Symbiotics as related to.” The driver promptly switched the radio off. “I would like to have heard that,” objected Jim. “It sounded interesting.” “Oh, you’re just showing off,” Frank answered. “You don’t even know what those words mean.” “The dickens I don’t. It means.” “Shut up and take a nap.” Taking his own advice Frank lay back and closed his eyes. However he got no chance to sleep. Willis had apparently been chewing over, in whatever it was he used for a mind, the programme he had just heard. He opened up and started to play it back, woodwinds and all. The driver looked back and up, looked startled. He said something but Willis drowned him out. Willis bulled on through to the end, even to the broken-off announcement. The driver finally made himself heard. “Hey, you guys! What you got up there? A portable recorder?” “No, a bouncer.” “A what?” Jim held Willis up so that the driver could see him. “A bouncer. His name is Willis.” The driver stared. “You mean that thing is a recorder?” “No, he’s a bouncer. As I said, his name is Willis.” ‘This I got to see,” announced the driver. He did something at his control board, then turned around and stuck his head and shoulders up into the observation dome. Frank said, “Hey! You’ll wreck us.” “Relax,” advised the driver. “I put her on echo-automatic. High banks for the next couple o’ hundred miles. Now what is this gismo? When you brought it aboard I thought it was a volley ball.” “No, it’s Willis. Say hello to the man, Willis.” “Hello, man,” Willis answered agreeably. The driver scratched his head. “This beats anything I ever saw in Keokuk. Sort of a parrot, eh?” “He’s a bouncer. He’s got a scientific name, but it just means Martian roundhead. Never seen one before?” “No, you know, bud, this is the screwiest planet in the whole system.” “If you don’t like it here,” asked Jim, “Why don’t you go back where you came from?” “Don’t go popping off, youngster. How much will you take for the gismo? I got an idea I could use him.” “Sell Willis? Are you crazy?” “Sometimes I think so. Oh, well, it was just an idea.” The driver went back to his station, stopping once to look back and stare at Willis. The boys dug sandwiches out of their travel bags and munched them. After that Frank’s notion about a nap seemed a good idea. They slept until wakened by the car slowing down. Jim sat up, blinked and called down, “What’s up?” “Coming into Cynia Station,” the driver answered. “Lay over until sundown.” “Won’t the ice hold?” “Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t. The temperature’s up and I’m not going to chance it.” The car slid softly to a stop, then started again and crawled slowly up a low ramp, stopped again. “All out!” the driver called. “Be back by sundown, or get left.” He climbed out; the boys followed. Cynia Station was three miles west of the ancient city of Cynia, where west Strymon joins the canal Oeroe. It was merely a lunchroom, a bunkhouse, and a row of pre-fab warehouses. To the east the feathery towers of Cynia gleamed in the sky, seemed almost to float, too beautifully unreal to be solid. The driver went into the little inn. Jim wanted to walk over and explore the city; Frank favoured stopping in the restaurant first. Frank won out. They went inside and cautiously invested part of their meagre capital in coffee and some indifferent soup. The driver looked up from his dinner presently and said, “Hey, George! Ever see anything like that?” He pointed to Willis. George was the waiter. He was also the cashier, the hotel keeper, the station agent, and the Company representative. He glanced at Willis. “Yep.” “You did, huh? Where? Do you suppose I could find one?” “Doubt it. You see “Em sometimes, hanging around the Martians. Not many of “Em.” He turned back to his reading, a New York Times, more than two years old. The boys finished, paid their bills, and prepared to go outside. The cook-waiter-station-agent said, “Hold on. Where are you kids going?” “Syrtis Minor.” “Not that. Where are you going right now? Why don’t you wait in the dormitory? Take a nap if you like.” “We thought we would kind of explore around outside,” explained Jim. “Okay. But stay away from the city.” “Why?” “Because the Company doesn’t allow it, that’s why. Not without permission. So stay clear of it.” “How do we get permission?” Jim persisted. “You can’t. Cynia hasn’t been opened up to exploitation yet.” He went back to his reading. Jim was about to