PukeOnABook

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

Rocket Ship Galileo. Robert Anson Heinlein. Reformatted from a scan, 2023. Contents Chapter 1, “LET THE ROCKET ROAR” Chapter 2, A MAN-SIZED CHALLENGE Chapter 3, CUT -RATE COLUMBUS Chapter 4, THE BLOOD OF PIONEERS Chapter 5, GROWING PAINS Chapter 6, DANGER IN THE DESERT Chapter 7, “WE’LL GO IF WE HAVE TO WALK” Chapter 8, SKYWARD! Chapter 9, INTO THE LONE LYDEPTHS Chapter 10, THE METHOD OF SCIENCE Chapter 11, ONE ATOM WAR TOO MANY? Chapter 12, THE BARE BONE S Chapter 13, SOME BODY IS NUTS! Chapter 14, NO CHANCE A TALL! Chapter 15, WHAT POSSIBLE REAS ON? Chapter 16, THE SECRET BEHIND THE MOON Chapter 17, UNTIL WE ROT Chapter 18, TOO LITTLE TIME Chapter 19, SQUEEZE PLAY Chapter One. LET THE ROCKET ROAR. “Everybody all set?” Young Ross Jenkins glanced nervously at his two chums. “How about your camera, Art? You sure you got the lens cover off this time?” The three boys were huddled against a thick concrete wall, higher than their heads and about ten feet long. It separated them from a steel stand, anchored to the ground, to which was bolted a black metal shape, a pointed projectile, venomous in appearance and an ugly rocket. There were fittings on each side to which stub wings might be attached, but the fittings were empty; the creature was chained down for scientific examination. “How about it, Art?” Ross repeated. The boy addressed straightened up to his full five feet three and faced him. “Look,” Art Mueller answered, “of course I took the cover off, it’s on my check-off list. You worry about your rocket, last time it didn’t fire at all and I wasted twenty feet of film.” “But you forgot it once, okay, how about your lights?” For answer Art switched on his spot lights; the beams shot straight up, bounced against highly polished stainless-steel mirrors and brilliantly illuminated the model rocket and the framework which would keep it from taking off during the test. A third boy, Maurice Abrams, peered at the scene through a periscope which allowed them to look over the reinforced concrete wall which shielded them from the rocket test stand. “Pretty as a picture,” he announced, excitement in his voice. “Ross, do you really think this fuel mix is what we’re looking for?” Ross shrugged, “I don’t know. The lab tests looked good, we’ll soon know. All right, places everybody! Check-off lists, Art?” “Complete.” “Morrie?” “Complete.” “And mine’s complete. Stand by! I’m going to start the clock. Here goes!” He started checking off the seconds until the rocket was fired. “Minus ten, minus nine, minus eight, minus seven, minus six, minus five, minus four.” Art wet his lips and started his camera. “Minus three! Minus two! Minus one! Contact!” “Let it roar!” Morrie yelled, his voice already drowned by the ear-splitting noise of the escaping rocket gas. A great plume of black smoke surged out the orifice of the thundering rocket when it was first fired, billowed against an earth ramp set twenty feet behind the rocket test stand and filled the little clearing with choking fumes. Ross shook his head in dissatisfaction at this and made an adjustment in the controls under his hand. The smoke cleared away; through the periscope in front of him he could see the rocket exhaust on the other side of the concrete barricade. The flame had cleared of the wasteful smoke and was almost transparent, save for occasional sparks. He could actually see trees and ground through the jet of flame. The images shimmered and shook but the exhaust gases were smoke-free. “What does the dynamometer read?” he shouted to Morrie without taking his eyes away from the periscope. Morrie studied the instrument, rigged to the test stand itself, by means of a pair of opera glasses and his own periscope. “I can’t read it!” he shouted. “Yes, I can, wait a minute. Fifty-two, no, make it a hundred and fifty-two; it’s second time around. Hunder’ fiftytwo, fif-three, four. Ross, you’ve done it! You’ve done it! That’s more than twice as much thrust as the best we’ve ever had.” Art looked up from where he was nursing his motion-picture camera. It was a commercial 8-millimeter job, modified by him to permit the use of more film so that every second of a test could be recorded. The modification worked, but was cantankerous and had to be nursed along. “How much more time?,” he demanded. “Seventeen seconds,” Ross yelled at him. “Stand by, I’m going to give her the works.” He twisted his throttle-monitor valve to the right, wide open. The rocket responded by raising its voice from a deep-throated roar to a higher pitch with an angry overtone almost out of the audible range. It spoke with snarling menace. Ross looked up to see Morrie back away from his periscope and climb on a box, opera glasses in hand. “Morrie-get your head down!” The boy did not hear him against the scream of the jet, intent as he was on getting a better view of the rocket. Ross jumped away from the controls and dived at him, tackling him around the waist and dragging him down behind the safety of the barricade. They hit the ground together rather heavily and struggled there. It was not a real fight; Ross was angry, though not fighting mad, while Morrie was merely surprised. “What’s the idea?,” he protested, when he caught his breath. “You crazy idiot!” Ross grunted in his ear. “What were you trying to do? Get your head blown off?” “But I wasn’t.” But Ross was already clambering to his feet and returning to his place at the controls; Morrie’s explanation, if any, was lost in the roar of the rocket. “What goes on?” Art yelled. He had not left his place by his beloved camera, not only from a sense of duty but at least partly from indecision as to which side of the battle he should join. Ross heard his shout and turned to speak. “This goon,” he yelled bitterly, jerking a thumb at Morrie, “tried to.” Ross’s version of the incident was lost; the snarling voice of the rocket suddenly changed pitch, then lost itself in a boneshaking explosion. At the same time there was a dazzling flash which would have blinded the boys had they not been protected by the barricade, but which nevertheless picked out every detail of the clearing in the trees with brilliance that numbed the eyes. They were still blinking at the memory of the ghastly light when billowing clouds of smoke welled up from beyond the barricade, surrounded them, and made them cough. “Well,” Ross said bitterly and looked directly at Morrie, “that’s the last of the Starstruck Five.” “Look, Ross,” Morrie protested, his voice sounding shrill in the strange new stillness, “I didn’t do it. I was only trying to.” “I didn’t say you did,” Ross cut him short. “I know you didn’t do it. I had already made my last adjustment. She was on her own and she couldn’t take it. Forget it. But keep your head down after this-you darn near lost it. That’s what the barricade is for.” “But I wasn’t going to stick my head up. I was just going to try.” “Both of you forget it,” Art butted in. “So we blew up another one. So what? We’ll build another one. Whatever happened, I got it right here in the can.” He patted his camera. “Let’s take a look at the wreck.” He started to head around the end of the barricade. “Wait a minute,” Ross commanded. He took a careful look through his periscope, then announced: “Seems okay. Both fuel chambers are split. There can’t be any real danger now. Don’t burn yourselves. Come on.” They followed him around to the test stand. The rocket itself was a complete wreck but the test stand was undamaged; it was built to take such punishment. Art turned his attention to the dynamometer which measured the thrust generated by the rocket. “I’ll have to recalibrate this,” he announced. “The loop isn’t hurt, but the dial and the rack-and-pinion are shot.” The other two boys did not answer him; they were busy with the rocket itself. The combustion chamber was split wide open and it was evident that pieces were missing. “How about it, Ross?” Morrie inquired. “Do you figure it was the metering pump going haywire, or was the soup just too hot for it?” “Hard to tell,” Ross mused absently. “I don’t think it was the pump. The pump might jam and refuse to deliver fuel at all, but I don’t see how it could deliver too much fuel unless it reared back and passed a miracle.” “Then it must have been the combustion chamber. The throat is all right. It isn’t even pitted much,” he added as he peered at it in the gathering twilight. “Maybe. Well, let’s throw a tarp over it and look it over tomorrow morning. Can’t see anything now. Come on, Art.” “Okay. Just a sec while I get my camera.” He detached his camera from its bracket and placed it in its carrying case, then helped the other two drag canvas tarpaulins over all the test gear-one for the test stand, one for the barricade with its controls, instruments, and periscopes. Then the three turned away and headed out of the clearing. The clearing was surrounded by a barbed wire fence, placed there at the insistence of Ross’s parents, to whom the land belonged, in order to keep creatures, both four-legged and two legged, from wandering into the line of fire while the boys were experimenting. The gate in this fence was directly behind the barricade and about fifty feet from it. They had had no occasion to glance in the direction of the gate since the beginning of the test run-indeed, their attentions had been so heavily on the rocket that anything less than an earthquake would hardly have disturbed them. Ross and Morrie were a little in front with Art close at their heels, so close that, when they stopped suddenly, he stumbled over them and almost dropped his camera. “Hey, watch where you’re going, can’t you?” he protested. “Pick up your big feet!” They did not answer but stood still, staring ahead and at the ground. “What gives?” he went on. “Why the trance? Why do-oh!” He had seen it too. “It” was the body of a large man, crumpled on the ground, half in and half out the gate. There was a bloody wound on his head and blood on the ground. They all rushed forward together, but it was Morrie who shoved them back and kept them from touching the prone figure. “Take it easy!” he ordered. “Don’t touch him. Remember your first aid. That’s a head wound. If you touch him, you may kill him.” “But we’ve got to find out if he’s alive,” Ross objected. “I’ll find out. Here-give me those.” He reached out and appropriated the data sheets of the rocket test run from where they stuck out of Ross’s pocket. These he rolled into a tube about an inch in diameter, then cautiously placed it against the back of the still figure, on the left side over the heart. Placing his ear to the other end of the improvised stethoscope he listened. Ross and Art waited breathlessly. Presently his tense face relaxed into a grin. “His motor is turning over,” he announced. “Good and strong. At least we didn’t kill him.” “We?” “Who do you think? How do you think he got this way? Take a look around and you’ll probably find the piece of the rocket that konked him.” He straightened up. “But never mind that now. Ross, you shag up to your house and call an ambulance. Make it fast! Art and I will wait here with, with, uh, him. He may come to and we’ll have to keep him quiet.” “Okay.” Ross was gone as he spoke. Art was staring at the unconscious man. Morrie touched him on the arm. “Sit down, kid. No use getting in a sweat. We’ll have trouble enough later. Even if this guy isn’t hurt much I suppose you realize this about winds up the activities the Galileo Marching-and-Chowder Society, at least the rocketry-and-loud-noises branch of it.” Art looked unhappy. “I suppose so.” “Suppose nothing. It’s certain. Ross’s father took a very dim view of the matter the time we blew all the windows out of his basement, not that I blame him. Now we hand him this. Loss of the use of the land is the least we can expect. We’ll be lucky not to have handed him a suit for damages too. Art agreed miserably. “I guess it’s back to stamp collecting for us,” he assented, but his mind was elsewhere. Law suit. The use of the land did not matter. To be sure the use of the Old Ross Place on the edge of town had been swell for all three of them, what with him and his mother living in back of the store, and Morrie’s folks living in a flat, but-law suit! Maybe Ross’s parents could afford it; but the little store just about kept Art and his mother going, even with the afterschool jobs he had had ever since junior high, a law suit would take the store away from them. His first feeling of frightened sympathy for the wounded man was beginning to be replaced by a feeling of injustice done him. What was the guy doing there anyhow? It wasn’t just. “Let me have a look at this guy,” he said. “Don’t touch him,” Morrie warned. “I won’t. Got your pocket flash?” It was becoming quite dark in the clearing. “Sure. Here, catch.” Art took the little flashlight and tried to examine the face of their victim-hard to do, as he was almost face down and the side of his face that was visible was smeared with blood. Presently Art said in an odd tone of voice, “Morrie-would it hurt anything to wipe some of this blood away?” “You’re dern tootin’ it would! You let him be till the doctor comes.” “All right, all right. Anyhow I don’t need to, I’m sure anyhow. Morrie, I know who he is.” “You do? Who?” “He’s my uncle.” “Your uncle!” “Yes, my uncle. You know-the one I’ve told you about. He’s my Uncle Don. Doctor Donald Cargraves, my Atomic Bomb uncle.” Chapter Two. A MAN-SIZED CHALLENGE. “At least I’m pretty sure it’s my uncle,” Art went on. “I could tell for certain if I could see his whole face.” “Don’t you know whether or not he’s your uncle? After all, a member of your own family.” “Nope. I haven’t seen him since he came through here to see Mother, just after the war. That’s been a long time. I was just a kid then. But it looks like him.” “But he doesn’t look old enough,” Morrie said judiciously. “I should think, Here comes the ambulance!” It was indeed, with Ross riding with the driver to show him the road and the driver cussing the fact that the road existed mostly in Ross’s imagination. They were all too busy for a few minutes, worrying over the stranger as a patient, to be much concerned with his identity as an individual. “Doesn’t look too bad,” the interne who rode with the ambulance announced. “Nasty scalp wound. Maybe concussion, maybe not. Now over with him, easy! While I hold his head.” When turned face up and lifted into the stretcher, the patient’s eyes flickered; he moaned and seemed to try to say something. The doctor leaned over him. Art caught Morrie’s eye and pressed a thumb and forefinger together. There was no longer any doubt as to the man’s identity, now that Art had seen his face. Ross started to climb back in the ambulance but the interne waved him away. “But all of you boys show up at the hospital. We’ll have to make out an accident report on this.” As soon as the ambulance lumbered away Art told Ross about his discovery. Ross looked startled. “Your uncle, eh? Your own uncle. What was he doing here?” “I don’t know. I didn’t know he was in town.” “Say, look, I hope he’s not hurt bad, especially seeing as how he’s your uncle, but is this the uncle, the one you were telling us about who has been mentioned for the Nobel Prize?” “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. He’s my Uncle Donald Cargraves.” “Doctor Donald Cargraves!” Ross whistled. “Jeepers! When we start slugging people we certainly go after big game, don’t we?” “It’s no laughing matter. Suppose he dies? What’ll I tell my mother?” “I wasn’t laughing. Let’s get over to the hospital and find out how bad he’s hurt before you tell her anything. No use in worrying her unnecessarily.” Ross sighed, “I guess we might as well break the news to my folks. Then I’ll drive us over to the hospital.” “Didn’t you tell them when you telephoned?,” Morrie asked. “No. They were out in the garden, so I just phoned and then leaned out to the curb to wait for the ambulance. They may have seen it come in the drive but I didn’t wait to find out.” “I’ll bet you didn’t.” Ross’s father was waiting for them at the house. He answered their greetings, then said, “Ross.” “Yes, sir?” “I heard an explosion down toward your private stamping ground. Then I saw an ambulance drive in and drive away. What happened?” “Well, Dad, it was like this: We were making a full-power captive run on the new rocket and.” He sketched out the events. Mister Jenkins nodded and said, “I see. Come along, boys.” He started toward the converted stable which housed the family car. “Ross, run tell your mother where we are going. Tell her I said not to worry.” He went on, leaning on his cane a bit as he walked. Mister Jenkins was a retired electrical engineer, even-tempered and taciturn. Art could not remember his own father; Morrie’s father was still living but a very different personality. Mister Abrams ruled a large and noisy, children-cluttered household by combining a loud voice with lavish affection. When Ross returned, puffing, his father waved away his offer to drive. “No, thank you. I want us to get there.” The trip was made in silence. Mister Jenkins left them in the foyer of the hospital with an injunction to wait. “What do you think he will do?” Morrie asked nervously. “I don’t know. Dad’ll be fair about it.” “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Morrie admitted. “Right now I don’t want justice; I want charity.” “I hope Uncle Don is all right,” Art put in. “Huh? Oh, yes, indeed! Sorry, Art, I’m afraid we’ve kind of forgotten your feelings. The principal thing is for him to get well, of course.” “To tell the truth, before I knew it was Uncle Don, I was more worried over the chance that I might have gotten Mother into a law suit than I was over what we might have done to a stranger.” “Forget it,” Ross advised. “A person can’t help worrying over his own troubles. Dad says the test is in what you do, not in what you think. We all did what we could for him.” “Which was mostly not to touch him before the doctor came,” Morrie pointed out. “Which was what he needed.” “Yes,” agreed Art, “but I don’t check you, Ross, on it not mattering what you think as long as you act all right. It seems to me that wrong ideas can be just as bad as wrong ways to do things.” “Easy, now. If a guy does something brave when he’s scared to death is he braver than the guy who does the same thing but isn’t scared?” “He’s less, no, he’s more. You’ve got me all mixed up. It’s not the same thing.” “Not quite, maybe. Skip it.” They sat in silence for a long time. Then Morrie said, “Anyhow, I hope he’s all right.” Mister Jenkins came out with news. “Well, boys, this is your lucky day. Skull uninjured according to the X-ray. The patient woke when they sewed up his scalp. I talked with him and he has decided not to scalp any of you in return.” He smiled. “May I see him?” asked Art. “Not tonight. They’ve given him a hypo and he is asleep. I telephoned your mother, Art.” “You did? Thank you, sir.” “She’s expecting you. I’ll drop you by.” Art’s interview with his mother was not too difficult; Mister Jenkins had laid a good foundation. In fact, Missus Mueller was incapable of believing that Art could be “bad.” But she did worry about him and Mister Jenkins had soothed her, not only about Art but also as to the welfare of her brother. Morrie had still less trouble with Mister Abrams. After being assured that the innocent bystander was not badly hurt, he had shrugged. “So what? So we have lawyers in the family for such things. At fifty cents a week it’ll take you about five hundred years to pay it off. Go to bed.” “Yes, Poppa.” The boys gathered at the rocket testing grounds the next morning, after being assured by a telephone call to the hospital that Doctor Cargraves had spent a good night. They planned to call on him that afternoon; at the moment they wanted to hold a post-mortem on the ill-starred Starstruck Five. The first job was to gather up the pieces, try to reassemble them, and then try to figure out what had happened. Art’s film of the event would be necessary to complete the story, but it was not yet ready. They were well along with the reassembling when they heard a whistle and a shout from the direction of the gate. “Hello there! Anybody home?” “Coming!” Ross answered. They skirted the barricade to where they could see the gate. A tall, husky figure waited there, a man so young, strong, and dynamic in appearance that the bandage around his head seemed out of place, and still more so in contrast with his friendly grin. “Uncle Don!” Art yelled as he ran up to meet him. “Hi,” said the newcomer. “You’re Art. Well, you’ve grown a lot but you haven’t changed much.” He shook hands. “What are you doing out of bed? You’re sick.” “Not me,” his uncle asserted. “I’ve got a release from the hospital to prove it. But introduce me, are these the rest of the assassins?” “Oh-excuse me. Uncle Don, this is Maurice Abrams and this is Ross Jenkins. Doctor Cargraves.” “How do you do, sir?” “Glad to know you, Doctor.” “Glad to know you, too.” Cargraves started through the gate, then hesitated. “Sure this place isn’t booby-trapped?” Ross looked worried. “Say, Doctor-we’re all sorry as can be. I still can’t see how it happened. This gate is covered by the barricade.” “Ricochet shot probably. Forget it. I’m not hurt. A little skin and a little blood-that’s all. If I had turned back at your first warning sign, it wouldn’t have happened.” “How did you happen to be coming here?” “A fair question. I hadn’t been invited, had I?” “Oh, I didn’t mean that.” “But I owe you an explanation. When I breezed into town yesterday, I already knew of the Galileo Club; Art’s mother had mentioned it in letters. When my sister told me where Art was and what he was up to, I decided to slide over in hope of getting here in time to watch your test run. Your hired girl told me how to find my way out here.” “You mean you hurried out here just to see this stuff we play around with?” “Sure. Why not? I’m interested in rockets.” “Yes, but-we really haven’t got anything to show you. These are just little models.” “A new model,” Doctor Cargraves answered seriously, “of anything can be important, no matter who makes it nor how small it is. I wanted to see how you work. May I?” “Oh, certainly, sir-we’d be honored.” Ross showed their guest around, with Morrie helping out and Art chipping in. Art was pink-faced and happy, this was his uncle, one of the world’s great, a pioneer of the Atomic Age. They inspected the test stand and the control panel. Cargraves looked properly impressed and tut-tutted over the loss of Starstruck Five. As a matter of fact he was impressed. It is common enough in the United States for boys to build and take apart almost anything mechanical, from alarm clocks to hiked-up jaloppies. It is not so common for them to understand the sort of controlled and recorded experimentation on which science is based. Their equipment was crude and their facilities limited, but the approach was correct and the scientist recognized it. The stainless steel mirrors used to bounce the spotlight beams over the barricade puzzled Doctor Cargraves. “Why take so much trouble to protect light bulbs?” he asked. “Bulbs are cheaper than stainless steel.” “We were able to get the mirror steel free,” Ross explained. “The spotlight bulbs take cash money.” The scientist chuckled. “That reason appeals to me. Well, you fellows have certainly thrown together quite a set-up. I wish I had seen your rocket before it blew up.” “Of course the stuff we build,” Ross said diffidently, “can’t compare with a commercial unmanned rocket, say like a mailcarrier. But we would like to dope out something good enough to go after the junior prizes.” “Ever competed?” “Not yet. Our physics class in high school entered one last year in the novice classification. It wasn’t much, just a powder job, but that’s what got us started, though we’ve all been crazy about rockets ever since I can remember.” “You’ve got some fancy control equipment. Where do you do your machine-shop work? Or do you have it done?” “Oh, no. We do it in the high-school shop. If the shop instructor okays you, you can work after school on your own.” “It must be quite a high school,” the physicist commented. “The one I went to didn’t have a machine shop.” “I guess it is a pretty progressive school,” Ross agreed. “It’s a mechanical-arts-and-science high school and it has more courses in math and science and shop work than most. It’s nice to be able to use the shops. That’s where we built our telescope.” “Astronomers too, eh?” “Well-Morrie is the astronomer of the three of us.” “Is that so?” Cargraves inquired, turning to Morrie. Morrie shrugged. “Oh, not exactly. We all have our hobbies. Ross goes in for chemistry and rocket fuels. Art is a radio ham and a camera nut. You can study astronomy sitting down.” “I see,” the physicist replied gravely. “A matter of efficient self-protection. I knew about Art’s hobbies. By the way, Art, I owe you an apology; yesterday afternoon I took a look in your basement. But don’t worry-I didn’t touch anything.” “Oh, I’m not worried about your touching stuff, Uncle Don,” Art protested, turning pinker, “but the place must have looked a mess.” “It didn’t look like a drawing room but it did look like a working laboratory. I see you keep notebooks, no, I didn’t touch them, either!” “We all keep notebooks,” Morrie volunteered. “That’s the influence of Ross’s old man.” “Dad told me he did not care,” Ross explained, “how much I messed around as long as I kept it above the tinker-toy level. He used to make me submit notes to him on everything I tried and he would grade them on clearness and completeness. After a while I got the idea and he quit.” “Does he help you with your projects?” “Not a bit. He says they’re our babies and we’ll have to nurse them.” They prepared to adjourn to their clubhouse, an out-building left over from the days when the Old Ross Place was worked as a farm. They gathered up the forlorn pieces of Starstruck Five, while Ross checked each item. “I guess that’s all,” he announced and started to pick up the remains. “Wait a minute,” Morrie suggested. “We never did search for the piece that clipped Doctor Cargraves.” “That’s right,” the scientist agreed. “I have a personal interest in that item, blunt instrument, missile, shrapnel, or whatever. I want to know how close I came to playing a harp.” Ross looked puzzled. “Come here, Art,” he said in a low voice. “I am here. What do you want?” “Tell me what piece is still missing.” “What difference does it make?” But he bent over the box containing the broken rocket and checked the items. Presently he too looked puzzled. “Ross.” “Yeah?” “There isn’t anything missing.” “That’s what I thought. But there has to be.” “Wouldn’t it be more to the point,” suggested Cargraves, “to look around near where I was hit?” “I suppose so.” They all searched, they found nothing. Presently they organized a system which covered the ground with such thoroughness that anything larger than a medium-small ant should have come to light. They found a penny and a broken Indian arrowhead, but nothing resembling a piece of the exploded rocket. “This is getting us nowhere,” the doctor admitted. “Just where was I when you found me?” “Right in the gateway,” Morrie told him. “You were collapsed on your face and.” “Just a minute. On my face?” “Yes. You were.” “But how did I get knocked on my face? I was facing toward your testing ground when the lights went out. I’m sure of that. I should have fallen backwards.” “Well, I’m sure you didn’t, sir. Maybe it was a ricochet, as you said.” “Hum, maybe.” The doctor looked around. There was nothing near the gate which would make a ricochet probable. He looked at the spot where he had lain and spoke to himself. “What did you say, doctor?” “Uh? Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Forget it. It was just a silly idea I had. It couldn’t be.” He straightened up as if dismissing the whole thing. “Let’s not waste any more time on my vanishing blunt instrument. It was just curiosity. Let’s get on back.” The clubhouse was a one-story frame building about twenty feet square. One wall was filled with Ross’s chemistry workbench with the usual clutter of test-tube racks, bunsen burners, awkward-looking, pretzel-like arrangements of glass tubing, and a double sink which looked as if it had been salvaged from a junk dealer. A home-made hood with a hinged glass front occupied one end of the bench. Parallel to the adjacent wall, in a little glass case, a precision balance’ of a good make but of very early vintage stood mounted on its own concrete pillar. “We ought to have air-conditioning,” Ross told the doctor, “to do really good work.” “You haven’t done so badly,” Cargraves commented. The boys had covered the rough walls with ply board; the cracks had been filled and the interior painted with washable enamel. The floor they had covered with linoleum, salvaged like the sink, but serviceable. The windows and door were tight. The place was clean. “Humidity changes could play hob with some of your experiments, however,” he went on. “Do you plan to put in air-conditioning sometime?” “I doubt it. I guess the Galileo Club is about to fold up.” “What? Oh, that seems a shame.” “It is and it isn’t. This fall we all expect to go away to Tech.” “I see. But aren’t there any other members?” “There used to be, but they’ve moved, gone away to school, gone in the army. I suppose we could have gotten new members but we didn’t try. Well, we work together well and, you know how it is.” Cargraves nodded. He felt that he knew more explicitly than did the boy. These three were doing serious work; most of their schoolmates, even though mechanically minded, would be more interested in needling a stripped-down car up to a hundred miles an hour than in keeping careful notes. “Well, you are certainly comfortable here. It’s a shame you can’t take it with you.” A low, wide, padded seat stretched from wall to wall opposite the chemistry layout. The other two boys were sprawled on it, listening. Behind them, bookshelves had been built into the wall. Jules Verne crowded against Mark’s Handbook of Mechanical Engineering. Cargraves noted other old friends: H G Wells’ Seven Famous Novels, The Handbook of Chemistry and Physics, and Smyth’s Atomic Energy for Military Purposes. Jammed in with them, side by side with Ley’s Rockets and Eddington’s Nature of the Physical World, were dozens of pulp magazines of the sort with robot men or space ships on their covers. He pulled down a dog-eared copy of Haggard’s When the Earth Trembled and settled his long body between the boys. He was beginning to feel at home. These boys he knew; he had only to gaze back through the corridors of his mind to recognize himself. Ross said, “If you’ll excuse me, I want to run up to the house.” Cargraves grunted, “Sure thing,” with his nose still in the book. Ross came back to announce, “My mother would like all of you to stay for lunch.” Morrie grinned, Art looked troubled. “My mother thinks I eat too many meals over here as it is,” he protested feebly, his eyes on his uncle. Cargraves took him by the arm. “I’ll go your bail on this one, Art,” he assured him; then to Ross, “Please tell your mother that we are very happy to accept.” At lunch the adults talked, the boys listened. The scientist, his turban bandage looking stranger than ever, hit it off well with his elders. Anyone would hit it off well with Missus Jenkins, who could have been friendly and gracious at a cannibal feast, but the boys were not used to seeing Mister Jenkins in a chatty mood. The boys were surprised to find out how much Mister Jenkins knew about atomics. They had the usual low opinion of the mental processes of adults; Mister Jenkins they respected but had subconsciously considered him the anachronism which most of his generation in fact was, a generation as a whole incapable of realizing that the world had changed completely a few years before, at Alamogordo, New Mexico, on July 16, 1945. Yet Mister Jenkins seemed to know who Doctor Cargraves was and seemed to know that he had been retained until recently by North American Atomics. The boys listened carefully to find out what Doctor Cargraves planned to do next, but Mister Jenkins did not ask and Cargraves did not volunteer the information. After lunch the three and their guest went back to the clubhouse. Cargraves spent most of the afternoon spread over the bunk, telling stories of the early days at Oak Ridge when the prospect of drowning in the inescapable, adhesive mud was more dismaying than the ever-present danger of radioactive poisoning, and the story, old but ever new and eternally exciting, of the black, rainy morning in the New Mexico desert when a great purple-and-golden mushroom had climbed to the stratosphere, proclaiming that man had at last unloosed the power of the suns. Then he shut up, claiming that he wanted to re-read the old H Rider Haggard novel he had found. Ross and Morrie got busy at the bench; Art took a magazine. His eyes kept returning to his fabulous uncle. He noticed that the man did not seem to be turning the pages very often. Quite a while later Doctor Cargraves put down his book. “What do you fellows know about atomics?” The boys exchanged glances before Morrie ventured to answer. “Not much I guess. High-school physics can’t touch it, really, and you can’t mess with it in a home laboratory.” “That’s right. But you are interested?” “Oh, my, yes! We’ve read what we could, Pollard and Davidson, and Gamov’s new book. But we don’t have the math for atomics.” “How much math do you have?” “Through differential equations.” “Huh?” Cargraves looked amazed. “Wait a minute. You guys are still in high school?” “Just graduated.” “What kind of high school teaches differential equations? Or am I an old fuddy-duddy?” Morrie seemed almost defensive in his explanation. “It’s a new approach. You have to pass a test, then they give you algebra through quadratics, plane and spherical trigonometry, plane and solid geometry, and plane and solid analytical geometry all in one course, stirred in together. When you finish that course, and you take it as slow or as fast as you like, you go on.” Cargraves shook his head. “There’ve been some changes made while I was busy with the neutrons. Okay, Quiz Kids, at that rate you’ll be ready for quantum theory and wave mechanics before long. But I wonder how they go about cramming you this way? Do you savvy the postulational notion in math?” “Why, I think so.” “Tell me.” Morrie took a deep breath. “No mathematics has any reality of its own, not even common arithmetic. All mathematics is purely an invention of the mind, with no connection with the world around us, except that we find some mathematics convenient in describing things.” “Go on. You’re doing fine!” “Even then it isn’t real, or isn’t true, the way the ancients thought of it. Any system of mathematics is derived from purely arbitrary assumptions, called postulates, the sort of thing the ancients called axioms.” “Your jets are driving, kid! How about the operational notion in scientific theory? No, Art-you tell me.” Art looked embarrassed; Morrie looked pleased but relieved. “Well, uh, the operational idea is, uh, it’s building up your theory in terms of the operations you perform, like measuring, or timing, so that you don’t go reading into the experiments things that aren’t there.” Cargraves nodded. “That’s good enough, it shows you know what you’re talking about.” He kept quiet for a long time, then he added, “You fellows really interested in rockets?” Ross answered this time, “Why, er, yes, we are. Rockets among other things. We would certainly like to have a go at those junior prizes.” “That’s all?” “Well, no, not exactly. I guess we all think, well, maybe some day.” His voice trailed off. “I think I see.” Cargraves sat up. “But why bother with the competition? After all, as you pointed out, model rockets can’t touch the full-sized commercial jobs. The prizes are offered just to keep up interest in rocketry, it’s like the model airplane meets they used to have when I was a kid. But you guys can do better than that, why don’t you go in for the senior prizes?” Three sets of eyes were fixed on him. “What do you mean?” Cargraves shrugged. “Why don’t you go to the moon with me?” Chapter Three. CUT-RATE COLUMBUS. The silence that filled the clubhouse had a solid quality, as if one could slice it and make sandwiches. Ross recovered his voice first. “You don’t mean it,” he said in a hushed tone. “But I do,” Doctor Cargraves answered evenly. “I mean it quite seriously. I propose to try to make a trip to the moon. I’d like to have you fellows with me. Art,” he added, “close your mouth. You’ll make a draft.” Art gulped, did as he was told, then promptly opened it again. “But look,” he said, his words racing, “Uncle Don, if you take us, I mean, how could we-or if we did, what would we use for, how do you propose.” “Easy, easy!” Cargraves protested. “All of you keep quiet and I’ll tell you what I have in mind. Then you can think it over and tell me whether or not you want to go for it.” Morrie slapped the bench beside him. “I don’t care,” he said, “I don’t care if you’re going to try to fly there on your own broom, I’m in. I’m going along.” “So am I,” Ross added quickly, moistening his lips. Art looked wildly at the other two. “But I didn’t mean that I wasn’t, I was just asking, Oh, shucks! Me, too! You know that.” The young scientist gave the impression of bowing without getting up. “Gentlemen, I appreciate the confidence you place in me. But you are not committed to anything just yet.” “But.” “So kindly pipe down,” he went on, “and I’ll lay out my cards, face up. Then we’ll talk. Have you guys ever taken an oath?” “Oh, sure, Scout Oath, anyhow.” “I was a witness in court once.” “Fine. I want you all to promise, on your honor, not to spill anything I tell you without my specific permission, whether we do business or not. It is understood that you are not bound thereby to remain silent if you are morally obligated to speak up, you are free to tell on me if there are moral or legal reasons why you should. Otherwise, you keep mum, on your honor. How about it?” “Yes, sir!” “Right!” “Check.” “Okay,” agreed Cargraves, settling back on his spine. “That was mostly a matter of form, to impress you with the necessity of keeping your lips buttoned. You’ll understand why, later. Now here is the idea: All my life I’ve wanted to see the day when men would conquer space and explore the planets, and I wanted to take part in it. I don’t have to tell you how that feels.” He waved a hand at the book shelves. “Those books show me you understand it; you’ve got the madness yourselves. Besides that, what I saw out on your rocket grounds, what I see here, what I saw yesterday when I sneaked a look in Art’s lab, shows me that you aren’t satisfied just to dream about it and read about it, you want to do something. Right?” “Right!” It was a chorus. Cargraves nodded. “I felt the same way. I took my first degree in mechanical engineering with the notion that rockets were mechanical engineering and that I would need the training. I worked as an engineer after graduation until I had saved up enough to go back to school. I took my doctor’s degree in atomic physics, because I had a hunch, oh, I wasn’t the only one! I had a hunch that atomic power was needed for practical space ships. Then came the war and the Manhattan Project. When the Atomic Age opened up a lot of people predicted that space flight was just around the corner. But it didn’t work out that way-nobody knew how to harness the atom to a rocket. Do you know why?” Somewhat hesitantly Ross spoke up. “Yes, I think I do.” “Go ahead.” “Well, for a rocket you need mass times velocity, quite a bit of mass in what the jet throws out and plenty of velocity. But in an atomic reaction there isn’t very much mass and the energy comes out in radiations in all directions instead of a nice, lined-up jet. Just the same.” “Just the same what?” “Well, there ought to be a way to harness all that power. Darn it, with so much power from so little weight, there ought to be some way.” “Just what I’ve always thought,” Cargraves said with a grin. “We’ve built atomic plants that turn out more power than Boulder Dam. We’ve made atomic bombs that make the two used in the war seem like firecrackers. Power to burn, power to throw away. Yet we haven’t been able to hook it to a rocket. Of course there are other problems. An atomic power plant takes a lot of shielding to protect the operators, you know that. And that means weight. Weight is everything in a rocket. If you add another hundred pounds in dead load, you have to pay for it in fuel. Suppose your shield weighed only a ton, how much fuel would that cost you, Ross?” Ross scratched his head. “I don’t know what kind of fuel you mean nor what kind of a rocket you are talking about, what you want it to do.” “Fair enough,” the scientist admitted. “I asked you an impossible question. Suppose we make it a chemical fuel and a moon rocket and assume a mass-ratio of twenty to one. Then for a shield weighing a ton we have to carry twenty tons of fuel.” Art sat up suddenly. “Wait a minute, Uncle Don.” “Yes?” “If you use a chemical fuel, like alcohol and liquid oxygen say, then you won’t need a radiation shield.” “You got me, kid. But that was just for illustration. If you had a decent way to use atomic power, you might be able to hold your mass-ratio down to, let’s say, one-to-one. Then a one-ton shield would only require one ton of fuel to carry it. That suit you better?” Art wriggled in excitement. “I’ll say it does. That means a real space ship. We could go anywhere in it!” “But we’re still on earth,” his uncle pointed out dryly. “I said if. Don’t burn out your jets before you take off. And there is still a third hurdle: atomic power plants are fussy to control, hard to turn on, hard to turn off. But we can let that one alone till we come to it. I still think we’ll get to the moon.” He paused. They waited expectantly. “I think I’ve got a way to apply atomic power to rockets.” Nobody stood up. Nobody cheered. No one made a speech starting, “On this historic occasion.” Instead they held their breaths, waiting for him to go on. “Oh, I’m not going into details now. You’ll find out all about it, if we work together.” “We will!” “Sure thing!” “I hope so. I tried to interest the company I was with in the scheme, but they wouldn’t hold still.” “Gee whillickers! Why not?” “Corporations are in business to make money; they owe that to their stockholders. Do you see any obvious way to make money out of a flight to the moon?” “Shucks.” Art tossed it off. “They ought to be willing to risk going broke to back a thing like this.” “Nope. You’re off the beam, kid. Remember they are handling other people’s money. Have you any idea how much it would cost to do the research and engineering development, using the ordinary commercial methods, for anything as big as a trip to the moon?” “No,” Art admitted. “A good many thousands, I suppose.” Morrie spoke up. “More like a hundred thousand.” “That’s closer. The technical director of our company made up a tentative budget of a million and a quarter.” “Whew!” “Oh, he was just showing that it was not commercially practical. He wanted to adapt my idea to power plants for ships and trains. So I handed in my resignation.” “Good for you!” Morrie looked thoughtful. “I guess I see,” he said slowly, “why you swore us to secrecy. They own your idea.” Cargraves shook his head emphatically, “No, not at all. You certainly would be entitled to squawk if I tried to get you into a scheme to jump somebody else’s patent rights, even if they held them by a yellow-dog, brain-picking contract.” Cargraves spoke with vehemence. “My contract wasn’t that sort. The company owns the idea for the purposes for which the research was carried out, power. And I own anything else I see in it. We parted on good terms. I don’t blame them. When the Queen staked Columbus, nobody dreamed that he would come back with the Empire State Building in his pocket.” “Hey,” said Ross, “these senior prizes, they aren’t big enough. That’s why nobody has made a real bid for the top ones. The prize wouldn’t pay the expenses, not for the kind of budget you mentioned. It’s a sort of a swindle, isn’t it?” “Not a swindle, but that’s about the size of it,” Cargraves conceded. “With the top prize only $250,000 it won’t tempt General Electric, or du Pont, or North American Atomic, or any other big research corporation. They can’t afford it, unless some other profit can be seen. As a matter of fact, a lot of the prize money comes from those corporations.” He sat up again. “But we can compete for it!” “How?” “I don’t give a darn about the prize money. I just want to go!” “Me too!” Ross made the statement; Art chimed in. “My sentiments exactly. As to how, that’s where you come in. I can’t spend a million dollars, but I think there is a way to tackle this on a shoestring. We need a ship. We need the fuel. We need a lot of engineering and mechanical work. We need overhead expenses and supplies for the trip. I’ve got a ship.” “You have? Now? A space ship?” Art was wide-eyed. “I’ve got an option to buy an Atlantic freighter-rocket at scrap prices. I can swing that. It’s a good rocket, but they are replacing the manned freighters with the more economical robot controlled jobs. It’s a V-17 and it isn’t fit to convert to passenger service, so we get it as scrap. But if I buy it, it leaves me almost broke. Under the UN trusteeship for atomics, a senior member of the Global Association of Atomic Scientists, that’s me!” he stuck in, grinning, “can get fissionable material for experimental purposes, if the directors of the Association approve. I can swing that. I’ve picked thorium, rather than uranium-235, or plutonium-never mind why. But the project itself had me stumped, just too expensive. I was about ready to try to promote it by endorsements and lecture contracts and all the other clap, trap it sometimes takes to put over scientific work, when I met you fellows.” He got up and faced them. “I don’t need much to convert that old V-17 into a space ship. But I do need skilled hands and brains and the imagination to know what is needed and why. You’d be my mechanics and junior engineers and machine-shop workers and instrument men and presently my crew. You’ll do hard, dirty work for long hours and cook your own meals in the bargain. You’ll get nothing but coffee-and-cakes and a chance to break your necks. The ship may never leave the ground. If it does, chances are you’ll never live to tell about it. It won’t be one big adventure. I’ll work you till you’re sick of me and probably nothing will come of it. But that’s the proposition. Think it over and let me know.” There was the nerve-tingling pause which precedes an earthquake. Then the boys were on their feet, shouting all at once. It was difficult to make out words, but the motion had been passed by acclamation; the Galileo Club intended to go to the moon. When the buzzing had died down, Cargraves noticed that Ross’s face was suddenly grave. “What’s the matter, Ross? Cold feet already?” “No,” Ross shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s too good to be true.” “Could be, could be. I think I know what’s worrying you. Your parents?” “Uh, huh. I doubt if our folks will ever let us do it.” Chapter Four. THE BLOOD OF PIONEERS. Cargraves looked at their woebegone faces. He knew what they were faced with; a boy can’t just step up to his father and say, “By the way, old man, count me out on those plans we made for me to go to college. I’ve got a date to meet Santa Claus at the North Pole.” It was the real reason he had hesitated before speaking of his plans. Finally he said, “I’m afraid it’s up to each of you. Your promise to me does not apply to your parents, but ask them to respect your confidence. I don’t want our plans to get into the news.” “But look, Doctor Cargraves,” Morrie put in, “why be so secret about it? It might make our folks feel that it was just a wild-eyed kid’s dream. Why can’t you just go to them and explain where we would fit into it?” “No,” Cargraves answered, “they are your parents. When and if they want to see me, I’ll go to them and try to give satisfactory answers. But you will have to convince them that you mean business. As to secrecy, the reasons are these: there is only one aspect of my idea that can be patented and, under the rules of the UN Atomics Convention, it can be licensed by anyone who wants to use it. The company is obtaining the patent, but not as a rocket device. The idea that I can apply it to a cheap, shoestring venture into space travel is mine and I don’t want anyone else to beat me to it with more money and stronger backing. Just before we are ready to leave we will call in the reporters, probably to run a story about how we busted our necks on the take-off.” “But I see your point,” he went on. “We don’t want this to look like a mad-scientist-and-secret-laboratory set-up. Well, I’ll try to convince them.” Doctor Cargraves made an exception in the case of Art’s mother, because she was his own sister. He cautioned Art to retire to his basement laboratory as soon as dinner was over and then, after helping with the dishes, spoke to her. She listened quietly while he explained. “Well, what do you think of it? She sat very still, her eyes everywhere but on his face, her hands busy twisting and untwisting her handkerchief. “Don, you can’t do this to me.” He waited for her to go on. “I can’t let him go, Don. He’s all I’ve got. With Hans gone.” “I know that,” the doctor answered gently. “But Hans has been gone since Art was a baby. You can’t limit the boy on that account.” “Do you think that makes it any easier?” She was close to tears. “No, I don’t. But it is on Hans’ account that you must not keep his son in cotton batting. Hans had courage to burn. If he had been willing to knuckle under to the Nazis he would have stayed at Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. But Hans was a scientist. He wouldn’t trim his notion of truth to fit political gangsters. He.” “And it killed him!” “I know, I know. But remember, Grace, it was only the fact that you were an American girl that enabled you to pull enough strings to get him out of the concentration camp.” “I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. Oh, you should have seen him when they let him out!” She was crying now. “I did see him when you brought him to this country,” he said gently, “and that was bad enough. But the fact that you are American has a lot to do with it. We have a tradition of freedom, personal freedom, scientific freedom. That freedom isn’t kept alive by caution and unwillingness to take risks. If Hans were alive he would be going with me, you know that, Sis. You owe it to his son not to keep him caged. You can’t keep him tied to your apron strings forever, anyhow. A few more years and you will have to let him follow his own bent.” Her head was bowed. She did not answer. He patted her shoulder. “You think it over, Sis. I’ll try to bring him back in one piece.” When Art came upstairs, much later, his mother was still sitting, waiting for him. “Arthur?” “Yes, Mother.” “You want to go to the moon?” “Yes, Mother.” She took a deep breath, then replied steadily. “You be a good boy on the moon, Arthur. You do what your uncle tells you to.” “I will, Mother.” Morrie managed to separate his father from the rest of the swarming brood shortly after dinner. “Poppa, I want to talk to you man to man.” “And how else?” “Well, this is different. I know you wanted me to come into the business, but you agreed to help me go to Tech.” His father nodded. “The business will get along. Scientists we are proud to have in the family. Your Uncle Bernard is a fine surgeon. Do we ask him to help with the business?” “Yes, Poppa, but that’s just it-I don’t want to go to Tech.” “So? Another school?” “No, I don’t want to go to school.” He explained Doctor Cargraves’ scheme, blurting it out as fast as possible in an attempt to give his father the whole picture before he set his mind. Finished, he waited. His father rocked back and forth. “So it’s the moon now, is it? And maybe next week the sun. A man should settle down if he expects to accomplish anything, Maurice.” “But, Poppa, this is what I want to accomplish!” “When do you expect to start?” “You mean you’ll let me? I can?” “Not so fast, Maurice. I did not say yes; I did not say no. It has been quite a while since you stood up before the congregation and made your speech, ‘Today I am a man-‘ That meant you were a man, Maurice, right that moment. It’s not for me to let you; it’s for me to advise you. I advise you not to. I think it’s foolishness.” Morrie stood silent, stubborn but respectful. “Wait a week, then come back and tell me what you are going to do. There’s a pretty good chance that you will break your neck on this scheme, isn’t there?” “Well, yes, I suppose so.” “A week isn’t too long to make up your mind to kill yourself. In the meantime, don’t talk to Momma about this.” “Oh, I won’t!” “If you decide to go ahead anyway, I’ll break the news to her. Momma isn’t going to like this, Maurice.” Doctor Donald Cargraves received a telephone call the next morning which requested him, if convenient, to come to the Jenkins’ home. He did so, feeling, unreasonably he thought, as if he were being called in on the carpet. He found Mister and Missus Jenkins in the drawing room; Ross was not in sight. Mister Jenkins shook hands with him and offered him a chair. “Cigarette, Doctor? Cigar?” “Neither, thank you.” “If you smoke a pipe,” Missus Jenkins added, “please do so.” Cargraves thanked her and gratefully stoked up his old stinker. “Ross tells me a strange story,” Mister Jenkins started in. “If he were not pretty reliable I’d think his imagination was working overtime. Perhaps you can explain it.” “I’ll try, sir.” “Thanks. Is it true, Doctor, that you intend to try to make a trip to the moon.” “Quite true.” “Well! Is it also true that you have invited Ross and his chums to go with you in this fantastic adventure?” “Yes, it is.” Doctor Cargraves found that he was biting hard on the stem of his pipe. Mister Jenkins stared at him. “I’m amazed. Even if it were something safe and sane, your choice of boys as partners strikes me as outlandish.” Cargraves explained why he believed the boys could be competent junior partners in the enterprise. “In any case,” he concluded, “being young is not necessarily a handicap. The great majority of the scientists in the Manhattan Project were very young men.” “But not boys, Doctor.” “Perhaps not. Still, Sir Isaac Newton was a boy when he invented the calculus. Professor Einstein himself was only twenty-six when he published his first paper on relativity, and the work had been done when he was still younger. In mechanics and in the physical sciences, calendar age has nothing to do with the case; it’s solely a matter of training and ability.” “Even if what you say is true, Doctor, training takes time and these boys have not had time for the training you need for such a job. It takes years to make an engineer, still more years to make a toolmaker or an instrument man. Tarnation, I’m an engineer myself. I know what I’m talking about.” “Ordinarily I would agree with you. But these boys have what I need. Have you looked at their work?” “Some of it.” “How good is it?” “It’s good work, within the limits of what they know.” “But what they know is just what I need for this job. They are rocket fans now. They’ve learned in their hobbies the specialties I need.” Mister Jenkins considered this, then shook his head. “I suppose there is something in what you say. But the scheme is fantastic. I don’t say that space flight is fantastic; I expect that the engineering problems involved will some day be solved. But space flight is not a back-yard enterprise. When it comes it will be done by the air forces, or as a project of one of the big corporations, not by half-grown boys.” Cargraves shook his head. “The government won’t do it. It would be laughed off the floor of Congress. As for corporations, I have reason to be almost certain they won’t do it, either.” Mister Jenkins looked at him quizzically. “Then it seems to me that we’re not likely to see space flight in our lifetimes.” “I wouldn’t say so,” the scientist countered. “The United States isn’t the only country on the globe. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear some morning that the Russians had done it. They’ve got the technical ability and they seem to be willing to spend money on science. They might do it.” “Well, what if they do?” Cargraves took a deep breath. “I have nothing against the Russians; if they beat me to the moon, I’ll take off my hat to them. But I prefer our system to theirs; it would be a sour day for us if it turned out that they could do something as big and as wonderful as this when we weren’t even prepared to tackle it, under our set-up. Anyhow,” he continued, “I have enough pride in my own land to want it to be us, rather than some other country.” Mister Jenkins nodded and changed his tack. “Even if these three boys have the special skills you need, I still don’t see why you picked boys. Frankly, that’s why the scheme looks rattlebrained to me. You should have experienced engineers and mechanics and your crew should be qualified rocket pilots.” Doctor Cargraves laid the whole thing before them, and explained how he hoped to carry out his plans on a slim budget. When he had finished Mister Jenkins said, “Then as a matter of fact you braced these three boys because you were hard up for cash?” “If you care to put it that way.” “I didn’t put it that way; you did. Candidly, I don’t altogether approve of your actions. I don’t think you meant any harm, but you didn’t stop to think. I don’t thank you for getting Ross and his friends stirred up over a matter unsuited to their ages without consulting their parents first.” Donald Cargraves felt his mouth grow tense but said nothing; he felt that he could not explain that he had lain awake much of the night over misgivings of just that sort. “However,” Mister Jenkins went on, “I understand your disappointment and sympathize with your enthusiasm.” He smiled briefly. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll hire three mechanics, you pick them, and one junior engineer or physicist, to help you in converting your ship. When the time comes, I’ll arrange for a crew. Hiring will not be needed there, in my opinion, we will be able to pick from a long list of volunteers. Wait a minute,” he said, as Cargraves started to speak, “you’ll be under no obligation to me. We will make it a business proposition of a speculative sort. We’ll draw up a contract under which, if you make it, you assign to me a proper percentage of the prize money and of the profits from exclusive news stories, books, lectures, and so forth. Does that look like a way out?” Cargraves took a deep breath. “Mister Jenkins,” he said slowly, “if I had had that proposition last week, I would have jumped at it. But I can’t take it.” “Why not?” “I can’t let the boys down. I’m already committed.” “Would it make a difference if I told you there was absolutely no chance of Ross being allowed to go?” “No. I will have to go looking for just such a backer as yourself, but it can’t be you. It would smack too much of allowing myself to be bought off, No offense intended, Mister Jenkins! To welch on the proposition I made Ross.” Mister Jenkins nodded. “I was afraid you would feel that way. I respect your attitude, Doctor. Let me call Ross in and tell him the outcome.” He started for the door. “Just a moment, Mister Jenkins.” “Yes?” “I want to tell you that I respect your attitude, too. As I told you, the project is dangerous, quite dangerous. I think it is a proper danger but I don’t deny your right to forbid your son to risk his neck with me.” “I am afraid you don’t understand me, Doctor Cargraves. It’s dangerous, certainly, and naturally that worries me and Missus Jenkins, but that is not my objection. I would not try to keep Ross out of danger. I let him take flying lessons; I even had something to do with getting two surplus army trainers for the high school. I haven’t tried to keep him from playing around with explosives. That’s not the reason.” “May I asked what it is?” “Of course. Ross is scheduled to start in at the Technical Institute this fall. I think it’s more important for him to get a sound basic education than for him to be first man on the moon.” He turned away again. “Wait a minute! If it’s his education you are worried about, would you consider me a competent teacher?” “Eh? Well, yes.” “I will undertake to tutor the boys in technical and engineering subjects. I will see to it that they do not fall behind.” Mister Jenkins hesitated momentarily. “No, Doctor, the matter is settled. An engineer without a degree has two strikes against him to start with. Ross is going to get his degree.” He stepped quickly to the door and called out, “Ross!” “Coming, Dad.” The center of the argument ran downstairs and into the room. He looked around, first at Cargraves, then anxiously at his father, and finally at his mother, who looked up from her knitting and smiled at him but did not speak. “What’s the verdict?” he inquired. His father put it bluntly. “Ross, you start in school in the fall. I cannot okay this scheme.” Ross’s jaw muscles twitched but he did not answer directly. Instead he said to Cargraves, “How about Art and Morrie?” “Art’s going. Morrie phoned me and said his father didn’t think much of it but would not forbid it.” “Does that make any difference, Dad?” “I’m afraid not. I don’t like to oppose you, son, but when it comes right down to cases, I am responsible for you until you are twenty-one. You’ve got to get your degree.” “But, but, look, Dad. A degree isn’t everything. Heinlein Index: https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html

Rahan. Episode Forty Eight. The Weapons that fly. Story by Roger Lecruex. Art by Andre Cheret. It was scorching hot and the son of Crao stretched out happily in the shade of a large tree. It was then that he heard a slight rustle in the foliage and caught a glimpse of the man with the blowgun. He threw himself aside, barely avoiding the short dart that was intended for him! Pook! The man was already extracting another arrow from his curious bamboo quiver. If you want Rahan dead, come down and face him! Page Two. But before he slipped it into his blowgun, Rahan had thought of a use for the long vines. Since you will not come down, Rahan will make you come to him! He violently shook the vines, which the man imprudently held. Ra-ha-ha Argh! And he, surprised by the suddenness of the response, lost his balance. When he regained his senses, the son of Crao had grabbed the blowgun. Since Tara did not manage to kill you, you can kill him! It is the law of the hunt! Rahan does not take the life of "Those-who-walk-upright". Why did you want to steal his?! Page Three. All those who do not belong to the Gaa clan are enemies! Rahan has heard such stupidity too often! Go away! Go, Tara! Go back to your people! Rahan will continue on his way! You will not get far! You should never have ventured into our territory! After the hunter had disappeared into the thicket, the son of Crao sighed. Would he therefore come up against hostility from his fellow men everywhere and always? The blowgun was not an unknown weapon to him. The short arrows, he knew, were poisoned. Rahan will have to be wary of Gaa's hunters, he thought to himself. He plunged into the forest with all his senses alert, fearing at every step that a dart would spring from the thickets. Page Four. He finally arrived and almost shouted with joy. All around was a large lake, which was simmering under the sun. Rahan escaped the hunters! And there is the possibility of refreshing himself! When he rushed between the soapwort bushes, he felt like he was treading on warm ashes. Yes, it is like those ashes left by the fires of Rahan! The thick layer of gray dust proves that the sun, season after season, set these bushes on fire. The son of Crao continued his course on this ground softer than the moss of the undergrowth when. Baghae! Suddenly emerging from behind a large charred stump, a black panther pounced on him! Page Five. The shock was such that the knife he had just drawn escaped him. Argh! A cloud of ashes rose when he collapsed under the beast. You surprised Rahan, Baghae, but you have not taken his life yet! The son of Crao and the feline rolled into the hollow of a dune. The arrows!! The arrows which had just scattered on the ground made the outcome of the melee even more uncertain. Each of these poisonous darts was more formidable than the panther's slaps. This thought increased Rahan's energy tenfold. Ra-ha-ha! Page Six. The beast, thrown back, growled furiously and gathered itself up for a new attack. Attack Baghae! And pay attention! The son of Crao had grabbed two darts. The one he threw barely stuck in the black chest. But he did not have to use the second. The panther, as if struck by lightning, collapsed on the ashes. Ra-ha-ha! A moment later, he had found his knife and the blowgun and was carefully collecting the fine arrows. Rahan has never needed to bathe so much! From head to toe, the son of Crao was, in fact, covered in gray dust. He rushed towards the lake. Page Seven. The water was cool and felt good on his aching muscles. He was happily rubbing his arms and chest when. Ooh! A whitish foam bubbled between his fingers. He waved his hands to get rid of the foam and his astonishment grew even greater. Countless little bubbles fluttered around him, bright and light. Rahan has discovered a magic powder! The bubbles disappeared, and. The hunters of Gaa have, found the traces of Rahan! These tracks, on the ashes, were easy to follow. Behind the rushes, Crao's son saw the men heading towards the lake. Page Eight. He had used this trick many times. He grabbed the blowgun and let himself slide under the water. He no longer heard or saw the hunters. But he guessed that they were observing the surface of the lake. He was wrong! The men, whose tracks had led to the edge of the lake, were scrutinizing the Sky! His trail ends there and he did not turn back, because he took flight like a bird! Like many clans, in these fierce times, this one knew nothing about swimming! That the fugitive had dared to face the water of the lake was unthinkable to them! When the son of Crao stood up cautiously, Gaa and his hunters in the distance were about to disappear into the forest. This old trick has succeeded, once again. Page Nine. Never had his body, cleansed of the mysterious dust, been so clean. Delighted, He joyfully whipped the foam that floated around him. Even Crao the wise man, who knew so many things did not know of powder-that cleans! The foam clumped together at the end of the blowgun. Like a bright cluster of tiny tears. Fly away, little tears, fly away! The shaking was not enough, Rahan instinctively brought the blowgun to his mouth, and blew. And it was a new miracle! A bubble grew and grew, and grew. It sparkled with marvelous colors Is Rahan dreaming?! Page Ten. Transparent and light, the bubble suddenly detached itself, moving slowly in front of the stunned son of Crao. Are you good or are you a malevolent thing? Rahan was more intrigued than worried. But as this "Thing" got closer he nevertheless held out his knife. Back!! Pop! Ohh! You are not very dangerous! The bubble, touching the ivory blade, had vanished. “Tears-that-fly” are born from magic powder. But they die as soon as we touch them!! Rahan enjoyed making bubbles for a long time, laughing when they burst at the slightest touch, spraying him with fine droplets. Ha-ha-ha! Rahan will take magic powder with him! Page Eleven. Shortly after, in fact, he filled a bamboo quiver with ashes. A wad of grass would clog this container. He was returning to the forest when, along the dune where he had confronted "Baghae" The Baghae had disappeared! The hunters of Gaa found the Baghae's body and brought it back to the village! No! Rahan is mistaken! The son of Crao could not discover other traces in the ashes. Only his own and those of the panther!! “Baghae” disappeared like “Tears that fly”. Ctot! Argh!! Too late he noticed the noise behind the stump. The dart stuck in his shoulder and he collapsed without even seeing the hunters! Page Twelve. He did not come to himself until much later. The Hunters. The weapons. The "Territory of Shadows" is made like this. You are not in the “Territory of Shadows”. You are prisoner of Gaa. We have arrows that strike the enemy, others that plunge them into the “Long Sleep”! Rahan now realized that he was attached to the wall of a hut. Do you hear Gaa? Do you understand him? Yes, the son of Crao understood why he was still alive, why the panther had disappeared. When the "Baghae" came out of the long sleep, she took refuge in the forest. But Rahan cannot escape! Gaa could have killed Rahan. Why didn't he do it? Because you spared Tara. And also because Gaa wants to prove his skill to his brothers! Page thirteen. If these arrows hit you, you will die! And that will mean that Gaa is no longer worthy of being leader! The arrows that Gaa brandished had a reddish tip. The hunters were kept aside. Thirty steps from Rahan, Gaa raised his blowgun. Gaa hopes he will not hit you, Rahan! Rahan was confused. Puff! The son of Crao had never experienced such a moment of anguish. Gaa wanted to spare him, but how far would his pride push him? The first dart whistled. And came to care a stop near his face. The second stuck a hand's width away. Gaa is capable! But Rahan can do better than him! Free him and give him back his knife! Let Gaa take his place!! The approvals that were made proved that this challenge enchanted the hunters! Page Fourteen. A moment later, Rahan was freed and Gaa, through pride or unconsciousness, calmly leaned against the hut. Gaa is ready! Rahan must do better than Gaa, but without touching him! If Gaa dies, Rahan will be killed by the hunters! The son of Crao managed to control his emotion. Silence fell as he brandished the ivory knife. Make Rahan aim true, Crao! The cutlass flew, whirled, plunged towards the clan leader, and. The clamors it drew saluted the feat! The blade stuck a finger away from Gaa's throat, but the latter did not flinch. Only “Magic Powder” can give you your skill! Page Fifteen. Gaa brandished the quiver filled with ashes. Since you are a sorcerer, tell us the secret of this powder, Otherwise you will die! Rahan disliked to play the sorcerer. But he no longer had a choice. This powder does not give throwing skill, but it makes "tears-that-fly!" Ha-ha-ha! Tears that fly! Ha-ha-ha! Gaa and his brothers would like to see! They will see. They saw Rahan pour the ashes into a bowl full of water. Barely had he whipped the water with his knife when a thick foam rose. Give Rahan a blowgun! A moment later, stupor froze the clan. They looked without understanding at the marvelous bubbles that rose in the sky. Page Sixteen. Eh!? Gaa suddenly saw one of them, curiously deformed. He wanted to grab it but! Gaa wants a “Flying Tear”!! Ooh! Why did Rahan make the “Tear” disappear?? Gaa wants a tear that doesn't disappear! The hunters, for their part, tried in vain to catch the bubbles. The son of Crao was incapable of performing such a miracle! But Gaa insisted, and became threatening. If you do not obey, you will die! He was going to slip a red-tipped dart into his blowgun. Rahan does not have the power to prolong the life of the "Tears-that-Fly". But Gaa and his people perhaps do? Page Seventeen. Whoever gets the biggest “Tear” might be able to preserve it! There was a moment of hesitation, and what Rahan hoped for happened. Jostling around the bowl the hunters plunged their blowguns into the soapy mass. It's time to flee! The men were too busy to pay attention to their captive. He rushed towards the nearby forest. Ah! Nevertheless this “Tear” was big! You lied to us, Rahan! But, but! Gaa was the first to notice the disappearance of the son of Crao. They quickly found the traces of the fugitive and the hunt began again. The big lake will stop him! Without the magic powder, he won't be able to fly away! Page Eighteen. Rahan, who was actually running towards the lake, had very little lead over his pursuers. They do not know how to "Crawl on water". Rahan will escape from them! The hunters screamed in amazement when he dove. Such audacity was beyond their comprehension! The son of Crao swam underwater, moving away from the shore. He only returned to the surface when he felt he was out of range of the poisoned darts. Click! Plock! Plock! Some fell behind him and. Stop! Stop! A hunter who can glide on water deserves to live!! But if water supports Rahan, it will support Gaa! Gaa will Bring Rahan Back Alive! And he will become our brother! Page Nineteen. With the courage and recklessness that were his own, Gaa threw himself into the water! And the clan, amazed, saw what they had never seen. One of their own was floating on the lake, moving forward on the lake! Gesticulating as best he could, Gaa remained on the surface. Rahan, amused, heard his cries of joy. Gloo. Gaa Crawls on the water! Gaa Crawls on the water! Gaa thanks Rahan. To have proven that to him. It was possible! Rahan has nothing left. To fear from the Clan! He will be our brother. For a moment, Gaa almost sank, but Rahan was already coming to the rescue. Don't gesticulate so much, Gaa! You have to stay calm to properly “Crawl on water”! Page Twenty. Rahan does not know how to make "Tears" that last. But he knows many things that he can teach yours! Yes, yes, But you have already taught us the most beautiful things. We will no longer fear the great lake! Imitating Rahan, Gaa swam almost decently. As they came towards the shore, the son of Crao willingly allowed himself to be left behind. Very good Gaa! Very Good! The hunters, hostile a moment earlier, now cheered Rahan. Although brutal, this turnaround. Was not as unexpected as it seemed. It often took so little in those fierce times for contempt to give way to respect, for friendship to drive out hatred! “Those-who-walk-upright”, men, had so much to learn from each other. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

The B-58 Hustler, A Short History

Rahan. Episode Forty Seven. The Men without hair. Text by Roger Lecureux. Drawing by Andre Cheret. Bang! The spear that stuck behind him told the son of Crao that the pack that had been chasing him since nightfall had not lost his track! He picked up his pace and climbed nimbly over a large tree felled by lightning and. Argh! The ground opened beneath him. Thin branches and leaves that had concealed the trap. Page Two. Accompanied him in his fall. He heard the clamors of his pursuers and instinctively protected his head. What? What? A coarse net of lines, stretched across the pit, had spared him from hitting the bottom! Rahan understands. This trap is designed to capture game alive! The net bumped and jolted as it was slowly raised. During his flight, the son of Crao had only glimpsed his pursuers. He only now noticed that none of them had hair. We wanted to slaughter you! But since the spirits led you into this trap, it is because they want Araya to decide your fate! Do not resist! Page Three. How could Rahan, entangled in the meshes and threatened by twenty spears, have resisted? Rahan is the friend of all "Those-who-walk-upright", men-without-hair! You lie! It was the evil spirit that sent you to our territory! Advance! Advance! The moon was still shining when the hunters and their captive came within sight of a cave. Araya knew you would bring back Long Hair! The setting clouds told him so! The son of Crao guessed the man was a sorcerer from his heavy collars, and from his words. Since dawn, one of us has been observing you. When they told Araya how you had escaped the "Long-nose", Araya set his brothers on your trail! Because only an evil spirit can avoid the anger of the “Long-nose”! Page Four. Just before sunset, in fact, Rahan had been charged several times by a rhinoceros. It was only due to his composure and his flexibility that he tired the pachyderm. Ra-ha-ha! Evil spirits do not exist! Any agile hunter can tire out a "Longnose"! Obviously, it would be difficult for Araya! Rahan, mockingly, pointed to the sorcerer's belly. But undoubtedly Araya prefers to eat the game that others catch! Ten spears were going to strike the son of Crao when. Stop!! You would not kill a defenseless hunter in the time of granook! Have my brothers forgotten it? The young girl who emerged from the cave looked at her companions with contempt. Page Five. If Araya wants to take "Long-Hair’s” life, let him take it himself! But give long-haired his weapon back! Lonoo was very little when she last saw Araya hunting. But Araya will undoubtedly accept a fight with long hair! The spears were lowered. Lonoo snatched the ivory knife from a hunter. Take! If you faced a "Long-nose", you will not fear a “big belly"! The worried sorcerer suddenly became accusatory. The clouds said that Araya must never hold a weapon again, or his power would be taken away! But since Lonoo wants a fight, she will have it. At sunrise, "Long hair" will face Taurk, who has been reincarnated as Araya-the-hidden! Page Six. As cries of approval arose, the sorcerer smiled perfidiously. But Longo herself will have to ensure that the evil spirit does not escape the clan. She answers for it with her life!! The hunters without hair, and Araya disappeared into the cave. Rahan thanks you, Lonoo. But who are you? Why does the clan obey you? The clan still respects me a little because I am the daughter of granook-the-chief. But mine obey Araya in everything! You do not seem to have much respect for your wizard! I hate him! I have hated him ever since. When Grannok-the-chief and a few brave people joined the "Territory of Shadows". Crushed by buffaloes while they were hunting for the clan! Page Seven. That day Araya refused to accompany my father, claiming that the spirits were unfavorable to hunting. I know this “Prediction” excused his fear and his laziness! But my people believed that Araya knew the language of clouds! They made him the clan wizard! This happened many moons ago. Since then, Araya has never hunted again, never risked his life again. He spends his time sleeping and eating! Or, he plays with this monster who only obeys him! A monster? What monster? Taurk! A buffalo that he managed to train, and which, he says, is the reincarnation of the hunter he was before becoming a sorcerer. Do not smile "Long-haired"! It is this fury that you will have to face at daybreak! Loone had an expression of fear. Page Eight. The son of Crao contemplated the sky that would soon brighten with the light of dawn. Rahan could run away. Yes, he could run away. But he knows that Arraya is just waiting for this to accuse Lonoo of having helped the Evil Spirit! This is why Rahan would stay! He will fight Taurk! Lurking in the darkness, the sorcerer was spying on them. They must both die, otherwise Araya will lose the trust of the clan! Rahan and Lonoo were returning to the cave. Why do yours not have hair? They shave their heads. Ever since Araya claimed to have seen in the clouds that death was leading the hunters towards the “Territory of Shadows” by pulling them by their hair!! Page Nine. Why does he make up such lies? This sloth must play his role as a wizard! And chance came to his aid! What do you mean? Since the men cut their hair, the clan has not lost a single hunter. It is just luck, but. My brothers attribute these Miracles to the one-who-sees-into-the-skies. This is why they obey him! This is why you will be disemboweled by Taurk! The horizon was turning pink. You still have time to escape "Long Hair"! No! Rahan will not sacrifice your life for his!! At the sorcerer's call, the hunters burst out of the cave. The Clouds of the East promise us the death of the evil spirit! Let him be delivered to Taurk! Page Ten. The son of Crao allowed himself to be dragged away without resistance. Rahan had faced buffaloes before. He had always triumphed! A moment later, he was pushed into a shallow but very large pit. You see the sun rise for the last time! The hunters and their companions gathered at the edge of this natural arena. Among them, Rahan caught a glimpse of Lonoo, who addressed him with a sad greeting. Free Taurk! Men opened a heavy trapdoor. There was a moment of silence and suddenly Taurk appeared. Rahan had never seen a buffalo so powerful, with such fearsome horns! Page Eleven. Kill the evil spirit, Taurk!! Kill him! The hoof of the great buffalo scratched the ground. He had just seen the son of Crao. If Rahan kills Taurk, the hunters will believe he killed the sorcerer's reincarnation! They will be merciless! An insane idea occurred to Rahan. Defeat without killing this monster that charged him. He sheathed his knife and waited for the shock! Ra-ha-ha! An admiring clamor arose which was redoubled when, dragged through the dust, the son of Crao grabbed the other horn. Ah! Rahan may make you touch the ground! Just a moment! A simple instant! Page Twelve. Rahan attempted an impossible feat. The big buffalo, shaking his head in disgust, shrugged him off! Ha-ha-ha! What vanity it is to hope to defeat Araya the hunter! Long hair goes. Screams drowned out the sorcerer's voice. Taruk, continuing his course, charged a hunter who had just slipped into the pit! No Taurk! No! No!! The irritated buffalo no longer listened to Araya. The son of Crao heard the howl of the disemboweled man. Araya is lying to you, “Men-without-Hair”!! If he had been reincarnated in a buffalo, he would not have killed one of your people!! And you see that it is not enough to cut your hair to escape death! Over there, Taurk savagely trampled his victim. Page thirteen. The sight and smell of blood increased the fury of the buffalo which charged the son of Crao once again. Rahan wanted to spare you but it is not possible! If one of us has to join the "Territory of Shadows", it will be you. The ivory knife shone under the sun. At the moment when Taurk came towards him with his head down. Ra-ha-ha! Rahan had dived between the great horns. Using these, he managed to turn around on the neck of the buffalo which was kicking furiously. The “Hairless Men” acclaimed his audacity. "Long-Haired" does not seem to fear reincarnations, does he, Araya? Page Fourteen. Taurk now charged straight ahead and the son of Crao struck, searching for the spot he knew was vital. And the ivory blade suddenly cut the jugular. The large buffalo suddenly collapsed on its front legs, throwing Rahan to the ground. Its rear legs bent in turn and it rolled onto its side. Ra-ha-ha! If long hair triumphed over Taurk, it is because he is an evil spirit! No!! We all saw him take on Tarak! He fought as a courageous hunter! The clan must give him back his freedom. Araya felt doubt creeping into his people. Once again cunning, he became conciliatory. Araya may have misunderstood the clouds' signs! Page Fifteen. Yes Araya had misunderstood! The clouds say that "Long-haired" can live. If he leaves our territory immediately!! The sorcerer solemnly consulted the sky. You triumph again are yours! The clouds do not speak to those who walk upright! They say whether the coming day will be beautiful or not, and that is all! After the death of Granook-the-chief, you live by lies, Araya. If Taurk was your reincarnation as a hunter, he would not have killed one of you! And if you could have predicted things you would have known that Rahan would kill the buffalo! The sorcerer hid his rage poorly. It was the presence of the Evil Spirit that caused Araya to lose his power. When "Longhair" is gone, Araya will regain his power! Good and evil spirits do not exist! Rahan hopes men without hair will understand this one day! The hunters, confused, watched the son of Crao rush towards the forest. Page Sixteen. Lonoo saw him disappear into the thickets. If Lonoo does not guide "Long Hair", he will encounter the "Great Ravine" and will have to turn back. The hunters will think that he is coming back to challenge them and will have no pity for him. While her people returned to the cave, she slipped away. Hold! Hold! Lonoo perhaps hopes to bring back "Long-haired". As long as this girl lives, Araya's authority will not be complete! Rahan will not go back! The son of Crao, however, was already far away. He would have gone even further if a precipice had not stopped his course. He could have walked along this wide and deep ravine, but he liked to overcome these obstacles that nature presented to him. A moment later, from his knife and a bamboo, he had made a solid javelin. He tied a long vine there. Page Seventeen. If his knife is helpful to Rahan, he will find a fork! The javelin flew towards the trees that stood on the other side of the ravine Once again, Rahan drew a lesson from a recent misadventure. Like the arrow that skewered the squirrel, the javelin disappeared in the foliage, getting stuck in the branches as soon as he pulled the line. He tied it to a trunk when clamors reached him. Could Araya have convinced the hairless men that Rahan is an evil spirit? The hunters, intrigued by the disappearance of their wizard, were looking for him. And they had just discovered. The corpse of Lonoo!! Page Eighteen. The son of Crao was above the void when Araya emerged from the thickets brandishing a heavy pebble. Long Hair will die! Long hair killed Lonoo!! He must die!! While the witch angrily hammered on the line, the hunters appeared in turn. Rahan was not yet in the middle of the precipice when the vine gave way. Argh! Klack. He was violently thrown against the steep wall of the ravine, but despite the shock he did not let go. Araya is lying to you again!! Rahan didn't kill Lonoo!! Page Nineteen. Klack! Bang! Bang! Rahan will not make it up there without being hit! Rahan did not kill Lonoo!! The spears ricocheted dangerously around Rahan. When Lonoo, wavering, appeared behind the hunters. Longhair tells the Truth! It was Araya who wanted to kill Lonoo! He caught up with Lonoo in the forest and hit her with a stone! Argh! You will never oppose Araya Lonoo again! She lies! She lies to save "Longhair"! Here is proof that we do not lie, brothers! While struggling, she snatched her necklace from Araya! Rahan had taken advantage of this respite to climb out of the ravine. What he heard filled his heart with joy. Page Twenty. “Long-hair” was right! Araya has always deceived us! But by striking Lonoo, he is condemned to join the "Territory of Shadows"!! No! No! The sorcerer screamed in fear but the hunters, unyielding, pushed him towards the “Grand Ravine.” It was so deep that the body spinning in the void disappeared from Rahan's eyes. Come back, brother, you no longer have any reason to run away from us! It was true. Nothing forced the son of Crao to leave this territory anymore. This was why, shortly after. How long did he stay among this clan? No one can say it. Still, when he said goodbye to Lonoo one fine morning, all the hunters had regained their abundant hair of yesteryear. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