continue the matter but Frank tugged at his sleeve. They went outside together. Jim said, “I don’t think he has any business telling us we can’t go to Cynia.” “What’s the difference? He thinks he has.” “What’ll we do now?” “Go to Cynia, of course. Only we won’t consult his nibs.” “Suppose he catches us?” “How can he? He won’t stir off that stool he’s warming. Come on.” “Okay.” They set out to the east. The going was not too easy; there was no road of any sort and all the plant growth bordering the canal was spread out to its greatest extent to catch the rays of the midday sun. But Mars’ low gravity makes walking easy work even over rough ground. They came shortly to the bank of Oeroe and followed it to the right, toward the city. The way was easy along the smooth stone of the bank. The air was warm and balmy even though the surface of the canal was still partly frozen. The sun was high; they were the better part of a thousand miles closer to the equator than they had been at daybreak. “Warm,” said Willis. “Willis want down.” “Okay,” Jim agreed, “But don’t fall in.” “Willis not fall in.” Jim put him down and the little creature went skipping and rolling along the bank, with occasional excursions into the thick vegetation, like a puppy exploring a new pasture. They had gone perhaps a mile and the towers of the city were higher in the sky when they encountered a Martian. He was a small specimen of his sort, being not over twelve feet tall. He was standing quite still, all three of his legs down, apparently lost in contemplation of the whichness of what. The eye facing them stared unblinkingly. Jim and Frank were, of course, used to Martians and recognized that this one was busy in his “Other world”; they stopped talking and continued on past him, being careful not to brush against his legs. Not so Willis. He went darting around the Martian’s peds, rubbing against them, then stopped and let out a couple of mournful croaks. The Martian stirred, looked around him, and suddenly bent and scooped Willis up. “Hey!” yelled Jim. “Put him down!” No answer. Jim turned hastily to Frank. “You talk to him, Frank. I’ll never be able to make him understand me. Please!” Of the Martian dominant language Jim understood little and spoke less. Frank was somewhat better, but only by comparison. Those who speak Martian complain that it hurts their throats. “What’ll I say?” “Tell him to put Willis down!” “Relax. Martians never hurt anybody.” “Well, tell him to put Willis down, then.” “I’ll try.” Frank screwed up his mouth and got to work. His accent, bad at best, was made worse by the respirator and by nervousness. Nevertheless he clucked and croaked his way through a phrase that seemed to mean what Jim wanted. Nothing happened. He tried again, using a different idiom; still nothing happened. “It’s no good, Jim,” he admitted. “Either he doesn’t understand me or he doesn’t want to bother to listen.” Jim shouted, “Willis! Hey, Willis! Are you all right?” “Willis fine!” “Jump down! I’ll catch you.” “Willis fine.” The Martian wobbled his head, seemed to locate Jim for the first time. He cradled Willis in one arm; his other two arms came snaking suddenly down and enclosed Jim, one palm flap cradling him where he sat down, the other slapping him across the belly. He felt himself lifted and held and then he was staring into a large liquid Martian eye which stared back at him. The Martian “Man” rocked his head back and forth and let each of his eyes have a good look. It was the closest Jim had ever been to a Martian; he did not care for it. Jim tried to wiggle away, but the fragile appearing Martian was stronger than he was. Suddenly the Martian’s voice boomed out from the top of his head. Jim could not understand what was being said although he spotted the question symbol at the beginning of the phrase. But the Martian’s voice had a strange effect on him. Croaking and uncouth though it was, it was filled with such warmth and sympathy and friendliness that the native no longer frightened him. Instead he seemed like an old and trusted friend. The Martian repeated the question. “What did he say, Frank?” “I didn’t get it. He’s friendly but I can’t understand him.” The Martian spoke again; Frank listened. “He’s inviting you to go with him, I think.” Jim hesitated a split second. “Tell him okay.” “Jim, are you crazy?” “It’s all right. He means well. I’m sure of it.” “Well, all right.” Frank croaked the phrase of assent. The native gathered up one leg and strode rapidly away toward the city. Frank trotted after. He tried his best to keep up, but the pace was too much for him. He paused, gasping, then shouted, “Wait for me,” his voice muffled by his mask. Jim tried to phrase a demand to stop, gave up, then got an inspiration. “Say, Willis, Willis boy. Tell him to wait for Frank.” “Wait for Frank?” Willis said doubtfully. “Yes. Wait for Frank.” “Okay.” Willis hooted at his new friend; the Martian paused and dropped his third leg. Frank came puffing up. The Martian removed one arm from Jim and scooped up Frank with it. “Hey!” Frank protested. “Cut it out.” “Take it easy,” advised Jim. “But I don’t want to be carried.” Frank’s reply was disturbed by the Martian starting up again. Thus burdened, he shifted to a three-legged gait in which at least two legs were always on the ground. It was bumpy but surprisingly fast. “Where do you suppose he is taking us?” asked Jim. “To the city I guess.” Frank added, “We don’t want to miss the scooter.” “We’ve got hours yet. Quit worrying.” The Martian said nothing more but continued slogging toward Cynia. Willis was evidently as happy as a bee in a flower shop. Jim settled down to enjoying the ride. Now that he was being carried with his head a good ten feet above ground his view was much improved; he could see over the tops of the plants growing by the canal and beyond them to the iridescent towers of Cynia. The towers were not like those of Charax; no two Martian cities looked alike. It was as if each were a unique work of art, each expressing the thoughts of a different artist. Jim wondered why the towers had been built, what they were good for, how old they were. The canal crops spread out around them, a dark green sea in which the Martian waded waist deep. The broad leaves were spread flat to the sun’s rays, reaching greedily for life-giving radiant energy. They curled aside as the native’s body brushed them, to spread again as he passed. The towers grew much closer; suddenly the Martian stopped and set the two boys down. He continued to carry Willis. Ahead of them, almost concealed by overhanging greenery, a ramp slanted down into the ground and entered a tunnel arch. Jim looked at it and said, “Frank, what do you think?” “Gee, I don’t know.” The boys had been inside the cities of Charax and Copais, but only in the abandoned parts and at ground level. They were not allowed time to fret over their decision; their guide started down the slope at a good clip. Jim ran after him, shouting, “Hey, Willis!” The Martian stopped and exchanged a couple of remarks with Willis; the bouncer called out, “Jim wait.” ‘Tell him to put you down.” “Willis fine. Jim wait.” The Martian started up again at a pace that Jim could not possibly match. Jim went disconsolately back to the start of the ramp and sat down on the ledge thereof. “What are you going to do?” demanded Frank. “Wait, I suppose. What else can I do? What are you going to do?” “Oh, I’ll stick. But I’m not going to miss the scooter.” “Well, neither am I. We couldn’t stay here after sundown anyhow.” The precipitous drop in temperature at sunset on Mars is almost all the weather there is, but it means death by freezing for an Earth human unless he is specially clothed and continuously exercising. They sat and waited and watched spin bugs skitter past. One stopped by Jim’s knee, a little tripod of a creature, less than an inch high; it appeared to study him. He touched it; it flung out its limbs and whirled away. The boys were not even alert, since a water-seeker will not come close to a Martian settlement; they simply waited. Perhaps a half hour later the Martian, or, at least, a Martian of the same size, came back. He did not have Willis with him. Jim’s face fell. But the Martian said, “Come with me,” in his own tongue, prefacing the remark with the question symbol. “Do we or don’t we?” asked Frank. “We do. Tell him so.” Frank complied. The three started down. The Martian laid a great hand flap on the shoulders of each boy and herded him along. Shortly he stopped and picked them up. This time they made no objection. The tunnel seemed to remain in full daylight even after they had penetrated several hundred yards underground. The light came from everywhere but especially from the ceiling. The tunnel was large by human standards but no more than comfortably roomy for Martians. They passed several other natives; if