He lives badly who does not know how to die well. ON SERENITY OF MIND11.4. One. PREPARE YOURSELF. Seneca’s greatest prose work, theMoral Epistles,is a collection of letters addressed to a close friend, Lucilius, who like Seneca was in his 60s at the time theEpistleswere composed, AD 63 to 65. Death and dying are a prominent theme in these letters and several deal almost entirely with that theme, including letters 30, 70, 77, 93, and 101, all represented in this volumeeither in whole, as signaled by the inclusion of their salutations and sign-offs, or in large part. The letters usually take as their point of departure an event in Seneca’s daily life, such as a visit to an ill friend, or, as in the case of the excerpt below, an idea Senecahad encountered in his reading. Though they take the form of an intimate correspondence, theEpistleswere primarily writtenfor publication, and the “you” addressed in them is sometimes Lucilius but at other times the Roman public, or even humanity generally. Epicurus says, “Rehearse for death,”or, if this conveys the meaning better to us, “it’s a great thing to learn how to die.” Perhaps you think it useless to learn something that must only be used once; but this is the very reason why we ought to rehearse. Wemust study always the thing we cannot tell from experience whether we know. “Rehearse for death”; the man who tells us this bids us rehearse for freedom. Those who have learned how to die have unlearned how to be slaves. It is a power above, and beyond,all other powers. What matter to them the prison-house, the guards, the locks? They have a doorway of freedom. There’s only one chain that holdsus in bondage, the love of life. If it can’t be cast off, let it be thus diminished that, if at some point circumstance demands it, nothing will stop or deter us from making ourselves ready to do at once what needs to be done. Epistle26.8 to 10. In the letter excerpted below, Seneca coaches Lucilius as to how he should advise an unnamed friend who has withdrawn from public life into quieter pursuits. If [your friend] had been born in Parthia, he would be holding a bow in his hands right from infancy; if in Germany, he would brandish a spear as soon as he reached boyhood;if he had lived in the time of our ancestors, he would have learned to ride in the cavalry and to strike down his foe in hand-to-hand combat. Each nation has its own training to coax and command its members. Which one, then,must your friend practice? The one that has good effect against all weapons and against every kind of enemy: contempt of death. No one doubts that death has something terrible about it, such that our minds, which Nature endowed with a love of itself, are disturbed by it. Otherwise there would be no need to make ourselves ready and hone ourselves for that which we might enter by a certain voluntaryimpulse, just as we all are motivated by self-preservation. No onelearnsto lie down contentedly in a bed of roses, if the need arises, but rather we steel ourselves for this: to not betray a confidenceunder torture, or to stand on guard, though wounded, through the night, if the need arises, without even leaning on an upright spear, since sleep has a way of sneaking up on those who lean againstsome support. But what if a great yearning for longer life holds you in its grip? You must believe that none of the things that depart from your sight, and that are subsumed into the universe from which they sprang (and will soon spring again), is used up; these things pause, but do not die, just as death, which we fear and shun, interrupts but does not strip away our life. The day will comeagain which will return us into the light. Many would reject that day, were it not that it returns us without our memories. But I will instruct you carefully in the way that all things that seem to die are infact only transformed; thus the one who will return to the world should leave it with equanimity. Just look at how the circuit of the universe returns upon itself. You will see that nothingin this cosmos is extinguished, but everything falls and rises by turns. The summer departs, but the year will bring another; winter falls away, but its own months will restore it. Night blocks the sun, but in an instant daylight will drive that night away. Whatever movement of the constellations has passed, repeats; one part of the sky is always rising, another part sinking below the horizon. Let me at last come to an end, but I will add this one thought: neither infants, nor children, nor those whose minds are afflicted, are afraid of death; it would be repellent, if our reason did not offer us thesame contentment to which they are led by their folly. Farewell. (Epistle36.7 to 12) Seneca suffered his whole life from respiratory illness, probably including tuberculosis, and from asthma.His discomfort was such that, in young adulthood, he contemplated suicide, according to his own report. He must have experienced attacks like the one described below throughout his life, but they took on added significance as he grew older, especially given that the name doctors gave to them (according to Seneca) wasmeditatio mortis,“rehearsal for death.” Dear Lucilius, Ill health had grantedme a long reprieve; then it came on me suddenly. “What sort of illness?” you ask. It’s an apt question, since there’s nonethat I haven’t experienced. But one alone is, you might say, my allotment. I don’t know what its Greek name is, but it could be fittingly calledsuspirium.It comes on with sudden and brief force, like a tornado; it’s nearly over within an hour, for who could die for a longtime? Every physical discomfort and danger passes through me; there’s nothing I find more aggravating. And how could I not? This is not illness, that’s something else entirely, but loss of life and soul. Therefore the doctors call it “rehearsal for death,” and sometimes the spirit accomplishes what it often has attempted. Do you suppose I’m cheerful as I write these things, because I’ve escaped?I think it would be ridiculous to delight in this outcome as though it were a form of good health, just as ridiculous as to proclaim victory when one’s court case has been postponed. Yet, even in the midst of suffocation, I did not cease taking comfort frombrave and happy thoughts. “What’s this?” I say to myself. “Does death make trial of me so frequently? Let it: I’ve done likewise to death,for a long time.” When was that, you ask? Before I was born: for death is nonexistence. I know what that’s like. It will be the same after me as it was before me. If death holds any torment, then that torment must also have existed before we came forth into the light, but, back then, we felt nothing troubling. I ask you, wouldn’t you call it a very foolish thing if someone judges that a lamp is worseoff after it’s snuffed out than before it has been lighted? We too are snuffed out and lighted. In the time in between, we have sense and experience; before and after is true peace. We go wrong in this, Lucilius, if I’m not mistaken: we think that death comes after, whereas in fact it comes both before and after. Whatever existed before us was death. What does it matter whether you cease to be,or neverbegin? The outcome of either is just this, that you don’t exist. I kept telling myself these encouragements, and others of the same kind, silently, for there wasn’t space for words. Then little by little thesuspirium, which had already turned into a kind of panting, gave me longer respites and slowed down. But it hung on, and even though it has ceased, I do not yet have natural, easybreathing; I feel a certain break in its rhythm, a delay between breaths. Take this on faith from me: I won’t tremble, at the last moments; I’m prepared. I don’t think at all about the entire day ahead.Praise and emulate that man who does not disdain to die, though it’s pleasant to live; what virtue is there in leaving by being thrown out? Yet here too is a virtue: I’m being thrown out, butlet me take my leave nonetheless. The wise man is never thrown out, for to be thrown out is to be expelledfrom a place that you leave unwillingly; the wise man does nothing unwillingly; he flees from necessity, since he desires that which it will force upon him. Farewell. Epistle54. Nothing can be of such great benefit to you, in your quest for moderation in all things, than to frequentlycontemplate the brevity of one’s life span, and its uncertainty. Whatever you undertake, cast your eyes on death. Epistle114.27. Two. HAVE NO FEAR. By the time Seneca began his magnum opus, theMoral Epistles,in AD 63, he had been writing ethical treatises for more than a quarter of a century. His earliest surviving works, from the early 40s AD, are consolations, designed to offer comfort to friends or relations (including his own mother) who were mourning the death or absence of a loved one. In theConsolation to Marciafrom which the passage below and several others in this volume are taken, Seneca addresses a mother grieving for the loss of a teenaged son. Consider that the dead are afflicted by no ills, and that those things that render the underworld a source of terror are mere fables. No shadows loom over the dead, nor prisons, nor rivers blazing with fire, nor the waters of oblivion; there are no trials,no defendants, no tyrants reigning a second time in that place of unchained freedom. The poets have devised these things for sport, and have troubled our minds with empty terrors. Death is the undoing of all our sorrows, an end beyond which our ills cannot go; it returns us to that peace in which we reposed before we were born. If someone pities the dead, let him also pity those not yet born. To Marcia19.4. In his essayOn Serenity of Mind,Seneca makes the case that fear of death not only makes dying more difficult but diminishesthe nobility and moral integrity of all of life. In the second passage below he uses Julius Canus, a man otherwise barely known to us, to illustrate the “greatness of mind” found in those unafraid of death. What’s to be feared in returning to where youcame from? He lives badly who does not know how to die well. Thus we must, first and foremost, reduce the price we set on life, and count our breath among the things we think cheap. As Cicero says, gladiators who seek by every means to preserve their life, we detest, but we favor those who wear their disregard of it like a badge. Know that the same outcome awaits us all, but dying fearfully, often,is itself a cause of death. Dame Fortune, who makes us her sport, says: “Why should I keep you alive, you lowly, cowering creature? You’llbe more wounded and slashed if you don’t learn how to offer your throat willingly. But you’ll live longer, and die more easily, if you accept the sword-stroke bravely, without pulling back your neck or holding up your hands.” He who fears death will never doanything to help the living. But he who knows that this was decreed the moment he was conceived will live by principle and at the same time will ensure, using the same power of mind, that nothing of what happens to him comes as a surprise. On Serenity of Mind11.4. Julius Canus,an exceptionally great man got into a long dispute with Caligula. As he was leaving the room, Caligula, that secondPhalaris, said: “Just so you don’t take comfort from an absurd hope, I’ve ordered you to be led away for execution.” “Thankyou, best of rulers,” Canus replied. I’m not sure what he was feeling; I can imagine several possibilities. Did he want to give insult by showing how great was the emperor’s cruelty, that it made death seem a boon? Or was he reproaching the man’s habitual insanity (for thosewhose children had been executed, or whose property had been taken away, used to give thanks in this way)? Or was he embracing the sentence joyfully, like a grant of freedom? Whatever the reason, his reply showed a greatness of mind. He was playing a board game when the centurion in charge of leading off the throngs of the condemned told him it was time to move. Hearing the call, Canus countedup the pieces and said to his partner: “See that you don’t cheat and say you won, after my death.” Then he turned to the centurion andsaid, “You’re my witness; I was ahead by one.” On Serenity of Mind14.4. In later life, to judge by theMoral Epistles,Seneca witnessed the illnesses and deaths of many close contemporaries, and made careful note of how each man faced his final challenge. Hethen held up these examplars for the edification of his friend Lucilius and, through the publication of theLetters,the entire Roman world. Dear Lucilius, I went to see Aufidius Bassus, a very noble fellow, stricken and struggling with his advancing years. But already there is more to weigh him down than lift him up, for old age is leaning upon him with its huge weight, everywhere. The man’sbody, as you know, was ever weak anddessicated; he held or even patched it together, as I might more accurately say, for a long time, but suddenly it gave out. Just as, when a ship has got water in the hold, one crack or another can be stopped up, but once it has begun to come apart in many spots and to go under, there’s no more help for the splitting vessel, just so, in an old man’s body, weaknesscan be supported and propped up for a time. But when, just as in a rotting house, every join is coming apart, and a new crack opens up while you’re patching the old, then it’s time to look around for a way to leave. But our friend Bassus stays sharp minded. Philosophy furnishes him with this: to be cheerful when death comes in view, to stay strong and happy no matter what one’s bodily condition,and not to let go even when one is let go of. A great ship’s captain continues the voyage even with a torn sail, and if he has to jettisoncargo, he still keeps the remainder of the ship on course. This is what our friend Bassus does. He looks on his own end with the kind of attitude and expression that would seem too detached even if he were looking on someone else’s. It’s a great thing, Lucilius,and always to be studied: when that inescapable hour arrives, go out with a calm mind. Other kinds of death are intermingled with hope. Illness lets up, fires are put out, ruin bypasses those whom it seemed about to sink; the sea spits out, safe and well, those whom it had just as violently swallowed down; the soldier retracts his sword from the very neck of the doomed man. But he whom old ageleads toward death has nothing to hope for; for him alone, no reprieve is possible. No other way of dying is so gradual and so long lasting. Our Bassus seemed to me to be laying out his own body for burial, and accompanying itto the grave; he lives like one surviving himself, and bears the grief over himself as a wise man should. For he talks freely about death and bears it so calmly that weare led to think that, if there’s anything troubling or fearsome in this business, it’s the fault of the dying man, not of death. There’s nothing more worrisome in the act of dying than there is after death; it’s just as insane to fear what you’re not going to feel as to fear what you’re not even going to experience. Or could anyone think that itwillbe felt, the very thing that will cause nothingat all to be felt? “Therefore,” Bassus declares, “death is as far beyond all other evils as it is beyond the fear of evils.” I know such things are often said and often must be said, but they have never done me so much good, either when reading them or hearing people say that we must not fear things that don’t hold any terrors. It’s the man who speaks from death’s own neighborhood that hasthemost authority in my eyes. I’ll say plainly what I believe: I think that the man in the midst of death is braver than the one who skirts its edges. The approach of death lends even to the ignorant the resolve to face inevitabilities, like a gladiator who, though very skittish throughout his combat, offers his neck to his enemy and guides the sword toward himself if it strays off-target. But thedeath that is only nearby (though sure to arrive) does not grant that steady firmness of resolve, a rarer thing that can only be exhibited by a sage. I would gladly listen therefore to one who can, as it were, report on death, giving his opinion about it and showing what it’s like as though having seen it close up. You would, I suppose, put more trust and give more weight to someone who had come backto life and told you, based on experience, that death holds no evils; but those who have stood in front of death, who have seen it coming andembraced it, can best tell you what sort of upset its approach brings with it. You can count Bassus among these, a man who doesn’t want us to be deceived. Bassus says that it’s as silly to fear death as to fear old age, for just as age follows youth, sodeath follows age. Whoever doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want to live. Life is granted with death as its limitation; it’s the universal endpoint. To fear it is madness, since fear is for things we’re unsure of; certainties are merely awaited. Death’s compulsion is both fair and unopposed, and who can complain of sharing a condition that no one does not share? The first step toward fairness is evenhandedness.But there’s no need now to plead the case of Nature; she wants our law to be the same as hers. Whatever Nature puts together, she undoes, and what she undoes, she puts together again. Truly, if it happens that old age dispatches someone gently, not suddenlytearing him away from life but little by little releasing him, that person ought to thank the gods for bringing him, after he’s had his fillof life, to a rest that is needed by all and welcomed by the weary. You see people who long for death, more so indeed than life is usually sought. I don’t know which imparts to us a greater resolve: those who beg for death or those who await it calmly and cheerfully. The former happens occasionally, owing to madness or some sudden outrage, while the latter is a kind of serenity born of steadyjudgment. Some arrive at death in a rage, but no one greets death’s arrival cheerfully except those who have long prepared themselves for it. I confess that I had gone to see Bassus, a dear friend, rather often, for multiple reasons; in part, to learn whether I would find him the same on every occasion, or wouldn’t the power of hiswill diminish along with the strength of his body? In fact itonly increased in him, just as the joy of chariot drivers is often seen more clearly as they approach the seventh and last lap of victory. He would say, in accord with the teachings of Epicurus, that he hoped, first of all, there would be no pain in his final breath; but if there was, he had a certain comfort in its very brevity, for no pain is long lasting if it is great. Moreover there would berelief for him in this thought, even if his soul was torturously torn from his body: that after this pain, he could no longer feel pain. But he had no doubt that his elderly soul was already on the edge of his lips, and no great force would be needed to pull it away. A fire that has gotten control of ready tinder must be put out with water, or sometimes by tearing down buildings, he said; but thefire that lacks fuel dies down by itself. I listen to these words gladly, Lucilius, not becauseI’m hearing something new, but because I’m being drawn toward what is, as it were, right before my eyes. What then? Have I not seen many others cutting their lives short? Indeed I have, but those who come to death with no hatred of life, who receive death rather than drawing it toward them, make adeeper impression on me. Bassus used to say that the torment we feel is of our own making; we tremble when we believe death is near. But whom is itnotnear, when it’s ready and waiting at every moment, in every place? “Let’s consider,” he says, “at the point when something seems to draw near that might cause our death, how many other causes there are, even close at hand, which we don’t fear.”An enemy threatens someone with death, but an upset stomach beats him to it. If we want to separate into categories the reasons for our fear, we will find some that exist, others that merelyseem to. We don’t fear death but the contemplation of death. Death itself is always the same distance away; if it is to be feared, then it should be feared always. What time is there that’s exempt from death? But I ought to be afraid that you’ll hate this lengthy letter even more than death! So I’ll come to an end. As for you: study death always, so that you’ll fear it never. Farewell. Epistle30. It’s not death that’s glorious, but dying courageously. No one praises death; rather, we praise the person whose soul death stripped away before causing it any turmoil. The death that was glorious inCato’s case was base and worthy of shame in Decimus’s.This is Decimus: the man who, while seeking postponements of death, though destined to die, drew apart in order to empty his bowels, and, when summoned to his death and ordered to bare hisneck, said “I’ll bare it if I can live.” What madness, to take flight when there’s no going backward! “I’ll bare it if I can live.” He almost added “even under Antony.” That’s a man worthy to be allowed to live, alright! But, as I was discussing earlier, you see that death, in itself, is neither good nor bad; Cato made the most honorable use of it, Decimus the most shameful. Anything that has no glory of its own takes on glory when virtue is added to it. Metal is neither cold nor hot in itself; it grows hot when stuck in a furnace, and coolsoff again when plunged into water. Death is honorable by way of what’s honorable, namely virtue and a mind that disdains outward appearances. But, Lucilius, even among the things we call “intermediate” between good and bad, there are distinctions to be made. Death is not “indifferent” in the same way as whether you have an odd or even number of hairs on your head.Death is among those thingsthat are not bad but, nevertheless, have an outward appearance of badness. For the love of one’s own self, and the desire to maintain and preserve oneself, are deeply rooted, along with an aversion to annihilation, which seems to strip away many good things from us and take us away from that abundance of things to which we are accustomed. And this too estranges us from death: that we know what ishere before us, but don’t know what the things are like that we will cross over into, and we dread the unknown. Then too our fear of darkness is a natural fear, and death is thought to be leading us into darkness. So, even if death is an “indifferent,” it’s not the kind of thing that can be easily ignored. The mind must be hardened by a great training program to endure to look on it and see it approach. Death ought to be scorned more than it customarily is. We take many things about it onfaith, and the talents of many strive to increase its ill reputation. There are descriptions of a subterranean prison-house, and a realm shrouded in eternal night, in which: the huge door-guard of Orcus, stretched out over half-eaten bones in a gore-spattered cave, barks forever to frighten the bloodless shades of the dead. And even if you believe that these are fables, and that nothing remains in the afterlife to frighten the dead, a different terror creeps in: people are just as afraid of being in the underworld as of not being anywhere. With these things working against us, poured into our ears over long stretches of time, why would it not be glorious to die courageously, one of the greatestachievements of the humanmind? The mind will never strive for virtue if it thinks death is an evil thing; it will, though, if it considers death an indifferent. Epistle82.10 to 17. It’s fitting for you to experience pain, and thirst, and hunger, and old age, if, that is, a long delay in the human world befalls you, and illness, and loss, and death. But there’s no reason to trust those who makea great din all around you: nothing of these things is bad, nothing is unbearable or harsh. Fear attaches to them only by consensus. You fear death, but your fear is only of a rumor, and what could be more foolish than a man who’s afraid of words? Our friend Demetriusoften says that the words of the ignorant issue from the same place as the rumblings of their guts. “What matter to me,” he says,“whether they sound off from up top or from down below?” It’s altogether mad to fear being disgraced by the disgraceful. And likewise, just as you have no cause to fear evil rumors, so you have none to fear the things you would not fear unless rumor had commanded it. No good man would take harm from getting spattered by nasty rumors, right? Death too has a bad reputation; but let’s not allowthat to harm it in our eyes. None of those who bring charges against it have ever tried it, and it’s impudent to condemn what you know nothing of. But youdoknow, at least, how many have found death helpful; how many it has released from tortures, poverty, lamentation, punishments, fatigue. We are in no one’s power, if death is inourpower. Epistle91.18 to 21. The passage below is preceded bya description of the celestial plane of serene contemplation to which the philosopher’s mind canrise. In its final sentence, Seneca demonstrates one of his greatest rhetorical talents, a sharp eye for trenchant, pointed analogies. When the mind raises itself to this sublime level, it becomes a manager, not a lover, of the body, as though this were its necessary burden; it does not become subjectto what it was put in charge of. No free man is slave to the body. No need to mention the other masters that emerge from an excessive concern over it; the body’s own dominion is gloomy and demanding. The man of temperate mind leaves his body, the great-minded man7leaps out of it; no one asks what its end will be, after it’s been left behind, but just as we ignore the clippings from our beardsand hair, just so, that divine sort of mind, as it prepares to leave itshuman form, judges that the destination of its container, whether fire burns it, or earth covers it, or wild beasts tear it apart, matters as little to it as the afterbirth does to an infant. Epistle92.33 to 34. Three. HAVE NO REGRETS. In his earliest surviving work, theConsolation to Marcia,Seneca took on the stern challenge of convincing a mother not to be grieved by the loss of a son. In this and other works, Seneca insists, using various arguments, that the value we place on length of life, and our sense that something has been lost when life is cut short, are fundamentally mistaken. “He died toosoon, still a youth.” Suppose he had still had ahead of him, well, reckon up the longest that’s allowed to a human being to keep going. How long is it? We are born into the briefest space of time,soon to make way for the next arrivals. Am I speaking only of our life spans, which, we know,roll on with incredible speed? Consider the ages of cities: you’ll see how even the ones that take pridein their antiquity have stood only a short time. All human affairs are short, transitory, bounded in a negligible space of endless time. We consider this earth, with its cities, peoples, and rivers, enclosed by a circle of sea, as a tiny dot, if it’s compared with all of time, time, that stretches out longer than the world, especially since the world’s age is redoubled so many times within its span. What difference does it make to extend something, if the amount of added time is little more than nothing? There’s only one way we can say that the life we live is long: if it’s enough. You can name for me vigorous men, men whose oldage has become legendary; you can count off their sets of a hundred and ten years; when you let your mind roam across all of time, there’s no difference between thelongest and the shortest life, if you survey how long a person lived and compare it with how long hedidn’tlive. To Marcia21.1 to 3. In the fourEpistlesbelow, each presented mostly or wholly complete, Seneca strives to convince his readers that life should be measured by quality, not quantity, and that prolongation of life is not desirable in and of itself. This point, so clear cut yet so difficultto embrace, is fundamental to his philosophy. Other kinds of enjoyment, or physical experience, have a natural terminus, a point at which we are content to have them cease.We should strive to reach a similar satiety of living, as Seneca claims that he himself has done. Dear Lucilius, Let’s cease to want what we wanted. For my part, I arrange things such that, being an old man, I don’t wantthe same things I did as a child. My days have this one goal, as do my nights; this is my task and my study, to put an end to old evils. I make it so that my day is a small version of my whole life. I don’t, by Hercules, grab at it as though it were my last one, but I look upon it as though itcouldbe my last. Indeed I’m writing this letter now as though death were coming to call for me in thevery midst of writing it; I’m ready to depart. I enjoy my life thus far because I don’t spend too much time measuring how long all this will remain. Before I became old, I took care to live well; in old age I take care to die well. And dying well means dying willingly. Let’s compose our minds such that we want whatever the situation demands, and in particular that we contemplate our end withoutsadness. We must prepare for death before life. Our life is well furnished, yet we’re greedy for its furnishings; something always seems to be lacking, and always will. It’s not years nor days, but the mind, that determines that we’ve lived enough. I, my dearest Lucilius, have lived as much as is enough. Full, I await my death. Farewell. Epistle61. Tullius Marcellinus, whom you knew very well,a quiet young man who soon became an old man, was taken ill with a disease that, though not without remedy, was long lasting and discomfiting and made many demands on him; so he began to weigh the possibility of death. Hegathered together a large group of friends. Each of them, out of timidity, either urged on him the same thing he would have urged on himself, or else played the flatterer andyes-man, and gave the advice he guessed would be more pleasing to the one weighing his options. But our Stoic friend, an outstanding fellow, and a brave and vigorous man, to praise him in the words with which he deserves to be praised, advised him the best, as it seems to me. He began as follows: “Marcellinus, don’t torment yourself as though you were pondering a great matter. Living is not a greatmatter; all your slaves do it, and all the animals. To die honorably, prudently, bravely, nowthatis great. Consider how long it is now that you’ve been doing the same things; food, sleep, the act of love, this is the cycle we move through. So it’s not just a prudent or brave or wretched man, but even one who’s merely fussy, who might want to die.” The man no longer needed a spokesman, but rather,an assistant; the slaves refused to obey.So he began by taking away their fear; he pointed out that the household staff only got into trouble when it was unclear whether the master’s death was his own choice. Otherwise, he said, it would have set just as bad an example to kill a master as to prevent him. Then he turned to Marcellinus himself, advising him that it would be not inhumane, justas at the conclusion of a dinner party the leftovers are divided among the attendants, so now, at the conclusion of life, to offer something to those who had been his assistants throughout life. Marcellinus was a man of easygoing mind, and generous even when his own estate was at stake, so he parceled out little amounts to his weeping slaves, and freely offered comfort to them. He didn’t needa sword, or the spilling of blood. He fasted for three days, and then ordereda tent to be set up in his bedroom. A bath was then brought in; he lay in it a long time, and as hot water was added, he slipped away, little by little, not without a certain pleasure (as he said), the pleasure that a gentle loss of consciousness, not unknown to us (whose mind has sometimes slipped away),can bring. I’ve digressed, but the story is one you will find not unpleasing, for you will learn that the death of a man who was your friend was neither difficult nor painful. Although he made a conscious decision to die, he nonetheless left the world in the gentlest way, and merely slipped out of life. But the story will not be without its applications, for necessity often drives such instances. Often we oughtto die but don’t wish to, or are dying but don’t wish to. No one is so naïve as not to recognize that he must die at some point, yet when he approaches that point he turns back, trembles, pleads. But wouldn’t aman seem to you the greatest of all fools, if he wept because for a thousand years previously, he had not been alive? He’s just as great a fool if he weeps because he won’t live for a thousandyears to come. It’s just the same: you won’t exist, just as you didn’t exist; neither past nor future is yours. You were thrust into this brief moment; how long will you prolong it? Why weep? What are you looking for? Your efforts are wasted. Stop hoping to bend the fates of the gods by prayer. Those fates are determined and fixed, guided by a great and eternal necessity. You’ll go to the sameplace that all go. What’s so strange about that? You were born under this law; it happened to your father, your mother, your ancestors, everyone before you, everyone after you. Anunbreakable sequence, which no effort can alter, binds and tows all things. How great a throng of those yet to die will follow your footsteps! How great a crowd will accompany you! You would bear up more bravely, I imagine,if many thousands of things were dying along with you. In fact, many thousands, both men and animals, are giving up the ghost in all kinds of ways, at the very moment when you are hesitating to die. Don’t you think you are going to arrive someday where you were always headed? No journey is without an endpoint. Do you suppose I’m now going to recount the examples of great men? I’ll tell you of youthsinstead. There’s that Spartan whom legend tells of, still a boy, who, when captured by enemies, shouted, in his native Doric dialect, “I won’t be a slave!” and then made good on his words: the first time he was ordered to perform a slavish and demeaning task, he was told to bring thechamberpot, he broke his skull by dashing it against a wall. That’s how near at hand freedom is, so should anyonebe a slave? Wouldn’t you rather your son die like that, than live to old age through inaction? Why then are you troubled, when dying bravely is a task even for boys? Let’s say you refuse to follow; you’ll be led against your will. So make your own the rules that belong to another power. You won’t take up the boy’s attitude and say, “I am no slave”? You poor man, you’re a slave to people, to things,to life, for a life lived without the courage to die is slavery. What do you have to look forward to? You’ve exhausted those pleasures that delay and detain you in life.There’s nothing you would find new, nothing with which you’re not sated to the point of disgust. You know the taste of wine and of mead. It doesn’t matter whether a hundred amphoras’ worthpasses through your bladder, or a thousand;you’re just a wineskin. You know very well the taste of the oyster and the mullet; your self-indulgence has set nothing aside, untried, for coming years. Yettheseare the things you are torn away from only against your will. What else is there that you might be pained to see torn away from you? Your friends? But do you know how to be a friend? Your country? Do you value that highly enough topostpone your dinner for? The sunlight? You’d snuff that out if you could; for what have you ever done that’s worthy of light? Admit it: it’s not the yearning for the senate house, or for the forum, or even for the natural world that makes you reluctant to die; it’s the grocery market you leave behind unwillingly, a place from which you’ve left nothing behind. You fear death; but look how you scornit, amid your banquet ofmushrooms! You want to live, but do you know how? You’re afraid to die: why is that? Isn’t this life of yours a death? Julius Caesar, when going along the Via Latina, was met by one from a file of guarded prisoners, a man whose beard trailed down to his chest, who asked him for death. “So you’re living now?” Caesar said. That’s how we must respond to those whom deathis coming to aid. “You’re afraid to die, but are you living now?” “But I want to live,” the man says; “I’m doing honorable things. I don’t want to leave behind the duties of life, which I’m carrying out faithfully and diligently.” What, do you not realize that dying, too, is one of those duties of life? You’re not abandoning any duty. There’s no set number of these, no limit you have to reach. There’s no life that’s not short. If you examine the nature of things, even the life of Nestor is short, or that of Sattia, who ordered inscribedon her tombstone that she had lived ninety-nine years. You see in her someone glorying in a long old age. But who could have endured her, if she had filled out a full century? Just as with storytelling, so with life: it’s important how well it is done,not how long. It doesn’t matter at what point you call a halt. Stop wherever you like; only put a good closer on it.Farewell. Epistle77.5 to 20. Dear Lucilius, In the letter you wrote complaining about the death of the philosopher Metronax, saying that he could have and should have lived longer, I missed the even disposition you have in abundance in every matter, and toward every person, butlack in this one matter, just as everyone lacks it. I’ve seen many who kept a calm mind when facing human beings, but none who did so facing gods. Instead, we berate Fate everyday: “Why was that man taken off in the middle of his journey? Why is that othernottaken off? Why does he prolong his old age, making it troublesome to himself and others?” Which do you think more fair, I ask you: thatyou obey Nature, or that Nature obey you? What difference does it make how fast you depart a place that must, without doubt, be departed? We ought to take care that we live not a long time, but enough; for we need Fate to help us live long, but our own minds, to live enough. Life is long if it is full, and it gets filled when the mind returns its own good to itself and passes over into controlof itself. In what way were eighty years, passed in sloth, a benefit to someone? He didn’t live but only lingered in life; he didn’t die late, but died for a long time. “He lived eighty years.” Yes, but it matters up to what point of death you are counting. “He diedin his prime.” Yes, but he had carried out the duties of a good citizen, a good friend, and a good son; he lacked nothing in anyof these paths. His lifetime was cut short, but his life was completed. “He lived for eighty years.” No, he merelywasfor eighty years, unless you say “he lived” in the same way we say that trees live. As for myself, I wouldn’t refuse the addition of more years. But if my span of life is cut short, I will say that I lacked nothing that would render that life happy. I did not prepare for thatfar-off day that my greedy hopes had promised would be my last, but rather I regarded every day as though itweremy last. Just as a man of smaller stature can be complete, so a life can be complete in a smaller stretch of time. Life span stands outside our control. It’s not in my power how long I willexist, but rather how long I willtrulyexist. Demand this of me: that I not pass througha base life span as though passing through shadows, but that I live my life, not skip past it. What’s the most complete span of a life, you ask? To live until attaining wisdom. Whoever reaches that goal ends at a point not furthest, but greatest. Let that man rejoice boldly in the truth, and give thanks to the gods, and to himself among these; let him credit the cosmos for his creation, and deservedlyso, for he returns to the cosmos a better life than the one he got. He has set the template of the good man, and revealed its measure and its quality. If he had added anything to it, the addition would have been similar to what came before. How long is our life?We have enjoyed an understanding of all things; we know from what origins Nature brings itself forth, how it ordersthe world, throughwhat changes it recalls the seasons, how it contains everything that will ever come to be and makes itself its own endpoint; we know that the stars move by their own force, that nothing is stationary except the earth, and that everything else races along at constant speed; we know how the moon outruns the sun and why, though slower, it leaves the faster object behind; we know how it takes onor loses its light, what cause brings on night and what restores the day. A journey awaits,to where you can see these things more closely. The wise man says, “It’s not for this that I depart with greater courage, that I think I have a clear path toward my gods. I deserve to be admitted to their company, and I have already been among them; I have sent my mind there, and they have sent theirsto me. But supposing I am destroyed and that nothing of my humannature remains after death: I possess a great mind nonetheless, even if it’s not going anywhere when I depart.” Surely you don’t think the man happier who died on the last day of the games, than he who died in the middle? By no less an interval thanthatdoes each of us precede the next to die. Death makes its way through all;the killer follows on the heels of his victim. We get most anxious over the thing that is least important. What does it matter how long you dodge the thing you cannot escape? Farewell. Epistle93. Dear Lucilius, Every day, every hour reveals how we are nothing, and brings new arguments to convince those who have forgotten their fragility; it compels those who have contemplated eternal thingsto look toward death. What is this prelude driving at, you ask? You once knew Cornelius Senecio,an illustrious and dutiful Roman knight. He advanced himself from slender origins, and was coasting downhill toward better things, for stature increases more easily than it gets started. Wealth, also, tends to linger a long time in poverty’s realm, and hangs on there even while it is struggling out;but Senecio was on the point of gaining riches, led there by two very effective things, expertise in getting wealth and in managing it; either one might have made him rich. This man of highest thriftiness, who cared for his physical health no less than for his estate, after coming to see me in the morning (as was his habit),and then sitting by the side of a suffering, terminally ill friendall day and (with greater dejection) into the night, and then taking a cheerful meal, was seized by a sudden attack of ill health, angina, and barely kept breathing, through choked airways, until the dawn. Thus only a few short hours after he hadcarried out the duties of a sound and healthy man, he was dead. He was taken off, a man who was managing business on both land and sea, who had made astart in civic affairs and left no source of revenue untapped, at the consummate moment of good fortune, at the flood tide of incoming wealth. Sow your pear trees, Meliboeus, and set your vines in a row. How foolish to set things in order, when we’re not lords of tomorrow! What madness is the far-reaching hope of those who begin things! “I’ll buy things, build things, lend and collect, accruehonors, and finally I’ll spend my worn-out, filled-up old age in idle leisure.” Listen to me: everything is doubtful, even for the fortunate; no one should promise himself anythingregarding the future; the thing held in the hands slips away, and chance cuts short the very hour we hold before us. Time proceeds by a settled law, but it moves through darkness. What does it matter to me that somethingis clear to Nature, if it’s opaque to me? We plan long sea voyages and late returns to our native land after traversing foreign shores; military campaigns and the slow payoff of building fortifications; governorships and attainment of one office after another, meanwhile death stands by our side; and since death is never contemplated except as another’s fate, instances of mortality pile up beforeus but don’t abide any longer than our astonishment at them. But what could be more foolish than to marvel that something will happen on a certain day, when it could happen onanyday? Our end-point is fixed where the inescapable necessity of the fates has planted it, but none of us knowshow far off from that endpoint our course lies. Therefore let’s shape our minds as though we’d arrived atthe last lap. Make haste to live, Lucilius, and think each of your days to be an individual life. The man who accustoms himself to this way of thought, for whom life is complete each day, is free of worry; but to those who live for hope, each moment, as it draws near, slips away, and in steals greediness and, the thing most wretched and cause of all most wretched things, the fear of death. Thencecomes that most debased prayer of Maecenas, in which he accepts weakness and disfigurement and the freshly sharpened stakes of the cross, so long as, among these evils, he is spared the breath of life: Make my hand feeble, make my foot feeble; give me a swelling hunchback, knock out my loosening teeth; as long as life remains, it’s fine. Just preserve my life, even if I sit on a sharpenedstake. Here, he desires the thing that would bring the most wretchedness, had it happened, and seeks a postponement of torment as though it were life itself. Imagine that Vergil had once recited to him this line: Is it so very wretched a thing, this dying? He desires that the worst of evils, things that are the hardest to endure, be continued and prolonged, and for what reward? A longerlife, as it seems. But what is living, if it’s only a lengthy dying? Is there anyone who would want to be mutilated by tortures, to perish limb by limb, and to give up the ghost many times on the rackrather than simply breathe it out a single time? Is there anyone who would prefer, when driven forward to that grim piece of wood, already bent, enfeebled, and puffed out into vile swellings of hischest and shoulders, having amassed many causes of death even apart from the cross, to drag out a life that will feel so many torments? Go ahead, then, deny that it’s a great gift of Nature that we must die. But many are ready to swap worse things for it: to betray a friend in order to live longer, or to hand over their children, with their own hands, for lechery, just to see the next dawn, a dawnthat’s privy to their many sins. This desire for life must be knocked out of us. We must learn that it makes no difference when you undergo the thing that must be undergone some time or other; that it matters how well you live, not how long. And often the “well” lies in not living long.Farewell. Epistle101. FOUR. SET YOURSELF FREE. In the passage below, Seneca again consoles Marcia on the death of her teenaged son. At one point he also refers to Marcia’s father, who some years earlier had starved himself to death to escape persecution by the emperor Tiberius; his suicide was completed just as his senate colleagues, obeying the will of the emperor, were voting to have him executed. That sort of death,freely chosen rather than imposed by a greater power, had particular resonance for Seneca in the era of Caligula, during which theConsolation to Marciawas likely written, and again in the second half of Nero’s reign, during which he wrote theEpistles.Both emperorswere prone to paranoia and forced many citizens they suspected of disloyalty, including ultimately Seneca himself, to take theirown lives or else face both execution and confiscation of property. That recurring pattern helped define suicide as a path to self-liberation, in Seneca’s mind. Oh, how ignorant they are of their troubles, those who do not praise and await death as the finest device of Nature! Whether it closes off happiness or drives away disaster; whether it ends the satiety and torpor of the old, or reducesthe bloom of youth when better things are looked for, or calls back adolescence before it embarks on harsher paths, it is an end for all and a remedy for many, and for some the answer to a prayer, better deserved by no one more than those to whom it comes before it is summoned.Death releases those enslaved to a hated master; it lightens the chains of prisoners; it frees from prison those whoman unopposable authority had forbidden to leave; it demonstrates, to exiles who bend their eyes and thoughts always to their homeland, that there’s no difference in what nation one makes one’s home; it evens everything out, when Fortune has made a bad division of shared property and given one man to another, though both were born with equal rights;it’s the point past which no one ever againdoes another’s bidding, the state in which no one is aware of his lowliness, the path which is closed to no one, the end your father, Marcia, eagerly desired; it’s death, I declare, that makes being born something other than a torment, that allows me not to collapse in the face of menacing events, that lets me keep my mind intact and in controlof itself; I have a court of appeal. Lo, over here,I see crosses of torture, and not all of one kind, but different ones from different makers. For some men hang others upside down, head facing the earth; others drive a stake through the genitalia; still others stretch the arms on the crossbeam.I see the “lyres,”I see beatings, and instruments devised for every different limb and joint;but I see death as well. Over there, there are bloodthirstyenemies and imperious fellow citizens; but I see death is there also. Slavery is no burden, provided that, if your master disgusts you, you can cross over into freedom with a single step. I hold you dear, life, by virtue of the boon of death. To Marcia20.1. The passage below, from Seneca’s early workDe Ira(“On Anger”), represents his moststriking equation of suicide and personal freedom.It comes directly after Seneca’s discussion of two Near Eastern tyrants, Cambyses and Astyages, who had committed outrages on their chief ministers: Cambyses had killed the son of Prexaspes by using him as an archery target, while Astyages had fed to Harpagus a stew of his own butchered children. These stories, and Seneca’s response to them here, take on special point given that Seneca would later, perhaps soon after this passage was composed, become a chief minister himself, at the court of the young Nero. We will not urge our readers to follow the commands of torturers; we will show instead that, in every kind of enslavement, the road to freedom lies open. If one’s mind is ill and wretched from its own failings, it canmake an end of its own sufferings. I will say to one who has fallenin with a king who fires arrows into the chests of his friends, or to another whose master gluts fathers on the guts of their children, “What do you groan for, senseless man? What hope do you have that some foe will liberate you, by destroying your whole family, or some king will wing his way to you, extending his power from afar? Anywhere you cast your glance, the end of your troubles can be found.You see that high, steep place? From there comes the descent to freedom. You see that sea, that river, that well? Freedom lies there, at its bottom. You see that short, gnarled, unhappy tree? Freedom hangs from it. Look to your own neck, your windpipe, your heart; these are the paths out of slavery. Are these exits I show you too laborious, demanding of resolve andstrength? Then, if you ask whatis the path to freedom, I say: any vein in your body.” On Anger3.15.3. Seneca often pointed to the death of Marcus Porcius Cato, an event that took place a century before his own time, as a model of self-liberation by suicide. Cato, a devoted Stoic, had opposed Julius Caesar both in the senate and on the battlefield, in hopes of preventing Rome from becoming an autocracy. After he lost a crucialbattle in North Africa, near Utica, Cato withdrew to a private room and disemboweled himself with a sword. His friends found him still alive and had a doctor sew up his wound, but Cato resolutely pulled out the stitches and finished himself off. Seneca found this death exemplary because of its political motivation, its philosophic inspiration (Cato hadbeen reading Plato’sPhaedo,a dialogue thatdiscusses the immortality of the soul, just before undertaking his deed), and above all because of the resolve required to bring it to completion. I tell you, I can’t see anything Jupiter would consider more lovely anywhere on earth, if he should turn his attention here, than the sight of Cato, standing upright amid public disasters even though his faction had been wrecked more than once. “Leteverything submit to the control of one man,” he said, “let the lands be guarded by troops and the seas by fleets, let Caesar’s soldiers blockade the ports, yet Cato has a means of escape: he’ll forge a broad path to freedom with a single hand. This sword here, thus far harmless and free from the taint of civil war, will finally accomplish brave and noble deeds; itwill give to Cato the freedomit could not give to his homeland. Go forth, my soul, toward the deed you have long contemplated; tear yourself away from human affairs. Petreius and Juba have met in combat, and lie dead, each killed by the other’s hand;that’s a bold and illustrious pact of death, but not the kind that suitsourgreatness. It’s just as base for Cato to seek death at another’s hands as it is to seek life.” It’sclear to me that the gods looked on with great joy while that man, his own harshest avenger, took thought for others’ safety and helped those who left him prepare their escape; while he pored over his studies in his final night; while he stuck his sword into his holy breast; while he scattered his own organs and drew out with his hand that beatified soul, a thing too good to be tainted by a metalblade. For this reason, I couldbelieve, his wound was not sure or effective enough: to watch Cato once was not enough for the immortal gods; his virtue was held back and recalled,so that it might reveal itself in a more difficult role. To seek death a second time takes a greater mind than to enter it once. Why else would the gods not have looked on with approval as the one they nurtured gotaway by means of a brilliant and memorable escape? Death sanctifies those whose exit wins praise even from those in whom it inspires fear. On Providence2.9. Having explored Cato’s demise in the opening section ofOn Providence,above, Seneca returns to the idea of suicide as self-liberation in the closing section of the work, where an unnamed god is speaking to humankind. “Above all, I tookcare that no one would detain you against your will; the exit stands open. If you don’t want to fight, you’re allowed to flee. Thus out of all the things I wanted you to go through by necessity, I made dying the easiest. I put your soul on a downhill slope. If it’s a drawn-out death,just wait a bit, and you’ll see how short and easy is the path to freedom. I put much shorter delays in yourway as you leave the world than as you enter. Otherwise Fortune would have held great power over you, if the human race took as long dying as being born. Let every time and every place instruct you on how easy it is to renounce Nature and to press back on it its gift. Among the very altars and the solemn rites of those making sacrifice, there where life is prayed for, study death. See how the sleekbodies of bulls are felled by a smallwound, and the blow of a human hand dispatches animals of great strength. The ligaments of the neck are severed by a small blade, and when that joint that connects the head and neck is cut, the creature’s bulk, however huge, collapses. The breath of life does not lurk in some deep place; it does not need to be dug out with tools. Your organs don’t need tobe searched out by a stab wound deep within. Death is as near as can be. I set no fixed spot for these killing blows; wherever you want to strike, the way lies open. That thing we call dying, the moment when the soul leaves the body, is too quick for the speed of its exit to be felt. If the noose breaks the neck, or if water blocks your breathing, or if the hard ground beneath you breaks your headas you fall, or if a draught of flame cuts off the course of your returning breath, whatever formdeath takes, it comes quickly. So aren’t you ashamed? You fear for so long that which takes only a short time!” On Providence6.7. As Seneca aged and his physical condition deteriorated, he increasingly confronted the question of self-euthanasia. His feelings on the subject were conflicted, andnot always consistent. Whereas inEpistle 77part three, Seneca seemed to approve of the suicide of Tullius Marcellinus, who had been plagued by a painful but temporary illness, he says inEpistle 58below that only in the case of an incurable condition would suicide be justified. Then in the letter that follows, Epistle 70,presented here in its entirety, Seneca explores both sides of the problemof self-euthasia and decides that the choice is contingent on circumstances. On this question, whether one ought to disdain the exigencies of old age and not wait for their end but make an end with one’s hand, I’ll tell you what I think. The man who lingers and awaits his fate is near to being a coward, just as the drinker who drains an entire amphora, and even sucks down the dregs, is toomuch devoted to wine. But that raises the question whether the end of life is the dregs or something very clear and fluid, if, that is, the mind stays free of damage, the senses stay intact and give delight to the spirit, and the body is not worn out or dead before its time; it makes a great difference whether what one prolongs is life or death. But if one’s body becomes useless for performingits functions, is it not fitting to draw the struggling mind out of it? And, perhaps, the deed must be done a littlebefore it ought, lest, when it ought to be done, you’re no longer able to do it. And when the danger of living badly is greater than that of dying soon, only a fool would not buy his way out of a great risk at the price of a small moment of time. A very long old age has broughtfew men to death’s threshold without debilities, whereas for many, life lies there motionless, unable to make use of what makes it life. Do you think there is anything crueler to lose from life than the right to end it? Don’t begrudge me a hearing, as though my opinion were meant for your own case; take the full measure of my words. I won’t depart from old age as long as it leaves me intact,or at least whole in that better portion of myself. But if it begins to destroy my mind and to tear away parts of it, if what is left to me is not life but mere breath, I’lljump out of the rotten and collapsing building. I won’t use death to escape illness, so long as the illness is curable and does not occlude my mind. I won’t use my hand against myself merely on account of pain; to die forthat reason is to admit defeat. But if I know that my condition must be endured forevermore, I’ll leave, not because of the pain itself, but because it will cut me off from everything that gives one a reason to live. It’s a weak and idle man who dies on account of pain, but it’s a fool who lives for pain’s sake. Epistle58.32 to 36. Dear Lucilius, After a long time away, I have visited Pompeii,your hometown. I was brought back within view of my young adulthood; whatever I had done as a youth, it seemed I was able to do again or had just recently done. We have sailed on pastin the voyage of life, Lucilius; just as, when one is at sea (as Vergil says), the lands and the towns fall away, so have we watched drop from sight, as time sails hurriedly on, first our boyhood, then our adolescence,then whatever lies between youth and mid-life, spanning the gap between them, then the best years of old age, until at last the common end of all humankind hoves in view. We are deluded to think this a perilous reef. It’s a harbor, sometimes to be sought, never to be shunned; someone who drifted there, in the first years of life, has no more cause to complain than one who sailed there atspeed. For as you know, lazy breezes sport with some men, holding back their progress and tiring them with the boredom of a gentle calm, while an unceasing gale sweeps other men along most swiftly.Consider that the same thing happens to us: life brings some very quickly to where even those who tarry must eventually go; others it first tenderizes and ripens. Life, as you know, is not a thing thatshould be held onto forever. Merely to live is not in itself good, but rather, to livewell. Thus the sage will live as long as he ought, not as long as he can. He’ll examine where he will live, with whom, and how, and what he will do. He’ll think about what kind of life is his, not what length. If a host of troubles arise and roil his serenity, he’ll set himself free; and he won’t do this onlyin the final exigency; rather, when his fortune first begins to seem suspect to him, he’ll look around to see whether he’s at a good stopping point. He judges that it makes no difference whether he fashions his end or receives it, whether it happens later or sooner. He does not fear it as he would a great setback,for no one can lose much out of a tiny dribble. It’s of no matter whether one diessooner, or later; dying well or badly is what matters. And to die well is to escape the danger of living badly. Thus I think that that man of Rhodes spoke a most unmanly word; when he had been thrown into a hole by the tyrant, and was being kept alive like some animal, he said, to someone who urged him to stop eating, “So long as one lives, one must hold onto every hope.” Though there’s truth tothat, life should not be bought at any price. It’s folly to die from the fear of death. Your executioner is coming; wait for him. Why get a head start? Why take on the task of inflicting cruelty that belongs to another? Are you jealous of your butcher, or do you seek to spare him his efforts? Socrates could have ended his life by fasting and abstinence, rather than dying by poison; yet he spentthirty days in prisonawaiting death, not in the belief that anything was possible, as though such a long stretch of time might give room for hopes of all kinds, but so that he might submit to the laws, and allow his friends to take joy in the last days of Socrates. Nothing could have been sillier than to have contempt for death but also to fear poison! Scribonia, a solid, serious woman, was thepaternal aunt of Drusus Libo, a youth high in rank but low in intelligence, who had greater hopes for himself than anyone of that time had reason to entertain, greater indeed than he himself had reason to hold atanytime. When Drusus was carried out of the senate, ailing, lying on a litter, with only a few to attend him (for his inner circle had wickedly deserted a man who was no longer a defendantbut a terminal case), he began to consider whether to take his own life or wait for death to arrive.Scribonia said tohim, “What joy is there for you in taking care of someone else’s job?” But she failed to sway him; he did away with himself with his own hands. And he had reason: if he had lived another three or four days, doomed to die by the sentence his enemy had passed, he would indeedhave taken care of someone else’s job. One can’t generalize and say that, in a situation where

This e-text scanned, OCR'd and once overed by Gorgon776 on 16 May 2001. It needs some more correction. If you correct this text, update the version number by .1 and add your name here. PukeOnaPlate 2023 Version plus point one. Formatted for text to speech. Hyphens, brackets and ellipses replaced with commas. Mister and Doctor spelled out explicitly. A TENDERFOOT IN SPACE. When this book was in process, Doctor Kondo asked me whether there were any stories of Robert's which had not been reprinted. On looking over the list of stories, I found that "A Tenderfoot in Space" had never been printed in anything except when it originally appeared in Boys' Life. All copies in our possession had been sent to the UCSC Archives, so I asked them to Xerox those and send them to me. And found this introduction by Robert, which he had added to the carbon in the library before he sent it down there. I was completely surprised, and asked Doctor Kondo whether he would like to use it? Here it is. Virginia Heinlein. This was written a year before Sputnik and is laid on the Venus earthbound astronomers inferred before space probes. Two hours of rewriting, a word here, a word there, could change it to a planet around some other star. But to what purpose? Would The Tempest be improved if Bohemia had a sea coast? If I ever publish that collection of Boy Scout stories, this story will appear unchanged. Nixie is, of course, my own dog. But in 1919, when I was 12 and a Scout, he had to leave me, a streetcar hit him. If this universe has any reasonable teleology whatever, a point on which I am unsure, then there is some provision for the Nixies in it. Part One. "Heel, Nixie," the boy said softly, "and keep quiet." The little mongrel took position left and rear of his boy, waited. He could feel that Charlie was upset and he wanted to know why, but an order from Charlie could not be questioned. The boy tried to see whether or not the policeman was noticing them. He felt light-headed, neither he nor his dog had eaten that day. They had stopped in front of this supermarket, not to buy for the boy had no money left, but because of a "BOY WANTED" sign in the window. It was then that he had noticed the reflection of the policeman in the glass. The boy hesitated, trying to collect his cloudy thoughts. Should he go inside and ask for the job? Or should he saunter past the policeman? Pretend to be just out for a walk? The boy decided to go on, get out of sight. He signaled the dog to stay close and turned away from the window. Nixie came along, tail high. He did not care where they went as long as he was with Charlie. Charlie had belonged to him as far back as he could remember; he could imagine no other condition. In fact Nixie would not have lived past his tenth day had not Charlie fallen in love with him; Nixie had been the least attractive of an unfortunate litter; his mother was Champion Lady Diana of Ojai, his father was unknown. But Nixie was not aware that a neighbor boy had begged his life from his first owners. His philosophy was simple: enough to eat, enough sleep, and the rest of his time spent playing with Charlie. This present outing had been Charlie's idea, but any outing was welcome. The shortage of food was a nuisance but Nixie automatically forgave Charlie such errors, after all, boys will be boys and a wise dog accepted the fact. The only thing that troubled him was that Charlie did not have the happy heart which was a proper part of all hikes. As they moved past the man in the blue uniform, Nixie felt the man's interest in them, sniffed his odor, but could find no real unfriendliness in it. But Charlie was nervous, alert, so Nixie kept his own attention high. The man in uniform said, "Just a moment, son." Charlie stopped, Nixie stopped. "You speaking to me, officer?" "Yes. What's your dog's name?" Nixie felt Charlie's sudden terror, got ready to attack. He had never yet had to bite anyone for his boy, but he was instantly ready. The hair between his shoulder blades stood up. Charlie answered, "Uh, his name is “Spot.” "So?" The stranger said sharply, "Nixie!" Nixie had been keeping his eyes elsewhere, in order not to distract his ears, his nose, and the inner sense with which he touched people's feelings. But he was so startled at hearing this stranger call him by name that he turned his head and looked at him. "His name is 'Spot,' is it?" the policeman said quietly. "And mine is Santa Claus. But you're Charlie Vaughn and you're going home." He spoke into his helmet phone: "Nelson, reporting a pickup on that Vaughn missing-persons flier. Send a car. I'm in front of the new supermarket." Nixie had trouble sorting out Charlie's feelings; they were both sad and glad. The stranger's feelings were slightly happy but mostly nothing; Nixie decided to wait and see. He enjoyed the ride in the police car, as he always enjoyed rides, but Charlie did not, which spoiled it a little. They were taken to the local Justice of the Peace. "You're Charles Vaughn?" Nixie's boy felt unhappy and said nothing. "Speak up, son," insisted the old man. "If you aren't, then you must have stolen that dog." He read from a paper "accompanied by a small brown mongrel, male, well trained, responds to the name 'Nixie.' Well?" Nixie's boy answered faintly, "I'm Charlie Vaughn." "That's better. You'll stay here until your parents pick you up." The judge frowned. "I can't understand your running away. Your folks are emigrating to Venus, aren't they?" "Yes, sir." "You're the first boy I ever met who didn't want to make the Big Jump." He pointed to a pin on the boy's lapel. "And I thought Scouts were trustworthy. Not to mention obedient. What got into you, son? Are you scared of the Big Jump? 'A Scout is Brave.' That doesn't mean you don't have to be scared, everybody is at times. 'Brave' simply means you don't run even if you are scared." "I'm not scared," Charlie said stubbornly. "I want to go to Venus." "Then why run away when your family is about to leave?" Nixie felt such a burst of warm happy-sadness from Charlie that he licked his hand. "Because Nixie can't go!" "Oh." The judge looked at boy and dog. "I'm sorry, son. That problem is beyond my jurisdiction." He drummed his desk top. "Charlie, will you promise, Scout's honor, not to run away again until your parents show up?" "Uh, yes, sir." "Okay. Joe, take them to my place. Tell my wife she had better see how recently they've had anything to eat." The trip home was long. Nixie enjoyed it, even though Charlie's father was happy-angry and his mother was happy-sad and Charlie himself was happy-sad-worried. When Nixie was home he checked quickly through each room, making sure that all was in order and that there were no new smells. Then he returned to Charlie. The feelings had changed. Mister Vaughn was angry, Missus Vaughn was sad, Charlie himself gave out such bitter stubbornness that Nixie went to him, jumped onto his lap, and tried to lick his face. Charlie settled Nixie beside him, started digging fingers into the loose skin back of Nixie's neck. Nixie quieted at once, satisfied that he and his boy could face together whatever it was, but it distressed him that the other two were not happy. Charlie belonged to him; they belonged to Charlie; things were better when they were happy, too. Mister Vaughn said, "Go to bed, young man, and sleep on it. I'll speak with you again tomorrow." "Yes, sir. Good night, sir." "Kiss your mother goodnight. One thing more, Do I need to lock doors to be sure you will be here in the morning?" "No, sir." Nixie got on the foot of the bed as usual, tromped out a space, laid his tail over his nose, and started to go to sleep. But his boy was not sleeping; his sadness was taking the distressing form of heaves and sobs. So Nixie got up, went to the other end of the bed and licked away tears, then let himself be pulled into Charlie's arms and tears applied directly to his neck. It was not comfortable and too hot, besides being taboo. But it was worth enduring as Charlie started to quiet down, presently went to sleep. Nixie waited, gave him a lick on the face to check his sleeping, then moved to his end of the bed. Missus Vaughn said to Mister Vaughn, "Charles, isn't there anything we can do for the boy?" "Confound it, Nora. We're getting to Venus with too little money as it is. If anything goes wrong, we'll be dependent on charity." "But we do have a little spare cash." "Too little. Do you think I haven't considered it? Why, the fare for that worthless dog would be almost as much as it is for Charlie himself! Out of the question! So why nag me? Do you think I enjoy this decision?" "No, dear." Missus Vaughn pondered. "How much does Nixie weigh? I, well, I think I could reduce ten more pounds if I really tried." "What? Do you want to arrive on Venus a living skeleton? You've reduced all the doctor advises, and so have I." "Well, I thought that if somehow, among us, we could squeeze out Nixie's weight, it's not as if he were a Saint Bernard! We could swap it against what we weighed for our tickets." Mister Vaughn shook his head unhappily. "They don't do it that way." "You told me yourself that weight was everything. You even got rid of your chess set." "We could afford thirty pounds of chess sets, or china, or cheese, where we can't afford thirty pounds of dog." "I don't see why not." "Let me explain. Surely, it's weight; it's always weight in a space ship. But it isn't just my hundred and sixty pounds, or your hundred and twenty, not Charlie's hundred and ten. We're not dead weight; we have to eat and drink and breathe air and have room to move, that last takes more weight because it takes more ship weight to hold a live person than it does for an equal weight in the cargo hold. For a human being there is a complicated formula, hull weight equal to twice the passenger's weight, plus the number of days in space times four pounds. It takes a hundred and forty-six days to get to Venus, so it means that the calculated weight for each of us amounts to six hundred and sixteen pounds before they even figure in our actual weights. But for a dog the rate is even higher, five pounds per day instead of four." "That seems unfair. Surely a little dog can't eat as much as a man? Why, Nixie's food costs hardly anything." Her husband snorted. "Nixie eats his own rations and half of what goes on Charlie's plate. However, it's not only the fact that a dog does eat more for his weight, but also they don't reprocess waste with a dog, not even for hydroponics." "Why not? Oh, I know what you mean. But it seems silly." "The passengers wouldn't like it. Never mind; the rule is: five pounds per day for dogs. Do you know what that makes Nixie's fare? Over three thousand dollars!" "My goodness!" "My ticket comes to thirty-eight hundred dollars and some, you get by for thirty-four hundred, and Charlie's fare is thirty-three hundred, yet that confounded mongrel dog, which we couldn't sell for his veterinary bills, would cost three thousand dollars. If we had that to spare, which we haven't, the humane thing would be to adopt some orphan, spend the money on him, and thereby give him a chance on an uncrowded planet, not waste it on a dog. Confound it! A year from now Charlie will have forgotten this dog." "I wonder." "He will. When I was a kid, I had to give up dogs, more than once they died, or something. I got over it. Charlie has to make up his mind whether to give Nixie away, or have him put to sleep." He chewed his lip. "We'll get him a pup on Venus." "It won't be Nixie." "He can name it Nixie. He'll love it as much." "But, Charles, how is it there are dogs on Venus if it's so dreadfully expensive to get them there?" "Eh? I think the first exploring parties used them to scout. In any case they're always shipping animals to Venus; our own ship is taking a load of milch cows." "That must be terribly expensive." "Yes and no, they ship them in sleep-freeze of course, and a lot of them never revive. But they cut their losses by butchering the dead ones and selling the meat at fancy prices to the colonists. Then the ones that live have calves and eventually it pays off." He stood up. "Nora, let's go to bed. It's sad, but our boy is going to have to make a man's decision. Give the mutt away, or have him put to sleep." "Yes, dear." She sighed. "I'm coming." Nixie was in his usual place at breakfast, lying beside Charlie's chair, accepting tidbits without calling attention to himself. He had learned long ago the rules of the dining room: no barking, no whining, no begging for food, no paws on laps, else the pets of his pet would make difficulties. Nixie was satisfied. He had learned as a puppy to take the world as it was, cheerful over its good points, patient with its minor shortcomings. Shoes were not to be chewed, people were not to be jumped on, most strangers must be allowed to approach the house, subject, of course, to strict scrutiny and constant alertness, a few simple rules and everyone was happy. Live and let live. He was aware that his boy was not happy even this beautiful morning. But he had explored this feeling carefully, touching his boy's mind with gentle care by means of his canine sense for feelings, and had decided, from his superior maturity, that the mood would wear off. Boys were sometimes sad and a wise dog was resigned to it. Mister Vaughn finished his coffee, put his napkin aside. "Well, young man?" Charlie did not answer. Nixie felt the sadness in Charlie change suddenly to a feeling more aggressive and much stronger but no better. He pricked up his ears and waited. "Chuck," his father said, "last night I gave you a choice. Have you made up your mind?" "Yes, Dad." Charlie's voice was very low. "Eh? Then tell me." Charlie looked at the tablecloth. "You and Mother go to Venus. Nixie and I are staying here." Nixie could feel anger welling up in the man, felt him control it. "You're figuring on running away again?" "No, sir," Charlie answered stubbornly. "You can sign me over to the state school." "Charlie!" It was Charlie's mother who spoke. Nixie tried to sort out the rush of emotions impinging on him. "Yes," his father said at last, "I could use your passage money to pay the state for your first three years or so, and agree to pay your support until you are eighteen. But I shan’t." "Huh? Why not, Dad?" "Because, old-fashioned as it sounds, I am head of this family. I am responsible for it, and not just food, shelter, and clothing, but its total welfare. Until you are old enough to take care of yourself I mean to keep an eye on you. One of the prerogatives which go with my responsibility is deciding where the family shall live. I have a better job offered me on Venus than I could ever hope for here, so I'm going to Venus, and my family goes with me." He drummed on the table, hesitated. "I think your chances are better on a pioneer planet, too, but, when you are of age, if you think otherwise, I'll pay your fare back to Earth. But you go with us. Understand?" Charlie nodded, his face glum. "Very well. I'm amazed that you apparently care more for that dog than you do for your mother, and myself. But." "It isn't that, Dad. Nixie needs." "Quiet. I don't suppose you realize it, but I tried to figure this out, I'm not taking your dog away from you out of meanness. If I could afford it, I'd buy the hound a ticket. But something your mother said last night brought up a third possibility." Charlie looked up suddenly, and so did Nixie; wondering why the surge of hope in his boy. "I can't buy Nixie a ticket, but it's possible to ship him as freight." "Huh? Why, sure, Dad! Oh, I know he'd have to be caged up, but I'd go down and feed him every day and pet him and tell him it was all right and." "Slow down! I don't mean that. All I can afford is to have him shipped the way animals are always shipped in space ships, in sleep-freeze." Charlie's mouth hung open. He managed to say, "But that's." "That's dangerous. As near as I remember, it's about fifty-fifty whether he wakes up at the other end. But if you want to risk it, well, perhaps it's better than giving him away to strangers, and I'm sure you would prefer it to taking him down to the vet's and having him put to sleep." Charlie did not answer. Nixie felt such a storm of conflicting emotions in Charlie that the dog violated dining room rules; he raised up and licked the boy's hand. Charlie grabbed the dog's ear. "All right, Dad," he said gruffly. "We'll risk it, if that's the only way Nixie and I can still be partners." Nixie did not enjoy the last few days before leaving; they held too many changes. Any proper dog likes excitement, but home is for peace and quiet. Things should be orderly there, food and water always in the same place, newspapers to fetch at certain hours, milkmen to supervise at regular times, furniture all in its proper place. But during that week all was change, nothing on time, nothing in order. Strange men came into the house (always a matter for suspicion), and he, Nixie, was not even allowed to protest, much less give them the what-for they had coming. He was assured by Charlie and Missus Vaughn that it was "all right" and he had to accept it, even though it obviously was not all right. His knowledge of English was accurate for a few dozen words but there was no way to explain to him that almost everything owned by the Vaughn family was being sold, or thrown away, nor would it have reassured him. Some things in life were permanent; he had never doubted that the Vaughn home was first among these certainties. By the night before they left, the rooms were bare except for beds. Nixie trotted around the house, sniffing places where familiar objects had been, asking his nose to tell him that his eyes deceived him, whining at the results. Even more upsetting than physical change was emotional change, a heady and not entirely happy excitement which he could feel in all three of his people. There was a better time that evening, as Nixie was allowed to go to Scout meeting. Nixie always went on hikes and had formerly attended all meetings. But he now attended only outdoor meetings since an incident the previous winter, Nixie felt that too much fuss had been made about it, just some spilled cocoa and a few broken cups and anyhow it had been that cat's fault. But this meeting he was allowed to attend because it was Charlie's last Scout meeting on Earth. Nixie was not aware of that but he greatly enjoyed the privilege, especially as the meeting was followed by a party at which Nixie became comfortably stuffed with hot dogs and pop. Scoutmaster McIntosh presented Charlie with a letter of withdrawal, certifying his status and merit badges and asking his admission into any troop on Venus. Nixie joined happily in the applause, trying to out bark the clapping. Then the Scoutmaster said, “Okay, Rip." Rip was senior patrol leader. He got up and said, "Quiet, fellows. Hold it, you crazy savages! Charlie, I don't have to tell you that we're all sorry to see you go, but we hope you have a swell time on Venus and now and then send a postcard to Troop Twenty-Eight and tell us about it, we'll post 'em on the bulletin board. Anyhow, we wanted to get you a going-away present. But Mister McIntosh pointed out that you were on a very strict weight allowance and practically anything would either cost you more to take with you than we had paid for it, or maybe you couldn't take it at all, which wouldn't be much of a present. "But it finally occurred to us that we could do one thing. Nixie." Nixie's ears pricked. Charlie said softly, "Steady, boy." "Nixie has been with us almost as long as you have. He's been around, poking his cold nose into things, longer than any of the tenderfeet, and longer even than some of the second class. So we decided he ought to have his own letter of withdrawal, so that the troop you join on Venus will know that Nixie is a Scout in good standing. Give it to him, Kenny." The scribe passed over the letter. It was phrased like Charlie's letter, save that it named "Nixie Vaughn, Tenderfoot Scout" and diplomatically omitted the subject of merit badges. It was signed by the scribe, the scoutmaster, and the patrol leaders and countersigned by every member of the troop. Charlie showed it to Nixie, who sniffed it. Everybody applauded, so Nixie joined happily in applauding himself. "One more thing," added Rip. "Now that Nixie is officially a Scout, he has to have his badge. So send him front and center." Charlie did so. They had worked their way through the Dog Care merit badge together while Nixie was a pup, all feet and floppy ears; it had made Nixie a much more acceptable member of the Vaughn family. But the rudimentary dog training required for the merit badge had stirred Charlie's interest; they had gone on to Dog Obedience School together and Nixie had progressed from easy spoken commands to more difficult silent hand signals. Charlie used them now. At his signal Nixie trotted forward, sat stiffly at attention, front paws neatly drooped in front of his chest, while Rip fastened the tenderfoot badge to his collar, then Nixie raised his right paw in salute and gave one short bark, all to hand signals. The applause was loud and Nixie trembled with eagerness to join it. But Charlie signaled "hold and quiet," so Nixie remained silently poised in salute until the clapping died away. He returned to heel just as silently, though quivering with excitement. The purpose of the ceremony may not have been clear to him, if so, he was not the first tenderfoot Scout to be a little confused. But it was perfectly clear that he was the center of attention and was being approved of by his friends; it was a high point in his life. But all in all there had been too much excitement for a dog in one week; the trip to White Sands, shut up in a travel case and away from Charlie, was the last straw. When Charlie came to claim him at the baggage room of White Sands Airport, his relief was so great that he had a puppyish accident, and was bitterly ashamed. He quieted down on the drive from airport to spaceport, then was disquieted again when he was taken into a room which reminded him of his unpleasant trips to the veterinary, the smells, the white-coated figure, the bare table where a dog had to hold still and be hurt. He stopped dead. "Come, Nixie!" Charlie said firmly. "None of that, boy. Up!" Nixie gave a little sigh, advanced and jumped onto the examination table, stood docile but trembling. "Have him lie down," the man in the white smock said. "I've got to get the needle into the large vein in his foreleg." Nixie did so on Charlie's command, then lay tremblingly quiet while his left foreleg was shaved in a patch and sterilized. Charlie put a hand on Nixie's shoulder blades and soothed him while the veterinary surgeon probed for the vein. Nixie bared his teeth once but did not growl, even though the fear in the boy's mind was beating on him, making him just as afraid. Suddenly the drug reached his brain and he slumped limp. Charlie's fear surged to a peak but Nixie did not feel it. Nixie's tough little spirit had gone somewhere else, out of touch with his friend, out of space and time, wherever it is that the "I" within a man or a dog goes when the body wrapping it is unconscious. Charlie said shrilly, "Is he all right?" "Eh? Of course." "Uh, I thought he had died." "Want to listen to his heart beat?" "Uh, no, if you say he's all right. Then he's going to be okay? He'll live through it?" The doctor glanced at Charlie's father, back at the boy, let his eyes rest on Charlie's lapel. "Star Scout, eh?" "Uh, yes, sir." "Going on to Eagle?" "Well, I'm going to try, sir." "Good. Look, son. If I put your dog over on that shelf, in a couple of hours he'll be sleeping normally and by tomorrow he won't even know he was out. But if I take him back to the chill room and start him on the cycle, "He shrugged. "Well, I've put eighty head of cattle under today. If forty percent are revived, it's a good shipment. I do my best." Charlie looked grey. The surgeon looked at Mister Vaughn, back at the boy. "Son, I know a man who's looking for a dog for his kids. Say the word and you won't have to worry about whether this pooch's system will recover from a shock it was never intended to take." Mister Vaughn said, "Well, son?" Charlie stood mute, in an agony of indecision. At last Mister Vaughn said-sharply, "Chuck, we've got just twenty minutes before we must check in with Emigration. Well? What's your answer?" Charlie did not seem to hear. Timidly. He put out one hand, barely touched the still form with the staring, unseeing eyes. Then he snatched his hand back and squeaked, "No! We're going to Venus, both of us!", turned and ran out of the room. The veterinary spread his hands helplessly. "I tried." "I know you, did, Doctor," Mister Vaughn answered gravely. "Thank you." The Vaughn’s took the usual emigrant routing: winged shuttle rocket to the inner satellite station, ugly wingless ferry rocket to the outer station, transshipment there to the great globular cargo liner Hesperus. The jumps and changes took two days; they stayed in the deep space ship for twenty-one tedious weeks, falling in half-elliptical orbit from Earth down to Venus. The time was fixed, an inescapable consequence of the law of gravity and the sizes and shapes of the two planetary orbits. At first Charlie was terribly excited. The terrific high gravity boost to break away from Earth's mighty grasp was as much of a shocker as he had hoped; six gravities is shocking, even to those used to it. When the shuttle rocket went into free fall a few minutes later, utter weightlessness was as distressing, confusing, and exciting, as he had hoped. It was so upsetting that he would have lost his lunch had he not been injected with anti-nausea drug. Earth, seen from space, looked as it had looked in color-stereo pictures, but he found that the real thing is as vastly more satisfying as a hamburger is better than a picture of one. In the outer satellite station, someone pointed out to him the famous Captain Nordhoff, just back from Pluto. Charlie recognized those stern, lined features, familiar from TV and news pictures, and realized with odd surprise that the hero was a man, like everyone else. He decided to be a spaceman and famous explorer himself. S. S. Hesperus was a disappointment. It "blasted" away from the outer station with a gentle shove, one tenth gravity, instead of the soul-satisfying, bone grinding, ear-shattering blast with which the shuttle had left Earth. Also, despite its enormous size, it was terribly crowded. After the Captain had his ship in orbit to intercept Venus five months later, he placed spin on his ship to give his passengers artificial weight, which took from Charlie the pleasant new feeling of weightlessness which he had come to enjoy. He was bored silly in five days, and there were five months of it ahead. He shared a cramped room with his father and mother and slept in a hammock swung "nightly", the ship used Greenwich time, between their bunks. Hammock in place, there was no room in the cubicle; even with it stowed, only one person could dress at a time. The only recreation space was the mess rooms and they were always crowded. There was one view port in his part of the ship. At first it was popular, but after a few days even the kids didn't bother, for the view was always the same: stars, and more stars. By order of the Captain, passengers could sign up Tor a "sightseeing tour." Charlie's chance came when they were two weeks out, a climb through accessible parts of the ship, a quick look into the power room, a longer look at the hydroponics gardens which provided fresh air and part of their food, and a ten-second glimpse through the door of the Holy of Holies, the control room, all accompanied by a lecture from a bored junior officer. It was over in two hours and Charlie was again limited to his own, very crowded part of the ship. Up forward there were privileged passengers, who had staterooms as roomy as those of the officers and who enjoyed the luxury of the officers' lounge. Charlie did not find out that they were aboard for almost a month, but when he did, he was righteously indignant. His father set him straight. "They paid for it." "Huh? But we paid, too. Why should they get." "They paid for luxury. Those first-class passengers each paid~ about three times what your ticket cost, or mine. We got the emigrant rate, transportation and food and a place to sleep.” "I don't think it's fair." Mister Vaughn shrugged. "Why should we have something we haven't paid for." "Uh, well, Dad, why should they be able to pay for luxuries we can't afford?" "A good question. Philosophers ever since Aristotle have struggled with that one. Maybe you'll tell me, someday." "Huh? What do you mean, Dad?" "Don't say 'Huh.' Chuck, I'm taking you to a brand new planet. If you try, you can probably get rich. Then maybe you can tell me why a man with money can command luxuries that poor people can't." "But we aren't poor!" "No, we are not. But we aren't rich either. Maybe you've got the drive to get rich. One thing is sure: on Venus the opportunities are all around you. Never mind, how about a game before dinner?" Charlie still resented being shut out of the nicest parts of the ship, he had never felt like a second-class anything, citizen, or passenger, before in his life; the feeling was not pleasant. He decided to get rich on Venus. He would make the biggest uranium strike in history; then he would ride first class between Venus and Earth whenever he felt like it, that would teach those stuck-up snobs! He then remembered he had already decided to be a famous spaceman. Well, he would do both. Someday he would own a space line, and one of the ships would be his private yacht. But by the time the Hesperus reached the halfway point he no longer thought about it. The emigrants saw little of the ship's crew, but Charlie got acquainted with Slim, the emigrants' cook. Slim was called so for the reason that cooks usually are; he sampled his own wares all day long and was pear shaped. Like all space ships, the Hesperus was undermanned except for astrogators and engineers, why hire a cook's helper when the space can be sold to a passenger? It was cheaper to pay high wages to a cook who could perform production-line miracles without a helper. And Slim could. But he could use a helper. Charlie's merit badge in cooking plus a willingness to do as he was told made him Slim's favorite volunteer assistant. Charlie got from it something to do with his time, sandwiches and snacks whenever he wanted them, and lots of knowledgeable conversation. Slim had not been to college but his curiosity had never dried up; he had read everything worth reading in several ship's libraries and had kept his eyes open dirtside on every inhabited planet in the Solar System. "Slim, what's it like on Venus?" "Mum, pretty much like the books say. Rainy. Hot. Not too bad at Borealis, where you'll land." "Yes, but what's it like?" "Why not wait and see? Give that stew a stir, and switch on the short-waver. Did you know that they used to figure that Venus couldn't be lived on?" "Huh? No, I didn't." "Struth. Back in the days when we didn't have space flight, scientists were certain that Venus didn't have either oxygen nor water. They figured it was a desert, with sand storms and no air you could breathe. Proved it, all by scientific logic." "But how could they make such a mistake? I mean, obviously, with clouds all over it and." "The clouds didn't show water vapor, not through a spectroscope they didn't. Showed lots of carbon dioxide, though, and by the science of the last century they figured they had proved that Venus couldn't support life." "Funny sort of science! I guess they were pretty ignorant in those days." "Don't go running down our grandfathers. If it weren't for them, you and I would be squatting in a cave, scratching fleas. No, Bub, they were pretty sharp; they just didn't have all the facts. We've got more facts, but that doesn't make us smarter. Put them biscuits over here. The way I see it, it just goes to show that the only way to tell what's in a stew is to eat it, and even then you aren't always sure. Venus turned out to be a very nice place. For ducks. If there were any ducks there. Which there ain't." "Do you like Venus?" "I like any place I don't have to stay in too long. Okay, let's feed the hungry mob." The food in the Hesperus was as good as the living accommodations were bad. This was partly Slim's genius, but was also the fact that food in a space ship costs by its weight; what it had cost Earthside matters little compared with the expense of lifting it off Earth. The choicest steaks cost the spaceline owners little more than the same weight of rice, and any steaks left over could be sold at high prices to colonist’s weary for a taste of Earth food. So the emigrants ate as well as the first class passengers, even though not with fine service and fancy surroundings. When Slim was ready he opened a shutter in the galley partition and Charlie dealt out the wonderful viands like chow in a Scout camp to passengers queued up with plates. Charlie enjoyed this chore. It made him feel like a member of the crew, a spaceman himself. Charlie almost managed not to worry about Nixie, having told himself that there was nothing to worry about. They were a month past midpoint, with Venus only six weeks away before he discussed it with Slim. "Look, Slim, you know a lot about such things. Nixie'll make it all right, won't he?" "Hand me that paddle; Mum, don't know as I ever ran across a dog in space before. Cats now, cats belong in space. They're clean and neat and help to keep down mice and rats." "I don't like cats." "Ever lived with a cat? No, I see you haven't. How can you have the gall not to like something you don't know anything about? Wait till you've lived with a cat, then tell me what you think. Until then, well, who told you were entitled to an opinion?" "Huh? Why, everybody is entitled to his own opinion!" "Nonsense, Bub. Nobody is entitled to an opinion about something he is ignorant of. If the Captain told me how to bake a cake, I would politely suggest that he not stick his nose into my trade, contrariwise, I never tell him how to plot an orbit to Mars." "Slim, you're changing the subject. How about Nixie? He's going to be all right, isn't he?" "As I was saying, I don't have opinions about things I don't know. Happens I don't know dogs. Never had one as a kid; I was raised in a big city. Since then I've been in space. No dogs." "Darn it, Slim!, you're being evasive: You know about sleep-freeze. I know you do." Slim sighed. "Kid, you're going to die someday and so am I. And so is your pup. It's the one thing we can't avoid. Why, the ship's reactor could blow up and none of us would know what hit us till they started fitting us with haloes. So why fret about whether your dog comes out of sleep-freeze? Either he does and you've worried unnecessarily, or he doesn't and there's nothing you can do about it." "So you don't think he will?" "I didn't say that. I said it was foolish to worry." But Charlie did worry; the talk with Slim brought it to the top of his mind, worried him more and more as the day got closer. The last month seemed longer to him than the four dreary months that had preceded it. As for Nixie, time meant nothing to him. Suspended between life and death, he was not truly in the Hesperus at all; but somewhere else, outside of time. It was merely his shaggy little carcass that lay, stored like a ham, in the frozen hold of the ship. Eventually the Captain slowed his ship, matched her with Venus and set her in a, parking orbit alongside Venus's single satellite station. After transshipment and maddening delay the Vaughns were taken down in the winged shuttle Cupid into the clouds of Venus and landed at the north pole colony, Borealis. For Charlie there was a still more maddening delay: cargo, which included Nixie, was unloaded after passengers and took many days because the mighty Hesperus held so much more than the little Cupid. He could not even go over to the freight sheds to inquire about Nixie as immigrants were held at the reception center for quarantine. Each one had received many shots during the five-month trip to inoculate them against the hazards of Venus; now they found that they must wait not only on most careful physical examination and observation to make sure that they were not bringing Earth diseases in with them but also to receive more shots not available aboard ship. Charlie spent the days with sore arms and gnawing anxiety. So far he had had one glimpse outdoors, a permanently cloudy sky which never got dark and was never very bright. Borealis is at Venus's north pole and the axis of the planet is nearly erect; the unseen Sun circled the horizon, never rising nor setting by more than a few degrees. The colony lived in eternal twilight. The lessened gravity, nine-tenths that of Earth, Charlie did not notice even though he knew he should. It had been five months since he had felt Earth gravity and the Hesperus had maintained only one-third gravity in that outer part, where spin was most felt. Consequently Charlie felt heavier than seemed right, rather than lighter, his feet had forgotten full weight. Nor did he notice the heavy concentration, about 2 percent, of carbon dioxide in the air, on which Venus's mighty jungles depended. It had once been believed that so much carbon dioxide, breathed regularly, would kill a man, but long before space flight, around 1950, experiments had shown that even a higher concentration had no bad effects. Charlie simply didn't notice it. All in all, he might have been waiting in a dreary, barracks-like building in some tropical port on Earth. He did not see much of his father, who was busy by telephone and by germproof conference cage, conferring with his new employers and arranging for quarters, nor did he see much of his mother; Missus Vaughn had found the long trip difficult and was spending most of her time lying down. Nine days after their arrival Charlie was sitting in the recreation room of the reception center, disconsolately reading a book he had already read on Earth. His father came in. "Come along." "Huh? What's up?" "They're going to try to revive your dog. You want to be there, don't you? Or maybe you'd rather not? I can go, and come back and tell you what happened." Charlie gulped. "I want to be there. Let's go." The room was like the one back at White Sands where Nixie had been put to sleep, except that in place of the table there was a cage-like contraption with glass sides. A man was making adjustments on a complex apparatus which stood next to the glass box and was connected to it. He looked up. "Yes? We're busy." "My name is Vaughn and this is my son Charlie. He's the owner of the dog." The man frowned. "Didn't you get my message? I'm Doctor Zecker, by the way. You're too soon; we're just bringing the dog up to temperature." Mister Vaughn said, "Wait here, Charlie," crossed the room and spoke in a low voice to Zecker. Zecker shook his head. "Better wait outside." Mister Vaughn again spoke quietly; Doctor Zecker answered, "You don't understand. I don't even have proper equipment, I've had to adapt the force breather we use for hospital monkeys. It was never meant for a dog." They argued in whispers for a few moments. They were interrupted by an amplified voice from outside the room "Ready with ninety-seven-X, Doctor, that's the dog." Zecker called back, "Bring it in!", then went on to Mister Vaughn, "All right, keep him out of the way. Though I still say he would be better off outside." He turned, paid them no further attention. Two men, came in, carrying a large tray. Something quiet and not very large was heaped on it, covered by dull blue cloth. Charlie whispered, "Is that Nixie?" "I think so," his father-answered in a low voice. "Keep quiet and watch." "Can't I see him?" "Stay where you are and don't say a word, else the doctor will make you leave." Once inside, the team moved quickly and without speaking, as if this were something rehearsed again and again, something that must be done with great speed and perfect precision. One of them opened the glass box; the other placed the tray inside, uncovered its burden. It was Nixie, limp and apparently dead. Charlie caught his breath. One assistant moved the little body forward, fitted a collar around its neck, closed down a partition like a guillotine, jerked his hands out of the way as the other assistant slammed the glass door through which they had put the dog in, quickly sealed it. Now Nixie was shut tight in a glass coffin, his head lying outside the end partition, his body inside. "Cycle!" Even as he said it, the first assistant slapped a switch and fixed his eyes on the instrument board and Doctor Zecker thrust both arms into long rubber gloves passing through the glass, which allowed his hands to be inside with Nixie's body. With rapid, sure motions he picked up a hypodermic needle, already waiting inside, shoved it deep into the dog's side. "Force breathing established."' "No heart action, Doctor!" The reports came one on top of the other, Zecker looked up at the dials, looked back at the dog and cursed. He grabbed another needle. This one he entered gently, depressed the plunger most carefully, with his eyes on the dials. "Fibrillation." "I can see!" he answered snappishly, put down the hypo and began to massage the dog in time with the ebb and surge of the "iron lung." And Nixie lifted his head and cried. It was more than an hour before Doctor Zecker let Charlie take the dog away. During most of this time the cage was open and Nixie was breathing on his own, but with the apparatus still in place, ready to start again if his heart or lungs should falter in their newly relearned trick of keeping him alive. But during this waiting time Charlie was allowed to stand beside him, touch him, sooth and pet him to keep him quiet. At last the doctor picked up Nixie and put him in Charlie's arms. "Okay, take him. But keep him quiet; I don't want him running around for the next ten hours. But not too quiet, don't let him sleep." "Why not, Doctor?" asked Mister Vaughn. "Because sometimes, when you think they've made it, they just lie down and quit, as if they had had a taste of death and found they liked it. This pooch has had a' near squeak, we have only seven minutes to restore blood supply to the brain. Any longer than that, well, the brain is permanently damaged and you might as well put it out of its misery." "You think you made it in time?" "Do you think," Zecker answered angrily, "that I would let you take the dog if I hadn't?" "Sorry." "Just keep him quiet, but not too quiet. Keep him awake." Charlie answered solemnly, "I will, Doctor Nixie's going to be all right, I know he is." Charlie stayed awake all night long, talking to Nixie, petting him, keeping him quiet but not asleep. Neither one of his parents tried to get him to go to bed. Part Two. Nixie liked Venus. It was filled with a thousand new smells, all worth investigating, countless new sounds, each of which had to be catalogued. As official guardian of the Vaughn family and of Charlie in particular, it was his duty and pleasure to examine each new phenomenon, decide whether or not it was safe for his people; he set about it happily. It is doubtful that he realized that he had traveled other than that first lap in the traveling case to White Sands. He took up his new routine without noticing the five months clipped out of his life; he took charge of the apartment assigned to the Vaughn family, inspected it thoroughly, then nightly checked it to be sure that all was in order and safe before he tromped out his place on the foot of Charlie's bed and tucked his tail over his nose. He was aware that this was a new place, but he was not homesick. The other home had been satisfactory and he had never dreamed of leaving it, but this new home was still better. Not only did it have Charlie, without whom no place could be home, not only did it have wonderful odors, but also he found the people more agreeable. In the past, many humans had been quite stuffy about flower beds and such trivia, but here he was almost never scolded or chased away; on the contrary people were anxious to speak to him, pet him, feed him. His popularity was based on arithmetic: Borealis had fifty-five thousand people but only eleven dogs; many colonists were homesick for man's traditional best friend. Nixie did not know this, but he had great capacity for enjoying the good things in life without worrying about why. Mister Vaughn found Venus satisfactory. His work for Synthetics of Venus, Limited, was the sort of work he had done on Earth, save that he was now paid more and given more responsibility. The living quarters provided by the company were as comfortable as the house he had left back on Earth and he was unworried about the future of his family for the first time in years. Missus Vaughn found Venus bearable but she was homesick much of the time. Charlie, once he was over first the worry and then the delight of waking Nixie, found Venus interesting, less strange than he had expected, and from time to time he was homesick. But before long he was no longer homesick; Venus was home. He knew now what he wanted to be: a pioneer. When he was grown he would head south, deep into the unmapped jungle, carve out a plantation. The jungle was the greatest single fact about Venus. The colony lived on the bountiful produce of the jungle. The land on which Borealis sat, buildings and spaceport, had been torn away from the hungry jungle only by flaming it dead, stabilizing the muck with gel-forming chemicals, and poisoning the land thus claimed, then flaming, cutting, or poisoning any hardy survivor that pushed its green nose up through the captured soil. The Vaughn family lived in a large apartment building which sat on land newly captured. Facing their front door, a mere hundred feet away across scorched and poisoned soil, a great shaggy dark-green wall loomed higher than the buffer space between. But the mindless jungle never gave up. The vines, attracted by light, their lives were spent competing for light energy, felt their way into the open space, tried to fill it. They grew with incredible speed. One day after breakfast Mister Vaughn tried to go out his own front door, found his way hampered. While they had slept a vine had grown across the hundred-foot belt, supporting itself by tendrils against the dead soil, and had started up the front of the building. The police patrol of the city were armed with flame guns and spent most of their time cutting back such hardy intruders. While they had power to enforce the law, they rarely made an arrest. Borealis was a city almost free of crime; the humans were too busy fighting nature in the raw to require much attention from policemen. But the jungle was friend as well as enemy. Its lusty life offered food for millions and billions of humans in place of the few thousands already on Venus. Under the jungle lay beds of peat, still farther down were thick coal seams representing millions of years of lush jungle growth, and pools of oil waiting to be tapped. Aerial survey by jet-copter in the volcanic regions promised uranium and thorium when man could cut his way through and get at it. The planet offered unlimited wealth. But it did not offer it to sissies. Charlie quickly bumped his nose into one respect in which Venus was not for sissies. His father placed him in school, he was assigned to a grade taught by Mister deSoto. The school room was not attractive, "grim" was the word Charlie used, but he was not surprised, as most buildings in Borealis were unattractive, being constructed either of spongy logs or of lignin panels made from jungle growth. But the school itself was "grim." Charlie had been humiliated by being placed one grade lower than he had expected; now he found that the lessons were stiff and that Mister deSoto did not have the talent, or perhaps the wish to make them fun. Resentfully, Charlie loafed. After three weeks Mister deSoto kept him in after school. "Charlie, what's wrong?" "Huh? I mean, 'Sir?" "You know what I mean. You've been in my class nearly a month. You haven't learned anything. Don't you want to?" "What? Why, sure I do." "Surely' in that usage, not 'sure.' Very well, so you want to learn; why haven't you?" Charlie stood silent. He wanted to tell Mister deSoto what a swell place Horace Mann Junior High School had been, with its teams and its band and its student plays and its student council, this crazy school didn't even have a student council! And its study projects picked by the kids themselves, and the Spring Outburst and Sneak Day, and, oh, shucks! But Mister deSoto was speaking. "Where did you last go to school, Charlie?" Charlie stared. Didn't the teacher even bother to read his transcript? But he told him and added, "I was a year farther along there. I guess I'm bored, having to repeat." "I think you are, too, but I don't agree that you are repeating. They had an eighteen-year Jaw there, didn't they?" "Sir?" "You were required to attend school until you were eighteen Earth-years old?" "Oh, that! Sure. I mean 'surely.' Everybody goes to school until he's eighteen. That's to 'discourage juvenile delinquency," he quoted. "I wonder. Nobody ever flunked, I suppose." "Sir?" "Failed. Nobody ever got tossed out of school or left back for failing his studies?" "Of course not, Mister deSoto. You have to keep age groups together, or they don't develop socially as they should." "Who told you that?" "Why, everybody knows that. I've been hearing that ever since I was in kindergarten. That's what education is for, social development." Mister deSoto leaned back, rubbed his nose. Presently he said slowly; "Charlie, this isn't that kind of a school at all." Charlie waited. He was annoyed at not being invited to sit down and was wondering what would happen if he sat down anyway. "In the first place we don't have the eighteen-year rule. You can quit school today. You know how to read. Your handwriting is sloppy but it will do. You are quick in arithmetic. You can't spell worth a hoot, but that's your misfortune; the city fathers don't care whether you learn to spell or not. You've got all the education the City of Borealis feels obliged to give you. If you want to take a flame gun and start carving out your chunk of the jungle, nobody is standing in your way. I can write a note to the Board of Education, telling them that Charles Vaughn, Junior has gone as far as he ever will. You needn't come back tomorrow." Charlie gulped. He had never heard of anyone being dropped from school for anything less than a knife fight. It was unthinkable, what would his folks say? "On the other hand," Mister deSoto went on, "Venus needs educated citizens. We'll keep anybody as long as they keep learning. The city will even send you back to Earth for advanced training if you are worth it, because we need scientists and engineers, and more teachers. But this is a struggling new community and it doesn't have a penny to waste on kids who won't study. We do flunk them in this school. If you don't study, we'll lop you off so fast you'll think you've been trimmed with a flame gun. We're not running the sort of overgrown kindergarten you were in. It's up to you. Buckle down and learn, or get out. So go home and talk it over with your folks." Charlie was stunned. "Uh, Mister deSoto? Are you going to talk to my father?" "What? Heavens, no! You are their responsibility, not mine. I don't care what you do. That's all. Go home." Charlie went home, slowly. He did not talk it over with his parents. Instead he went back to school and studied. In a few weeks he discovered that even algebra could be interesting, and that old Frozen Face was an interesting teacher when Charlie had studied hard enough to know what the man was talking about. Mister deSoto never mentioned the matter again. Getting back in the Scouts was more fun but even Scouting held surprises. Mister Qu'an, Scoutmaster of Troop Four, welcomed him heartily. "Glad to have-you, Chuck. It makes me feel good when a Scout among the new citizens comes forward and says he wants to pick up the Scouting trail again." He looked over the letter Charlie had brought with him. "A good record, Star Scout at your age. Keep at it and you'll be a Double Star, both Earth and Venus." "You mean," Charlie said slowly, "that I'm not a Star Scout here?" "Eh? Not at all." Mister Qu'an touched the badge on Charlie's jacket. "You won that fairly and a Court of Honor has certified you. You'll always be a Star Scout, just as a pilot is entitled to wear his comet after he's too old to herd a space ship. But let's be practical. Ever been out in the jungle?" "Not yet, sir. But I always was good at woodcraft." "Hum, ever camped in the Florida Everglades?" "Well, no sir." "No matter. I simply wanted to point out that while the Everglades are jungle, they are an open desert compared with the jungle here. And the coral snakes and water moccasins in the Everglades are harmless little pets alongside some of the things here. Have you seen our dragonflies yet?" "Well, a dead one, at school." "That's the best way to see them. When you see a live one, better see it first, if it's a female and ready to lay eggs." "Uh, I know about them. If you fight them off, they won't sting." "Which is why you had better see them first." "Mister Qu'an? Are they really that big?" "I've seen thirty-six-inch wing spreads. What I'm trying to say, Chuck, is that a lot of men have died learning the tricks of this jungle. If you are as smart as a Star Scout is supposed to be, you won't assume that you know what these poor fellows didn't. You'll wear that badge, but you'll class yourself in your mind as a tenderfoot, all over again, and you won't be in a hurry about promoting yourself." Charlie swallowed it. "Yes, sir. I'll try." "Good. We use the buddy system, you take care of your buddy and he takes care of you. I'll team you with Hans Kuppenheimer. Hans is only a Second Class Scout, but don't let that fool you. He was born here and he lives in the bush, on his father's plantation. He's the best jungle rat in the troop." Charlie said nothing, but resolved to become a real jungle rat himself, fast. Being under the wing of a Scout who was merely second class did not appeal to him. But Hans turned out to be easy to get along with. He was quiet, shorter but stockier than Charlie, neither unfriendly nor chummy; he simply accepted the assignment to look after Charlie. But he startled Charlie by answering, when asked, that he was twenty-three years old. It left Charlie speechless long enough for him to realize that Hans, born here, meant Venus years, each only two hundred twenty-five Earth days. Charlie decided that Hans was about his own age, which seemed reasonable. Time had been a subject which had confused Charlie ever since his arrival. The Venus day was only seven minutes different from that of Earth, he had merely had to have his wristwatch adjusted. But the day itself had not meant what it used to mean, because day and night at the north pole of Venus looked alike, a soft twilight. There were only eight months in the year, exactly four weeks in each month, and an occasional odd “Year Day" to even things off. Worse still, the time of year didn't mean anything; there were no seasons, just one endless hot, damp summer. It was always the same time of-day, always the same time of year; only clock and calendar kept it from being the land that time forgot. Charlie never quite got used to it. If Nixie found the timelessness of Venus strange he never mentioned it. On Earth he had slept at night simply because Charlie did so, and, as for seasons, he had never cared much for winter anyhow. He enjoyed getting back into the Scouts even more than Charlie had, because he was welcome at every meeting. Some of the Scouts born on Earth had once had dogs; now none of them had, and Nixie was at once mascot of the troop. He was petted almost to exhaustion the first time Charlie brought him to a meeting, until Mister Qu'an pointed out that the dog had to have some peace, then squatted down and petted Nixie himself. "Nixie," he said musingly, "a nixie is a water sprite, isn't it?" "Uh, I believe it does mean that," Charlie admitted, "but that isn't how he got his name." "So?" "Well, I was going to name him 'Champ,' but when he was a puppy I had to say 'Nix' to so many things he did that he got to thinking it was his name, and then it was." "Mum, more logical than most names. And even the classical meaning is appropriate in a wet place like this. What's this on his collar? I see, you've decorated him with your old tenderfoot badge." "No, sir," Charlie corrected. "That's his badge." "Eh?" "Nixie is a Scout, too. The fellows in my troop back Earthside voted him into the troop. They gave him that. So Nixie is a Scout." Mister Qu'an raised his eyebrows and smiled. One of the boys said, "That's about the craziest yet. A dog can't be a Scout." Charlie had doubts himself; nevertheless he was about to answer indignantly when the Scoutmaster cut smoothly in front of him. "What leads you to say that, Al!?" "Huh? Well, gosh! It's not according to Scout regulations." "It isn’t? I admit it is a new idea, but I can't recall what rule it breaks. Who brought a Handbook tonight?" The Scribe supplied one; Mister Qu'an passed it over to Alf Rheinhardt. "Dig in, AIf. Find the rule." Charlie diffidently produced Nixie's letter of transfer. He had brought it, but had not given it to the Scribe. Mister Qu'an read it, nodded and said, "Looks okay." He passed the letter along to others and said, "Well, Alf?" "In the first place, it says here that you have to be twelve years old to join, Earth years, that is, 'cause that's where the Handbook was printed. Is that dog that old? I doubt it." Mister Qu'an shook his head. "If I were sitting on a Court of Honor, I'd rule that the regulation did not apply. A dog grows up faster than a boy." "Well, if you insist on joking, and Scouting is no joke to me, that's the point: a dog can't be a Scout, because he's a dog." "Scouting is no joke to me either, Alf, though I don't see any reason not to have fun as we go. But I wasn't joking. A candidate comes along with a letter of transfer, all regular and proper. Seems to me you should go mighty slow before you refuse to respect an official act of another troop. All you've said is that Nixie is a dog. Well, didn't I see somewhere, last month's Boys' Life I think, that the Boy Scouts of Mars had asked one of the Martian chiefs to serve on their planetary Grand Council?" "But that's not the same thing!" "Nothing ever is. But if a Martian, who is certainly not a human being, can hold the highest office in Scouting, I can't see how Nixie is disqualified simply because he's a dog. Seems to me you'll have to show that he can't or won't do the things that a Tenderfoot Scout should do." "Uh," Alf grinned knowingly. "Let's hear him explain the Scout Oath." Mister Qu'an turned to Charlie. "Can Nixie speak English?" "What? Why, no, sir, but he understands it pretty well." The Scoutmaster turned back to Alf. "Then the 'handicapped' rule applies, Alf, we never insist that a Scout do something he can't do. If you were crippled or blind, we would change the rules to fit you. Nixie can't talk words, so if you want to quiz him about the Scout Oath, you'll have to bark. That's fair, isn't it, boys?" The shouts of approval didn't sit well with Alf. He answered sullenly, "Well, at least he has to follow the Scout Law, every Scout has to do that." "Yes," agreed the Scoutmaster soberly. "The Scout Law is the essence of Scouting. If you don't obey it, you aren't a Scout, no matter how many merit badges you wear. Well, Charlie? Shall we examine Nixie in Scout Law?" Charlie bit his lip. He was sorry that he hadn't taken that badge off Nixie's collar. It was mighty nice that the fellows back home had voted Nixie into the troop, but with this smart Aleck trying to make something of it, Why did there always have to be one in every troop who tried to take the fun Out of life? He answered reluctantly, "All right." "Gi