another was moving their host always boomed a greeting, but if he was frozen in the characteristic trance-like immobility no sound was made. Once their guide stepped over a ball about three feet in diameter. Jim could not make out what it was at first, then he did a double-take and was still more puzzled. He twisted his neck and looked back at it. It couldn’t be, but it was! He was gazing at something few humans ever see, and no human ever wants to see: a Martian folded and rolled into a ball, his hand flaps covering everything but his curved back. Martians, modern, civilized Martians, do not hibernate, but at some time remote eons in the past their ancestors must have done so, for they are still articulated so that they can assume the proper, heat-conserving, moisture-conserving globular shape, if they wish. They hardly ever so wish. For a Martian to roll up is the moral equivalent of an Earthly duel to the death and is resorted to only when that Martian is offended so completely that nothing less will suffice. It means: I cast you out, I leave your world, I deny your existence. The first pioneers on Mars did not understand this, and, through ignorance of Martian values, offended more than once. This delayed human colonization of Mars by many years; it took the most skilled diplomats and semanticians of Earth to repair the unwitting harm. Jim stared unbelievingly at the withdrawn Martian and wondered what could possibly have caused him to do that to an entire city. He remembered a grisly tale told him by Doctor MacRae concerning the second expedition to Mars. “So this dumb fool,” the doctor had said, “A medical lieutenant he was, though I hate to admit it, this idiot grabs hold of the beggar’s flaps and tries to unroll him. Then it happened.” “What happened?” Jim had demanded. “He disappeared.” “The Martian?” “No, the medical officer.” “Huh? How did he disappear?” “Don’t ask me; I didn’t see it. The witnesses, four of “Em, with sworn statements, say there he was and then there he wasn’t. As if he had met a boojum.” “What’s a boojum?” Jim had wanted to know. “You modern kids don’t get any education, do you? The boojum is in a book; I’ll dig up a copy for you.” “But how did he disappear?” “Don’t ask me. Call it mass hypnosis if it makes you feel any better. It makes me feel better, but not much. All I can say is that seven-eighths of an iceberg never shows.” Jim had never seen an iceberg, so the allusion was wasted on him, but he felt decidedly not better when he saw the rolled up Martian. “Did you see that?” demanded Frank. “I wish I hadn’t,” said Jim. “I wonder what happened?” “Maybe he ran for mayor and lost.” “It’s nothing to joke about. Maybe he, Sssh!” Jim broke off. He caught sight of another Martian, immobile, but not rolled up; politeness called for silence. The Martian carrying them made a sudden turn to the left and entered a hall; he put them down. The room was very large to them; to Martians it was probably suitable for a cozy social gathering. There were many of the frames they use as a human uses a chair and these were arranged in a circle. The room itself was circular and domed; it had the appearance of being outdoors for the domed ceiling simulated Martian sky, pale blue at the horizon, increasing to warmer blue, then to purple, and reaching purple-black with stars piercing through at the highest point of the ceiling. A miniature sun, quite convincing, hung west of the meridian. By some trick of perspective the pictured horizons were apparently distant. On the north wall Oeroe seemed to flow past. Frank’s comment was, “Gee whiz!” Jim did not manage that much. Their host had placed them by two resting frames. The boys did not attempt to use them; stepladders would have been more comfortable and convenient. The Martian looked first at them, then at the frames, with great sorrowful eyes. He left the room. He came back very shortly, followed by two others; all three were carrying loads of colourful fabrics. They dumped them down in a pile in the middle of the room. The first Martian picked up Jim and Frank and deposited them gently on the heap. “I think he means, Draw up a chair,” commented Jim. The fabrics were not woven but were a continuous sheet, like cobweb, and almost as soft, though much stronger. They were in all hues of all colours from pastel blue to deep, rich red. The boys sprawled on them and waited. Their host relaxed himself on one of the resting