INTRODUCTION. Forty-five BC was a bad year for Marcus Tullius Cicero. The famous Roman orator and statesman was in his early sixties and alone. He had divorced his wife of thirty years not long before and married a younger woman, only to divorce her almost immediately. His beloved daughter Tullia had died at the beginning of the year, plunging Cicero into despair. And his place at the forefront of Roman politics had been lost just four years earlier when Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon River and forced the Roman Republic into civil war. Cicero could not support Caesar and so, after initially standing against the new dictator and subsequently receiving a humiliating pardon, he had retired to his country estate. There he remained, far from Rome, an old man in his own mind useless to the world. But rather than sinking into his wine cups or committing suicide as his friend the younger Cato had done, Cicero turned to writing. He had been an avid student of Greek philosophy in his youth and longed to make his mark in the literary world by explaining to his Roman countrymen the ideas he had discovered in Plato, Aristotle, and other great thinkers. He was naturally inclined to the Stoic doctrines of virtue, order, and divine providence, as opposed to what he saw as the limited and self-indulgent views of the Epicureans. And so he began to write. In an astonishingly short period of time, working from early morning until late into the night, he produced numerous treatises on government, ethics, education, religion, friendship, and moral duty. Just before Caesar’s murder on the Ides of March in forty four BC, Cicero turned to the subject of old age in a short treatise titled De Senectute. In the ancient world as in the modern, human life could be short, but we err when we suppose that the lifespan in Greece and Rome was necessarily brief. Although longevity in antiquity is notoriously difficult to measure, and infant and childhood mortality was certainly high, if men and women reached adulthood, they stood a decent chance of living into their sixties, seventies, or beyond. Greek authors before Cicero had written about the last phase of life in different ways. Some idealized the elderly as enlightened bearers of wisdom, such as Homer’s King Nestor, while others caricatured them as tiresome and constant complainers. The poet Sappho from the sixth century BC is perhaps the most striking of all ancient writers on the subject as she mourns the loss of her own youth in a recently discovered fragmentary poem: My skin once soft is wrinkled now, My hair once black has turned to white. My heart has become heavy, my knees, That once danced nimbly like fawns cannot carry me. How often I lament these things, but what can be done? No one who is human can escape old age. Cicero, however, wanted to move beyond mere resignation to offer a broader picture of old age. While acknowledging its limitations, he sought to demonstrate that the later years could be embraced as an opportunity for growth and completeness at the end of a life well lived. He chose as spokesman in his fictional dialogue the elder Cato, a Roman leader from the previous century whom he greatly admired. In his brief conversation with two younger friends, Cato shows how old age can be the best phase of life for those who apply themselves to living wisely. He refutes the objections of many critics that old age need be a wretched time of inactivity, illness, loss of sensual pleasure, and paralyzing fear about the closeness of death. Though Cicero pokes fun at seniors such as himself by having Cato digress into rambling asides (such as his extended discourse on farming), he nevertheless affirms old age as a time of life not to be dreaded but to be enjoyed to the fullest. There are many valuable lessons to be learned from Cicero’s little book on aging. Some of the most important are: A good old age begins in youth. Cicero says the qualities that make the later years of our lives productive and happy should be cultivated from the beginning. Moderation, wisdom, clear thinking, enjoying all that life has to offer, these are habits we should learn while we are young since they will sustain us as we grow older. Miserable young people do not become happier as they grow older. Old age can be a wonderful part of life. The senior years can be very enjoyable if we have developed the proper internal resources. Yes, there are plenty of unhappy old people, but they shouldn’t blame age for their problems. Their faults, Cicero says, are the result of poor character, not the number of years they have lived. There are proper seasons to life. Nature has fashioned human life so that we enjoy certain things when we are young and others when we are older. Attempting to cling to youth after the appropriate time is useless. If you fight nature, you will lose. Older people have much to teach the young. There is genuine wisdom in life that can be gained only by experience. It is our pleasure and duty as we grow older to pass this on to those younger than us who are willing to listen. But young people also can offer much to their elders, including the pleasure of their lively company. Old age need not deny us an active life, but we need to accept limitations. No eighty-year-old is going to win a foot race against healthy young people in their twenties, but we can still be physically active within the modest constraints imposed on us by our bodies. And there is so much older people can do that doesn’t require great physical strength, from studying and writing to offering wisdom and experience to our communities. The mind is a muscle that must be exercised. Cicero has the main character of his book learn Greek literature in his later years and carefully recall the events of the day before going to sleep each night. Whatever technique works, it is vital to use our minds as much as possible as we grow older. Older people must stand up for themselves. Or as Cicero says, “Old age is respected only if it defends itself, maintains its rights, submits to no one, and rules over its domain until its last breath.” The later years of life are no time for passivity. Sex is highly overrated. Not that older people can’t enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, but the relentless sexual passions of youth fade as we grow older, and thank goodness they do, according to Cicero. The reduction of sensual appetites gives us room to enjoy other aspects of life that are much more satisfying and lasting. Cultivate your own garden. Cicero presents this idea in his chapter praising the delights of farming, but there is an important lesson here. Finding a worthwhile activity in our later years that gives us true enjoyment is essential for happiness. Spreading manure or pruning grapevines may not be your passion, but whatever yours is, pursue it with joy. Death is not to be feared. Cicero says that death marks either the end of human consciousness or the beginning of eternal bliss. Whether or not this is true, it certainly holds, as Cicero says, that life is like a play. A good actor knows when to leave the stage. To cling desperately to one’s life when it has been lived well and is drawing to a close is both futile and foolish. Readers from the Middle Ages to modern times have been delighted and inspired by Cicero’s little book on aging. The French essayist Montaigne declared that it gave him an appetite for growing older, while the American Founding Father John Adams took pleasure in re-reading the dialogue many times in his later years. Benjamin Franklin was so impressed by the book that he printed a translation of it in Philadelphia, making it one of the earliest classical works published in America. Today’s world, obsessed with the pursuit of youth, needs Cicero’s wisdom more than ever. HOW TO GROW OLD. Dedication to my friend Atticus. Oh Titus, if I can give you any help, if I can lighten the cares fixed in your breast, that now roast you and turn you on a spit, what will be my reward? And so, Atticus, may I address you in the same lines which, that man of little wealth but rich in loyalty, speaks to Flamininus, although I’m sure that you’re not like Flamininus. who is tossed about by worry, Titus, day and night. I know that you are a man of moderation and even temper, who brought home from Athens more than just a name! You brought back a cultured and prudent mind as well. Yet I suspect that you are troubled by the same political events of our day that are causing me such anxiety. But looking for comfort from such things is too difficult to do now and is a topic we’ll have to put off until another time. Instead, I would like to write something for you now about the subject of growing old. This burden is common to both of us, or at least it’s quickly and unavoidably approaching, and I want to lighten the burden for you and me alike. I know that you of course are facing the prospect of aging calmly and wisely, and that you will continue to do so in the future, just as you approach everything in life. But still, when I was thinking about writing on the subject, you kept coming to mind. I would like this little book to be a worthy gift that we can enjoy together. In fact, I’ve so much enjoyed composing this work that writing it has wiped away all thoughts of the disadvantages of growing older and made it instead seem a pleasant and enjoyable prospect. We truly can’t praise the love and pursuit of wisdom enough, since it allows a person to enjoy every stage of life free from worry. I’ve written a great deal on other matters and will again in the future, but, as I said, this book that I’m sending you now is about growing old. When Aristo of Ceos wrote about the subject, he made Tithonus his spokesman, but I think it’s wrong to give a mythological character such authority. Instead, I have put my words into the mouth of the aged Marcus Cato so that they might be taken more seriously. I imagine Laelius and Scipio with him at his house, admiring how he is handling his age so well. If he seems to reply in a way that is more learned than he appears in his own writings, attribute it to the Greek literature he studied carefully in his later years. But why should I say more? From here on, the words of Cato himself will unfold to you my thoughts on growing older. THE CONVERSATION WITH CATO. Scipio: When Gaius Laelius and I are talking, Marcus Cato, we often admire your outstanding and perfect wisdom in general, but more particularly that growing old never seems to be a burden to you. This is quite different from the complaints of most older men, who claim that aging is a heavier load to bear than Mount Etna. Cato: I think, my young friends, that you are admiring me for something that isn’t so difficult. Those who lack within themselves the means for living a blessed and happy life will find any age painful. But for those who seek good things within themselves, nothing imposed on them by nature will seem troublesome. Growing older is a prime example of this. Everyone hopes to reach old age, but when it comes, most of us complain about it. People can be so foolish and inconsistent. They say that old age crept up on them much faster than they expected. But, first of all, who is to blame for such poor judgment? Does old age steal upon youth any faster than youth does on childhood? Would growing old really be less of a burden to them if they were approaching eight hundred rather than eighty? If old people are foolish, nothing can console them for time slipping away, no matter how long they live. So if you compliment me on being wise, and I wish I were worthy of that estimate and my name, in this way alone do I deserve it: I follow nature as the best guide and obey her like a god. Since she has carefully planned the other parts of the drama of life, it’s unlikely that she would be a bad playwright and neglect the final act. And this last act must take place, as surely as the fruits of trees and the earth must someday wither and fall. But a wise person knows this and accepts it with grace. Fighting against nature is as pointless as the battles of the giants against the gods. Laelius: True, Cato, but we have a special request to make of you, and I think I speak for Scipio as well. We both hope to live long enough to become old someday, so we would be very grateful if you could teach us even now how we can most reasonably bear the weight of the approaching years. Cato: It would be my pleasure, Laelius, if you would really like me to. Laelius: We would indeed, if it’s not too much trouble. You’ve already traveled far on the road we will follow, so we would like to learn about the journey from you. Cato: I’ll do my best. I have often heard the complaints of people my age, “like gathers with like,” says the old proverb, especially Gaius Salinator and Spurius Albinus, my near-contemporaries and former consuls, who were constantly moaning about how age had snatched away the sensual pleasures of life, pleasures without which, at least to them, life was not worth living. Then they complained that they were being neglected by those who had once paid them attention. But in my view, their blame was misplaced. If aging were the real problem, then the same ills would have befallen me and every other old person. But I have known many people who have grown old without complaint, who don’t miss the binding chains of sensual passion, and who aren’t neglected by their friends. Again, the blame for all these sorts of complaints is a matter of character, not of age. Older people who are reasonable, good-tempered, and gracious will bear aging well. Those who are mean-spirited and irritable will be unhappy at every period of their lives. Laelius: That is undoubtedly true, Cato. But what if someone were to say that your wealth, property, and social standing, advantages in life that few people possess, are what have made growing older so pleasant for you? Cato: There is some truth in that, Laelius, but it isn’t the whole story. Remember the tale of Themistocles and the man from Seriphos. The two were having an argument one day during which the Seriphian said that Themistocles was famous only because of the glory of his city, not his own achievements. “By Hercules, that’s true,” said Themistocles. “I would never have been famous if I was from Seriphos, nor you if you were from Athens.” The same can be said of old age. It isn’t a light burden if a person, even a wise man, is poor. But if someone is a fool, all the money in the world won’t make aging easier. My dear Scipio and Laelius, old age has its own appropriate defenses, namely, the study and practice of wise and decent living. If you cultivate these in every period of your life, then when you grow old they will yield a rich harvest. Not only will they produce wondrous fruit even at the very end of life, a key point in our discussion, but you will be satisfied to know that you have lived your life well and have many happy memories of these good deeds. When I was young, I was fond of Quintus Maximus, who recaptured Tarentum, as if we were the same age, although he was an old man and I just a lad. He was a man of dignity seasoned with friendliness, and age had not changed him. When I first began to get to know him, he was not yet of great old age but certainly growing advanced in years. He had first become a consul the year after I was born. In his fourth term as consul, I was a young soldier marching with him to Capua, then five years later to Tarentum. Four years after that, when Tuditanus and Cethegus were consuls, I became a quaestor. At that same time Quintus Maximus was giving speeches in favor of the Cincian Law on gifts and rewards, though he was quite elderly by then. Even though he was old, he waged war like a young man, and wore down Hannibal’s youthful exuberance by his persistence. My friend Ennius spoke splendidly about him: One man, by delaying, saved our country. He refused to put his reputation above the safety of Rome, so that now his glory grows ever brighter. Such vigilance and skill he displayed in recapturing Tarentum! I myself heard Salinator, the Roman commander who had lost the town and fled to the citadel, boast to him, “Quintus Fabius, you owe the retaking of Tarentum to me.” The general laughed and said in reply, “That’s certainly true, since I wouldn’t have had to recapture it if you hadn’t lost it in the first place.” Nor was Fabius more distinguished as a soldier than as a statesman. When he was consul the second time, the tribune Gaius Flaminius was trying to parcel out Picene and Gallic land against the express will of the Senate. Even though his colleague Spurius Carvilius kept silent, Fabius made every effort to oppose Flaminius. And when he was an augur, he dared to say that the auspices favored whatever was for the good of the state and that what was bad for the state was against the auspices. I can assure you from personal observation that there were many admirable qualities in that man, but nothing was more striking than how he bore the death of his son, a distinguished former consul. His funeral oration is available for us to read, and when we do, what philosopher is not put to shame? But Fabius wasn’t just commendable in public while under the gaze of his fellow citizens. He was even more admirable in the privacy of his own home. His conversation, his moral advice, his knowledge of history, his expertise in the laws of augury, all were astonishing! He was very well read for a Roman, and knew everything not only about our own wars but also about foreign conflicts. I was eager to listen to him at the time, as if I foresaw, as indeed happened, that when he was gone I would have no one else to learn from. Why have I said so much about Fabius Maximus? So that you might see how wrong it would be to describe an old age like his as unhappy. Of course, not everyone is able to be a Scipio or a Fabius and talk about the cities they have conquered, the battles they have fought on land or sea, the wars they have waged, and the triumphs they have won. But there is another kind of old age, the peaceful and serene end of a life spent quietly, blamelessly, and with grace. Plato lived this way in his last years, still writing when he died at eighty-one. Isocrates is another example, who tells us himself he was ninety-four when he composed his Panathenaicus, and he lived another five years after that! His teacher Gorgias of Leontini reached his one hundred and seventh birthday, never resting from his studies and work. When someone asked him why he wished to live so long, he replied, “I have no reason to complain about old age.” A noble answer, worthy of a scholar. Foolish people blame old age for their own faults and shortcomings. Ennius, whom I mentioned just a little while ago, certainly didn’t do this, for he compares himself as an old man to a gallant and victorious racehorse: Like a courageous steed that has often won Olympic races in the last lap, now weakened by age he takes his rest. You probably remember Ennius quite clearly, for he died only nineteen years before the election of our present consuls, Titus Flamininus and Manius Acilius, back when Caepio and Philippus were consuls (the latter for the second time). I was sixty-five when he died and I made a speech in favor of the Voconian Law with a loud voice and mighty lungs. Ennius was seventy at the time and suffered what men suppose are the two greatest burdens of life, poverty and old age. But he bore them so well you might think he enjoyed them. When I think about old age, I can find four reasons why people consider it so miserable: First, because it takes us away from an active life. Second, because it weakens the body. Third, because it deprives us of almost all sensual pleasures. Fourth, because it is not far from death. If you don’t mind, let’s look at each of these reasons one by one to see if they are true. The Active Life. Let’s consider first the claim that old age denies us an active life. What kind of activities are we talking about? Don’t we mean the sort we engage in when young and strong? But surely there are activities suitable for older minds even when the body is weakened. Wasn’t there important work for Quintus Maximus, whom I mentioned earlier, and for Lucius Paullus, your own father, Scipio, and also the father-in-law of that best of men, my son? And what about other old men, such as Fabricius, Curius, and Coruncanius? Were they doing nothing when they were using their wisdom and influence to protect their country? Appius Claudius was not only old but also blind when he spoke before the Senate, which was favoring a peace treaty with King Pyrrhus. Yet he did not hesitate to utter the words Ennius later put into verse: What madness has turned your minds, once firm and strong, from their course? And so on, in the most impressive style. But you know the poem, and indeed the actual speech of Appius survives. He delivered it seventeen years after his second consulship, though there were ten years between his consulships and he had been censor before first being consul, so you can see that he was a very old man by the time of the war with Pyrrhus. Yet this is the story recorded by our ancestors. People who say there are no useful activities for old age don’t know what they’re talking about. They are like those who say a pilot does nothing useful for sailing a ship because others climb the masts, run along the gangways, and work the pumps while he sits quietly in the stern holding the rudder. He may not be doing what the younger crewmen are doing, but what he does is much more important and valuable. It’s not by strength or speed or swiftness of body that great deeds are done, but by wisdom, character, and sober judgment. These qualities are not lacking in old age but in fact grow richer as time passes. In my life I have served as a soldier in the ranks, then a junior officer, then a general, and finally, when consul, as a commander-in-chief. Since I am no longer fighting in wars, perhaps you think I am doing nothing. But the Senate listens to me when I speak about which wars to fight and how to fight them. Even now, I am looking into the future and planning war on Carthage. I will never stop fearing that city until I know it has been totally destroyed. And I pray that the immortal gods will reserve for you, Scipio, the honor of completing the work your grandfather left unfinished. It has been thirty-three years since that greatest of men died, but each passing year will increase the memory of his fame. He died the year before I became censor, nine years after my consulship, during which time he himself was elected consul a second time. If your grandfather had lived to be a hundred, would he have regretted his old age? Certainly not. He wouldn’t have spent such time running or jumping or throwing his spear or practicing with his sword, but instead he would have used his wisdom, reason, and judgment. If old men didn’t possess these qualities, our ancestors never would have given the name “Senate” to our highest council. Among the Spartans as well, those who hold the most important offices are called “elders,” which is exactly what they are. If you read or listen to the histories of foreign lands, you will learn that the greatest states were overturned by the young but saved and restored by the old. As Naevius says in his play The Game: Tell me, how did you lose your great nation so quickly? And the most significant answer the characters give is this: Because new speakers came forth, foolish young men. Rashness is truly the fruit of youth, but wisdom of old age. Some people will say that memory fades away as the years pass. Of course it does if you don’t exercise it or aren’t very bright to begin with. Themistocles learned by heart the names of all the citizens of Athens. So when he grew old, do you think he confused Aristides with Lysimachus when he greeted them? I myself remember not only those who are living now but their fathers and grandfathers too. As I read their epitaphs, I am not afraid of losing my memory, as the superstition says, but rather find my recollections of the dead refreshed. And I have certainly never heard of an old man who forgot where he hid his money! Old people remember what interests them, whether it be the dates to appear in court, who owes them money, or to whom they owe money. And what about elderly lawyers, priests, augurs, and philosophers? What a multitude of things they remember! Old people maintain a sound mind as long as they remain eager to learn and apply themselves. This is true not only of public figures but of those leading quiet, private lives. Sophocles composed tragedies long into his old age. When he seemed to be neglecting his family’s finances because of his passion for writing, his sons took him to court so that the jurymen could remove him from authority on account of his weakness of mind (like us, they had laws empowering such actions when the head of the family was mismanaging business affairs). They say that the old man then read to the court his Oedipus at Colonus, which he had just written and was even then revising, asking when he finished if it sounded like the work of a weak-minded person. After his recitation, the jury acquitted him. Clearly Sophocles was not deterred in his calling by old age, nor were Homer, Hesiod, Simonides, or Stesichorus, nor the two men I mentioned earlier, Isocrates and Gorgias, not to mention outstanding philosophers such as Pythagoras, Democritus, Plato, Xenocrates, or their successors Zeno, Cleanthes, or Diogenes the Stoic, whom you have both seen at Rome. Didn’t they all actively pursue their work as long as they lived? But setting aside these extraordinary men and their work, I can name for you elderly Roman farmers from the Sabine countryside, my own neighbors and friends, who are almost never out of their fields during major farming operations such as sowing, reaping, and storing crops. Although their work is less notable than some other types of labor, for truly no one is so old that he doesn’t think he’ll live another year, these men know they are working at tasks they will not live to see finished. As Caecilius Statius says in his Young Comrades: He plants trees for the use of another age. If you ask a farmer, however old he might be, whom he is planting for, he will always reply: “For the immortal gods, who have not only handed down to me these things from my ancestors but also determined that I should pass them on to my descendants.” When he wrote about that old man making provisions for future generations, Caecilius said something even more striking: Indeed, Old Age, if you brought no evil, but this alone, it would be enough, that a person, by living long sees many things he does not wish to see. But perhaps the same old man sees much he likes! In any case, even young people see much in life they wish they hadn’t. Another sentiment expressed by Caecilius is even worse: I think the most unhappy thing about old age is feeling that you are wearisome to the young. Not at all, I say! The old can be a pleasure rather than a burden. Just as wise old men enjoy the company of young men of good character and find their old age made lighter by honor and affection received from the young, so young men rejoice in the instruction given by old men, by which they are led to virtue. My young friends, I like to think you enjoy my company as much as I do yours. So you see how old age, far from being feeble and sluggish, can be very active, always doing and engaged in something, as it follows the pursuits of earlier years. And you should never stop learning, just as Solon in his poetry boasts that while growing old he learned something new every day. I’ve done the same, teaching myself Greek as an old man. I have seized on this study like someone trying to satisfy a long thirst. (And this, by the way, is how I’ve been able to use all the examples I’ve brought into this discussion.) I have heard that Socrates learned as an old man to play the lyre, that favorite instrument of the ancients. I wish I could do that as well, but at least I’ve applied myself diligently to literature. The Body and the Mind. I no longer wish for the strength of youth, that was the second objection to growing older we listed, any more than when I was a young man I desired the strength of a bull or an elephant. People should use the strength they have appropriately whatever their age. What story could be more pitiful than that of Milo of Croton? One day when as an old man he was watching the young athletes training on the racecourse, he reportedly looked down at his own muscles and wept, saying: “And these now are dead.” But not as dead as you, foolish man! For your fame never came from yourself, only from the strength of your sides and arms. Sextus Aelius, Tiberius Coruncanius of earlier times, and, more recently, Publius Crassus were very different from this. These men instructed their fellow citizens in the law and remained expert jurists until their last breath. I do fear that a public speaker loses some of his effectiveness as he grows older, since his skill depends not only on his intellect but also on his lungs and strength. But advancing years do have a way of making the voice brighter, more melodious. I haven’t yet lost this quality and you can see how old I am. The appropriate speaking style of later years is peaceful and restrained, and often the calm and elegant voice of an older person lends itself to being more readily heard. And even if someone is no longer able to speak well, he can still instruct a Scipio or a Laelius! What indeed could be more pleasant than an old age surrounded by the enthusiasm of youth? For surely we must agree that old people at least have the strength to teach the young and prepare them for the many duties of life. What responsibility could be more honorable than this? Truly, it seemed to me, Scipio, that Gnaeus and Publius Scipio, as well as your two grandfathers, Lucius Aemilius and Publius Africanus, were most fortunate to be accompanied always by crowds of noble young people. And no one who provides a liberal education to others can be considered unhappy even if his body is failing with age. The excesses of youth are more often to blame for the loss of bodily strength than old age. A wanton and wasteful youth yields to old age a worn-out body. The elderly Cyrus, according to Xenophon, declared as an old man on his deathbed that he had never felt less vigorous in his later years than as a young man. And also I remember as a boy seeing Lucius Metellus, who, four years after his second consulship, became chief priest and held that post for twenty-two years. To the end of his days he was so vigorous that in spite of extreme old age he never felt the loss of youth. I don’t need to mention myself in this respect, though old men like me are allowed to indulge themselves. Don’t you see in Homer how often Nestor declares his own admirable qualities? He had seen three generations of men at that point in his life, but he didn’t fear seeming overly talkative or conceited when he spoke the truth about himself. For as Homer says: “Speech sweeter than honey flowed from his tongue.” Now this sweetness in no way depended on his physical strength, and yet the Greek leader Agamemnon never prays for ten men like Ajax, but for ten like Nestor. He doesn’t doubt that if he had them, Troy would quickly fall. But to return to myself. I am eighty-four years old now, and I wish I could make the same boast as Cyrus. But this much I can say: I no longer have the energy I did when I served as a young soldier in the Punic War, or as quaestor in the same war, or as a consul and general in Spain, or four years later, serving as a military tribune in the campaign at Thermopylae under the consul Manius Glabrio. But nonetheless, as you can plainly see, old age has not unnerved or shattered me. Neither the Senate nor the popular assembly nor my friends nor my followers nor my guests find my strength lacking. I give no credit to that ancient and much-praised proverb that advises us to become old early if we want to be old long. Personally, I would rather be old for a shorter time than to be old too soon. Therefore, I have never refused an appointment with anyone who wanted to meet with me. It’s true that I don’t have the strength of either of you, but then again neither of you has the strength of the centurion Titus Pontius. Does that mean that he is a better person than you? Let each use properly whatever strengths he has and strive to use them well. If he does this, he will never find himself lacking. They say that Milo walked the length of the Olympic stadium carrying an ox on his shoulders. But what would you prefer to be given, the physical strength of Milo or the mental power of Pythagoras? In short, enjoy the blessing of bodily strength while you have it, but don’t mourn when it passes away, any more than a young man should lament the end of boyhood or a mature man the passing of youth. The course of life cannot change. Nature has but a single path and you travel it only once. Each stage of life has its own appropriate qualities, weakness in childhood, boldness in youth, seriousness in middle age, and maturity in old age. These are fruits that must be harvested in due season. I expect, Scipio, that you sometimes hear news about your grandfather’s friend and host Masinissa, who is now ninety years old. Once he begins a journey by foot, he never mounts a horse. Likewise, when he sets out on horseback he never dismounts. He goes bareheaded even in the rain and cold. He is in such good condition that he still carries out all his royal duties and functions in person. This shows how a man who practices exercise and self-control can preserve some of his original vigor even when he grows old. But let us assume that old age makes us feeble, what does it matter? No one expects older people to be physically strong in any case. That is why both law and custom exempt men my age from public duties requiring bodily strength. We aren’t expected to perform tasks we cannot do nor even those things we can do. Of course, many older people truly are in poor health, so that they are unable to carry out normal duties or indeed any tasks that life demands. However, this inability is not a factor of old age but a characteristic of poor health in general. Remember, Scipio, the weakness of your adoptive father, the son of Publius Africanus. He had poor health, or rather no health at all. Had it not been so, he would have been the second glory of our country, for in addition to his father’s courage he possessed more abundant learning. Therefore, since even the young cannot escape infirmity, why should we marvel that old people sometimes lack physical strength? We must fight, my dear Laelius and Scipio, against old age. We must compensate for its drawbacks by constant care and attend to its defects as if it were a disease. We can do this by following a plan of healthy living, exercising in moderation, and eating and drinking just enough to restore our bodies without overburdening them. And as much as we should care for our bodies, we should pay even more attention to our minds and spirits. For they, like lamps of oil, will grow dim with time if not replenished. And even though physical exercise may tire the body, mental activity makes the mind sharper. When the playwright Caecilius speaks of “old fools of the comic stage,” he means men who are gullible, forgetful, and lazy, qualities that belong not to old age in general but only to those who have allowed themselves to become drowsy, sluggish, and inert. Wantonness and lust are more common in the young than in the old, yet they are not found in all youth, just those of poor character. So too the senile silliness we call “dotage” is characteristic not of all old people but only those who are weak in spirit and will. Appius Claudius was old and blind, yet he led a household of four vigorous sons, five daughters, numerous servants, and many dependents. He did not lazily succumb to old age but kept his mind taut as a bow. He didn’t direct his household as much as he ruled over it. His slaves feared him, his children venerated him, and all held him dear. The traditions and discipline of his forefathers flourished in his home. For old age is respected only if it defends itself, maintains its rights, submits to no one, and rules over its domain until its last breath. Just as I approve of a young man with a touch of age about him, I applaud an old man who maintains some flavor of his youth. Such a person may grow old in body but never in spirit. I am now working on the seventh book of my Origins and collecting all the records of our earliest history, as well as editing the speeches I delivered in famous cases. I am investigating augural, priestly, and civil law. I also devote much of my time to the study of Greek literature. And to exercise my memory, I follow the practice of the Pythagoreans and each evening go over everything I have said, heard, or done during the day. These are my mental gymnastics, the racecourses of my mind. And although I sweat and toil with them, I don’t greatly miss my former bodily strength. I also provide legal advice to my friends and frequently attend meetings of the Senate, where I propose topics for discussion and argue my opinion after pondering the issues long and hard. All this I do not with the strength of my body but with the force of my mind. Even if the effort of doing these things were more than I could manage, I could still lie on my reading couch and think about the activities that were now beyond me. But the fact that I can do them I owe to my vigorous life. For a man who has been engaged in studies and activities his whole life does not notice old age creeping up on him. Instead, he gradually and effortlessly slips into his final years, not overcome suddenly but extinguished over a long period. The Pleasures of Age. We come now to the third objection to growing older, that the pleasures of the flesh fade away. But if this is true, I say it is indeed a glorious gift that age frees us from youth’s most destructive failing. Now listen, my most noble young friends, to the ancient words of that excellent and most distinguished man, Archytas of Tarentum, repeated to me when I was serving as a young soldier in that very city with Quintus Maximus: He said the most fatal curse given to men by nature is sexual desire. From it spring passions of uncontrollable and reckless lust seeking gratification. From it come secret plotting with enemies, betrayals of one’s country, and the overthrow of governments. Indeed, there is no evil act, no unscrupulous deed that a man driven by lust will not perform. Uncontrolled sensuality will drive men to rape, adultery, and every other sexual outrage. And since nature, or perhaps some god, has given men no finer gift than human intelligence, this divine endowment has no greater foe than naked sensuality. Where lust rules, there is no place for self-control. And in the kingdom of self-indulgence, there is no room for decent behavior. “Imagine,” Archytas continued, to make his meaning clearer, “a person enjoying the most exquisite sensual pleasure possible. No one would doubt that a man in that state is incapable of using his mind in any rational or reasonable way. Therefore, nothing is more detestable or pernicious than sensual pleasure. If a person indulges in it too much and too long, it plunges the soul into utter darkness.” Nearchus, a steadfast friend of Rome who was my host at Tarentum, told me that according to tradition Archytas spoke these words to Gaius Pontius the Samnite, father of the man who defeated the consuls Spurius Postumius and Titus Veturius at the Caudine Forks. Nearchus added that Plato the Athenian was present and heard him utter these words. And indeed I have investigated this and found that Plato did come to Tarentum when Lucius Camillus and Appius Claudius were consuls. So why have I quoted Archytas? To make you see that if reason and wisdom aren’t enough to make us reject lustful desires, then we should be grateful that old age takes away the craving to do what is wrong. For such feelings cloud our judgment, are at war with reason, and, if I may say so, blind the eyes of the mind and allow no room for living a good life. It was an unpleasant duty I performed when I had to eject from the Senate a man who had been consul seven years earlier, Lucius Flamininus, the brother of that most worthy Titus Flamininus. But I believed his shameful lust had demanded this action. For when he was a consul in Gaul, he executed, at the request of a prostitute during a banquet, some man imprisoned for a capital offense. During the time when his brother, my immediate predecessor, had been censor, Lucius had escaped punishment. But Flaccus and I could not permit such flagrant and indecent passion to go unanswered, especially since his scandalous crime against a private individual had dishonored Rome. I often heard from elders, who said they heard it from old men when they were boys, that Gaius Fabricius used to marvel at a story told to him (while he was on a mission to King Pyrrhus) by Cineas of Thessaly. Cineas said that there was an Athenian professing to be wise who claimed that everything we do should be judged by how much pleasure it gives us. Now, when Manius Curius and Tiberius Coruncanius heard this from Fabricius, they said they hoped that the Samnites and Pyrrhus himself would adopt his teaching, since it’s easier to conquer people who surrender to pleasure. Manius Curius had been a good friend of Publius Decius, who, while consul for the fourth time (and five years before Curius himself was consul), had sacrificed his life for his country. Fabricius and Coruncanius knew him as well. They were firmly convinced, as shown by the lives they led and especially by Decius’s final act, that certain goals in life are naturally fine and noble and should be sought for their own sake. They believed that every decent person should pursue these goals and reject self-indulgence as contemptible. Why am I talking so much about pleasure? Because the fact that old age feels little desire for sensual delights is not only no cause for reproach but indeed a reason to praise it highly. Old age has no extravagant banquets, no tables piled high, no wine cups filled again and again, but it also has no drunkenness, no indigestion, and no sleepless nights! However, if we must make some concession to pleasure, since its allurement is hard to resist, “the bait of evil” Plato brilliantly calls it, men caught in its net like fish, then I admit we should allow old age, though it lacks excessive feasts, the delights of more moderate dinners. When I was a child I often saw old Gaius Duilius, son of Marcus, who first defeated the Carthaginians in a naval battle, walking home from dinner parties. He always loved being escorted on these little journeys by torchbearers and a flute player. No private citizen had behaved in such a way previously, but his glorious reputation gave him license. But why do I speak of others? Let me return now to myself. To begin with, I have always had my club companions. It was during my quaestorship that clubs in honor of the Great Mother and her Idaean worship were introduced at Rome. I used to regularly dine with these companions in a modest fashion, yet with a certain fervor of youth most appropriate then, though it diminishes as time goes by. But it wasn’t the gastronomic delights that appealed to me even then as much as the pleasure of meeting and conversing with my friends. The word our ancestors used for a meal with friends was convivium, a “living together”, because it describes the essence of a social gathering. It’s a much richer description of the experience than the Greek terms “drinking together” or “eating together,” which emphasize what is least important in these gatherings rather than what is most valuable. Personally, because I love conversation, I even enjoy dinner parties that start early in the day. At these gatherings, I talk not only with my contemporaries, very few of whom remain, but also with you and your young friends. I am so grateful to old age for increasing my delight in conversation while lessening my desire for food and drink. But if any of my older friends enjoy these things, and let no one think that I have declared war on pleasure since a certain amount of it has perhaps been justified by nature, then let me say that I know no reason old age should be lacking in such gratification. I very much appreciate our ancestral custom of appointing a banquet leader for social gatherings and starting the conversation at the head of the table when the wine comes in. I also like cups as described in Xenophon’s Symposium, small and filled as if with dew, cool in the summer and warmed in winter by sunshine or fire. Even when I’m among the rustic Sabines I frequent such gatherings. And when at home with my neighbors, I join them every day for a meal where we talk as long into the night as we can about all sorts of things. But of course some people will point out that the old aren’t as able as the young to have their senses tickled. That’s true, but they don’t yearn for it either, and nothing troubles you if you don’t desire it. Sophocles, when he was already an old man, gave a great answer to someone who asked if he still enjoyed sex. “Good gods, no!” he said. “I have gladly escaped that cruel and savage master.” For those who yearn for such things, not to have them is perhaps troublesome and annoying. But if you’ve had your fill of sex and have satisfied all such desires, then to lack them is better than to possess them. If you don’t long for something, you don’t miss it. That’s why I say the absence of desire is quite pleasant. But granting that young people enjoy the pleasures of the flesh more than the old, I need to make two points. First, as I’ve said, these kinds of pleasures matter little. Second, even though old age doesn’t provide these delights in abundance, it doesn’t lack them completely. Just as Ambivius Turpio entertained the audience at the front of the theater more than those in the rear seats, still he gave those in back a good show as well. In the same way, young people may enjoy sex more than the old, but the elderly still can appreciate it sufficiently by looking on such pleasures from a distance. How wonderful it is for the soul when, after so many struggles with lust, ambition, strife, quarreling, and other passions, these battles are at last ended and it can return, as they say, to live within itself. There is no greater satisfaction to be had in life than a leisurely old age devoted to knowledge and learning. I used to see, Scipio, your father’s friend Gaius Gallus measuring, you might say, the whole of the heavens and the earth. How often the morning sun surprised him as he worked on some chart he had begun the previous night. And how often night overtook him at a task he had begun at dawn. How he delighted in telling us about eclipses of the sun and moon before they happened! And let’s not forget others who engaged in easier but no less demanding work. How Naevius delighted in his Punic War, as did Plautus in The Savage and The Cheat. I myself saw Livius Andronicus when he was an old man. He brought out a play six years before I was born, when Cento and Tuditanus were consuls, yet he continued to live until I was a young man. I don’t need to mention again the example of Publius Licinius Crassus, who was active in religious and civic law, or bring up Publius Scipio, who was elected chief priest just a few days ago. Yet I have seen all these men still enthusiastic in their callings after they grew old. There was also Marcus Cethegus, whom Ennius rightly described as “the marrow of persuasion.” I myself saw him speak with exuberance even though he was an old man. How can anyone compare the pleasures of banquets or games or brothels to what these men enjoyed? They had a passion for learning, a passion that in sensible and educated people advances as the years go by. So there is truth in Solon’s verse I quoted in which he said that as he grew older he learned more and more every day. Surely there can be no greater pleasure than the pleasure of the mind. The Joys of Farming. Now, speaking of pleasures, let me tell you about farming, which brings me a great deal of personal joy. The pleasures of growing things are not at all diminished by age and they seem to me most suitable for the life of a wise person. The joys of farming are like a bank account with the earth itself, which never refuses to honor a withdrawal and always returns the principal with interest, though sometimes only a little yet at other times a great deal. What delights me are not only the fruits of the land but the power and nature of the earth itself. It receives the scattered seed in its softened and ready womb, and for a time the seed remains hidden, occaecatum in Latin, hence our word occatio. Then warmed by the moist heat of its embrace, the seed expands and brings forth a green and flourishing blade. With the support of its fibrous roots, it grows and matures until at last it stands erect on its jointed stalk. Now within its sheath it has reached its adolescent stage so that finally it bursts forth and an ear of grain comes into the light with ordered rows and a palisade of spikes as protection against nibbling by small birds. I really shouldn’t mention the vine, its beginnings, cultivation, and growth. But I must tell you that tending vines is the rejuvenation and delight of my old age. I simply can’t get enough of it. I won’t dwell here on the inherent force of all things that are generated from the earth, how from a tiny fig seed or grape stone or from the smallest seeds of any fruit or plant mighty trunks and branches grow. Just consider the planting of shoots, the twigs, the cuttings, the sprouts, isn’t it enough to fill anyone with admiration? Vines naturally want to droop on the earth, but prop them up and they will raise their tendrils like hands to the sky. They twist and turn in every course until the farmer’s pruning knife checks them lest they turn to wood and spread too abundantly. With the coming of spring, the branches left on a vine at every joint put forth a bud, which in turn become swelling grapes. These are bitter at first, but soon the moisture of the earth and heat of the sun turn them sweet as they ripen, wrapped by leaves to provide moderate warmth and keep away the burning rays of the sun. What indeed could be more alluring to the taste or pleasing to the eye? Now, it isn’t simply the usefulness of the vine that delights me, as I said before, but its cultivation and very nature. Just consider the rows of stakes, the vine tops joined to trellises, the tying up of the branches, the extending of the vines, and the pruning of some branches, as I said, while others are left to grow freely. Why should I now mention irrigation, ditching, and the hoeing of the ground that makes the land more productive? Why should I discuss here the usefulness of manure? You can read all about this in my book on agriculture. Even the learned Hesiod says nothing of this matter, although he wrote on agriculture. But Homer, who I believe lived many generations earlier, does mention Odysseus’s father Laertes soothed his sorrow over his absent son by tilling his land and manuring it too. The farmer also enjoys his fields, meadows, vineyards, and woodlands, his gardens and orchards, cattle pastures, swarming bees, and all manner of flowers. Planting too is a delight, and grafting as well, a most ingenious operation of agriculture. I could go on and on about the charms of farming, though I have said too much already. But do forgive me if I continue, for my enthusiasm for the rustic life carries me away. And besides, old age is naturally talkative, I don’t want to excuse it of all its faults. They say that Manius Curius spent the remainder of his life in farming after he had triumphed over the Samnites, Sabines, and Pyrrhus. And as I gaze at his country house, not far from my own, I cannot admire enough the frugality of the man or the disciplined spirit of his times. Once, while he was sitting by his fireside, some Samnites brought him a large gift of gold. But he rejected this, saying that it seemed to him less glorious to possess gold than to rule over those who have it. A man with such a great soul must have found much happiness in old age. But lest I wander away from my subject, let me return to farmers. In former days, senators (that is, senes, “elders”) were farmers, if indeed the story is true that Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus was at his plough when they called him to be dictator. By the order of Cincinnatus, Gaius Servilius Ahala, his master of the horse, seized Spurius Maelius and put him to death for attempting to make himself king. It was from their distant farmhouses that Curius and other elders were summoned to the Senate. That is why the messengers sent to bring them were called viatores, “travelers.” Surely men like these who delighted in working the land could not have been unhappy when they grew old? I personally believe that no life can be happier than that of a farmer, not only because of the service provided that benefits the entire human race, but because of the pleasures I mentioned earlier and the abundance of all things needed for worship of the gods and the sustenance of humanity. Seeing that some people are very concerned with material goods, I hope this talk of abundance will return me to their good graces. For the farmer who looks ahead and works hard always has his storage rooms and cellars full of wine, oil, and provisions. His whole farm is filled with an air of plenty with rooms of abundant pork, goat meat, lamb, poultry, milk, cheese, and honey. Then there is the farmer’s own garden, which he calls his “second leg of pork.” What spare time he has is sweetened with activities such as bird-catching and hunting. Why should I speak at length about the greenness of meadows, the ordered rows of trees, the glory of vineyards and olive groves? Instead, I will be brief. Nothing can be more abundantly useful or beautiful than a well-kept farm. Not only does old age not impede the enjoyment of such a farm, but it actually invites and increases its enjoyment. For where else in the world can an old man better find warmth from the sunshine or the hearth? Or where else in the summertime can he more healthfully cool himself with shade or running water? Let others have their weapons, their horses, their spears and fencing foils, their balls, their swimming contests and foot races. Just leave old men like me our dice and knucklebones. Or take away those too if you want. Old age can be happy without them. The writings of Xenophon are very informative on many subjects and I recommend you read them carefully, as I know you already do. How greatly he praises agriculture in his book on estate management. To show you that Xenophon regarded agriculture as the most regal of pursuits, let me tell you a story from his book which he has Socrates relate in a conversation with Critobolus. Cyrus the Younger, a Persian prince known for his outstanding intelligence and the glory of his rule, was visited at Sardis by Lysander of Sparta, a man of the greatest virtue. He had come to Sardis with gifts from their allies. Among the courtesies Cyrus extended to his guest was a tour of a carefully planted park. Lysander complimented the prince on the stately trees growing in patterns of five, the clean and well-tilled soil, and the sweet fragrance of the flowers. The Spartan then added that what impressed him was not only all the hard work that had gone into the park but the ingenuity with which everything had been arranged. “It was I who planned it all,” said Cyrus. “The rows are mine, the arrangement is mine, and I planted many of the trees with my own hands.” After gazing at Cyrus’s purple robes, the shining beauty of his body, and his Persian clothes decorated with gold and many precious stones, Lysander declared: “People are right to call you happy, Cyrus. Not only are you fortunate, but you are a virtuous man as well.” The good fortune of growing things is something every old person can enjoy. The cultivation of the soil is something we can pursue even to the end of our days. For example, we hear the story that Valerius Corvinus continued to work on his farm at an advanced age and so lived until he was a hundred years old. His first and sixth consulships were forty-six years apart, in other words, the length of time our ancestors considered to be the span of a man’s adult life until the start of old age. And the final part of his life was happier than what had come before since his influence was greater and he had fewer responsibilities. The Honors of Old Age. The crowning glory of old age is respect. Great respect was given to Lucius Caecilius Metellus, as well as Aulus Atilius Caiatinus. His epitaph reads: All the nations say this man was the noblest of his country. But you know the whole epitaph since it is inscribed on his tomb. The universal acknowledgment of his fine qualities is testimony to his influence. We have seen in recent times the chief priest Publius Crassus and his successor Marcus Lepidus. What men they were! And what should I say of Paullus and Africanus and Maximus, of whom I spoke earlier? These men exuded authority not only in their speech but in the mere nod of their head. Surely the respect given to old age crowned with public honors is more satisfying than all the sensual pleasures of youth. But please bear in mind that throughout this whole discussion I am praising an old age that has its foundation well laid in youth. Thus it follows, as I once said with the approval of all who heard me, that an old age which must defend itself with words alone is unenviable. Wrinkles and gray hair cannot suddenly demand respect. Only when the earlier years of life have been well spent does old age at last gather the fruits of admiration. When that has finally happened, the signs of respect may at first seem unimportant or even trivial, morning visits, requests for meetings, people making way for you and rising when you approach, being escorted to and from the Forum, being asked for advice. We Romans scrupulously practice these civilities, as do all other decent nations. It is reported that Lysander of Sparta, of whom I was just speaking, used to say that his city was the best place for the elderly, since his hometown treated old people with greater respect and deference than anywhere else. A story goes that once in Athens an old man went to a crowded theater to see a play, but not one of his countrymen offered him a seat. However, when he came to the section reserved for visiting Spartan delegates, each of them rose and invited him to sit down. This action was heartily applauded by the whole crowd, which prompted one of the Spartans to say: “These Athenians know what good behavior is, but they don’t practice it.” There are many admirable customs among our own board of augurs, but one particularly relevant to our discussion is the tradition that gives the members precedence in speaking according to age. This takes priority above official rank and even above those who are serving as the highest magistrates. What sensual pleasures could be compared to the rewards such influence bestows? It seems to me that those who make good use of such rewards are like actors who have played well to the end their role in the drama of life, and not like incompetent players who fall apart in the last act. But some will say old people are morose, anxious, ill-tempered, and hard to please. And when we look closely, some of them are miserly as well. But these are faults of character, not of age. Besides, moroseness and the other faults I have mentioned have an arguable excuse in the aged, though perhaps not a very good one. After all, old people imagine themselves ignored, despised, and mocked. And granted, a fragile body is easily hurt. But all these troubles of age can be eased by a decent and enlightened character. We can see this in real life as well as on stage in Terence’s Adelphi brothers. One of them is most disagreeable while the other is quite pleasant. The truth is that a person’s character, like wine, does not necessarily grow sour with age. Austerity in old age is proper enough, but like everything else it should be in moderation. Sourness of disposition is never a virtue. As for miserliness in the old, what purpose it could serve I don’t understand. What could be more ridiculous than for a traveler to add to his baggage at the end of a journey? Death Is Not to Be Feared. We must finally consider the fourth objection to growing old, an objection that seems especially calculated to cause worry and distress to a man of my years. I speak of the nearness of death. When a person is old, there is certainly no doubt that death cannot be far away. Wretched indeed is the man who in the course of a long life has not learned that death is nothing to be feared. For death either completely destroys the human soul, in which case it is negligible, or takes the soul to a place where it can live forever, which makes it desirable. There is no third possibility. Why should I be afraid then, since after death I will be either not unhappy or happy? Besides, who even among the young would be foolish enough to believe with absolute confidence that he will be alive when evening comes? Young people are much more likely than the old to suffer death by accident. They also fall sick more easily, suffer more intently, and are harder to cure. That is why so few young people arrive at old age. If so many didn’t die young, we would have a wiser and more prudent population. For reason and good judgment are found in the old. If there had never been any old people, states would never have existed. But I return now to the closeness of death. Why do you say it is a reproach to old age when you see it is also common among the young? I have felt this keenly myself with the loss of my dear son, as have you, Scipio, with the death of your two brothers, young men destined for greatness. But you may argue that young people can hope to live a long time, whereas old people cannot. Such hope is not wise, for what is more foolish than to mistake something certain for what is uncertain, or something false for what is true? You might also say that an old man has nothing at all to hope for. But he in fact possesses something better than a young person. For what youth longs for, old age has attained. A young person hopes to have a long life, but an old man has already had one. But, good gods, what in our human world ever lasts a long time? Let us assume the longest life possible, so that we may hope to reach the age of that king of Tartessus I have read about, a certain Arganthonius of Gades who reigned for eighty years and lived to the age of one hundred and twenty. But to me nothing that has an end seems long. For when that end comes, all that came before is gone. All that remains then are the good and worthy deeds you have done in your life. Hours and days, months and years flow by, but the past returns no more and the future we cannot know. We should be content with whatever time we are given to live. An actor does not need to remain on stage throughout a play. It is enough that he appears in the appropriate acts. Likewise, a wise man need not stay on the stage of this world until the audience applauds at the end. The time allotted to our lives may be short, but it is long enough to live honestly and decently. If by chance we enjoy a longer life, we have no reason to be more sorrowful than a farmer when a pleasant springtime turns to summer and autumn. Spring is like youth with the promise of fruits to come. Our later years are the seasons of harvesting and storing away. The particular fruit of old age, as I have said, is the memory of the abundant blessings of what has come before. Everything that is in accord with nature should be considered good. And what could be more proper in the natural course of life than for the old to die? When young people die, nature rebels and fights against this fate. A young person dying reminds me of a fire extinguished by a deluge. But when an old person dies, it is like a flame that diminishes gradually and flickers away of its own accord with no force applied after its fuel has been used up. In the same way, green apples are hard to pick from a tree, but when ripe and ready they fall

Robert A. Heinlein. Between Planets. ACE BOOKS. A Division of Charter Communications Inc. 1120 Avenue of the Americas. New York, N. Y. 10036. BETWEEN PLANETS. Copyright, 1951, by McCall Corporation and Robert A. Heinlein Scanned by BAX. Proofed by FRENCHIE. For Scott and KENT. A condensed version under the title Planets in Combat appeared in three parts in Blue Book Magazine. Printed in U.S.A. Robert “A.” Heinlein. Between Planets. One. New Mexico. “EASY, boy, easy.” Don Harvey reined in the fat little cow pony. Ordinarily Lazy lived up to his name; today he seemed to want to go places. Don hardly blamed him. It was such a day as comes only to New Mexico, with sky scrubbed clean by a passing shower, the ground already dry but with a piece of rainbow still hanging in the distance. The sky was too blue, the buttes too rosy, and the far reaches too sharp to be quite convincing. Incredible peace hung over the land and with it a breathless expectancy of something wonderful about to happen. “We’ve got all day,” he cautioned Lazy, “so don’t get yourself in a lather. That’s a stiff climb ahead.” Don was riding alone because he had decked out Lazy in a magnificent Mexican saddle his parents had ordered sent to him for his birthday. It was a beautiful thing, as gaudy with silver as an Indian buck, but it was as out of place at the ranch school he attended as formal clothes at a branding, a point which his parents had not realized. Don was proud of it, but the other boys rode plain stock saddles; they kidded him unmercifully and had turned “Donald James Harvey” into “Don Jaime” when he first appeared with it. Lazy suddenly shied. Don glanced around, spotted the cause, whipped out his gun, and fired. He then dismounted, throwing the reins forward so that Lazy would stand, and examined his work. In the shadow of a rock a fair-sized snake, seven rattles on its tail, was still twitching. Its head lay by it, burned off. Don decided not to save the rattles; had he pinpointed the head he would have taken it in to show his marksmanship. As it was, he had been forced, to slice sidewise with the beam before he got it. If he brought in a snake killed in such a clumsy fashion someone would be sure to ask him why he hadn’t used a garden hose. He let it lie and remounted while talking to Lazy. “Just a no-good old sidewinder,” he said reassuringly. “More scared of you than you were of it.” He clucked and they started off. A few hundred yards further on Lazy shied again, not from a snake this time but from an unexpected noise. Don pulled him in and spoke severely. “You bird-brained butterball! When are you going to learn not to jump when the telephone rings?” Lazy twitched his shoulder muscles and snorted. Don reached for the pommel, removed the phone, and answered. “Mobile 6-J-233309, Don Harvey speaking.” “Mister Reeves, Don,” came back the voice of the headmaster of Ranchito Alegre. “Where are you?” “Headed up Peddler’s Grave Mesa, sir.” “Get home as quickly as you can.” “Uh, what’s up, sir?” “Radiogram from your parents. I’ll send the copter out for you if the cook is back-with someone to bring your horse in.” Don hesitated. He didn’t want just anybody to ride Lazy, like as not getting him overheated and failing to cool him off. On the other hand a radio from his folks could not help but be important. His parents were on Mars and his mother wrote regularly, every ship-but radiograms, other than Christmas and birthday greetings, were almost unheard of. “I’ll hurry, sir.” “Right!” Mister Reeves switched off. Don turned Lazy and headed back down the trail. Lazy seemed disappointed and looked back accusingly. As it turned out, they were only a half-mile from the school when the ranch copter spotted them. Don waved it off and took Lazy on in himself. Despite his curiosity he delayed to wipe down the pony and water it before he went in. Mister Reeves was waiting in his office and motioned for him to come in. He handed Don the message. It read: DEAR SON, PASSAGE RESERVED FOR YOU VALKYRIE CIRCUM-TERRA TWELVE APRIL LOVE MOTHER AND DAD. Don blinked at it, having trouble taking in the simple facts. “But that’s right away” “Yes. You weren’t expecting it?” Don thought it over. He had halfway expected to go home-if one could call it going home when he had never set foot on Mars-at the end of the school year. If they had arranged his passage for the Vanderdecken three months from now. “Uh, not exactly. I can’t figure out why they would send for me before the end of the term.” Mister Reeves fitted his fingertips carefully together. “I’d say that it was obvious.” Don looked startled. “You mean? Mister Reeves, you don’t really think there is going to be trouble, do you?” The headmaster answered gravely, “Don, I’m not a prophet. But it is my guess that your parents are sufficiently worried that they want you out of a potential war zone as quickly as possible.” He was still having trouble readjusting. Wars were something you studied, not something that actually happened. Of course his class in contemporary history had kept track of the current crisis in colonial affairs, but, even so, it had seemed something far away, even for one as widely traveled as himself-a matter for diplomats and politicians, not something real. “Look, Mister Reeves, they may be jumpy but I’m not. I’d like to send a radio telling them that I’ll be along on the next ship, as soon as school is out.” Mister Reeves shook his head. “No, I can’t let you go against your parents’ explicit instructions. In the second place, ah.” The headmaster seemed to have difficulty in choosing his words. “That is to say, Donald, in the event of war, you might find your position here, shall we call it, uncomfortable?” A bleak wind seemed to have found its way into the office. Don felt lonely and older than he should feel. “Why?” he asked gruffly. Mister Reeves studied his fingernails. “Are you quite sure where your loyalties lie?” he said slowly. Don forced himself to think about it. His father had been born on Earth; his mother was a second-generation Venus colonial. But neither planet was truly their home; they had met and married on Luna and had pursued their researches in planetology in many sectors of the solar system. Don himself had been born out in space and his birth certificate, issued by the Federation, had left the question of his nationality open. He could claim dual citizenship by parental derivation. He did not think of himself as a Venus colonial; it had been so long since his family had last visited Venus that the place had grown unreal in his mind. On the other hand he had been eleven years old before he had ever rested his eyes on the lovely hills of Earth. “I’m a citizen of the System,” he said harshly. “Hum said the headmaster. “That’s a fine phrase and perhaps someday it will mean something. In the meantime, speaking as a friend, I agree with your parents. Mars is likely to be neutral territory; you’ll be safe there. Again, speaking as your friend-things may get a little rough here for anyone whose loyalty is not perfectly clear.” “Nobody has any business questioning my loyalty under the law, I count as native born!” The man did not answer. Don burst out, “The whole thing is silly! If the Federation wasn’t trying to bleed Venus white there wouldn’t be any war talk.” Reeves stood up. “That will be all, Don. I’m not going to argue politics with you.” “It’s true! Read Chamberlain’s Theory of Colonial Expansion!” Reeves seemed startled. “Where did you lay hands on that book? Not in the school library.” Don did not answer. His father had sent it to him but had cautioned him not to let it be seen; it was one of the suppressed books-on Earth, at least. Reeves went on, “Don, have you been dealing with a book legger?” Don remained silent. “Answer me!” Presently Reeves took a deep breath and said, “Never mind. Go up to your room and pack. The copter will take you to Albuquerque at one o’clock.” “Yes, sir.” He had started to leave when the headmaster called him back. “Just a moment. In the heat of our, uh, discussion I almost forgot that there was a second message for you.” “Oh?” Don accepted the slip; it said: DEAR SON, BE SURE TO SAY GOODBYE TO UNCLE DUDLEY BEFORE YOU LEAVE. MOTHER. This second message surprised him in some ways even more than the first; he had trouble realizing that his mother must mean Doctor Dudley Jefferson-a friend of his parents but no relation, and a person of no importance in his own life. But Reeves seemed not to see anything odd in the message, so he stuck it in his Levis and left the room. Long as he had been earthbound he approached packing with a true spaceman’s spirit. He knew that his passage would entitle him to only fifty pounds of free lift; he started discarding right and left. Shortly he had two piles, a very small one on his own bed-indispensable clothing, a few capsules of microfilm, his slide rule, a stylus, and a vreetha, a flutelike Martian instrument which he had not played in a long time as his schoolmates had objected. On his roommate’s bed was a much larger pile of discards. He picked up the vreetha, tried a couple of runs, and put it on the larger pile. Taking a Martian product to Mars was coal to Newcastle. His roommate, Jack Moreau, came in as he did so. “What in time goes on? House cleaning?” “Leaving.” Jack dug a finger into his ear. “I must be getting deaf. I could have sworn you said you were leaving.” “I am.” Don stopped and explained, showing Jack the message from his parents. Jack looked distressed. “I don’t like this. Of course I knew this was our last year, but I didn’t figure on you jumping the gun. I probably won’t sleep without your snores to soothe me. What’s the rush?” “I don’t know. I really don’t. The Head says that my folks have war jitters and want to drag their little darling to safety. But that’s silly, don’t you think? I mean, people are too civilized to go to war today.” Jack did not answer. Don waited, then said sharply, “You agree, don’t you? There won’t be any war.” Jack answered slowly, “Could be. Or maybe not.” “Oh, come off it!” His roommate answered, “Want me to help you pack?” “There isn’t anything to pack.” “How about all that stuff?” “That’s yours, if you want it. Pick it over, then call in the others and let them take what they like.” “Huh? Gee, Don, I don’t want your stuff. I’ll pack it and ship it after you.” “Ever ship anything ‘tween planets? It’s not worth it.” “Then sell it. Tell you what, we’ll hold an auction right after supper.” Don shook his head. “No time. I’m leaving at one o’clock.” “What? You’re really blitzing me, kid. I don’t like this.” “Can’t be helped.” He turned back to his sorting. Several of his friends drifted in to say goodbye. Don himself had not spread the news and he did not suppose that the headmaster would have talked, yet somehow the grapevine had spread the word. He invited them to help themselves to the plunder, subject to Jack’s prior claim. Presently he noticed that none of them asked why he was leaving. It bothered him more than if they had talked about it. He wanted to tell someone, anyone, that it was ridiculous to doubt his loyalty-and anyhow there wasn’t going to be a war. Rupe Salter, a boy from another wing, stuck his head in, looked over the preparations. “Running out, eh? I heard you were and thought I’d checkup.” “I’m leaving, if that’s what you mean.” “That’s what I said. See here, `Don Jaime,’ how about that circus saddle of yours? I’ll take it off your hands if the price is right.” “It’s not for sale.” “Huh? No horses where you’re going. Make me a price.” “It belongs to Jack here.” “And it’s still not for sale,” Moreau answered promptly. “Like that, eh? Suit yourself.” Salter went on blandly, “Another thing you willed that nag of yours yet?” The boys’ mounts, with few exceptions, were owned by the school, but it was a cherished and long-standing privilege of a boy graduating to “will” his temporary ownership to a boy of hischoice. Don looked up sharply; until that moment he had not thought about Lazy. He realized with sudden grief that he could not take the little fat clown with him-nor had he made any arrangements for his welfare. “The matter is settled,” he answered, added to himself: as far as you are concerned. “Who gets him? I could make it worth your while. He’s not much of a horse, but I want to get rid of the goat I’ve had to put up with.” “It’s settled.” “Be sensible. I can see the Head and get him anyhow. Willing a horse is a graduating privilege and you’re ducking out ahead of time.” “Get out.” Salter grinned. “Touchy, aren’t you? Just like all fogeaters, too touchy to know what’s good for you. Well, you’re going to be taught a lesson someday soon.” Don, already on edge, was too angry to trust himself to speak. “Fogeater,” used to describe a man from cloud wrapped Venus, was merely ragging, no worse than “Limey” or “Yank”, unless the tone of voice and context made it, as now, a deliberate insult. The others looked at him, half expecting action. Jack got up hastily from the bed and went toward Salter. “Get going, Salty. We’re too busy to monkey around with you.” Salter looked at Don, then back at Jack, shrugged and said, “I’m too busy to hang around here. But not too busy, if you have anything in mind.” The noon bell pealed from the mess hall; it broke the tension. Several boys started for the door; Salter moved out with them. Don hung back. Jack said, “Come on-beans!” “Jack?” “Yeah?” “How about you taking over Lazy?” “Gee, Don? I’d like to accommodate you-but what would I do with Lady Maude?” “Uh, I guess so. What’ll I do?” “Let me see.” Jack’s face brightened. “You know that kid Squinty Morris? The new kid from Manitoba? He hasn’t got a permanent yet; he’s been taking his rotation with the goats. He’d treat Lazy right; I know, I let him try Maudie once. He’s got gentle hands.” Don looked relieved. “Will you fix it for me? And see Mister Reeves?” “Huh? You can see him at lunch; come on.” “I’m not going to lunch. I’m not hungry. And I don’t much want to talk to the Head about it.” “Why not?” “Well, I don’t know. When he called me in this morning he didn’t seem exactly, friendly.” “What did he say?” “It wasn’t his words; it was his manner. Maybe I am touchy-but I sort of thought he was glad to see me go.” Don expected Jack to object, convince him that he was wrong. Instead he was silent for a moment, then said quietly, ‘Don’t take it too hard, Don. The Head is probably edgy too. You know he’s got his orders?” “Huh? What orders?” “You knew he was a reserve officer, didn’t you? He put in for orders and got ‘em, effective at end of term. Missus. Reeves is taking over the school for the duration.” Don, already overstrained, felt his head whirling. For the duration? How could anyone say that when there wasn’t any such thing? “‘Sfact,” Jack went on. “I got it straight from cookie.” He paused, then went on, “See here, old son-we’re pals, aren’t we?” “Huh? Sure, sure!” “Then give it to me straight: are you actually going to Mars? Or are you heading for Venus to sign up?” “Whatever gave you that notion?” “Skip it, then. Believe me; it wouldn’t make any difference between us. My old man says that when it’s time to be counted, the important thing is to be man enough to stand up.” He looked at Don’s face, then went on, “What you do about it is up to you. You know I’ve got a birthday coming up next month?” “Huh? Yes, so you have.” “Come then, I’m going to sign up for pilot training. That’s why I wanted to know what you planned to do.” “Oh.” “But it doesn’t make any difference-not between us. Anyhow, you’re going to Mars.” “Yes. Yes, that’s right.” “Good!” Jack glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run-or they’ll throw my chow to the pigs. Sure you’re not coming?” “Sure.” “See you.” He dashed out. Don stood for a moment, rearranging his ideas. Old Jack must be taking this seriously-giving up Yale for pilot training. But he was wrong-he had to be wrong. Presently he went out to the corral. Lazy answered his call, then started searching his pockets for sugar. “Sorry, old fellow,” he said sadly, “not even a carrot. I forgot.” He stood with his face to the horse’s cheek and scratched the beast’s ears. He talked to it in low tones, explaining as carefully as if Lazy could understand all the difficult words. “So that’s how it is,” he concluded. “I’ve got to go away and they won’t let me take you with me.” He thought back to the day their association had begun. Lazy had been hardly more than a colt, but Don had been frightened of him. He seemed huge, dangerous, and probably carnivorous. He had never seen a horse before coming to Earth; Lazy was the first he had ever seen close up. Suddenly he choked, could talk no further. He flung his arms around the horse’s neck and leaked tears. Lazy nickered softly, knowing that something was wrong, and tried to nuzzle him. Don raised his head. “Goodbye, boy. Take care of yourself.” He turned abruptly and ran toward the dormitories. Two. “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin”. THE SCHOOL copter dumped him down at the Albuquerque field. He had to hurry to catch his rocket, as traffic control had required them to swing wide around Sandia Weapons Center. When he weighed in he ran into another new security wrinkle. “Got a camera in that stuff, son?” the weighmaster had inquired as he passed over his bags. “No, why?” “Because we’ll fog your film when we fluoroscope, that’s why.” Apparently X-ray failed to show any bombs hidden in his underwear; his bags were handed back and he went aboard-the winged-rocket Santa Fe Trail, shuttling between the Southwest and New Chicago. Inside, he fastened his safety belts, snuggled down into the cushions, and waited. At first the noise of the blast-off bothered him more than the pressure. But the noise dopplered away as they passed the speed of sound while the acceleration grew worse; he blacked out. He came to as the ship went into free flight, arching in a high parabola over the plains. At once he felt great relief no longer to have unbearable weight racking his rib cage, straining his heart, turning his muscles to water-but, before he could enjoy the blessed relief, he was aware of a new sensation; his stomach was trying to crawl up his gullet. At first he was alarmed, being unable to account for the unexpected and unbearably unpleasant sensation. Then he had a sudden wild suspicion could it? Oh, no! It couldn’t be, not space sickness, not to him. Why, he had been born in free fall; space nausea was for Earth crawlers, groundhogs! But the suspicion grew to certainty; years of easy living on a planet had worn out his immunity. With secret embarrassment he conceded that he certainly was acting like a groundhog. It had not occurred to him to ask for an anti-nausea shot before blast-off, though he had walked past the counter plainly marked with a red cross. Shortly his secret embarrassment became public; he had barely time to get at the plastic container provided for the purpose. Thereafter he felt better, although weak, and listened halfheartedly to the canned description coming out of the loudspeaker of the country over which they were falling. Presently, near Kansas City, the sky turned from black back to purple again, the air foils took hold, and the passengers again felt weight as the rocket continued glider fashion on a long, screaming approach to New Chicago. Don folded his couch into a chair and sat up. Twenty minutes later, as the field came up to meet them, rocket units in the nose were triggered by radar and the Santa Fe Trail braked to a landing. The entire trip had taken less time than the copter jaunt from the school to Alburquerque, something less than an hour for the same route eastward that the covered wagons had made westward in eighty days, with luck. The local rocket landed on a field just outside the city, next door to the enormous field, still slightly radioactive, which was both the main spaceport of the planet and the former site of Old Chicago. Don hung back and let a Navajo family disembark ahead of him, then followed the squaw out. A movable slideway had crawled out to the ship; he stepped on it and let it carry him into the station. Once inside he was confused by the bustling size of the place, level after level, above and below ground. Gary Station served not merely the Santa Fe Trail, the Route 66, and other local rockets shuttling to the Southwest; it served a dozen other local lines, as well as ocean hoppers, freight tubes, and space ships operating between Earth and Circum-Terra Station-and thence to Luna, Venus, Mars, and the Jovian moons; it was the spinal cord of a more-than-world-wide empire. Tuned as he was to the wide and empty New Mexico desert and, before that, to the wider wastes of space, Don felt oppressed and irritated by the noisy swarming mass. He felt the lossof dignity that comes from men behaving like ants, even though his feeling was not thought out in words. Still, it had to be faced-he spotted the triple globes of Interplanet Lines and followed glowing arrows to its reservation office. An uninterested clerk assured him that the office had no record of his reservation in the Valkyrie. Patiently Don explained that the reservation had been made from Mars and displayed the radiogram from his parents. Annoyed into activity the clerk finally consented to phone Circum-Terra; the satellite station confirmed the reservation. The clerk signed off and turned back to Don. “Okay, you can pay for it here.” Don had a sinking feeling. “I thought it was already paid for?” He had on him his father’s letter-of-credit but it was not enough to cover passage to Mars. “Huh? They didn’t say anything about it being prepaid.” At Don’s insistence the clerk again phoned the space station. Yes, the passage was prepaid since it had been placed from the other end; didn’t the clerk know his tariff book? Thwarted on all sides, the clerk grudgingly issued Don a ticket to couch 64, Rocket Ship Glory Road, lifting from Earth for Circum-Terra at nine oh three fifty seven the following morning. “Got your security clearance?” “Huh? What’s that?” The clerk appeared to gloat at what was a legitimate opportunity to decline to do business after all. He withdrew the ticket. “Don’t you bother to follow the news? Give me your ID.” Reluctantly Don passed over his identity card; the clerk stuck it in a stat machine and handed it back. “Now your thumb prints.” Don impressed them and said, “Is that all? Can I have my ticket?” “Is that all? He says Be here about an hour early tomorrow morning. You can pick up your ticket then-provided the I.B.I. says you can.” The clerk turned away. Don, feeling forlorn, did likewise. He did not know quite what to do next. He had told Headmaster Reeves that he would stay overnight at the Hilton Caravansary, that being the hotel his family had stopped at 18 years earlier and the only one he knew by name. On the other hand he had to attempt to locate Doctor Jefferson “Uncle Dudley”, since his mother had made such a point of it. It was still early afternoon; he decided to check his bags and start looking. Bags disposed of, he found an empty communication booth and looked up the doctor’s code, punched it into the machine. The doctor’s phone regretted politely that Doctor Jefferson was not at home and requested him to leave a message. He was dictating it when a warm voice interrupted: “I’m at home to you, Donald. Where are you, lad?” The view screen cut in and he found himself looking at the somewhat familiar features of Doctor Dudley Jefferson. “Oh I’m at the station, Doctor-Gary Station. I just got in.” “Then grab a cab and come here at once.” “Uh, I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Doctor. I called because mother said to say goodbye to you.” Privately he had hoped that Doctor Jefferson would be too busy to waste time on him. Much as he disapproved of cities he did not want to spend his last night on Earth exchanging politeness with a family friend; he wanted to stir around and find out just what the modern Babylon did have to offer in the way of diversion. His letter-of-credit was burning a hole in his pocket; he wanted to bleed it a bit. “No trouble. See you in a few minutes. Meanwhile I’ll pick out a fatted calf and butcher it. By the way, did you receive a package from me?” The doctor looked suddenly intent. “A package? No” Doctor Jefferson muttered something about the mail service. Don said, “Maybe it will catch up with me. Was it important?” “Uh, never mind; we’ll speak of it later. You left a forwarding address?” “Yes, sir-the Caravansary.” “Well-whip up the horses and see how quickly you can get here. Open sky” “And safe grounding, sir.” They both switched off. Don left the booth and looked around for a cab stand. The station seemed more jammed than ever, with uniforms much in evidence, not only those of pilots and other ship personnel but military uniforms of many corps-and always the ubiquitous security police. Don fought his way through the crowd, down a ramp, along a slidewalk tunnel, and finally found what he wanted. There was a queue waiting for cabs; he joined it. Beside the queue was sprawled the big, ungainly saurian form of a Venerian “dragon.” When Don progressed in line until he was beside it, he politely whistled a greeting. The dragon swiveled one fluttering eyestalk in his direction. Strapped to the “chest” of the creature, between its forelegs and immediately below and in reach of its handling tendrils, wasa small box, a voder. The tendrils writhed over the keys and the Venerian answered him, via mechanical voder speech, rather than by whistling in his own language. “Greetings to you also, young sir. It is pleasant indeed, among strangers, to hear the sounds one heard in the egg.” Don noted with delight that the outlander had a distinctly Cockney accent in the use of his machine. He whistled his thanks and a hope that the dragon might die pleasantly. The Venerian thanked him, again with the voder, and added, “Charming as is your accent, will you do me the favor of using your own speech that I may practice it?” Don suspected that his modulation was so atrocious that the Venerian could hardly understand it; he lapsed at once into human words. “My name is Don Harvey,” he replied and whistled once more-but just to give his own Venerian name, “Mist on the Waters”; it had been selected by his mother and he saw nothing funny about it. Nor did the dragon. He whistled for the first time, naming himself, and added via voder, “I am called `Sir Isaac Newton.’ ” Don understood that the Venerian, in so tagging himself, was following the common dragon custom of borrowing as a name of convenience the name of some earth human admired by the borrower. Don wanted to ask “Sir Isaac Newton” if by chance he knew Don’s mother’s family, but the queue was moving up and the dragon was lying still; he was forced to move along to keep from losing his place in line. The Venerian followed him with one oscillating eye and whistled that he hoped that Don, too, might die pleasantly. There was an interruption in the flow of autocabs to the stand; a man operated flatbed truck drew up and let down a ramp. The dragon reared up on six sturdy legs and climbed aboard. Don whistled a farewell-and became suddenly and unpleasantly aware that a security policeman was giving him undivided attention. He was glad to crawl into his autocab and close the cover. He dialed the address and settled back. The little car lurched forward, climbed a ramp, threaded through a freight tunnel, and mounted an elevator. At first Don tried to keep track of where it was taking him but the tortured convolutions of the ant hill called “New Chicago” would have made a topologist dyspeptic; he gave up. The robot cab seemed to know where it was going and, no doubt, the master machine from which it received its signals knew. Don spent the rest of the trip fretting over the fact that his ticket had not yet been turned over to him, over the unwelcome attention of the security policeman, and, finally, about the package from Doctor Jefferson. The last did not worry him; it simply annoyed him to have mail go astray. He hoped that Mister Reeves would realize that any mail not forwarded by this afternoon would have to follow him all the way to Mars. Then he thought about “Sir Isaac.” It was nice to run across somebody from home. Doctor Jefferson’s apartment turned out to be far underground in an expensive quarter of the city. Don almost failed to arrive; the cab had paused at the apartment door but when he tried to get out the door would not open. This reminded him that he must first pay the fare shown in the meter-only to discover that he had pulled the bumpkin trick of engaging a robot vehicle without having coins on him to feed the meter. He was sure that the little car, clever as it was, would not even deign to sniff at his letter-of-credit. He was expecting disconsolately to be carted by the machine off to the nearest police station when he was rescued by the appearance of Doctor Jefferson. The doctor gave him coins to pay the shot and ushered him in. “Think nothing of it, my boy; it happens to me about once a week. The local desk sergeant keeps a drawer full of hard money just to buy me out of hock from our mechanical masters. I pay him off once a quarter, cumshaw additional. Sit down. Sherry?” “Er, no, thank you, sir.” “Coffee, then. Cream and sugar at your elbow. What do you hear from your parents?” “Why, the usual things. Both well and working hard and all that.” Don looked around him as he spoke. The room was large, comfortable, even luxurious, although books spilling lavishly and untidily over shelves and tables and even chairs masked its true richness. What appeared to be a real fire burned in one corner. Through an open door he could see several more rooms. He made a high, and grossly inadequate, mental estimate of the cost of such an establishment in New Chicago. Facing them was a view window which should have looked into the bowels of the city; instead it reflected a mountain stream and fir trees. A trout broke water as he watched. “I’m sure they are working hard,” his host answered. “They always do. Your father is attempting to seek out, in one short lifetime, secrets that have been piling up for millions of years. Impossible-but he makes a good stab at it. Son, do you realize that when your father started his career we hadn’t even dreamed that the first system empire ever existed?” He added thoughtfully, “If it was the first.” He went on, “Now we have felt out the ruins on the floor of two oceans-and tied them in with records from four other planets. Of course your father didn’t do it all, or even most of it-but his work has been indispensable. Your father is a great man, Donald, and so is your mother. When I speak of either one I really mean the team. Help yourself to sandwiches.” Don said, “Thank you,” and did so, thereby avoiding a direct answer. He was warmly pleased to hear his parents praised but it did not seem to be quite the thing to agree heartily. But the doctor was capable of carrying on the conversation unassisted. “Of course we may never know all the answers. How was the noblest planet of them all, the home of empire, broken and dispersed into space junk? Your father spent four years in the Asteroid Belt-you were along, weren’t you? And never found a firm answer to that. Was it a paired planet, like Earth-Luna, and broken up by tidal strains? Or was it blown up?” “Blown up?” Don protested. “But that’s theoretically impossible, isn’t it?” Doctor Jefferson brushed it aside. “Everything is theoretically impossible, until it’s done. One could write a history of science in reverse by assembling the solemn pronouncements of highest authority about what could not be done and could never happen. Studied any mathematical philosophy, Don? Familiar with infinite universe sheafs and open-ended postulate systems?” “Uh, I’m afraid not, sir.” “Simple idea and very tempting. The notion that everything is possible and I mean everything-and everything has happened. Everything. One universe in which you accepted that wine and got drunk as a skunk. Another in which the fifth planet never broke up. Another in which atomic power and nuclear weapons are as impossible as our ancestors thought they were. That last one might have its points, for sissies at least. Like me.” He stood up. “Don’t eat too many sandwiches. I’m going to take you out to a restaurant where there will be food, among other things, and such food as Zeus promised the gods-and failed to deliver.” “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, sir.” Don was still hoping to get out on the town by himself. He had a dismaying vision of dinner in some stuffy rich man’s club, followed by an evening of highfalutin talk. And it was his last night on Earth. “Time? What is time? Each hour ahead is as fresh as was the one we just used. You registered at the Caravansary?” “No, sir, I just checked my bags at the station.” “Good. You’ll stay here tonight; we’ll send for your luggage later.” Doctor Jefferson’s manner changed slightly. “But your mail was to be sent to the hotel?” “That’s right.” Don was surprised to see that Doctor Jefferson looked distinctly worried. “Well, we’ll check into that later. That package I sent to you-would it be forwarded promptly?” “I really don’t know, sir. Ordinarily the mail comes in twice a day. If it came in after I left, it would ordinarily wait over until morning. But if the headmaster thought about it, he might have it sent into town special so that I would get it before up-ship tomorrow morning.” “Mean to say there isn’t a tube into the school?” “No, sir, the cook brings in the morning mail when he shops and the afternoon mail is chuted in by the Roswell copter bus.” “A desert island! Well, we’ll check around midnight. If it hasn’t arrived then-never mind.” Nevertheless he seemed perturbed and hardly spoke during their ride to dinner. The restaurant was misnamed The Back Room and there was no sign out to indicate its location; it was simply one of many doors in a side tunnel. Nevertheless many people seemed to know where it was and to be anxious to get in, only to be thwarted by a stern-faced dignitary guarding a velvet rope. This ambassador recognized Doctor Jefferson and sent for the maitre d’hotel. The doctor made a gesture understood by headwaiters throughout history, the rope was dropped, and they were conducted in royal progress to a ringside table. Don was bug eyed at the size of the bribe. Thus he was ready with the proper facial expression when he caught sight of their waitress. His reaction to her was simple; she was, it seemed to him, the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, both in person and in costume. Doctor Jefferson caught his expression and chuckled. “Don’t use up your enthusiasm, son. The ones we have paid to see will be out there.” He waved at the floor. “Cocktail first?” Don said that he didn’t believe so, thank you. “Suit yourself. You are man high and a single taste of the flesh-pots wouldn’t do you any permanent harm. But suppose you let me order dinner for us?” Don agreed. While Doctor Jefferson was consulting with the captive princess over the menu, Don looked around. The room simulated outdoors in the late evening; stars were just appearing overhead. A high brick wall ran around the room, hiding the non-existent middle distance and patching in the floor to the false sky. Apple trees hung over the wall and stirred in the breeze. An old-fashioned well with a well sweep stood beyond the tables on the far side of the room; Don saw another “captive princess” go to it, operate the sweep, and remove a silver pail containing a wrapped bottle. At the ringside opposite them a table had been removed to make room for a large transparent plastic capsule on wheels. Don had never seen one but he recognized its function; it was a Martian’s “perambulator,” a portable air-conditioning unit to provide the rare, cold air necessary to a Martian aborigine. The occupant could be seen dimly, his frail body supported by a metal articulated servo framework to assist him in coping with the robust gravity of the third planet. His pseudo wings drooped sadly and he did not move. Don felt sorry for him. As a youngster he had met Martians on Luna, but Luna’s feeble field was less than that of Mars; it did not turn them into cripples, paralyzed by a gravity field too painful for their evolutionary pattern. It was both difficult and dangerous for a Martian to risk coming to Earth; Don wondered what had induced this one. A diplomatic mission, perhaps? Doctor Jefferson dismissed the waitress, looked up and noticed him staring at the Martian. Don said, “I was just wondering why he would come here. Not to eat, surely.” “Probably wants to watch the animals feeding. That’s part of my own reason, Don. Take a good look around you; you’ll never see the like again.” “No, I guess not-not on Mars.” “That’s not what I mean. Sodom and Gomorrah, lad, rotten at the core and skidding toward the pit. These our actors, as I foretold you, are melted into air and so forth. Perhaps even `the great globe itself.’ I tally too much. Enjoy it; it won’t last long.” Don looked puzzled. “Doctor Jefferson, do you like living here?” “Me? I’m as decadent as the city I infest; it’s my natural element. But that doesn’t keep me from telling a hawk from a handsaw.” The orchestra, which had been playing softly from nowhere in particular, stopped suddenly and the sound system announced “News flash!” At the same time the darkening sky overhead turned black and lighted letters started marching across it. The voice over the sound system read aloud the words streaming across the ceiling: BERMUDA: OFFICIAL: THE DEPARTMENT OF COLONIAL AFFAIRS HAS JUST ANNOUNCED THAT THE PROVISIONAL COMMITTEE OF THE VENUS COLONIES HAS REJECTED OUR NOTE. A SOURCE CLOSE TO THE FEDERATION CHAIRMAN SAYS THAT THIS IS AN EXPECTED DEVELOPMENT AND NO CAUSE FOR ALARM. The lights went up and the music resumed. Doctor Jefferson’s lips were stretched back in a mirthless grip. “How appropriate!” he commented. “How timely! The handwriting on the wall.” Don started to blurt out a comment, but was distracted by the start of the show. The stage floor by them had sunk out of sight, unnoticed, during the news flash. Now from the pit thus created came a drifting, floating cloud lighted from within with purple and flame and rose. The cloud melted away and Don could see that the stage was back in place and peopled with dancers. There was a mountain in the stage background. Doctor Jefferson had been right; the ones worth staring at were on the stage, not serving the tables. Don’s attention was so taken that he did not notice that food had been placed in front of him. His host touched his elbow. “Eat something, before you faint.” “Huh? Oh, yes, sir!” He did so, busily and with good appetite but with his eyes on the entertainers. There was one man in the cast, portraying Tannhauser, but Don did not know and did not care whom he represented; he noticed him only when he got in the way. Similarly, he had finished two thirds of what was placed before him without noticing what he was eating. Doctor Jefferson said, “Like it?” Don did a double take and realized that the doctor was speaking of food, not of the dancers. “Oh, yes! It’s awfully good.” He examined his plate. “But what is it?” “Don’t you recognize it? Baked baby gregarian.” It took a couple of seconds for Don to place in his mind just what a gregarian was. As a small child he had seen hundreds of the little satyr-like bipeds-faunas gregariaus veneris Smythii-but he did not at first associate the common commercial name with the friendly, silly creatures he and his playmates, along with all other Venus colonials, had always called “move-overs” because of their chronic habit of crowding up against one, shouldering, nuzzling, sitting on one’s feet, and in other ways displaying their insatiable appetite for physical affection. Eat a baby, move-over? He felt like a cannibal and for the second time in one day started to behave like a groundhog in space. He gulped and controlled himself but could not touch another bite. He looked back at the stage. Venusberg disappeared, giving way to a tired-eyed man who kept up a rapid fire of jokes while juggling flaming torches. Don was not amused; he let his gaze wander around the room. Three tables away a man met his eyes, then looked casually away. Don thought about it, then looked the man over carefully and decided that he recognized him. “Doctor Jefferson?” “Yes, Don?” “Do you happen to know a Venus dragon who calls himself `Sir Isaac Newton’?” Don added the whistled version of the Venerian’s true name. “Don’t!” the older man said sharply. “Don’t what?” “Don’t advertise your background unnecessarily, not at this time. Why do you ask about this, uh, `Sir Isaac Newton’?” He kept his voice low with his lips barely moving. Donald told him about the casual meeting at Gary Station. “When I got through I was dead sure that a security cop was watching me. And now that same man is sitting over there, only now he’s not in uniform.” “Are you sure?” “I think I’m sure.” “Hum, you might be mistaken. Or he might simply be here in his off hours-though a security policeman should not be, not on his pay. See here, pay no further attention to him and don’t speak of him again. And don’t speak of that dragon, nor of anything else Venetian. Just appear to be having a good time. But pay careful attention to anything I say.” Don tried to carry out the instructions, but it was hard to keep his mind on gaiety. Even when the dancers reappeared he felt himself wanting to turn and stare at the man who had dampened the party. The plate of baked gregarian was removed and Doctor Jefferson ordered something for him called a “Mount Etna.” It was actually shaped like a volcano and a plume of steam came out of the tip. He dipped a spoon into it, found that it was fire and ice, assaulting his palate with conflicting sensations. He wondered how anyone could eat it. Out of politeness he cautiously tried another bite. Presently he found that he had eaten all of it and was sorry there was not more. At the break in the stage acts Don tried to ask Doctor Jefferson what he really thought about the war scare. The; doctor firmly turned the talk around to his parents’ work and branched out to the past and future of the System. “Don’t fret yourself about the present, son. Troubles, merely troubles-necessary preliminaries to the consolidation of the System. In five hundred years the historians will hardly notice it. There will be the Second Empire-six planets by then.” “Six? You don’t honestly think well ever be able to do anything with Jupiter and Saturn? Oh-you mean the Jovian moons.” “No, I mean six primary planets. We’ll move Pluto and Neptune in close by the fire and we’ll drag Mercury back and let it cool off.” The idea of moving planets startled Don. It sounded wildly impossible, but he let it rest, since his host was a man who maintained that everything and anything was possible. “The race needs a lot of room,” Doctor Jefferson went on. “After all, Mars and Venus have their own intelligent races; we can’t crowd them much more without genocide-and it’s not dead certain which way the genocide would work, even with the Martians. But the reconstruction of this system is just engineering, nothing to what else we’ll do. Half a millennium from now there will be more Earth-humans outside this system than in it; we’ll be swarming around every G-type star in this neighborhood. Do you know what I would do if I were your age, Don? I’d get me a berth in the Pathfinder.” Don nodded. “I’d like that.” The Pathfinder, star ship intended for a one-way trip, had been building on, and near, Luna since before he was born. Soon she would go. All or nearly all of Don’s generation had at least dreamed about leaving with her. “Of course,” added his host, “you would have to have a bride.” He pointed to the stage which was again filling. “Take that blonde down there. She’s a likely looking lassie-healthy at least.” Don smiled and felt worldly. “She might not hanker after pioneering. She looks happy as she is.” “Can’t tell till you ask her. Here.” Doctor Jefferson summoned the maitre d’hotel; money changed hands. Presently the blonde came to their table but did not sit down. She was a tom-tom singer and she proceeded to boom into Don’s ears, with the help of the orchestra, sentiments that would have embarrassed him even if expressed privately. He ceased to feel worldly, felt quite warm in the face instead and confirmed his resolution not to take this female to the stars. Nevertheless he enjoyed it. The stage was just clearing when the lights blinked once and the sound system again brayed forth: “Space raid warning! Space raid warning!” All lights went out. Three. Hunted. For an infinitely long moment there was utter blackness and silence without even the muted whir of the blowers. Then a tiny light appeared in the middle of the stage, illuminating the features of the starring comic. He drawled in an intentionally ridiculous nasal voice, “The next sound you hear will be. The Tromp of Doom!” He giggled and went on briskly, “Just sit quiet, folks, and hang on to your money-some of the help are relatives of the management. This is just a drill. Anyhow, we have a hundred feet of concrete overhead-and a darn sight thicker mortgage. Now, to get you into the mood for the next act which is mine, the next round of drinks is on the house.” He leaned forward and called out, “Gertie! Drag up that stuff we couldn’t unload New Year’s Eve.” Don felt the tension ease around the room and he himself relaxed. He was doubly startled when a hand closed around his wrist. “Quiet!” whispered Doctor Jefferson into his ear. Don let himself be led away in the darkness. The doctor apparently knew, or remembered, the layout; they got out of the room without bumping into tables and with only one unimportant brush with someone in the dark. They seemed to be going down a long hall, black as the inside of coal, then turned a corner and stopped. “But you can’t go out sir,” Don heard a voice say. Doctor Jefferson spoke quietly, his words too low to catch. Something rustled; they moved forward again, through a doorway, and turned left. They proceeded along this tunnel-Don felt sure that it was the public tunnel just outside the restaurant though it seemed to have turned ninety degrees in the dark. Doctor Jefferson still dragged him along by the wrist without speaking. They turned again and went down steps. There were other people about, though not many. Once someone grabbed Don in the dark; he struck out wildly, smashed his fist into something flabby and heard a muffled grunt. The doctor merely pulled him along the faster. The doctor stopped at last, seemed to be feeling around in the dark. There came a feminine squeal out of the blackness. The doctor drew back hastily and moved on a few feet, stopped again. “Here,” he said at last. “Climb in.” He pulled Don forward and placed his hand on something; Don felt around and decided that it was a parked autocab, its top open. He climbed in and Doctor Jefferson got in behind, closing the top after him. “Now we can talk,” he said calmly. “Someone beat us to that first one. But we can’t go anywhere until the power comes on again.” Don was suddenly aware that he was shaking with excitement. When he could trust himself to speak he said, “Doctor-is this actually an attack?” “I doubt it mightily,” the man answered. “It’s almost certainly a drill-I hope. But it gave us just the opportunity that I had been looking for to get away quietly.” Don chewed this over. Jefferson went on, “What are you fretting about? The check? I have an account there.” It had not occurred to Don that they were walking out on the check. He said so and added, “You mean that security policeman I thought I recognized?” “Unfortunately.” “But, I think I must have made a mistake. Oh, it looked like the same man, all right, but I don’t see how it would have been humanly possible for him to have followed me even if he popped into the next cab. I distinctly remember that at least once my cab was the only cab on an elevator. That tears it. If it was the same cop, it was an accident; he wasn’t looking for me.” “Perhaps he was looking for me.” “Huh?” “Never mind. As to following you-Don, do you know how these autocabs work?” “Well-in general.” “If that security cop wanted to tail you, he would not get into the next cab. He would call in and report the number of your cab. That number would be monitored in the control-net board at once. Unless you reached your destination before the monitoring started, they would read the code of your destination right out of the machine. Where upon another security officer would be watching for your arrival. It carries on from there. When I rang for an auto cab my circuit would already be monitored, and the cab that answered the ring likewise. Consequently the first cop was already seated at a table in The Back Room before we arrived. That was their one slip, using a man you had seen but we can forgive that as they are overworked at present. “But why would they want me? Even if they think I’m uh, disloyal, I’m not that important.” Doctor Jefferson hesitated, then said, “Don, I don’t know how long we will be able to talk. We can talk freely for the moment because they are just as limited by the power shutdown as we are. But once the power comes on we can no larger talk and I have a good deal to say. We can’t talk, even here, after the power comes on.” “Why not?” “The public isn’t supposed to know, but each of these cabs has a microphone in it. The control frequency for the cab itself can carry speech modulation without interfering with the operation of the vehicle. So we are not safe once power is restored. Yes, I know; it’s a shameful set up. I didn’t dare talk in the restaurant, even with the orchestra playing. They could have had a shotgun mike trained on us. “Now, listen carefully. We must locate that package I mailed to you, we must. I want you to deliver it to your father, or rather, what’s in it. Point number two: you must catch that shuttle rocket tomorrow morning, even if the heavens fall. Point number three: you won’t stay with me tonight, after all. I’m sorry but I think it is best so. Number four: when the power comes on, we will ride around for a while, talking of nothing in particular and never mentioning names. Presently I will see to it that we end up near a public common booth and you will call the Caravansary. If the package is there, you will leave me, go back to the Station, get your bags, then go to the hotel, register and pick up your mail. Tomorrow morning you will get your ship and leave. Don’t call me. Do you understand all that?” ‘Uh, I think so, sir.” Don waited, then blurted out, “But why? Maybe I’m talking out of turn, but it seems to me I ought to know why we are doing this.” “What do you want to know?” “Well, what’s in the package?” “You will see. You can open it, examine it, and decide for yourself. If you decide not to deliver it, that’s your privilege. As for the rest-what are your political convictions, Don?” “Why, that’s rather hard to say, sir.” “Hum, mine weren’t too clear at your age either. Let’s put it this way: would you be willing to string along with your parents for the time being? Until you form your own?” “Why, of course!” “Did it seem a bit odd to you that your mother insisted that you look me up? Don’t be shy-I know that a young fellow arriving in the big town doesn’t look up semi-strangers through choice. Now-she must have considered it important for you to see me. Eh?” “I guess she must have.” “Will you let it stand at that? What you don’t know, you can’t tell-and can’t get you into trouble.” Don thought it over. The doctor’s words seemed to make sense, yet it went mightily against the grain to be asked to do something mysterious without knowing all the whys and wherefore. On the other hand, had he simply received the package, he undoubtedly would have delivered it to his father without thinking much about it. He was about to ask further questions when the lights came on and the little car started to purr. Doctor Jefferson said, “Here we go!” leaned over the board and quickly dialed a destination. The autocab moved forward. Don started to speak but the doctor shook his head. The car threaded its way through several tunnels, down a ramp and stopped in a large underground square. Doctor Jefferson paid it off and led Don through the square and to a passenger elevator. The square was jammed and one could sense the crowd’s frenetic mood resulting from the space raid alarm. They had to shove their way through a mass of people gathered around a public telescreen in the center of the square. Don was glad to get on the elevator, even though it too was packed. Doctor Jefferson’s immediate destination was another cab stand in a square several levels higher. They got into a cab and moved away; this one they rode for several minutes, then changed cabs again. Don was completely confused and could not have told whether they were north, south, high, low, east, or west. The doctor glanced at his watch as they left the last autocab and said, “We’ve killed enough time. Here.” He indicated a communication booth near them. Don went in and phoned the Carvansary. Was there any mail being held for him? No, there was not. He explained that he was not registered at the hotel; the clerk looked again. No, sorry sir. Don came out and told Doctor Jefferson. The doctor chewed his lip. “Son, I’ve made a bad error in judgment.” He glanced around; there was no one near them. “And I’ve wasted time.” “Can I help, sir?” “Eh? Yes, I think you can-I’m sure you can.” He paused to think. “We’ll go back to my apartment. We must. But we won’t stay there. We’ll find some other hotel-not the Caravansary-and I’m afraid we must work all night. Are you up to it?” “Oh, certainly!” “I’ve some `borrowed-time’ pills; they’ll help. See here Don, whatever happens, you are to catch that ship tomorrow. Understand?” Don agreed. He intended to catch the ship in any case and could not conceive of a reason for missing it. Privately he was beginning to wonder if Doctor Jefferson were quite right in his head. “Good. We’ll walk; it’s not far.” A half-mile of tunnels and a descent by elevator got them there. As they turned into the tunnel in which the doctor’s apartment was located, he glanced up and down it; it was empty. They crossed rapidly and the doctor let them in. Two strange men were seated in the living room. Doctor Jefferson glanced at them, said, “Good evening, gentlemen,” and turned back to his guest. “Good night, Don. It’s been very pleasant seeing you and be sure to remember me to your parents.” He grasped Don’s hand and firmly urged him out the door. The two men stood up. One of them said, “It took you a long time to get home, Doctor.” “I’d forgotten the appointment, gentlemen. Now, goodbye, Don-I don’t want you to be late.” The last remark was accompanied by increased pressure on Don’s hand. He answered, “Uh-good night, Doctor. And thanks.” He turned to leave, but the man who had spoken moved quickly between him and the door. “Just a moment, please.” Doctor Jefferson answered, “Really, gentlemen, there is no reason to delay this boy. Let him go along so that we may get down to our business.” The man did not answer directly but called out, “Elkins! King!” Two more men appeared from a back room of the apartment. The man who seemed to be in charge said to them, “Take the youngster back to the bedroom. Close the door.” “Come along, buddy.” Don, who had been keeping his mouth shut and trying to sort out the confusing new developments, got angry. He had more than a suspicion that these men were security police even though they were not in uniform, but he had been brought up to believe that honest citizens had nothing to fear. “Wait a minute!” he protested. “I’m not going any place. What’s the idea?” The man who had told him to come along moved closer and took his arm. Don shook it off. The leader stopped any further action by his men with a very slight gesture. “Don Harvey.“ “Huh? Yes?” “I could give you a number of answers to that. One of them is this.” He displayed a badge in the palm of his hand. “But that might be faked. Or, if I cared to take time, I could satisfy you with stamped pieces of paper, all proper and legalistic and signed with important names.” Don noticed that his voice was gentle and cultured. “But it happens that I am tired and in a hurry and don’t want to be bothered playing word games with young punks. So let it stand that there are four of us all armed. So-will you go quietly, or would you rather be slapped around a bit and dragged?” Don was about to answer with school-game bravado; Doctor Jefferson cut in. “Do as they ask you, Donald!” He closed his mouth and followed the subordinate on back. The man led him into the bedroom and closed the door. “Sit down,” he said pleasantly. Don did not move. His guard came up, placed a palm against his chest and pushed. Don sat down. The man touched a button at the bed’s control panel, causing it to lift to the reading position, then lay down. He appeared to go to sleep, but every time Don looked at him the man’s eyesmet his. Don strained his ears, trying to hear what was going on in the front room, but he need not have bothered; the room, being a sleeping room, was fully soundproof. So he sat there and fidgeted, trying to make sense out of preposterous things that had happened to him. He recalled almost with unbelief that it had been only this morning that Lazy and he had started out to climb Peddler’s Grave. He wondered what Lazy was doing now and whether the greedy little rascal missed him. Probably not, he admitted mournfully. He slid a glance at the guard, while wondering whether or not, if he gathered himself together, drawing his feet as far under him as he could. The guard shook his head. “Don’t do it,” he advised. “Don’t to what?” “Don’t try to jump me. You might hurry me and then you might get hurt bad.” The man appeared to go back to sleep. Don slumped into apathy. Even if he did manage to jump this one, slug him maybe, there were three more out front. And suppose he got away from them? A strange city, where they had everything organized, everything under control, where would he run to? Once he had come across the stable cat playing with a mouse. He had watched for a moment, fascinated even though his sympathies were with the mouse, before he had stepped forward and put the poor beastie out of its misery. The cat had never once let the mouse scamper further than pounce range. Now he was the mouse. “Up you come!” Don jumped to his feet, startled and having trouble placing himself. “I wish I had your easy conscience,” the guard said admiringly. “It’s a real gift to be able to catch forty winks any time. Come on; the boss wants you.” Don preceded him back into the living room; there was no one there but the mate of the man who had guarded him. Don turned and said, “Where is Doctor Jefferson?” “Never mind,” his guard replied. “The lieutenant hates to be kept waiting.” He started on out the door. Don hung back. The second guard casually took him by the arm; he felt a stabbing pain clear to his shoulder and went along. Outside they had a manually-operated car larger than the robot cabs. The second guard slipped into the driver’s seat; the other urged Don into the passenger compartment. There he sat down and started to turn-and found that he could not. He was unable even to raise his hands. Any attempt to move, to do anything other than sit and breathe, felt like struggling against the weight of too many blankets. “Take it easy,” the guard advised. “You can pull a ligament fighting that field. And it does not do any good.” Don had to prove to himself that the man was right. Whatever the invisible bonds were, the harder he strained against them the tighter they bound him. On the other hand when he relaxed and rested he could not even feel them. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded. “Don’t you know? The city I.B.I. office, of course.” “What for? I haven’t done anything!” “In that case, you won’t have to stay long.” The car pulled up inside a large garaging room; the three got out and waited in front of a door; Don had a feeling that they were being looked over. Shortly the door opened; they went inside. The place had the odor of bureaucracy. They went down a long corridor past endless offices filled with clerks, desks, transtypers, filing machines, whirring card sorters. A lift bounced them to another level; they went on through more corridors and stopped at an office door. “Inside,” said the first guard. Don went in; the door slid shut behind him with the guards outside. “Sit down, Don.” It was the leader of the group of four, now in the uniform of security officer and seated at a horseshoe desk. Don said, “Where is Doctor Jefferson? What did you do with him?” “Sit down, I said.” Don did not move; the lieutenant went on, “Why make it hard for yourself? You know where you are; you know that I could have you restrained in any way that suited me some of them quite unpleasant. Will you sit down, please, and save us both trouble?” Don sat down and immediately said, “I want to see a lawyer.” The lieutenant shook his head slowly, looking like a tired and gentle school teacher. “Young fellow, you’ve been reading too many romantic novels. Now if you had studied the dynamics of history instead, you would realize that the logic of legalism alternates with the logic of force in a pattern dependent on the characteristics of the culture. Each culture evokes its own basic logic. You follow me?” Don hesitated; the other went on, “No matter. The point is, your request for a lawyer comes about two hundred years too late to be meaningful. The verbalisms lag behind the facts. Nevertheless, you shall have a lawyer or a lollipop, whichever you prefer, after I am through questioning you. If I were you, I’d take the lollipop. More nourishing. “I won’t talk without a lawyer,” Don answered firmly. “No? I’m sorry. Don, in setting up your interview I budgeted eleven minutes for nonsense. You have used up four already, no, five. When the eleven minutes are gone and you find yourself spitting out teeth, remember that I bore you no malice. Now about this matter of whether or not you will talk; there are several ways of making a man talk and each method has its fans who swear by it. Drugs, for example, nitrous oxide, scopolamine, sodium pentothal, not to mention some of the new, more subtle, and relatively non-toxic developments. Even alcohols have been used with great success by intelligence operatives. I don’t like drugs; they affect the intellect and clutter up an interview with data of no use to me. You’d be amazed at the amount of rubbish that can collect in the human brain, Don, if you had had to listen to it-as I have. “And there is