frames; the two others did the same. No one said anything. The two boys were decidedly not tourists; they knew better than to try to hurry a Martian. After a bit Jim got an idea; to test it he cautiously raised his mask. Frank snapped, “Say! What “Cha trying to do? Choke to death?” Jim left his mask up. “It’s all right. The pressure is up.” “It can’t be. We didn’t come through a pressure lock.” “Have it your own way.” Jim left his mask up. Seeing that he did not turn blue, gasp, nor become slack-featured, Frank ventured to try it himself. He found himself able to breathe without trouble. To be sure, the pressure was not as great as he was used to at home and it would have seemed positively stratospheric to an Earthling, but it was enough for a man at rest. Several other Martians drifted in and unhurriedly composed themselves on frames. After a while Frank said, “Do you know what’s going on, Jim?” “Uh, maybe.” “No maybes about it. It’s a growing-together.” “Growing together’ is an imperfect translation of a Martian idiom which names their most usual social event, in bald terms, just sitting around and saying nothing. In similar terms, violin music has been described as dragging a horse’s tail across the dried gut of a cat. “I guess you’re right,” agreed Jim. “We had better button our lips.” “Sure.” For a long time nothing was said. Jim’s thoughts drifted away, to school and what he would do there, to his family, to things in the past. He came back presently to personal self-awareness and realized that he was happier than he had been in a long time, with no particular reason that he could place. It was a quiet happiness; he felt no desire to laugh nor even to smile, but he was perfectly relaxed and content. He was acutely aware of the presence of the Martians, of each individual Martian, and was becoming even more aware of them with each drifting minute. He had never noticed before how beautiful they were. “Ugly as a native’ was a common phrase with the colonials; Jim recalled with surprise that he had even used it himself, and wondered why he ever had done so. He was aware, too, of Frank beside him and thought about how much he liked him. Staunch, that was the word for Frank, a good man to have at your back. He wondered why he had never told Frank that he liked him. Mildly he missed Willis, but he was not worried about him. This sort of a party was not Willis’s dish; Willis liked things noisy, boisterous, and unrefined. Jim put aside the thought of Willis, lay back, and soaked in the joy of living. He noted with delight that the unknown artist who had designed this room had arranged for the miniature sun to move across the ceiling just as the true Sun moved across the sky. He watched it travel to the west and presently begin to drop toward the pictured horizon. There came a gentle booming behind him, he could not catch the words, and another Martian answered. One of them unfolded himself from his resting stand and ambled out of the room. Frank sat up and said, “I must have been dreaming.” “Did you go to sleep?” asked Jim. “I didn’t.” “The heck you didn’t. You snored like Doc MacRae.” “Why, I wasn’t even asleep.” “Says you!” The Martian who had left the room returned. Jim was sure it was the same one; they no longer looked alike to him. He was carrying a drinking vase. Frank’s eyes bulged out. “Do you suppose they are going to serve us water?” “Looks like,” Jim answered in an awed voice. Frank shook his head. “We might as well keep this to ourselves; nobody’ll ever believe us.” “You’re right.” The ceremony began. The Martian with the vase announced his own name, barely touched the stem of the vase and passed it on. The next Martian gave his name and also simulated drinking. Around the circle it came. The Martian who had brought them in, Jim learned, was named “Gekko”; it seemed a pretty name to Jim and fitting. At last the vase came around to Jim; a Martian handed it to him with the wish, “May you never suffer thirst.” The words were quite clear to him. There was an answering chorus around him: “May you drink deep whenever you wish!” Jim took the vase and reflected that Doc said that the Martians didn’t have anything that was catching for humans. “Jim Marlowe!” he announced, placed the stem in his mouth and took a sip. As he handed it back he dug into his imperfect knowledge of the dominant language, concentrated on his accent and managed to say, “May water ever be pure and