Rahan. Episode Forty six. The return of the "Goraks". When he saw the squirrel on a high branch, the son of Crao congratulated himself on having made a bow the day before. It was hard for him to kill the little red creature. But he was so hungry! Rahan was gifted with astonishing skill. The thin arrow passed right through the animal. Ra-ha-ha! The cry of victory ended with a groan of spite. The body of the struck squirrel was stuck high up in the branches. Page Two. Rahan will not abandon his game to the “hook-bills”! An instant later, he climbed up onto the great tree. He was about to reach the squirrel when the growl of a wild beast reached him. That of the saber-toothed tiger. A “Gorak”! Rahan would not have killed the red beast if he had known that a Gorak was lurking nearby. The son of Crao hated this beast whose ferocity he knew, this monster who killed for the pleasure of killing. This is why he placed an arrow on his bow. His heart beat faster when the thickets parted. It was not a "Gorak" who was advancing into the clearing. But three! Page Three. How many hunters have you slaughtered? How many human offspring have you devoured? Hit in the heart, one of the three beasts reared up, releasing a terrible roar. His last roar. The other two had suddenly collected themselves. They scanned the woods, doubtless believing that the danger was coming there. But Rahan knew that their scent, in a moment, would alert them to his presence in the tree. He drew his bow once again. Crack! And the unexpected happened. His foot slipped on the bark, and he lost his balance and fell into the void. He hit a dead branch. Page Four. This branch perhaps saved him from a fatal fall. But it broke, and fell with him, and fell on him! The two beasts, surprised by this noise, had fled to the other end of the clearing. But it was only a brief respite. For the son of Crao, who quickly recovered his spirits. He felt as if his legs were broken, the enormous branch weighed so heavily on his thighs. From the depths of the clearing, one of the tigers launched himself with a great bound. If Rahan must join the "Land of Shadows", you will accompany me, Gorak! If Rahan no longer had time to free himself, he had time to draw his knife. Ra-ha-ha! Page Five. The ivory blade plunged into the monster's chest but the shock was such that the weapon was torn from him. As the monster collapsed a distance away from him, the last "Gorak" growled furiously. Rahan is not lost yet. He still has his bow! Yes, the bow was there. But it was impossible to free it from this branch! You are a prisoner, too! But you can still help Rahan! As the beast approached, the son of Crao managed to place an arrow on the bow. And to stretch it. Approach, Gorak, Approach! Overcoming his pain, Rahan twisted himself to adjust to the saber-toothed tiger. He suddenly released the arrow. Page Six. Klong! Which disappeared almost entirely into the beast's flank. Rahan did not have the strength to shout his victory cry. A fog fell between him and the falling Gorak. And he himself fell backwards, overcome by the pain and the efforts he had just made. In his semi-unconsciousness, and probably because of the burden weighing on him, he dreamed that goraks were devouring his legs. Then these monsters disappeared and he felt light, light. He opened his eyelids and saw men around him. Carry the fire-haired hunter to the village! No need, brothers! Rahan believes he will be able to walk! Page Seven. The son of Crao was indeed able to get up. His legs were certainly painful, but they were not broken. When the day dawns, Rahan will leap as well as a Gorak! Trank wishes it to you, Rahan! All hunters will need their legs before long! What do you mean, Trank? These beasts that you killed are a bad omen for us! They announce the return of the Goraks! A long season of misfortunes will begin for our clan! As they walked towards the village, Trank recounted how during certain seasons, this territory was invaded by a multitude of tigers. The clan will then lead a terrible life! “Goraks” are roaming everywhere! Only this ravine protects us! The village appeared, on a rocky platform that stood curiously in the middle of a deep gorge. Page Eight. For moons and moons the forest is forbidden to us! We can no longer hunt or bring back water from springs. Hunger and thirst kill the weakest among us! So the clan cannot predict the return of the "Goraks"? No. Several seasons can go by without them coming! Then, one day, we see one or two. It's the bad sign that alerts us. Because we know that others are coming from all sides. A terrible roar suddenly interrupted Trank. A great Gorak! At the village! Quickly! Quickly! Rahan believed Trank and his men to be courageous. Why are they running away from just one Gorak? The panicked hunters rushed towards the gorge. Limping, the son of Crao was out-distanced and found himself alone, while other roars arose. Page Nine. Huddled in a thicket Rahan suddenly felt his blood run cold. What he saw was too horrible. A giant gorak! Rahan understands better the flight of the hunters! He did not sense Rahan! The monster that passed in front of him was three times bigger than any of those he had faced before. A moment later, the giant feline growled at the edge of the gorge. He does not dare to jump! The hunters are safe. But Rahan is not! Page Ten. However. "Firehair" couldn't follow us. But perhaps he escaped the Gorak? Leave the bridges in place! The son of Crao would have liked to join Trank, to jump towards the bridge thrown above the ravine. But the "Sabre-toothed Tiger" came and went in front of this one. Trank's men were ready to pull back the trunks in case the feline ran onto them. But the beast, smelling this danger, had moved away. If Rahan does not take advantage of this opportunity, he will remain at the mercy of the "Goraks" who will invade the forest! Suddenly emerging from the forest, the son of Crao ran towards the gorge. But his aching legs abandoned him a few steps from a "Bridge". Page Eleven. He was dragging himself towards it when the "Gorak" saw him and launched himself, growling. Rahan will not have time! Rah-ha-ha! But the desire to live redoubled Rahan's strength tenfold, and he stood up and dove towards the bridge. Gripping the trunks, he felt as if they gave way to his weight. But they did not. While a monstrous paw tried to grab him, he realized that the hunters were retracting the bridge back. The beast roared more furiously as it saw his prey escape from him. You would have thought he was going to jump, but the fear of heights stopped him. A moment later. Rahan will not forget that his brothers just saved his life! You are not saved yet! Page Twelve. You might die of hunger and thirst like many of us! Our fate now depends on Goraks! For how many moons will they besiege us? Nobody knows! They will eventually leave this territory! Yes, Rahan. They will disappear one day, as they came! But when will that day arrive? When? The sun plunged behind the mountains. The giant tiger had disappeared into the forest from which roars arise, sometimes distant, sometimes very near. Trank listened warily. There are two "Great Goraks" among them as usual! Our hunters are brave and courageous and they would not fear to face ordinary goraks. But their bravery can do nothing against these giants. Page thirteen. Our arrows barely penetrate the skin of these monsters! And even the fire of our torches does not frighten him! They are invulnerable! If Rahan understands correctly, it would be enough to kill this pair of large Goraks so that the clan can go hunting again! It would still be dangerous but we would do it. Our tribe’s life would almost return to normal! So, Trank, we must kill these great Goraks! A ray from the moon highlighted the resolute expression of the son of Crao. Rahan is Crazy! We tried everything. Fire. Arrows. Traps! I tell you again that these monsters are invulnerable! Page Fourteen. No, Trank! There is always a way to defeat the enemy! We will find it! I would like to believe “Fire-hair”! Although a soft litter had been prepared for him, the son of Crao did not sleep that night. Yes, there must be a way! The bridges had been brought back and the village of huts seemed to sail in the gorge between the hills whose echo drowned out the disturbing growls of the saber-toothed tigers. Rahan is too presumptuous! He thought he would find a way to kill the "Great Goraks", but he cannot! And you are no more useful to Rahan than arrows are to hunters! Irritated, he threw his knife towards a bamboo which supported the skin roof. Page Fifteen. The weapon did not stick in the too soft target which rebounded it back towards him! Ooh! The thing itself was banal. But it reminded the son of Crao how he had already used the flexibility of bamboo. Rahan has found it! To kill giant goraks, you need a giant bow! Giant arrows! Rahan had exclaimed so loudly that Trank came running. Has “Fire Hair” had a bad dream? No, Trank! On the contrary! A little later. This bamboo will be the wood of the largest bow that "Those-who-walk-upright" have ever seen! The most powerful too! But no hunter will be able to draw this bow! Page Sixteen. The son of Crao smiled. He remembered himself stuck under the branch the day before. He relived the curious way in which he had shot his arrow. Let Trank ask his men to help Rahan, and Trank will understand! There was no point in calling the hunters. They were already coming out of the huts. Rahan demonstrated, at the end of the night, an extraordinary imagination. Here is the “Hand” that will hold our bow! The large bamboo was firmly fixed between the wooden “fingers” plugged into the bridge. At daybreak, the giant bow was in place and the son of Crao was making arrows to his size. Your idea is wonderful “Fire Hair”! But how can we target the "Goraks"? Page Seventeen. We won't have to aim! Rahan will lure them in front of the arrow! Rahan will serve as bait! Terrifying roars greeted the rising sun. Felines appeared on the other side of the chasm, who seemed to be escorting a large gorak. The time has come, brothers! Stretch the bow, push the bridge! Ra-ha-ha! Trank and his men faithfully carried out the orders of Rahan who, standing at the edge of the trunks, above the void, challenged the wild animals. The giant Gorak which was extending its clawed paw suddenly found itself in front of the bridge. Push a little more, brothers! A little more! Pull!! Page Eighteen. Ten hands free the vine at the same time. The strength of the arc was such. That Rahan barely saw the enormous arrow slip between his legs. When he looked up, it had gone right through the monster's neck. The saber-toothed tiger rolled onto its side, stood up with a terrible start, and fell into the abyss. Ra-ha-ha! The cry of victory of the son of Crao rose to the crests of the hills. And was taken back by the hunters who brought back the crossbow bridge. “Firehair” delivered us from the nightmare! The clan will no longer fear the return of Goraks! You are the most cunning, the most intelligent of the hunters, “Fire Hair”! Rahan only has the merit of observing and reflecting! Page Nineteen. If his bow had not gotten tangled in that branch yesterday, he probably would never have had the idea of the giant bow! But enough about Rahan! Now we must kill the other big Gorak! The second monster did not venture near the gorge until three days later. It was killed in the same conditions as the first. Except for one detail. Trank this time had claimed the honor of serving as "Bait"! The forest is open to us, brothers! We don't fear the little Goraks! But the clan did not have to face other felines. The death of the "Giants", curiously, had caused the multitude of “Little” ones to flee. Page Twenty. Do the "Goraks" have "Leaders"? Rahan is ignorant of that. Rahan is ignorant of a great many things. But Rahan knows that the "Goraks" are the enemies of these who-walk-upright. And it is fortunate that Trank now knows how to protect his own. The son of Crao could, certainly, have lived among these loyal and brave hunters. But his adventurous destiny could not stop there. That is why one morning. Goodbye “Fire-Hair”! We will never forget you. Goodbye Brothers! Delighted that his knife had pointed out the rising sun, Rahan set off towards this new horizon. He too would not forget this clan where he had met neither mischievous hunters, nor proud chiefs, nor stupid sorcerers. Which, in those fierce times, was very rare among “Those-who-walk-upright”! Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

Formatted for machine text from a scanned document, 2023. The general rules are that words are spelled out explicitly in most cases “Dr.” becomes “Doctor”, “Mr.” becomes “Mister”. Trailing punctuation is also removed. “F. D. R.” becomes “F D R” and “- “or “…” becomes “, “ Robert Anson Heinlein. Take Back Your Government! INTRODUCTION. Jerry Pournelle. This is a book for every American who wants to reclaim the political process. Are you mad as Hell and not going to take it anymore? Have you tried to participate in the traditional political process only to discover that the traditional political parties have no place for you, won't listen, and don't much matter anyway? Have you turned to the Perot movement as a remedy? Do you want to see a fundamental change in the American political system? If so, you need this book. If you have never thought about politics, and hate the whole idea, you really need this book. As Pericles of Athens was fond of observing, because you take no interest in politics is no guarantee that politics will not take an interest in you. If you look to H Ross Perot to lead the nation to salvation, you particularly need this book. I say this in full knowledge that much of the book, indeed its very heart, seems to be badly out of date. Ironically, being "out of date" is one of the book's major values. This book was written in a very different era of American politics; in a time when ordinary people could and did participate effectively in the political scene. This was a manual to show them how to do that there were many such manuals. This one was unique in that Robert Heinlein both had practical experience in politics and was one of the dearest, and most entertaining) writers of the era. Reading this book will be good for you, but the good news is that it's fun. Heinlein offers a number of timeless insights, but many of his details are seriously out of date. That, however, is not a defect but a feature: because in describing how to operate in a political world that vanished during the "reforms" of the sixties and seventies, Heinlein describes a working democracy: not as a dead world of the past, but as the dynamic living world he knew and lived in and loved. It is a world we could reclaim. A world we must reclaim. The United States went a long way down the wrong road during the Cold War. It is time we return to more familiar territory. This book can be vital to that return. Democracy, Robert Heinlein says, "is not an automatic condition resulting from laws and constitutions. It is a living, dynamic process which must be worked at by you yourself, or it ceases to be a democracy, even if the shell and form remain." That was written in 1946, at the close of World War Two, before the Cold War; before the federalization of much of American life. When we look around at the disaster area that American politics has become, it is all too clear that Robert was correct. The shell and form of American democracy remain, but much of what Robert understood about American democracy has vanished. When Heinlein wrote, the typical professional politician was what was then known as a political boss. Most local, district, and county party leaders were unpaid volunteers. Professional political managers were distrusted. While some state legislators and congressmen were returned to office year after year, most were not, and those who were, though powerful through the seniority system, were often the butts of political jokes, and were quite aware that they could easily be turned out of office, either in a primary or a general election. It was a government by amateurs in a true sense, in that everyone had to live under the laws they passed. They worked hard, too. Heinlein could (and does) complain that members of Congress, and of the State Legislature, were underpaid and had too few perks of office; and offer the opinion that the main reason people went to their city council, or state capital, or Washington, and endured the hardships of public office, was patriotism. It was all true in those days. Some politicians might have been motivated by greed, or a lust for power, but most thought of themselves as, and were seen by their constituents to be, public servants, sacrificing some of their productive years to the political process. Today things are different. However the professional politicians see themselves, poll after poll shows that the American people think they are a self-perpetuating elite motivated mostly by the desire to retain power. Since Heinlein wrote this book, most states have changed from a part-time amateur legislature of citizens who approved laws they would have to live with and make a living under, to full-time paid professionals who spend most of their time in the state capital rather than in their home districts, exempt themselves from the laws and regulations they impose on others, and who, far from making a living under the laws they make, are paid by the state and sometimes prevented by conflict-of-interest laws from outside work. A noted exception is, of course, lawyers, who have been allowed to retain their partnerships in law firms even if the firm does business with the government. They did that in Heinlein's day too. Their idea of making a living is not yours. It's doubly true of the Congress of the United States, which has multiplied its perks while invariably exempting itself from such laws as the Civil Rights Act, the Americans with Disabilities Act, the Wage/Hours Act, most of the reporting laws, and nearly all federal regulations. Far from a largely citizen body, the Congress has become a governing elite with high job security. Since this book was written, Congress went from an assembly of the people to an institution with 98 percent incumbency-a lower turnover than Britain's hereditary House of Lords. While private industry loses jobs, Congress multiplies its staff: there are over 30,000 "Hill Rats," as congressional staff are called in Washington. They serve 535 senators and representatives. Do you have nearly 50 people to mind details and run errands for you? Each of your legislators in Washington does, all paid with your taxes. Think about that before you contemplate running for office. Each congressman commands a political patronage machine that the old ward bosses would have envied. Other things have changed. The budget has grown enormously. Government (federal, state, and local) now spends nearly half the money generated in this country. The national debt went from an irritation to an impending disaster. The civil service at all levels has grown well beyond anyone's ability to predict in 1946. Government, in a word, has become very big business indeed, while what we used to fear as "the big business interest" has faded into the background. I could multiply examples endlessly, but surely the point is made. Somewhere between 1946 and the present the American democracy as Heinlein knew it disappeared, to be replaced with our present system in which our local affairs are governed by Washington, a city that can't govern itself, but has no qualms about telling the rest of us how we should live. The Opportunity We have a new situation in this year of grace 1992 and of the independence of these United States the 216th. To say that the American people have come to distrust their government is a silly understatement. The polls show that they hate our present political system. They're mad as Hell and they aren't going to take it anymore. There is a movement to take back control, and it may work. For the first time in our lifetimes there is an alternative. Millions of Americans, disgusted with politics as usual, have turned to a man who, as I write this, is still legally only an "undeclared candidate for President", but who, as I write this, is the likely winner of the Presidency. In the state of New Jersey both houses of the legislature went from a majority by one party to a veto-proof majority of the other. As I write this we can predict that there will be at least 100 new faces among the 435 members of the House of Representatives; and it is entirely possible that there will be many more, perhaps even a majority of new faces. There will be equally profound changes at the state and local level. Everywhere there is an opportunity to, in the words of the old political rallying cry, Turn the Rascals Out. We can change the system. We very likely will. With what, then, shall we replace the system of professional politicians? It's no good "reforming" the system only to abandon it to a new crew of professional politicians. That cure could easily be worse than the disease. We must Turn the Rascals Out, but we must rebuild our system of citizen controlled government. That, I submit, is the great value of this book. It's all in here. In this book, Robert Heinlein describes, lovingly and in great detail, the system of government which worked for this republic for nearly two hundred years. This isn't a blueprint, and it's not a treatise on political science. We will need those and they will come; but this is a love story. Jerry Pournelle Hollywood, California July 1992. Robert Anson Heinlein. Preface, In which the defendant pleads guilty to the charge of being a politician but offers a statement in his defense. This is intended to be a practical manual of instruction for the American layman who has taken no regular part in politics, has no personal political ambitions, and no desire to make money out of politics, but who, nevertheless, would like to do something to make his chosen form of government work better. If you have a gnawing, uneasy feeling that you should be doing something to preserve our freedoms and to protect and improve our way of life but have been held back by lack of time, lack of money, or the helpless feeling that you individually could not do enough to make the effort worthwhile, then this book was written for you. The individual, unpaid and inexperienced volunteer citizen in politics, who is short on both time and money, can take this country away from the machine politicians and run it to suit himself, if he knows how to go about it. This book is a discussion of how to go about it, with no reference to particular political issues. I have my own set of political opinions and some of them are almost bitter in their intensity, but, still more strongly, I have an abiding faith in the good sense and decency of the American people. Many are urging you daily as to what you should do politically; I hope only to show some of the details of how you can do it-the mechanics of the art There are thousands of books for the citizen interested in public affairs, books on city planning, economics, political history, civics, Washington gossip, foreign affairs, sociology, political science, and the like. There are many books by or about major figures in public life, such as James A Parley's instructive and interesting autobiography, or that inspiring life of Mister Justice Holmes, the Yankee from Olympus. I have even seen a clever, sardonic book about machine politicians called How to Take a Bribe. But I have never seen a book intended to show a private citizen, with limited time and money, how he can be a major force in politics. This book is the result of my own mistakes and sad experiences and is written in the hope that you may thereby be saved some of them. If it accomplishes that purpose, I hope that you will be tolerant of its shortcomings. A decent respect for your opinions requires that I show my credentials for writing this book. A plumber has his license; a doctor hangs up his diploma; a politician can only cite his record, I have done the things I discuss. I have been a precinct worker, punching doorbells for my ticket. I have organized political clubs, managed campaigns, run for office, been a county committee man, a state committeeman, attended conventions including national conventions, been a county organizer, published political newspapers, made speeches, posted signs, raised campaign funds, licked stamps, dispensed patronage, run headquarters, cluttered up "smoke-filled rooms," and have had my telephone tapped. I suppose that makes me a politician. I do know that it has proved to me that a single citizen, possessed of the right to speak and the right to vote, can make himself felt whenever he takes the trouble to exercise those twin rights. Robert Anson Heinlein April, 1946. Chapter one. Why Touch the Dirty Business? "He that toucheth pitch shall be defiled there with." Ecclesiastes Thirteen verse one. And the Pharisees asked Jesus: "Why do you eat and drink with the publicans and sinners'?" Luke Five, Verse thirty. This book is on the mechanics and techniques of practical politics, and is based on the idea that democracy is worth the trouble and can be made to work by ordinary people. If you can go along with me on that I don't care what party you belong to. I am registered in one of the two major parties, so chances are at least fifty-fifty that you can guess my affiliation, but any party bias I let creep into this book will be an oversight. The techniques of politicking are not the property of any party. From politics I have come to believe the following: (1) Most people are basically honest, kind, and decent. (2) The American people are wise enough to run their own affairs. They do not need Fuehrers, Strong Men, Technocrats, Commissars, Silver Shirts, Theocrats, or any other sort of dictator. (3) Americans have a compatible community of ambitions. Most of them don't want to be rich but do want enough economic security to permit them to raise families in decent comfort without fear of the future. They want the least government necessary to this purpose and don't greatly mind what the other fellow does as long as it does not interfere with them living their own lives. As a people we are neither money mad nor prying; we are easy-going and anarchistic. We may want to keep up with the Joneses, but not with the Vanderbilts. We don't like cops. (4) Democracy is not an automatic condition resulting from laws and constitutions. It is a living, dynamic process which must be worked at by you yourself, or it ceases to be democracy, even if the shell and form remain. (5) One way or another, any government which remains in power is a representative government. If your city government is a crooked machine, then it is because you and your neighbors prefer it that way, prefer it to the effort of running your own affairs. Hitler's government was a popular government; the vast majority of Germans preferred the rule of gangsters to the effort of thinking and doing for themselves. They abdicated their franchise. (6) Democracy is the most efficient form of government ever invented by the human race. On the record, it has worked better in peace and in war than fascism, communism, or any other form of dictatorship. As for the mythical yardstick of "benevolent" monarchy or dictatorship, there ain't no such animal! (7) A single citizen, with no political connections and no money, can be extremely effective in politics. I left the most important proposition to the last, on purpose. It is contrary to the beliefs of many but it happens to be true. You yourself can be a strong political force at less cost per evening spent in politics than spending that same evening at the movies and at less effort than it takes to be a scoutmaster, a good bridge player, or a radio hobbyist, about the effort it takes to be a Sunday School teacher, an active ETA member, or stamp collector. You may possibly think me unrealistic in some of the opinions expressed above. I may be self-deluded but I got those opinions from active politics through many campaigns. If your own experience in politics is really extensive you are certainly entitled to contradict me, but I don't think you will! If active politics is fairly new to you, if, let us say, you have taken part in no more than one or two campaigns and have been left disheartened thereby, I ask that you suspend judgment for the time being. I am puzzled by persons who take exception to the first proposition and seem to believe that crookedness is commoner than honesty. I can see how a citizen too long exposed to a corrupt machine might come to think the whole world is dishonest, but I am afraid that when I hear a man complain that everybody is crooked it makes me suspect that he himself is dishonest, especially if he complains that an honest man can't make a living in his line of business. I have met crooks, of course, but for every dishonest man I have met dozens, scores, of men so honest it hurt, both in and out of politics. Any banker can confirm this. Ask your banker how many good checks come into the bank for every bad check. The figures will give you a warm glow of pleasure. However, the occasional crook will band together with his kind and take your government away from you if you let him. It is very soothing to the conscience to tell yourself that, after all, you can't do anything to change the sorry state of things. It is much easier to sit in your living room, skim the headlines, and then make bitter remarks about those no-good crooks in the city hall, or the state capital, or Washington, and to complain about how they pay no attention to the welfare of the ordinary citizen (meaning yourself) than it is to put on your hat, go out in your neighborhood, and round up a few votes. What do you expect for free? Chimes? If you wanted to round up a big order of yard goods, you wouldn't expect to accomplish it with your feet on your desk. This is just as important. Or have you forgotten that income tax form you made out? And your nephew who the die at Okinawa because you let some senile congressman stay in office rather than bother with politics? Why should the average citizen bother with politics? Why touch the dirty business? Isn't politics loaded up with crooks you wouldn't want to eat with and crackpots you wouldn't want to have in your house? "Loaded" is hardly the word, but you will find plenty of each and they will almost drive you nuts. Besides that, and worse, your respectable friends, people who wouldn't be caught dead in a political club, will assume that you are in it for what you can get out of it they will be very sure of it, for that is the only reason their peanut heads can imagine! Then why bother? Why expose yourself to bad companions and snide remarks simply to make a single-handed attempt to clean the Augean stables, to bail the ocean, to clear the forest? Because you are needed. Because the task is not hopeless. Democracy is normally in perpetual crisis. It requires the same constant, alert attention to keep it from going to pot that an automobile does when driven through downtown traffic. If you do not yourself pay attention to the driving, year in and year out, the crooks, or scoundrels, or nincompoops will take over the wheel and drive it in a direction you don't fancy, or wreck it completely. When you pick yourself up out of the wreckage, you and your wife and your kids, don't talk about what "They" did to you. You did it, compatriot, because you preferred to sit in the back seat and snooze. Because you thought your taxes bought you a bus ticket and a guaranteed safe arrival, when all your taxes bought you was a part ownership in a joint enterprise, on a share the cost and share-the-driving plan. But the crisis is more than usually acute this year, the traffic is thicker, the curves more blind, the traffic signals less reliable, and there are a lot of places where the pavement is out which have not been marked on any map. More than ever your own welfare demands that you be alert and responsible. Do you favor peacetime conscriptions? How did your congressman vote on it? Have you got any sons under twenty-one? Should the budget be balanced on a pay-as-you-go plan? If so, are you willing to vote to raise your own taxes? Or would you rather cut the budget for the army, the navy, and for veterans' benefits? Is there some other way to do it? Should coal miners be forbidden to strike? Can you mine coal with bayonets? What would your rent be in a free market? Or are you still sleeping on a borrowed couch? When will a home be built for you and your kids? Can you afford it when it is built, if ever? Does your town have a building code which prevents the use of new materials and new construction methods? How do you feel about a loan to Great Britain? To France? To Russia? Are you willing to go on rationing to keep Germans from starving? How long should the occupation of Japan continue? Why? How did your congressman vote on FEPC? Do you know what FEPC is? How does it affect you? The Filipinos become independent this year, should we let Philippine sugar in duty free? Do you live in the Colorado sugar beet country? Is a Senate filibuster a legitimate defense of states' rights, or a piece of tyranny? Should an oil man be in charge of military and naval oil reserves? Was Secretary Fall an oil operator? Does it make any difference? Should we insist that Russia give us free access and uncensored news reports so that we will know what she is up to? Is it worth fighting about? How about the Big Five Veto power? Does it make for peace or war? Should Russia get out of Iran? Should Britain get out of Egypt? Should we get out of Korea? Are the three cases parallel? Or very different? Is a Manchurian communist the same thing as a Brooklyn communist? Why? Why not? Should a sharecropper be a Republican or a Democrat? Should a stockholder be a Democrat or a Republican? What is the American Way of Life? Does it mean the same thing on the Main Line as it does on Skid Row? Are you sure about that last answer? Aren't we all in the same boat? Will an atomic bomb discriminate between bank account, or party labels? Now we are getting down to cases. All the other problems were of the simple, easy sort that we have blundered our way through, not too badly, for the past hundred and seventy years. We have a double-edged crisis this year, more acute on both its edges than any we have ever faced before, more acute, even, than Pearl Harbor, or the terrible War between the States. The first crisis is political and economic. Our way of life is being challenged by a revolutionary upsurge in all corners of the globe. We can meet it with hysteria, persecution, and a new isolationism, or we can define our way of life in action and defend it by practical accomplishment. An American who is well housed, well fed, and holding a good job is poor pickings for an agitator. But let him miss seven meals, The second crisis is amorphous but of even more deadly danger. We have entered the Atomic Era, but we are not yet used to the idea. Have you read the Smyth Report? Do you know what the Smyth Report is? It is the War Department's report on the atom bomb and is titled Atomic Energy for Military Purposes by H D Smyth. It is available in any bookstore and most newsstands at a buck twenty five. It is dull reading but quite understandable and is easily the most important document to the human race since the Sermon on the Mount. I won't try to tell you what it should mean to you. That's up to you. You are a free American citizen, for a while yet, at least. With good luck you should live another five or ten years. Whether or not you and your kids live longer than that depends on how you interpret the Smyth Report. But you must interpret it for yourself, no guardian angel will help you. Get it and read it. Then get a copy of your own precinct list and start investigating this year's crop of candidates. If your interpretation of the Smyth Report and the world events behind it is correct, there is still a chance that the Star-Spangled Banner will continue to wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. Just a chance, that's all. But get busy, neighbor. There's work to be done. CHAPTER TWO. How to Start. "Put down your bucket where you are!" The late Booker T Washington, in his life-long attempts to advise his people on how to help themselves, had a favorite anecdote about a sailing ship, becalmed and out of fresh water off the coast of South America. After many days they sighted another ship, a steam ship, and signaled, "Bring us water. We are dying of thirst." The other ship sent back this message, "Put down your bucket where you are!" They were in the broad mouth of the Amazon, afloat in millions of gallons of fresh water, and did not know it! Here is how to start in politics: Get your telephone book. Look up the party of your registration, or, if you are not registered in a party, the party which most nearly fits your views. I don't care what party it is, but let us suppose for illustration that it is the Republican Party. You will find a listing something like Republican County Committee, Associated Republican Clubs, Republican Assembly, or perhaps several such. Telephone one of them. Say, "My name is Joseph Q, or Josephine W, Ivory tower. I am a registered voter at 903 Farflung Avenue. Can you put me in touch with my local club?" The voice at the other end will say, “Just a minute. Do you know what ward you are in?" You say no, it’s at least even money that you don't know, if you are a normal American! The voice mutters, "Fairview, Farwest, Farflung," The owner of the voice is checking a file or a map. Then you hear, in an aside, "Say, Marjorie, gimme the folder on the 13th ward." "What do you want to know?" says Marjorie. She knows them by heart; she typed them. She is a political secretary and belongs to one of two extreme classes. Either she is a patriot and absolutely incorruptible, or she can be bought and sold like cattle. Either way she knows who the field worker in the 13th ward is. After a couple of minutes of this backing and filling you are supplied with a name, an address, and a telephone number of a local politician who is probably the secretary of the local club. You may also be supplied with the address and times and dates of meetings of the local club, if it is strong enough to have permanent headquarters. The local club may vary anywhere from a club in permanent possession of a store frontage on a busy street, with a full time secretary on the premises and a complete ward, precinct, and block organization, to a club which exists largely in the imagination of the secretary and which meets only during campaigns in the homes of the members. Your next job is to telephone the secretary. This is probably not necessary. If the local organization is any good at all, the secretary of the local club will callow, probably the same day. Marjorie will have called him and said, "Get a pencil and paper, Jim. I've got a new sucker for you." Or, if she is not cynical, she may call you a new prospect. She will have added you to a card file and set the wheels in motion to have your registration checked and to have you placed on several mailing lists. Presently you will start receiving one or more political newspapers, free, despite the subscription price posted on the masthead, and, in due course, you will receive campaign literature from candidates who have the proper connections at headquarters. Your political education will have begun, even if you never bother to become active. Note that it has not cost you anything so far. The costs need never exceed nickels, dimes, and quarters, even if you become very active. The costs can run as high as you wish, of course. The citizen who is willing to reach for his checkbook to back up his beliefs is always welcome in politics. But such action is not necessary and is not as rare as the citizen who is willing to punch doorbells and lick stamps. Some of the most valuable and respected politicians I have ever known had to be provided with lunch money to permit them to do a full day's volunteer work in any area more than a few blocks from their respective homes. I know of one case, a retired minister with a microscopic pension just sufficient to buy groceries for himself and his bedridden wife, who became county chairman and leader-in-fact of the party in power in a metropolitan area of more than three million people. He was so poor that he could not afford to attend political breakfasts or dinner. He could never afford to contribute to party funds, nor, on the other hand, was he ever on the party payroll, he never made a thin dime out of politics. What he did have to contribute was honesty, patriotism, and a willingness to strive for what he thought was right It made him boss of a key county in a key state, when he was past seventy and broke. I digress. This book will have many digressions; politics is like that, as informal as an old shoe, and the digressions may be the most important part. It is sometimes hard to tell what is important in the practical art of politics. Charles Evans Hughes failed to become president because his manager was on bad terms with a state leader and thereby failed to see to it that the candidate met the local leader on one particular occasion in one California city. The local campaign lost its steam because the local leader's nose was out of joint over the matter. Mister Hughes lost the state of California; with its electoral vote he would have become president. A switch of less than nineteen hundred votes in the city in which the unfortunate incident occurred would have made Mister Hughes the war-time president during World War one. The effect on world history is incalculable and enormous. It is entirely possible that we would have been in a League of Nations (not the League, that was Woodrow Wilson's League); it is possible that Hitler would never have come to power; it is possible that World War Two would never have occurred and that your nephew who fell at Okinawa would be alive today. We cannot calculate the consequences. But we do know that world history was enormously affected by a mere handful of votes, less than one percent of one percent, less than one ten-thousandth of the total vote cast. An active political club can expect to deliver to the polls on election day, through unpaid volunteers driving their own cars, as many votes as the number that swung the 1916 presidential election. It could be your club and an organization you helped to build. Which is why you must now telephone the local club secretary. It may be your chance to prevent, by your own direct and individual action, World War Three! The club secretary, Jim Ballot box, will not give you the brush off. Even if it is a tight machine organization, founded on graft and special privilege, an honest-to-goodness volunteer who is willing to work is more to be desired than fine gold, yeah, verily! If it is that sort of a club, presently you will be offered cash for your efforts, anywhere from five dollars per precinct per campaign on the west coast, through five dollars per day during the campaign in the Middle West, to a sound and secure living month in and month out on the east coast. These figures do not refer to the Republican Party, as such, nor to the Democratic Party. They refer to the Machine, no matter what its label. Don't take the money. Remain a volunteer. You will be treated with startled response. Every time you turn down money you will automatically be boosted one rung in the party councils. And the progress is very fast. But, no matter which sort of club it is, you will be welcomed with open arms. You have already caused a minor flurry at the downtown headquarters by volunteering during "peace time", other than immediately before a campaign. It shocked them but they rose to the occasion and put you in touch with your local leader. They are used to volunteers during campaigns, and are aware that most of them are phonies who expect at least a postmaster's job in return for a promise to work one precinct plus a little handshaking at a few political meetings. If it should happen that you call up during a campaign, you will be treated a little more warily until you have established that you are in fact a volunteer and not a hopeful patronage hound, but you will be received pleasantly and given a chance to work. This applies to any political club anywhere at any time. If Jim Ballot box happens to be secretary of the other sort of club, the sort unconnected with a powerful, well-financed machine, he will be even happier to see you, although he may not be as schooled in the arts of graciousness as his full-time professional opposite number. His club will be in a chronic state of crisis financially, or even moribund; an enthusiastic new member is manna to him. He will have plenty for you to do. You can be chairman next term if you want to be and share with him the worries about hall rent, postage, secretarial work, and how to get people out to meetings. At the very least he will place you in charge of one or more precincts, which will make you nervous as a bridegroom; it's too much responsibility too suddenly, and he will unburden his heart to you. You will learn. There remain two other possibilities which may result from your telephone call to the downtown headquarters. The first is that there may be no club in your district, in which case you will make your start directly at the downtown headquarters and will meet there the other active party members from your own area. You will join with them in organizing a local club before the next election. It is not hard to do; the process will be discussed in a later chapter. The last remaining possibility is that your telephone book contains no listings for your political party. This will happen only in small towns or in the country. If you live in a small town or in the country, you already know at least one party leader in your own party, probably Judge Dewlap, who served one term in the state senate and has been throwing his weight around ever since. Call him up. Tell him you want to work for the party. Perhaps you don't like the old windbag. No matter, he likes you. He likes all voters, especially ones who want to work for the party! He may suggest that you have lunch with him at the Elks' Club and talk over civic conditions. Or he may simply invite you to drop into his real estate office for a chat. But he won't brush you off. From now on you're his boy! Until he finds out he can't dictate to you. But by that time you are a politician in your own right and there is nothing he can do about it. That knife in your back has Judge Dewlap's finger prints on it. We have covered all the possibilities; you are now in politics. As a result of one telephone call you have started. Stay with the club or local organization for several months at least. Attend all the meetings. Help out with the routine work. Don't be afraid to lick stamps, serve on committees, check precinct lists, or distribute political literature. Count on devoting a couple of evenings a month to it for six months or a year. Your expenses during this training period need not exceed a dollar a month. At the end of that time you are a politician. I mean it. You will have become acquainted with your local officeholders and political leaders, you will have discovered where several of the bodies are buried, you will have taken part in one local or national campaign and received your first blooding in meeting the public. You will find that you are now reading the newspapers with insight as to the true story behind the published story. You will have grown up about ten years in your knowledge of what makes the world go 'round. You will either have experienced the warm glow of solid accomplishment that comes from realizing that you performed a necessary part in a successful campaign for a man or an issue, or you will have taken part in the private post-mortem in which you and your colleagues analyze why you lost and what to do about it next time. The answer is usually to start your precinct organization earlier, with special reference to getting your sure votes registered and to make sure they are dragged to the polls. You will feel that you can win next time and probably you will. Politics for the volunteer fireman is not one long succession of lost causes-far from it! But the point at which you will realize that you are in fact a politician with a definite effect on public life is the time when your friends and neighbors start asking your advice about how to mark their ballots. And they will. Perhaps not about presidential nor gubernatorial candidates, but they will ask and take your advice about lesser candidates and about the propositions on the ballot you may discover in the course of the first few months that you are in the wrong club, or even in the wrong party. This does not matter in the least insofar as your political education is concerned. In fact it is somewhat of an advantage to make a mistake in your first affiliation; you will learn things thereby which you could never possibly learn so well or so rapidly if you had found your own true lodge brothers on your first attempt. It does not matter by what door you enter politics. If you have belonged to the party wrong/or you, by habit or tradition, a few months of active politics will disclose the fact to you. You can then reregister and cross over, bringing with you experience and solid conviction you could hardly have acquired any other way. If the trouble lies in your having fallen first into the hands of a gang of unprincipled machine politicians, the mistake is still a valuable one, for you will discover presently that there is a reform element in your party, unaffiliated with the Machine. You can join them, taking with you a knowledge of the practical art of vote-getting which reformers frequently never acquire. You will be invaluable to your new associates. Most of the techniques of vote-getting are neither dishonest nor honest in themselves, but the machines normally know vastly more about such techniques than do the reform organizations. The honest organizations can afford to copy at least 90 Percent of the machine techniques. It is curiously and wonderfully true that a volunteer, reform organization can use the machine techniques much more effectively than the Machine does, with fewer workers and less money. It is like the difference between the ardor of unselfish love and the simulated passion of prostitution; the unorganized voting public can feel the difference. Recapitulation-How to start: Take a telephone book. Look up your political party. Telephone, locate your local club. Join it, attend all the meetings, and do volunteer work for several months. At the end of drat time, let your conscience be your guide. You will know enough to know where you belong and what you should do. I might as well admit right now that the above paragraph is really all this book can tell you. The matter discussed in the later chapters are things which you will learn for yourself in any case, provided you do everything called f or in the paragraph above. If you have skimmed through this book to this point without, as yet, laying the purchase price on the counter, you can save the price of the book without loss to yourself simply by remembering that one paragraph, and doing it! On the other hand you might buy the book anyhow and lend it to your loud-mouthed brother-in-law. Aren't you pretty sick of the way he is forever flapping his jaw about the way the country is run? But when has he ever done anything about it except to go down and kill your vote on election day by voting the wrong way? Give him this book, then tell him to put up or shut up! You can point out to him that he owes it to his three kids to take a responsible part in politics, instead of just beating his gums. If he won't get off his fat backside and get busy in politics but still refuses to stop being a Big Wind, you are then justified in indulging in the pleasure of being rude to him. After all, you have wanted to be for years, haven't you? This is your opportunity; you've got nothing to lose politically since he votes wrong anyhow, when he remembers to vote, and it will come as a relief to be rude for once, now that you are a politician and usually polite to all comers. Tell him that he is so damned ignorant that he doesn't have any real opinions about politics and so lax in his civic duties that he wouldn't be entitled to opinions if he had any. Tell him to shut up and to quit holding up the bridge game. The faint sound of cheering you will hear from the distance will be me. I don't like the jerk either, nor any of his tribe. You may not believe that getting into politics is actually as simple as I have described it. Here is my own case: I returned to my own state after an extended absence. My profession had kept me travelling and it happened to be the first time I had ever been at home during a campaign. I walked into the local street headquarters of my party and said to a woman at a desk, "I have a telephone, an automobile, and a typewriter. What can I do?" I was referred to another headquarters a couple of miles away, I was so ignorant that I did not know the district boundaries and had gotten into the wrong headquarters. That very same day, to my utter amazement and confusion, I found myself in charge of seven precincts. Six weeks later I was a director of the local club. Six months later I was publishing, in my spare time, a political newspaper of two million circulation. During the next campaign I was a county committeeman, a state committeeman, and a district chairman. Shortly after that campaign I was appointed county organizer for my party. And so on. It does not end. The scope and importance of the political work assigned to a volunteer fireman is limited only by his strength and his willingness to accept responsibility. Nor is the work futile. The volunteer organization with which I presently became affiliated recalled a mayor, kicked out a district attorney, replaced the governor with one of our own choice, and completely changed the political complexion of one of the largest states, all within four years. I did not do it alone-naturally not, nothing is ever done alone in politics-but it was done by a comparatively small group of unpaid volunteers almost all of whom were as ignorant of politics at the start as I was. Or let me tell you about Susie. Susie is a wonderful girl. She and her husband volunteered about the same time I did. Susie had a small baby; she packed him into a market basket, stuck him into the back of the family car and went out and did field work. In the following four years Susie replaced a national committeeman with a candidate of her own choice, elected a congressman, and managed the major portion of the campaign which gave us a new governor. She topped her career finally by being the indispensable key person in nominating a presidential candidate of one of the two major parties. I'll tell more about that later; it's quite a story. All this time Susie was having babies about every third year. She never accepted a cent for herself, but it became customary, after the house filled up, for the party to see to it that Susie had a maid during a campaign. The rest of the time she kept house, did the cooking, and reared her kids unassisted. During the war she added riveting on bombers during the night shift to her other activities. We can't all be Susies. But remember this, all that Susie had to offer was honesty, willingness, and an abiding faith in democracy. She had no money and has none now, and she had no political connections nor experience when she started. I could fill a whole book with case histories of people like Susie. Most of them are people of very limited income who are quite busy all day earning that income. One of the commonest excuses from the person who knows that he should take part in civic business is: "I would like to but I am just so tarnation busy making a living for my wife and kids that I can't spare the time, the money, nor the energy." The middle class in Germany felt the same way; it brought them Hitler, the liquidation of their class, and the destruction of their country. The next time you feel like emulating them, remember Susie and her four kids. Or Gus. Gus drove a truck from four a.m. to noon each day; he had a wife and two kids. By sleeping in the afternoons and catching a nap after midnight he managed to devote many of his evenings to politics. In less than three years he was state chairman of the young people's club of his party and one of the top policy makers in the state organization. What did he get out of it? Nothing, but the satisfaction of knowing that he had made his state a better place for his kids to live. The Guses and the Susies in this country are the people who have preserved and are preserving our democracy, not the big city bosses, not the Washington officeholders, and most emphatically not your loud-mouthed and lazy brother-in-law. I have said that the rest of the book will tell only things that you will learn anyhow, through experience. They will be recounted in hopes of saving you much time, much bitter experience, and in the expectation that my own experiences may make you more effective more quickly than you otherwise might be. I also hope to brace you against the disappointment and sometimes disheartening disillusionments that are bound to come to anyone participating in this deadly serious game. One warning I want to include right now, since you may not finish reading this book. You are entering politics with the definite intention of treating it as a patriotic public service. You intend to pay your own way; you seek neither patronage nor cash. Almost at once you will be offered pay. You will turn it down. Again and again it will be offered and patronage as well. There will come a day when you are offered pay to campaign for an issue or a man in whom you already believe and most heartily and to whom you are already committed. The offer will come from a man who is sincerely your friend and whom you know to be honest and patriotic. He will argue that the organization expects to pay for the work you are already doing and that you might as well be paid. He honestly prefers for you to be on the payroll; it makes the whole affair more orderly. Everything he says is perfectly true; it is honest pay, from a clean source, for honest work in which you believe. It happens that just that moment a little extra money would come in mighty handy. What should you do? Don't take it! If you take it, it is almost certain to mark the end of your climb toward the top in the policy-making councils of your party. You are likely to remain a two-bit, or at best a four-bit, ward heeler the rest of your life. A volunteer fireman need not have money to be influential in public affairs, but he must not accept money, even when it is clean money, honestly earned. If you take it you are a hired man and hired men carry very little weight anywhere. There is a corny old story about a sugar daddy and a stylish and beautiful young society matron. The s.d. offered her five thousand dollars to spend a week at Atlantic City with him. After due consideration she accepted. He then offered her fifty dollars instead. In great indignation she said, "Sir, what kind of a woman do you think I am?" "We settled that," he told her. "Now we're haggling over the price." Don't make the mistake she did. There is however some sense in haggling over the conditions. If you reach the point where your party wants you to accept a state or national party post, for full-time work in a position of authority, or your government asks the same thing of you, under circumstances where it is evident that you must surrender your usual means of livelihood, go ahead and take it, if you honestly believe that your services are needed and that you can do the best job that could be done by any of the available candidates. It is well understood in political circles that public office or major party office is almost always badly underpaid for the talent and experience the jobs need. The salaries, therefore, are regarded simply as retainers to permit the holder to eat while serving the public. But don't be a paid ward heeler! On the other hand, it is not wise to hold the petty hired man in the party in contempt. You will have to work with many of them no matter what party you are in. The biggest reform movements in this country include areas where the Machine is dominant; the most perfectly oiled political machines include areas where all the work is volunteer and unpaid. You will find the paid precinct or headquarters worker as honest and as conscientious as employees usually are; almost invariably he or she will be sincerely loyal to the party employing him. They usually do more work than their wages justify. Remember this, and be careful what you say to them or about them. Most of them are as honest as you are and just as anxious for your man to win. But don't become one of them if you expect to have any major effect on the future of this country. Well, then, if you are never to accept pay, except under remote circumstances in which the job even with pay is likely to be a financial sacrifice, what can you expect to get out of it? The rewards are intangible but very pleasing to an adult mind. The drawbacks are easier to see. You must expect to be regarded with amusement and even suspicion by some of your acquaintances. Most of the station-wagon crowd you used to run around with will be certain that you are in it for what you can get out of it, for that is the only reason their un-matured minds can imagine. They are the free riders in the body politic; despite the fact they do nothing to make our form of government work, they serenely believe that the wheels go around by their gracious consent and think that gives them the privilege of caustic and ignorant criticism of the laborers in the vineyard. Moreover, you won't be seeing so much of them from now on. You will find that you are beginning to select your social contacts, your dinner guests and your golf partners from among your political acquaintances. You will do this because you find more intelligence, more brilliant conversation, and more worthwhile solid human values among your political acquaintances than you found among the free riders. You won't plan it that way, but it will work itself out. You will play less bridge. Bridge is a good game, but it is dull and tasteless when compared with politics. Your brother-in-law will shun your company. That's clear gain! There will come to you the warm satisfaction of being in on the know every time you pick up your newspaper. News stories that once were dull will be filled with zest for you, because you will know what they mean. From the stand point of sheer recreation you will have discovered the greatest sport in the world. Horse racing, gambling, football, the fights, all of these things are childish and trite compared with this greatest sport! Politics is a game where you always play for keeps, where the game is continuous, always fresh and full of surprises. It will take all of your intelligence and wit and all that you have ever learned or can learn to play it well. The stakes are the highest conceivable, the lives and the futures of every living creature on this planet. How well you play it can make the difference between freedom or a firing squad, civilization or atomic conflagration. For this is the day of decision, the hour of the knife, and none but yourself can choose for you the correct path in the maze. Over and above the joy of playing for high stakes is the greatest and most adult joy of all, the continuous and sustaining knowledge that you have broken with childish ways and come at last into your full heritage as a free citizen, integrated into the life of the land of your birth or your choice, and carrying your share of adult responsibility for the future thereof! CHAPTER THREE. "It Ain't Necessarily So!" This chapter will be devoted to smearing a few cherished illusions. I do not suppose that you are suffering from all of the misapprehensions listed herein; however, if you are typically American and have not had extensive political experience, it is likely that you are subject to one or more of them. Before we go ahead with detailed discussion of the practical art of politics it is well to correct the record with respect to many items in the Great American Credo, items which happen to be wrong and which have to do with politics. It will save your time and mine in later discussion. With the possible exceptions of love and religion probably more guff is talked and believed about politics than about any other subject. I am going to discuss some of that guff and try to puncture it. Most of the items I have chosen because I myself have had to change my opinions through bitter experience in politics. My present opinions are subject to human error. However, they are based on the scientific method of observation of facts; they are not armchair speculation. If you don't believe me, go take a look, several looks! For yourself. But I suggest that you will save yourself a lot of the mistakes I made if you assume that what I say is true until through your own experience you reach a different opinion. Warning! Every generalization I make about groups of people is subject to exceptions. You must meet each citizen with an open mind. For example, there is no natural law which prevents club women from being intelligent and quite a few of them are. Now let's let our hair down and speak plainly. We are going to discuss a lot of sacred cows and then kick them in the slats. We are going to mention a lot of unmentionable subjects, using everything but Anglo-Saxon monosyllables. We are going to discuss Catholics and Communists and Jews and Negroes, women in politics, reformers, school teachers, the nobility of the Irish, civil service vs. patronage, and whether Father was right. I will try to tell the truth as I have seen it. I hope I won't splash any mud in your direction but I may. "One should never consider a man's religion in connection with politics." This is a fine credo, based on the American ideal of freedom of religion. It happens to be cockeyed and results from mushy thinking. One should always consider a candidate's religious beliefs; it is one of the most important things about him. Whether a man is a Catholic, a Protestant, a Communist, a Mormon, or a Jew has a very strong bearing on how he will perform his duties in certain jobs. Communism is, of course, classed with the religions more about that later. The important thing to remember is to consider a man's religion objectively, in relation to what you expect of him, and not in an attitude of blind prejudice. There is nothing discriminatory nor un-American in scrutinizing a man's religious beliefs in connection with politics. A man's religion is a matter of free choice, even though most people remain in the faiths to which they were born. A Catholic can become a Jew; a Communist can become a Quaker. A man's religious beliefs offer a strong clue to his attitudes, values, and prejudices and you are entitled to consider them when he is in public life. For example, let us suppose that you live in a mythical community where the school board can, at its discretion, assign public funds to the support of private schools which are open to the public, parochial schools, of course. Let us suppose that you believe that public funds should be used only for state-controlled schools. Two tickets of candidates are before you, one Catholic, one non-Catholic, all equally well qualified, good men and true. Should you vote for the ticket which will support your own opinion, or should you ignore what you know about the candidates and vote for the one with the pretty blue eyes? Or let us suppose, same election; same town, that you are a non-Catholic who believes that tax money should support popular education but that the government should not be allowed to determine the nature of that education, except, perhaps, for the three R's. It is your belief that the individual parents should control the training received by their children; you fear state domination. Whom should you vote for? Or suppose you are a Catholic but believe that public funds for support of Catholic schools would be the first step toward state control of those schools. Which way do you vote? The problem can become still more complicated. Congress is considering subsidizing scientific research; many of the best colleges and universities in this country are controlled or dominated by members of a particular faith. Would you refuse a research subsidy to Notre Dame but allow it to some state-owned college in Tennessee, the state where biology is subject to the vote of the state legislature? Or how about the great University of Southern California? It was a Methodist college once; there has been a divorce of sorts but the influence is still there. Can USC be trusted with a subsidy in mechanical engineering, or does nothing less than outright atheism meet your standards for freedom of thought? In passing it might be added that private schools with church leanings were an indispensable factor in the scientific research that won World War Two. What bearing does all this have on the problem of tax funds for parochial schools? It obviously has some bearing and you yourself will have to consider the factors when you decide whether to campaign for the ticket made up of Catholics or the one made up of non-Catholics. In my home state recently there were introduced in the legislature a group of bills concerning birth control and a group of bills concerning liquor licensing, local option, and prohibition. The governor received hundreds of letters about these two groups. Analysis showed that practically all of the letters about the birth control measures came from Catholic groups, whereas the letters about liquor measures came almost exclusively from Protestant church groups. Is it not obvious, then, that you have a legitimate interest in the religious persuasion of your state legislator, your state senator, and your state governor? Suppose you are a Christian Scientist; how do you feel about socialized medicine? Suppose instead that you are strong for socialized medicine; is it of interest to you that a candidate for the legislature is a Christian Scientist? Or should you ignore it? Is a Jewish congressman more likely or less likely to vote to open the United States to any and all displaced persons in Europe? Who is the more likely to put a rider concerning Palestine on a bill to end money to Britain, a non-Zionist Jew or an Irish Catholic from Boston? The ramifications of the political effect of a man's religious beliefs are endless. I do not intend to suggest answers to any of these questions; I simply mean to make it clear that to shut your eyes to this factor is to handicap yourself grossly in the analysis of men and issues. To vote always for a person of your own religious persuasion, or, at the other extreme, always to ignore a candidate's religious beliefs, is equally stupid and unrealistic. The first attitude is narrow and un-American; the second is custard-headed. Call 'em as you see 'em! Now let us discuss church groups. (Before shouts of dirty red, fascist, papist, Jew, atheist, or whatever, start coming in, let me put this on record: Like all my great grandparents, I am native born, an American mixture, principally Irish, with a dash of English and French and a pinch of German. My name is Bavarian Catholic in origin; I was brought up in the Methodist faith. I believe in democracy, personal liberty, and religious freedom.) American church groups as a whole are frequent sources of corruption and confusion in politics. This is a regrettable but observable fact which runs counter to the strong credo that if only the church people would get together and assert their strength we could run all those dirty crooks out of town. In fact, the church members of any community, voting as a bloc, could swing any election, institute any reforms they wished, and make them stick. It does not work out that way. I do not question that we are more moral, more charitable and more civilized as a result of church instruction and the labors of priests, ministers, rabbis, and countless devout laymen. Nor do I question the political good intent of church groups. The evil consequences result from good intentions applied in too limited a field. Only rarely do churches become interested in the way in which paving contracts are awarded, how the oral examinations for civil service are conducted, or the fashion in which real estate values are assessed for tax purposes. Towing fees for stolen cars, the allocation of gasoline tax monies between city, county, and state, or the awarding of public utility franchises are likely to be too "political" for discussion from the pulpit. Instead church groups are likely to demand laws which prohibit practices contrary to various religious codes of morals. A crooked political machine is happy to oblige each church as such laws do not hamper the machine; they help it-first, by providing new fields of graft and corruption, second, by insuring the votes of the madams, bookies, etc., engaged in these fields, and third, by obtaining support from the very church groups which demanded the legislation. If you believe that laws forbidding gambling, sale of liquor, sale of contraceptives, requiring definite closing hours, enforcing the Sabbath, or any such, are necessary to the welfare of your community, that is your right and I do not ask you to surrender your beliefs or give up your efforts to put over such laws. But remember that such laws are, at most, a preliminary step in doing away with the evils they indict. Moral evils can never be solved by anything as easy as passing laws alone. If you aid in passing such laws without bothering to follow through by digging in to the involved questions of sociology, economics, and psychology which underlie the causes of the evils you are gunning for, you will not only fail to correct the evils you sought to prohibit but will create a dozen new evils as well. If your conscience requires that you support legislation of the type referred to above, then you must realize that your overall problem of keeping honest officials in office to enforce the laws is made much more difficult and that you must work several times as hard and be much more alert if you are to have an honest government. As an amateur, unpaid, volunteer politician interested in certain reforms, don't expect any real help from the churches even in accomplishing the moral objectives of the churches, or you will be due for a terrible disappointment. Women in Politics We were told, when Votes-for-Women was new, that women would bring higher moral standards and would eliminate the graft and corruption which the nasty old men had tolerated. Women have had an effect, they caused the installation of a powder room in the Senate's sacred halls; they changed the atmosphere of conventions from that of a prize fight to something more like a college reunion, and they broadened the refreshments at political doings from a simple the t of beer and pigs knuckles to a point where the menu now includes ice cream and cake, little fancy sandwiches, coffee, and wine cooler. The change in refreshments is a distinct improvement; I don't like pigs knuckles. They have also brought political corruption to a new low. Whoops! Easy, girls, please! Quiet down. There are exceptions to all rules-you may be the exception to this one. That is for you to determine. Judge yourself. A great many women are willing to go to hell in a wheel barrow. Their husbands may be politically just as dishonest but the gentle sex are usually willing to sell out at a lower price. They go in for cut-rate corruption. If you file for office, or become the manager of a candidate, you will quickly be besieged by telephone calls from women who want to help in your campaign. They sound like enthusiastic volunteers; you will find very quickly that they are political streetwalkers who will support any candidate and any issue, without compunction, for a very low price. Brush them off, but politely, a practical politician should never go out of his way to make anyone sore; your purpose is to win elections, not arguments. Let the opposition hire them. They are hardly worth the low price they charge, even to him. Later on in the campaign you will find that he hi