plentiful for you.” There was an approving murmur that warmed him. The Martian handed the vase to Frank. With the ceremony over the party broke up in noisy, almost human chatter. Jim was trying vainly to follow what was being said to him by a Martian nearly three times his height when Frank said, “Jim! You see that sun? We’re going to miss the scooter!” “Huh? That’s not the real Sun; that’s a toy.” “No, but it matches the real Sun. My watch says the same thing.” “Oh, for Pete’s sake! Where’s Willis? Gekko, where’s Gekko?” Gekko, on hearing his name, came over; he clucked inquiringly at Jim. Jim tried very hard to explain their trouble, tripped over syntax, used the wrong directive symbols, lost his accent entirely. Frank shoved him aside and took over. Presently Frank said, “They’ll get us there before sunset, but Willis stays here.” “Huh? They can’t do that!” “That’s what the man says.” Jim thought. “Tell them to bring Willis here and ask him.” Gekko was willing to do that. Willis was carried in, placed upon the floor. He waddled up to Jim and said, “Hi, Jim boy! Hi, Frank boy!” “Willis,” said Jim earnestly, “Jim is going away. Willis come with Jim?” Willis seemed puzzled. “Stay here. Jim stay here. Willis stay here. Good.” “Willis,” Jim said frantically, “Jim has got to go away. Willis come with Jim?” “Jim go?” “Jim go.” Willis almost seemed to shrug. “Willis go with Jim,” he said sadly. ‘Tell Gekko.” Willis did so. The Martian seemed surprised, but there was no further argument. He gathered up both boys and the bouncer and started for the door. Another larger Martian , tagged “G’Kuro’ Jim recalled, relieved Gekko of Frank and tailed along behind. As they climbed the tunnel Jim found suddenly that he needed his mask; Frank put his on, too. The withdrawn Martian was still cluttering the passageway; both their porters stepped over him without comment. The sun was very low when they got to the surface. Although a Martian cannot be hastened, his normal pace makes very good time; the long-legged pair made nothing of the three miles back to Cynia Station. The sun had just reached the horizon and the air was already bitter when the boys and Willis were dumped on the dock. The two Martians left at once, hurrying back to the warmth of their city. “Good-bye, Gekko!” Jim shouted. “Good-bye, G’Kuro!” The driver and the station master were standing on the dock; it was evident that the driver was ready to start and had been missing his passengers. “What in the world?” said the station master. “We’re ready to go,” said Jim. “So I see,” said the driver. He stared at the retreating figures. He blinked and turned to the agent. “We should have left that stuff alone, George. I’m seeing things.” He added to the boys, “Well, get aboard.” They did so and climbed up to the dome. The car clumped down off the ramp to the surface of the ice, turned left onto Oeroe canal and picked up speed. The Sun dropped behind the horizon; the landscape was briefly illuminated by the short Martian sunset. On each bank the boys could see the plants withdrawing for the night. In a few minutes the ground, so lush with vegetation a half hour before, was bare as the true desert. The stars were out, sharp and dazzling. Soft curtains of aurora hung over the skyline. In the west a tiny steady light rose and fought its way upwards against the motion of the stars. “There’s Phobos,” said Frank. “Look!” “I see it,” Jim answered. “It’s cold. Let’s turn in.” “Okay. I’m hungry.” “I’ve got some sandwiches left.” They munched one each, then went down into the lower compartment and crawled into bunks. In time the car passed the city Hesperidum and turned west-northwest onto the canal Erymanthus, but Jim was unaware of it; Jim was dreaming that Willis and he were singing a duet for the benefit of amazed Martians. “All out! End of the line!” The driver was prodding them. “Huh?” “Up you come, shipmate. This is it, Syrtis Minor.” Chapter Four. Lowell Academy. Dear Mother and Dad, The reason I didn’t phone you when we got in Wednesday night was that we didn’t get in until Thursday morning. When I tried to phone on Thursday the operator told me that Deimos had set for South Colony and then I knew it would be about three days until I could relay a call through Deimos and a letter would get there sooner and save you four and a half credits on a collect phone call. Heinlein Index: https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html