PLANET OF THE APES. By Pierre Boulle. Translated by Xan Fielding. A SIGNET BOOK. SIGNET, SIGNET CLASSICS, MENTOR, PLUME AND MERIDIAN BOOKS FIRST PRINTING, NOVEMBER, 1964 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. PLANET OF THE APES. Part one. CHAPTER ONE. Jinn and Phyllis were spending a wonderful holiday, in space, as far away as possible from the inhabited stars. In those days interplanetary voyages were an everyday occurrence, and interstellar travel not uncommon. Rockets took tourists to the wondrous sites of Sirius, or financiers to the famous stock exchanges of Arcturus and Aldebaran. But Jinn and Phyllis, a wealthy leisured couple, were distinguished in their cosmos for their originality and a few grains of poetry. They wandered over the universe for their pleasure, by sail. Their ship was a sort of sphere with an envelope, the sail, which was miraculously fine and light and moved through space propelled by the pressure of light-radiation. Such a machine, left to its own devices in the vicinity of a star, though far enough away for the field of gravity not to be too powerful, will always move in a straight line in the opposite direction to the star; but since Jinn and Phyllis' stellar system contained three suns that were relatively close to one another, their vessel received rays of light along three different axes. Jinn had therefore conceived an extremely ingenious method of steering. His sail was lined inside with a series of black blinds that he could roll up or unroll at will, thus changing the effect of the light-pressure by modifying the reflecting power of certain sections. Furthermore, this elastic envelope could be stretched or contracted as the navigator pleased. Thus, when Jinn wanted to increase his speed, he gave it the biggest diameter possible. It would then take the blasts of radiation on an enormous surface and the vessel would hurtle through space at a furious velocity, which made his mate Phyllis quite dizzy. He would also be overcome by vertigo, and they would then cling passionately to each other, their gaze fixed on the mysterious and distant depths to which their flight propelled them. When, on the other hand, they wanted to slow down, Jinn pressed a button. The sail would shrink until it became a sphere just big enough to contain them both, packed tightly together. The effect of the light became negligible, and this minute bubble, reduced to nothing more than its own inertia, seemed motionless, as though suspended in the void by an invisible thread. The young couple would spend rapturous idle hours in this reduced universe, erected on their own scale and for them alone, which Jinn compared to a becalmed sailing ship and Phyllis to the air bubble of the sea spider. Jinn knew a number of other tricks, considered as the height of art by sailing cosmonauts: for example, making use of the shadows of the planets and certain satellites in order to change course. He imparted this skill to Phyllis, who was now almost as accomplished as he himself and often more daring. When she held the tiller, she would sometimes fire a broadside that swept them right to the borders of the stellar system, heedless of the resulting magnetic storm, which would start to upset the light-rays and to shake their skiff like a cockleshell. On two or three occasions, waked up with a start by the tempest, Jinn had had quite a struggle snatching the tiller from her and, in order to run for shelter as quickly as possible, starting the auxiliary rocket, which they made it a point of honor never to use except in case of danger. One day Jinn and Phyllis were lying side by side in the middle of their spacecraft without a care in the world, making the most of their holiday by exposing themselves to the rays of their three suns. Eyes closed, Jinn was thinking only of his love for Phyllis. Phyllis lay stretched out on her side, gazing at the immensity of the universe and letting herself be hypnotized, as she often did, by the cosmic sensation of the void. All of a sudden she came out of her trance, wrinkled her brow, and sat up. An unusual flash of light had streaked across this void. She waited a few seconds and saw a second flash, like a ray being reflected off a shiny object. The cosmic sense she had acquired in the course of these cruises could not deceive her. Moreover, Jinn, when it was pointed out to him, agreed with her, and it was inconceivable that he should make a mistake in this matter: a body sparkling in the light was floating through space, at a distance they could not yet assess. Jinn picked up a pair of binoculars and focused them on the mysterious object, while Phyllis leaned on his shoulder. "It's not a very big object," he said. "It seems to be made of glass, No, let me look. It's drawing closer. It's going faster than we are. It looks like." A puzzled expression came into his eyes. He lowered the binoculars, which she at once snatched up. "It's a bottle, darling." "A bottle!" She looked at it, in turn. "Yes, it's a bottle. I can see it quite clearly. It's made of light-colored glass. It's corked; I can see the seal. There's something white inside that looks like paper", a message, obviously. Jinn, we've got to get hold of it!" Jinn was of the same opinion and had already embarked on some skillful maneuvers to place the sphere on the trajectory of the unusual body. He soon succeeded and then reduced his own speed to enable it to catch up with him. Meanwhile Phyllis donned her diving suit and made her way out of the sail by the double trapdoor. There, holding onto a rope with one hand and brandishing a long-handled scoop in the other, she stood in readiness to retrieve the bottle. It was not the first time they" had come across strange bodies, and the scoop had already been in use. Sailing at low speed, sometimes completely motionless, they had enjoyed surprises and made discoveries that were precluded to travelers by rocket. In her net Phyllis had already gathered up remnants of pulverized planets, fragments of meteorites that had come from the depths of the universe, and pieces of satellites launched at the outset of the conquest of space. She was very proud of her collection; but this was the first time they had come across a bottle, and a bottle containing a message , of that she was certain. She trembled from head to foot with impatience, gesticulating like a spider on the end of its thread as-she shouted down the telephone to her companion: "Slower, Jinn. No, a bit faster than that, it's going to pass us. Starboard. Now hard to port. Hold it. I've got it!" She gave a triumphant cry and came back inside with her trophy. It was a largish bottle and its neck had been carefully sealed. A roll of paper could be seen inside. "Jinn, break it open, hurry up!" Phyllis begged, stamping her foot. Less impatient, Jinn methodically chipped off the sealing wax. But when the bottle was thus opened, he saw that the paper was stuck fast and could not be shaken out. He therefore yielded to his mate's entreaties and smashed the glass with a hammer. The paper unrolled of its own accord. It consisted of a large number of very thin sheets, covered with tiny handwriting. The message was written in the language of the Earth, which Jinn knew perfectly, having been partly educated on that planet. An uncomfortable feeling, however, restrained him from starting to read a document that had fallen into their bands in such an incongruous manner; but Phyllis' state of excitement decided him. She was not so well acquainted with the language of the Earth and needed his help. "Jinn, please!" He reduced the volume of the sphere so that it floated idly in space, made sure that there was no obstacle in front of them, then lay down beside his companion and began to read the manuscript. CHAPTER TWO. I am confiding this manuscript to space, not with the intention of saving myself, but to help, perhaps, to avert the appalling scourge that is menacing the human race. Lord have pity onus! "The human race?" Phyllis exclaimed, stressing the second word in her astonishment. "That's what it says here," Jinn assured her. "Don't start off by interrupting me." And he went on with his reading. As for me, Ulysse Merou, I have set off again with my family in the spaceship. We can keep going for several years. We grow vegetables and fruit on board and have a poultry run. We lack nothing. One day perhaps we shall come across a friendly planet. This is a hope I hardly dare express. But here, faithfully reported, is the account of my adventure. It was in the year twenty five hundred that I embarked with two companions in the cosmic ship, with the intention of reaching the region of space where the super gigantic star Betelgeuse reigns supreme. It was an ambitious project, the most ambitious that had ever been conceived on Earth. Betelgeuse, or Alpha Orionis, as our astronomers called it, is about three hundred light-years distant from our planet. It is remarkable for a number of things. First, its size: its diameter is three or four hundred times greater than that of our sun; in other words, if its center were placed where the sun's center lies, this monster would extend to within the orbit of Mars. Second, its brilliance: it is a star of first magnitude, the brightest in the constellation of Orion, visible on Earth to the naked eye in spite of its distance. Third, the nature of its rays: it emits red and orange lights, creating a most magnificent effect. Finally, it is a heavenly body with a variable glow: its luminosity varies with the seasons, this being caused by the alterations in its diameter. Betelgeuse is a palpitating star. Why, after the exploration of the solar system, all the planets of which are inhabited, why was such a distant star chosen as the target for the first interstellar flight? It was the learned Professor Antelle who made this decision. The principal organizer of the enterprise, to which he devoted the whole of his enormous fortune, the leader of our expedition, he himself had conceived the spaceship and directed its construction. He told me the reason for his choice during the voyage. "My dear Ulysse," he said, "it is not much harder, and it would scarcely take any longer, for us to reach Betelgeuse than a much closer star: Proxima Centauris, for example." At this I saw fit to protest and draw his attention to some recently ascertained astronomical data: "Scarcely take any longer! But Proxima Centauris is only four light-years away, whereas Betelgeuse." "Is three hundred, I'm well aware of that. But we shall take scarcely more than two years to reach it, while we should have needed almost as much time to arrive in the region of Proxima Centauris. You don't believe it because you are accustomed to mere flea hops on our planets, for which a powerful acceleration is permissible at the start because it lasts no more than a few minutes, the cruising speed to be reached being ridiculously low and not to be compared with ours. It is time I gave you a few details as to how our ship works. "Thanks to its perfected rockets, which I had the honor of designing, this craft can move at the highest speed imaginable in the universe for a material body, that is to say, the speed of light minus epsilon." "Minus epsilon?" "I mean it can approach it to within an infinitesimal degree: to within a thousand-millionth, if you care to put it that way." "Good," I said. "I can understand that." "What you must also realize is that while we are moving at this speed, our time diverges perceptibly from time on Earth, the divergence being greater the faster we move. At this very moment, since we started this conversation, we have lived several minutes, which correspond to a passage of several months on our planet. At top speed, time will almost stand still for us, but of course we shall not be aware of this. A few seconds for you and me, a few heartbeats, will coincide with a passage of several years on Earth." "I can understand that, too. In fact, that is the reason why we can hope to reach our destination before dying. But in that case, why a voyage of two years? Why not only a few days or a few hours?" "I was just coming to that. Quite simply because, to reach the speed at which time almost stands still, with an acceleration acceptable to our organisms, we need about a year. A further year will be necessary to reduce our speed. Now do you understand our flight plan? Twelve months of acceleration; twelve months of reducing speed; between the two, only a few hours, during which we shall cover the main part of the journey. And at the same time you will understand why it scarcely takes any longer to travel to Betelgeuse than to Proxima Centauri. In the latter case we should have to go through the same indispensable year of acceleration, the same year of deceleration, and perhaps a few minutes instead of a few hours between the two. The overall difference is insignificant. As I'm getting on in years and will probably never be able to make another crossing, I preferred to aim at a distant point straight away, in the hope of finding a world very different from our own." This sort of conversation occupied our leisure hours on board and at the same time made me appreciate Professor Antelle's prodigious skill all the more. There was no field he had not explored, and I was pleased to have a leader like him on such a hazardous enterprise. As he had foreseen, the voyage lasted about two years of our time, during which three and a half centuries must have elapsed on Earth. That was the only snag about aiming so far into the distance: if we came back one day we should find our planet older by seven or eight hundred years. But we did not care. I even felt that the prospect of escaping from his contemporaries was an added attraction to the professor. He often admitted he was tired of his fellow men. "Men!" Phyllis again exclaimed. "Yes, men," Jinn asserted. "That’s what it says." There was no serious incident on the flight. We had started from the Moon. Earth and its planets quickly disappeared. We had seen the sun shrink till it was nothing but an orange in the sky, then a plum, and finally a point of light without dimensions, a simple star that only the professor's skill could distinguish from the millions of other stars in the galaxy. We thus lived without sun, but were none the worse for this, the craft being equipped with equivalent sources of light. Nor were we bored. The professor's conversation was fascinating; I learned more during those two years than I had learned in all my previous existence. I also learned all that one needed to know in order to guide the spacecraft. It was fairly easy: one merely gave instructions to some electronic devices, which made all the calculations and directly initiated the maneuvers. Our garden provided an agreeable distraction. It occupied an important place on board. Professor Antelle, who was interested, among other subjects, in botany and agriculture, had planned to take advantage of the voyage to check certain of his theories on the growth of plants in space. A cubic compartment with sides about thirty feet long served as a plot. Thanks to some trays, the whole of its volume was put to use. The earth was regenerated by means of chemical fertilizers and, scarcely more than two months after our departure, we had the pleasure of seeing it produce all sorts of vegetables, which provided us with an abundance of healthy food. Food for the eye, too, had not been forgotten: one section was reserved for flowers, which the professor tended lovingly. This eccentric had also brought some birds, butterflies, and even a monkey, a little chimpanzee whom we had christened Hector and who amused us with his tricks. It is certain that the learned Antelle, without being a misanthrope, was not interested at all in human beings. He would often declare that he did not expect much from them anymore, and this probably explains. "Misanthrope?" Phyllis again broke in, dumfounded. "Human beings?" "If you keep interrupting me every other second," said Jinn, "we shall never get to the end. Do as I do: try to understand." Phylus promised to keep quiet till the end of the reading, and she kept her promise. This probably explains why he had collected in the craft, which was big enough to accommodate several families countless vegetable species and some animals, while limiting the number of the passengers to three: himself; his disciple Arthur Levain, a young physician with a great future; and myself, Ulysse Merou, a little-known journalist who had met the professor as a result of an interview. He had suggested taking me with him after learning that I had no family and played chess reasonably well. This was an outstanding opportunity for a young journalist. Even if my story was not to be published for eight hundred years, perhaps for that very reason it would have unusual value. I had accepted with enthusiasm. The voyage thus occurred without a setback. The only physical inconvenience was a sensation of heaviness during the year of acceleration and the one of reducing speed. We had to get used to feeling our bodies weigh one and a half times their weight on Earth, a somewhat tiring phenomenon to begin with, but to which we soon paid no attention. Between those two periods there was a complete absence of gravity, with all the oddities accruing from this phenomenon; but that lasted only a few hours and we were none the worse for it. And one day, after this long crossing, we had the dazzling experience of seeing the star Betelgeuse appear in the sky in a new guise. CHAPTER THREE. The feeling of awe produced by such a sight cannot be described: a star, which only yesterday was a brilliant speck among the multitude of anonymous specks in the firmament, showed up more and more clearly against the black background, assumed a dimension in space, appearing first of all as a sparkling nut, then swelled in size, at the same time becoming more definite in color, so that it resembled an orange, and finally fell into place in the cosmos with the same apparent diameter as our own familiar daytime star. A new sun was born for us, a reddish sun, like ours when it sets, the attraction and warmth of which we could already feel. Our speed was then very much reduced. We drew still closer to Betelgeuse, until its apparent diameter far exceeded that of all the heavenly bodies hitherto seen, which made a tremendous impression on us. Antelle gave some instructions to the robots and we started gravitating around the super-giant. Then the scientist took out his astronomical instruments and began his observations. It was not long before he discovered the existence of four planets whose dimensions he rapidly determined, together with their distances from the central star. One of these, two away from Betelgeuse, was moving on a trajectory parallel to ours. It was about the same size as Earth; it possessed an atmosphere containing oxygen and nitrogen; it revolved around Betelgeuse at a distance equivalent to thirty times the space between the Sun and Earth, receiving a radiation comparable to that received by our planet, thanks to the size of the super-giant combined with its relatively low temperature. We decided to make it our first objective. After fresh instructions were given to the robots, our craft was quickly put into orbit around it. Then, with engines switched off, we observed this new world at our leisure. The telescope revealed its oceans and continents. The craft was not equipped for a landing, but this eventuality had been provided for. We had at our disposal three much smaller rocket machines, which we called launches. It was in one of these that we embarked, taking with us some measuring instruments and Hector, the chimpanzee, who was equipped as we were with a diving suit and had been trained in its use. As for our ship, we simply let it revolve around the planet. It was safer there than a liner lying at anchor in a harbor, and we knew it would not drift an inch from its orbit. Landing on a planet of this kind was an easy operation with our launch. As soon as we had penetrated the thick layers of the atmosphere, Professor Antelle took some samples of the outside air and analyzed them. He found they had the same composition as the air on Earth at a similar altitude. I hardly had time to ponder on this miraculous coincidence, for the ground was approaching rapidly; we were no more than fifty miles or so above it. Since the robots carried out every maneuver, I had nothing to do but press my face to the porthole and watch this unknown world rising toward me, my brain reeling with the excitement of discovery. The planet bore a strange resemblance to Earth. This impression became clearer every second. I could now discern the outline of the continents with my naked eye. The atmosphere was bright, slightly tinged with a pale green color verging from time to time on yellow, rather like our sky in Provence at sunset. The ocean was light blue, also with green tinges. The form of the coastline was very different from anything I had seen at home, though my feverish eye, conditioned by so many analogies, insisted wildly on discerning similarities even there. But there the resemblance ended. Nothing in the planet's topography recalled either our Old or New Worlds. Nothing? Come now! On the contrary, the essential factor! The planet was inhabited. We flew over a town: a fairly big town, from which roads radiated, bordered with trees and with vehicles moving along them. I had time to make out the general architecture: broad streets and white houses with long straight lines. But we were to land a long way farther off. Our flight swept us first over cultivated fields, then over a thick russet-colored forest that called to mind our equatorial jungle. We were now at a very low altitude. We caught sight of a fairly large clearing occupying the top of a plateau, the ground all around it being rather broken. Our leader decided to attempt a landing there and gave his last orders to the robots. A system of retrorockets came into action. We hovered motionless for a moment or two above the clearing, like a gull spotting a fish. Then, two years after leaving our Earth, we came down gently and landed without a jolt in the middle of the plateau, on green grass reminiscent of our meadows in Normandy. CHAPTER FOUR. We were silent and motionless for quite a time after making contact with the ground. Perhaps this behavior will seem surprising, but we felt the need to recover our wits and concentrate our energy. We were launched on an adventure a thousand times more extraordinary than that of the first terrestrial navigators and were preparing ourselves to confront the wonders of interstellar travel that have fired the imaginations of several generations of poets. For the moment, talking of wonders, we had landed without a hitch on the grass of a planet that contained, as ours did, oceans, mountains, forests, cultivated fields, towns, and certainly inhabitants. Yet we must have been fairly far from the civilized regions, considering the stretch of jungle over which we had flown before touching down. We eventually came out of our daydream. Having donned our diving suits, we carefully opened one porthole of the launch. There was no hiss of air. The pressures inside and outside were the same. The forest surrounded the clearing like the walls of a fortress. Not a sound, not a movement disturbed it. The temperature was high but bearable: about seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit. We climbed out of the launch, accompanied by Hector. Professor Antelle insisted first of all on analyzing the atmosphere by a more precise method. The result was encouraging: the air had the same composition as the Earth's, in spite of some differences in the proportion of the rare gases. It was undoubtedly breathable. Yet, to make doubly sure, we tried it out first on our chimpanzee. Rid of his suit, the monkey appeared perfectly happy and in no way inconvenienced. He seemed overjoyed to find himself free and on land. After a few skips and jumps, he scampered off to the forest, sprang into a tree, and continued his capering in the branches. He drew farther away and finally disappeared, ignoring our gestures and shouts. Then, shedding our own space suits, we were able to talk easily. We were startled by the sound of our voices, and ventured only timidly to take a step or two without moving too far from our launch. There was no doubt that we were on a twin planet of our Earth. Life existed. The vegetable realm was, in fact, particularly lush: some of these trees must have been over a hundred and fifty feet tall. The animal kingdom soon appeared in the form of some big black birds, hovering in the sky like vultures, and other smaller ones, rather like parakeets, that chased one another chirping shrilly. From what we had seen before landing, we knew that a civilization existed, too. Rational beings, we dared not call them men yet, had molded the face of the planet. Yet the forest all around us appeared to be uninhabited. This was scarcely surprising; landing at random in some corner of the Asiatic jungle, we should have had the same impression of solitude. Before taking a further step, we felt it was urgent to give the planet a name. We christened it Soror, because of its resemblance to our Earth. Deciding to make an initial reconnaissance without delay, we entered the forest, following a sort of natural path. Arthur Levain and I were armed with carbines. As for the professor, he scorned material weapons. We felt light-footed and walked briskly: not that our weight was less than on Earth, there again the similarity was complete, but the contrast with the ship's force of gravity prompted us to scamper along like young goats. We were marching in single file, calling out every now and then to Hector, but with no success, when young Levain, who was leading, stopped and motioned us to listen. A murmur, like running water, could be heard in the distance. We made our way in that direction and the sound became clearer. It was a waterfall. On coming to it, all three of us were moved by the beauty of the site. A stream of water, clear as our mountain torrents, twisted above our heads, spread out into a sheet on a ledge of level ground, and fell at our feet from a height of several yards into a sort of lake, a natural swimming pool fringed with rocks mingled with sand, the surface of which reflected the light of Betelgeuse, which was then at its zenith. The sight of this water was so tempting that the same urge seized both Levain and me. The heat was now intense. We took off our clothes and got ready to dive into the lake. But Professor Antelle cautioned us to behave with a little more prudence when coming up against the system of Betelgeuse for the first time. Perhaps this liquid was not water at all and might be extremely dangerous. He went up to the edge of it, bent down, examined it, then cautiously touched it with his finger. Finally he scooped a little up in the palm of his hand, smelled it, and wetted the end of his tongue with it. "It can't be anything but water," he muttered. He bent down again to plunge his hand into the lake, when we saw him suddenly stiffen. He gave an exclamation of surprise and pointed toward something he had just discerned in the sand. I experienced, I believe, the most violent emotion of my life. There, beneath the scorching rays of Betelgeuse that filled the sky above our heads like an enormous red balloon, visible to all of us and admirably outlined on a little patch of damp sand, was the print of a human foot. CHAPTER FIVE. "It's a woman's foot," Arthur Levain declared. This peremptory remark, made in a strangled voice, did not surprise me at all. It confirmed my own opinion. The slimness, the elegance, the singular beauty of the footprint had disturbed me profoundly. There could be no doubt as to the humanness of the foot. Perhaps it belonged to an adolescent or to a small man, but with much more likelihood, and this I hoped with all my heart, to a woman. "So Soror is inhabited by humans," Professor Antelle murmured. There was a hint of disappointment in his voice, which made me at that moment less well disposed toward him. He shrugged his shoulders with a gesture that was habitual with him and joined us in inspecting the sand around the lake. We discovered other footprints, obviously left by the same creature. Levain, who had moved away from the water's edge, drew our attention to one on the dry sand. The print itself was still damp. "She was here less than five minutes ago," the young man exclaimed, "She was swimming, heard us coming, and fled." It had become an implicit fact for us that the subject under discussion was a woman. We fell silent, scanning the forest, but without hearing so much as the noise of a branch breaking. "We've got all the time in the world," said the professor, shrugging his shoulders again. "But if a human being swam here, we could no doubt do the same without any danger." Without further ado the learned scientist shed his clothes and plunged his skinny body into the pool. After our long voyage the pleasure of this swim in cool, delicious water made us almost forget our recent discovery. Levain alone seemed harassed and lost in thought. I was about to make a taunting remark about his melancholy expression when I saw the woman just above us, perched on the rocky ledge from which the cascade fell. I shall never forget the impression her appearance made on me. I held my breath at the marvelous beauty of this creature from Soror, who revealed herself to us dripping with spray, illuminated by the blood-red beams of Betelgeuse. It was a woman, a young girl, rather, unless it was a goddess. She boldly asserted her femininity in the light of this monstrous sun, completely naked and without any ornament other than her hair, which hung down to her shoulders. True, we had been deprived of any point of comparison for over two years, but none of us was inclined to fall a victim to mirages. It was plain to see that the woman, who stood motionless on the ledge like a statue on a pedestal, possessed the most perfect body that could be conceived on Earth. Levain and I were breathless, lost in admiration, and I think even Professor Antelle was moved. Standing upright, leaning forward, her breasts thrust out toward us, her arms raised slightly backward in the attitude of a diver taking off, she was watching us, and her surprise clearly equaled our own. After gazing at her for a long time, I was so dazzled that I could not discern any particular feature: her body as a whole hypnotized me. It was only after several minutes that I saw she belonged to the white race, that her skin was golden rather than bronzed, that she was tall, but not excessively so, and slender. Then I noticed, as though in a dream, a face of singular purity. Finally I looked at her eyes. Then I became more alert, my attention sharpened, and I stiffened, for in her expression there was an element that was new to me. In it I discerned the outlandish, mysterious quality all of us had been expecting in a world so distant from our own. But I was unable to analyze or even define the nature of this oddity. I only sensed an essential difference from individuals of our own species. It did not come from the color of her eyes: these were of a grayish hue not often found among us, but nevertheless not unknown. The anomaly lay in their emanation, a sort of void, an absence of expression, reminding me of a wretched mad girl I had once known. But no! It was not that, it could not be madness. When she saw that she herself was an object of curiosity, or, to be more accurate, when my eyes met hers, she seemed to receive a shock and abruptly looked away with an automatic gesture as swift as that of a frightened animal. It was not out of shame at being this scrutinized. I had a feeling that it would have been an exaggeration to suppose her capable of such an emotion. It was simply that her gaze would not, or could not, withstand mine. With her head turned to one side, she now watched us stealthily, out of the corner of her eye. "As I told you, it's a woman," young Levain muttered. He had spoken in a voice stifled with emotion, almost a whisper: but the young girl heard him and the sound of his voice produced a strange effect on her. She recoiled, but so swiftly that once again I compared her movement to the reflex of a frightened animal pausing before taking flight. She stopped, however, after taking two steps backward, the rocks then concealing most of her body. I could discern no more than the top of her head and an eye that was still trained on us. We dared not move a muscle, tortured by the fear of seeing her rush away. Our attitude reassured her. After a moment she stepped out again onto the ledge. But young Levain was decidedly too excited to! Be able to hold his tongue. "Never in my life." He began. He stopped, realizing his imprudence. She had recoiled in the same manner as before, as though the human voice terrified her. Professor Antelle motioned us to keep quiet and started splashing about in the water without appearing to pay the slightest attention to her. We adopted the same tactics, which met with complete success. Not only did she step forward once more, but she soon showed a visible interest in our movements, an interest that was manifested in a rather unusual manner, rousing our curiosity even more. Have you ever watched a timid puppy on the beach while his master is swimming? He longs to join him in the water, but dares not. He takes three steps in one direction, three in another, draws away, scampers back, shakes his head, paws the ground. Such, exactly, was the behavior of this girl. And all of a sudden we heard her: but the sounds she uttered only added to the impression of animality created by her attitude. She was then standing on the very edge of her perch, as though about to fling herself into the lake. She had broken off her sort of dance for a moment. She opened her mouth. I was standing a little to one side and was able to study her without being noticed. I thought she was going to speak, to give a shout. I was expecting a cry. I was prepared for the most barbarous language, but not for the strange sounds that came out of her throat; specifically out of her throat, for neither mouth nor tongue played any part in this sort of shrill mewing or whining, which seemed yet again to express the joyful frenzy of an animal. In our zoos, sometimes, young chimpanzees play and wrestle together giving just such little cries. Since, despite our astonishment, we forced ourselves to go on swimming without paying attention to her, she appeared to come to a decision. She lowered herself onto the rock, took a grip on it with her hands, and started climbing down toward us. Her agility was extraordinary. Her golden body, appearing to us through a cloud of spray and light, like a fairy-tale vision, moved quickly down the rock face along the thin transparent blade of the waterfall. In a few moments, clinging to some imperceptible projections, she was down at the level of the lake, kneeling on a flat stone. She watched us a few seconds longer, then took to the water and swam toward us. We realized she wanted to play and therefore continued with our frolics, which had given her such confidence, modifying our movements whenever she looked startled. Soon we were all involved in a game in which she had unconsciously laid down the rules: a strange game indeed, with a certain resemblance to the movements of seals in a pool, which consisted of alternately fleeing from us and approaching us, suddenly veering away when we were almost within reach, then drawing so close as to graze us but without ever actually coming into contact. It was childish; but what would we not have done in order to tame the beautiful stranger! I noticed that Professor Antelle took part in this play with unconcealed pleasure. This had been going on for some time, and we were getting out of breath, when I was struck by the paradoxical nature of the girl's expression: her solemnity. There she was, taking evident pleasure in the games she was inspiring, yet not a smile had appeared on her face. For some time this had given me a vague feeling of uneasiness, without my knowing exactly why. I was now relieved to discover the reason: she neither laughed nor smiled; from time to time she only uttered one of those little throaty cries that evidently expressed her satisfaction. I decided to make an experiment. As she approached me, cleaving the water with a peculiar swimming action resembling a dog's and with her hair streaming out behind her like the tail of a comet, I looked her straight in the eye and, before she could turn her head aside, gave her a smile filled with all the friendliness and affection I could muster. The result was surprising. She stopped swimming, stood up in the water, which reached to her waist, and raised her hands in front of her in a gesture of defense. Then she quickly turned her back on me and raced for the shore. Out of the water, she paused and half turned around, looking at me askance, as she had on the ledge, with the startled air of an animal that has just seen something alarming. Perhaps she might have regained her confidence, for the smile had frozen on my lips and I had started swimming again in an innocent manner, but a fresh incident renewed her emotion. We heard a noise in the forest and, tumbling from branch to branch, our friend Hector came into view, landed on his feet, and scampered over toward us, overjoyed at finding us again. I was amazed to see the bestial expression, compounded of fright and menace that came over the young girl's face when she caught sight of the monkey. She drew back, hugging the rocks so closely as to melt into them, every muscle tensed, her back arched, her hands contracted like claws. All this because of a nice little chimpanzee who was about to greet us! As he passed close by, without noticing her, she sprang out. Her body twanged like a bow. She seized him by the throat and closed her hands around his neck, holding the poor creature firmly between her thighs. Her attack was so swift that we did not even have time to intervene. The monkey hardly struggled. He stiffened after a few seconds and fell dead when she let go of him. This gorgeous creature in a romantic flight of fancy I had christened her "Nova," able to compare her appearance only to that of a brilliant star, Nova had strangled a harmless pet animal with her own hands. When, having recovered from our shock, we rushed toward her, it was far too late to save Hector. She turned to face us as though to defend herself, her arms again raised in front of her, her lips curled back, in a menacing attitude that brought us to a standstill. Then she uttered a last shrill cry, which could be interpreted as a shout of triumph or a bellow of rage, and fled into the forest. In a few seconds she had disappeared into the undergrowth that closed back around her golden body, leaving us standing aghast in the middle of the jungle, now completely silent once again. CHAPTER SIX. "A female savage," I said, "belonging to some backward race like those found in New Guinea or in our African forests?" I had spoken without the slightest conviction. Arthur Levain asked me, almost violently, if I had ever noted such grace and fineness of feature among primitive tribes. He was a hundred times right and I could think of nothing else to say. Professor Antelle, who appeared to be lost in thought, had nevertheless listened to our conversation. "The most primitive people on our planet have a language," he finally said. "This girl cannot talk." We searched for the stranger around the region of the stream, but unable to find the slightest trace of her, made our way back to our launch in the clearing. The professor thought of taking off again to attempt a landing at some more civilized spot, but Levain suggested stopping where we were for at least twenty-four hours to try to establish another contact with this jungle's inhabitants. I supported him in this suggestion, which eventually prevailed. We dared not admit to one another that the hope of seeing the girl again held us to the area. The afternoon went by without incident; but toward evening, after admiring the fantastic setting of Betelgeuse, which flooded the horizon beyond all human imagination, we had the impression of some change in our surroundings. The jungle gradually became alive with furtive rustlings and snappings, and we felt that invisible eyes were spying on us through the foliage. We spent an uneventful night, however, barricaded in our launch, keeping watch in turns. At dawn we experienced the same sensation, and I fancied I heard some shrill little cries like those Nova had uttered the day before. But none of the creatures with which our feverish imagination peopled the forest revealed itself. So we decided to return to the waterfall. The entire way, we were obsessed by the unnerving impression of being followed and watched by creatures that dared not show themselves. Yet Nova, the day before, had been willing to approach us. "Perhaps it's our clothes that frighten them," Arthur Levain said suddenly. This seemed a most likely explanation. I distinctly remembered that when Nova had fled after strangling our monkey, she had found herself in front of our pile of clothes. She had then sprung aside quickly to avoid them, like a shy horse. "We'll soon see." And, diving into the lake after undressing, we started playing again as on the day before, ostensibly oblivious of all that surrounded us. The same trick worked again. After a few minutes we noticed the girl on the rocky ledge, without having heard her approach. She was not alone. There was a man standing beside her, a man built like us, resembling men on Earth, a middle-aged man also completely naked, whose features were so similar to those of our goddess that I assumed he was her father. He was watching us, as she was, in an attitude of bewilderment and concern. And there were many others. We noticed them little by little, while we forced ourselves to maintain our feigned indifference. They crept furtively out of the forest and gradually formed an unbroken circle around the lake. They were all sturdy, handsome specimens of humanity, men and women with golden skin, now looking restless, evidently prey to a great excitement and uttering an occasional sharp cry. We were hemmed in and felt somewhat anxious, remembering the incident with the chimpanzee. But their attitude was not menacing; they simply appeared to be interested in our actions. That was it. Presently Nova, Nova whom I already regarded as an old acquaintance, slipped into the water and the others followed one by one with varying degrees of hesitation. They all drew closer and we began to chase one another in the manner of seals as we had done the previous day; only now we were surrounded by a score or more of these strange creatures, splashing about and playing, all with solemn expressions contrasting oddly with these childish frolics. After a quarter of an hour of this I was beginning to feel tired. Was it just to behave like school children that we had come all the way to the universe of Betelgeuse? I felt almost ashamed of myself and was vexed to see that the learned Antelle appeared to be taking great pleasure in this game. But what else could we do? It is hard to imagine the difficulty of establishing contact with creatures who are ignorant of the spoken word or of laughter. Yet I did my best. I went through a few motions that I hoped might convey some meaning. I clasped my hands in as friendly a manner as possible, bowing at the same time, rather like the Chinese. I waved kisses at them. None of these gestures evoked the least response. Not a glimmer of comprehension appeared in their eyes. Whenever we had discussed, during the voyage, our eventual encounter with living beings, we saw in our mind's eye monstrous, misshapen creatures of a physical aspect very different from ours, but we always implicitly imagined the presence in them of a mind. On the planet Soror reality appeared to be quite the reverse: we had to do with inhabitants resembling us in every way from the physical point of view but who appeared to be completely devoid of the power of reason. This indeed was the meaning of the expression I had found so disturbing in Nova and that I now saw in all the others: a lack of conscious thought; the absence of intelligence. They were interested only in playing. And even then the game had to be pretty simple! With the idea of introducing into it a semblance of coherence that they could grasp, the three of us linked hands and, with the water up to our waists, shuffled around in a circle, raising and lowering our arms together as small children might have done. This seemed not to move them in the slightest. Most of them drew away from us; others gazed as us with such an obvious absence of comprehension that we were ourselves dumfounded. It was the intensity of our dismay that gave rise to the tragedy. We were so amazed to find ourselves, three grown men, one of whom was a world celebrity, holding hands while executing a childish dance under the mocking eye of Betelgeuse, that we were unable to keep straight faces. We had undergone such restraint for the last quarter of an hour that we needed some relief. We were overcome by bursts of wild and uncontrollable laughter. This explosion of hilarity at last awakened a response in the onlookers, but certainly not the one we had been hoping for. A sort of tempest ruffled the lake. They started rushing off in all directions in a state of fright that in other circumstances would have struck us as laughable. After a few moments we found ourselves alone in the water. They ended up by collecting together on the bank at the edge of the pool, in a trembling mob, uttering their furious little cries and stretching their arms out toward us in rage. Their gestures were so menacing that we took fright. Levain and I made for our weapons, but the wise Antelle whispered to us not to use them and even' not to brandish them so long as they did not approach us. We hastily dressed without taking our eyes off them. But scarcely had we put on our trousers and shirts than their agitation grew into a frenzy. It appeared that the sight of men wearing clothes was unbearable to them. Some of them took to their heels; others advanced toward us, their arms outstretched, their hands clawing the air. I picked up my carbine. Paradoxically for such obtuse people, they seemed to grasp the meaning of this gesture, turned tail, and disappeared into the trees. We made haste to regain the launch. On our way back I had the impression that they were still there, albeit invisible, and were following our withdrawal in silence. CHAPTER SEVEN. The attack was launched as we came within sight of the clearing, with an abruptness that precluded all defense. Leaping out of the thickets like stags, the men of Soror were upon us before we could lift our weapons to our shoulders. The curious thing about this aggression was that it was not exactly directed against our persons. I sensed this at once, and my intuition was soon confirmed. At no moment did I feel myself in danger of death, as Hector had been. They were not after our lives, but after our clothes and all the accessories we were carrying. In a moment we were overwhelmed. A mass of probing hands stripped us of our weapons and ammunition pouches and threw these aside, while others struggled to peel off our clothes and tear them to shreds. Once I had understood what had provoked their fury, I passively gave in, and though I received a few scratches I was not seriously injured. Antelle and Levain did the same, and presently we found ourselves stark naked in the midst of a group of men and women who, visibly reassured to see us in this state, started dancing around us, encircling us too tightly for us to be able to escape. There were now at least a hundred of them on the edge of the clearing. Those who were farther away then fell upon our launch with a fury comparable to that which had induced them to pull our clothes to pieces. In spite of the despair I felt at seeing them pillage our precious vehicle, I pondered on their behavior and fancied I could discern an essential principle in it: these beings were roused to fury by objects. Things that were manufactured provoked their anger as well as their fear. When they seized an instrument, they held it in their hands only long enough to break it, tear it apart, or twist it. Then they promptly hurled it as far away as possible, as though it were a live coal, only to pick it up again and complete its destruction. They made me think of a cat fighting with a big rat that was half dead but still dangerous, or of a mongoose that had caught a snake. I had already noted the curious fact that they had attacked us without a single weapon, without even using sticks. Powerless, we witnessed the sacking of our launch. The door had soon yielded to their blows. They rushed inside and destroyed everything that could be destroyed, in particular the precious navigating instruments, and scattered the bits and pieces. This pillage lasted quite a time. Then, since the metal envelope alone remained intact, they came back to our group. We were jostled, pulled this way and that, and finally dragged off into the depths of the jungle. Our situation was becoming more and more alarming. Disarmed, stripped, obliged to march barefoot at too fast a pace, we could neither exchange our impressions nor even complain. The slightest attempt at conversation provoked such menacing reactions that we had to resign ourselves to painful silence. And yet these creatures were men like us. Clad and shod, they would scarcely have drawn attention in our world. Their women were all beautiful, though none could rival Nova's splendor. The latter followed close behind us. On several occasions, when I was jostled by my guards, I turned around toward her, imploring a sign of compassion, which I fancied I discerned once on her face. But this, I think, was only wishful thinking. As soon as my gaze met hers, she tried to avoid it, without her eyes expressing any sentiment other than bewilderment. This calvary lasted several hours. I was overwhelmed with fatigue, my feet bleeding, my body covered with scratches caused by the reeds through which these men of Soror made their way with impunity, like snakes. My companions were in no better shape than I was, and Antelle was stumbling at every step by the time we finally reached what appeared to be the end of the march. The forest was less thick at this spot and the undergrowth had given place to short grass. Here our guards released us and, without bothering about us, started playing once more, chasing one another through the trees, which seemed to be their main occupation. We sank to the ground, numb with fatigue, taking advantage of this respite to hold a consultation. It needed all the philosophy of our leader to prevent us from being engulfed in dark despair. Night was falling. We could no doubt attempt an escape by taking advantage of the general inattention; but then what? Even if we managed to retrace our steps, there was no chance of our being able to use the launch. It seemed wiser to remain where we were and to try to win over these disconcerting beings. Moreover, we were famished. We rose to our feet and took a few timid steps. They went on with their senseless games without paying any attention. Nova alone seemed not to have forgotten us. She started following us at a distance, always turning her head away when we looked at her. After wandering at random, we discovered we were in a sort of encampment where the shelters were not even huts, but nest like constructions like those built by the big apes in our African forests: a few interwoven branches, without any binding, placed on the ground or wedged into the forks of low trees. Some of these nests were occupied. Men and women, I cannot see how else I can describe them, lay stretched out inside them, often in couples, fast asleep and snuggling up together as dogs do in the cold. Other, larger shelters served entire families, and we noticed several children who looked extremely handsome and healthy. This provided no solution to our feeding problem. At last we saw at the foot of a tree a family getting ready to eat, but their meal was hardly designed to tempt us. They were puffing to pieces, without the aid of any utensil, a fairly large animal resembling a deer. With their nails and their teeth they tore off bits of the raw meat, which they devoured after merely removing a few shreds of skin. There was no sign of a fireplace in the neighborhood. This feast turned our stomachs, and in any case, after drawing a little closer, we realized we were by no means welcome to share it. Quite the contrary! Angry growls made us draw back quickly. It was Nova who came to our rescue. Did she do so because she had finally understood that we were hungry? Could she really understand anything? Or was it because she was famished herself? In any case, she went up to a big tree, encircled the trunk with her thighs, climbed up into the branches, and disappeared in the foliage. A few moments later we saw a shower of fruit resembling bananas fall to the ground. Then she climbed down again, picked up one or two of these and began eating them without taking her eyes off us. After a moment's hesitation we grew bold enough to imitate her. The fruit was quite good and we were able to eat our fill while she watched us without protesting. After drinking some water from a stream, we decided to spend the night there. Each of us chose a corner in the grass in which, to build a nest similar to the others in the colony. Nova showed some interest in our work, even to the point of approaching me and helping me to break a recalcitrant branch. I was moved by this gesture; young Levain found it so vexing that he lay down at once, buried himself in the grass, and turned his back on us. As for Professor Antelle, he had already fallen asleep, dead tired. I took some time to finish my bed, still closely watched by Nova, who had drawn some distance, away. When I lay down, she stood motionless for a moment or two, as though unable to make up her mind; then she took a few hesitant steps toward me. I did not move a muscle for fear of frightening her away. She lay down beside me. I still did not move. She eventually snuggled up against me, and there was nothing to distinguish us from the other couples occupying the nests of this strange tribe. But although this giri was marvelously beautiful, I still did not regard her as a woman. Her manner was that of a pet animal seeking the warmth of its master. I appreciated the warmth of her body, without its ever crossing my mind to desire her. I ended up by falling asleep in this outlandish position, half dead from fatigue, pressed against this strangely beautiful and unbelievably mindless creature, after bestowing no more than a glance on the satellite of Soror, which, smaller than our Moon, cast a yellowish light over the jungle. CHAPTER EIGHT. The sky was turning pale through the trees when I awoke. Nova was still asleep. I watched her in silence and sighed as I remembered her cruelty to our poor monkey. She had probably also been the cause of our misadventure by pointing us out to her companions. But how could one hold this against her when faced with the perfection of her body? Suddenly she stirred and raised her head. A gleam of fear came into her eyes and I felt her muscles contract. Since I did not move, however, her face gradually relaxed. She remembered; she managed for the first time to withstand my gaze for a moment. I regarded this as a personal victory and went so far as to smile at her again, forgetting her previous reaction to this earthly manifestation. This time it was less intense. She shivered, stiffened again as though about to take flight, but stayed where she was. Encouraged, I smiled more broadly. She trembled again but eventually calmed down, her face soon expressing nothing but profound astonishment. Had I succeeded in taming her? I became bold enough to put my hand on her shoulder. A shiver ran down her spine, but she still did not move. I was intoxicated by this success, and was even more so when I thought she was trying to imitate met. It was true. She was trying to smile. I could sense her painful efforts to contract the muscles of her delicate face. She made several attempts, managing only to produce a sort of painful grimace. There was something tremendously moving about this excessive labor on the part of a human being to achieve an everyday expression, and with such a pitiful result. I suddenly felt extremely touched, filled with compassion as though for a crippled child. I increased the pressure of my hand on her shoulder. I brought my face closer to hers. She replied to this gesture by rubbing her nose against mine, then by passing her tongue over my cheek. I was bewildered and hesitant. To be on the safe side, I imitated her in my clumsy fashion. After all, I was a foreign visitor and it was up to me to adopt the customs of the great Betelgeuse system. She appeared satisfied. We had gone thus far in our attempts at communication, myself none too sure how to continue, frightened of committing some blunder with my Earthly manners, when a terrifying hullabaloo made us start up in alarm. I found myself with my two companions, whom I had selfishly forgotten, standing bolt upright in the gathering dawn. Nova had sprung to her feet even more quickly and showed signs of the deepest terror. I understood immediately that this din was a nasty surprise not only for us but for all the inhabitants of the forest, for all of them, abandoning their lairs, had started running hither and thither in panic. This was not a game, as on the previous day; their cries expressed sheer terror. This din, suddenly breaking the silence of the forest, was enough to make one's blood run cold, but I felt besides that the men of the jungle knew what was in the offing and that their fear was caused by the approach of a specific danger. It was a strange cacophony, a mixture of rattling sounds like a roll of drums, other more discordant noises resembling a clashing of pots and pans, and also shouts. It was the shouts that made the most impression on us, for although they were in no language familiar to us, they were incontestably human. The early morning light revealed a strange scene in the forest: men, women, and children running in all directions, passing and bumping into one another, some of them even climbing into the trees as though to seek refuge there. Soon, however, some of the older ones stopped to prick up their ears and listen. The noise was approaching rather slowly. It came from the region where the forest was thickest and seemed to emanate from a fairly long unbroken line. I compared it to the noise made by beaters in one of our big shoots. The elders of the tribe appeared to make a decision. They uttered a series of yelps, which were no doubt signals or orders, then rushed off in the opposite direction from the noise. The rest of them followed, and we saw them galloping all around us like a driven herd of deer. Nova, too, was about to take to her heels, but she paused suddenly and turned around toward us, above all toward me, I felt. She uttered a plaintive whimper, which I assumed to be an invitation to follow her, then took one leap and disappeared. The din grew louder and I fancied I heard the undergrowth snapping as though beneath some heavy footsteps. I admit that I lost my composure. Caution prompted me, however, to stay where I was and to face the newcomers who, it became clearer every second, were uttering these human cries. But after my ordeal of the day before, this horrible racket unnerved me. I was infected by the terror of Nova and the others. I did not pause to think; I did not even want to consult my companions; I plunged into the undergrowth and took to my heels in the young girl's footsteps. I ran as fast as I could for several hundred yards without being able to catch up with her, and then noticed that Levain alone had followed me, Professor Antelle's age precluding such rapid flight. Levain was panting beside me. We looked at each other, ashamed of our behavior, and I was about to suggest going back or at least waiting for our leader, when some other noises made us jump in alarm. As to these, I could not be mistaken. They were gunshots echoing through the jungle: one, two, three, then several more, at irregular intervals, sometimes one at a time, at other times two consecutive shots, strangely reminiscent of a double-barreled gun. They were firing in front of us, on the path taken by the fugitives. While we paused, the line from which the first din had come, the line of beaters, drew closer, very close to us, sowing panic in us once again. I do not know why the shooting seemed to me less frightening, more familiar than this hellish din. Instinctively I resumed my headlong flight, taking care nevertheless to keep under cover of the undergrowth and to make as little noise as possible. My companion followed after me. We thus reached the region in which the shots had been heard. I slowed down and crept forward, almost on all fours. Still followed by Levain, I clambered up a sort of hillock and came to a halt on the summit, panting for breath. There was nothing in front of me but a few trees and a curtain of scrub. I advanced cautiously, my head on a level with the ground. There I lay for a moment or two as though floored by a blow, overpowered by a spectacle completely beyond my poor human comprehension. CHAPTER NINE. There were several incongruous features in the scene that unfolded before my eyes, some of them horrifying, but my attention was at first drawn exclusively to a figure standing motionless thirty paces away and peering in my direction. I almost shouted aloud in amazement. Yes, in spite of my terror, in spite of the tragedy of my own position, I was caught between the beaters and the guns, stupefaction overrode all other emotion when I saw this creature on the lookout, lying in wait for the game. For it was an ape, a large-sized gorilla. It was in vain that I told myself I was losing my reason: I could entertain not the slightest doubt as to his species. But an encounter with a gorillaon the planet Soror was not the essential outlandishness of the situation. This for me lay in the fact that the ape was correctly dressed, like a man of our world, and above all that he wore his clothes in such an easy manner. This natural aspect was what struck me first of all. No sooner had I seen the animal than I realized that he was not in any way disguised. The state in which I saw him was normal, as normal to him as nakedness was to Nova and her companions. He was dressed as you and I are, I mean as you and I would be if we were taking part in one of those drives organized for ambassadors or other distinguished persons at official shooting parties. His dark-brown jacket seemed to be made by the best Paris tailor and revealed underneath a checked shirt of the kind our sportsmen wear. His breeches, flaring out slightly above his calves, terminated in a pair of leggings. There the resemblance ended: instead of boots he wore big black gloves. It was a gorilla, I tell you! From his shirt collar emerged a hideous head, its top shaped like a sugar loaf and covered with black hair, with a flattened nose and jutting jaws. There he stood, leaning slightly forward, in the posture of a hunter on the lookout, grasping a rifle in his long hands. He was facing me, on the other side of a large gap cut out of the jungle at right angles to the direction of the drive. All of a sudden he stiffened. He had noticed, as I had, a faint sound in the bushes a little to my right. He turned around and at the same time raised his weapon, ready to •put it to his shoulder. From my position I could see the furrow left in the undergrowth by one of the fugitives who was running blindly straight ahead. I almost shouted out to warn him, so obvious was the ape's intention. But I had neither the time nor the strength; the man

Rahan. Episode Forty Five. The hunters of the lightning. The volcano thundered once again and the glowing lava flowed slowly down its sides.. This is how the blue mountain vomited its entrails of fire a long time ago! Rahan had never forgotten that horrible day in his childhood when the torrents of fire had decimated his entire horde and. Made him, the son of Crao-the-wise, of Crao-the-brave, the only clan survivor of Blue Mountain. Rahan curses the hollow mountains and their anger! Page Two. He was about to abandon his refuge when cries arose not far from him. The cries of joy. He glimpsed men rushing towards the volcano All brandished branches and shields as well. The gods have heard Trao! They bring us fire!! Using the path of the "People of the Trees", Rahan, very intrigued, followed these strange hunters. Slipping between the rocks, the men climb towards the incandescent rivulets. Was Rahan having a bad nightmare? Or had the hunters of this clan lost their minds. Page Three. What followed was fantastic. The men went towards the flow of lava and, protecting themselves from the intense heat, plunged their branches into it. As soon as they ignited, they screamed with joy and fled the torrent of fire. The clan will be able to chase away the darkness this night! Why sacrifice yourself like this, when it is easy to make fire spring from the “Stones-that-throw-stars”! A man had just fallen. The thick and incandescent wave overwhelmed him. Another hunter stumbled. His head hit a rock and he remained unconscious without the clan caring about him. Rahan won't let the fire devour him. Page Four. The son of Crao rushed towards the man who was groaning under the flat stone which was crushing his legs. The incandescent wave was approaching closer. Rahan will save you! As the stone was heavy, he used a branch to lift it enough to free the hunter. Stand up! Run away! Run away! The unfortunate man had a broken leg, and Rahan had to carry him to flee towards the forest. The lava wave flowed only slowly. It seeped between the rocks in thin rivulets, which will soon die out. A little latter. Why did you risk your life to save Ganouk's? Rahan does not like to see "Those-Who-Walk-Upright" die stupidly! Page Five. Ganouk will never walk upright again! Ha! Rahan has already healed wounded hunters like Ganouk! The son of Crao firmly ligated his tibia. Moons and moons will pass, but Ganouk will be able to stand up again! But Ganouk will no longer be able to hunt! Trao will force him to constantly monitor the sacred fire of the clan! Who is Trao? Your wizard? Your Chief? Trao is a chief and a wizard! Only he knows how to understand the signs of the clouds! Only he knows when fire from heaven will fall! Ganouk spoke of his clan. He spoke of Trao who knew how to command the clouds and trigger thunder. The gods send us their gifts! Let my brothers run to chase the fireballs! Page Six. It was common in these fierce times that men who did not know how to make fire had to steal it from lightning trees. And Trao made his people “Lightning Hunters”! And he does not hesitate to let them face the fire of the thundering mountains. When Ganouk can walk, he will lead Rahan to his clan. Rahan will teach him how to make a fire without risking entering the territory of shadows! Several days passed. The son of Crao hunted for himself and his companion. And Ganouk, amazed, witnessed the miracle of fire emerging from colliding flint. Trao will never believe Ganouk! He will accuse Rahan of being an evil demon! Page Seven. It was while returning from hunting one morning that Rahan saw the tracks of the saber-toothed tiger. The “Gorak” will devour Ganouk!! If Rahan does not arrive in time, Ganouk is lost! The tracks were heading in fact towards the clearing where his companion was still paralyzed. Rahan launched himself into the vines. The "Four-Hands", amazed, saw him flying from branch to branch almost as agilely as they. A moment later, surprise froze him. Surprise made of joy and worry. Courage Ganouk, courage! Joy, because his companion, in the face of danger, had found the strength to stand up! Worry because Ganouk, disarmed, was at the mercy of the big beast. Ra-ha-ha! Page Eight. Never had a fight been so short! Letting himself fall on the monster's spine, Rahan struck, and struck again! And the tiger collapsed, its long teeth curiously stuck in the ground. Rahan had Triumphed! His victory is less than that of Ganouk! Who conquered his wounds. Ganouk knew how to win! Ganouk is standing again! Tomorrow he will find his clan! At sunrise, the two men set off. They walked for a long time because Rahan had to support his still limping companion. Some caves finally appeared. A large fire illuminated one of them. It is in this cave that the clan preserves the sacred fire. Only Trao and mutilated hunters are allowed to go there. Page Nine. If Ganouk does not regain his former agility, this is where he will end his days! Rahan will oppose him! “Fire Hair” saved Ganouk on the “Thunder Mountain.” Then he healed his broken leg! Then he snatched him from the clutches of a “Gorak”! But Rahan also knows a wonderful secret! He knows how to create fire with these stones for which so many of our hunters left for the “Territory of Shadows.” The chief of the clan, emerging from the cave, looked angrily at the son of Crao. Ganouk uses the words of evil spirits! Trao alone, your leader, knows how to guide you or make fall the sky fire! Page Ten. Rahan knew how to stay calm. I am Rahan, the son of Crao! If your name resembles that of my father, you have none of his wisdom! Crao also knew how to see the approach of thunder in the clouds. He too could have sent his brothers to capture the “balls of fire” falling from the sky. But Crao preferred to create the fire without risking the lives of his people! The anger of the leader of the lightning hunters became rage. Let this demon be silent! May he perish in the cave of evil spirits! The circle of hunters immediately closed in on Rahan. Who was overcome by the most powerful and vigorous of them. Ha-ha-ha! You will die like all those who dared to challenge the authority of Trao! Page Eleven. Stunned, Rahan was thrown into one of the three caves. Ten hunters then blocked the entrance with a huge rock. Ganouk was pushed into the one where mutilated men tirelessly fueled a large fire. The son of Crao regained his senses. The gaps that let the light through were far too narrow to allow him to escape. And it would take ten men stronger than Rahan to push back this accursed rock! The Cave was vast. The ground was littered with stones, tree trunks and a few skeletons. They died of cold or starvation! And Trao reserves the same fate for Rahan! Page Twelve. But Rahan will not go to the “Territory of Shadows”! He, Oh! A swarm of bats burst from the depths of the cavern. Ra-ha-ha! Arming himself with a long branch, the son of Crao repelled their attack. The birds of darkness fear the light. Since Rahan cannot let daylight in, he will make a fire! The bats, in fact, took refuge in their dark lair as soon as the flames rose from the crackling branches. Clamors arose when the lightning hunters caught a glimpse, through the gaps, of the glow of this fire. Ganouk did not lie! The demon man knows how to make fire! Page Thirteen. The sky suddenly darkened and torrential rain fell. And for a moment, countless streams. Converged towards the cave where the sacred fire was kept. Schiff! The sheet of water spread there and, despite the efforts of its guardians, extinguished the flames. Trao shouted and raged, and pointed to the sky that crackled with lightning. It was the arrival of the demon-man that provoked the anger of the clouds! Lightning struck beyond the great river, setting fire to a clump of trees. Let my brothers go hunting! Let them bring back here the fire falling from the sky! The son of Crao saw all the able-bodied men rushing towards the river. This is a good time to escape from the clan! But how could Rahan push this rock? Page Fourteen. Rahan felt the prongs of his collar. That of “Tenacity”. The one of "Trust". And suddenly. Rahan was able to lift the stone that was crushing Ganouk with a branch! Why can he not push aside this rock with a stronger branch? Did the son of Crao invent, in these fierce times, the effective lever system? The fact is, that a moment later, he placed under the rock a long and solid trunk. Ten times, twenty times, with all his weight, he shook this trunk. And the enormous rock moved, and then moved again. Ra-ha-ha! Slowly pushed back, it finally left a passage through which Rahan could escape. Page Fifteen. When he slipped out of the cave, the rain had stopped falling. The plateau was deserted and no one could have prevented his escape. But he did not think for a moment about himself. Rahan will not leave the territory without having convinced Trao, even if he has to use force. In the nearby cave where the water had smothered the fire, the sorcerer threatened his men. For letting the fire die, you will be banished! As for you who brought back the demon man, you will die immediately! Trao, ranting at Ganouk, brandished his long spear. But he did not have. Time to project it. The son of Crao grasped him. If Trao does not drop his weapon, he will be the one to go into shadow territory! Page Sixteen. Dumbfounded, Trao obeyed. How had the captive escaped? How had he pushed back a rock that only ten vigorous hunters could move? Rahan will not steal your life! But he will make you suffer the fate you reserved for him! Rahan led the leader towards the cave of bats. Help Rahan move this rock! Ganouk and his companions saw him push Trao into it. We will liberate Trao when he admits that he abused you! A moment later, everyone heaved, once again blocking the entrance to the cave. How many men in your clan have died while hunting lightning? How many will return from this hunt where Trao sent them? Page Seventeen. Rahan is right! Ganouk has lived with him for days and he knows that fire can be born from “Stones-that-throw-stars”! When Trao admits this, our people will no longer have to defy death! The clan will live happily! As clamors rose from the side of the river, the son of Crao abandoned the mutilated men. Your brothers are coming back. Maybe they need Rahan! Leaping through the thickets, he arrived very quickly on the bank. Brandishing flaming branches the “Lightning Hunters” were passing back across the river. But they had to resist the impetuous current. And Rahan, helpless, saw the flood swallow up several of them. This is what it costs to go looking far away for fire falling from the sky! Page Eighteen. These men had led such a race, made such efforts. That the son of the Crao had to help them climb onto the bank. Exhausted, and panting, they did not even react when the large crocodile sprung from the reeds. Back, wood-skin! Seizing the flaming branch of a hunter, Rahan plunged it into the gaping maw of the saurian. Ra-ha-ha! The monster immediately disappeared into the tall tufts of rushes. Why are you here? Has Trao granted you his pardon? No! Rahan freed himself! And he locked Trao in the cave! Fearing the reaction of these men, Rahan clutched at his ivory knife. Page Nineteen. But he did not have to draw it. Three hunters died on the “Mountain-that-thunders”. As many were swallowed up by the river! We should have believed Ganouk who swore that you could make fire come from stones! Trao deceived us and we will kill him! The men, angry, threw their torches into the river. You will not kill Trao, because he did not know the secret of fire! “Those-who-walk-upright” have no right to kill those who do not know certain things! They have to convince them! The “Lightning Hunters” did not have to convince their leader. Freed by Ganouk and his companions, Trao brandished two flints. A fire lit up the cave. Trao wanted to know! As Ganouk and Rahan said, he struck these stones. Page Twenty. And the stones we throw the stars which set the branches on fire! Trao was crazy to send his brothers to look for fire beyond the hills! Trao is no longer worthy of remaining your leader! For what? If Rahan revealed to us the secret of fire, he also said. That ignorance is not a crime! Since your eyes have been opened to the truth, you will remain the leader! The clan demands it! If the son of Crao stayed away it was because he never intervened when "Those Who Walk Upright" decide their destiny. But he was happy to see Trao come to him, arms fraternally outstretched. He waited for the hug, while the clamors of those who would no longer die chasing the fire drowned out the thunder of a distant volcano. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

Rahan. Episode Forty Four. The Miracle Herb. Rahan does not want to die! He does not want to join the territory of shadows! The son of Crao reproached himself once again for having ventured into this desert without end. He had not eaten anything in days and he was exhausted. Text by Roger Lecureux. Drawing by Andre Cheret. He crawled, rather found himself, on the burning sand towards the Oasis which trembled behind the heat mist. Crao the wise often said. There is water where trees and grass grow! And certain herbs can calm the hunter's hunger! Page Two. Great vultures circled in the sky as if to watch for the end of the man. You are hungry too “Crooked Beak”! But you will not fight over Rahan's flesh! He was getting closer to the oasis, whose patch of greenery was becoming more precise. Exhausted, he stopped for a moment. It was then that a vulture, believing him to be dead, swooped down on him. No Crooked Beak! Rahan is not yet prey for you! The son of Crao only had time to draw his knife. The ivory blade struck the great raptor, and. Ouch! His weapon slipped from his fingers! Page Three. Mortally wounded, the vulture flew away with the cutlass. He fluttered for a moment before falling like a stone on the oasis. Satisfy your hunger. Quench your thirst. Finally find refreshment. Recovering his knife. These thoughts gave energy back to Rahan. He finally reached the shade of the tall palm trees and saw the huts around the watering hole. Rahan hopes that “Those Who Walk Upright” will not be hostile to him! He also saw strange beasts, beasts like he had never seen before. If these "hollow backs" are fierce Rahan is lost! But although the camels remained peacefully grouped together, men rushed towards him. Who are you "Fire-hair"? Where do you come from? Page Four. I am Rahan, the son of Crao. Rahan has strayed into your territory. He is hungry and he is thirsty. Cries of joy suddenly arose from a man who was dragging the vulture. Look Traor! Look at what the good spirit sends us! The bird of prey was respectfully placed at the feet of Traor. Who appeared to be the leader of this clan. Traor will divide it between his brothers! The son of Crao tore his knife from the body of the bird. It was Rahan who killed “Crooked Beak”! He is entitled to his share! Rahan noticed that these men were not carrying any weapons. What is this magic item? If it kills the “Hooked Beaks”, Traor wants it! Page Five. The sun dipped behind the horizon. Rahan cannot give his cutlass to Traor. But he will teach the clan to make weapons for hunting. And suddenly the men, worried, rushed towards the palm trees which they climbed with agility. They fear the wild animals who will come to drink thought Rahan to himself. Shortly after, in fact, a few cheetahs appeared, heading towards the watering hole. One of them leapt at the throat of a camel. From their refuges the men witnessed what was for them a miracle. Rahan won't let you slit the throat of this harmless "Hollow-back"! Ra-ha-ha! The formidable ivory blade, with a single blow, had just opened the cheetah's flank! Page Six. Another feline was already rushing towards Crao's son. A vulgar "Spotted Skin" will not scare away Rahan. The man and the beast rolled to the ground, one striking with his cutlass, the other clawing. Ra-ha-ha! Rahan stood up once again victorious! But the arm with which he had protected his face was streaked with deep gashes. If “Fire-hair” does not die, the men of the clan will want him as leader! But. What? What is he doing? Avoiding the attack of another feline, the son of Crao dove into the waterhole. Page Seven. It was shallow but he knew that the wild animals, hating water, would not risk it! He remained there until the beasts had watered and abandoned the oasis to disperse in the desert. The amazed men descended from the palm trees. Rahan killed two monsters! Rahan is a god! No, brothers. Rahan is just a simple hunter! The proof: A god would not have been hurt like Rahan was! Gaano-the-Sorcerer knows the “Eat-and-heal” herbs. Follow me “Fire Hair”! Page Eight. Gaano led Rahan into a clearing lined with damp moss. Here and there grew tall tufts of grass. This herb is miraculous. It is not only the main food of our clan, but. It heals almost everyone's skin. I collected many seeds which I sowed in this humid clearing. After applying herbs to Rahan's wounds, Gaano made a bandage from a palm leaf. But these precious herbs will end up missing from the clan! Think again! The ones I just cut will have grown back in a few days. Thanks to these herbs, mine do not know hunger. The courage of the son of Crao had earned him the respect of the clan. Every evening when the monsters come prowling we take refuge in the trees. But you proved to us that we could fight them. Alas, we don't have what you call a knife. Rahan will teach you how to make weapons. Page Nine. Until daybreak, Rahan recounted his adventures. Traor alone showed bitterness. He feared that his authority would be called into question. "Firehair" cannot remain among us if he has not undergone the "Great Ordeal"! Custom demands it! The big Test? What is this custom? You will know immediately! Traor gave a little smirk. You will have to throw yourself from the top of this branch with a vine tied to your ankles. If the vine breaks, you plunge straight into the “Territory of Shadows”! If the vine resists and if your knees or your hips are dislocated, you will be unworthy to live among us! But you can refuse the test! Crao's son could have refused this terrible ordeal and left the oasis. But he had so much to teach this clan! Rahan accepts! Page Ten. A moment later, he climbed towards the high branch. Long vines hung from the branch, almost to the ground. Rahan gathered back to him the strongest of these. And tied it tightly around his ankles. His life depended in part on the strength of this knot. The silence became even heavier when he stood on the branch ready to dive into the void. Maybe Rahan will join you, Crao!! Traor was serious. Perhaps he regreted having imposed this formidable ordeal. But it was too late. Rahan had just let himself fall. Page Eleven. If the vine gave way, its skull would break open on the ground, which was approaching at breakneck speed. The vine resisted! But although he had flexed all his muscles, he had the sensation that they were tearing, that his legs were being torn off. But it was just a sensation. Kloch! He hovered above the ground for a moment. Ten fingers from the ground! The members of the clan rushed forward cheering this novel exploit. Page Twelve. Stunned by the terrible shock, Rahan saw a world turned upside down. The trees, the men. Traor-the leader. He still had the strength to recover and to cut the vine and free his ankles. The cries that rose up proved to him that he had definitely won the trust of the desert clan. A little later. “Fire-hair” can stay with us. He can replace Traor and command the clan! What are you doing? The son of Crao brandished his ivory knife. Do not move, Traor! Do not move! Page Thirteen. The knife whistled in the chief's ears, went to rest, a step behind him. Argh! Blok! Why did you want to kill Traor? Rahan did not want to kill Traor! But he killed the beast that would have sent him to the kingdom of shadows! Look there! The knife, aimed with remarkable skill, had cut the great black scorpion in two. “Fire-hair” saved Traor! Why did he do that? He could have become the leader of the clan! Rahan never thought of replacing Traor! He will leave as soon as he is healed. You are already healed, brother. The magic herb has triumphed over the malady! Page Fourteen. Gaano-the-sorcerer untied the bandage. Rahan's wounds were nothing more than fine cuts, already healed. The son of Crao had made a promise to the men of the clan. He held it in the days that followed. He taught them to make powerful bows. With these arrows your people will no longer have to fear the wild beasts, Traor. He also taught them how to cut flint to make strong spears. And he initiated them into the handling of these weapons. When wild animals threaten you, you will no longer have to take refuge in the trees. But never use these spears and arrows against "Those-who-walk-upright." Page Fifteen. A few days later, the sorcerer brought Rahan back to the clearing. The tufts of grass had already grown back. You have taught our clan a lot of things. How can we thank you? Rahan would be happy to introduce the miracle herb to other clans! Gaano will give you seeds! Lots of Seeds! Traor also wanted to make a present to the one he had been so suspicious of. He offered him his own camel. Goodbye brother! Our clan will not forget you! This time, the son of Crao did not have to turn his knife to know which horizon to head towards. He confided his destiny to the "Hollow-back" who trotted towards the rising sun. With each stride, the necklace of claws jumped on his neck. And the bag swollen with seeds bounced. These seeds from which the miracle herb was born. These seeds he would make known to “those who walk upright”, his brothers. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

A NATIONAL SURVEY. He gradually built up a picture of a people being systematically and thoroughly enslaved, a picture of a nation as helpless as a man completely paralyzed, its defenses destroyed, its communications entirely in the hands of the invaders. Everywhere he found boiling resentment, a fierce willingness to fight against the tyranny, but it was undirected, uncoordinated, and, in any modern sense, unarmed. Sporadic rebellion was as futile as the scurrying of ants whose hill has been violated. Pan-Asians could be killed, yes, and there were men willing to shoot on sight, even in the face of the certainty of their own deaths. But their hands were bound by the greater certainty of brutal multiple retaliation against their own kind. As with the Jews in Germany before the final blackout in Europe, bravery was not enough, for one act of violence against the tyrants would be paid for by other men, women, and children at unspeakable compound interest. SIXTH COLUMN. 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. Copyright (c) 1949 by Robert A. Heinlein. Reprinted from Astounding Science Fiction, (c) 1941 by Street and Smith Publications Inc. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. A Baen Book Baen Publishing Enterprises PO. Box 1403 Riverdale, NY 10471 ISBN: 0-671-72026-0 Cover art by John Melo First Baen printing, January 1988 Fourth Baen printing, July 1995 Distributed by SIMON & SCHUSTER 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 Printed in the United States of America For John S. Arvvine CHAPTER ONE. "What the hell goes on here?" Whitey Ardmore demanded. They ignored his remark as they had ignored his arrival. The man at the television receiver said, "Shut up. We're listening," and turned up the volume. The announcer's voice blared out: “Washington destroyed completely before the government could escape. With Manhattan in ruins, that leaves no,” there was a click as the receiver was turned off. "That's that," said the man near it. "The United States is washed up." Then he added, "Anybody got a cigarette?" Getting no answer, he pushed his way out of the small circle gathered around the receiver and felt through the pockets of a dozen figures collapsed by a table. It was not too easy, as rigor mortis had set in, but he finally located a half-empty pack, from which he removed a cigarette and lighted it. "Somebody answer me!" commanded Ardmore. "What's happened here?" The man with the cigarette looked him over for the first time. "Who are you?" "Ardmore, major, intelligence. Who are you?" "Calhoun, colonel in research." "Very well, Colonel-I have an urgent message for your commanding officer. Will you please have someone tell him that I am here and see to it that I am taken to him?" He spoke with poorly controlled exasperation. Calhoun shook his head. "Can't do it. He's dead." He seemed to derive some sort of twisted pleasure from the announcement. "Huh?" "That's right-dead. They're all dead, all the rest. You see before you, my dear Major, all that are left of the personnel of the Citadel-perhaps I should say of the emergency research laboratory, department of defense, this being in the nature of an official report." He smiled with half his face, while his eye took in the handful of living men in the room. Ardmore took a moment to comprehend the statement, then inquired, "The Pan-Asians?" "No, No, not the Pan-Asians. So far as I know, the enemy does not suspect the existence of the Citadel. No, we did it ourselves-an experiment that worked too well. Doctor Ledbetter was engaged in research in an attempt to discover a means of.” "Never mind that, Colonel. Whom does command revert to? I've got to carry out my orders. " "Command? Military command? Good Lord, man, we haven't had time to think about that yet. Wait a moment." His eye roved around the room, counting noses. "Hum, I'm senior to everyone here-and they are all here. I suppose that makes me commanding officer." "No line officers present?" "No, all special commissions. That leaves me it. Go ahead with your report." Ardmore looked about at the faces of the half a dozen men in the room. They were following the conversation with apathetic interest. Ardmore worried to himself before replying over how to phrase the message. The situation had changed; perhaps he should not deliver it at all. "I was ordered," he said, picking his words, "to inform your general that he was released from superior command. He was to operate independently and prosecute the war against the invader according to his own judgment. You see," he went on, "when I left Washington twelve hours ago we knew they had us. This concentration of brain power in the Citadel was about the only remaining possible military asset." Calhoun nodded. "I see. A defunct government sends orders to a defunct laboratory. Zero plus zero equals zero. It's all very funny if one only knew when to laugh." "Colonel!" "Yes?" "They are your orders now. What do you propose to do with them?" "Do with them? What the hell is there to do? Six men against four hundred million. I suppose," he added "to make everything nice and tidy for the military mind I should write out a discharge from the United States army for everybody left and kiss 'em good-by. I don't know where that leaves meharakiri, perhaps. Maybe you don't get it. This is all the United States there is left. And it's left because the Pan-Asians haven't found it." Ardmore wet his lips. "Apparently I did not clearly convey the order. The order was to take charge, and prosecute the war!" "With what?" He measured Calhoun before answering. "It is not actually your responsibility. Under the changed situation, in accordance with the articles of war, as senior line officer present I am assuming command of this detachment of the United States army!" It hung in the balance for twenty heartbeats. At last Calhoun stood up and attempted to square his stooped shoulders. "You are perfectly correct, sir. What are your orders?" "What are your orders?" he asked himself. Think fast, Ardmore, you big Junk, you've shot off your face-now where are you? Calhoun was right when he asked "With what?” yet he could not stand still and see the remnant of military organization fall to pieces. You've got to tell 'em something, and it's got to be good; at least good enough to hold 'em until you think of something better. Stall, brother, stall! "I think we had best examine the new situation here, first. Colonel, will you oblige me by having the remaining personnel gather around-say around that big table? That will be convenient." "Certainly, sir." The others, having heard the order, moved toward the table. "Graham! And you, what's your name? Thomas, isn't it? You two remove Captain MacAllister's body to some other place. Put him in the corridor for now." The commotion of getting one of the ubiquitous corpses out of the way and getting the living settled around a table broke the air of unreality and brought things into focus. Ardmore felt more self-confidence when he turned again to Calhoun. "You had better introduce me to those here present. I want to know what they do and something about them, as well as their names." It was a corporal's guard, a forlorn remnant. He had expected to find, hidden here safely and secretly away under an unmarked spot in the Rocky Mountains, the most magnificent aggregation of research brains ever gathered together for one purpose. Even in the face of complete military disaster to the regular forces of the United States, there remained a reasonable outside chance that two hundred-odd keen scientific brains, secreted in a hide-away whose very existence was unsuspected by the enemy and equipped with every modern facility for research, might conceivably perfect and operate some weapon that would eventually drive out the Pan-Asians. For that purpose he had been sent to tell the commanding general that he was on his own, no longer responsible to higher authority. But what could half a dozen men do in any case? For it was a scant half a dozen. There was Doctor Lowell Calhoun, mathematician, jerked out of university life by the exigencies of war and called a colonel. There was Doctor Randall Brooks, biologist and bio-chemist, with a special commission of major. Ardmore liked his looks; he was quiet and mild, but gave the impression of an untroubled strength of character superior to that of a more extroverted man-he would do, and his advice would be useful. Ardmore mentally dubbed Robert Wilkie a "punk kid." He was young and looked younger, having an overgrown collie-dog clumsiness, and hair that would not stay in place. His field, it developed, was radiation, and the attendant branches of physics too esoteric for a layman to understand. Ardmore had not the slightest way of judging whether or not he was any good in his specialty. He might be a genius, but his appearance did not encourage the idea. No other scientist remained. There were three enlisted men: Herman Scheer, technical sergeant. He had been a mechanic, a die maker, a tool maker. When the army picked him up he had been making precision instruments for the laboratories of the Edison Trust. His brown, square hands and lean fingers backed up his account of himself. His lined, set face and heavy jaw muscles made Ardmore judge him to be a good man to have at his back in a tight place. He would do. There remained Edward Graham, private first-class, specialist rating officers' cook. Total war had turned him from his profession as an artist and interior decorator to his one other talent, cooking. Ardmore was unable to see how he could fit into the job, except, of course, that somebody had to cook. The last man was Graham's helper, Jeff Thomas, private-background: none. "He wandered in here one day," explained Calhoun. "We had to enlist him and keep him here to protect the secret of the place." Acquainting Ardmore with the individuals of his "command" had used up several minutes during which he had thought furiously with half his mind about what he should say next. He knew what he had to accomplish, some sort of a shot in the arm that would restore the morale of this badly demoralized group, some of the old hokum that men live by. He believed in hokum, being a publicity man by trade and an army man only by necessity. That brought to mind another worry-should he let them know that he was no more a professional than they, even though he happened to hold a line commission? No, that would not be very bright; they needed just now to regard him with the faith that the layman usually holds for the professional. Thomas was the end of the list: Calhoun had stopped talking. Here's your chance, son, better not muff it! Then he had it fortunately it would take only a short build-up. "It will be necessary for us to continue our task assignment independently for an indefinite period. I want to remind you that we derive our obligations not from our superior officers who were killed in Washington, but from the people of the United States, through their Constitution. That Constitution is neither captured nor destroyed-it cannot, for it is not a piece of paper, but the joint contract of the American people. Only the American people can release us from it." Was he right? He was no lawyer, and he didn't know-but he did know that they needed to believe it. He turned to Calhoun. "Colonel Calhoun, will you now swear me in as commanding officer of this detachment of the United States army?" Then he added, as an apparent afterthought, "I think it would be well for us all to renew our oaths at the same time." It was a chanted chorus that echoed through the nearly empty room." I do solemnly swear-to carry out the duties of my office-and to uphold and defend the Constitution of the United States-against all of its enemies, domestic and foreign!' "So help me God." "’So help me God!"' Ardmore was surprised to discover that the show he had staged brought tears to his own cheeks. Then he noticed them in Calhoun's eyes. Maybe there was more to it than he had thought. "Colonel Calhoun, you, of course, become director of research. You are second in command, but I will carry out the duties of executive officer myself in order to leave you free to pursue your scientific inquiries. Major Brooks and Captain Wilkie are assigned to you. Scheer!" "Yes, sir!" "You work for Colonel Calhoun. If he does not need all of your service, I will assign additional duties later. Graham!" "Yes, sir." "You will continue your present duties. You are also mess sergeant, mess officer, supply officer-in fact, you are the whole commissary department. Bring me a report later today estimating the number of rations available and the condition of perishables. Thomas works for you, but is subject to call by any member of the scientific staff any time they want him. That may delay meals, but it can't be helped." "Yes, sir." "You and I and Thomas will perform all duties among us that do not directly apply to research, and will assist the scientists in any way and at any time that they need us. That specifically includes myself, Colonel," he emphasized, turning to Calhoun, "if another pair of untrained hands is useful at any point, you are directed to call on me." "Very well, Major." "Graham, you and Thomas will have to clear out the bodies around the place before they get too high-say by tomorrow night. Put them in an unused room and hermetically seal it. Scheer will show you how." He glanced at his wrist. "Two o'clock. When did you have lunch?" "There, uh, was none today." "Very well. Graham, serve coffee and sandwiches here in twenty minutes." "Very good, sir. Come along, Jeff." "Coming." As they left, Ardmore turned back to Calhoun. "In the meantime, Colonel, let's go to the laboratory where the catastrophe originated. I still want to find out what happened here!" The other two scientists and Scheer hesitated; he picked them up with a nod, and the little party filed out. "You say nothing in particular happened, no explosion, no gas-yet they died?" They were standing around Doctor Ledbetter's last set-up. The martyred scientist's body still lay where it had fallen, a helpless, disorganized heap. Ardmore took his eyes from it and tried to make out the meaning of the setup apparatus. It looked simple, but called no familiar picture to mind. "No, nothing but a little blue flame that persisted momentarily. Ledbetter had just closed this switch." Calhoun pointed to it without touching it. It was open now, a self-opening, spring-loaded type. "I felt suddenly dizzy. When my head cleared, I saw that Ledbetter had fallen and went to him, but there was nothing that I could do for him. He was dead-without a mark on him." "It knocked me out," offered Wilkie. "I might not have made it if Scheer hadn't given me artificial respiration." "You were here?" Ardmore asked. "No, I was in the radiation laboratory over at the other end of the plant. It killed my chief." Ardmore frowned and pulled a chair out from the wall. As he started to sit down there was a scurrying sound, a small gray shape flashed across the floor and out the open door. A rat, he thought, and dismissed the matter. But Doctor Brooks stared at it in amazement, and ran out the door himself, calling out behind him: "Wait a minute-right back!" "I wonder what's gotten into him?" Ardmore inquired of no one in particular. The thought flashed through his mind that the strain of events had finally been too much for the mild little biologist. They had less than a minute to wait in order to find out. Brooks returned as precipitately as he had left. The exertion caused him to pant and interfered with articulation. "Major Ardmore! Doctor Calhoun! Gentlemen!" He paused and caught his breath. "My white mice are alive!" "Huh? What of it?" "Don't you see? It's an important datum, perhaps a crucially important datum. None of the animals in the biological laboratory was hurt! Don't you see?" "Yes, but, Oh! Perhaps I do-the rat was alive and your mice weren't killed, yet men were killed all around them." "Of course! Of course!" Brooks beamed at Ardmore. "Hum. An action that kills a couple of hundred men through rock walls and metal, with no fuss and no excitement, yet passes by mice and the like. I've never before heard of anything that would kill a man but not a mouse." He nodded toward the apparatus. "It looks as if we had big medicine in that little gadget, Calhoun." "So it does," Calhoun agreed, "if we can learn to control it." "Any doubt in your mind?" "Well-we don't know why it killed, and we don't know why it spared six of us, and we don't know why it doesn't harm animals." "So. Well, that seems to be the problem." He stared again at the simple appearing enigma. "Doctor, I don't like to interfere with your work right from scratch, but I would rather you did not close that switch without notifying me in advance." His gaze dropped to Ledbetter's still figure and hurriedly shifted. Over the coffee and sandwiches he pried further into the situation. "Then no one really knows what Ledbetter was up to?" "You could put it that way," agreed Calhoun. "I helped him with the mathematical considerations, but he was a genius and somewhat impatient with lesser minds. If Einstein were alive, they might have talked as equals, but with the rest of us he discussed only the portions he wanted assistance on, or details he wished to turn over to assistants." "Then you don't know what he was getting at?" "Well, yes and no, are you familiar with general field theory?" "Criminy, no!" "Weld-that makes it rather hard to talk, Major Ardmore. Doctor Ledbetter was investigating the theoretically possible additional spectra.” "Additional spectra?" "Yes. You see, most of the progress in physics in the last century and a half has been in dealing with the electromagnetic spectrum, light, radio, X-ray.” "Yes, yes, I know that, but how about these additional spectra?" "That's what I am trying to tell you," answered Calhoun with a slight note of annoyance. "General field theory predicts the possibility of at least three more entire spectra. You see, there are three types of energy fields known to exist in space: electric, magnetic, and gravitic or gravitational. Light, X-rays, all such radiations, are part of the electromagnetic spectrum. Theory indicates the possibility of analogous spectra between magnetic and gravitic, between electric and gravitic, and finally, a three-phase type between electric-magnetio-gravitic fields. Each type would constitute a complete new spectrum, a total of three new fields of learning. "If there are such, they would presumably have properties quite as remarkable as the electromagnetic spectrum and quite different. But we have no instruments with which to detect such spectra, nor do we even know that such spectra exist." "You know," commented Ardmore, frowning a little, "I'm just a layman in these matters and don't wish to set my opinion up against yours, but this seems like a search for the little man who wasn't there. I had supposed that this laboratory was engaged in the single purpose of finding a military weapon to combat the vortex beams and A-bomb rockets of the Pan-Asians. I am a bit surprised to find the man whom you seem to regard as having been your ace researcher engaged in an attempt to discover things that he was not sure existed and whose properties were totally unknown. It doesn't seem reasonable. " Calhoun did not answer; he simply looked supercilious and smiled irritatingly. Ardmore felt put in the wrong and was conscious of a warm flush spreading up toward his face. "Yes, yes," he said hastily, "I know I'm wrong-whatever it was that Ledbetter found, it killed a couple of hundred men. Therefore it is a potential military weapon-but wasn't he just mugging around in the dark?" "Not entirely," Calhoun replied, with a words-of-one-syllable air. "The very theoretical considerations that predict additional spectra allow of some reasonable probability as to the general nature of their properties. I know that Ledbetter had originally been engaged in a search for a means of setting up tractor and pressor beams-that would be in the magneto-gravitic spectrum-but the last couple of weeks he appeared to be in a condition of intense excitement and radically changed the direction of his experimentation. He was close-mouthed; I got no more than a few hints from the transformations and developments which he had me perform for him. However,” Calhoun drew a bulky loose-leaf notebook from an inner pocket, “he kept complete notes of his experiments. We should be able to follow his work and perhaps infer his hypotheses.” Young Wilkie, who was seated beside Calhoun, bent toward him. "Where did you find these, doctor?" he asked excitedly. "On a bench in his laboratory. If you had looked you would have seen them." Wilkie ignored the thrust; he was already eating up the symbols set down in the opened book. "But that is a radiation formula.” "Of course it is-d'you think I'm a fool?" "But it's all wrong!" "It may be from your standpoint; you may be sure that it was not to Doctor Ledbetter." They branched off into argument that was totally meaningless to Ardmore; after some minutes he took advantage of a pause to say, "Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Just a moment. I can see that I am simply keeping you from your work; I've learned all that I can just now. As I understand it, your immediate task is to catch up with Doctor Ledbetter and to discover what it is that his apparatus does-without killing yourselves in the process. Is that right?" "I would say that is a fair statement," Calhoun agreed cautiously. "Very well, then-carry on, and keep me advised at your convenience." He got up; the others followed his example. "Oh just one more thing." "Yes?" "I happened to think of something else. I don't know whether it is important or not, but it came to mind because of the importance that Doctor Brooks attached to the matter of the rats and mice." He ticked points off on his fingers. "Many men were killed; Doctor Wilkie was knocked out and very nearly died; Doctor Calhoun experienced only a momentary discomfort; the rest of those who lived apparently didn't suffer any effects of any sort weren't aware that anything had happened except that their companions mysteriously died. Now, isn't that data of some sort?" He awaited a reply anxiously, being subconsciously afraid that the scientists would consider his remarks silly, or obvious. Calhoun started to reply, but Doctor Brooks cut in ahead of him. "Of course, it is! Now why didn't I think of that? Dear me, I must be confused today. That establishes a gradient, an ordered relationship in the effect of the unknown action." He stopped and thought, then went on almost at once. "I really must have your permission, Major, to examine the cadavers of our late colleagues, then by examining for differences between them and those alive, especially those hard hit by the unknown action.” He broke off short and eyed Wilkie speculatively. "No, you don't!" protested Wilkie. "You won't make a guinea pig out of me. Not while I know it!" Ardmore was unable to tell whether the man's apprehension was real or facetious. He cut it short. "The details will have to be up to you gentlemen. But remember-no chances to your lives without notifying me." "You hear that, Brooksie?" Wilkie persisted. Ardmore went to bed that night from sheer sense of duty, not because he felt ready to sleep. His immediate job was accomplished; he had picked up the pieces of the organization known as the Citadel and had thrown it together into some sort of a going concern-whether or not it was going any place he was too tired to judge, but at least it was going. He had given them a pattern to live by, and, by assuming leadership and responsibility, had enabled them to unload their basic worries on him and thereby acquire some measure of emotional security. That should keep them from going crazy in a world which had gone crazy. What would it be like, this crazy new world-a world in which the superiority of western culture was not a casually accepted Of course,' a world in which the Stars and Stripes did not fly, along with the pigeons, over every public building? Which brought to mind a new worry: if he was to maintain any pretense of military purpose, he would have to have some sort of a service of information. He had been too busy in getting them all back to work to think about it, but he would have to think about it tomorrow, he told himself, then continued to worry about it. An intelligence service was as important as a new secret weapon-more important; no matter how fantastic and powerful a weapon might be developed from Doctor Ledbetter's researches, it would be no help until they knew just where and how to use it against the enemy's weak points. A ridiculously inadequate military intelligence had been the prime characteristic of the United States as a power all through its history. The most powerful nation the globe had ever seen, but it had stumbled into wars like a blind giant. Take this present mess: the atom bombs of Pan-Asia weren't any more powerful than our own but we had been caught flat-footed and had never gotten to use a one. We had had how many stock-piled? A thousand, he had heard. Ardmore didn't know, but certainly the Pan-Asians had known, just how many, just where they were. Military intelligence had won the war for them, not secret weapons. Not that the secret weapons of the Pan-Asians were anything to sneer at particularly when it was all too evident that they really were "secret." Our own so-called intelligence services had fallen down on the job. O K, Whitey Ardmore, it's all yours now! You can build any sort of an intelligence service your heart desires-using three near-sighted laboratory scientists, an elderly master sergeant, two kitchen privates, and the bright boy in person. So you are good at criticizing. ”If you're so smart, why ain't you rich?" He got up, wished passionately for just one dose of barbiturate to give him a night's sleep, drank a glass of hot water instead, and went back to bed. Suppose they did dig up a really powerful and new weapon? That gadget of Ledbetter's certainly looked good, if they could learn to handle it but what then? One man couldn't run a battle cruiser-he couldn't even get it off the ground-and six men couldn't whip an empire, not even with seven league boots and a death ray. What was that old crack of Archimedes? "If I had a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to rest it, I could move the Earth." How about the fulcrum? No weapon was a weapon without an army to use it. He dropped into a light sleep and dreamed that he was flopping around on the end of the longest lever conceivable, a useless lever, for it rested on nothing. Part of the time he was Archimedes, and part of the time Archimedes stood beside him, jeering and leering at him with a strongly Asiatic countenance. CHAPTER TWO. Ardmore was too busy for the next couple of weeks to worry much about anything but the job at hand. The underlying postulate of their existence pattern-that they were, in fact, a military organization which must someday render an accounting to civil authority-required that he should comply with, or closely simulate compliance with, the regulations concerning paperwork, reports, records, pay accounts, inventories, and the like. In his heart he felt it to be waste motion, senseless, yet as a publicity man, he was enough of a jackleg psychologist to realize intuitively that man is a creature that lives by symbols. At the moment these symbols of government were all important. So he dug into the regulation manual of the deceased paymaster and carefully closed out the accounts of the dead, noting in each case the amounts due each man's dependents "in lawful money of the United States," even while wondering despondently if that neat phrase would ever mean anything again. But he did it, and he assigned minor administrative jobs to each of the others in order that they might realize indirectly that the customs were being maintained. It was too much clerical work for one man to keep up. He discovered that Jeff Thomas, the cook's helper, could use a typewriter with facility and had a fair head for figures. He impressed him into the job. It threw more work on Graham, who complained, but that was good for him, he thought-a dog needs fleas. He wanted every member of his command to go to bed tired every night. Thomas served another purpose. Ardmore's high strung disposition required someone to talk to. Thomas turned out to be intelligent and passively sympathetic, and he found himself speaking with more and more freedom to the man. It was not in character for the commanding officer to confide in a private, but he felt instinctively that Thomas would not abuse his trust-and he needed nervous release. Calhoun brought up the matter which forced Ardmore to drop his preoccupation with routine and turn his attention to more difficult matters. Calhoun had called to ask permission to activate Ledbetter's apparatus, as modified to suit their current hypotheses, but he added another and embarrassing question. "Major Ardmore, can you give me some idea as to how you intend to make use of the Ledbetter effect?" Ardmore did not know; he answered with another question. "Are you near enough to results to make that question urgent? If so, can you give me some idea of what you have discovered so far?" "That will be difficult," Calhoun replied in an academic and faintly patronizing manner, "since I am constrained not to speak in the mathematical language which, of necessity, is the only way of expressing such things.” "Now, Colonel, please," Ardmore broke in, irritated more than he would admit to himself and inhibited by the presence of Private Thomas, "you can kill a man with it or you can't and you can control whom you kill or you can't." "That's an oversimplification," Calhoun argued. "However, we think that the new set-up will be directional in its effect. Doctor Brook's investigations caused him to hypothecate an asymmetrical relationship between the action and organic life it is applied to, such that an inherent characteristic of the life form determines the effect of the action as well as the inherent characteristics of the action itself. That is to say, the effect is a function of the total factors of the process, including the life form involved, as well as the original action.” "Easy, easy, Colonel. What does that mean as a weapon?" "It means that you could turn it on two men and decide which one it is to kill-with proper controls," Calhoun answered testily. "At least, we think so. Wilkie has volunteered to act as a control on it, with mice as the object." Ardmore granted permission for the experiment to take place, subject to precautions and restrictions. When Calhoun had gone, his mind returned at once to the problem of what he was going to do with the weapon-if any. And that required data that he did not have. Damn it!-he had to have a service of information; he had to know what was going on outside. The scientists were out, of course. And Scheer, for the scientific staff needed his skill. Graham? No, Graham was a good cook, but nervous and irritable, emotionally not stable, the very last man to pick for a piece of dangerous espionage. It left only himself. He was trained for such things; he would have to go. "But you can't do that, sir," Thomas reminded him. "Huh? What's that?" He had been unconsciously expressing his thoughts aloud, a habit he had gotten into when he was alone, or with Thomas only. The man's manner encouraged using him for a sounding board. "You can't leave your command, sir. Not only is it against regulations, but, if you will let me express an opinion, everything you have done so far will fall to pieces." "Why should it? I'll be back in a few days." "Well, sir, maybe it would hold together for a few days-though I'm not sure of that. Who would be in charge in your absence?" "Colonel Calhoun-of course." "Of course." Thomas expressed by raised eyebrows and ready agreement an opinion which military courtesy did not permit him to say aloud. Ardmore knew that Thomas was right. Outside of his specialty, Calhoun was a bad-tempered, supercilious, conceited old fool, in Ardmore's opinion. Ardmore had had to intercede already to patch up trouble which Calhoun's arrogance had caused. Scheer worked for Calhoun only because Ardmore had talked with him, calmed him down, and worked on his strong sense of duty. The situation reminded him of the time when he had worked as press agent for a famous and successful female evangelist. He had signed on as director of public relations, but he had spent two-thirds of his time straightening out the messes caused by the vicious temper of the holy harridan. "But you have no way of being sure that you will be back in a few days," Thomas persisted. "This is a very dangerous assignment; if you get killed on it, there is no one here who can take over your job." "Oh, now, that's not true, Thomas. No man is irreplaceable." "This is no time for false modesty, sir. That may be true in general, but you know that it is not true in this case. There is a strictly limited number to draw from, and you are the only one from whom all of us will take direction. In particular, you are the only one from whom Doctor Calhoun will take direction. That is because you know how to handle him. None of the others would be able to, nor would he be able to handle them." "That's a pretty strong statement, Thomas." Thomas said nothing. At length Ardmore went on. "All right, all right suppose you are right. I've got to have military information. How am I going to get it if I don't go myself?" Thomas was a little slow in replying. Finally, he said quietly, "I could try it." "You?" Ardmore looked him over and wondered why he had not considered Thomas. Perhaps because there was nothing about the man to suggest his potential ability to handle such a job-that, combined with the fact that he was a private, and one did not assign privates to jobs requiring dangerous independent action. Yet perhaps "Have you ever done any work of that sort?" "No, but my experience may be specially adapted in a way to such work." "Oh, yes! Scheer told me something about you. You were a tramp, weren't you, before the army caught up with you?" "Not a tramp," Thomas corrected gently, "a hobo." "Sorry-what's the distinction?" "A tramp is a bum, a parasite, a man that won't work. A hobo is an itinerant laborer who prefers casual freedom to security. He works for his living, but he won't be tied down to one environment." "Oh, I see. Hum, yes, and I begin to see why you might be especially well adapted to an intelligence job. I suppose it must require a good deal of adaptability and resourcefulness to stay alive as a hobo. But wait a minute, Thomas-I guess I've more or less taken you for granted; I need to know a great deal more about you, if you are to be entrusted with this job. You know, you don't act like a hobo." "How does a hobo act?" "Eh? Oh, well, skip it. But tell me something about your background. How did you happen to take up hoboing?" Ardmore realized that he had, for the first time, pierced the man's natural reticence. Thomas fumbled for an answer, finally replying, "I suppose it was that I did not like being a lawyer." "What?" "Yes. You see, it was like this: I went from the law into social administration. In the course of my work I got an idea that I wanted to write a thesis on migratory labor and decided that in order to understand the subject I would have to experience the conditions under which such people lived." "I see. And it was while you were doing your laboratory work, as it were, that the army snagged you. " "Oh, no," Thomas corrected him. "I've been on the road more than ten years. I never went back. You see, I found I liked being a hobo." The details were rapidly arranged. Thomas wanted nothing in the way of equipment but the clothes he had been wearing when he had stumbled into the Citadel. Ardmore had suggested a bedding roll, but Thomas would have none of it. "It would not be in character," he explained. "I was never a bindlestiff. Bindlestiffs are dirty, and a self-respecting hobo doesn't associate with them. All I want is a good meal in my belly and a small amount of money on my person." Ardmore's instructions to him were very general. "Almost anything you hear or see will be data for me," he told him. "Cover as much territory as you can, and try to be back here within a week. If you are gone much longer than that, I will assume that you are dead or imprisoned, and will have to try some other plan. "Keep your eyes open for some means by which we can establish a permanent service of information. I can't suggest what it is you are to look for in that connection, but keep it in mind. Now as to details: anything and everything about the Pan-Asians, how they are armed, how they police occupied territory, where they have set up headquarters, particularly their continental headquarters, and, if you can make any sort of estimate, how many of them there are and how they're distributed. That would keep you busy for a year, at least; just the same, be back in a week. " Ardmore showed Thomas how to operate one of the outer doors of the Citadel; two bars of "Yankee Doodle," breaking off short, and a door appeared in what seemed to be a wall of country rock-simple, and yet foreign to the Asiatic mind. Then he shook hands with him and wished him good luck. Ardmore found that Thomas had still one mare surprise for him; when he shook hands, he did so with the grip of the Dekes, Ardmore's own fraternity! Ardmore stood staring at the closed portal, busy arranging his preconceptions. When he turned around, Calhoun was behind him. He felt somewhat as if he had been caught stealing jam. "Oh, hello, Doctor," he said quickly. "How do you do, Major," Calhoun replied with deliberation. "May I inquire as to what is going on?" "Certainly. I've sent Lieutenant Thomas out to reconnoiter. " "Lieutenant?" "Brevet lieutenant. I was forced to use him for work fax beyond his rank; I found it expedient to assign him the rank and pay of his new duties." Calhoun pursued that point no further, but answered with another, in the same faintly critical tone of voice. "I suppose you realize that it jeopardizes all of us to send anyone outside? I am a little surprised that you should act in such a matter without consulting with others." "I am sorry you feel that way about it, Colonel," Ardmore replied, in a conscious attempt to conciliate the older man, "but I am required to make the final decision in any case, and it is of prime importance to our task that nothing be permitted to distract your attention from your all-important job of research. Have you completed your experiment?" he went on quickly. "Yes." "Well?" "The results were positive. The mice died." "How about Wilkie?" "Oh, Wilkie was unhurt, naturally. That is in accordance with my predictions." Jefferson Thomas. Bachelor of Arts magna cum laude, University of California, Bachelor of Law, Harvard Law School, professional hobo, private and cook's helper, and now a brevet lieutenant, intelligence, United States army, spent his first night outside shivering on pine needles where dark had overtaken him. Early the next morning he located a ranch house. They fed him, but they were anxious for him to move along. "You never can tell when one of those heathens is going to come snooping around," apologized his host, "and I can't afford to be arrested for harboring refugees. I got the wife and kids to think about." But he followed Thomas out to the road, still talking, his natural garrulity prevailing over his caution. He seemed to take a grim pleasure in bewailing the catastrophe. "God knows what I'm raising those kids up to. Some nights it seems like the only reasonable thing to do is to put them all out of their sorrow. But Jessie-that's my wife-says it's a scandal and a sin to talk that way, that the Lord will take care of things all in His own good time. Maybe so-but I know it's no favor to a child to raise it up to be bossed around and lorded over by those monkeys." He spat. "It's not American." "What's this about penalties for harboring refugees?" The rancher stared at him. "Where've you been, friend?" "Up in the hills. I haven't laid eyes on one of the so-and-so's yet." "You will. But then you haven't got a number, have you? You'd better get one. No, that won't do you any good; you'd just land in a labor camp if you tried to get one." "Number? "Registration number. Like this." He pulled a glassine-covered card out of his pocket and displayed it. It had axed to it a poor but recognizable picture of the rancher, his fingerprints, and pertinent data as to his occupation, marital status, address, et-cetera. There was a long, hyphenated number running across the top. The rancher indicated it with a work-stained finger. "That first part is my number. It means I have permission from the emperor to stay alive and enjoy the air and sunshine," he added bitterly. "The second part is my serial classification. It tells where I live and what I do. If I want to cross the county line, I have to have that changed. If I want to go to any other town than the one I'm assigned to do my marketing in, I've got to get a day's special permit. Now I ask you-is that any way for a man to live?" "Not for me," agreed Thomas. "Well, I guess I had better be on my way before I get you in trouble. Thanks for the breakfast." "Don't mention it. It's a pleasure to do a favor for a fellow American these days." He started off down the road at once, not wishing the kindly rancher to see how thoroughly he had been moved by the picture of his degradation. The implications of that registration card had shaken his free soul in a fashion that the simple, intellectual knowledge of the defeat of the United States had been unable to do. He moved slowly for the first two or three days, avoiding the towns until he had gathered sufficient knowledge of the enforced new customs to be able to conduct himself without arousing suspicion. It was urgently desirable that he be able to enter at least one big city in order to snoop around, read the bulletin boards, and find a chance to talk with persons whose occupations permitted them to travel. From a standpoint of personal safety he was quite willing to chance it without an identification card but he remembered clearly a repeated injunction of Ardmore's "Your paramount duty is to returns Don't go making a hero of yourself. Don't take any chance you can avoid and come back!" Cities would have to wait. Thomas skirted around towns at night, avoiding patrols as he used to avoid railroad cops. The second night out he found the first of his objectives, a hobos' jungle. It was just where he had expected to find it, from his recollection of previous trips through the territory. Nevertheless, he almost missed it, for the inevitable fire was concealed by a jury-rigged oil-can stove, and shielded from chance observation. He slipped into the circle and sat down without comment, as custom required, and waited for them to look him over. Presently a voice said plaintively: "It's Gentleman Jeff. Cripes, Jeff, you gave me a turn. I thought you was a flat face. Whatcha been doin' with yourself, Jeff?" "Oh, one thing and another. On the dodge." "Who isn't these days?" the voice returned. "Everywhere you try, those slant-eyes.” He broke into a string of attributions concerning the progenitors and personal habits of the Pan-Asians about which he could not possibly have had positive knowledge. "Stow it, Moe," another voice commanded. "Tell us the news, Jeff." "Sorry," Thomas refused affably, "but I've been up in the hills, kinda keeping out of the army and doing a little fishing." "You should have stayed there. Things are bad everywhere. Nobody dares give an unregistered man a day's work and it takes everything you've got just to keep out of the labor camps. It makes the big Red hunt look like a picnic." "Tell me about the labor camps," Thomas suggested. "I might get hungry enough, to try one for a while." "You don't know. Nobody could get that hungry." The voice paused, as if the owner were turning the unpleasant subject over in his mind. "Did you know the Seattle Kid?" "Seem to recall. Little squint-eyed guy, handy with his hands?" "That's him. Well, he was in one, maybe a week, and got out. Couldn't tell us how; his mind was gone. I saw him the night he died. His body was a mass of sores, blood poisoning, I guess." He paused then added reflectively: "The smell was pretty bad." Thomas wanted to drop the subject but he needed to know more. "Who gets sent to these camps?" "Any man that isn't already working at an approved job. Boys from fourteen on up. All that was left alive of the army after we folded up. Anybody that's caught without a registration card." "That ain't the half of it," added Moe. "You should see what they do with unassigned women. Why, a woman was telling me just the other day-a nice old gel; gimme a handout. She was telling me about her niece used to be a schoolteacher, and the flat faces don't want any American schools or teachers. When they registered her they.” "Shut up, Moe. You talk too much." It was disconnected, fragmentary, the more so as he was rarely able to ask direct questions concerning the things he really wanted to know. Nevertheless he gradually built up a picture of a people being systematically and thoroughly enslaved, a picture of a nation as helpless as a man completely paralyzed, its defenses destroyed, its communications entirely in the hands of the invaders. Everywhere he found boiling resentment, a fierce willingness to fight against the tyranny, but it was undirected, uncoordinated, and, in any modern sense, unarmed. Sporadic rebellion was as futile as the scurrying of ants whose hill has been violated. Pan-Asians could be killed, yes, and there were men willing to shoot on sight, even in the face of the certainty of their own deaths. But their hands were bound by the greater certainty of brutal multiple retaliation against their own kind. As with the Jews in Germany before the final blackout in Europe, bravery was not enough, for one act of violence against the tyrants would be paid for by other men, women, and children at unspeakable compound interest. Even more distressing than the miseries he saw and heard about were the reports of the planned elimination of the American culture as such. The schools were closed. No word might be printed in English. There was a suggestion of a time, one generation away, when English would be an illiterate language, used orally alone by helpless peons who would never be able to revolt for sheer lack of a means of communication on any wide scale. It was impossible to form any rational estimate of the numbers of Asiatics now in the United States. Transports, it was rumored, arrived daily on the West coast, bringing thousands of administrative civil servants, most of whom were veterans of the amalgamation of India. Whether or not they could be considered as augmenting the armed forces who had conquered and now policed the country it was difficult to say, but it was evident that they would replace the white minor officials who now assisted in civil administration at pistol point. When those white officials were "eliminated" it would be still more difficult to organize resistance. Thomas found the means to enter the cities in one of the hobo jungles. Finny-surname unknown-was not, properly speaking, a knight of the road, but one who had sought shelter among them and who paid his way by practicing his talent. He was an old anarchist comrade who had served his concept of freedom by engraving really quite excellent Federal Reserve notes without complying with the formality of obtaining permission from the treasury department. Some said that his name had been Phineas; others connected his moniker with his preference for manufacturing five-dollar bills, "big enough to be useful; not big enough to arouse suspicion." He made a registration card for Thomas at the request of one of the 'bos. He talked while Thomas watched him work. "It's only the registration number that we really have to worry about, son. Practically none of the Asiatics you will run into can read English, so it really doesn't matter a lot we say about you. Mary had a little lamb, would probably do. Same for the photograph. To them, all white men look alike." He picked up a handful of assorted photographs from his kit and peered at them nearsightedly through thick spectacles. "Here, pick out one of these that looks not unlike you and we will use it. Now for the number.” The old man's hands were shaky, almost palsied, yet they steadied down to a deft sureness as he transferred India ink to cardboard in amazing simulation of machine printing. And this he did without proper equipment, without precision tools, under primitive conditions. Thomas understood why the old artist's masterpieces caused headaches for bank clerks. "There!" he announced. "I've given you a serial number which states that you were registered shortly after the change, and a classification number which permits you to travel. It also says that you are physically unfit for manual labor, and are permitted to peddle or beg. It's the same thing to their minds." "Thanks, awfully," said Thomas. "Now, uh, what do I owe you for this?" Finny's reaction made him feel as if he had uttered some indecency. "Don't mention payment, my son! Money is wrong-it's the means whereby man enslaves his brother." "I beg your pardon, sir," Thomas apologized sincerely. "Nevertheless, I wish there were some way for me to do something for you." "That is another matter. Help your brother when you can, and help will come to you when you need it. " Thomas found the old anarchist's philosophy confused, confusing, and impractical, but he spent considerable time drawing him out, as he seemed to know more about the Pan-Asians than anyone else he had met. Finny seemed unafraid of them and completely confident of his own ability to cope with them when necessary. Of all the persons Thomas had met since the change, Finny seemed the least disturbed by it in fact, disturbed not at all, and completely lacking in any emotion of hate or bitterness. This was hard for him to understand at first in a person as obviously warmhearted as Finny, but he came to realize that, since, the anarchist believed that all government was wrong and that all men were to him in fact brothers, the difference to him was one of degree only. Looking at the Pan-Asians through Finny's eyes there was nothing to hate; they were simply more misguided souls whose excesses were deplorable. Thomas did not see it from such Olympian detachment. The Pan-Asians were murdering and oppressing a once-free people. A good Pan-Asian was a dead Pan-Asian, he told himself, until the last one was driven back across the Pacific. If Asia was overpopulated, let them limit their birth rate. Nevertheless, Finny's detachment and freedom from animus enabled Thomas more nearly to appreciate the nature of the problem. "Don't make the mistake of thinking of the Pan-Asians as bad, they're not, but they are different. Behind their arrogance is a racial inferiority complex, a mass paranoia, that makes it necessary for them to prove to themselves by proving to us that a yellow man is just as good as a white man, and a damned sight better. Remember that, son, they want the outward signs of respect more than they want anything else in the world." "But why should they have an inferiority complex about us? We've been completely out of touch with them for more than two generations-ever since the Nonintercourse Act." "Do you think racial memory is that short-lived? The seeds of this are way back in the nineteenth century. Do you recall that two high Japanese officials had to commit honorable suicide to wipe out a slight that was done Commodore Perry when he opened up Japan? Now those two deaths are being paid for by the deaths of thousands of American officials." "But the Pan-Asians aren't Japanese." "No, and they are not Chinese. They are a mixed race, strong, proud, and prolific. From the American standpoint they have the vices of both and the virtues of neither. But from my standpoint they are simply human beings, who have been duped into the old fallacy of the State as a super-entity. Ich habe einen Kameraden. Once you understand the nature of.” He went off into a long dissertation, a mixture of Rousseau, Rocker, Thoreau, and others. Thomas found it inspirational, but unconvincing. But the discussion with Finny was of real use to Thomas in comprehending what they were up against. The Nonintercourse Act had kept the American people from knowing anything important about their enemy. Thomas wrinkled his brow, trying to recall what he knew about the history of it. At the time it had been passed, the Act had been no more than a de jure recognition of a de facto condition. The sovietizing of Asia had excluded westerners, particularly Americans, from Asia more effectively than could any Act of Congress. The obscure reasons that had led the Congress of that period to think that the United States gained in dignity by passing a law confirming what the commissars had already done to us baled Thomas; it smacked of Sergeant Dogberry's policy toward thieves. He supposed that it had simply seemed cheaper to wish Red Asia out of existence than to fight a war. The policy behind the Act had certainly seemed to justify itself for better than half a century; there had been no war. The proponents of the measure had maintained that China was a big bite even for Soviet Russia to digest and that the United States need fear no war while the digesting was taking place. They had been correct as far as they went but as a result of the Nonintercourse Act we had our backs turned when China digested Russia. Leaving America to face a system even stranger to western ways of thinking than had been the Soviet system it displaced. On the strength of the forged registration card and Finny's coaching as to the etiquette of being a serf, Thomas ventured into a medium-sized city. The cleverness of Finny's work was put to test almost immediately. He had stopped at a street corner to read a posted notice. It was a general order to all Americans to be present at a television receiver at eight each evening in order to note any instructions that their rulers might have for them. It was not news; the order had been in effect for some days and he had heard of it. He was about to turn away when he felt a sharp, stinging blow across his shoulder blades. He whirled around and found himself facing a Pan-Asian wearing the green uniform of a civil administrator and carrying a swagger cane. "Keep out of the way, boy!" He spoke in English, but in a light, singing tone which lacked the customary American accentuation. Thomas jumped into the gutter. ”They like to look down, not up,” and clasped his hands together in the form required. He ducked his head and replied, "The master speaks; the servant obeys." "That's better," acknowledged the Asiatic, apparently somewhat mollified. "Your ticket." The man's accent was not bad, but Thomas did not comprehend immediately, possibly because the emotional impact of his experience in the role of slave was all out of proportion to what he had expected. To say that he raged inwardly is meaninglessly inadequate. The swagger cane cut across his face. "Your ticket!" Thomas produced his registration card. The time the Oriental spent in examining it gave Thomas an opportunity to pull himself together to some extent. At the moment he did not care greatly whether the card passed muster or not; if it came to trouble, he would take this one apart with his bare hands. But it passed. The Asiatic grudgingly handed it back and strutted away, unaware that death had brushed his elbow. It turned out that there was little to be picked up in town that he had not already acquired secondhand in the hobo jungles. He had a chance to estimate for himself the proportion of rulers to ruled, and saw for himself that the schools were closed and the newspapers had vanished. He noted with interest that church services were still held, although any other gathering together of white men in assembly was strictly forbidden. But it was the dead, wooden faces of the people, the quiet children, that got under his skin and made him decide to sleep in the jungles rather than in town. Thomas ran across an old friend at one of the hobo hideouts. Frank Roosevelt Mitsui was as American as Will Rogers, and much more American than that English aristocrat, George Washington. His grandfather had brought his grandmother, half Chinese and half wahini, from Honolulu to Los Angeles, where he opened a nursery and raised flowers, plants, and little yellow children, children that knew neither Chinese nor Japanese, nor cared. Frank's father met his mother, Thelma Wang, part Chinese but mostly Caucasian, at the International Club at the University of Southern California. He took her to the Imperial Valley and installed her on a nice ranch with a nice mortgage. By the time Frank was raised, so was the mortgage. Jet Thomas had cropped lettuce and honeydew melon for Frank Mitsui three seasons and knew him as a good boss. He had become almost intimate with his employer because of his liking for the swarm of brown kids that were Frank's most important crop. But the sight of a flat, yellow face in a hobo jungle made Thomas' hackles rise and almost interfered with his recognizing his old acquaintance. It was an awkward meeting. Well as he knew Frank, Thomas was in no mood to trust an Oriental. It was Frank's eyes that convinced him; they held a tortured look that was even more intense than that found in the eyes of white men, a look that did not lessen even while he smiled and shook hands. "Well, Frank," Jeff improvised inanely, "who'd expect to find you here? I should think you'd find it easy to get along with the new regime." Frank Mitsui looked still more unhappy and seemed to be fumbling for words. One of the other hobos cut in. "Don't be a fool, Jeff. Don't you know what they've done to people like Frank?" "No, I don't." "Well, you're on the dodge. If they catch you, it's the labor camp. So is Frank. But if they catch him, it's curtains-right now. They'll shoot him on sight." "So? What did you do, Frank?" Mitsui shook his head miserably. "He didn't do anything," the other continued. "The empire has no use for American Asiatics. They're liquidating them." It was quite simple. The Pacific coast Japanese, Chinese, and the like did not fit into the pattern of serfs and overlords-particularly the half-breeds. They were a danger to the stability of the pattern. With cold logic they were being hunted down and killed. Thomas listened to Frank's story. "When I got home they were dead-all of them. My little Shirley, Junior, Jimmy, the baby-and Alice." He put his face in his hands and wept. Alice was his wife. Thomas remembered her as a brown, stocky woman in overalls and straw hat, who talked very little but smiled a lot. "At first I thought I would kill myself," Mitsui went on when he had sufficient control of himself, "then I knew better. I hid in an irrigation ditch for two days, and then I got away over the mountains. Then some whites almost killed me before I could convince them I was on their side." Thomas could understand how that would happen, and could think of nothing to say. Frank was damned two ways; there was no hope for him. "What do you intend to do now, Frank?" He saw a sudden return of the will to live in the man's face. "That is why I will not let myself die! Ten for each one,” he counted them off on his brown fingers, “ten of those devils for each one of my babies-and twenty for Alice. Then maybe ten more for myself, and I can die." "Hum. Any luck?" "Thirteen, so far. It is slow, for I have to be very sure, so that they won't kill me before I finish." Thomas pondered it in his mind, trying to fit this new knowledge into his own purpose. Such fixed determination should be useful, if directed. But it was some hours later before he approached Mitsui again. "How would you," he asked gently, "like to raise your quota from ten to a thousand each-two thousand for Alice?" CHAPTER THREE. The exterior alarms brought Ardmore to the portal long before Thomas whistled the tune that activated the door. Ardmore watched the door by televisor from the guard room, his thumb resting on a control, ready to burn out of existence any unexpected visitor. When he saw Thomas enter his thumb relaxed, but at the sight of his companion it tightened again. A Pan-Asian! He almost blasted them in sheer reflex before he checked himself. It was possible, barely possible, that Thomas had brought a prisoner to question. "Major! Major Ard

FOR DOROTHY AND CLARE. Formatted from a scan. TOMORROW, THE STARS A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc. Printing History Doubleday edition published 1952 Berkley edition / June 1967 Sixteenth printing / September 1981 All rights reserved. Copyright (c) 1952 by Doubleday and Company, Inc. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 245 Park Avenue, New York, New York 10017. ISBN: 0-425-05357-1 A BERKLEY BOOK TM 757,375 Berkley Books are published by Berkley Publishing Corporation, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. Printed in the United States of America Contents: 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. PREFACE. The first science-fiction anthology merited a reader's examination as something new; the nineteenth (or fiftieth; the number changes rapidly) cannot plead that justification and needs a reason for being other than the well-known hunger of writers, editors, and publishers. The purpose of this book is to give you pleasure. The stories have been selected to entertain, and within the very broad category of "speculative fiction," no other criterion has been used. Our intention has been to bring together good stories, ones which give pleasure on rereading and which have not previously been available in book form. These stories may possibly instruct, mystify, elevate, or inspire; if so, consider such to be bonuses not covered by the purchase price; our single motive is to entertain you. Science fiction has only recently become popular and is not yet fully respectable. Until the end of World War Two it was, in the opinion of most critics, by definition "trash" and so convicted without a hearing. The scientific marvels of World War Two, radar, atom bombs, giant rockets, and the rather spectacular success of science-fiction writers in predicting these things combined to cause a widespread postwar interest in speculative fiction, stories about the future, which in time forced the professional critics to notice this stepchild of literature. And yet one may pause to wonder why the stepchild was so completely ignored before the war. Quite aside from the pulp specialty magazines, many worthwhile, deeply thoughtful novels of this genre were available to the critics before World War Two, for example, S. Fowler Wright's monumental The World Below, or Olaf Stapledon's philosophical novels of the future of our race. And many of the standard literary lions had ventured at least one science fiction novel. Why should so much of J. B. Priestley's reputation rest on Angel Pavement while The Doomsday Men is almost unheard of? Why was there a rage for The Green Hat while Michael Arlen's Man's Mortality made hardly a ripple? The four authors cited cannot possibly be accused of being semiliterate hacks suited only to publication on pulpwood paper and catering to that portion of the public which moves its lips while reading. Why were their serious works in speculative fiction ignored? I'll chance a guess. The story about the future never has fitted comfortably into the implicitly defined limits of serious literature. In the prose field, literature, in the stuffy and respectable sense usually meant either the historical novel or certain rather pedestrian types of the contemporary novel. One gathers the impression that it helps for the author to be dead or to have had the good judgment to write his story first in a language less well known than English, but these are not indispensable requirements. Rather ponderous length seems to be part of the unspoken definition, extensive research should be either self-evident or claimed, and dialogue is usually sparse and not too sprightly. A clearly stated regional scene is a help too, especially if it is back country. Such a novel the literary critic can take in his stride, read in one evening, and compose his review while shaving. It either does or does not come up to his standards and he knows why. Either way, it is an accepted type and a serious piece of work. Science fiction does not fit into this frame; it's a much more exotic art. The critic may find himself shying away from this literary freak. He can judge quickly whether or not it is grammatical and readable, but what about the content? A man who has applied himself seriously to the field of English literature may not have had time to be well-read in geology, nuclear physics, rocket engineering, astrophysics, genetics, cosmogony, cybernetics, chemistry, biophysics, and electronics. Can he afford to recommend this item as a serious and worthwhile work? Does the author know what he is talking about, or is the rude fellow pulling one's leg? Perhaps his "science" is of the Sunday-supplement variety, in which case one would not wish to recommend it. But how is one to know? The dilemma is quite real, for there are many stories around which bear the same close superficial resemblance to honest science fiction that a lead quarter does to a product of the Denver mint. The critic is hardly to be blamed if he chooses to pass up extravagant stories of the future in favor of the tried and true. Science fiction is even less prepared to compete for attention in the most modern of the ultra-literary school. Science-fiction heroes are almost always likable, rarely psychotic, the mad scientist has had his day, and they almost never fall in love with their sisters or their fathers' wives or mistresses. The writers of science fiction without exception favor clear, lucid, grammatical sentences; I do not guarantee against an occasional split infinitive, but they never write in a Joycean or neo-Freudian mishmash. As you can see, the fiction of the future is much too old-fashioned to win even a passing nod from the avant-garde school critics. Perhaps it is just as well. Let me add that the skilled practitioners, no other sort are represented in this volume, have learned not to lard their stories with obscure and polysyllabic technical terms and have learned how to define in context such few special terms as may be indispensable to following the story. They have even given up the long-cherished practice of assigning to natives of other planets names consisting mainly of throat-rasping gutturals. I must admit that sparsely dressed and exceedingly nubile young ladies still appear on the covers of some of the specialist magazines, but they are rarely to be found now in the stories inside those same magazines; their persistence on the covers is simply a part of the same phenomenon to be found in cigarette, automobile, and deodorant ads. Literature or not, science fiction is here to stay; it will not be crowded out even by the new Plunging-Neckline school of the historical novel, nor by the four-letter-word school of the contemporary novel. Youths who build hot-rods are not dismayed by spaceships; in their adult years they will build such ships. In the meantime they will read stories of interplanetary travel, and they are being joined by their entire families. The future rushes at us apace, faster than sound, approaching the speed of light; the healthy-minded are aware of our headlong plunge into a strange and different, possibly terrifying, future and see nothing improper in speculating about the shape of tomorrow. Science fiction is sometimes miscalled "escape literature," a mistake arising from a profound misconception of its nature and caused by identifying it with fantasy. Science fiction and fantasy are as different as Karl Marx and Groucho Marx. Fantasy is constructed either by denying the real world in toto or at least by making a prime basis of the story one or more admittedly false premise, fairies, talking mules, trips through a looking glass, vampires, seacoast Bohemia, Mickey Mouse. But science fiction, no matter how fantastic its content may seem, always accepts all of the real world and the entire body of human knowledge about the real world as the framework for the fictional speculation. Since the field of human knowledge concerning the real world, its natural laws, events, and phenomena, is much too large for any one brain, every science-fiction author is bound to make some slips, but here it is the intention that counts: the author's purpose is not to escape from reality but to explore seriously the complex and amazing manifold of possibilities which lie unrevealed in the future of our race, to explore them in the light of what we do know now. If such is escape literature, then so is an insurance policy. There is only one story here. “I'm Scared," by Jack Finney, which could possibly be called "escape literature", but it provides no escape for the reader. Better skip it. All of the stories herein are honest science fiction, but there is another type of story masquerading as science fiction which circulates like the lead quarters mentioned earlier. Call it "pseudo-scientific fantasy." The writers thereof are either too ignorant or too careless to do the painstaking work required to produce honest speculation. Much of it gets printed, unfortunately, since all editors cannot be expected to be erudite in all fields of knowledge. Nor do you find it only in the pulp magazines with the pretty bare-skinned ladies and the bugeyed monsters on the covers; it is as likely to pop up in the most respected slick-paper magazines or between the boards of dignified tradebook houses. Such stories may be rife with spaceships, ray guns, and mutant monsters, but they are marked by a crude disregard for established fact. However, knowledge of the world about us and of the scientific facts which describe its functioning is rather widespread these days; the effect of such barbarisms on the reader who does happen to know that the facts are being manhandled is much like that which would arise from the reading of a "historical" novel which asserted that Henry the eighth was the son of Queen Elizabeth, or a war story in which the writer was under the impression that corporals were senior to master sergeants. It is to be hoped that, as the public increases in sophistication in these matters, such writers will find it necessary to go back to working for a living. In the meantime, such slips as you may find in this book are the honest mistakes of honest workmen; I think I can vouch that such errors as exist do not invalidate the stories in which they appear. Science fiction is not fantasy, but it can certainly be fantastic, and be assured that the more fantastic it is, the more wild, the more extravagant it sounds, it is that much more likely to be a reasonably correct extrapolation of what our real future will be. Regard the difference between the 1900 horse-and-buggy and the 1950 faster-than-sound plane. Our fictional prophecies almost certainly err on the side of conservatism. In this book you will find stories of space travel (of course!), a gambol in the fourth dimension, telekinesis, robots, intelligent plants, strange nonhuman creatures from the other side of the galaxy, and invasions from Mars. The Wonderful Land of Oz has not more to offer, and none of it is fantasy. Did I hear someone describe robots as fantasy? I myself find humanoid robots hard to believe in, but who am I to set my prejudices against the facts? I put it to you that a B-36 in flight is a fair example of a robot activated by a controlling human brain. I submit further that it is a longer step from the covered wagon to the B36 than it is from present cybernetic machines to Doctor Asimov's "positronic robots." But can a machine have consciousness, life, volition? We don't know, because we do not as yet know what any of those things are. Meanwhile, robotics is a legitimate field for speculation. Time travel? We don't understand the nature of time; it is much too early to say that time travel is impossible. Telekinesis? Refer to the abstruse reports pouring out of Duke University and elsewhere, then resolve never again to bet on dice. The control of mass by the human mind is as factually established as yesterday's sunrise. Tomorrow's sunrise is, of course, only a high probability. For the impact that telekinesis may have on your grandchildren, or on you, see "The Barnhouse Effect" herewith. Space travel? Go down to White Sands, watch them throw one of the big ones away, and be convinced. Space travel is about to move from speculative fiction to contemporary fiction and news story, and some of us are a wee bit wistful about it. How can we dream up wonderful new Martians when the National Geographic starts running photographs of real ones? One story is included here almost as a period piece. “Rainmaker." When first published shortly after World War Two this piece was science fiction; now the commercial trade of rainmaking has reached the point where lawsuits dealing with it clutter the courts. Technology has overtaken prophecy. But a good story is not ruined thereby; "Rainmaker" is still fun to read. Besides, it is clinching demonstration of the vast difference between pseudo-scientific fantasy and the real article. But it is the fact that "Rainmaker" was and remains a pleasure to read that controlled its inclusion here; we the editors are strongly convinced that science-fiction pieces should be stories, warm and human, not thinly disguised engineering reports. On that note this essay will close in order that you may get on with the real purpose of this book, the reading of stories about people who might be your grandchildren, facing new problems in this wildly fantastic universe. Each story has been read and reread by each of five editors, and enjoyed each time; we expect that you will enjoy them too. My thanks to the other four, Truman Talley, Judith Merril, Fred Pohl, and Walter Bradbury. ROBERT “A.” HEINLEIN. Colorado Springs. I'M SCARED. By Jack Finney. I'm very badly scared, not so much for myself, I'm a gray-haired man of sixty-six, after all, but for you and everyone else who has not yet lived out his life. For I believe that certain dangerous things have recently begun to happen in the world. They are noticed here and there, idly discussed, then dismissed and forgotten. Yet I am convinced that unless these occurrences are recognized for what they are, the world will be plunged into a nightmare. Judge for yourself. One evening last winter I came home from a chess club to which I belong. I'm a widower; I live alone in a small but comfortable three-room apartment overlooking Fifth Avenue. It was still fairly early, and I switched on a lamp beside my leather easy chair, picked up a murder mystery I'd been reading, and turned on the radio; I did not, I'm sorry to say, notice which station it was tuned to. The tubes warmed, and the music of an accordion, faint at first, then louder, came from the loud-speaker. Since it was good music for reading, I adjusted the volume control and began to read. Now I want to be absolutely factual and accurate about this, and I do not claim that I paid close attention to the radio. But I do know that presently the music stopped and an audience applauded. Then a man's voice, chuckling and pleased with the applause, said. ”All right, all right," but the applause continued for several more seconds. During that time the voice once more chuckled appreciatively, then firmly repeated. ”All right," and the applause died down. "That was Alec Somebody-or-other," the radio voice said, and I went back to my book. But I soon became aware of this middle-aged voice again; perhaps a change of tone as he turned to a new subject caught my attention. "And now, Miss Ruth Greeley," he was saying. ”of Trenton, New Jersey. Miss Greeley is a pianist; that right?" A girl's voice, timid and barely audible, said. ”That's right, Major Bowes." The man's voice, and now I recognized his familiar singsong delivery, said. ”And what are you going to play?" The girl replied. “La Paloma.” The man repeated it after her, as an announcement: "'La Paloma.'" There was a pause, then an introductory chord sounded from a piano, and I resumed my reading. As the girl played, I was half aware that her style was mechanical, her rhythm defective; perhaps she was nervous. Then my attention was fully aroused once more by a gong which sounded suddenly. For a few notes more the girl continued to play falteringly, not sure what to do. The gong sounded jarringly again, the playing abruptly stopped and there was a restless murmur from the audience. "All right, all right," said the familiar voice, and I realized I'd been expecting this, knowing it would say just that. The audience quieted, and the voice began. ”Now.” The radio went dead. For the smallest fraction of a second no sound issued from it but its own mechanical hum. Then a completely different program came from the loudspeaker; the recorded voices of Bing Crosby and his son were singing the concluding bars of "Sam's Song," a favorite of mine. So I returned once more to my reading, wondering vaguely what had happened to the other program, but not actually thinking about it until I finished my book and began to get ready for bed. Then, undressing in my bedroom, I remembered that Major Bowes was dead. Years had passed, half a decade, since that dry chuckle and familiar. ”All right, all right," had been heard in the nation's living rooms. Well, what does one do when the apparently impossible occurs? It simply made a good story to tell friends, and more than once I was asked if I'd recently heard Moran and Mack, a pair of radio comedians popular some twenty-five years ago, or Floyd Gibbons, an old-time news broadcaster. And there were other joking references to my crystal radio set. But one man, this was at a lodge meeting the following Thursday, listened to my story with utter seriousness, and when I had finished he told me a queer little story of his own. He is a thoughtful, intelligent man, and as I listened I was not frightened, but puzzled at what seemed to be a connecting link, a common denominator, between this story and the odd behavior of my radio. Since I am retired and have plenty of time, I took the trouble, the following day, of making a two-hour train trip to Connecticut in order to verify the story firsthand. I took detailed notes, and the story appears in my files now as follows: Case 2. Louis Trachnor, coal and wood dealer, R F D 1, Danbury, Connecticut, aged fifty-four. On July 20, 1950, Mister Trachnor told me, he walked out on the front porch of his house about six o'clock in the morning. Running from the eaves of his house to the floor of the porch was a streak of gray paint, still damp. "It was about the width of an eight-inch brush," Mister Trachnor told me, ”and it looked like hell, because the house was white. I figured some kids did it in the night for a joke, but if they did, they had to get a ladder up to the eaves and you wouldn't figure they'd go to that much trouble. It wasn't smeared, either; it was a careful job, a nice even stripe straight down the front of the house." Mister Trachnor got a ladder and cleaned off the gray paint with turpentine. In October of that same year Mister Trachnor painted his house. "The white hadn't held up so good, so I painted it gray. I got to the front last and finished about five one Saturday afternoon. Next morning when I came out I saw a streak of white right down the front of the house. I figured it was the damn kids again, because it was the same place as before. But when I looked close, I saw it wasn't new paint; it was the old white I'd painted over. Somebody had done a nice careful job of cleaning off the new paint in a long stripe about eight inches wide right down from the eaves! Now who the hell would go to that trouble? I just can't figure it out." Do you see the link between this story and mine? Suppose for a moment that something had happened, on each occasion, to disturb briefly the orderly progress of time. That seemed to have happened in my case; for a matter of some seconds I apparently heard a radio broadcast that had been made years before. Suppose, then, that no one had touched Mister Trachnor's house but himself; that he had painted his house in October, but that through some fantastic mix-up in time, a portion of that paint appeared on his house the previous summer. Since he had cleaned the paint off at that time, a broad strip of new gray paint was missing after he painted his house in the fall. I would be lying, however, if I said I really believed this. It was merely an intriguing speculation, and I told both these little stories to friends, simply as curious anecdotes. I am a sociable person, see a good many people, and occasionally I heard other odd stories in response to mine. Someone would nod and say,” Reminds me of something I heard recently.” and I would have one more to add to my collection. A man on Long Island received a telephone call from his sister in New York one Friday evening. She insists that she did not make this call until the following Monday, three days later. At the Forty-fifth Street branch of the Chase National Bank, I was shown a check deposited the day before it was written. A letter was delivered on East Sixty-eighth Street in New York City, just seventeen minutes after it was dropped into a mailbox on the main street of Green River, Wyoming. And so on, and so on; my stories were now in demand at parties, and I told myself that collecting and verifying them was a hobby. But the day I heard Julia Eisenberg's story, I knew it was no longer that. Case 17. Julia Eisenberg, office worker, New York City, aged thirty-one. Miss Eisenberg lives in a small walk-up apartment in Greenwich Village. I talked to her there after a chess-club friend who lives in her neighborhood had repeated to me a somewhat garbled version of her story, which was told to him by the doorman of the building he lives in. In October 1947, about eleven at night, Miss Eisenberg left her apartment to walk to the drugstore for toothpaste. On her way back, not far from her apartment, a large black-and-white dog ran up to her and put his front paws on her chest. "I made the mistake of petting him," Miss Eisenberg told me,” and from then on he simply wouldn't leave. When I went into the lobby of my building, I actually had to push him away to get the door closed. I felt sorry for him, poor hound, and a little guilty, because he was still sitting at the door an hour later when I looked out my front window." This dog remained in the neighborhood for three days, discovering and greeting Miss Eisenberg with wild affection each time she appeared on the street. "When I'd get on the bus in the morning to go to work, he'd sit on the curb looking after me in the most mournful way, poor thing. I wanted to take him in, but I knew he'd never go home then, and I was afraid whoever owned him would be sorry to lose him. No one in the neighborhood knew whom he belonged to, and finally he disappeared." Two years later a friend gave Miss Eisenberg a three-week-old puppy. "My apartment is really too small for a dog, but he was such a darling I couldn't resist. Well, he grew up into a nice big dog who ate more than I did." Since the neighborhood was quiet, and the dog well behaved, Miss Eisenberg usually unleashed him when she walked him at night, for he never strayed far. "One night, I'd last seen him sniffing around in the dark a few doors down, I called to him and he didn't come back. And he never did; I never saw him again. "Now our street is a solid wall of brownstone buildings on both sides, with locked doors and no areaways. He couldn't have disappeared like that, he just couldn't. But he did." Miss Eisenberg hunted for her dog for many days afterward, inquired of neighbors, put ads in the papers, but she never found him. "Then one night I was getting ready for bed; I happened to glance out the front window down at the street, and suddenly I remembered something I'd forgotten all about. I remembered the dog I'd chased away over two years before." Miss Eisenberg looked at me for a moment, then she said flatly. “It was the same dog. If you own a dog you know him, you can't be mistaken, and I tell you it was the same dog. Whether it makes sense or not, my dog was lost, I chased him away, two years before he was born." She began to cry silently, the tears running down her face. "Maybe you think I'm crazy, or a little lonely and overly sentimental about a dog. But you're wrong." She brushed at her tears with a handkerchief. "I'm a well-balanced person, as much as anyone is these days, at least, and I tell you I know what happened." It was at that moment, sitting in Miss Eisenberg's neat, shabby living room, that I realized fully that the consequences of these odd little incidents could be something more than merely intriguing; that they might, quite possibly, be tragic. It was in that moment that I began to be afraid. I have spent the last eleven months discovering and tracking down these strange occurrences, and I am astonished and frightened at how many there are. I am astonished and frightened at how much more frequently they are happening now, and, I hardly know how to express this, at their increasing power to tear human lives tragically apart. This is an example, selected almost at random, of the increasing strength of, whatever it is that is happening in the world. Case 34. Paul V. Kerch, accountant, the Bronx, aged thirty-one. On a bright clear Sunday afternoon, I met an unsmiling family of three at their Bronx apartment: Mister Kerch, a chunky, darkly good-looking young man; his wife, a pleasant-faced dark haired woman in her late twenties, whose attractiveness was marred by circles under her eyes; and their son, a nice-looking boy of six or seven. After introductions, the boy was sent to his room at the back of the house to play. "All right," Mister Kerch said wearily then, and walked toward a bookcase.” let's get at it. You said on the phone that you know the story in general." It was half a question, half a statement. "Yes," I said. He took a book from the top shelf and removed some photographs from it. "There are the pictures." He sat down on the davenport beside me, with the photographs in his hand. "I own a pretty good camera. I'm a fair amateur photographer, and I have a darkroom setup in the kitchen; do my own developing. Two weeks ago we went down to Central Park." His voice was a tired monotone, as though this was a story he'd repeated many times, aloud and in his own mind. "It was nice, like today, and the, kid's grandmothers have been pestering us for pictures, so I took a whole roll of film, pictures of all of us. My camera can be set up and focused and it will snap the picture automatically a few seconds later, giving me time to get around in front of it and get in the picture myself." There was a tired, hopeless look in his eyes as he handed me all but one of the photographs. "These are the first ones I took," he said. The photographs were all fairly large, perhaps seven by three and a half inches, and I examined them closely. They were ordinary enough, very sharp and detailed, and each showed the family of three in various smiling poses. Mister Kerch wore a light business suit, his wife had on a dark dress and a cloth coat, and the boy wore a dark suit with knee-length pants. In the background stood a tree with bare branches. I glanced up at Mister Kerch, signifying that I had finished my study of the photographs. "The last picture," he said, holding it in his hand ready to give to me.” I took exactly like the others. We agreed on the pose, I set the camera, walked around in front, and joined my family. Monday night I developed the whole roll. This is what came out on the last negative." He handed me the photograph. For an instant it seemed to me like merely one more photograph in the group; then I saw the difference. Mister Kerch looked much the same, bareheaded and grinning broadly, but he wore an entirely different suit. The boy, standing beside him, wore long pants, and a good three inches taller, obviously older, but equally obviously the same boy. The woman was an entirely different person. Dressed smartly, her light hair catching the sun, she was very pretty and attractive. She was smiling into the camera and holding Mister Kerch's hand. I looked up at him. "Who is this?" Wearily, Mister Kerch shook his head. "I don't know," he said suddenly, then exploded: "I don't know! I've never seen her in my life!" He turned to look at his wife, but she would not return his glance, and he turned back to me, shrugging. "Well, there you have it," he said. "The whole story." And he stood up, thrusting both hands into his trouser pockets, and began to pace about the room, glancing often at his wife, talking to her actually, though he addressed his words to me. "So who is she? How could the camera have snapped that picture? I've never seen that woman in my life!" I glanced at the photograph again, then bent closer. "The trees here are in full bloom," I said. Behind the solemn-faced boy, the grinning man and smiling woman, the trees of Central Park were in full summer leaf. Mister Kerch nodded. "I know," he said bitterly. "And you know what she says?" he burst out, glaring at his wife. "She says that is my wife in the photograph, my new wife a couple of years from now! God!" He snapped both hands down on his head. "The ideas a woman can get!" "What do you mean?" I glanced at Missus. Kerch, but she ignored me, remaining silent, her lips tight. Kerch shrugged hopelessly. "She says that photograph shows how things will be a couple of years from now. She'll be dead or", he hesitated, then said the word bitterly.” divorced, and I'll have our son and be married to the woman in the picture." We both looked at Missus. Kerch, waiting until she was obliged to speak. "Well, if it isn't so," she said, shrugging a shoulder.” then tell me what that picture does mean." Neither of us could answer that, and a few minutes later I left. There was nothing much I could say to the Kerches; certainly I couldn't mention my conviction that, whatever the explanation of the last photograph, their married life was over. Case 72. Lieutenant Alfred Eichler, New York Police Department, aged thirty-three. In the late evening of January 9, 1951, two policemen found a revolver lying just off a gravel path near an East Side entrance to Central Park. The gun was examined for fingerprints at the police laboratory and several were found. One bullet had been fired from the revolver and the police fired another which was studied and classified by a ballistics expert. The fingerprints were checked and found in police files; they were those of a minor hoodlum with a record of assault. A routine order to pick him up was sent out. A detective called at the rooming house where he was known to live, but he was out, and since no unsolved shootings had occurred recently, no intensive search for him was made that night. The following evening a man was shot and killed in Central Park with the same gun. This was proved ballistically past all question of error. It was soon learned that the murdered man had been quarreling with a friend in a nearby tavern. The two men, both drunk, had left the tavern together. And the second man was the hoodlum whose gun had been found the previous night, and which was still locked in a police safe. As Lieutenant Eichler said to me. “It's impossible that the dead man was killed with that same gun, but he was. Don't ask me how, though, and if anybody thinks we'd go into court with a case like that, they're crazy.” Case 111. Captain Hubert V Rihm, New York Police Department, retired, aged sixty-six. I met Captain Rihm by appointment one morning in Stuyvesant Park, a patch of greenery, wood benches, and asphalt surrounded by the city, on lower Second Avenue. "You want to hear about the Fentz case, do you?" he said, after we had introduced ourselves and found an empty bench. "All right, I'll tell you. I don't like to talk about it, it bothers me, but I'd like to see what you think." He was a big, rather heavy man, with a red, tough face, and he wore an old police jacket and uniform cap with the insignia removed. "I was up at City Mortuary," he began as I took out my notebook and pencil,” at Bellevue, about twelve one night, drinking coffee with one of the interns. This was in June of 1950, just before I retired, and I was in Missing Persons. They brought this guy in and he was a funny-looking character. Had a beard. A young guy, maybe thirty, but he wore regular mutton chop whiskers, and his clothes were funny-looking. Now I was thirty years on the force and I've seen a lot of queer guys killed on the streets. We found an Arab once, in full regalia, and it took us a week to find out who he was. So it wasn't just the way the guy looked that bothered me; it was the stuff we found in his pockets." Captain Rihm turned on the bench to see if he'd caught my interest, then continued. "There was about a dollar in change in the dead guy's pocket, and one of the boys picked up a nickel and showed it to me. Now you've seen plenty of nickels, the new ones with Jefferson's picture, the buffalo nickels they made before that, and once in a while you still even see the old Liberty-head nickels; they quit making them before the first world war. But this one was even older than that. It had a shield on the front, a United States shield, and a big five on the back; I used to see that kind when I was a boy. And the funny thing was, that old nickel looked new; what coin dealers call 'mint condition,' like it was made the day before yesterday. The date on that nickel was 1876, and there wasn't a coin in his pocket dated any later." Captain Rihm looked at me questioningly. "Well," I said glancing up from my notebook,” that could happen." "Sure it could," he answered in a satisfied tone,” but all the pennies he had were Indian-head pennies. Now when did you see one of them last? There was even a silver three-cent piece; looked like an old-style dime, only smaller. And the bills in his wallet, every one of them, were old-time bills, the big kind." Captain Rihm leaned forward and spat on the patch, a needle jet of tobacco juice and an expression of a policeman's annoyed contempt for anything deviating from an orderly norm. "Over seventy bucks in cash, and not a federal reserve note in the lot. There were two yellow-back tens. Remember them? They were payable in gold. The rest were old national-banknotes; you remember them too. Issued direct by local banks, personally signed by the bank president; that kind used to be counterfeited a lot. "Well," Captain Rihm continued, leaning back on the bench and crossing his knees.”there was a bill in his pocket from a livery stable on Lexington Avenue; three dollars for feeding and stabling his horse and washing a carriage. There was a brass slug in his pocket good for a five-cent beer at some saloon. There was a letter postmarked Philadelphia, June 1876, with an old-style two-cent stamp, and a bunch of cards in his wallet. The cards had his name and address on them, and so did the letter." "Oh," I said, a little surprised,” you identified him right away, then?" "Sure. Rudolph Fentz, some address on Fifth Avenue, I forget the exact number, in New York City. No problem at all." Captain Rihm leaned forward and spat again. "Only that address wasn't a residence. It's a store, and it has been for years, and nobody there ever heard of any Rudolph Fentz, and there's no such name in the phone book either. Nobody ever called or made any inquiries about the guy, and Washington didn't have his prints. There was a tailor's name in his coat, a lower Broadway address, but nobody there ever heard of this tailor." "What was so strange about his clothes?" The captain said,” Well, did you ever know anyone who wore a pair of pants with big black-and-white checks, cut very narrow, no cuffs, and pressed without a crease?" I had to think for a moment. "Yes," I said then,” my father, when he was a very young man, before he was married; I've seen old photographs." "Sure," said Captain Rihm,”and he probably wore a short sort of cutaway coat with two cloth-covered buttons at the back, a vest with lapels, a tall silk hat, a big, black oversize bow tie on a turned-up stiff collar, and button shoes." "That's how this man was dressed?" "Like seventy-five years ago! And him no more than thirty years old. There was a label in his hat, a Twenty-third Street hat store that went out of business around the turn of the century. Now what do you make out of a thing like that?" "Well," I said carefully,” there's nothing much you can make of it. Apparently someone went to a lot of trouble to dress up in an antique style, the coins and bills I assume he could buy at a coin dealer's, and then he got himself killed in a traffic accident." "Got himself killed is right. Eleven-fifteen at night in Times Square, the theaters letting out, busiest time and place in the world, and this guy shows up in the middle of the street, gawking and looking around at the cars and up at the signs like he'd never seen them before. The cop on duty noticed him, so you can see how he must have been acting. The lights change, the traffic starts up, with him in the middle of the street, and instead of waiting, the damn fool, he turns and tries to make it back to the sidewalk. A cab got him and he was dead when he hit." For a moment Captain Rihm sat chewing his tobacco and staring angrily at a young woman pushing a baby carriage, though I'm sure he didn't see her. The young mother looked at him in surprise as she passed, and the captain continued: "Nothing you can make out of a thing like that. We found out nothing. I started checking through our file of old phone books, just as routine, but without much hope, because they only go back so far. But in the 1939 summer edition I found a Rudolph Fentz, Junioir, somewhere on East Fifty-second Street. He'd moved away in forty two, though, the building super told me, and was a man in his sixties besides, retired from business; used to work in a bank a few blocks away, the super thought. I found the bank where he'd worked, and they told me he'd retired in forty, and had been dead for five years; his widow was living in Florida with a sister. "I wrote to the widow, but there was only one thing she could tell us, and that was no good. I never even reported it, not officially, anyway. Her husband's father had disappeared when her husband was a boy maybe two years old. He went out for a walk around ten one night, his wife thought cigar smoke smelled up the curtains, so he used to take a little stroll before he went to bed, and smoke a cigar, and he didn't come back, and was never seen or heard of again. The family spent a good deal of money trying to locate him, but they never did. This was in the middle 1870s some time; the old lady wasn't sure of the exact date. Her husband hadn't ever said too much about it. "And that's all," said Captain Rihm. "Once I put in one of my afternoons off hunting through a bunch of old police records. And I finally found the Missing Persons file for 1876, and Rudolph Fentz was listed, all right. There wasn't much of a description, and no fingerprints, of course. I'd give a year of my life, even now, and maybe sleep better nights, if they'd had his fingerprints. He was listed as twenty-nine years old, wearing full muttonchop whiskers, a tall silk hat, dark coat and checked pants. That's about all it said. Didn't say what kind of tie or vest or if his shoes were the button kind. His name was Rudolph Fentz and he lived at this address on Fifth Avenue; it must have been a residence then. Final disposition of case: not located. "Now, I hate that case," Captain Rihm said quietly. "I hate it and I wish I'd never heard of it. What do you think?" he demanded suddenly, angrily. "You think this guy walked off into thin air in 1876, and showed up again in 1950?" I shrugged noncommittally, and the captain took it to mean no "No, of course not," he said. "Of course not, but give me some other explanation." I could go on. I could give you several hundred such cases. A sixteen-year-old girl walked out of her bedroom one morning, carrying her clothes in her hand because they were too big for her and she was quite obviously eleven years old again. And there are other occurrences too horrible for print. All of them have happened in the New York City area alone, all within the last few years; and I suspect thousands more have occurred, and are occurring, all over the world. I could go on, but the point is this: What is happening, and why? I believe that I know. Haven't you noticed, too, on the part of nearly everyone you know, a growing rebellion against the present? And an increasing longing for the past? I have. Never before in all my long life have I heard so many people wish that they lived "at the turn of the century," or "when life was simpler," or "worth living," or "when you could bring children into the world and count on the future," or simply "in the good old days." People didn't talk that way when I was young! The present was a glorious time! But they talk that way now. For the first time in man's history, man is desperate to escape the present. Our newsstands are jammed with escape literature, the very name of which is significant. Entire magazines are devoted to fantastic stories of escape, to other times, past and future, to other worlds and planets, escape to anywhere but here and now. Even our larger magazines, book publishers, and Hollywood are beginning to meet the rising demand for this kind of escape. Yes, there is a craving in the world like a thirst, a terrible mass pressure that you can almost feel, of millions of minds struggling against the barriers of time. I am utterly convinced that this terrible mass pressure of millions of minds is already, slightly but definitely, affecting time itself. In the moments when this happens, when the almost universal longing to escape is greatest, my incidents occur. Man is disturbing the clock of time, and I am afraid it will break. When it does, I leave to your imagination the last few hours of madness that will be left to us; all the countless moments that now make up our lives suddenly ripped apart and chaotically tangled in time. Well, I have lived most of my life; I can be robbed of only a few more years. But it seems too bad, this universal craving to escape what could be a rich, productive, happy world. We live on a planet well able to provide a decent life for every soul on it, which is all ninety-nine of a hundred human beings ask. Why in the world can't we have it? THE SILLY SEASON. By C. M. KORNBLUTH. It was a hot summer afternoon in the Omaha bureau of the World Wireless Press Service, and the control bureau in New York kept nagging me for copy. But since it was a hot summer afternoon, there was no copy. A wrapup of local baseball had cleared about an hour ago, and that was that. Nothing but baseball happens in the summer. During the dog days, politicians are in the Maine woods fishing and boozing, burglars are too tired to burgle, and wives think it over and decide not to decapitate their husbands. I pawed through some press releases. One sloppy stencil-duplicated sheet began: "Did you know that the lemonade way to summer comfort and health has been endorsed by leading physiotherapists from Maine to California? The Federated Lemon-Growers Association revealed today that a survey of 2,500 physiotherapists in 57 cities of more than 25,000 population disclosed that 87 percent of them drink lemonade at least once a day between June and September, and that another 72 percent not only drink the cooling and healthful beverage but actually prescribe it.” Another note tapped out on the news circuit printer from New York: "960M-HW kicker? ND SNST-NY." That was New York saying they needed a bright and sparkling little news item immediately,” soonest." I went to the eastbound printer and punched out: "96NY-UPCMNG FU MINS-OM." The lemonade handout was hopeless; I dug into the stack again. The State University summer course was inviting the governor to attend its summer conference on aims and approaches his adult secondary education. The Agricultural College wanted me to warn farmers that white-skinned hogs should be kept from the direct rays of the summer sun. The manager of a fifth-rate local pug sent a write up of his boy and a couple of working press passes to his next bout in the Omaha Arena. The Schwartz and White Bandage Company contributed a glossy eight-by-ten of a blonde in a bathing suit improvised from two S. and W. Redi-Dressings. Accompanying text: "Pert starlet Miff McCoy is ready for any seaside emergency. That's not only a darling swim suit she has on, its two standard all-purpose Redi-Dressing bandages made by the Schwartz and White Bandage Company of Omaha. If a broken rib results from too-strenuous beach athletics, Miff's dress can supply the dressing." Yeah. The rest of the stack wasn't even that good. I dumped them all in the circular file, and began to wrack my brains in spite of the heat. I'd have to fake one, I decided. Unfortunately, there had been no big running silly season story so far this summer, no flying saucers, or monsters in the Florida Everglades, or chloroform bandits terrifying the city. If there had, I could have hopped on and faked a "with." As it was, I'd have to fake a "lead," which is harder and riskier. The flying saucers? I couldn't revive them; they'd been forgotten for years, except by newsmen. The giant turtle of Lake Huron had been quiet for years, too. If I started a chloroform bandit scare, every old maid in the state would back me up by swearing she heard the bandit trying to break in and smelled chloroform, but the cops wouldn't like it. Strange messages from space received at the State University's radar lab? That might do it. I put a sheet of copy paper in the typewriter and sat, glaring at it and hating the silly season. There was a slight reprieve, the Western Union tie-line printer by the desk dinged at me and its sickly-yellow bulb lit up. I tapped out: "WW GA PLS," and the machine began to eject yellow, gummed tape which told me this: "wu co62-dpr collect, fort Hicks arkansas August twenty second 105p, world wireless omaha, town marshal pinkney crawles died mysterious circumstances fish tripping ozark hamlet rush city today. rushers phoned hicksers 'burned death shining domes appeared yesterweek.' jeeping body hicksward. queried rush constable p.c. allenby learning 'seven glassy domes each housesize clearing mile south town. rushers untouched, unapproached. crawles warned but touched and died burns.' note desk, rush fonecall 1.85. shall i upfollow?, benson, fishtripping rushers hicksers yesterweek jeeping hicksward house size 1.85 428p clear" It was just what the doctor ordered. I typed an acknowledgment for the message and pounded out a story, fast. I punched it and started the tape wiggling through the eastbound transmitter before New York could send any more irked notes. The news circuit printer from New York clucked and began relaying my story immediately: "ww72 (kicker) fort hicks, Arkansas, august 22, (ww), mysterious death today struck down a law enforcement officer in a tiny ozark mountain hamlet. Marshal pinkney crawles of fort hicks, Arkansas, died of burns while on a fishing trip to the little village of rush city. Terrified natives of rush city blamed the tragedy on what they called 'shining domes.' they said the so-called domes appeared in a clearing last week one mile south of town. There are seven of the mysterious objects, each one the size of a house. The inhabitants of rush city did not dare approach them. they warned the visiting marshal crawles, but he did not heed their warning. Rush city's constable p.c. allenby was a witness to the tragedy. Said he: "There isn't much to tell. Marshal crawles just walked up to one of the domes and put his hand on it. there was a big plash, and when I could see again, he was burned to death.'Cconstable Allenby is returning the body of marshal crawles to fort hicks. 602 p 220 m." That, I thought, should hold them for a while. I remembered Benson's "note desk" and put through a long distance call to Fort Hicks, person to person. The Omaha operator asked for Fort Hicks information, but there wasn't any. The Fort Hicks operator asked whom she wanted. Omaha finally admitted that we wanted to talk to Mister Edwin C. Benson. Fort Hicks figured out loud and then decided that Ed was probably at the police station if he hadn't gone home for supper yet. She connected us with the police station, and I got Benson. He had a pleasant voice, not particularly backwoods Arkansas. I gave him some of the old oil about a fine dispatch, and a good, conscientious job, and so on. He took it with plenty of dry reserve, which was odd. Our rural stringers always ate that kind of stuff up. Where, I asked him, was he from? "Fort Hicks," he told me,” but I've moved around. I did the courthouse beat in Little Rock.” I nearly laughed out loud at that, but the laugh died out as he went on. ”Rewrite for the A.P. in New Orleans, not to be bureau chief there but I didn't like wire service work. Got an opening on the Chicago Tribune desk. That didn't last, they sent me to head up their Washington bureau. There I switched to the New York Tunes. They made me a war correspondent and I got hurt, back to Fort Hicks. I do some magazine writing now. Did you want a follow-up on the Rush City story?" "Sure," I told him weakly. "Give it a real ride, use your own judgment. Do you think it's a fake?" "I saw Pink's body a little while ago at the undertaker's parlor, and I had a talk with Allenby, from Rush City. Pink got burned all right, and Allenby didn't make his story up. Maybe somebody else did, he's pretty dumb, but as far as I can tell, this is the real thing. I'll keep the copy coming. Don't forget about that dollar eighty-five phone call, will you?" I told him I wouldn't, and hung up. Mister Edwin C. Benson had handed me quite a jolt. I wondered how badly he had been hurt, that he had been forced to abandon a brilliant news career and bury himself in the Ozarks. Then there came a call from God, the board chairman of World Wireless. He was fishing in Canada, as all good board chairmen do during the silly season, but he had caught a news broadcast which used my Rush City story. He had a mobile phone in his trailer, and it was but the work of a moment to ring Omaha and louse up my carefully planned vacation schedules and rotation of night shifts. He wanted me to go down to Rush City and cover the story personally. I said yes and began trying to round up the rest of the staff. My night editor was sobered up by his wife and delivered to the bureau in fair shape. A telegrapher on vacation was reached at his summer resort and talked into checking out. I got a taxi company on the phone and told them to have a cross-country cab on the roof in an hour. I specified their best driver, and told them to give him maps of Arkansas. Meanwhile, two "with domes" dispatches arrived from Benson and got moved on the wire. I monitored a couple of newscasts; the second one carried a story by another wire service on the domes, a pickup of our stuff, but they'd have their own men on the scene fast enough. I filled in the night editor, and went up to the roof for the cab. The driver took off in the teeth of a gathering thunderstorm. We had to rise above it, and by the time we could get down to sight-pilotage altitude, we were lost. We circled most of the night until the driver picked up a beacon he had on his charts at about 3:30 a.m. We landed at Fort Hicks as day was breaking, not on speaking terms. Fort Hicks' field clerk told me where Benson lived, and I walked there. It was a white, frame house. A quiet, middle-aged woman let me in. She was his widowed sister, Missus. McHenry. She got me some coffee and told me she had been up all night waiting for Edwin to come back from Rush City. He had started out about 8:00 p.m., and it was only a two-hour trip by car. She was worried. I tried to pump her about her brother, but she'd only say that he was the bright one of the family. She didn't want to talk about his work as war correspondent. She did show me some of his magazine stuff, boy-and-girl stories in national weeklies. He seemed to sell one every couple of months. We had arrived at a conversational stalemate when her brother walked in, and I discovered why his news career had been interrupted. He was blind. Aside from a long, puckered brown scar that ran from his left temple back over his ear and onto the nape of his neck, he was a pleasant-looking fellow in his mid-forties. "Who is it, Vera?" he asked. "It's Mister Williams, the gentleman who called you from Omaha today, I mean yesterday." "How do you do, Williams. Don't get up," he added, hearing, I suppose, the chair squeak as I leaned forward to rise. "You were so long, Edwin," his sister said with relief and reproach. "That young jackass Howie, my chauffeur for the night.” he added an aside to me,” got lost going there and coming back. But I did spend more time than I'd planned at Rush City." He sat down, facing me. "Williams, there is some difference of opinion about the shining domes. The Rush City people say that they exist, and I say they don't." His sister brought him a cup of coffee. "What happened, exactly?" I asked. "That Allenby took me and a few other hardy citizens to see them. They told me just what they looked like. Seven hemispheres in a big clearing, glassy, looming up like houses, reflecting the gleam of the headlights. But they weren't there. Not to me, and not to any blind man. I know when I'm standing in front of a house or anything else that big. I can feel a little tension on the skin of my face. It works unconsciously, but the mechanism is thoroughly understood. "The blind get, because they have to, an aural picture of the world. We hear a little hiss of air that means we're at the corner of a building, we hear and feel big, turbulent air currents that mean we're coming to a busy street. Some of the boys can thread their way through an obstacle course and never touch a single obstruction. I'm not that good, maybe because I haven't been blind as long as they have, but by hell, I know when there are seven objects the size of houses in front of me, and there just were no such things in the clearing at Rush City." "Well," I shrugged,” there goes a fine piece of silly-season journalism. What kind of a gag are the Rush City people trying to pull, and why?" "No kind of gag. My driver saw the domes, too, and don't forget the late marshal. Pink not only saw them but touched them. All I know is that people see them and I don't. If they exist, they have a kind of existence like nothing else I've ever met." "I'll go up there myself," I decided. "Best thing," said Benson. "I don't know what to make of it. You can take our car." He gave me directions and I gave him a schedule of deadlines. We wanted the coroner's verdict, due today, an eyewitness story, his driver would do for that, some background stuff on the area and a few statements from local officials. I took his car and got to Rush City in two hours. It was an un-painted collection of dog-trot homes, set down in the big pine forest that covers all that rolling Ozark country. There was a general store that had the place's only phone. I suspected it had been kept busy by the wire services and a few enterprising newspapers. A state trooper in a flashy uniform was lounging against a fly-specked tobacco counter when I got there. "I'm Sam Williams, from World Wireless," I said. "You come to have a look at the domes?" "World Wireless broke that story, didn't they?" he asked me, with a look I couldn't figure out. "We did. Our Fort Hicks stringer wired it to us." The phone rang, and the trooper answered it. It seemed to have been a call to the Governor's office he had placed. "No, sir," he said over the phone. "No, sir. They're all sticking to the story, but I didn't see anything. I mean, they don't see them anymore, but they say they were there, and now they aren't any more." A couple more "No, sirs" and he hung up. "When did that happen?" I asked. "About a half-hour ago. I just came from there on my bike to report." The phone rang again, and I grabbed it. It was Benson, asking for me. I told him to phone a flash and bulletin to Omaha on the disappearance and then took off to find Constable Allenby. He was a stage Reuben with a nickel-plated badge and a six-shooter. He cheerfully climbed into the car and guided me to the clearing. There was a definite little path worn between Rush City and the clearing by now, but there was a disappointment at the end of it. The clearing was empty. A few small boys sticking carefully to its fringes told wildly contradictory stories about the disappearance of the domes, and I jotted down some kind of dispatch out of the most spectacular versions. I remember it involved flashes of blue fire and a smell like Sulphur candles. That was all there was to it. I drove Allenby back. By then a mobile unit from a TV network had arrived. I said hello, waited for an A.P. man to finish a dispatch on the phone, and then dictated my lead direct to Omaha. The hamlet was beginning to fill up with newsmen from the wire services, the big papers, the radio and TV nets and the newsreels. Much good they'd get out of it. The story was over, I thought. I had some coffee at the general store's two-table restaurant corner and drove back to Fort Hicks. Benson was tirelessly interviewing by phone and firing off copy to Omaha. I told him he could begin to ease off, thanked him for his fine work, paid him for his gas, said goodbye and picked up my taxi at the field. Quite a bill for waiting had been run up. I listened to the radio as we were flying back to Omaha, and wasn't at all surprised. After baseball, the shining domes were the top news. Shining domes had been seen in twelve states. Some vibrated with a strange sound. They came in all colors and sizes. One had strange writing on it. One was transparent, and there were big green men and women inside. I caught a women's mid-morning quiz show, and the M.C. kept gagging about the domes. One crack I remember was a switch on the "pointed-head" joke. He made it "dome-shaped head," and the ladies in the audience laughed until they nearly burst. We stopped in Little Rock for gas, and I picked up a couple of afternoon papers. The domes got banner heads on both of them. One carried the World Wireless lead? And had slapped in the bulletin on the disappearance of the domes. The other paper wasn't a World Wireless client, but between its other services and "special correspondents", phone calls to the general store at Rush City, it had kept practically abreast of us. Both papers had shining dome cartoons on their editorial pages, hastily drawn and slapped in. One paper, anti-administration, showed the President cautiously reaching out a finger to touch the dome of the Capitol, which was rendered as a shining dome and labeled: "shining dome of congressional immunity to executive dictatorship." A little man labeled "Mister and Missus. Plain, Self-Respecting Citizens of The United States of America" was in one corner of the cartoon saying: "CAREFUL, MISTER PRESIDENT! REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED TO PINKNEY CRAWLES!!" The other paper, pro-administration, showed a shining dome that had the President's face. A band of fat little men in Prince Albert coats, string ties, and broad-brimmed hats labeled "congressional smear artists and Hatchet-Men" were creeping up on the dome with the President's face, their hands reached out as if to strangle. Above the cartoon a cutline said: "WHO'S GOING TO GET HURT?" We landed at Omaha, and I checked into the office. Things were clicking right along. The clients were happily gobbling up our dome copy and sending wires asking for more. I dug into the morgue for the "Flying Disc" folder, and the "Huron Turtle" and the "Bayou Vampire" and a few others even further back. I spread out the old clippings and tried to shuffle and arrange them into some kind of underlying sense. I picked up the latest dispatch to come out of the tie-line printer from Western Union. It was from our man in Owosso, Michigan, and told how Missus. Lettie Overholtzer, age 61, saw a shining dome in her own kitchen at midnight. It grew like a soap bubble until it was as big as her refrigerator, and then disappeared. I went over to the desk man and told him: "Let's have a down hold on stuff like Lettie Overholtzer. We can move a sprinkling of it, but I don't want to run this into the ground. Those things might turn up again, and then we wouldn't have any room left to play around with them. We'll have everybody's credulity used up." He looked mildly surprised. "You mean," he asked,” there really was something there?" "I don't know. Maybe. I didn't see anything myself, and the only man down there I trust can't make up his mind. Anyhow, hold it down as far as the clients let us." I went home to get some sleep. When I went back to work, I found the clients hadn't let us work the down hold after all. Nobody at the other wire services seemed to believe seriously that there had been anything out of the ordinary at Rush City, so they merrily pumped out solemn stories like the Lettie Overholtzer item, and wire photo maps of locations where domes were reported, and tabulations of number of domes reported. We had to string along. Our Washington bureau badgered the Pentagon and the A.E.C. into issuing statements, and there was a race between a Navy and an Air Force investigating mission to see who could get to Rush City first. After they got there, there was a race to see who could get the first report out. The Air Force won that contest. Before the week was out, "Domies" had appeared. They were hats for juveniles, shining-dome skull caps molded from a transparent plastic. We ha

Superman Issue one. Action Comics, June 1938, a Puke (TM) Comic

Presented with the minimum level of censoring, Playboy Issue one 1953. 2023 marks the 70th anniversary of the launch of Playboy, with is a suitably random reason for this video.

Editor’s Preface. In Robert “A.” Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land there is a story about a Martian artist so focused on his work that he fails to notice his own death, and completes the piece anyway. To Martians, who don’t go anywhere when they die but simply become Old Ones, the burning question was: should this work be judged by the standards used for art by the living, or for art by the dead? A similar situation occurs here for one of the first times on this planet. This book is a posthumous collaboration, begun when one of its collaborators was seven, and completed when the other was seventeen-years-dead. Spider Robinson discusses this at length in his Afterword, but a brief explanation at the start may help readers to better appreciate what they’re reading, and to decide by what standards they should evaluate it. After the passing of Robert Heinlein’s widow, Virginia, in 2003, his archivist, biographer discovered a detailed outline and notes for a novel the Grand Master had plotted in 1955, but had never gotten around to writing, tentatively titled The Stars Are a Clock. Heinlein’s estate executor and literary agent decided the book deserved to be written and read, and agreed that Spider Robinson was the only logical choice to complete it. First called “the new Robert Heinlein” by the New York Times Book Review in 1982, Robinson has been linked with him in the reviews of most of his own thirty-two award-winning books. The two were close friends. Spider penned a famous essay demolishing his mentor’s detractors called “Rah, Rah, R.A.H.!” and contributed the introduction to Heinlein’s recently-discovered 1939 first book, For Us, the Living. It was a pairing as fortuitous as McCartney and Lennon. You are about to read something genuinely unique and quite special: a classic novel fifty years in the making, conceived in the Golden Age of SF by its first Grand Master, and completed in the Age of Cyberspace by one of his greatest students. Variable Star is Robert “A.” Heinlein’s only collaborative novel, and we believe he would be as proud of it as Spider Robinson is, and as we at Tor are to publish it. Cordwainer Lo Brutto, Senior Editor. One. For it was in the golden prime. Of good Harun Alrashid. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Recollections of the Arabian Nights. I thought I wanted to get married in the worst way. Then that’s pretty much what I was offered, so I ended up going trillions of kilometers out of my way instead. A great many trillions of kilometers, and quite a few years, which turns out to be much the greater distance. It began this way: Jinny Hamilton and I were dancing. This was something of an accomplishment for me, in and of itself, I was born on Ganymede, and I had only been Earthside a few years, then. If you’ve never experienced three times the gravity you consider normal, imagine doing your favorite dance, with somebody your own weight sitting on each of your shoulders, on a pedestal a few meters above concrete. Broken bones, torn ligaments, and concussions are hazards you simply learn to accept. But some people play water polo, voluntarily. Jinny and I had been going out together for most of a year, and dancing was one of her favorite recreations, so by now I had not only made myself learn how to dance, I’d actually become halfway decent at it. Enough to dimly understand how someone with muscles of steel and infinite wind might consider it fun, anyway. But that night was something else. Part of it was the setting, I guess. Your prom is supposed to be a magical time. It was still quite early in the evening, but the Hotel Vancouver ballroom was appropriately decorated and lit, and the band was excellent, especially the singer. Jinny was both the most beautiful and the most interesting person I had ever met. She and I were both finally done with Fermi Junior College, in Surrey, British Columbia. Class of 2286 (Restored Gregorian), huzzah, go, Leptons! In the fall we’d be going off to university together at Stony Brook, on the opposite coast of North America, if my scholarship came through, anyway, and in the meantime we were young, healthy, and hetero. The song being played was one I liked a lot, an ancient old ballad called “On the Road to the Stars,” that always brought a lump to my throat because it was one of my father’s favorites. It’s the reason we came from the mud, don’t you know cause we wanted to climb to the stars, In our flesh and our bone and our blood we all know we were meant to return to the stars, Ask anyone which way is God, and you know he will probably point to the stars. None of that explained the way Jinny danced that night. I knew her as a good dancer, but that night it was almost as if she were possessed by the ghost of Gillis. It wasn’t even just her own dancing, though that was inspired. She did some moves that startled me, phrases so impressive she started to draw attention even on a crowded dance floor. Couples around us kept dancing, but began watching her. Her long red hair swirled through the room like the cape of an inspired toreador, and for a while I could only follow like a mesmerized bull. But then her eyes met mine, and flashed, and the next thing I knew I was attempting a combination I had never even thought of before; one that I knew as I began, was way beyond my abilities, and I nailed it. She sent me a grin that felt like it started a sunburn and offered me an intriguing move, and I thought of something to do with it, and she lobbed it back with a twist, and we got through five fairly complex phrases without a train wreck and out the of her side as smoothly as if we’d been rehearsing for weeks. Some people had stopped dancing to watch, now. On the way to the stars every molecule in you was born in the heart of a star. On the way to the stars, in the dead of the night they’re the light that’ll show where you are yes they are from so far In the back of my head were a few half-formed, half-baked layman’s ideas for dance steps that I wasn’t even sure were physically possible in a one gee field. I’d never had the nerve to actually try any of them with a partner, in any gravity; I really hate looking ridiculous. But Jinny lifted an eyebrow, what have you got?, and before I knew it I was trying one, even though there was no way she could know what her response was supposed to be. Only she did, somehow, and made it, or rather, an improved variation of what I’d thought of, and not only was the result successful enough to draw applause, by luck it happened to offer a perfect lead-in to another of my ideas, which also turned out to work, and suggested something to her, We flew. We’ll be through if the day ever comes when we no longer yearn to return to the stars. I can’t prove it’s so, but I’m certain: I know that our ancestors came from the stars. It would not be so lonely to die if I knew I had died on the way to the stars. Talking about dance is as silly as dancing about architecture. I don’t know how to convey exactly how we danced that night, or what was so remarkable about it. I can barely manage to believe we did it. Just let it stand that we deserved the applause we received when the music finally ended and we went into our closing clinch. It was probably the first time since I’d come to Terra that I didn’t feel heavy and weak and fragile. I felt strong, graceful, manly. “After dancing like that, Stinky, a couple really ought to get married,” Jinny said about two hundred millimeters below my ear. I felt fourteen. “Damn it, Jinny.” I said, and pulled away from her. I reached down for her hands, trying to make it into a dance move, but she eluded me. Instead she curtsied, blew me a kiss, turned on her heel, and left at high speed, to spirited applause. It increased when I ran after her. Jinny was 178 centimeters tall, not especially tall for a Terran, and I was a Ganymedean beanpole two full meters high, so her legs were considerably shorter than mine. But they were also adapted from birth to a one-gee field, to sports in a one-gee field. I didn’t catch up with her until we’d reached the parking lot, and then only because she decided to let me. So we’d each had time to work on our lines. Ginny went with, “Joel Johnston, if you don’t want to marry me.” “Jinny, you know perfectly well I’m going to marry you,” “In five more frimpin’ years! My God, Stinky, I’ll be an old, old woman by then.” “Skinny, you’ll never be an old woman,” I said, and that shut her up for a second. Every so often a good one comes to me like that. Not often enough. “Look, don’t be like this. I can’t marry you right now. You know I can’t.” “I don’t know anything of the sort. I know you won’t. But I see nothing preventing you. You don’t even have to worry about parental consent.” “What does that have to do with it? Neither do you. And we wouldn’t let parental disapproval stand in our way if we did want to get married.” “You see? I was right, you don’t want to!” I was becoming alarmed. I had always thought of Jinny as unusually rational, for a girl. Could this be one of those hormonal storms I had read about? I hoped not, all authorities seemed to agree the only thing a man could do in such weather was lash himself to the mast and pray. I made a last stubborn attempt to pour logic on the troubled waters. “Jinny, please, be reasonable! I am not going to let you marry a dole bludger. Not even if he’s me.” “But.” “I intend to be a composer. You know that. That means it’s going to take me at least a few years to even start to get established. You knew that when we started dating. If, I say ‘if,’ all those bullocks I sacrificed to Zeus pay off and I actually win a Kallikanzaros Scholarship, it will be my great privilege to spend the next four years living on dishrag soup and scraped fridge, too poor to support a cat. If, and I say ‘if,’ I am as smart as I think I am, and luckier than I usually am, I’ll come out the other end with credentials that might, in only another year or two, leave me in a position to offer you something more than half of a motel cubicle. Meanwhile, you have your own scholarships and your law degree to worry about, so that once my music starts making serious money, nobody will weasel it away from us.” “Stinky, do you think I care about money?” She said that last word as if it were a synonym for stale excrement. I sighed. Definitely a hormonal storm. “Reboot and start over. What is the purpose of getting married?” “What a romantic question!” She turned away and quested for her car. I didn’t move. “Quit dodging, I’m serious. Why don’t we just live together if we want to be romantic? What is marriage for?” The car told her she was heading the wrong way; she reversed direction and came back past me toward its voice and pulsing beacon. “Babies, obviously.” I followed her. “Bingo. Marriage is for making jolly babies, raising them up into successful predators, and then admiring them until they’re old enough to reward you with grandchildren to spoil.” She’d acquired the car by now. She safed and unlocked it. “My baby-making equipment is at its peak right now,” she said, and got in the car. “It’s going to start declining any minute.” She closed, but did not slam, the door. I got in my side and strapped in. “And the decline will take decades to become significant,” I pointed out logically “Your baby-making gear may be at its hypothetical optimum efficiency today, but my baby- raising equipment isn’t even operational yet.” “So what?” “Jinny, are you seriously proposing that we raise a child as extraordinary and gifted as ours on credit?” We both shared a most uncommon aversion to being in debt. Orphans spend too much of their childhood in debt to others, debt that cannot be repaid. “Nobody seems to be seriously proposing around here,” she said bitterly. Hormonal hurricane, maybe. A long time ago they used to name all hurricanes after women. On Ganymede, we still named all ground-quakes after them. “Look.” She interrupted, “Silver: my home, no hurry.” The car said, “Yes, Jinny,” and came alive, preparing for takeoff. I wondered as always why she’d named her car that, if you were going to pick an element, I thought, why not hydrogen? I failed to notice the slight change in address protocol. Despite our low priority, we didn’t have to wait long, since nobody else had left the prom yet and the system was between rush hours; Silver rose nearly at once and entered the system with minimal huhu. That early in the evening, most of the traffic was still in the other direction, into Greater Vancouver. Once our speed steadied, Jinny opaqued the windows, swiveled her seat to face me, and folded her arms. I’m sure it was quite coincidental that this drew my attention to the area immediately above them. I believe in the Tooth Fairy, too. “Pardon me for interrupting you,” she said. She looked awfully good. Her prom dress was more of a spell than a garment. The soft warm interior lighting was very good to her. Of course, it was her car. That was the hell of it. I wanted to marry her at least as much as she wanted to marry me. Just looking at her made my breath catch in my throat. I wished with all my heart, and not for the first time, that we lived back when unmarried people could live together openly. They said a stable society was impossible, back then. But even if they were right, what’s so great about a stable society? My pop used to say, “Joel, never pass up a chance to shut up.” Well, some men learn by listening, some read, some observe and analyze, and some of us just have to pee on the electric fence. “Jinny, you know I’m a backward colonial when it comes to debt.” “And you know I feel the same way about it that you do!” I blinked. “That’s true. We’ve talked about it. I don’t care what anybody says; becoming the indentured servant of something as compassionate and merciful as a bank or credit union simply isn’t rational.” “Absolutely.” I spread my hands. “What am I missing? Raising a child takes money, packets and crates of the stuff. I haven’t got it. I can’t earn it. I won’t borrow it. And I’m too chicken to steal it.” She broke eye contact. “Those aren’t the only ways to get it,” she muttered. Silver gave its vector-change warning peep, slowed slightly, and kinked left to follow the Second Narrows Bridge across Burrard Inlet. “So? I suppose I could go to Vegas and turn a two-credit bit into a megasolar at the roulette wheel.” “Blackjack,” she said. “The other games are for suckers.” “My tenants back home on the Rock might strike ice. In the next ten minutes I could get an idea for a faster-than-light star drive that can be demonstrated without capital. I can always stand at stud, but that would kick me up a couple of tax brackets. Nothing else comes to mind.” She said nothing, very loudly. Silver peeped, turned left again, and increased speed, heading for the coast. “Look, Spice,” I said, “you know I don’t share contemporary Terran prejudices any more than you do, I don’t insist that I be the one to support us. But somebody has to. If you can find a part-time job for either of us that pays well enough to support a family, we’ll get married tomorrow.” No response. We both knew the suggestion was rhetorical. Two full-time jobs would barely support a growing family in the present economy. “Come on,” I said, “we already had this conversation once. Remember? That night on Luckout Hill?” The official name is Lookout Hill, because it looks out over the ocean, but it’s such a romantic spot, many a young man has indeed lucked out there. Not me, unfortunately “We said.” “I remember what we said!” Well, then, maybe I didn’t. To settle it, I summoned that conversation up in my mind, or at least fast-forwarded through the storyboard version in the master index. And partway through, I began to grow excited. There was indeed one contingency we had discussed that night on Luckout Hill, one that I hadn’t really thought of again, since I couldn’t really picture Jinny opting for it. I wasn’t sure she was suggesting it now, but if she wasn’t, I would. “See here, Skinny, you really want to change your name from Hamilton to Johnston right away? Then let’s do it tomorrow morning, and ship out on the Sheffield!” Her jaw dropped; I pressed on. “If we’re going to start our marriage broke, then let’s do it somewhere where being broke isn’t a handicap, or even a stigma, out there around a new star, on some new world eighty light-years away, not here on Terra. What do you say? You say you’re an old-fashioned girl, will you homestead with me?” A look passed across her face I’d seen only once before, on Aunt Tula’s face, when they told me my father was gone. Sadness unspeakable. “I can’t, Joel.” How had I screwed up so badly? “Sure you could.” “No, I can’t.” She swiveled away from me. The sorrow on her face upset me so much, I shut up and began replaying everything since our dance, trying to locate the point at which my orbit had begun to decay. Outside the car, kilometers flicked by unseen. On the third pass, I finally remembered a technique that had worked for me more than once with women in the past: quit analyzing every word I’d said and instead, consider words I had not said. Light began to dawn, or at least a milder darkness. I swiveled her seat back to face me, and sought her eyes. They were huge. I dove right in. “Jinny, listen to me. I want to marry you. I ache to marry you. You’re the one. Not since that first moment when I caught you looking at me have I ever doubted for an instant that you are my other half, the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. Okay?” “Oh.” Her voice was barely audible. “You give me what I need, and you need what I can give. I want the whole deal, just like you’ve told me you want it, old-fashioned death do us part, better or worse monogamy, like my parents. None of this term marriage business, no prenup nonsense, fifty-fifty, mine is thine, down the line, and I don’t care if we live to be a hundred. I want to marry you so bad, my teeth hurt. So bad my hair hurts. If you would come with me, I would be happy to walk to Bootes, carrying you on my back, towing a suitcase. My eyeballs keep drying out every time I look at you. Then when you’re out of their field of vision, they start to tear up.” Her eyes started to tear up. “Oh, Joel, you do want to marry me.” Her smile was glorious. “Of course I do, Skinny you ninny. How could you not know that?” “So it’s just.” “Just a matter of financing. Nothing else. We’ll get married the day we can afford to.” I loosened my seat belt, so I’d be ready for the embrace I was sure was coming. Her smile got even wider. Then it fell apart, and she turned away, but not before I could see she was crying. What the hell had I said now? Of course, that’s the one question you mustn’t ask. Bad enough to make a woman cry; to not even know how you managed it is despicable, but no matter how carefully I reviewed the last few sentences I’d spoken, in my opinion they neither said anything nor failed to say anything that constituted a reason to cry. Silver slowed slightly, signaling that we were crossing the Georgia Strait. We’d be at Jinny’s little apartment on Lasqueti Island, soon. I didn’t know what to apologize for. But then, did I need to? “Jinny, I’m sorry. I really.” She spoke up at once, cutting me off. “Joel, suppose you knew for sure you had your scholarship in the bag? The whole ride?” She swiveled her seat halfway back around, not quite enough to be facing me, but enough so that I was clearly in her peripheral vision. I frowned, puzzled by the non sequitur. “What, have you heard something?” As far as I knew, the decisions wouldn’t even be made for another few weeks. “Damn it, Stinky, I’m just saying: Suppose you knew for a fact that you’re among this year’s Kallikanzaros winners.” “Well, that’d be great. Right?” She turned the rest of the way back around, so that she could glare at me more effectively “I’m asking you: If that happened, how would it affect your marriage plans?” “Oh.” I still didn’t see where she was going with this. “Uh, it’d take a lot of the pressure off. We’d know for sure that we’re going to be able to get married in as little as four years. Well, nothing’s for sure, but we’d be a whole lot more.” I trailed off because I could see what I was saying wasn’t what she wanted to hear. I had to shift my weight slightly as Silver went into a wide right turn. I didn’t have a clue what she did want to hear, and her face wasn’t giving me enough clues. Maybe I ought to- Wide right turn? I cleared my side window. Sure enough, we were heading north; almost due north, it looked like. But that was wrong: we couldn’t be that far south of Lasqueti. “Jinny, I.” She was sobbing outright, now. Oh, God. As calmly as I could, I said, “Honey, you’re going to have to take manual control: Silver has gone insane.” She waved no-no and kept sobbing. For a second I nearly panicked, thinking, I don’t know what I was thinking. “Jinny, what’s wrong?” Her weeping intensified “Oh, Jo-ho-ho-ho.” I unbuckled, leaned in, and held her. “Damn it, talk to me! Whatever it is, we’ll fix it, I know we will. Just tell me.” “Oh, God, I-hi-hi’m sorry, I screwed it all up-hup-hup-hup.” She clutched me back fiercely. I was alarmed. I’d seen Jinny cry. This was hooting with sorrow, rocking with grief. Something was seriously wrong. “Whatever it is, it’s okay, you hear me? Whatever it is.” She writhed in my arms. “Joel, I lie-hi-hi-hi-hied, I’m so stu-hoohupid.” Ice formed on the floor of my heart. I did not break our embrace, but I felt an impulse to, and I’m sure she felt it kinesthetically. She cried twice as hard. Well, much harder. It took her several minutes to get back under control. During those minutes, I didn’t breathe or think or move or digest food or do anything at all except wait to learn what my Jinny had lied about. Then, when she took in a deep breath and pulled away from my arms, suddenly I didn’t want to know. So I thought of a different question she could answer instead. “Where are we going?” Her eyes began to slide away from mine, then came back and locked. “To my home.” This time I caught the subtle change. Usually the instruction she gave Silver was “my place .” “So? And it’s north?” She nodded. “How far?” “Silver: step on it,” she said. The car acknowledged. Then to me, as Silver faced our chairs forward and pressed us back into them with acceleration, she said, “About twenty minutes, now.” I consulted a mental map and glanced out the window, with difficulty, as we were now pulling serious gees. Jinny’s car was exceedingly well loved, but nonetheless it was just short of an antique. There was simply no way it could go anywhere near this fast. I made myself breathe slowly. This just kept getting better and better. Twenty minutes north of Lasqueti at this speed would, it seemed to me, put us smack in the middle of a glacier somewhere, just below the border with Yukon Province. I was dressed for a ballroom, didn’t have so much as a toothbrush. Not that it mattered, because we were doing at least four times the provincial exurban speed limit; long before we reached that glacier the Mounties (local cops) were going to cut our power and set us down to await the Proctors, probably in raw forest. Unless, of course, Silver tore himself apart first, traveling at four times the best speed he’d been capable of the day he left the factory. Less than half an hour before, I’d been as perfectly happy as I’d ever been in my life, dancing with my Jinny. I opaqued my window, surrendered to the gee forces, and stared straight ahead at nothing. To my intense annoyance, she let me. Life is going to continue to suck until somebody finds the Undo key. Two. Howe’er it be, it seems to me ‘Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Lady Clara Vere de Vere. The engine did not explode. It didn’t even sound any louder than usual. The Mounties somehow failed to notice us blazing across their radar, or to log any complaints about shattered windows; we crossed the province unmolested. For most of the trip we were above atmosphere, so high that the horizon showed a distinct curve, we pretty much had to be at that speed, I think, but if the Peace Forces satellites noticed us, they kept it to themselves. Nineteen minutes later, the car finished decelerating, came to a dead stop, and went into hover mode, glowing softly from the heat of our passage and reentry into atmosphere. “Wait,” Jinny said, whether to Silver or to me, I was unsure. I glanced at her, then turned to my side window once again and looked down. Sure enough, what lay some three thousand meters below us was a nearly featureless glacier. There was a big rill to the east, and a shadowy crevasse almost directly below that was much smaller, but still large enough to conceal several dozen cars the size of Silver. I looked back to Jinny. She was staring straight ahead at the windshield, which was still opaque. Keeping my mouth shut was easy this time. I not only didn’t know how I felt, I didn’t even know what I felt it about. I couldn’t have been more clueless if I’d had my head in a sack. Anything I said was likely to sound stupid in retrospect, and there are few things I hate more. “I rehearsed this a hundred times,” she said finally. “Now I’ve screwed it up completely.” I suspected this was true, but kept my mouth shut. She swiveled my way and unbuckled her crash harness, though we were still three klicks above hard ice. It gave her enough freedom of movement to lean forward and take one of my hands in both of hers. I noted absently that the skin of her palm was remarkably hot. “Have you ever heard of Harun al-Rashid?” she asked me. “Plays defense for the Tachyons?” “Close,” she said. “You’re only off by, let me see, a little more than a millennium and a half. Fifteen hundred and some years.” “But he does play defense.” “Stinky, please shut up! He was a rich kid, from a powerful military family in ancient Persia. His father was a Caliph, roughly equivalent to premier of a province today, a man so tough he invaded the Eastern Roman Empire, which was then ruled by the Empress Irene.” “You’re making this up,” I charged. Her eyes flashed. “I said ‘please,’ Joel.” I drew an invisible zipper across my lips. “Harun became Caliph himself in the year 786.” Over a thousand years before man could even travel anywhere. “He was probably as wealthy and powerful as anybody in living memory had ever been. Yet somehow, he was not an ignorant idiot.” “Amazing,” I said, trying to be helpful. Go try to be helpful to a woman who’s talking. “He had the odd idea it was important to know what his people were really thinking and feeling about things,” she went on as if I had not spoken. “He wanted more than just the sanitized, politically safe version they would give to him or to anyone he could send to talk to them. He understood that his wealth and power distorted just about everything in his relations with others, made it difficult if not impossible for truth to pass between them. You can see how that would be, right?” “Sure. Everybody lies to the boss.” “Yes!” Finally, I’d gotten one right. “Then one day he overheard one of his generals say that nobody knows a city as well as an enemy spy. It gave him an idea. “That night he disguised himself as a beggar, sneaked out of his palace alone, and wandered the streets of Baghdad, a spy in his own capital. Everywhere he went, he listened to conversations, and sometimes he asked innocent questions, and because he was thought a beggar, no one bothered to lie to him. He got drunk on it. He started to do it whenever he could sneak away.” Her eyes were locked on mine, now. It was important that I get this. “Do you see, Joel? For the first time in his life Harun got an accurate picture of what the common people honestly thought, more than just what they thought, he experienced firsthand what life was really like for them, came to understand the things they didn’t even think about because they simply assumed them, and their perspective informed and improved his own thinking from then on. He became one of the most beloved rulers in history, his name means Aaron the Just, and how many rulers do you suppose have ever been called that? One time fifteen thousand men followed him into battle against one hundred twenty-five thousand, and whipped them, left forty thousand legionaries dead on the ground and the rest running for their lives. He lived to a ripe old age, and when he died the whole Muslim world mourned. Okay?” I was nodding. I understood every word she said. I had no idea what she was driving at. She took a deep breath. “Okay. Now, imagine you’re a young Persian girl in Baghdad. I see your mouth opening, and so help me God, if a wisecrack should come out of it, that’s better. You’re a poor-but-decent young Persian girl, working hard at some menial trade, struggling to better yourself, and so is.” A strange alto voice suddenly spoke, seemingly from the empty space between Jinny and me, just a little too loudly. I was so startled I nearly jumped out of my seat. “Your vehicle’s hull temperature has dropped sufficiently to permit safe debarking now, Miss Jinny.” If I was startled, Jinny was furious. I could tell because her face became utterly smooth, and her voice became softer in pitch and tone and slower in speed as she said, “There are only four letters in the word wait, Smithers. There seems little room for ambiguity.” “I’m sorry, Miss Jinny,” Smithers said at once, and although there was no noticeable cessation of any background hiss or power hum, somehow he was gone. “And so,” she went on before I could ask who Smithers was, “is your boyfriend, call him Jelal. The two of you are very much in love, and want to get married, but you just don’t have the means. And then one day.” “Wait,” I said, “I think I see where this is going, sort of. One day the beggar who lives next door comes over, right, and it turns out he’s incredibly rich and he says he’s been eavesdropping and he understands our problem and he offers Jelal a.” I stopped talking. The penny had just dropped. All of sudden, I actually did see where this was going, at least in general terms. “Oh, my, God.” I breathed. “I’ve got it just backward, don’t I?” Her eyes told me I was right. “There wasn’t any other way, do you see? Once I met you as Jinny Hamilton, I couldn’t tell you. And anyway, the whole point was to.” “You’re Harun al-Rashid!” “Well, his granddaughter,” she said miserably. I was stunned. “You’re rich.” She nodded sadly. “Very.” Tumblers began to click into place. I tried to think it through. “You’re not even an orphan, are you?” Headshake. “I couldn’t let anyone at Fermi meet my parents. They’re, pretty well known. Hiring a pair of Potemkin parents for social purposes seemed grotesque.” “And you came to Fermi, instead of Lawrence Campbell or one of the other top prep schools, so you could, what? See how the other half lives?” “Well, in part.” I was ranging back through my memories, adding things up with the benefit of hindsight, understanding little things that had puzzled me. Silver’s previously unsuspected power. Jinny’s extraordinary confidence and poise, so unexpected in an orphan. How, whenever someone brought up one of the really fabulous vacation destinations, Tuva, or the Ice Caves of Queen Maud Land in the Antarctic, or Harriman City on Luna, Jinny always seemed to have seen a good documentary about it recently. The way, when we ate pistachios, she always threw away the ones that were any trouble at all to open, I became aware that Jinny was absolutely still and silent, studying my face intently for clues to what I was thinking. It seemed like a good idea; maybe I should get a mirror and try it. I thought about banging my head against the dashboard to reboot my brain. Instead I looked at her and spread my hands. “I’m going to need some time to process this,” I admitted. “Of course,” she said at once. “Sleep on it. There’s no hurry. Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to my real father. And meantime I’ll answer any questions you have, no more evasions, no more white lies.” I didn’t feel as though I knew enough to formulate a coherent question yet. No, wait, I did have one, purely for form’s sake; I didn’t see how the answer could help me. Still, “What is it really?” She blinked. “Crave pardon?” “You said, ‘Once I met you as Jinny Hamilton.’ So that’s not your real name. Okay, I’ll bite. What is?” “Oh, dear,” she said. ” ‘Jinny Oh.’ Chinese, dear?” Not amused. “Joel.” “Come on, how bad could it be? Look, let’s meet for the first time all over again. Hi there, I’m Joel Johnston, of Ganymede. And you are?” She stared at me, blank-faced, for so long I actually began to wonder whether she was going to tell me. I couldn’t recall ever seeing her hesitate about anything before, much less this long. One of the many things I liked about her was that she always knew what she wanted to be doing next. Finally she closed her eyes, took in a long breath, released it, squared her shoulders and opened her eyes and looked me right in the eye. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mister Johnston. I’m Jinny Conrad.” For a second or two nothing happened. Then my eyebrows and my pulse both rose sharply. It couldn’t be. “Not.” “Of Conrad,” she confirmed. It couldn’t be. “It’s true,” she said. “My father is Albert Conrad. Richard Conrad’s third son.” “You’re Jinnia Conrad of Conrad,” I said. She nodded once. I didn’t quite faint, but it was good that I was sitting down, and strapped in. My head drained like a sink; all the blood and most of the brain matter dropped at once to my feet. Very rich, she’d said. Yeah, and the Milky Way is rather roomy! The Conrad industrial, informational empire was larger than the Rothschild family, the Hanseatic League, Kinetic Sciences Interplanetary, and Rolls- Daiwoo combined, and only slightly smaller than the Solar System. Nothing like it could have existed before the advent of space travel, and perhaps it became inevitable in the first minute of Year One, as Leslie LeCroix was still shutting down the Pioneer‘s engine on the virgin surface of Luna. The Conrads were a 150-year dynasty, every member of whom wielded wealth, power, and influence comparable to that of the Hudson’s Bay Company or Harriman Enterprises in their day. Their combined interests ranged from the scientific outpost on Mercury, to Oort Cloud harvest, to interstellar exploration as far as sixty-five light-years away. At that time there were well over a dozen starships either outgoing or incoming, and eight had already returned safely (out of a hoped-for eighteen), five of them bearing the riches of Croesus in one form or another. Three of those big winners had been Conrad ships. She gave me a minute, well, some indeterminate period. Finally she said, “Look, I have to land, now. Smithers wasn’t completely out of line to remind me. We, don’t like to hover, here. It’s just a bit conspicuous.” “Okay,” I said, to be saying something. “Where’s here?” “In a minute. Silver: I relieve you.” “Yes, Jinny.” She took the stick and we dropped three thousand meters rapidly enough to give me heart palpitations. Which nearly became cardiac arrest when the ground came rushing up, and she failed to decelerate hard enough to stop in time! We were going to crash, , right through the imaginary glacier, , and into a deep valley, its floor lush and green and inviting and, best of all, still hundreds of meters below us. She landed us, without a bump, in a small clearing that from the air had looked indistinguishable from dozens of others, to me at least. But the moment she shut down, hoses and cables sprouted from the forest floor and began nurturing Silver. Ahead of us was a huge boulder, the size of a truck; as I watched, a large doorway appeared in it, facing us. “We’re here,” she said. “I ask again: Where is here?” She shook her head. “It isn’t.” “Isn’t what?” “Isn’t anywhere.” I turned my head just enough to be looking at her out of the corner of my eye. “Here isn’t anywhere.” “Right.” I closed my eyes. If I had just stayed back home on the farm, by now I might have been making enough of a crop to afford a hired man. That would have freed me up to do some courting, in a frontier society with considerably looser rules about premarital experimentation than contemporary Terra. But I knew for a fact there was no one remotely like Jinny anywhere on Ganymede. Had known it for a fact, that is, even before learning that she was more well off than the Secretary General. No, I couldn’t take that in just yet. “I really, really wish I could think of something more intelligent to say than, ‘What do you mean, “here isn’t anywhere”?’ ” She shrugged. “You tell me. If a place does not appear on any map, anywhere, if it doesn’t show in even the finest-grain satellite photos, if no wires or roads or paths run to it, no government takes mail to it or taxes from it, and nobody is from there, in what sense does it exist? There is no here. Just us.” “Here.” “Exactly.” I nodded and dismissed the matter. “And this is your home?” “One of them.” I nodded. “And your apartment on Lasqueti, of course. It must be weird having two homes.” She didn’t say a word or move a muscle. I turned to look at her. “More than two?” Silence. Stillness. “How many homes do you have, Jinny?” In a very small voice, she said, “Eight. Not counting the Lasqueti place.” “So?” “But three of them are off-planet!” “Naturally,” I agreed. “One winters in space.” “Oh, Joel, don’t be that way.” “Okay. Let’s go in.” She looked distressed. “Uh, if you are going to be that way, maybe it might he better to do it out here, before we go in.” I nodded again. Mister Agreeable. “Sure. That makes sense. Okay.” Then, big: “How could you do this to me, Jinny?” She didn’t flinch or cringe or duck. “Think it through, Joel. Sleep on it. Tomorrow morning, you tell me: How could I have not done it?” I began an angry retort, and swallowed it. I had to admit I had not begun to think this thing through yet, and Dad always drilled into me that the time to open your mouth came after that. Besides, I already had a glimmering of what she meant. I filled my lungs, emptied them slowly and fully, and said, “You’re right. Okay I’m prepared to be polite, now. Let’s go inside.” “You won’t have to be,” she said. “I promise you won’t see any family at all until tomorrow morning. I made them guarantee that. This is our Prom Night.” I frowned. “I wish I had an overnight bag. Change of socks, fresh shirt, my razor.” “Don’t worry about it,” she said, and unlocked the doors. I let it go. Probably the contents of the slop chest here were finer than anything I owned. “All right. Invite me up to your place.” “Down, actually.” We opened our doors and got out. The roof of imaginary glacier did not exist from its underside; the moon and stars shone unimpeded overhead, a neat trick. But this was definitely not a natural ecology. The air was skin temperature, with an occasional breeze just slightly warmer. It smelled of dirt and green growing things, with just a little ozone tingle as if it had rained recently, though it had not. The loamy earth beneath my feet was rich, almost quivering with life; any farmer I knew back on Ganymede would have desperately envied it. Acres of it, at least a meter deep: wild, uncultivated, supporting nothing but trees, scrub, and inedible berries. Just lying there. Conspicuous non consumption. Start getting used to it, old son. I thought of saying something, but I knew Jinny would never understand. It’s funny: the very word “Terra” means “dirt”, and not one hungry terrestrial in a thousand has a clue how important, how precious it is. I shook my head. The door in that huge rock ahead of the car was indeed an elevator. Back when I was four I’d been in an elevator that nice. In Stockholm, when Dad came Earthside to pick up the Nobel. Like that one, this elevator had a live human operator, of advanced age and singular ugliness, who made it a point of pride to remain unaware of our existence: he happened to be leaving as we stepped in, and took us down a good fifty meters with him. The car descended with unhurried elegance. It gave me time to think about the kind of people who would live deep underground, in a place that did not exist, and still feel the need to pull the sky over them like a blanket. “Paranoid” didn’t seem to cover it. By happy chance the operator decided to pause and check the operation of the doors just as he was passing the floor we wanted; so intent was his inspection, we were able to escape unnoticed. This left us in a kind of reception room, so lavish as to remind me of the lobby of that hotel back in Stockholm. The carpet was grass. But I didn’t get time to study the room; nearly at once I felt a tugging and turned to see a man older and uglier than the elevator operator trying to take my cloak. With some misgivings I let him have it, and that seemed to have been a mistake, for he simply handed it off to a small boy who suddenly appeared in my peripheral vision, and then literally threw himself at my feet and began loosening my shoes. I, reacted. If we’d been under normal gravity, on Ganymede or Mars, I think I’d have kicked his teeth in; as it was he went sprawling. But he took a shoe with him as he went, a trick I admired as much as I resented it. Jinny giggled. I recovered, removed the other shoe myself with as much dignity as I could muster, and handed it to him as he approached again. He reunited it with its twin, bowed deeply, and backed away. I turned to Jinny and forgot whatever I’d been about to say. Her own cloak and shoes had been magicked away by tall elves, and she looked, how do girls do that, anyway? One minute just be there, and the next, be there. They can do it without moving a muscle, somehow. “Good evening, Miss Jinny,” said a baritone voice from across the room. “Welcome home.” Standing just inside a door I had failed to notice was a man nearly as tall as me with a shaved head, wearing a suit that cost more than my tuition at Fermi Junior. Like us, and the various elves I’d seen, he wore no shoes. Presumably they would cobble us all new ones in the night. “Thank you, Smithers. This is, damn. Excuse me.” She lifted her phone-finger to her ear, listened for a few moments, frowned, said “Yes,” and broke the connection. “I’ve got to go, for just a few minutes. Get Joel situated, would you please, Smithers? I’m sorry, Joel, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” “Okay.” She was gone. Somehow he was at my side, without having covered the intervening distance. “Good evening, Mister Johnston. I’m Alex Rennick, master of the house at present. Welcome to the North Keep. Let me show you to your room, first, and then perhaps I can give you the ten-credit tour.” His eyes were gray, almost mauve. His head wasn’t shaved, it was depilated. Despite his height, a dozen subconscious cues told me he was earthborn. He was fit, and had an air of great competence and great confidence. I’m pretty good at guessing ages, given that everybody looks alike now, and I couldn’t pin him down any closer than the thirty-to-sixty zone. I found it interesting that he knew my last name without having been given it. “Thank you, Mister Rennick. You are most kind. Please call me Joel.” “And I am Alex. Will you come this way, Joel?” I thought of an ancient joke, put it out of my mind, and followed him from the room. As I did I promised myself, solemnly, that no matter what wonders I was shown here, I would not boggle. No matter how staggeringly opulent the place proved to be, I would not let it make me feel inferior. My father had been a Nobel laureate, and my mother a great composer, how many of these people could say as much? “Do you have any questions to start?” he asked as we went. “Yes, Alex,” I said, memorizing the route we were taking. “Why does Jinny call you Smithers?” “I have no idea.” His tone was absolutely neutral, but somehow I knew I’d touched a sore spot. Either it bothered him not to know, or the answer was humiliating. “Ah,” I said, lowering my pitch. “To drive you crazy, then.” I was curious to see how he’d respond to an invitation to a jocular, between-us-men discussion of his mistress, whom I personally knew to be a handful and a half. He sidestepped effortlessly. “That would be redundant, I’m afraid.” “Have you worked here long?” “Yes.” I see. “How many people live here in, the North Keep, you said?” “The number varies.” His stinginess with information was beginning to mildly irritate me. “No doubt. But surely as master of the house you know its current value.” I halfway expected him to say “Yes, I do,” and clam up. But he wasn’t that kind of childish. Instead he used jujitsu. “There are eighty-four persons resident in the North Keep at the moment. By midnight the number will be ninety-two, and shortly before breakfast time tomorrow it is expected to drop back to eighty-nine.” “Ah.” I hesitated in phrasing my next question. “And how many of those are employees?” “All but four. Five tomorrow.” Yipes! Yes, Conrads lived here, all right. “Here we are.” He stopped before a door that looked no different from any of several dozen we’d passed along the way, and tapped the button which on Terra is for some reason always called a knob. The door dilated to reveal a room full of thick pink smoke. At least it looked like smoke, and behaved like it, roiling and billowing, with the single exception that it declined to spill out of the open door into the corridor. I reminded myself I’d promised myself not to boggle, and with only what I hoped was an imperceptible hesitation, I walked right into the pink smoke, came out the other side, and boggled. Worse; I actually yelped. I was on Ganymede. Look, I admit I’m a hick. But I had experienced Sim walls by that point in my life, even if I couldn’t afford them yet. Even good ones didn’t really fool you; you could tell they were not real, just rectangular windows into worlds that you never really forgot were virtual. I’d even experienced six-wall Sim, 360-degree surround, and even then you had to voluntarily cooperate with the illusion for it to work: it never quite got the rounding correction perfect at the corners. But it was pretty good. This was real. I was back home on Ganymede, so convincingly that for just a startled moment, two-thirds of my weight seemed to leave me. I realized with astonishment that the air even smelled like Ganymede air, tasted like it, different from terrestrial air in ways subtle but unmistakable. I was standing in the middle of a newly made field, the soil only just coming to life. Beneath my feet, earthworms were shaking off the grogginess of cold sleep and beginning to realize they weren’t on Terra anymore. On the edge of the field, fifteen or twenty meters away, was a new-built farmhouse, smoke spiraling from its chimney. Try and build a fire anywhere else on Terra and they’d fine you the equivalent of two months’ tuition, for a first offense. Until today, I hadn’t seen a square meter of naked soil since I’d landed on its namesake. I felt my eyes begin to sting and water, and with no further warning a tidal wave of homesickness broke over me. I spun around in time to see Rennick come through the doorway. From this side too it looked like it was full of pink smoke. But it was no longer a door in anything: it just stood by itself in the middle of the field, a rectangle of pink smoke without any wall to be a hole in. I turned my back on hole and house master alike. “Miss Jinny thought you’d find this congenial,” he said from just behind me. I nodded. “Follow me please.” That didn’t require an answer either. We walked to the farmhouse and went inside. “The ‘fresher and entertainment center are in the obvious places. You’ll find clothing in that closet, Unlimited Access at that desk. If you want anything, anything whatsoever, state your wishes to the house server. His name is Leo.” I had the homesickness under control now, enough that I trusted myself to speak at least. “Leo is listening at all times?” “Leo listens at all times,” he agreed. “But he cannot hear anything unless he is addressed. Your privacy and security as a guest are unconditionally guaranteed.” “Of course,” I said as if I believed him. I idly opened the closet he’d indicated, and found all my own clothing. Boggle. On closer inspection it proved to be copies of nearly every piece of clothing I owned, all the ones Jinny had seen. They were not quite identical copies. For one thing, in nearly every case the quality of the copy was slightly better than that of the original. Suddenly I felt vastly tired. I didn’t feel like boggling anymore, or struggling not to. “Mister Rennick, Alex, I thank you for your offer of a tour of the North Keep, but I believe I will pass, at least for tonight.” “Certainly, Joel. If there’s nothing further I can do for you now, I’ll leave you to rest.” “I’m fine. Thank you.” “Good night.” He left. I watched through a window as he walked across the field and through the pink smoke of the door-without-a-wall. I looked around the “farmhouse,” then back out the window at a sky with two moons, and thought about bursting into tears, but I decided I was too manly “Leo?” “Yes, Mister Johnston?” “Can I get a cup of coffee?” “On the desk, sir.” I blinked, looked, a steaming cup of coffee sat on the desk beside me. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, but I hadn’t noticed it arrive. Without a word I picked it up and tried it. The superbness of the coffee was no surprise at all. The perfect drinking temperature was only a mild one. But the cream and two sugars. “Did Jinny tell you how I like my coffee, Leo?” “Miss Jinny has told me many things about you, Mister Johnston.” “Call me Joel.” “Yes, Mister Joel.” I opened my mouth, then closed it. There must be something sillier than arguing with software, but I can’t think offhand what it would be. I sat down on a rocking chair that creaked authentically, put my feet up on a hassock, and began to dismiss Leo from my mind, to prepare for the upcoming conversation with Jinny. Then a thought occurred. Carefully not addressing him by name I asked, “How long do you keep listening after I stop speaking, before you conclude I’m done and stop listening again?” Answer came there none. Which answered me: somewhere between five and ten seconds. Useful datum. “Leo?” “Yes, Mister Joel?” “Can you let me know just before Miss Jinny arrives here?” “No,” she said from the doorway. “He can’t.” We were both tired, and both emotionally upset. But we both knew there was more to be said before we could sleep. I took my feet down off the hassock, and she came and sat before me on it, and took both my hands in hers. “No more ducking and weaving. Spell it out for me,” I said. “In words of one sound bit, what’s the deal?” She was through dodging. “I’m proposing marriage, Joel. Just as we’ve discussed: lifetime, exclusive, old-fashioned matrimony. And I’m offering to support us, uh, at least until you get your degree and start to become established as a composer and start earning. I can afford it. I’m quite sure you’ll get that Kallikanzaros Scholarship, but if you don’t, it won’t matter. And best of all, we can start our first baby right away, tomorrow night, if you want.” “Huh? Skinny, what about your degree, your career?” “My second career, you mean. It’ll keep. I’ve always known what my first career has to be.” She tightened her grip on my hands and leaned slightly closer. “Stinky, maybe now you’ll understand why I’ve been so.” She blushed suddenly. “So frimpin’ stingy. So square, even for a Terran girl. Why I don’t park, or pet, or sneak out after curfew, and why our clinches never got out of hand, or even into it, so to speak. I think you know I haven’t wanted to be that way. But I had no choice. It may be all right for some other girls to bend the rules and take risks, but me, I’ve had it beaten into my head since I was three that I have responsibilities.” “The family name.” “The family name my left foot! The family genes. Stinky, I’m a female human animal; my number one job is to get married and make babies. And because I’m who I am, a member of a powerful dynasty, it makes all the difference in the world what baby I have, and who its father is.” She let go of my hands and sat up straight. “You’re it. This is not a snap decision.” It began to dawn on me that I was not merely being offered acceptance into the fringes of the Conrad family. I was being asked to father its heirs. On Ganymede I’d grown up seeing stud bulls brought in and put to work. They were always treated with great care and respect, very well fed, and certainly got all the healthy exercise a male animal could possibly want. Their DNA was vastly more successful than that of most other bulls, and their own lives vastly longer. Nobody made jokes about them in their hearing. But I couldn’t recall one who had looked very happy about the business. “Don’t look so worried, Stinky. It’s going to work out fine. You do want to marry me, we settled that, right?” I opened my mouth, realized I was harpooned, and closed it again. I had stated that only money prevented me from proposing; I didn’t have a leg to stand on. Nevertheless I found myself on my feet and being embraced. I had to admit it was a very nice embrace, warm and close and fragrant. “Then it’s all really very simple. All you need is a nice long chat with Gran’ther Richard. You’ll love him, really. And I know he’ll love you.” I stiffened in her arms, and fought with the impulse to faint. Good old Grandpa Richard. Known to the rest of the Solar System as Conrad of Conrad. The patriarch. The Chairman. I’d heard he had broken premiers. But perhaps the most awesome thing about his wealth was that, when I thought about it, I didn’t actually know a single fact about him, save his name and exalted position. I’d never read an article about him, or viewed a bio, or even seen a picture of his face. For all I knew he had taken my cloak when I arrived. Harun el-Hatchek. She released me and stepped back. “You’ll see him first thing tomorrow. He’ll explain things. And then afterward you and I will have breakfast together and start to make some plans. Good night, Stinky.” We parted without a kiss. She didn’t offer, and I didn’t try. I was starting to feel resentment at having been played for so long, and also I flatly did not believe there were no cameras on us. After she was gone, I thought about firing up that Universal Access Rennick-Smithers had mentioned, and researching the size and scope of the Conrad empire. But I knew if I did so here, now, on this computer system, Gran’ther Richard would know about it. It just smelled ripe to me. Milady brings home a handsome hick, and the first thing he does is start pricing the furniture. The thought made my cheeks burn. Instead I used that UA to google around until I had figured out the “Smithers” gag. It turned out to be just as well Rennick didn’t know the reference, if in fact he really didn’t. Jinny was comparing him to an ancient cartoon character who was a cringing bootlicker, a toady, a completely repressed monosexual, and an unrequited lover. I wondered how much of that was accurate and how much libel. And just how far the analogy was meant to go: Smithers’s employer in the cartoon, a Mister Burns, was vastly rich, impossibly old, and in every imaginable way a monster. Did he represent Jinny’s grandfather? Or father? Well, I would find out in the morning. Or maybe I would get lucky and be struck by a meteorite first. The bed turned out to be just like mine back at the dorm, except the mattress was better, the sheets were infinitely softer and lighter, and the pillow was gooshier. Was I hallucinating, or did the pillowcase really smell faintly of Jinny’s shampoo? It certainly did put a different perspective on things. It might be nice to smell that on my pillow every night from now on. And every morning. If in fact I was really smelling it now. While I was wondering, I fell asleep. Three. Joel. It’s time to wake up, dear.” Yes, that was definitely her hair I smelled. I had heard Jinny say just those words, in much that low throaty tone of voice, at the start of more than one pleasant dream. It was a novel experience to hear them at the end of one. Now if only everything else would continue to unfold as it usually did in the dream. I opened my eyes and she was not there. The scent was either vestigial or imagined. Drat. “You really need to wake up now, Joel,” she murmured insistently from somewhere nearby “Okay,” I said. “Wake up, Joel. It’s time t.” I sat up, and she chopped off in midword. She wasn’t there. Anywhere. I wake up hard. I had to sit there, lot a few seconds before I had it worked out. The speaker was not Jinny but Leo the AI server, perfectly imitating her voice while acting as an alarm clock. Doing the job well, too: I could fool my own alarm at the dorm by simply telling it I was getting up. Leo was programmed to accept nothing less than verticality as proof of compliance. Why did I need to get up now? I could tell I had not had eight hours’ sleep. I had graduated, for Pete’s sake, what was so urgent? It all came back to me at once. Oh, yes. That’s right. Today I was going to have a personal interview with one of the most powerful men in the Solar System. Had I supposed it would be scheduled for my convenience? A man like Conrad of Conrad would doubtless want to dispose of matters as trivial as meeting his grandchild’s fiance as early as possible in the business day “How soon am I expected?” I asked. “In half an hour, Mister Joel,” Leo said in his own voice. “How do I get breakfast?” “I can take your order, sir.” I started to say scrambled on toast, bucket of black coffee, liter of OJ. Then I thought to myself, this morning you are going to have a personal interview with one of the most powerful men in the Solar System. “Eggs Benedict, home fries, Tanzanian coffee, French Press, please, two sugars and eighteen percent cream, keep it coming, and squeeze a dozen oranges.” Leo returned the serve. “Very good, Mister Joel. Do you prefer peaberry or the normal bean?” “The peaberry, I think,” I managed. There was a scratching sound at the door. It opened, and a servant entered, pushing a tray ahead of him at shoulder height with two fingers. He was easily as old and as ugly as the servants I’d seen the night before, but nowhere near as surly. Maybe day shift was better. “What’s that?” I asked. He steered the tray to a table near the bed, and somehow persuaded it to sit down. “Eggs Benedict, potatoes, coffee, fresh orange juice, and this morning’s news, sir,” he said, pointing to each item as he named it. Nothing in his manner suggested that only an idiot would need these things named. I promised myself that just as soon as I had the time, I would wonder, very hard, about how any of those items could have been produced instantly, much less all of them at once. But meanwhile, there was no sense pretending they had not caught me by surprise. “If I’d known how fast the service is here, I’d have asked them to wait ten minutes, while I used the ‘fresher,” I said with a rueful grin. He turned to the tray, made some sort of mystic gesture. The food became obscured by a hemisphere of, well, it looked like shimmery air. “Take as long as you like, sir. Everything will be the same temperature and consistency when you get back out.” Oh. Of course. I wondered how the hell I would get the air to stop shimmering, but I was determined not to ask. I’d figure it out somehow “Just reach right through it, whenever you’re ready, sir,” he volunteered. “That collapses the field.” I opened my mouth to ask what kind of field, how was it generated, what were its properties, and stifled myself. There would be time for that later. “What is your name?” “Nakamura, sir.” “Thank you, Mister Nakamura. You’re very kind.” “You’re welcome, sir. And thank you.” Somehow he was gone instantly, without hurrying. I started to get out of bed, and the damned thing helped me. The part right under my knees dropped away, and the part under my butt rose, and I was on my feet. I reacted pretty much as if I’d been goosed, the physical sensations were not dissimilar. I said the word “Whoa!” louder and an octave higher than I might have wished, leaped forward a meter or so, and spun around to glare accusingly at the bed. “Is something wrong, Mister Joel?” Leo asked. I took a deep breath. And then another. “Not yet,” I stated cautiously. On the way to the ‘fresher, I passed close to the tray of food. I could see a cup of coffee in there, and wanted it so badly it brought tears to my eyes. But I knew if I “collapsed the field” now, I probably wouldn’t be able to re-create it again. And besides, there was the question of making room for the coffee. So okay, I would hurry and be out of the ‘fresher in five minutes instead of ten. I stepped in. On Ganymede we’re more reticent about such matters than Terrans, for complex sociocultural reasons I’d be perfectly happy to explain any time you have an hour to kill listening to a guy who doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. So I’ll just say that this ‘fresher was about ten times better equipped and programmed than I had ever imagined possible, and let it go at that. It was more like fifteen minutes before I was able to make myself end the sybaritic cycle. When I came out, my clothes were gone. I remarked on this, as casually as I could manage. Leo explained that they had been taken away for laundering. He invited me to wear any of the fakes in the closet that pleased me, and assured me, unnecessarily, that they would all fit me perfectly. I was not at all happy about this, but I could see my wallet, phone, and keys on the bedside table, so I postponed the matter until after coffee. By the end of the first cup, I had no strong objection to anything short of disembowelment or denial of a second cup. If you are ever given the choice, insist on the peaberry. Trust me. When I was ready to dress, I automatically reached for the copy of my best suit, comforting myself as best I could with the guess that this version of it, at least, would be freshly cleaned, and would not be worn nearly through in spots. But as I took it from the closet, I noticed an item hanging just behind it that certainly was not a copy of any garment I owned. It was a J. L. Fong suit. Top of the line, of the latest cut and style. In a color, I noticed, that would complement Jinny’s hair. It was worth more than my entire wardrobe, more than my passage to Earth had cost. The tights were just a bit daring, but I decided I had the calves to carry them off. I was unsurprised to find suitable underwear and other necessary accessories in drawers, tucked in among my own trash. The moment I put it on, that suit became an old, familiar, and valued friend, and I became taller and wider across the shoulders. It could not have fit better if it had been made on my body. It knew things about me I wouldn’t learn for years yet, and approved of them all. Wearing a suit like that, you could break up a knife fight with an admonishment, secure a million-dollar loan without being troubled for a signature, walk away from a crime scene, or obtain illicit drugs on credit. I examined the effect in the ‘fresher room mirror, and decided that on me, it looked good. Perhaps, I felt, I could even survive an interview with Conrad of Conrad without soiling it

"One must remember that culture in its higher forms is a delicate plant which depends on a complicated set of conditions and is wont to flourish only in a few places at any given time." THE WORLD AS I SEE IT. Albert Einstein. Only individuals have a sense of responsibility. Nietzsche. The Meaning of Life. What is the meaning of human life, or of organic life altogether? To answer this question at all implies a religion. Is there any sense then, you ask, in putting it? I answer, the man who regards his own life and that of his fellow-creatures as meaningless is not merely unfortunate but almost disqualified for life. The World as I see it. What an extraordinary situation is that of us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he sometimes thinks he feels it. But from the point of view of daily life, without going deeper, we exist for our fellow-men, in the first place for those on whose smiles and welfare all our happiness depends, and next for all those unknown to us personally with whose destinies we are bound up by the tie of sympathy. A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life depend on the labours of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving. I am strongly drawn to the simple life and am often oppressed by the feeling that I am engrossing an unnecessary amount of the labour of my fellow-men. I regard class differences as contrary to justice and, in the last resort, based on force. I also consider that plain living is good for everybody, physically and mentally. In human freedom in the philosophical sense I am definitely a disbeliever. Everybody acts not only under external compulsion but also in accordance with inner necessity. Schopenhauer's saying, that "a man can do as he will, but not will as he will," has been an inspiration to me since my youth up, and a continual consolation and unfailing well-spring of patience in the face of the hardships of life, my own and others'. This feeling mercifully mitigates the sense of responsibility which so easily becomes paralysing, and it prevents us from taking ourselves and other people too seriously; it conduces to a view of life in which humour, above all, has its due place. To inquire after the meaning or object of one's own existence or of creation generally has always seemed to me absurd from an objective point of view. And yet everybody has certain ideals which determine the direction of his endeavours and his judgments. In this sense I have never looked upon ease and happiness as ends in themselves, such an ethical basis I call more proper for a herd of swine. The ideals which have lighted me on my way and time after time given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Truth, Goodness, and Beauty. Without the sense of fellowship with men of like mind, of preoccupation with the objective, the eternally unattainable in the field of art and scientific research, life would have seemed to me empty. The ordinary objects of human endeavour, property, outward success, luxury, have always seemed to me contemptible. My passionate sense of social justice and social responsibility has always contrasted oddly with my pronounced freedom from the need for direct contact with other human beings and human communities. I gang my own gait and have never belonged to my country, my home, my friends, or even my immediate family, with my whole heart; in the face of all these ties I have never lost an obstinate sense of detachment, of the need for solitude, a feeling which increases with the years. One is sharply conscious, yet without regret, of the limits to the possibility of mutual understanding and sympathy with one's fellow-creatures. Such a person no doubt loses something in the way of geniality and light-heartedness; on the other hand, he is largely independent of the opinions, habits, and judgments of his fellows and avoids the temptation to take his stand on such insecure foundations. My political ideal is that of democracy. Let every man be respected as an individual and no man idolized. It is an irony of fate that I myself have been the recipient of excessive admiration and respect from my fellows through no fault, and no merit, of my own. The cause of this may well be the desire, unattainable for many, to understand the one or two ideas to which I have with my feeble powers attained through ceaseless struggle. I am quite aware that it is necessary for the success of any complex undertaking that one man should do the thinking and directing and in general bear the responsibility. But the led must not be compelled, they must be able to choose their leader. An autocratic system of coercion, in my opinion, soon degenerates. For force always attracts men of low morality, and I believe it to be an invariable rule that tyrants of genius are succeeded by scoundrels. For this reason I have always been passionately opposed to systems such as we see in Italy and Russia to-day. The thing that has brought discredit upon the prevailing form of democracy in Europe to-day is not to be laid to the door of the democratic idea as such, but to lack of stability on the part of the heads of governments and to the impersonal character of the electoral system. I believe that in this respect the United States of America have found the right way. They have a responsible President who is elected for a sufficiently long period and has sufficient powers to be really responsible. On the other hand, what I value in our political system is the more extensive provision that it makes for the individual in case of illness or need. The really valuable thing in the pageant of human life seems to me not the State but the creative, sentient individual, the personality; it alone creates the noble and the sublime, while the herd as such remains dull in thought and dull in feeling. This topic brings me to that worst outcrop of the herd nature, the military system, which I abhor. That a man can take pleasure in marching in formation to the strains of a band is enough to make me despise him. He has only been given his big brain by mistake; a backbone was all he needed. This plague-spot of civilization ought to be abolished with all possible speed. Heroism by order, senseless violence, and all the pestilent nonsense that does by the name of patriotism, how I hate them! War seems to me a mean, contemptible thing: I would rather be hacked in pieces than take part in such an abominable business. And yet so high, in spite of everything, is my opinion of the human race that I believe this bogey would have disappeared long ago, had the sound sense of the nations not been systematically corrupted by commercial and political interests acting through the schools and the Press. The fairest thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. He who knows it not and can no longer wonder, no longer feel amazement, is as good as dead, a snuffed-out candle. It was the experience of mystery, even if mixed with fear, that engendered religion. A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, of the manifestations of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty, which are only accessible to our reason in their most elementary forms, it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute the truly religious attitude; in this sense, and in this alone, I am a deeply religious man. I cannot conceive of a God who rewards and punishes his creatures, or has a will of the type of which we are conscious in ourselves. An individual who should survive his physical death is also beyond my comprehension, nor do I wish it otherwise; such notions are for the fears or absurd egoism of feeble souls. Enough for me the mystery of the eternity of life, and the inkling of the marvellous structure of reality, together with the single-hearted endeavour to comprehend a portion, be it never so tiny, of the reason that manifests itself in nature. Academic chairs are many, but wise and noble teachers are few; lecture-rooms are numerous and large, but the number of young people who genuinely thirst after truth and justice is small. Nature scatters her common wares with a lavish hand, but the choice sort she produces but seldom. We all know that, so why complain? Was it not ever thus and will it not ever thus remain? Certainly, and one must take what Nature gives as one finds it. But there is also such a thing as a spirit of the times, an attitude of mind characteristic of a particular generation, which is passed on from individual to individual and gives a society its particular tone. Each of us has to do his little bit towards transforming this spirit of the times. Compare the spirit which animated the youth in our universities a hundred years ago with that prevailing to-day. They had faith in the amelioration of human society, respect for every honest opinion, the tolerance for which our classics had lived and fought. In those days men strove for a larger political unity, which at that time was called Germany. It was the students and the teachers at the universities who kept these ideals alive. To-day also there is an urge towards social progress, towards tolerance and freedom of thought, towards a larger political unity, which we to-day call Europe. But the students at our universities have ceased as completely as their teachers to enshrine the hopes and ideals of the nation. Anyone who looks at our times coolly and dispassionately must admit this. Good and Evil. It is right in principle that those should be the best loved who have contributed most to the elevation of the human race and human life. But, if one goes on to ask who they are, one finds oneself in no inconsiderable difficulties. In the case of political, and even of religious, leaders, it is often very doubtful whether they have done more good or harm. Hence I most seriously believe that one does people the best service by giving them some elevating work to do and thus indirectly elevating them. This applies most of all to the great artist, but also in a lesser degree to the scientist. To be sure, it is not the fruits of scientific research that elevate a man and enrich his nature, but the urge to understand, the intellectual work, creative or receptive. It would surely be absurd to judge the value of the Talmud, for instance, by its intellectual fruits. The true value of a human being is determined primarily by the measure and the sense in which he has attained to liberation from the self. Society and Personality. When we survey our lives and endeavors we soon observe that almost the whole of our actions and desires are bound up with the existence of other human beings. We see that our whole nature resembles that of the social animals. We eat food that others have grown, wear clothes that others have made, live in houses that others have built. The greater part of our knowledge and beliefs has been communicated to us by other people through the medium of a language which others have created. Without language our mental capacities would be poor indeed, comparable to those of the higher animals; we have, therefore, to admit that we owe our principal advantage over the beasts to the fact of living in human society. The individual, if left alone from birth would remain primitive and beast-like in his thoughts and feelings to a degree that we can hardly conceive. The individual is what he is and has the significance that he has not so much in virtue of his individuality, but rather as a member of a great human society, which directs his material and spiritual existence from the cradle to the grave. A man's value to the community depends primarily on how far his feelings, thoughts, and actions are directed towards promoting the good of his fellows. We call him good or bad according to how he stands in this matter. It looks at first sight as if our estimate of a man depended entirely on his social qualities. And yet such an attitude would be wrong. It is clear that all the valuable things, material, spiritual, and moral, which we receive from society can be traced back through countless generations to certain creative individuals. The use of fire, the cultivation of edible plants, the steam engine, each was discovered by one man. Only the individual can think, and thereby create new values for society, nay, even set up new moral standards to which the life of the community conforms. Without creative, independently thinking and judging personalities the upward development of society is as unthinkable as the development of the individual personality without the nourishing soil of the community. The health of society thus depends quite as much on the independence of the individuals composing it as on their close political cohesion. It has been said very justly that Greco-Europeo-American culture as a whole, and in particular its brilliant flowering in the Italian Renaissance, which put an end to the stagnation of medieval Europe, is based on the liberation and comparative isolation of the individual. Let us now consider the times in which we live. How does society fare, how the individual? The population of the civilized countries is extremely dense as compared with former times; Europe to-day contains about three times as many people as it did a hundred years ago. But the number of great men has decreased out of all proportion. Only a few individuals are known to the masses as personalities, through their creative achievements. Organization has to some extent taken the place of the great man, particularly in the technical sphere, but also to a very perceptible extent in the scientific. The lack of outstanding figures is particularly striking in the domain of art. Painting and music have definitely degenerated and largely lost their popular appeal. In politics not only are leaders lacking, but the independence of spent and the sense of justice of the citizen have to a great extent declined. The democratic, parliamentarian regime, which is based on such independence, has in many places been shaken, dictatorships have sprung up and are tolerated, because men's sense of the dignity and the rights of the individual is no longer strong enough. In two weeks the sheep-like masses can be worked up by the newspapers into such a state of excited fury that the men are prepared to put on uniform and kill and be billed, for the sake of the worthless aims of a few interested parties. Compulsory military service seems to me the most disgraceful symptom of that deficiency in personal dignity from which civilized mankind is suffering to-day. No wonder there is no lack of prophets who prophesy the early eclipse of our civilization. I am not one of these pessimists; I believe that better times are coming. Let me shortly state my reasons for such confidence. In my opinion, the present symptoms of decadence are explained by the fact that the development of industry and machinery has made the struggle for existence very much more severe, greatly to the detriment of the free development of the individual. But the development of machinery means that less and less work is needed from the individual for the satisfaction of the community's needs. A planned division of labor is becoming more and more of a crying necessity, and this division will lead to the material security of the individual. This security and the spare time and energy which the individual will have at his command can be made to further his development. In this way the community may regain its health, and we will hope that future historians will explain the morbid symptoms of present-day society as the childhood ailments of an aspiring humanity, due entirely to the excessive speed at which civilization was advancing. Of Wealth. I am absolutely convinced that no wealth in the world can help humanity forward, even in the hands of the most devoted worker in this cause. The example of great and pure characters is the only thing that can produce fine ideas and noble deeds. Money only appeals to selfishness and always tempts its owners irresistibly to abuse it. Can anyone imagine Moses, Jesus, or Gandhi armed with the money-bags of Carnegie? Education and Educators. A letter. Dear Miss, I have read about sixteen pages of your manuscript and it made me smile. It is clever, well observed, honest, it stands on its own feet up to a point, and yet it is so typically feminine, by which I mean derivative and vitiated by personal rancor. I suffered exactly the same treatment at the hands of my teachers, who disliked me for my independence and passed me over when they wanted assistants, I must admit that I was somewhat less of a model student than you. But it would not have been worth my while to write anything about my school life, still less would I have liked to be responsible for anyone's printing or actually reading it. Besides, one always cuts a poor figure if one complains about others who are struggling for their place in the sun too after their own fashion. Therefore pocket your temperament and keep your manuscript for your sons and daughters, in order that they may derive consolation from it and, not give a damn for what their teachers tell them or think of them. Incidentally I am only coming to Princeton to research, not to teach. There is too much education altogether, especially in American schools. The only rational way of educating is to be an example, of what to avoid, if one can't be the other sort. With best wishes. Paradise Lost. As late as the seventeenth century the savants and artists of all Europe were so closely united by the bond of a common ideal that co-operation between them was scarcely affected by political events. This unity was further strengthened by the general use of the Latin language. To-day we look back at this state of affairs as at a lost paradise. The passions of nationalism have destroyed this community of the intellect, and the Latin language, which once united the whole world, is dead. The men of learning have become the chief mouthpieces of national tradition and lost their sense of an intellectual commonwealth. Nowadays we are faced with the curious fact that the politicians, the practical men of affairs, have become the exponents of international ideas. It is they who have created the League of Nations. Religion and Science. Everything that the human race has done and thought is concerned with the satisfaction of felt needs and the assuagement of pain. One has to keep this constantly in mind if one wishes to understand spiritual movements and their development. Feeling and desire are the motive forces behind all human endeavor and human creation, in however exalted a guise the latter may present itself to us. Now what are the feelings and needs that have led men to religious thought and belief in the widest sense of the words? A little consideration will suffice to show us that the most varying emotions preside over the birth of religious thought and experience. With primitive man it is above all fear that evokes religious notions, fear of hunger, wild beasts, sickness, death. Since at this stage of existence understanding of causal connections is usually poorly developed, the human mind creates for itself more or less analogous beings on whose wills and actions these fearful happenings depend. One's object now is to secure the favor of these beings by carrying out actions and offering sacrifices which, according to the tradition handed down from generation to generation, propitiate them or make them well disposed towards a mortal. I am speaking now of the religion of fear. This, though not created, is in an important degree stabilized by the formation of a special priestly caste which sets up as a mediator between the people and the beings they fear, and erects a hegemony on this basis. In many cases the leader or ruler whose position depends on other factors, or a privileged class, combines priestly functions with its secular authority in order to make the latter more secure; or the political rulers and the priestly caste make common cause in their own interests. The social feelings are another source of the crystallization of religion. Fathers and mothers and the leaders of larger human communities are mortal and fallible. The desire for guidance, love, and support prompts men to form the social or moral conception of God. This is the God of Providence who protects, disposes, rewards, and punishes, the God who, according to the width of the believer's outlook, loves and cherishes the life of the tribe or of the human race, or even life as such, the comforter in sorrow and unsatisfied longing, who preserves the souls of the dead. This is the social or moral conception of God. The Jewish scriptures admirably illustrate the development from the religion of fear to moral religion, which is continued in the New Testament. The religions of all civilized peoples, especially the peoples of the Orient, are primarily moral religions. The development from a religion of fear to moral religion is a great step in a nation's life. That primitive religions are based entirely on fear and the religions of civilized peoples purely on morality is a prejudice against which we must be on our guard. The truth is that they are all intermediate types, with this reservation, that on the higher levels of social life the religion of morality predominates. Common to all these types is the anthropomorphic character of their conception of God. Only individuals of exceptional endowments and exceptionally high-minded communities, as a general rule, get in any real sense beyond this level. But there is a third state of religious experience which belongs to all of them, even though it is rarely found in a pure form, and which I will call cosmic religious feeling. It is very difficult to explain this feeling to anyone who is entirely without it, especially as there is no anthropomorphic conception of God corresponding to it. The individual feels the nothingness of human desires and aims and the sublimity and marvellous order which reveal themselves both in nature and in the world of thought. He looks upon individual existence as a sort of prison and wants to experience the universe as a single significant whole. The beginnings of cosmic religious feeling already appear in earlier stages of development, for example, in many of the Psalms of David and in some of the Prophets. Buddhism, as we have learnt from the wonderful writings of Schopenhauer especially, contains a much stronger element of it. The religious geniuses of all ages have been distinguished by this kind of religious feeling, which knows no dogma and no God conceived in man's image; so that there can be no Church whose central teachings are based on it. Hence it is precisely among the heretics of every age that we find men who were filled with the highest kind of religious feeling and were in many cases regarded by their contemporaries as Atheists, sometimes also as saints. Looked at in this light, men like Democritus, Francis of Assisi, and Spinoza are closely akin to one another. How can cosmic religious feeling be communicated from one person to another, if it can give rise to no definite notion of a God and no theology? In my view, it is the most important function of art and science to awaken this feeling and keep it alive in those who are capable of it. We thus arrive at a conception of the relation of science to religion very different from the usual one. When one views the matter historically one is inclined to look upon science and religion as irreconcilable antagonists, and for a very obvious reason. The man who is thoroughly convinced of the universal operation of the law of causation cannot for a moment entertain the idea of a being who interferes in the course of events, that is, if he takes the hypothesis of causality really seriously. He has no use for the religion of fear and equally little for social or moral religion. A God who rewards and punishes is inconceivable to him for the simple reason that a man's actions are determined by necessity, external and internal, so that in God's eyes he cannot be responsible, any more than an inanimate object is responsible for the motions it goes through. Hence science has been charged with undermining morality, but the charge is unjust. A man's ethical behavior should be based effectually on sympathy, education, and social ties; no religious basis is necessary. Man would indeed be in a poor way if he had to be restrained by fear and punishment and hope of reward after death. It is therefore easy to see why the Churches have always fought science and persecuted its devotees. On the other hand, I maintain that cosmic religious feeling is the strongest and noblest incitement to scientific research. Only those who realize the immense efforts and, above all, the devotion which pioneer work in theoretical science demands, can grasp the strength of the emotion out of which alone such work, remote as it is from the immediate realities of life, can issue. What a deep conviction of the rationality of the universe and what a yearning to understand, were it but a feeble reflection of the mind revealed in this world, Kepler and Newton must have had to enable them to spend years of solitary labor in disentangling the principles of celestial mechanics! Those whose acquaintance with scientific research is derived chiefly from its practical results easily develop a completely false notion of the mentality of the men who, surrounded by a skeptical world, have shown the way to those like-minded with themselves, scattered through the earth and the centuries. Only one who has devoted his life to similar ends can have a vivid realization of what has inspired these men and given them the strength to remain true to their purpose in spite of countless failures. It is cosmic religious feeling that gives a man strength of this sort. A contemporary has said, not unjustly, that in this materialistic age of ours the serious scientific workers are the only profoundly religious people. The Religiousness of Science. You will hardly find one among the profounder sort of scientific minds without a peculiar religious feeling of his own. But it is different from the religion of the naive man. For the latter God is a being from whose care one hopes to benefit and whose punishment one fears; a sublimation of a feeling similar to that of a child for its father, a being to whom one stands to some extent in a personal relation, however deeply it may be tinged with awe. But the scientist is possessed by the sense of universal causation. The future, to him, is every whit as necessary and determined as the past. There is nothing divine about morality, it is a purely human affair. His religious feeling takes the form of a rapturous amazement at the harmony of natural law, which reveals an intelligence of such superiority that, compared with it, all the systematic thinking and acting of human beings is an utterly insignificant reflection. This feeling is the guiding principle of his life and work, in so far as he succeeds in keeping himself from the shackles of selfish desire. It is beyond question closely akin to that which has possessed the religious geniuses of all ages. The Plight of Science. The German-speaking countries are menaced by a danger to which those in the know are in duty bound to call attention in the most emphatic terms. The economic stress which political events bring in their train does not hit everybody equally hard. Among the hardest hit are the institutions and individuals whose material existence depends directly on the State. To this category belong the scientific institutions and workers on whose work not merely the well-being of science but also the position occupied by Germany and Austria in the scale of culture very largely depends. To grasp the full gravity of the situation it is necessary to bear in mind the following consideration. In times of crisis people are generally blind to everything outside their immediate necessities. For work which is directly productive of material wealth they will pay. But science, if it is to flourish, must have no practical end in view. As a general rule, the knowledge and the methods which it creates only subserve practical ends indirectly and, in many cases, not till after the lapse of several generations. Neglect of science leads to a subsequent dearth of intellectual workers able, in virtue of their independent outlook and judgment, to blaze new trails for industry or adapt themselves to new situations. Where scientific enquiry is stunted the intellectual life of the nation dries up, which means the withering of many possibilities of future development. This is what we have to prevent. Now that the State has been weakened as a result of nonpolitical causes, it is up to the economically stronger members of the community to come to the rescue directly, and prevent the decay of scientific life. Far-sighted men with a clear understanding of the situation have set up institutions by which scientific work of every sort is to be kept going in Germany and Austria. Help to make these efforts a real success. In my teaching work I see with admiration that economic troubles have not yet succeeded in stifling the will and the enthusiasm for scientific research. Far from it! Indeed, it looks as if our disasters had actually quickened the devotion to non-material goods. Everywhere people are working with burning enthusiasm in the most difficult circumstances. See to it that the will-power and the talents of the youth of to-day do not perish to the grievous hurt of the community as a whole. Interviewers. To be called to account publicly for everything one has said, even in jest, an excess of high spirits, or momentary anger, fatal as it must be in the end, is yet up to a point reasonable and natural. But to be called to account publicly for what others have said in one's name, when one cannot defend oneself, is indeed a sad predicament. "But who suffers such a dreadful fate?" you will ask. Well, everyone who is of sufficient interest to the public to be pursued by interviewers. You smile incredulously, but I have had plenty of direct experience and will tell you about it. Imagine the following situation. One morning a reporter comes to you and asks you in a friendly way to tell him something about your friend N. At first you no doubt feel something approaching indignation at such a proposal. But you soon discover that there is no escape. If you refuse to say anything, the man writes: "I asked one of N's supposedly best friends about him. But he prudently avoided my questions. This in itself enables the reader to draw the inevitable conclusions." There is, therefore, no escape, and you give the following information: "Mister N is a cheerful, straightforward man, much liked by all his friends. He can find a bright side to any situation. His enterprise and industry know no bounds; his job takes up his entire energies. He is devoted to his family and lays everything he possesses at his wife's feet." Now for the reporter's version: "Mister N takes nothing very seriously and has a gift for making himself liked, particularly as he carefully cultivates a hearty and ingratiating manner. He is so completely a slave to his job that he has no time for the considerations of any non-personal subject or for any mental activity outside it. He spoils his wife unbelievably and is utterly under her thumb." A real reporter would make it much more spicy, but I expect this will be enough for you and your friend N. He reads this, and some more like it, in the paper next morning, and his rage against you knows no bounds, however cheerful and benevolent his natural disposition may be. The injury done to him gives you untold pain, especially as you are really fond of him. What's your next step, my friend? If you know, tell me quickly, so that I may adopt your method with all speed. Thanks to America. Mister Mayor, Ladies, and Gentlemen, The splendid reception which you have accorded to me to-day puts me to the blush in so far as it is meant for me personally, but it gives me all the more pleasure in so far as it is meant for me as a representative of pure science. For this gathering is an outward and visible sign that the world is no longer prone to regard material power and wealth as the highest goods. It is gratifying that men should feel an urge to proclaim this in an official way. In the wonderful two months which I have been privileged to spend in your midst in this fortunate land, I have had many opportunities of observing what a high value men of action and of practical life attach to the efforts of science; a good few of them have placed a considerable proportion of their fortunes and their energies at the service of scientific enterprises and thereby contributed to the prosperity and prestige of this country. I cannot let this occasion pass without referring in a spirit of thankfulness to the fact that American patronage of science is not limited by national frontiers. Scientific enterprises all over the civilized world rejoice in the liberal support of American institutions and individuals, a fact which is, I am sure, a source of pride and gratification to all of you. These tokens of an international way of thinking and feeling are particularly welcome; for the world is to-day more than ever in need of international thinking and feeling by its leading nations and personalities, if it is to progress towards a better and more worthy future. I may be permitted to express the hope that this internationalism of the American nation, which proceeds from a high sense of responsibility, will very soon extend itself to the sphere of politics. For without the active co-operation of the great country of the United States in the business of regulating international relations, all efforts directed towards this important end are bound to remain more or less ineffectual. I thank you most heartily for this magnificent reception and, in particular, the men of learning in this country for the cordial and friendly welcome I have received from them. I shall always look back on these two months with pleasure and gratitude. The University Course at Davos. Senalores boni viri, senatus autem bestia. So a friend of mine, a Swiss professor, once wrote in his irritable way to a university faculty which had annoyed him. Communities tend to be less guided than individuals by conscience and a sense of responsibility. What a fruitful source of suffering to mankind this fact is! It is the cause of wars and every kind of oppression, which fill the earth with pain, sighs, and bitterness. And yet nothing truly valuable can be achieved except by the unselfish co-operation of many individuals. Hence the man of good will is never happier than when some communal enterprise is afoot and is launched at the cost of heavy sacrifices, with the single object of promoting life and culture. Such pure joy was mine when I heard about the university courses at Davos. A work of rescue is being carried out there, with intelligence and a wise moderation, which is based on a grave need, though it may not be a need that is immediately obvious to everyone. Many a young man goes to this valley with his hopes fixed on the healing power of its sunny mountains and regains his bodily health. But thus withdrawn for long periods from the will-hardening discipline of normal work and a prey to morbid reflection on his physical condition, he easily loses the power of mental effort and the sense of being able to hold his own in the struggle for existence. He becomes a sort of hot-house plant and, when his body is cured, often finds it difficult to get back to normal life. Interruption of intellectual training in the formative period of youth is very apt to leave a gap which can hardly be filled later. Yet, as a general rule, intellectual work in moderation, so far from retarding cure, indirectly helps it forward, just as moderate physical work does. It is in this knowledge that the university courses are being instituted, with the object not merely of preparing these young people for a profession but of stimulating them to intellectual activity as such. They are to provide work, training, and hygiene in the sphere of the mind. Let us not forget that this enterprise is admirably calculated to establish such relations between members of different nations as are favorable to the growth of a common European feeling. The effects of the new institution in this direction are likely to be all the more advantageous from the fact that the circumstances of its birth rule out every sort of political purpose. The best way to serve the cause of internationalism is by co-operating in some life-giving work. From all these points of view I rejoice that the energy and intelligence of the founders of the university courses at Davos have already attained such a measure of success that the enterprise has outgrown the troubles of infancy. May it prosper, enriching the inner lives of numbers of admirable human beings and rescuing many from the poverty of sanatorium life! Congratulations to a Critic. To see with one's own eyes, to feel and judge without succumbing to the suggestive power of the fashion of the day, to be able to express what one has seen and felt in a snappy sentence or even in a cunningly wrought word, is that not glorious? Is it not a proper subject for congratulation? Some Notes on my American Impressions. I must redeem my promise to say something about my impressions of this country. That is not altogether easy for me. For it is not easy to take up the attitude of an impartial observer when one is received with such kindness and undeserved respect as I have been in America. First of all let me say something on this head. The cult of individual personalities is always, in my view, unjustified. To be sure, nature distributes her gifts variously among her children. But there are plenty of the well-endowed ones too, thank God, and I am firmly convinced that most of them live quiet, unregarded lives. It strikes me as unfair, and even in bad taste, to select a few of them fur boundless admiration, attributing superhuman powers of mind and character to them. This has been my fate, and the contrast between the popular estimate of my powers and achievements and the reality is simply grotesque. The consciousness of this extraordinary state of affairs would be unbearable but for one great consoling thought: it is a welcome symptom in an age which is commonly denounced as materialistic, that it makes heroes of men whose ambitions lie wholly in the intellectual and moral sphere. This proves that knowledge and justice are ranked above wealth and power by a large section of the human race. My experience teaches me that this idealistic outlook is particularly prevalent in America, which is usually decried as a particularly materialistic country. After this digression I come to my proper theme, in the hope that no more weight will be attached to my modest remarks than they deserve. What first strikes the visitor with amazement is the superiority of this country in matters of technics and organization. Objects of everyday use are more solid than in Europe, houses infinitely more convenient in arrangement. Everything is designed to save human labor. Labor is expensive, because the country is sparsely inhabited in comparison with its natural resources. The high price of labour was the stimulus which evoked the marvelous development of technical devices and methods of work. The opposite extreme is illustrated by over-populated China or India, where the low price of labour has stood in the way of the development of machinery. Europe is half-way between the two. Once the machine is sufficiently highly developed it becomes cheaper in the end than the cheapest labour. Let the Fascists in Europe, who desire on narrow-minded political grounds to see their own particular countries more densely populated, take heed of this. The anxious care with which the United States keep out foreign goods by means of prohibitive tariffs certainly contrasts oddly with this notion. But an innocent visitor must not be expected to rack his brains too much, and, when all is said and done, it is not absolutely certain that every question admits of a rational answer. The second thing that strikes a visitor is the joyous, positive attitude to life. The smile on the faces of the people in photographs is symbolical of one of the American's greatest assets. He is friendly, confident, optimistic, and, without envy. The European finds intercourse with Americans easy and agreeable. Compared with the American, the European is more critical, more self-conscious, less goodhearted and helpful, more isolated, more fastidious in his amusements and his reading, generally more or less of a pessimist. Great importance attaches to the material comforts of life, and peace, freedom from care, security are all sacrificed to them. The American lives for ambition, the future, more than the European. Life for him is always becoming, never being. In this respect he is even further removed from the Russian and the Asiatic than the European is. But there is another respect in which he resembles the Asiatic more than the European does: he is lest of an individualist than the European, that is, from the psychological, not the economic, point of view. More emphasis is laid on the "we" than the "I." As a natural corollary of this, custom and convention are very powerful, and there is much more uniformity both in outlook on life and in moral and æsthetic ideas among Americans than among Europeans. This fact is chiefly responsible for America's economic superiority over Europe. Co-operation and the division of labor are carried through more easily and with less friction than in Europe, whether in the factory or the university or in private good works. This social sense may be partly due to the English tradition. In apparent contradiction to this stands the fact that the activities of the State are comparatively restricted as compared with Europe. The European is surprised to find the telegraph, the telephone, the railways, and the schools predominantly in private hands. The more social attitude of the individual, which I mentioned just now, makes this possible here. Another consequence of this attitude is that the extremely unequal distribution of property leads to no intolerable hardships. The social conscience of the rich man is much more highly developed than in Europe. He considers himself obliged as a matter of course to place a large portion of his wealth, and often of his own energies too, at the disposal of the community, and public opinion, that all-powerful force, imperiously demands it of him. Hence the most important cultural functions can be left to private enterprise, and the part played by the State in this country is, comparatively, a very restricted one. The prestige of government has undoubtedly been lowered considerably by the Prohibition laws. For nothing is more destructive of respect for the government and the law of the land than passing laws which cannot be enforced. It is an open secret that the dangerous increase of crime in this country is closely connected with this. There is also another way in which Prohibition, in my opinion, has led to the enfeeblement of the State. The public-house is a place which gives people a chance to exchange views and ideas on public affairs. As far as I can see, people here have no chance of doing this, the result being that the Press, which is mostly controlled by definite interests, has an excessive influence over public opinion. The over-estimation of money is still greater in this country than in Europe, but appears to me to be on the decrease. It is at last beginning to be realized that great wealth is not necessary for a happy and satisfactory life. As regards artistic matters, I have been genuinely impressed by the good taste displayed in the modern buildings and in articles of common use; on the other hand, the visual arts and music have little place in the life of the nation as compared with Europe. I have a warm admiration for the achievements of American institutes of scientific research. We are unjust in attempting to ascribe the increasing superiority of American research-work exclusively to superior wealth; zeal, patience, a spirit of comradeship, and a talent for co-operation play an important part in its successes. One more observation to finish up with. The United States is the most powerful technically advanced country in the world to-day. Its influence on the shaping of international relations is absolutely incalculable. But America is a large country and its people have so far not shown much interest in great international problems, among which the problem of disarmament occupies first place today. This must be changed, if only in the essential interests of the Americans. The last war has shown that there are no longer any barriers between the continents and that the destinies of all countries are closely interwoven. The people of this country must realize that they have a great responsibility in the sphere of international politics. The part of passive spectator is unworthy of this country and is bound in the end to lead to disaster all round. Reply to the Women of America. An American Women's League felt called upon to protest against Einstein's visit to their country. They received the following answer. Never yet have I experienced from the fair sex such energetic rejection of all advances; or, if I have, never from so many at once. But are they not quite right, these watchful citizenesses? Why should one open one's doors to a person who devours hard-boiled capitalists with as much appetite and gusto as the Cretan Minotaur in days gone by devoured luscious Greek maidens, and on top of that is low-down enough to reject every sort of war, except the unavoidable war with one's own wife? Therefore give heed to your clever and patriotic women-folk and remember that the Capitol of mighty Rome was once saved by the cackling of its faithful geese. Politics and Pacifism. Peace. The importance of securing international peace was recognized by the really great men of former generations. But the technical advances of our times have turned this ethical postulate into a matter of life and death for civilized mankind to-day, and made the taking of an active part in the solution of the problem of peace a moral duty which no conscientious man can shirk. One has to realize that the powerful industrial groups concerned in the manufacture of arms are doing their best in all countries to prevent the peaceful settlement of international disputes, and that rulers can achieve this great end only if they are sure of the vigorous support of the majority of their peoples. In these days of democratic government the fate of the nations hangs on themselves; each individual must always bear that in mind. The Pacifist Problem. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am very glad of this opportunity of saying a few words to you about the problem of pacifism. The course of events in the last few years has once more shown us how little we are justified in leaving the struggle against armaments and against the war spirit to the Governments. On the other hand, the formation of large organizations with a large membership can of itself bring us very little nearer to our goal. In my opinion, the best method in this case is the violent one of conscientious objection, with the aid of organizations for giving moral and material support to the courageous conscientious objectors in each country. In this way we may succeed in making the problem of pacifism an acute one, a real struggle which attracts forceful natures. It is an illegal struggle, but a struggle for people's real rights against their governments in so far as the latter demand criminal acts of the citizen. Many who think themselves good pacifists will jib at this out-and-out pacifism, on patriotic grounds. Such people are not to be relied on in the hour of crisis, as the World War amply proved. I am most grateful to you for according me an opportunity to give you my views in person. Address to the Students' Disarmament Meeting. Preceding generations have presented us, in a highly developed science and mechanical knowledge, with a most valuable gift which carries with it possibilities of making our life free and beautiful such as no previous generation has enjoyed. But this gift also brings with it dangers to our existence as great as any that have ever threatened it. The destiny of civilized humanity depends more than ever on the moral forces it is capable of generating. Hence the task that confronts our age is certainly no easier than the tasks our immediate predecessors successfully performed. The foodstuffs and other goods which the world needs can be produced in far fewer hours of work than formerly. But this has made the problem of the division of labor and the distribution of the goods produced far more difficult. We all feel that the free play of economic forces, the unregulated and unrestrained pursuit of wealth and power by the individual, no longer leads automatically to a tolerable solution of these problems. Production, labor, and distribution need to be organized on a definite plan, in order to prevent valuable productive energies from being thrown away and sections of the population from becoming impoverished and relapsing into savagery. If unrestricted sacro egoismo leads to disastrous consequences in economic life, it is a still worse guide in international relations. The development of mechanical methods of warfare is such that human life will become intolerable if people do not before long discover a way of preventing war. The importance of this object is only equaled by the inadequacy of the attempts hitherto made to attain it. People seek to minimize the danger by limitation of armaments and restrictive rules for the conduct of war. But war is not like a parlour-game in which the players loyally stick to the rules. Where life and death are at stake, rules and obligations go by the board. Only the absolute repudiation of all war is of any use here. The creation of an international court of arbitration is not enough. There must be treaties guaranteeing that the decisions of this court shall be made effective by all the nations acting in concert. Without such a guarantee the nations will never have the courage to disarm seriously. Suppose, for example, that the American, English, German, and French Governments insisted on the Japanese Government's putting an immediate stop to their warlike operations in China, under pain of a complete economic boycott. Do you suppose that any Japanese Government would be found ready to take the responsibility of plunging its country into such a perilous adventure? Then why is it not done? Why must every individual and every nation tremble for their existence? Because each seeks his own wretched momentary advantage and refuses to subordinate it to the welfare and prosperity of the community. That is why I began by telling you that the fate of the human race was more than ever dependent on its moral strength to-day. The way to a joyful and happy state is through renunciation and self-limitation everywhere. Where can the strength for such a process come from? Only from those who have had the chance in their early years to fortify their minds and broaden their outlook through study. Thus we of the older generation look to you and hope that you will strive with all your might to achieve what was denied to us. To Sigmund Freud. Dear Professor Freud, It is admirable the way the longing to perceive the truth has overcome every other desire in you. You have shown with irresistible clearness how inseparably the combative and destructive instincts are bound up with the amative and vital ones in the human psyche. At the same time a deep yearning for that great consummation, the internal and external liberation of mankind from war, shines out from the ruthless logic of your expositions. This has been the declared aim of all those who have been honoured as moral and spiritual leaders beyond the limits of their own time and country without exception, from Jesus Christ to Goethe and Kant. Is it not significant that such men have been universally accepted as leaders, in spite of the fact that their efforts to mold the course of human affairs were attended with but small success? I am convinced that the great men, those whose achievements, even though in a restricted sphere, set them above their fellows, are animated to an overwhelming extent by the same ideals. But they have little influence on the course of political events. It almost looks as if this domain, on which the fate of nations depends, had inevitably to be given over to violence and irresponsibility. Political leaders or governments owe their position partly to force and partly to popular election. They cannot be regarded as representative of the best elements, morally and intellectually, in their respective nations. The intellectual elite have no direct influence on the history of nations in these days; their lack of cohesion prevents them from taking a direct part in the solution of contemporary problems. Don't you think that a change might be brought about in this respect by a free association of people whose work and achievements up to date constitute a guarantee of their ability and purity of aim? This international association, whose members would need to keep in touch with each other by a constant interchange of opinions, might, by defining its attitude in the Press, responsibility always resting with the signatories on any given occasion, acquire a considerable and salutary moral influence over the settlement of political questions. Such an association would, of course, be a prey to all the ills which so often lead to degeneration in learned societies, dangers which are inseparably bound up with the imperfection of human nature. But should not an effort in this direction be risked in spite of this? I look upon the attempt as nothing less than an imperative duty. If an intellectual association of standing, such as I have described, could be formed, it would no doubt have to try to mobilize the religious organizations for the fight against war. It would give countenance to many whose good intentions are paralyzed to-day by a melancholy resignation. Finally, I believe that an association formed of persons such as I have described, each highly esteemed in his own line, would be just the thing to give valuable moral support to those elements in the League of Nations which are really working for the great object for which that institution exists. I had rather put these proposals to you than to anyone else in the world, because you are least of all men the dupe of your desires and because your critical judgment is supported by a most earnest sense of responsibility. Compulsory Service. From a letter. Instead of permission being given to Germany to introduce compulsory service it ought to be taken away from everybody else: in future none but mercenary armies should be permitted, the size and equipment of which should be discussed at Geneva. This would be better for France than to have to permit compulsory service in Germany. The fatal psychological effect of the military education of the people and the violation of the individual's rights which it involves would thus be avoided. Moreover, it would be much easier for two countries which had agreed to compulsory arbitration for the settlement of all disputes arising out of their mutual relations to combine their military establishments of mercenaries into a single organization with a mixed staff. This would mean a financial relief and increased security for both of them. Such a process of amalgamation might extend to larger and larger combinations, and finally lead to an "international police," which would be bound gradually to degenerate as international security increased. Will you discuss this proposal with our friends by way of setting the ball rolling? Of course I do not in the least insist on this particular proposal. But I do think it essential that we should come forward with a positive programme; a merely negative policy is unlikely to produce any practical results. Germany and France. Mutual trust and co-operation between France and Germany can come about only if the French demand for security against military attack is satisfied. But should France frame demands in accordance with this, such a step would certainly be taken very ill in Germany. A procedure something like the following seems, however, to be possible. Let the German Government of its own free will propose to the French that they should jointly make representations to the League of Nations that it should suggest to all member States to bind themselves to the following:, (1) To submit to every decision of the international court of arbitration. (2) To proceed with all its economic and military force, in concert with the other members of the League, against any State which breaks the peace or resists an international decision made in the interests of world peace. Arbitration. Systematic disarmament within a short period. This is possible only in combination with the guarantee of all for the security of each separate nation, based on a permanent court of arbitration independent of governments. Unconditional obligation of all countries not merely to accept the decisions of the court of arbitration but also to give effect to them. Separate courts of arbitration for Europe with Africa, America, and Asia, Australia to be apportioned to one of these. A joint court of arbitration for questions involving issues that cannot be settled within the limits of any one of these three regions. The International of Science. At a sitting of the Academy during the War, at the time when national and political infatuation had reached its height, Emil Fischer spoke the following emphatic words: "It's no use, Gentlemen, science is and remains international." The really great scientists have always known this and felt it passionately, even though in times of political confusion they may have remained isolated among their colleagues of inferior caliber. In every camp during the War this mass of voters betrayed their sacred trust. The international society of the academies was broken up. Congresses were and still are held from which colleagues from ex-enemy countries are excluded. Political considerations, advanced with much solemnity, prevent the triumph of purely objective ways of thinking without which our great aims must necessarily be frustrated. What can right-minded people, people who are proof against the emotional temptations of the moment, do to repair the damage? With the majority of intellectual workers still so excited, truly international congresses on the grand scale cannot yet be held. The psychological obstacles to the restoration of the international associations of scientific workers are still too formidable to be overcome by the minority whose ideas and feelings are of a more comprehensive kind. These last can aid in the great work of restoring the international societies to health by keeping in close touch with like-minded people all over the world and resolutely championing the international cause in their own spheres. Success on a large scale will take time, but it will undoubtedly come. I cannot let this opportunity pass without paying a tribute to the way in which the desire to preserve the confraternity of the intellect has remained alive through all these difficult years in the breasts of a large number of our English colleagues especially. The disposition of the individual is everywhere better than the official pronouncements. Right-minded people should bear this in mind and not allow themselves to be misled and get angry: senatores boni viri, senatus autem bestia. If I am full of confident hope concerning the progress of international organization in general, that feeling is based not so much on my confidence in the intelligence and high-mindedness of my fellows, but rather on the irresistible pressure of economic developments. And since these depend largely on the work even of reactionary scientists, they too will help to create the international organization against their wills. The Institute for Intellectual Co-operation. During this year the leading politicians of Europe have for the first time drawn the logical conclusion from the truth that our portion of the globe can only regain its prosperity if the underground struggle between the traditional political units ceases. The political organization of Europe must be strengthened, and a gradual attempt made to abolish tariff barriers. This great end cannot be achieved by treaties alone. People's minds must, above all, be prepared for it. We must try gradually to awaken in them a sense of solidarity which does not, as hitherto, stop at frontiers. It is with this in mind that the League of Nations has created the Commission de cooperation intellectuelle. This Commission is to be an absolutely international and entirely nonpolitical authority, whose business it is to put the intellectuals of all the nations, who were isolated by the war, into touch with each other. It is a difficult task; for it has, alas, to be admitted that, at least in the countries with which I am most closely acquainted, the artists and men of learning are governed by narrowly nationalist feelings to a far greater extent than the men of affairs. Hitherto this Commission has met twice a year. To make its efforts more effective, the French Government has decided to create and maintain a permanent Institute for intellectual co-operation, which is just now to be opened. It is a generous act on the part of the French nation and deserves the thanks of all. It is an easy and grateful task to rejoice and praise and say nothing about the things one regrets or disapproves of. But honesty alone can help our work forward, so I will not shrink from combining criticism with this greeting to the new-born child. I have daily occasion for observing that the greatest obstacle which the work of our Commission has to encounter is the lack of confidence in its political impartiality. Everything must be done to strengthen that confidence and everything avoided that might harm it. When, therefore, the French Government sets up and maintains an Institute out of public funds in Paris as a permanent organ of the Commission, with a Frenchman as its Director, the outside observer can hardly avoid the impression that French influence predominates in the Commission. This impression is further strengthened by the fact that so far a Frenchman has also been chairman of the Commission itself. Although the individuals in question are men of the highest reputation, liked and respected everywhere, nevertheless the impression remains. Dixi et salvavi animam naeam. I hope with all my heart that the new Institute, by constant interaction with the Commission, will succeed in promoting their common ends and winning the confidence and recognition of intellectual workers all over the world. The Question of Disarmament. The greatest obstacle to the success of the disarmament plan was the fact tha people in general left out of account the chief difficulties of the problem. Most objects are gained by gradual steps: for example, the supersession of absolute monarchy by democracy. Here, however, we are concerned with an objective which cannot be reached step by step. As long as the possibility of war remains, nations will insist on being as perfectly prepared militarily as they can, in order to emerge triumphant from the next war. It will also be impossible to avoid educating the youth in warlike traditions and cultivating narrow national vanity joined to the glorification of the warlike spirit, as long as people have to be prepared for occasions when such a spirit will be needed in the citizens for the purpose of war. To arm is to give one's voice and make one's preparations not for peace but for war. Therefore people will not disarm step by step; they will disarm at one blow or not at all. The accomplishment of such a far-reaching change in the life of nations presupposes a mighty moral effort, a deliberate departure from deeply ingrained tradition. Anyone who is not prepared to make the fate of his country in case of a dispute depend entirely on the decisions of an international court of arbitration, and to enter into a treaty to this effect without reserve, is not really resolved to avoid war. It is a case of all or nothing. It is undeniable that previous attempts to ensure p

Double Star. Robert Anson Heinlein. Chapter One. If a man walks in dressed like a hick and acting as if he owned the place, he’s a spaceman. It is a logical necessity. His profession makes him feel like boss of all creation; when he sets foot dirtside he is slumming among the peasants. As for his sartorial inelegance, a man who is in uniform nine tenths of the time and is more used to deep space than to civilization can hardly be expected to know how to dress properly. He is a sucker for the alleged tailors who swarm around every spaceport peddling “ground outfits.” I could see that this big-boned fellow had been dressed by Omar the Tentmaker-padded shoulders that were too big to start with, shorts cut so that they crawled up his hairy thighs as he sat down, a ruffled chemise that might have looked well on a cow. But I kept my opinion to myself and bought him a drink with my last half-Imperial, considering it an investment, spacemen being the way they are about money. “Hot jets!” I said as we touched glasses. He gave me a quick glance. That was my initial mistake in dealing with Dak Broadbent. Instead of answering, “Clear space!” or, “Safe grounding!” as he should have, he looked me over and said softly, “A nice sentiment, but to the wrong man. I’ve never been out.” That was another good place to keep my mouth shut. Spacemen did not often come to the bar of Casa Manana; it was not their Sort of hotel and it’s miles from the port. When one shows up in ground clothes, seeks a dark corner of the bar, and objects to being called a spaceman, that’s his business. I had picked that spot myself so that I could see without being seen-I owed a little money here and there at the time, nothing important but embarrassing. I should have assumed that he had his reasons, too, and respected them. But my vocal cords lived their own life, wild and free. “Don’t give me that, shipmate,” I replied. “If you’re a ground hog, I’m Mayor of Tycho City. I’ll wager you’ve done more drinking on Mars,” I added, noticing the cautious way he lifted his glass, a dead giveaway of low-gravity habits, “than you’ve ever done on Earth.” “Keep your voice down!” he cut in without moving his lips. “What makes you sure that I am a voyageur? You don’t know me.” “Sorry,” I said. “You can be anything you like. But I’ve got eyes. You gave yourself away the minute you walked in.” He said something under his breath. “How?” “Don’t let it worry you. I doubt if anyone else noticed. But I see things other people don’t see.” I handed him my card, a little smugly perhaps. There is only one Lorenzo Smythe, the One-Man Stock Company. Yes, I’m “The Great Lorenzo.” Stereo, canned opera, legit “Pantomimist and Mimicry Artist Extraordinary.” He read my card and dropped it into a sleeve pocket-which annoyed me; those cards had cost me money-genuine imitation hand engraving. “I see your point,” he said quietly, “but what was wrong with the way I behaved?” “I’ll show you,” I said. “I’ll walk to the door like a ground hog and come back the way you walk. Watch.” I did so, making the trip back in a slightly exaggerated version of his walk to allow for his untrained eye-feet sliding softly along the floor as if it were deck plates, weight carried forward and balanced from the hips, hands a trifle forward and clear of the body, ready to grasp. There are a dozen other details which can’t be set down in words; the point is you have to be a spaceman when you do it, with a spaceman’s alert body and unconscious balance-you have to live it. A city man blunders along on smooth floors all his life, steady floors with Earth-normal gravity, and will trip over a cigarette paper, like as not. Not so a spaceman. “See what I mean?” I asked, slipping back into my seat. “I’m afraid I do,” he admitted sourly. “Did I walk like that?” “Yes.” “Hum, Maybe I should take lessons from you.” “You could do worse,” I admitted. He sat there looking me over, then started to speak-changed his mind and wiggled a finger at the bartender to refill our glasses. When the drinks came, he paid for them, drank his, and slid out of his seat all in one smooth motion. “Wait for me,” he said quietly. With a drink he had bought sitting in front of me I could not refuse. Nor did I want to; he interested me. I liked him, even on ten minutes’ acquaintance; he was the sort of big ugly handsome galoot that women go for and men take orders from. He threaded his way gracefully through the room and passed a table of four Martians near the door. I didn’t like Martians. I did not fancy having a thing that looks like a tree trunk topped off by a sun helmet claiming the privileges of a man. I did not like the way they grew pseudo limbs; it reminded me of snakes crawling out of their holes. I did not like the fact that they could look all directions at once without turning their heads-if they had had heads, which of course they don’t. And I could not stand their smell! Nobody could accuse me of race prejudice. I didn’t care what a man’s color, race, or religion was. But men were men, whereas Martians were things. They weren’t even animals to my way of thinking. I’d rather have had a wart hog around me any day. Permitting them in restaurants and bars used by men struck me as outrageous. But there was the Treaty, of course, so what could I do? These four had not been there when I came in, or I would have whiffed them. For that matter, they certainly could not have been there a few moments earlier when I had walked to the door and back. Now there they were, standing on their pedestals around a table, pretending to be people. I had not even heard the air conditioning speed up. The free drink in front of me did not attract me; I simply wanted my host to come back so that I could leave politely. It suddenly occurred to me that he had glanced over that way just before he had left so hastily and I wondered if the Martians had anything to do with it. I looked over at them, trying to see if they were paying attention to our table-but how could you tell what a Martian was looking at or what it was thinking? That was another thing I didn’t like about them. I sat there for several minutes fiddling with my drink and wondering what had happened to my spaceman friend. I had hoped that his hospitality might extend to dinner and, if we became sufficiently simpatico, possibly even to a small temporary loan. My other prospects were, I admit it! Slender. The last two times I had tried to call my agent his auto secretary had simply recorded the message, and unless I deposited coins in the door, my room would not open to me that night , That was how low my fortunes had ebbed: reduced to sleeping in a coin operated cubicle. In the midst of my melancholy ponderings a waiter touched me on the elbow. “Call for you, sir.” “Eh? Very well, friend, will you fetch an instrument to the table?” “Sorry, sir, but I can’t transfer it. Booth 12 in the lobby.” “Oh. Thank you,” I answered, making it as warm as possible since I was unable to tip him. I swung wide around the Martians as I went Out. I soon saw why the call had not been brought to the table; Number 12 was a maximum-security booth, sight, sound, and scramble. The tank showed no image and did not clear even after the door locked behind me. It remained milky until I sat down and placed my face within pickup, then the opalescent clouds melted away and I found myself looking at my spaceman friend. “Sorry to walk out on you,” he said quickly, “but I was in a hurry. I want you to come at once to Room 2106 of the Eisenhower.” He offered no explanation. The Eisenhower is just as unlikely a hotel for spacemen as Casa Manana. I could smell trouble. You don’t pick up a stranger in a bar and then insist that he come to a hotel room-well, not one of the same sex, at least. “Why?” I asked. The spaceman got that look peculiar to men who are used to being obeyed without question; I studied it with professional interest-it’s not the same as anger; it is more like a thundercloud just before a storm. Then he got himself in hand and answered quietly, “Lorenzo, there is no time to explain. Are you open to a job?” “Do you mean a professional engagement?” I answered slowly. For a horrid instant I suspected that he was offering me, Well, you know-a job. Thus far I had kept my professional pride intact, despite the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. “Oh, professional, of course!” he answered quickly. “This requires the best actor we can get.” I did not let my relief show in my face. It was true that I was ready for any professional work. I would gladly have played the balcony in Romeo and Juliet-but it does not do to be eager. “What is the nature of the engagement?” I asked. “My calendar is rather full.” He brushed it aside. “I can’t explain over the phone. Perhaps you don’t know it, but any scrambler circuit can be unscrambled, with the proper equipment. Shag over here fast!” He was eager; therefore I could afford not to be eager. “Now really,” I protested, “what do you think I am? A bellman? Or an untried juvenile anxious for the privilege of carrying a spear? I am Lorenzo!” I threw up my chin and looked offended. “What is your offer?” “Uh, Damn it, I can’t go into it over the phone. How much do you get?” “Eh? You are asking my professional salary?” “Yes, yes!” “For a single appearance? Or by the week? Or an option contract?” “Never mind. What do you get by the day?” “My minimum fee for a one-evening date is one hundred Imperials.” This was simple truth. Oh, I have been coerced at times into paying some scandalous kickbacks, but the voucher never read less than my proper fee. A man has his standards. I’d rather starve. “Very well,” he answered quickly, “one hundred Imperials in cash, laid in your hand the minute you show up here. But hurry!” “Eh?” I realized with sudden dismay that I could as easily have said two hundred, or even two fifty. “But I have not agreed to accept the engagement.” “Never mind that! We’ll talk it over when you get here. The hundred is yours even if you turn us down. If you accept-well, call it bonus, over and above your salary. Now will you sign off and get over here?” I bowed. “Certainly, sir. Have patience.” Fortunately the Eisenhower is not too far from the Casa, for I did not even have a minimum for tube fare. However, although the art of strolling is almost lost, I savor it-and it gave me time to collect my thoughts. I was no fool; I was aware that when another man is too anxious to force money on one, it is time to examine the cards, for there is almost certainly something illegal, or dangerous, or both, involved in the matter. I was not unduly fussy about legality qua legality; I agreed with the Bard that the Law is often an idiot. But in the main I had stayed on the right side of the Street. But presently I realized that I had insufficient facts, so I put it out of my mind, threw my cape over my right shoulder, and strode along, enjoying the mild autumn weather and the rich and varied odors of the metropolis. On arrival I decided to forego the main entrance and took a bounce tube from the sub-basement to the twenty-first floor, I having at the time a vague feeling that this was not the place to let my public recognize me. My voyageur friend let me in. “You took long enough,” he snapped. “Indeed?” I let it go at that and looked around me. It was an expensive suite, as I had expected, but it was littered and there were at least a dozen used glasses and as many coffee cups scattered here and there; it took no skill to see that I was merely the latest of many visitors. Sprawled on a couch, scowling at me, was another man, whom I tabbed tentatively as a spaceman. I glanced inquiringly but no introduction was offered. “Well, you’re here, at least. Let’s get down to business.” “Surely. Which brings to mind,” I added, “there was mention of a bonus, or retainer.” “Oh, yes.” He turned to the man on the couch. “Jock, pay him.” “For what?” “Pay him!” I now knew which one was boss-although, as I was to learn, there was usually little doubt when Dak Broadbent was in a room. The other fellow stood up quickly, still scowling, and counted Out to me a fifty and five tens. I tucked it away casually without checking it and said, “I am at your disposal, gentlemen.” The big man chewed his lip. “First, I want your solemn oath not even to talk in your sleep about this job.” “If my simple word is not good, is my oath better?” I glanced at the smaller man, slouched again on the couch. “I don’t believe we have met. I am Lorenzo.” He glanced at me, looked away. My barroom acquaintance said hastily, “Names don’t matter in this.” “No? Before my revered father died he made me promise him three things: first, never to mix whisky with anything but water; second, always to ignore anonymous letters; and lastly, never to talk with a stranger who refuses to give his name. Good day, sirs.” I turned toward the door, their hundred Imperials warm in my pocket. “Hold it!” I paused. He went on, “You are perfectly right. My name is.” “Skipper!” “Stow it, Jock. I’m Dak Broadbent; that’s Jacques Dubois glaring at us. We’re both voyageurs-master pilots, all classes, any acceleration.” I bowed. “Lorenzo Smythe,” I said modestly, “jongleur and artist-care of The Lambs Club.” I made a mental note to pay my dues. “Good. Jock, try smiling for a change. Lorenzo, you agree to keep our business secret?” “Under the rose. This is a discussion between gentlemen.” “Whether you take the job or not?” “Whether we reach agreement or not. I am human, but, short of illegal methods of questioning, your confidences are sale with me.” “I am well aware of what neodexocaine will do to a man’s forebrain, Lorenzo. We don’t expect the impossible.” “Dak,” Dubois said urgently, “this is a mistake. We should at least.” “Shut up, Jock. I want no hypnotists around at this point. Lorenzo, we want you to do an impersonation job. It has to be so perfect that no one. I mean no one will ever know it took place. Can you do that sort of a job?” I frowned. “The first question is not ‘Can I?’ but ‘Will I?’ What are the circumstances?” “Uh, we’ll go into details later. Roughly, it is the ordinary doubling job for a well-known public figure. The difference is that the impersonation will have to be so perfect as to fool people who know him well and must see him close up. It won’t be just reviewing a parade from a grandstand, or pinning medals on girl scouts.” He looked at me shrewdly. “It will take a real artist.” “No,” I said at once. “Huh? You don’t know anything about the job yet. If your conscience is bothering you, let me assure you that you will not be working against the interests of the man you will impersonate nor against anyone’s legitimate interests. This is a job that really needs to be done.” “No” “Well, for Pete’s sake, why? You don’t even know how much we will pay.” “Pay is no object,” I said firmly. “I am an actor, not a double.” “I don’t understand you. There are lots of actors picking up spare money making public appearances for celebrities.” “I regard them as prostitutes, not colleagues. Let me make myself clear. Does an author respect a ghost writer? Would you respect a painter who allowed another man to sign his work for money? Possibly the spirit of the artist is foreign to you, sir, yet perhaps I may put it in terms germane to your own profession. Would you, simply for money, be content to pilot a ship while some other man, not possessing your high art, wore the uniform, received the credit, was publicly acclaimed as the Master? Would you?” Dubois snorted. “How much money?” Broadbent frowned at him. “I think I understand your objection.” “To the artist, sir, kudos comes first. Money is merely the mundane means whereby he is enabled to create his art.” “Hum, All right, so you won’t do it just for money. Would you do it for other reasons? If you felt that it had to be done and you were the only one who could do it successfully?” “I concede the possibility; I cannot imagine the circumstances.” “You won’t have to imagine them; we’ll explain them to you.” Dubois jumped up off the couch. “Now see here, Dak, you can’t.” “Cut it, Jock! He has to know.” “He doesn’t have to know now-and here. And you haven’t any right to jeopardize everybody else by telling him. You don’t know a thing about him.” “It’s a calculated risk.” Broadbent turned back to me. Dubois grabbed his arm, swung him around. “Calculated risk be damned! Dak, I’ve strung along with you in the past, but this time before I’ll let you shoot off your face, well, one or the other of us isn’t going to be in any shape to talk.” Broadbent looked startled, then grinned coldly down at Dubois. “Think you’re up to it, Jock old son?” Dubois glared up at him, did not flinch. Broadbent was a head taller and outweighed him by twenty kilos. I found myself for the first time liking Dubois; I am always touched by the gallant audacity of a kitten, the fighting heart of a bantam cock, or the willingness of a little mart to die in his tracks rather than knuckle under, And, while I did not expect Broadbent to kill him, I did think that I was about to see Dubois used as a dust rag. I had no thought of interfering. Every man is entitled to elect the time and manner of his own destruction. I could see tension grow. Then suddenly Broadbent laughed and clapped Dubois on the shoulder. “Good for you, Jock!” He turned to me and said quietly, “Will you excuse us a few moments? My friend and I must make heap big smoke.” The suite was equipped with a hush corner, enclosing the autograph and the phone. Broadbent took Dubois by the arm and led him over there; they stood and talked urgently. Sometimes such facilities in public places like hotels are not all that they might be; the sound waves fail to cancel out completely. But the Eisenhower is a luxury house and in this case, at least, the equipment worked perfectly; I could see their lips move but I could hear no sound. But I could indeed see their lips move. Broadbent’s face was toward me and Dubois I could glimpse in a wall mirror. When I was performing in my famous mentalist act, I found out why my father had beaten my tail until I learned the silent language of lips, in my mentalist act I always performed in a brightly lighted hail and made use of spectacles which-but never mind; I could read lips. Dubois was saying: “Dak, you bloody, stupid, unprintable, illegal and highly improbable obscenity, do you want us both to wind up counting rocks on Titan? This conceited pipsqueak will spill his guts.” I almost missed Broadbent’s answer. Conceited indeed! Aside from a cold appreciation of my own genius I felt that I was a modest man. Broadbent: “Doesn’t matter if the game is crooked when it’s the only game in town. Jock, there is nobody else we can use.” Dubois: “All right, then get Doc Scortia over here, hypnotize him, and shoot him the happy juice. But don’t tell him the score, not until he’s conditioned, not while we are still on dirt.” Broadbent: “Uh, Scortia himself told me that we could not depend on hypno and drugs, not for the performance we need. We’ve got to have his co-operation, his intelligent co-operation.” Dubois snorted. “What intelligence? Look at him. Ever see a rooster strutting through a barnyard? Sure, he’s the right size and shape and his skull looks a good bit like the Chief-but there is nothing behind it. He’ll lose his nerve, blow his top, and give the whole thing away. He can’t play the part-he’s just a ham actor!” If the immortal Caruso had been charged with singing off key, he could not have been more affronted than I. But I trust I justified my claim to the mantle of Burbage and Booth at that moment; I went on buffing my nails and ignored it-merely noting that I would someday make friend Dubois both laugh and cry within the span of twenty seconds. I waited a few moments more, then stood up and approached the hush corner. When they saw that I intended to enter it, they both shut up. I said quietly, “Never mind, gentlemen, I have changed my mind.” Dubois looked relieved. “You don’t want the job.” “I mean that I accept the engagement. You need not make explanations. I have been assured by friend Broadbent that the work is such as not to trouble my conscience-and I trust him. He has assured rue that he needs an actor. But the business affairs of the producer are not my concern. I accept.” Dubois looked angry, but shut up. I expected Broadbent to look pleased and relieved; instead he looked worried. “All right,” he agreed, “let’s get on with it. Lorenzo, I don’t know exactly how long we will need you. No more than a few days, I’m certain-and you will be on display only an hour or so once or twice in that time.” “That does not matter as long as I have time to study the role, the impersonation. But approximately how many days will you need me? I should notify my agent.” “Oh no! Don’t do that.” “Well-how long? As much as a week?” “It will be less than that-or we’re sunk.” “Never mind. Will a hundred Imperials a day suit you?” I hesitated, recalling how easily he had met my minimum just to interview me-and decided this was a time to be gracious. I waved it aside. “Let’s not speak of such things. No doubt you will present me with an honorarium consonant with the worth of my performance.” “All right, all right.” Broadbent turned away impatiently. “Jock, call the field. Then call Langston and tell him we’re starting Plan Mardi Gras. Synchronize with him. Lorenzo,” He motioned for me to follow and strode into the bath. He opened a small case and demanded, “Can you do anything with this junk?” “Junk” it was-the sort of overpriced and unprofessional makeup kit that is sold over the counter to stage-struck youngsters. I stared at it with mild disgust. “Do I understand, sir, that you expect me to start an impersonation now? Without time for study?” “Huh? No, no, no! I want you to change your face-on the outside chance that someone might recognize you as we leave here. That’s possible, isn’t it?” I answered stiffly that being recognized in public was a burden that all celebrities were forced to carry. I did not add that it was certain that countless people would recognize The Great Lorenzo in any public place. “Okay. So change your phiz so it’s not yours.” He left abruptly. I sighed and looked over the child’s toys he had handed me, no doubt thinking they were the working tools of my profession, grease paints suitable for clowns, reeking spirit gum, crepe hair which seemed to have been raveled from Aunt Maggie’s parlor carpet. Not an ounce of Silicoflesh, no electric brushes, no modern amenities of any sort. But a true artist can do wonders with a burnt match, or oddments such as one might find in a kitchen, and his own genius. I arranged the lights and let myself fall into creative reverie. There are several ways to keep a well-known face from being recognized. The simplest is misdirection. Place a man in uniform and his face is not likely to be noticed-do you recall the face of the last policeman you encountered? Could you identify him if you saw him next in mufti? On the same principle is the attention getting special feature. Equip a man with an enormous nose, disfigured perhaps with acne rosacea; the vulgar will stare in fascination at the nose itself, the polite will turn away-but neither will see the face. I decided against this primitive maneuver because I judged that my employer wished me not to be noticed at all rather than remembered for an odd feature without being recognized. This is much more difficult; anyone can be conspicuous but it takes real skill not to be noticed. I needed a face as commonplace, as impossible to remember as the true face of the immortal Alec Guinness. Unfortunately my aristocratic features are entirely too distinguished, too handsome-a regrettable handicap for a character actor. As my father used to say, “Larry, you are too damned pretty! If you don’t get off your lazy duff and learn the business, you are going to spend fifteen years as a juvenile, under the mistaken impression that you are an actor-then wind up selling candy in the lobby. ‘Stupid’ and ‘pretty’ are the two worst vices in show business-and you’re both.” Then he would take off his belt and stimulate my brain. Father was a practical psychologist and believed that warming the glutei maximi with a strap drew excess blood away from a boy’s brain. While the theory may have been shaky, the results justified the method; by the time I was fifteen I could stand on my head on a slack wire and quote page after page of Shakespeare and Shaw-or steal a scene simply by lighting a cigarette. I was deep in the mood of creation when Broadbent stuck his face in. “Good grief!” he snapped. “Haven’t you done anything yet?” I stared coldly. “I assumed that you wanted my best creative work-which cannot be hurried. Would you expect a cordon bleu to compound a new sauce on the back of a galloping horse?” “Horses be damned!” He glanced at his watch finger. “You have six more minutes. If you can’t do anything in that length of time, we’ll just have to take our chances.” Well! Of course I prefer to have plenty of time-but I had understudied my father in his quick-change creation, The Assassination of Huey Long, fifteen parts in seven minutes-and had once played it in nine seconds less time than he did. “Stay where you are!” I snapped back at him. “I’ll be with you at once.” I then put on “Benny Grey,” the colorless handy man who does the murders in The House with No Doors-two quick strokes to put dispirited lines into my cheeks from nose to mouth corners, a mere suggestion of bags under my eyes, and Factor’s Number five sallow over all, taking not more than twenty seconds for everything. I could have done it in my sleep; House ran on boards for ninety-two performances before they recorded it. Then I faced Broadbent and he gasped. “Good God! I don’t believe it.” I stayed in “Benny Grey” and did not smile acknowledgment. What Broadbent could not realize was that the grease paint really was not necessary. It makes it easier, of course, but I had used a touch of it primarily because he expected it; being one of the yokels, he naturally assumed that make-up consisted of paint and powder. He continued to stare at me. “Look here,” he said in a hushed voice, “could you do something like that for me? In a hurry?” I was about to say no when I realized that it presented an interesting professional challenge, I had been tempted to say that if my father had started in on him at five he might be ready now to sell cotton candy at a punkin’ doin’s, but I thought better of it. “You simply want to be sure that you will not be recognized?” I asked. “Yes, yes! Can you paint me up, or give me a false nose, or something?” I shook my head. “No matter what we did with make-up, it would simply make you look like a child dressed up for Trick or Treat. You can’t act and you can never learn, at your age. We won’t touch your face.” “Huh? But with this beak on me.” “Attend me. Anything I could do to that lordly nose would just call attention to it, I assure you. Would it suffice if an acquaintance looked at you and said, ‘Say, that big fellow reminds me of Dak Broadbent. It’s not Dak, of course, but looks a little like him.’ Eh?” “Huh? I suppose so. As long as he was sure it wasn’t me. I’m supposed to be on, Well, I’m not supposed to be on Earth just now.” “He’ll be quite sure it is not you, because we’ll change your walk. That’s the most distinctive thing about you. If your walk is wrong, it cannot possibly be you-so it must be some other big boned, broad-shouldered man who looks a bit like you.” “Okay, show me how to walk.” “No, you could never learn it. I’ll force you to walk the way I want you to.” “How?” “We’ll put a handful of pebbles or the equivalent in the toes of your boots. That will force you back on your heels and make you stand up straight. It will be impossible for you to sneak along in that cat footed spaceman’s crouch. Maybe slap some tape across your shoulder blades to remind you to keep your shoulders back, too. That will do it.” “You think they won’t recognize me just because I’ll walk differently?” “Certain. An acquaintance won’t know why he is sure it is not you, but the very fact that the conviction is subconscious and unanalyzed will put it beyond reach of doubt. Oh, I’ll do a little something to your face, just to make you feel easier-but it isn’t necessary.” We went back into the living room of the suite. I was still being “Benny Grey” of course; once I put on a role it takes a conscious effort of will to go back to being myself. Dubois was busy at the phone; he looked up, saw me, and his jaw dropped. He hurried out of the hush locus and demanded, “Who’s he? And where’s that actor fellow?” After his first glance at me, he had looked away and not bothered to look back, “Benny Grey” is such a tired, negligible little guy that there is no point in looking at him. “What actor fellow?” I answered in Benny’s flat, colorless tones. It brought Dubois’ eyes back to me. He looked at me, started to look away, his eyes snapped back, then he looked at my clothes. Broadbent guffawed and clapped him on the shoulder. “And you said he couldn’t act!” He added sharply, “Did you get them all, Jock?” “Yes.” Dubois looked back at me, looked perplexed, and looked away. “Okay. We’ve got to be out of here in four minutes. Let’s see how fast you can get me fixed up, Lorenzo.” Dak had one boot off, his blouse off, and his chemise pulled up so that I could tape his shoulders when the light over the door came on and the buzzer sounded. He froze. “Jock? We expecting anybody?” “Probably Langston. He said he was going to try to get over here before we left.” Dubois started for the door. “It might not be him. It might be.” I did not get to hear Broadbent say who he thought it might be as Dubois dilated the door. Framed in the doorway, looking like a nightmare toadstool, was a Martian. For an agony-stretched second I could see nothing but the Martian. I did not see the human standing behind him, nor did I notice the life wand tile Martian cradled in his pseudo limb. Then the Martian flowed inside, the man with him stepped in behind him, and the door relaxed. The Martian squeaked, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Going somewhere?” I was frozen, dazed, by acute xenophobia. Dak was handicapped by disarranged clothing. But little Jock Dubois acted with a simple heroism that made him my beloved brother even as he died, He flung himself at that life wand. Right at it-he made no attempt to evade it. He must have been dead, a hole burned through his belly you could poke a fist through, before he hit the floor. But he hung on and the pseudo limb stretched like taffy-then snapped, broken off a few inches from the monster’s neck, and poor Jock still had the life wand cradled in his dead arms. The human who had followed that stinking, reeking thing into the room had to step to one side before he could get in a shot and he made a mistake. He should have shot Dak first, then me. Instead he wasted his first one on Jock and he never got a second one, as Dak shot him neatly in the face. I had not even known Dak was armed. Deprived of his weapon, the Martian did not attempt to escape. Dak bounced to his feet, slid up to him, and said, “Ah, Rrringriil. I see you.” “I see you, Captain Dak Broadbent,” the Martian squeaked, then added, “you will tell my nest?” “I will tell your nest, Rrringriil.” “I thank you, Captain Dak Broadbent.” Dak reached out a long bony finger and poked it into the eye nearest him, shoving it on home until his knuckles were jammed against the brain case. He pulled it out and his finger was slimed with green ichor. The creature’s pseudo limbs crawled back into its trunk in reflex spasm but the dead thing continued to stand firm on its base. Dak hurried into the bath; I heard him washing his hands. I stayed where I was, almost as frozen by shock as the late Rrringriil. Dak came out, wiping his hands on his shirt, and said, “We’ll have to clean this up. There isn’t much time.” He could have been speaking of a spilled drink. I tried to make clear in one jumbled sentence that I wanted no part of it, that we ought to call the cops, that I wanted to get away from there before the cops came, that he knew what he could do with his crazy impersonation job, and that I planned to sprout wings and fly out the window, flak brushed it all aside. “Don’t jitter, Lorenzo. We’re on minus minutes now. Help me get the bodies into the bathroom.” “Huh? Good God, man! Let’s just lock up and run for it. Maybe they will never connect us with it.” “Probably they wouldn’t,” he agreed, “since neither one of us is supposed to be here. But they would be able to see that Rrringriil had killed Jock-and we can’t have that. Not now we can’t.” “Huh?” “We can’t afford a news story about a Martian killing a human. So shut up and help me.” I shut up and helped him. It steadied me to recall that “Benny Grey” had been the worst of sadistic psychopaths, who had enjoyed dismembering his victims. I let “Benny Grey” drag the two human bodies into the bath while Dak took the life wand and sliced Rrringriil into pieces small enough to handle. He was careful to make the first cut below the brain case so the job was not messy, but I could not help him with it, it seemed to me that a dead Martian stank even worse than a live one. The oubliette was concealed in a panel in the bath just beyond the bidet; if it had not been marked with the usual radiation trefoil it would have been hard to find. After we had shoved the chunks of Rrringriil down it (I managed to get my spunk up enough to help), Dak tackled the messier problem of butchering and draining the human corpses, using the wand and, of course, working in the bath tub. It is amazing how much blood a man holds. We kept the water running the whole time; nevertheless, it was bad. But when Dak had to tackle the remains of poor little Jock, he just wasn’t up to it. His eyes flooded with tears, blinding him, so I elbowed him aside before he sliced off his own fingers and let “Benny Grey” take over. When I had finished and there was nothing left to show that there had ever been two other men and a monster in the suite, I sluiced out the tub carefully and stood up. Dak was in the doorway, looking as calm as ever. “I’ve made sure the floor is tidy,” he announced. “I suppose a criminologist with proper equipment could reconstruct it-but we are counting on no one ever suspecting. So let’s get out of here. We’ve got to gain almost twelve minutes somehow. Come on!” I was beyond asking where or why. “All right. Let’s fix your boots.” He shook his head. “It would slow me up. Right now speed is more essential than not being recognized.” “I am in your hands.” I followed him to the door; he stopped and said, “There may be others around. If so, shoot first-there’s nothing else you can do.” He had the life wand in his hand, with his cloak drawn over it. “Martians?” “Or men. Or both.” “Dak? Was Rrringriil one of those four at the Manana bar?” “Certainly. Why do you think I went around Robinson’s barn to get you out of there and over here? They either tailed you, as we did, or they tailed me. Didn’t you recognize him?” “Heavens, no! Those monsters all look alike to me.” “And they say we all look alike. The four were Rrringriil, his conjugate-brother Rrringlath, and two others from his nest, of divergent lines. But shut up. If you see a Martian, shoot. You have the other gun?” “Uh, yes. Look, Dak, I don’t know what this is all about. But as long as those beasts are against you, I’m with you. I despise Martians.” He looked shocked. “You don’t know what you are saying. We’re not fighting Martians; those four are renegades.” “Huh?” “There are lots of good Martians-almost all of them. Shucks, even Rrringriil wasn’t a bad sort in most ways-I’ve had many a fine chess game with him.” “What? In that case, I’m.” “Stow it. You’re in too deep to back out. Now quick-march, straight to the bounce tube. I’ll cover our rear.” I shut up. I was in much too deep-that was unarguable. We hit the sub-basement and went at once to the express tubes. A two-passenger capsule was just emptying; Dak shoved me in so quickly that I did not see him set the control combination. But I was hardly surprised when the pressure let up from my chest and I saw the sign blinking: JEFFERSON SKYPORT. ALL OUT. Nor did I care what station it was as long as it was as far as possible from Hotel Eisenhower. The few minutes we had been crammed in the vactube had been long enough for me to devise a plan-sketchy, tentative, and subject to change without notice, as the fine print always says, but a plan. It could be stated in two words: Get lost! Only that morning I would have found the plan very difficult to execute; in our culture a man with no money at all is baby-helpless. But with a hundred slugs in my pocket I could go far and fast. I felt no obligation to Dak Broadbent. For reasons of his own, not my reasons! He had almost got me killed, then had crowded me into covering up a crime, made rue a fugitive from justice. But we had evaded the police, temporarily at least, and now, simply by shaking off Broadbent, I could forget the whole thing, shelve it as a bad dream. It seemed most unlikely that I could be connected with the affair even if it were discovered-fortunately a gentleman always wears gloves, and I had had mine off only to put on makeup and later during that ghastly house cleaning. Aside from the warm burst of adolescent heroics I had felt when I thought Dak was fighting Martians I had no interest in his schemes-and even that sympathy had shut off when I found that he liked Martians in general. His impersonation job I would not now touch with the proverbial eleven-foot pole. To hell with Broadbent! All I wanted out of life was money enough to keep body and soul together and a chance to practice my art; cops-androbbers nonsense did not interest me-poor theater at best. Jefferson Port seemed handmade to carry out my scheme. Crowded and confused, with express tubes spiderwebbing from it, in it, if Dak took his eyes off me for half a second I would be halfway to Omaha. I would lie low a few weeks, then get in touch with my agent and find out if any inquiries had been made about me. Dak saw to it that we climbed out of the capsule together, else I would have slammed it shut and gone elsewhere at once. I pretended not to notice and stuck close as a puppy to him as we went up the belt to the main hall just under the surface, coming out between the Pan-Am desk and American Skylines. Dak straight across the waiting-room floor toward Diana, Ltd., and I surmised that he was going to buy tickets for the Moon shuttle, how he planned to get me aboard without passport or vaccination certificate I could not guess but I knew that be was resourceful. I decided that I would fade into the furniture while he bad his wallet out; when a man counts money there are at least a few seconds when his eyes and attention are fully occupied. But we went right on past the Diana desk and through an archway marked Private Berths. The passageway beyond was not crowded and the walls were blank; I realized with dismay that I had let slip my best chance, back there in the busy main hail. I held back. “Dak? Are we making a jump?” “Of course.” “Dak, you’re crazy. I’ve got no papers, I don’t even have a tourist card for the Moon.” “You won’t need them.” “Huh? They’ll stop me at ‘Emigration.’ Then a big, beefy cop will start asking questions.” A hand about the size of a cat closed on my upper arm. “Let’s not waste time. Why should you go through ‘Emigration,’ when officially you aren’t leaving? And why should I, when officially I never arrived? Quick-march, old son.” I am well muscled and not small, but I felt as if a traffic robot were pulling me out of a danger zone. I saw a sign reading MEN and I made a desperate attempt to break it up. “Dak, half a minute, please. Got to see a man about the plumbing.” He grinned at me. “Oh, yes? You went just before we left the hotel.” He did not slow up or let go of me. “Kidney trouble.” “Lorenzo old son, I smell a case of cold feet. Tell you what I’ll do. See that cop up ahead?” At the end of the corridor, in the private berths station, a defender of the peace was resting his big feet by leaning over a counter. “I find I have a sudden attack of conscience. I feel a need to confess-about how you killed a visiting Martian and two local citizens-about how you held a gun on me and forced me to help you dispose of the bodies. About.” “You’re crazy!” “Almost out of my mind with anguish and remorse, shipmate.” “But-you’ve got nothing on me.” “So? I think my story will sound more convincing than yours. I know what it is all about and you don’t. I know all about you and you know nothing about me. For example he mentioned a couple of details in my past that I would have sworn were buried and forgotten. All right, so I did have a couple of routines useful for stag shows that are not for the family trade-a man has to eat. But that matter about Bebe; that was hardly fair, for I certainly had not known that she was underage. As for that hotel bill, while it is true that bilking an “innkeeper” in Miami Beach carries much the same punishment as armed robbery elsewhere, it is a very provincial attitude-I would have paid if I had had the money. As for that unfortunate incident in Seattle-well, what I am trying to say is that Dak did know an amazing amount about my background but he had the wrong slant on most of it. Still. “So,” he continued, “let’s walk right up to yon gendarme and make a clean breast of it. I’ll lay you seven to two as to which one of us is out on bail first.” So we marched up to the cop and on past him. He was talking to a female clerk back of the railing and neither one of them looked up. Dak took out two tickets reading: GATE PASS. MAINTENANCE PERMIT. Berth K-l27, and stuck them into the monitor. The machine scanned them, a transparency directed us to take an upper-level car, code King 127; the gate let us through and locked behind us as a recorded voice said, “Watch your step, please, and heed radiation warnings. The Terminal Company is not responsible for accidents beyond the gate.” Dak punched an entirely different code in the little car; it wheeled around, picked a track, and we took off out under the field. It did not matter to me. I was beyond caring. When we stepped out of the little car it went back where it came from. In front of me was a ladder disappearing into the steel ceiling above. Dak nudged me. “Up you go.” There was a scuttle hole at the top and on it a sign: RADIATION HAZARD-Optimax 13 Seconds. The figures had been chalked in. I stopped. I have no special interest in offspring but I am no fool. Dak grinned and said, “Got your lead britches on? Open it, go through at once and straight up the ladder into the ship. If you don’t stop to scratch, you’ll make it with at least three seconds to spare.” I believe I made it with five seconds to spare. I was out in the sunlight for about ten feet, then I was inside a long tube in the ship. I used about every third rung. The rocket ship was apparently small. At least the control room was quite cramped; I never got a look at the outside. The only other spaceships I had ever been in were the Moon shuttles Evangeline and her sister ship the Gabriel, that being the year in which I had incautiously accepted a lunar engagement on a co-op basis-our impresario had had a notion that a juggling, tightrope, and acrobatic routine would go well in the one-sixth gee of the Moon, which was correct as far as it went, but he had not allowed rehearsal time for us to get used to low gravity. I had to take advantage of the Distressed Travelers Act to get back and I had lost my wardrobe. There were two men in the control room; one was lying in one of three acceleration couches fiddling with dials, the other was making obscure motions with a screw driver. The one in the couch glanced at me, said nothing. The other one turned, looked worried, then said past me, “What happened to Jock?” Dak almost levitated out of the hatch behind me. “No time!” he snapped. “Have you compensated for his mass?” “Red, is she taped? Tower?” The man in the couch answered lazily, “I’ve been recomputing every two minutes. You’re clear with the tower. Minus forty-, uh, seven seconds.” “Out of that bunk! Scram! I’m going to catch that tick!” Red moved lazily out of the couch as Dak got in. The other man shoved me into the copilot’s couch and strapped a safety belt across my chest. He turned and dropped down the escape tube. Red followed him, then stopped with his head and shoulders out. “Tickets, please!” he said cheerfully. “Oh, cripes!” Dak loosened a safety belt, reached for a pocket, got out the two field passes we had used to sneak aboard, and shoved them at him. “Thanks,” Red answered. “See you in church. Hot jets, and so forth.” He disappeared with leisurely swiftness; I heard the air lock close and my eardrums popped. Dak did not answer his farewell; his eyes were busy on the computer dials and he made some minor adjustment. “Twenty-one seconds,” he said to me. “There’ll be no rundown. Be sure your arms are inside and that you are relaxed. The first step is going to be a honey.” I did as I was told, then waited for hours in that curtain-going-up tension. Finally I said, “Dak?” “Shut up!” “Just one thing: where are we going?” “Mars.” I saw his thumb jab at a red button and I blacked out. Chapter Two. What is so funny about a man being dropsick? Those dolts with cast-iron stomachs always laugh-I’ll bet they would laugh if Grandma broke both legs. I was spacesick, of course, as soon as the rocket ship quit blasting and went into free fall. I came out of it fairly quickly as my stomach was practically empty-I’d eaten nothing since breakfast, and was simply wanly miserable the remaining eternity of that awful trip. It took us an hour and forty-three minutes to make rendezvous, which is roughly equal to a thousand years in purgatory to a ground hog like myself. I’ll say this for Dak, though: he did not laugh. Dak was a professional and he treated my normal reaction with the impersonal good manners of a ifight nurse-not like those flat-headed, loudvoiced jackasses you’ll find on the passenger list of a Moon shuttle. If I had my way, those healthy self-panickers would be spaced in mid-orbit and allowed to laugh themselves to death in vacuum. Despite the turmoil in my mind and the thousand questions I wanted to ask we had almost made rendezvous with a torchship, which was in parking orbit around Earth, before I could stir up interest in anything. I suspect that if one were to inform a victim of spacesickness that he was to be shot at sunrise his own answer would be, “Yes? Would you hand me that sack, please?” But I finally recovered to the point where instead of wanting very badly to die the scale had tipped so that I had a flickering, halfhearted interest in continuing to live. Dak was busy most of the time at the ship’s communicator, apparently talking on a very tight beam for his hands constantly nursed the directional control like a gunner laying a gun under difficulties. I could not hear what he said, or even read his lips, as he had his face pushed into the nimble box. I assumed that he was talking to the long-jump ship we were to meet. But when he pushed the communicator aside and lit a cigarette I repressed the stomach retch that the mere sight of tobacco smoke had inspired and said, “Dak, isn’t it about time you told me the score?” “Plenty of time for that on our way to Mars.” “Huh? Damn your arrogant ways,” I protested feebly. “I don’t want to go to Mars. I would never have considered your crazy offer if I had known it was on Mars.” “Suit yourself. You don’t have to go.” “Eh?” “The air lock is right behind you. Get out and walk. Mind you close the door.” I did not answer the ridiculous suggestion. He went on, “But if you can’t breathe space the easiest thing to do is to go to Mars, and I’ll see that you get back. The Can Do-that’s this bucket-is about to rendezvous with the Go For Broke, which is a high-gee torchship. About seventeen seconds and a gnat’s wink after we make contact the Go For Broke will torch for Mars-for we’ve got to be there by Wednesday.” I answered with the petulant stubbornness of a sick man. “I’m not going to Mars. I’m going to stay right in this ship. Somebody has to take it back and land it on Earth. You can’t fool me.” “True,” Broadbent agreed. “But you won’t be in it. The three blokes who are supposed to be in this ship-according to the records back at Jefferson Field-are in the Go For Broke right now. This is a three-man ship, as you’ve noticed. I’m afraid you will find them stuffy about giving up a place to you. And besides, how would you get back through ‘Immigration’?” “I don’t care! I’d be back on ground.” “And in jail, charged with everything from illegal entry to mopery and dopery in the spaceways. At the very least they would be sure that you were smuggling and they would take you to some quiet back room and run a needle in past your eyeball and find out just what you were up to. They would know what questions to ask and you wouldn’t be able to keep from answering. But you wouldn’t be able to implicate me, for good old Dak Broadhent hasn’t been back to Earth in quite a spell and has unimpeachable witnesses to prove it.” I thought about it sickly, both from fear and the continuing effects of spacesickness. “So you would tip off the police? You dirty, slimy.” I broke off for lack of an adequately insulting noun. “Oh no! Look, old son, I might twist your arm a bit and let you think that I would cry copper-but I never would. But Rrringriil’s conjugate-brother Rrringlath certainly knows that old ‘Grill’ went in that door and failed to come out. He will tip off the noises. Conjugate-brother is a relationship so close that we will never understand it, since we don’t reproduce by fission.” I didn’t care whether Martians reproduced like rabbits or the stork brought them in a little black bag. The way he told it I could never go back to Earth, and I said so. He shook his head. “Not at all. Leave it to me and we will slide you back in as neatly as we slid you out. Eventually you will walk off that field or some other field with a gate pass which shows that you are a mechanic who has been making some last-minute adjustment-and you’ll have greasy coveralls and a tool kit to back it up. Surely an actor of your skill can play the part of a mechanic for a few minutes?” “Eh? Why, certainly! But.” “There you are! You stick with ol’ Doc Dak; he’ll take care of you. We shuffled eight guild brothers in this current caper to get me on Earth and both of us off; we can do it again. But you would not stand a chance without voyageurs to help you.” He grinned. “Every voyageur is a free trader at heart. The art of smuggling being what it is, we are all of us always ready to help out one another in a little innocent deception of the port guards. But a person outside the lodge does not ordinarily get such co-operation.” I tried to steady my stomach and think about it. “Dak, is this a smuggling deal? Because.“ “Oh no! Except that we are smuggling you.” “I was going to say that I don’t regard smuggling as a crime.” “Who does? Except those who make money off the rest of us by limiting trade. But this is a straight impersonation job, Lorenzo, and you are the man for it. It wasn’t an accident that I ran across you in the bar; there had been a tail on you for two days. As soon as I hit dirt I went where you were.” He frowned. “I wish I could be sure our honorable antagonists had been following me, and not you.” “Why?” “If they were following me they were trying to find out what I was after-which is okay, as the lines were already drawn; we knew we were mutual enemies. But if they were following you, then they knew what I was after-an actor who could play the role.” “But how could they know that? Unless you told them?” “Lorenzo, this thing is big, much bigger than you imagine. I don’t see it all myself-and the less you know about it until you must, the better off you are. But I can tell you this: a set of personal characteristics was fed into the big computer at the System Census Bureau at The Hague and the machine compared them with the personal characteristics of every male professional actor alive. It was done as discreetly as possible but somebody might have guessed-and talked. The specifications amounted to identification both of the principal and the actor who could double for him, since the job had to be perfect.” “Oh. And the machine told you that I was the man for it?” “Yes. You-and one other.” This was another good place for me to keep my mouth shut. But I could not have done so if my life had depended on it-which in a way it did. I just had to know who the other actor was who was considered competent to play a role which called for my unique talents. “This other one? Who is he?” Dak looked me over; I could see him hesitate. “Hum-fellow by the name of Orson Trowbridge. Know him?” “That ham!” For a moment I was so furious that I forgot my nausea. “So? I hear that he is a very good actor.” I simply could not help being indignant at the idea that anyone should even think about that oaf Trowbridge for a role for which I was being considered. “That arm-waver! That wordmouther!” I stopped, realizing that it was more dignified to ignore such colleagues-if the word fits. But that popinjay was so conceited that, well, if the role called for him to kiss a lady’s hand, Trowbridge would fake it by kissing his own thumb instead. A narcissist, a poseur, a double fake-how could such a man live a role? Yet such is the injustice of fortune that his sawings and rantings had paid him well while real artists went hungry. “Dak, I simply cannot see why you considered him for it.” “Well, we didn’t want him; he is tied up with some long-term contract that would make his absence conspicuous and awkward. It was lucky for us that you were-uh, ‘at liberty.’ As soon as you agreed to the job I had Jock send word to call off the team that was trying to arrange a deal with Trowbridge.” “I should think so!” “But-see here, Lorenzo, I’m going to lay it on the line. While you were busy whooping your cookies after Brennschluss I called the Go For Broke and told them to pass the word down to get busy on Trowbridge again.” “What?” “You asked for it, shipmate. See here, a man in my racket contracts to herd a heap to Ganymede, that means he will pilot that pot to Ganymede or die trying. He doesn’t get fainthearted and try to welsh while the ship is being loaded. You told me you would take this job-no ‘ifs’ or ‘ands’ or ‘buts’-you took the job. A few minutes later there is a fracas; you lose your nerve. Later you try to run out on me at the field. Only ten minutes ago you were screaming to be taken back dirtside. Maybe you are a better actor than Trowbridge. I wouldn’t know. But I know we need a man who can be depended on not to lose his nerve when the time comes. I understand that Trowbridge is that sort of bloke. So if we can get him, we’ll use him instead, pay you off and tell you nothing and ship you back. Understand?” Too well I understood. Dak did not use the word-I doubt if he would have understood it-but he was telling me that I was not a trouper. The bitter part about it was that he was justified. I could not be angry; I could only be ashamed. I had been an idiot to accept the contract without knowing more about it-but I had agreed to play the role, without conditions or escape clauses. Now I was trying to back out, like a rank amateur with stage fright. “The show must go on” is the oldest tenet of show business. Perhaps it has no philosophical verity, but the things men live by are rarely subject to logical proof. My father had believed it-I had seen him play two acts with a burst appendix and then take his bows before he had let them rush him to a hospital. I could see his face now, looking at me with the contempt of a trouper for a so-called actor who would let an audience down. “Dak,” I said humbly, “I am very sorry. I was wrong.” He looked at me sharply. “You’ll do the job?” “Yes.” I meant it sincerely. Then I suddenly remembered a factor which could make the part as impossible for me as the role of Snow White in The Seven Dwarfs. “That is-well, I want to. But.” “But what?” he said scornfully. “More of your damned temperament?” “No, no! But you said we were going to Mars. Dak, am I going to be expected to do this impersonation with Martians around me?” “Eh? Of course. How else on Mars?” “Uh, But, Dak, I can’t stand Martians! They give me the heebie jeebies. I wouldn’t want to-I would try not to-but I might fall right out of the characterization.” “Oh. If that is all that is worrying you, forget it.” “Huh? But I can’t forget it. I can’t help it. I.” “I said, ‘Forget it.’ Old son, we knew you were a peasant in such matters-we know all about you. Lorenzo, your fear of Martians is as childish and irrational as a fear of spiders or snakes. But we had anticipated it and it will be taken care of. So forget it.” “Well-all right.” I was not much reassured, but he had flicked me where it hurt. “Peasant”, why, “peasants” were the audience! So I shut up. Dak pulled the communicator to him, did not bother to silence his message with the rumble box: “Dandelion to Tumbleweed, cancel Plan Inkblot. We will complete Mardi Gras.” “Dak?” I said as he signed off. “Later,” he answered. “I’m about to match orbits. The contact may be a little rough, as I am not going to waste time worrying about chuck holes. So pipe down and hang on.” And it was rough. By the time we were in the torchship I was glad to be comfortably back in free fall again; surge nausea is even worse than everyday dropsickness. But we did not stay in free fall more than five minutes; the three men who were to go back in the Can Do were crowding into the transfer lock even as Dak and I floated into the torchship. The next few moments were extremely confused. I suppose I am a ground hog at heart for I disorient very easily when I can’t tell the floor from the ceiling. Someone called out, “Where is he?” Dak replied, “Here)” The same voice replied, “Him?” as if he could not believe his eyes. “Yes, yes!” Dak answered. “He’s got make-up on. Never mind, it’s all right. Help me get him into the cider press.” A hand grabbed my arm, towed me along a narrow passage and into a compartment. Against one bulkhead and flat to it were two bunks, or “cider presses,” the bathtub-shaped, hydraulic, pressure-distribution tanks used for high acceleration in torchships. I had never seen one before but we had used quite convincing mock-up’s in the space opus The Earth Raiders. There was a stenciled sign on the bulkhead behind the bunks: WARRING!!! Do Not Take More than Three Gravities without a Gee Suit. By Order of, I rotated slowly out of range of vision before I could finish reading it and someone shoved me into one cider press. Dak and the other men were hurriedly strapping me against it when a horn somewhere near by broke into a horrid hooting. It continued for several seconds, then a voice replaced it: “Red warning! Two gravities! Three minutes! Red warning! Two gravities! Three minutes!” Then the hooting started again. Through the racket I heard Dak ask urgently, “Is the projector all set? The tapes ready?” “Sure, sure!” “Got the hypo?” Dak squirmed around in the air and said to me, “Look, shipmate, we’re going to give you a shot. It’s all right. Part of it is Nullgrav, the rest is a stimulant-for you are going to have to stay awake and study your lines. It will make your eyeballs feel hot at first and it may make you itch, but it won’t hurt you.” “Wait, Dak, I.” “No time! I’ve got to smoke this scrap heap!” He twisted and was out the door before I could protest. The second man pushed up my left sleeve, held an injection gun against the skin, and I had received the dose before I knew it. Then he was gone. The hooting gave way to: “Red waning! Two gravities! Two minutes!” I tried to look around but the drug made me even more confused. My eyeballs did feel hot and my teeth as well and I began to feel an almost intolerable itching along my spine-but the safety straps kept me from reaching the tortured area-and perhaps kept me from breaking an arm at acceleration. The hooting stopped again and this time Dak’s self-confident baritone boomed out, “Last red warning! Two gravities! One minute! Knock off those pinochle games and spread your fat carcasses-we’re goin’ to smoke!” The hooting was replaced this time by a recording of Arkezian’s Ad Astra, opus 61 in C major. It was the controversial London Symphony version with the 14-cycle “scare” notes buried in the timpani. Battered, bewildered, and doped as I was, they seemed to have no effect on me-you can’t wet a river. A mermaid came in the door. No scaly tail, surely, but a mermaid is what she looked like. When my eyes refocused I saw that it was a very likely looking and adequately mammalian young woman in singlet and shorts, swimming along head first in a way that made clear that free fall was no novelty to her. She glanced at me without smiling, placed herself against the other cider press, and took hold of the hand grips-she did not bother with safety belts. The music hit the rolling finale and I felt myself grow very heavy. Two gravities is not bad, not when you are floating in a liquid bed. The skin over the top of the cider press pushed up around me, supporting me inch by inch; I simply felt heavy and found it hard to breathe. You hear these stories about pilots torching at ten gravities and ruining themselves and I have no doubt that they are true-but two gravities, taken in the cider press, simply makes one feel languid, unable to move. It was some time before I realized that the horn in the ceiling was speaking to me. “Lorenzo! How are you doing, shipmate?” “All right.” The effort made me gasp. “How long do we have to put up with this?” “About two days.” I must have moaned, for Dak laughed at me. “Quit belly aching, chum! My first trip to Mars took thirty-seven weeks, every minute of it free fall in an elliptical orbit. You’re taking the luxury route, at a mere double gee for a couple of days-with a one-gee rest at turnover, I might add. We ought to charge you for it.” I started to tell him what I thought of his humor in scathing green-room idiom, then recalled that there was a lady present. My father had taught me that a woman will forgive any action, up to and including assault with violence, but is easily insulted by language; the lovelier half of our race is symbol-oriented, very strange, in view of their extreme practicality. In any case, I have never let a taboo word pass my lips when it might offend the ears of a lady since the time I last received the back of my father’s hard hand full on my mouth, Father could have given Professor Pavlov pointers in reflex conditioning. But Dak was speaking ag

Rahan. Episode Forty Three. The Island of the lost Clan. Rahan had believed that he would reach the shore he glimpsed, despite the storm. But a fantastic gust broke the mast of his skiff, placing on him the large sewn skins which served as his sail! Entangled in these skins, he was swallowed up by a wave, and dragged into the glaucous depths. Unable to escape from this strange cocoon, he felt himself being carried away by the waves. He felt as if his lungs were bursting and lost consciousness. Page Two: When he recovered his spirits he was lying on a beach. Kneeling on his chest, a young woman pulled him aside and folded his arms. Rahan did not imagine that the territory of shadows was like this! The ocean had calmed down and the sun shone in the blue sky. You are not in the territory of shadows. But on the island of the lost clan! When the great wave threw you back on the shore, wrapped in these skins, Orooa wanted to save you. She did what her people do when a fisherman sinks into the great river and swallows too much water! Rahan was amazed. Even Crao the wise was unaware of this secret! Rahan thanks Orooa for giving him back his life! He wants to know your brothers! The beautiful face darkened. The leaders will not accept Rahan into the clan! Ooh! Quickly! Let's run away, let's run away! Page Three: A hideous beast, the likes of which the son of Crao had never seen before, had burst out of the ground and was crawling towards them. Orooa dragged Rahan onto a rock. The giant crab waved its monstrous claws trying to grab their legs. The "Craaks" are the clan's most formidable enemies! They hide under rocks or sand and cut off the limbs of our careless fishers! Rahan knew that his knife would not pierce the monster's shell. But he smiled. Crao taught Rahan that there is no invulnerable enemy! Orooa, amazed, saw him lifting a heavy rock Page Four: It was dropped on the crab. The shell burst. The pincers stopped moving. Our fishermen have never had this idea to destroy the big "Craaks". They only run away from them! Rahan was already jumping from his refuge. With his knife he cut tendons, detaching the inside part of the large pincers. However, your people could obtain wonderful weapons! Look, Orroa. Polished and sharp like Rahan's knife. Yes, this is a nice weapon! A weapon? What is a weapon? The question stunned the son of fierce ages. A weapon? A weapon. But it is an object that allows the hunter to kill game, to bring food back to his clan! Wild meat? What do you mean? Our clan lives only on fish and birds. When it can capture them! Orooa pointed to the flock which circled over the high ridges of the island. Page Five: They walked along the shore for a long time, until they reached the entrance to a deep cavern. Men emerged, agitated and hostile. These are my brothers. Where does this man come from Orooa? The Great River threw him back onto our island. I saved him and he saved me from a “Craak”! Good spirits sent him to us, Arturk! Rahan seems to know things that. Were known by the fathers of the fathers of our fathers! Orooa no longer has her sanity! She should know that the clan can barely find enough food to survive! Rahan would be too many among us! Let him be thrown back into the great river! Some men threw themselves at the son of Crao. But they were so weak that he pushed them back without difficulty. Clamors arose! Page Six: Rahan is not the enemy of “Those-Who-Walk-Upright”! He will not steal your food! He will leave your island. If you give him time to rebuild a raft that will take him across the great river! Arturk and Traor must leave this to Rahan! The two chiefs consulted each other for a moment, then. Since Orooa wants it, Artuk and I will grant you this deadline! But you will have to live far from the clan! When the sun has risen as many times as. The fingers of my hand. If you do not flee our island, we will kill you! A new clamor arose when the son of wild ages, using a branch, leapt onto a high rock. Orooa observed him, admiring and thoughtful. Orooa thought to herself that it is said that our hunters were as agile and as strong as Rahan, a long time ago, a long, long time ago! Page Seven: Rahan quickly discovered the trees with which he could build a new skiff. The menace of the two leaders did not worry him. Because he knew that the men of the clan, exhausted by hunger and ignorant of the use of weapons, could do nothing against him. But if he wasn't worried, he was sad. These unfortunate people live worse than animals! Ah! If Rahan could teach them what he knows! Crack! From the first day, the son of Crao dragged several trunks to the shore. He was going to doze off when. Rahan! Rahan! Arturk is going to die! The “Long-Armed-Monster” will drag him into the “Territory of Shadows”! Only Rahan can try to save him! Page Eight: Rahan had never run so fast. He saw, not far from the shore, the man struggling between the tentacles of an octopus! This one disappeared with its prey at the moment when the son of fierce ages dived. If Rahan saves Arturk, he will gain the clan's trust! He had already triumphed over one of these disgusting beasts. And knew their weak point. Avoiding the snake arms with their formidable suction cups, he was able to reach the vital place. The ivory knife plunged into it and plunged into it again, several times in a row. The monster vomited its ink which blackened the waves. Its tentacles waved limply and Rahan was able to snatch Arturk from them. Page Nine: While the octopus, struck dead, sank into the depths, he brought the leader back to the surface. And. A moment later a man revived Arturk, as the son of Crao had been himself by Orooa. How strange it is Orooa. My brothers know how to restore life, but they know nothing about what allows a clan to survive! How did they come to this lost island? We almost forgot about it! Our fathers' fathers were once driven from their land by mountain fire. They fled across the great river, but had to face its wrath. This lasted for days and days. More than half of the surviving clan reached this shore! Page Ten: We sometimes talk about the happy times of yesteryear. But the clan no longer dares to venture on the great river. But why do you have two chiefs?! Arturk, whom you saved, is the best fisherman. We made him the “Chief of Fish”! Alas! Despite his courage and speed he brings back very few fish! These are so fast! As for Traor, he's the "Chief of the Birds"! He alone is capable of waiting for a bird with a stone. But this too is very rare and. We sometimes go for long days without eating! Why fish by hand, why hunt with stones when, "Those-who-walk-upright" know so many traps?? Rahan could teach your clan a lot! Page Eleven: Arturk and Traor were conversing a few steps away. If the first was now favorable to the son of Crao, the Second maintained his decision. Rahan saved you from the "Long-armed Beast" To bring discord between us! He wants to become the leader of our clan! When the sun has risen four times if he has not fled the shore, Traor will kill him with his own hands! The son of fierce ages smiled. He could have easily defeated Traor. But an idea came to him. It is you who will soon ask Rahan to stay among you!! The clan can only live on fish and birds. But it doesn't capture enough!! Rahan left but he did not continue that day with the construction of his skiff. Page Twelve: Despite her orders, Orooa that evening risked reaching him. What are you doing? Rahan once imagined a fish trap. He will prove to your people that we can capture them without risk! The son of Crao cleverly fixed thorns on a long, thin vine. And. When he had garnished these with the shellfish meat from the rocks, he cast his line into the waves. Orooa, stunned, soon saw the vine relax, and Rahan's wrist come alive with sudden jerks. Orooa will bring home more fish than Arturk would catch in ten days! A moment later, the moon shone on a string of large wriggling fish! They are yours Orooa! You can teach your brothers this trap! Page Thirteen: How can Rahan perform so many miracles? Is it thanks to this magic necklace? Rahan does not perform miracles. And the claws of his necklace represent the qualities that those of "Those-who-walk-upright" should have. Courage, Kindness, Loyalty. Rahan tries to be faithful to Crao, who gave him this necklace! Shortly after, Rahan heard the playful clamor that greeted Orra's return to her people. He dozed happily between the trunks of the unfinished skiff. He was about to fall asleep when a disturbing noise startled him. Oh!! A “Craak”! The enormous crab was crawling towards the trunks, waving its monstrous claws. The son of Crao instinctively threw his knife. Page Fourteen: But the ivory weapon, ricocheting off the shell, bounced away. The horrible pincers were seeking and searching for the man. Bloff! No! Rahan will not go to the “territory of shadows”! Crack! Suddenly Rahan lifted up a trunk. The bark cracked under the claws which closed on it. Ra-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha! The “Craaks” are the stupidest monsters Rahan knows! In fact, the Giant Crab dragged the trunk back towards the sea where it soon disappeared. After retrieving his cutlass he son of Crao climbed into a tree, where no one would come to disturb his sleep. He thought for a long time about the Orooa clan before falling asleep If Rahan had the trust of Arturk and Traor, he would build a very large raft! He would take the clan to a land where they would live more happily! Page Fifteen: He was awakened by the shrill cries of large birds. As if to greet the rising sun, white gulls and black cormorants hover above the island A few seagulls landed on a rock and it was then that he caught a glimpse of Traor, lying in ambush in the thickets. The chief of the birds was on the lookout, Rahan thought. Amused, the son of fierce ages observed the man. He saw him throw a stone. But it barely missed his goal. The panicked birds flew away in a flock. Traor is not too clumsy. But his clan will not eat birds today! He will have to be content with the fish that Rahan caught yesterday! By saving Arturk, you gained the esteem of part of the clan. But you will never have Traor's! “Never” is a word that a wise hunter should not utter! Page Sixteen: But, Traor will not return empty-handed to his family! Look! As a great cormorant landed not far from them. The ivory knife, thrown with astonishing skill, buried itself in the body of the bird. Traor can see that Rahan is also not too clumsy! The bird is yours! One moment later. Rahan is too proud. No! Rahan would only be proud if he brought back enough birds to feed the whole clan! If you were capable of such a thing, traor would forget everything he thinks of you! Seizing the cormorant, Traor disappeared rapidly. Orooa sprang out of the thicket almost immediately. I heard everything! Traor is a mistrustful leader, but he is loyal! Page Seventeen: He believes Rahan. But how could Rahan catch enough birds to feed our entire clan! This is impossible! The son of Crao reflected while observing the seagulls returning to the rock. And, as always, an association of ideas took place in his mind. He suddenly remembered the storm. The great web of skins fell on him, enveloping him in a trap, which hindered his movements. Rahan has found it! He knows how to capture birds without approaching them! Without scaring them away! Orooa must have thought he was losing his mind because she suddenly fled. Rahan rushed towards the shore where he had abandoned his skins and his fish trap. Page Eighteen: He returned to the rock of seagulls. Shortly after, the clan alerted by Orooa, saw all of his actions. He was seen cutting and tying branches. Then, stretching the large sewn skins over these. Another branch maintained this curious trap. He tied a long vine to this support and left some fish that he had found on the rock. He went to lie in ambush in the thickets. A flock of screaming seagulls descended almost immediately, fighting over the fish. The attentive clan observed everything. Pulling on the vine, the son of Crao removed the support. And his trap suddenly fell on the Birds! Ra-ha-ha! Page Nineteen: And although a few of these did escape, almost all of them remained captive under the heavy skins! Enthusiastic cries arose. And the clan emerged with Arturk and Traor at the head. Rahan did not lie! He can catch more fish than Arturk and catch more birds than Traor! Rahan alone could feed the whole clan! We ask him to stay among us, to teach us his marvelous secrets! Once again, the son of Crao had managed to gain the trust of "Those-who-walk-upright". Arturk and Traor are good chiefs! Let them stay that way! But Rahan thinks that they should dare to abandon this land where the "Craaks" and the "Long-armed Monsters" roam! Page Twenty: There are, beyond the great river, territories where we live not only on fish and birds! On earth were all “Those-who-walk-upright” live happily! As the days pass, the son of Crao convinced the clan of the lost island. Orooa was his main ally. Look! My brothers follow your advice! Rahan had taught the men how to put the logs together, and on the shore a large skiff was taking shape. We are only three times the fingers of both hands. This raft will support us! And, one morning, the raft reached the open sea. Men saw this island disappear where, since their fathers' fathers' fathers died and failed, they had lived so miserably. The grand river was certainly immense. But Rahan knew that he always ended up discovering a new land! And if the son of Crao smiles at Orooa, it is because in this struggle for life, he never lost confidence. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

North American Aviation B 45 Tornado. By Kev Darling. WARPAINT SERIES Number 118. Above: North American NRB-45C, 0 dash 80017, nineteen fifty-seven. Note addition of externally fitted air brakes and green and white shamrock marking on crew access door. Below: Assigned to the eighty fourth BS and forty seventh BG at RAF Sculthorpe, B 45 “A-5-NA”, 47 dash 030, flew from Britain from nineteen fifty-two till nineteen fifty-eight when it was withdrawn. North American B and RB-45 Tornado Colour Schemes. BY RICHARD J. CARUANA. Top: North American XB 45 Tornado, serial 45 dash 59479. Natural metal overall with Dark Olive Green anti-dazzle panels nose and engine cowlings. All lettering in black. National markings on fuselage sides, above port and below starboard wings. North American logo on nose in black over a white disc. Note smaller door size and wing pitot. Middle: North American B 45A-1-NA Tornado, 47 dash 014, early production aircraft. Natural metal overall with Dark Olive Green anti-dazzle panels nose and engine cowlings. All lettering in black. Note fully glazed bubble canopy. Code BH 104 repeated in black below port wing. Below: North American B-45A-5-NA Tornado, 47 dash 063, Air Force Air Test Center, based at Ladd AFB (Alaska), nineteen forty-eight to 50. Natural metal overall with Dark Olive Green anti-dazzle panels nose, engine cowlings and front section of nose framing. Insignia Red tail section. All lettering in black. National markings on fuselage sides, above port and below starboard wings. USAF in black above starboard and below port wings. AFATC badge on fuselage partly covered by the engine pods in the profile. North American Aviation B 45 Tornado. By Kev Darling. Pictured over mountainous terrain is the second XB-45. During many of its test flights the crew was limited to three as the tail gun position was normally unoccupied. With the final collapse of Japanese resistance in nineteen forty-five the United States Army Air Force was faced with the dilemma of creating a new long range bomber force. Two of the primary machines, the Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress and the Consolidated B-24 Liberator, were already out of production and would be quickly removed from the front-line inventory. This left the Boeing B-29 Superfortress as the primary long range bomber although it was already obvious that the days of the piston powered military aircraft were passing, even so two final efforts were made to use this form of powerplant, namely the Boeing B-50 and the Convair B-36. Both types were capable of carrying the emerging crop of nuclear weapons and the British designed Gland Slam bomb. Neither of these options would make them more effective. The answer was the jet engine and swept wings, both of which came to the attention of the USAAF from intelligence gathered in Nazi Germany during nineteen forty-three. While production of under-contract conventional aircraft continued unabated, Air Material Command instigated the development of new aircraft designs and the jet engines to power them, the latter progressing under the aegis of General Electric with the programme designations of MX-414 and MX-702 which eventually appeared as the J35 and J47 respectively. The airframe side of the equation began in nineteen forty-four when AMC contacted the primary aircraft manufacturers in the United States calling for designs using jet engines, and where possible swept wings, with a weight between 80,000 and 200,000 pounds. Four manufacturers responded, North American with the XB-45, Convair with the XB-46, Boeing with the XB-47 and Martin with the XB-48. Although all four would be offered development contracts it would be North American and Boeing who would succeed in producing aircraft that would enter operational service. The USAAF had intended to schedule a formal competition between the various contractors working on projects, although in nineteen forty-six the AAF decided to forgo the usual competition process deciding instead to sift through the provided documentation and mock-ups to select two for continued development and, hopefully, production. This selection process resulted in the Boeing and North American designs being chosen although by this time both were regarded as medium bombers. As requirements changed the B-47 remained as a medium bomber while the B-45 was redesignated as a light bomber. As a backup both the XB-46 and XB-48 were built and extensively tested although neither would progress past the prototype stage. North American’s answer was the Model 130 that was covered by Contract letter AC-5126 issued to the company on 8 September nineteen forty-four, covering the construction of three prototypes designated XB-45. As design work progressed the contract was altered slightly so that the third machine became the YB-45, the tactical bomber prototype. In order that the B-45 could enter service within a reasonable time scale North American put forward a design that drew much of its inspiration from its previous wartime designs to which were added four jet engines, paired and carried in pods under the wings, plus a bombing radar in the nose, although the wings showed much refinement using an NACA 66-215 aerofoil section at the root which tapered out to NACA 66-212 at the tip. On the Right: This slightly different view of the second XB-45, 45 dash 59480, reveals the different skin panel tones on the unpainted airframe, it also sports the more up-to-date star and bar markings. Right Middle: Seen just prior to its maiden flight is XB-45 45 dash 59479 sitting on the Inglewood flightline. This model had the shorter tailplane that would prove troublesome during early flight trials. Below: This raised view of the XB-45 shows clearly the antiglare areas painted forward of the canopy and the inner faces of the engine nacelles. Also visible are the coverings outboard of the nacelles that reveal the outer wing panel attachment points. All photo credits USAF via DRJ. On 2 August nineteen forty-six the AMC endorsed the immediate production of the B-45 followed by the negotiation and signature of Contract AC-15569 that called for an initial batch of 96 B-45A’s, North American Model N-147, plus a flying static test machine, NA Model N-130, all for a fixed cost of 73.9 million dollars. On 17 March nineteen forty-seven, the first XB-45 made its maiden flight piloted by company test pilot George Krebs. During the one hour flight from Muroc Army Airfield, California, the aircraft was flown under stringent speed restrictions as the main landing gear doors would not close properly when the undercarriage was retracted. This problem might have been avoided by installing better landing gear up-locks, however this time consuming installation was postponed as North American did not wish to delay the XB-45’s flight. Even with this restriction the XB-45’s demonstration was impressive. As a result of this successful first flight Air Materiel Command put forward an extensive test program for the three experimental airframes, each to be instrumented for a particular phase of the development and trials programme. The test programme was hit by the crash of the first aircraft on 28 June nineteen forty-nine from Wright-Patterson AFB, Ohio, that killed two of the company test pilots. This accident was attributed to an engine explosion that caused extensive damage to the tailplane, this in turn causing major structural failure of that section, and as this was prior to the fitment of ejection seats the flight crew had no chance of escape. North American B-45A-5-NA Tornado, 47 dash 082, Eighty-fourth Bomber Squadron, forty-seventh Bomber Group USAF, nineteen fifty-two. Natural metal overall with Dark Olive Green anti-dazzle panels nose and engine cowlings. Red trim, outlined in black on nose and vertical tail surfaces. All lettering in black; note ’7082’ is carried in black below US script on fin, covered by the tailplane. National markings on fuselage sides, above port and below starboard wings; ‘USAF’ in black above starboard and below port wing. Unit badge on a black disk on nose. North American B-45A-5-NA Tornado, 47 dash 065, Eighty-fifth Bomber Squadron, forty-seventh Bomber Group USAF, nineteen fifty-two. Natural metal overall with Dark Olive Green anti-dazzle panels nose and engine cowlings. Yellow trim, outlined in black on nose and vertical tail surfaces. All lettering in black; note ’7065’ is carried in black below US script on fin, covered by the tailplane. National markings on fuselage sides, above port and below starboard wings; ‘USAF’ in black above starboard and below port wing. Unit badge on a black disk on nose. North American B-45A-5-NA Tornado, 47 dash 087, Eighty-fourth Bomber Squadron, forty-seventh Bomber Group USAF, Sculthorpe, nineteen fifty-two. Natural metal overall with Dark Olive Green antidazzle panels nose, engine cowlings and cockpit frame. Blue trim, outlined in black on nose and vertical tail surfaces. All lettering in black; note ’7057’ is carried in black below US script on fin, covered by the tailplane. National markings on fuselage sides, above port and below starboard wings; ‘USAF’ in black above starboard and below port wing. Unit badge on a black disk on nose. Note unusual position of USAF legend on nose. Right: Captured on an early test flight is the first XB-45. In this view the original bombardier glassed area has been replaced by a solid covering with the frames painted in. Also visible are the wingtip mounted pitot probes used to calibrate the aircraft’s primary airspeed indication system. Right Middle: Seen just after touch-down is 45-59479 landing at Muroc Dry Lake airfield. In this view the main undercarriage doors are still extended as they had a secondary role as drag inducers; they would be closed by the pilot just prior to engine shutdown. Below: With its nose glass house restored the first prototype undergoes refuelling outside the flight preparation hangar. Also in this view is a fire engine just in case of an incident. All photo credits USAF via DRJ. As might be expected, the crash of the first XB-45 resulted in a thorough investigation, the primary testing being undertaken in a wind tunnel that confirmed that the aircraft had insufficient tailplane area. The lack of ejection seats in these early machines had drastically reduced the pilot’s chances of survival. In response ejection seats were installed in the other prototypes, followed by an advanced ejection system being developed for the forthcoming production aircraft. In addition future B-45’s would be equipped with wind deflectors installed forward of the escape doors from which the other two crew members, the bombardier-navigator and tail gunner, would have to bail out of in case of an emergency. The aircraft’s tailplane area was also increased with an increase in span from 36 feet to almost 43 feet. Although the loss of the aircraft was tragic, the flight testing of the remaining XB-45’s continued. Pilots from the Air Force took a minimal part in the initial flight tests, during which they flew approximately 19 hours, while in contrast the contractor’s crews logged more than 165 flight hours on the two remaining aircraft during 131 flights, after which the Air Force took delivery of the aircraft. Right: This rear view of the XB-45 prototype shows the fairing over the rear gun turret position plus the location of the tail bumper. Also clearly visible is the gunner’s access door. Centre right: Another view of the XB-45 prototype complete with the solid nose canopy and extra wingtip pitot heads. This portrait was taken during the aircraft’s early flight trials at Muroc. Bottom right: With its gear down and locked 45 dash 59479 poses for the camera. In this view the split bomb bays are clearly shown, note the difference in size. Bottom Left: With a Fordson tractor on one end of the towbar the XB-45 is towed out of its hangar for a day’s flying. By this time the proper three-framed glass house has been installed although the extra pitot heads still remain. The Air Force accepted the second XB-45, 45-59480, on 30 July nineteen forty-eight, followed by the YB-45, 45-59481, on 31 August. The acceptance of both aircraft was conditional as the cabin pressurisation and air conditioning systems in both machines were incomplete, although these deficiencies were rectified later. Once North American had completed the installation of the pressurisation and conditioning systems of the XB-45 further flight trials were undertaken by air force crews who flew a total of 181 hours in the remaining XB-45 between August nineteen forty-eight and June nineteen forty-nine, when a landing accident damaged the aircraft beyond economical repair. The remaining YB-45 had limited testing value at that time due to an initial shortage of government furnished equipment. Even so the Air Force undertook a further 82 hours of flying time after which an air force flight test crew delivered the aircraft to Wright Patterson AFB, Ohio, where the outstanding government furnished equipment was installed for bombing trials at Muroc AFB, California. Unfortunately due to excessive maintenance needs the YB-45 undertook only one test flight between 3 August and 18 November nineteen forty-nine, to evaluate the long awaited government furnished components. At the completion of its systems and bombing trials the aircraft was used for high speed parachute drops that began in Novembernineteen forty-nine. These were completed by 15 May nineteen fifty after which it was transferred to Air Training Command to serve as a ground trainer. With the completion of the flight testing programme North American began production of the aircraft intended for service use. Even before the first Bombardment Wing was established doubts were being expressed about the type’s capability as early as June nineteen forty-eight following a meeting held in the office of General Hoyt S. Vandenberg, Air Force Chief of Staff who had assumed office on 30 April, the purpose of which was to ascertain the B-45’s value to the Air Force and its future use within the service. It was decided at that meeting that no further contracts beyond the initial one would be countenanced and that production would continue as planned up to the one hundred and ninteenth airframe, and that the funds already made available for a further contract would be used for another purpose, although this decision was later rescinded. Top Right: Seen later in its test career is the XB-45 prototype. In this view the aircraft has been fitted with a tail gun turret although in this case the aircraft is undertaking JATO rocket testing complete with fire and thunder. Center Right: This side-on view of the XB-45 prototype shows the clean lines of the Tornado. The type’s main failing was the underpowered engines. Below: Surrounded by various light aircraft is the first XB-45, at this point the aircraft still requires its anti-glare paint applying to the nose and the nacelles. All photo credits USAF from DRJ. A second contract had been issued in February nineteen forty-seven which covered further production, while a third contract was placed in June nineteen forty-eight although by this time the USAF had little desire for further aircraft, thus this tranche was later cancelled. The use of the B-45 came under investigation by the Aircraft and Weapons Board who would hold a series of conferences at which some board members suggesting that elimination of the co-pilot position and the AN, ARC 18 liaison set installed in that position plus the tail bumper would reduce the aircraft’s empty weight by 700 pounds. Also causing confusion was the attitude of the Air Staff who were under the impression that Tactical Air Command did not consider the B-45 suitable for bombing operations, however Colonel William W Momyer, who represented TAC at these conferences, refuted this suggestion as this conclusion was probably based on previous studies by the command on the aircraft’s excessive take-off distance, although North American and the engine manufacturers were working hard to counter this deficiency. In August nineteen forty-eight, 190 B-45’s were tentatively contracted for production, however the programme’s future was still uncertain. Top: Seen undergoing final construction are the second and third prototypes, just visible in right of this view is the already completed first aircraft. Bottom: The sort of take-off test crews like to undertake when showing off, the low altitude, gear and flaps up spirited departure prior to dramatic power-on climb. All Photo Credits USAF via DRJ. In order to justify the already issued contracts Headquarters USAF inquired whether TAC required a bomber type reconnaissance aircraft for long range duties and would a version of the B-45 fulfil their needs. The answer from Tactical Air Command was delivered quickly as they did need a reconnaissance aircraft although a reconnaissance version of the B-45 would not fulfil its requirements. The command also believed that the USAF would gain greater knowledge of jet bomber operations by equipping two bomber wings with the B-45 in order to determine the tactics and limitations of the type. However the merits of these recommendations were academic as budgetary restrictions altered all future planning. The axe that slashed the fiscal year nineteen forty-nine defense expenditures did not leave the B-45 programme completely unscathed. The initial plan for the B-45 Tornado force had called for five light bomb groups and three light tactical reconnaissance squadrons that were included in the USAF goal of seventy combat wings, an unrealistic requirement as the United States was in transition from a wartime footing to that of peace. Although the formation of the Eastern Block was giving rise to concern, the reduced USAF procurement programme was dictated by continued financial restrictions, this being reinforced by President Truman’s budget shrinkage for fiscal year nineteen fifty. The reduced B-45 programme called for only one light bomb wing plus one night tactical reconnaissance squadron, although this meant that the procurement of aircraft had to be scaled down or that a substantial number of the aircraft would have to be placed in storage upon acceptance from the factory. Neither solution was appealing, however the Aircraft and Weapons Board decided to cancel 51 of the 190 aircraft on order. The result was that 100 million dollars would be released for other crucial programmes therefore only sufficient B-45’s would be procured to equip one light bomb group, a single tactical reconnaissance squadron, plus a much needed high speed tow target squadron. In addition there would be extra B-45’s available to take care of attrition throughout the aircraft’s service life. Five light bomb wings were included in the 70-wing force planned by the Air Force, however rejigging of the available forces to meet the reduced 48-wing target meant that the composition and deployment imposed by current funding limitations covered the formation of one light bomb wing. This wing would be allocated to the Far East Air Forces (FEAF) and would be fully equipped with B-45’s. The equipment and training path chosen by USAF was to inactivate the forty seventh Wing at Barksdale and to replace the Douglas B-26’s of FEAF’s third Light Bomb wing based at Yokota Air Base in Japan with the B-45. Maintenance personnel of the forty-seventh would also be transferred to Yokota so that FEAF would benefit from the B-45 knowledge gained by the aircraft’s first recipient. Above: Captured on an early test flight is the second XB-45 and the first XP-86 prototype. The latter went on to achieve worldwide fame while the former nearly slipped into obscurity, even though it was the first USAF jet bomber to enter service. Left: Giving its max, the prototype XB-45 blasts off from the Inglewood runway. With all four engines operating at full power, well for Allisons anyway, and two JATO pods blasting away, the bomber will reach high altitude in no time at all. Photo credits USAF via DRJ. The spanner in the works of this plan was that the B-45’s could not carry sufficient fuel to fly to Hawaii, and equipping the aircraft with additional fuel tanks, a feature intended for later build B-45 models, was at the time impossible. The B-45A-1’s powered by J35 engines had a ferry range of 2,120 miles and a take-off weight of 86,341 pounds that included 5,800 gallons of internal fuel. Almost half of the fuel was contained in two 1,200 gallon bomb bay tanks and no additional fuel space was available. The following B-45-5’s powered by J47 engines had a similar take-off weight and a negligible range increase of 30 nautical miles. As both versions were limited by range problems, other solutions were investigated. The first and only other alternative investigated was to move the required aircraft by sea, however a minimum of ten feet would have to have been removed from each of the aircraft’s wings, not a wise choice. Other forms of other sea transportation were also investigated although all research into the transport question came to a halt. In early nineteen forty-nine, the Deputy Chief of Staff for Air Materiel Command stated that the overseas deployment of B-45’s was currently out of the question for the time being as well as the immediate future. To begin with the B-45’s were not fully operational as they had no fire control or bombing equipment and the aircraft lacked a suitable bombsight, although one was undergoing development. Structural weaknesses including cracked forgings in the primary structure had been uncovered in some of the few B-45’s already flying. Until corrected these deficiencies precluded any deployment abroad. Air Materiel Command (AMC) also reported that the new J47 engine due to equip most of the B-45’s was suffering from serious problems. The engine had to be inspected thoroughly after seven and a half hours of flying time. If they were found to be serviceable the aircraft could only be flown for an additional seven and a half hours before requiring a complete overhaul. Lack of funding prevented the purchase of sufficient spare engines to ensure that the B-45’s could be kept flying if deployed overseas. AMC also anticipated difficulties in keeping those aircraft that remained in America flying even if they were close to the depots where the engines had to be inspected and overhauled. AMC also postulated that the home based B-45’s would need 900 spare engines to undertake a reasonable flying programme although none of these were available. Left: The second XB-45 prototype, was similar to the first aircraft. In this view the bomb bay doors are open and reveal that the doors are constructed in two sections, the inner fitting inside the outer when fully open. Below: This nose-on view of the prototype XB-45 shows that it is equipped with two pitot tubes, one per wing. Connected to separate calibration units the systems plus a chase plane would ensure that the production aircraft pitot systems would work accurately. Photo credits USAF via DRJ. Adding to the shortage problem was that North American F-86 Sabres had first priority for the J47. The AMC report went on to say that the situation would be little altered until jet engines could be used for almost 100 hours between overhauls. This restriction meant that no jet aircraft could be stationed outside of America for at least another year. It was not only the engines that were giving cause for concern, other systems installed in the B-45 were also causing problems. Travelling at high speeds affected the Gyrosyn flux magnetic compass and the E-4 automatic pilot when the aircraft’s bomb bay doors were open, while the emergency braking system, served by the aircraft’s main hydraulic system, was proving unreliable in operation. Also affected were the bomb racks whose mountings were poorly designed as the bomb shackles became unlocked during violent manoeuvres. The B-45’s airspeed indicator was also proving inaccurate while the aircraft’s fuel pressure gauges were both difficult to read due to needle flicker and were thus erratic. The powerplants were also posing a significant safety hazard as during start-up they often flamed out due to an imbalance in the fuel, air aspirator system that sometimes failed to work correctly. The temperature reading systems fitted to the engine jet pipes were incorrectly calibrated and thus failed to indicate the temperatures in the jet pipes while flying at high altitudes. The aircraft’s avionics were also creating serviceability problems in the early aircraft, these centring around the AN, APQ-24 bombing and navigation radar system although few B-45’s were fitted with this system. Malfunctioning of the pressurization and conditioning system also limited the altitude at which the APQ-24’s receiver and transmitter units could operate without failing due to overheating. Allied to this was the signal modulator unit that was not pressurized thus it too limited the APQ-24 capability. Additionally the mounting location of the radar scanner had an adverse affect on the coverage of targets especially when the aircraft was operating above an altitude of 40,000 feet. Coupled to the system unit problems were the ergonomics of the bombardier, navigator’s position as he had to attempt to manipulate two mileage control plots onto the radar screen although these were placed to the right and just behind his back. The layout of the B-45’s radar system was no better from a maintenance point of view. The USAF was still afflicted by a lack of sufficiently qualified personnel to maintain and repair the radar system thus it took up to eight hours just to remove and replace the APQ-24’s modulator unit, this being the system’s primary troublesome component. Adding to the dismal maintenance problem were shortages of spare parts, special tools, and ground handling equipment as well as engine hoists, power units, and engine stands. Right: This is the third Tornado prototype, seen sitting on the flight line with its main undercarriage doors down. Unlike the first prototype this machine featured the extended tailplane which improved the type’s stability. Below right: The final B-45 prototype, was retained for trials purposes for which purpose it was subject to the various modification programmes applied to the operational fleet. Below: This overview of the second prototype shows clearly the extended tailplane span. In common with the other prototypes the aircraft retains a fighter type pilot’s canopy and the three-frame nose glazing. The Nuclear Tornado. Prior to nineteen forty-nine the USAF had never seriously considered the tactical employment of nuclear weapons apart from their use for strategic air warfare. Allied to this was that early nuclear weapons were costly and given the difficulty in producing fissionable material would remain few in number for many years. The change to this policy was the development and large quantity production of small tactical nuclear weapons, thus the USAF earmarked such weapons again for strategic use only, especially as warheads for proposed guided missiles. Although the Air Staff seemed happy with this strategy the Weapons Systems Evaluation Group conducted a study on the use of the nuclear weapon on tactical targets, including the effect of such a weapon on such targets as troops, aircraft, and ships massed for offensive operations plus naval bases, airfields, naval task forces, and heavily fortified positions. The study was concluded in November nineteen forty-nine and found that tactical nuclear bombs would be effective on all targets. While of an informal nature, the Weapon Systems Evaluation Group’s study was noted by the Air Staff although no action was taken until mid-nineteen fifty, when the outbreak of the Korean War underlined the weakness of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization forces should the Russians ever decide to seize the opportunity to attack Europe. These realisation forced events to move rapidly. Overall command and responsibility for these weapons would remain under the control of Strategic Air Command, however the use of nuclear weapons would become Air Force-wide. Top: North American B-45A-5-NA Tornado, 47-057, eighty-sixth Bomber Squadron, forty-seventh Bomber Group USAF, nineteen-fifty-two. Natural metal overall with Dark Olive Green anti-dazzle panels nose and engine cowlings. Red trim, outlined in black on nose and vertical tail surfaces. All lettering in black; note ’7057’ is carried in black below US script on fin, covered by the tailplane. National markings on fuselage sides, above port and below starboard wings; ‘USAF’ in black above starboard and below port wing. Unit badge on a black disk on nose. Middle: North American B-45A-5-NA Tornado, 47-055, eighty-sixth Bomber Squadron, forty-seventh Bomber Group, England, nineteen-fifty-two. Natural metal overall with Dark Olive Green anti-dazzle panel, canopy frame and engine cowlings. Blue trim, outlined in black on nose and vertical tail surfaces. All lettering in black. Note ’7055’ is carried in black below US script on fin, covered by the tailplane. National markings on fuselage sides, above port and below starboard wings; ‘USAF’ in black above starboard and below port wing. Unit badge on a black disk on nose. Bottom: North American B-45A-5-NA Tornado, 47-039, Eighty-fifth Bomber Squadron, forty-seventh Bomber Group, nineteen-fifty-three. Natural metal overall with Dark Olive Green anti-dazzle panels nose and engine cowlings. Yellow trim to nose and vertical tail surfaces, outlined in black. All lettering in black. National markings on fuselage sides, above port and below starboard wings; USAF in black below port wing. Unit badge below cockpit. Above: The North American flight line could be a busy place as this view shows. Here B-45A 47-062 sits alongside an F-86 from the same manufacturer while other B-45’s undergo pre-flight checks. The nearest machine has flap set-up gauges on its upper wing. Center: The second production aircraft. It was retained for trials use, mainly at Wright-Patterson AFB. Bottom: Complete with large buzz numbers under the wings 47-011 undertakes a pre-delivery flight. The aircraft served with the forty-seventh Bomb Wing before being retired for spares recovery purposes. Of note is the four-digit tail number as used by all the operational aircraft. All photo credits USAF via DRJ. In support of this policy change the Air Staff, on 14 November Nineteen fifty, directed TAC to develop tactics and techniques for the use of nuclear weapons in tactical air operations. Tactical Air Command had originally been part of the Continental Air Command when the USAAF became USAF in Nineteen forty-eight, although it gained major command status in December Nineteen fifty. The directive received a further push in January Nineteen fifty-one when an Air Staff programme was outlined to ensure that TAC would become nuclear capable as soon as possible. The B-45 would be at the forefront of the new plan as the aircraft also became the first light bomber fitted for nuclear weapons delivery. Turning the TAC nuclear capability into a reality was the secrecy surrounding the production of the first weapons that created difficulties for both the aircraft manufacturer and the AAF. Due to the dissemination of incorrect information the B-45 could not have been used as a nuclear weapons carrier without major internal modifications to the bomb bay as the main spar that travelled across the aircraft’s bomb bay limited the size of weapon that could be carried. Right: The different metal colors of the B-45 are revealed in this overview of 47-011. Unlike later build machines this aircraft retained the fighter type canopy fitted to the prototypes plus the original three-frame nose glazing. Center: Another view of an early production machine, this time 47-014. In this view the aircraft has its bomb bay doors fully open. Just visible is the fuel dump vent just aft of the tail bumper. Below: Prior to entering service with the forty seventh Bomb Group B-45A-NA-5 47-025 was used to clear the type for conventional weapons usage. Here clutches of 500 pound bombs depart the rear bomb bay although some reports state that the type was unstable during bomb drops. All photo credits USAF via DRJ. Making the task of Tactical Air Command more difficult was the decision to extend the use of nuclear weapons to all combat forces, thus the B-45’s acquired by TAC would no longer remain under direct control. This also meant that TAC would have too few aircraft to develop tactical operational techniques with the new weaponry. Further complications arose when the smaller, safer and lighter nuclear bombs entered the stockpile earlier than expected, again intensive secrecy had accompanied the new developments. These changes meant that the B-45 would be unable to carry any of the new weapons without first undergoing further extensive modification to carry them. In December Nineteen fifty some sixty B-45’s were earmarked for nuclear weapons delivery duty, this consisting of three squadrons of 16 aircraft each, plus 12 attrition machines. This total would be reduced to forty aircraft in mid Nineteen fifty-one although it was increased again in mid Nineteen fifty-two, when fifteen other B-45’s were added to the special modification programme. The Air Staff directed AMC to modify a first lot of 9 aircraft to carry the small bombs for which designs were then available. This initial project would allow for suitability tests by the Special Weapons Command that was established in December Nineteen forty-nine, later re-designated Air Force Special Weapons Center being assigned to Air Research and Development Command in April Nineteen fifty-two. However the diversion of these aircraft meant that TAC had fewer test aircraft to undertake its new tasks. To speed up the development programme five of the nine aircraft would be equipped with the AN-APQ-24 bombing and navigation system while the remaining four would be fitted with the AN-APN-3 Shoran navigation and bombing system, plus the visual Norden M9C bombsight. North American would bring the nine aircraft up to the required special weapons configuration for a total cost of 512,000 dollars. Above: Seen lifting off under full power is B-45A 47-026 complete with a solid nose and a fully framed canopy. By this time the buzz number under the wing had been replaced by USAF titling. Center: With NAA engineers attending to some final details RB-45C 48-011 would be cleared for service use with the Nineteenth SRS. Bottom: The third prototype was used for numerous system trials prior to the B-45 entering service with the USAF. In this view the aircraft has both its nose gear doors open plus the main gear doors. By mid Nineteen fifty-one the programme for operational use of the B-45 in possible nuclear operations was finally established. The aircraft involved in this programme were code-named Backbreaker and included, in addition to the B-45 light bombers, 100 Republic F-84 Thunderjet fighter bombers. As the availability of modified B-45’s increased the programme’s status was accelerated so that it became second only to a concurrent and closely related modification program involving various SAC bombers. In August Nineteen fifty-one the programme received further impetus as the Air Staff confirmed that nuclear capable modified B-45’s, equipment, and allied support would be supplied to enable units of the forty-seventh Bombardment Wing in the United Kingdom to achieve a proposed operational nuclear capability by April Nineteen fifty-two. In addition to the first batch of nine aircraft, the programme would be extended to cover a further 32 B-45’s, the latter modification programmes cost being set at 4 million dollars. One B-45A was destroyed by fire in February Nineteen fifty-two and not replaced thus reducing the available total from 41 to 40 aircraft. Of the 4 million dollars allocated to the project some of the funds were diverted from other Tactical Air Command projects that were later cancelled. The Air Staff requested that sixteen of the aircraft be ready by 15 February Nineteen fifty-two, while the remainder should be available by 1 April. The modifications applied to those airframes chosen for the Backbreaker programme required extensive reworking. Equipment had to be installed in the aircraft for carrying three different types of nuclear weapons which in turn necessitated some structural modifications to the bomb bay. Special carrying cradles were provided for each type of weapon while special hoisting equipment was required for loading each type into the Backbreaker B-45’s. To support the delivery of each weapon a large amount of advanced electronics equipment had to be installed, replacing the standard equipment, while further modifications added new defensive systems and extra fuel tanks to the airframe. North American and the Air Materiel Command’s San Bernardino Air Materiel Area, in San Bernardino, California, shared the modification responsibilities for the B-45 Backbreaker program. In early Nineteen fifty-two the nine B-45’s, already modified to a limited Backbreaker configuration by AMC and North American, were returned by TAC to San Bernardino for completion of the modifications, thus bringing them up to the same standard as the main tranche. Reworking of the other 32 B-45As, later reduced by one after an accident, also took place at the San Bernardino Air Materiel Area during the first three months of Nineteen fifty-two with North American being responsible for furnishing all necessary modification kits. Fortunately good co-operation between the AMC, North American and equipment subcontractors meant that the entire modification programme was completed without significant delays. Much of the electronic and support components required for the Backbreaker configuration were of a new and advanced design and were in very short supply. Right: By the time B-45C 48-005 rolled off the production line the nose canopy was fitted with four frames as standard. Here 48-005 awaits its next flight at Edwards AFB. Below: Never used by the USAF this machine, 47-014, was used for experimental purposes for which it was designated EB-45A. Not often seen is the nose entrance ladder used by the pilots and the bombardier-navigator to enter the aircraft. The requirement for the AN-APQ-24 radar for the B-45 placed it in direct competition with Strategic Air Command programmes. As delivered the replacement radars were not configured for the delivery of nuclear weapons so those few available AN-APQ-24 sets had to be modified to the new configuration. SHORAN units were also in short supply so a quantity had to be diverted from Far East Air Force’s and Tactical Air Command’s B-26 upgrade programme. Other challenges facing those undertaking the Backbreaker programme centered around shortages of minor equipment items that were required to integrate some of the aircraft’s systems. Some of the new equipment could not be installed before connectors were manufactured whilst other much needed components simply did not exist. One of the major omissions was the bomb scoring unit which consisted of a series of switches and relays that controlled the release of specific weapons in concert with the radar bombing system. As no such device existed each unit had to be manufactured at AMA San Bernardino. The Air Materiel Area also made parts for the A-6 chaff dispenser including a removable chute for easier maintenance. North American also manufactured special fuel flow totalizers for the fuel system in order to control the rate and amount of fuel supplied to the engines; this unit also assisted in the supply of correct contents gauging to the crew whilst maintaining a balanced fuel feed. North American was also responsible for the manufacture of special equipment to integrate AN-APG-30 radar with the rest of the Backbreaker B-45’s tail defense system The Fletcher Aviation Corporation of Pasadena, California, was responsible for the production of the extra fuel tanks while AMC’s Middletown Air Materiel Area in Middletown, Ohio manufactured the special slings that were required to carry some of the new weapons. While the Backbreaker modifications were extensive the AMC and the manufacturers also had to cope with various existing engine problems which needed curing as the bomber modification would be useless without them. A report by the General Electric Company field representative advising the forty-seventh Bombardment Group throughout most of Nineteen fifty-one indicated that the J47’s powering the Backbreaker aircraft would share some of the flaws of the type’s previous power plants. The J47’s available at that time suffered from turbine failures similar to those that had afflicted the earlier Allison built J35’s. Also subject to failure were the turbine tail cones that fractured when the J47 overheated. Flight stresses also caused oil leaks that meant that the engines had to be removed for repairs and ground test runs, all of which required a lot of man-hours to rectify. While the USAF did not expect any new engine to be problem free from the outset, the urgency surrounding the Backbreaker modification programme made these difficulties more significant. In July Nineteen fifty-two the Air Force decided to increase the number of nuclear capable B-45 aircraft by a further fifteen aircraft. The proposed configuration was that of the Backbreaker aircraft plus improvements based on experience and in-service modifications. The primary updates covered the Backbreaker aircraft’s tail defense system and the fuel flow totalizer that had been manufactured for the first 40 Backbreaker B-45’s, although they had not been installed due to production delays. Another important change required relocation of the carrier supports required by a specific type of nuclear weapon be moved into the forward bomb bay thus allowing for the installation of a 1,200 gallon fuel tank in the rear bay. The fitment of this extra fuel tank would give the aircraft a useful increase in range of approximately 300 nautical miles. By September Nineteen fifty-two after a design conference with North American the USAF decided on the improved Backbreaker configuration and established a programme for procurement and installation of the necessary modification kits. The Air Force then allocated 2.2 million dollars for modification of the fifteen additional B-45’s plus a further 3 million for retrofit of the first 40 Backbreaker aircraft. The primary depot allocated to this task was the San Bernardino Air Materiel Area who would undertake the new modifications and would also be responsible for the provision of all necessary kits for the Backbreaker retrofit, although these would be done in the field by unit engineers. Initially it was thought that the modification programme would proceed on time as it involved less work than the original Backbreaker modification. However the programme was subject to slippage as during the second half of Nineteen fifty-two the Air Materiel Command was in the process of transferring certain responsibilities from its headquarters to the various air materiel areas. Page 16: Above: B-45A-5-NA 47-021 was bailed to NACA straight from the manufacturers. Its career was short, the aircraft crashing a few months later in August Nineteen fifty-two. Center: B-45C Tornado 48-002 would never enter front line service with the USAF being retained as a testbed by the manufacturers. Re-designated as the EB-45C the aircraft was lost in Nineteen fifty after suffering structural failure. Below: B-45A-5 47-039 was operated by the forty-seventh Bomb Group and would be lost in a crash in August Nineteen fifty-three. Of note is the crew access ladder and the outward opening door, the prototype doors opened inwards. This resulted in delays in processing engineering data and purchase requests, which in turn delayed the manufacture of the field modification kits and their delivery by North American. Further difficulties occurred at North American as the contractor was no longer tooled for constructing the B-45 and was working to capacity on other products. As a result of these deficiencies, modification kit deliveries did not begin until July Nineteen fifty-three thus pushing installation back four months. In September Nineteen fifty-three the USAF added a further three B-45’s to the modification programme, however as two of the original conversion batch aircraft had been retired and one had crashed the total still remained at fifteen. Completion of the conversion programme was delayed until March Nineteen fifty-four as later build machines were slotted into the programme to compensate for a lack of available B-45As. While the Backbreaker modifications and retrofits enabled the B-45’s to handle several types of the smaller nuclear weapons, the modified aircraft were unable to carry and deliver the special weapons needed for the tactical interdiction mission, so in Nineteen fifty-three, due to the increasing availability of nuclear weapons, the USAF thought of transferring this responsibility from SAC to TAC. In the event the situation remained unchanged as neither command had the type of aircraft available to carry out the task until the Douglas B-66 Destroyer became available. The “N-A-A” B-45 Tornado described. The North American B-45 ”A-1”, “A-5” and C models of the Tornado were described as land based, four-engine jet propelled bombers that were designed to operate at high speeds and at high altitudes. The aircraft was tasked with the tactical bombing of both land and sea targets. Should the B-45 be required to undertake longer range attacks extra fuel capacity could be installed in the bomb bay, while the B-45C could be fitted with external wingtip tanks. The basic crew consisted of a pilot, co-pilot, who also acted as the radio operator, bombardier-navigator and the tail gunner. The two pilots were mounted on ejection seats while the other crew members bailed out through hatches in the nose and tail, both being provided with wind deflectors. The crew’s duties saw the pilot in the forward seat under the canopy having all the controls to hand to fly the aircraft while the co-pilot acted mainly as the radio operator, although his position was equipped with basic flight controls, basic engine controls, elevator trim controls and the emergency braking system although no controls were provided for the fuel and hydraulic systems nor for the undercarriage, flaps, aileron and rudder trim tabs. The fuselage of the B-45 was constructed in three sections, the major section stretching from the pilot’s front bulkhead to the rear fin post, aft of which was the gunner’s compartment. This section consisted of seven primary frames supported in turn by further, lighter frames, these being riveted to load bearing longerons and stringers all being covered by alloy skinning. Right: Seen soon after rollout is the XB-45 prototype being worked on by NAA flight test engineers. In this view the fighter type pilot’s canopy is clearly visible as is the original bombardier’s troublesome glass-covered nose section. Due to manufacturing problems many of the operational systems were missing from this aircraft. Below: This underside view of 45-59479 clearly shows the panel lines and the flight control surfaces. Note the different metal colors. Photo Credits: USAF via DRJ. Across the bomb bay was the main spar, with secondary spars fore and aft. Forward of the pilot’s front bulkhead was a separate nose section that housed the bombardier-navigator under whom was carried the radar scanner. Over the upper section was extensive framing that carried the glazing that illuminated the compartment. Attached to the rear of the main fuselage was the final section which housed the gunner’s compartment and his weaponry. All crew areas were pressurized and fitted with air conditioning systems. Unlike earlier bombers, access between the fore and aft compartments was only possible when the aircraft was depressurised, the bomb doors were shut and the bay was empty. The wings were constructed around a primary main spar with secondary spars carried fore and aft. Wing shape was provided by nose ribs, interspar ribs, many with cutouts for the fuel tanks, with stressed skinning overall. Extra strengthening was provided at the nacelle mountings for the engines and on the main spar at the main undercarriage mounting points. The wings were attached to the fuselage spar sections using bolts fitted both vertically and horizontally. On the wing trailing edge were carried the flap sections, these being mounted either side of the engine nacelles, while the outer section of each wing was the mounting point for the aileron. The flap sections and ailerons were constructed around a single spar that had nose ribs forward and further ribs aft forming a distinct taper, all were alloy skinned. The tailplanes were of twin-spar construction and were similar in construction to the wings; at their trailing edge were the elevators that were similar in construction to the ailerons. The fin and rudder were similar in construction to the other flight surfaces, and all were fitted with trim tabs. The flight control surfaces were conventional in nature although all surfaces were fitted with hydraulic power boosters. The ailerons and elevators were controlled using a control wheel that incorporated a push-to-talk radio button, the auto pilot release, the nose wheel steering trigger switch and the elevator trim control switch. For access to the rudder pedals and other equipment the pilot’s control wheel column could be disengaged using a release catch. The co-pilot’s control wheel was similarly equipped with switches and could also be folded away as could the rudder pedals. To stop the control surfaces moving in an uncontrolled manner the flight control system was fitted with a locking unit in the cockpit although it could not be engaged while the hydraulic booster units were shut down. The trim tabs fitted to the flight control surfaces were electrically powered, being positioned using the single control stick mounted at the pilot’s position. The elevator and rudder boosts were powered by a pair of electrically powered hydraulic pumps, both pumps were used to drive the elevators while the rudder used only a single pump. In the first batch of aircraft, low speed handling control was courtesy of a bungee providing an elevator down-force. In normal flight the bungee force was cancelled out by use of the trim tabs. In the B-45 “A-5” and the B-45C the low speed handling was managed by the downward cant of the jet pipes and spring tabs on the elevators. Instead of using electrically driven pumps the aileron boost system used pressure derived from the engine driven pumps drawn from Numbers one and three engines, however on the later build machines the hydraulic pumps from the other two engines were used to drive the surfaces. Above: B-45C 48-001 was retained by North American for trials use although it was later lost in an accident. Left: Destined to serve with the manufacturers amongst other users for trials work, RB-45C 48-037 was finally retired to Norton AFB in December Nineteen fifty-seven. Aileron boost became effective as soon as the engines started, however should any of the engines powering the aileron boost system undergo a power change or be shut down for any reason there was a corresponding increase in aileron forces. During normal flight enough hydraulic power was available to keep the aileron boost powered up when the engine was windmilling, however once speed dropped to 140 mph or lower the bypass valve in the windmilling engine’s hydraulic system switched into the open position, making the system inoperative. When this happened the aileron forces became heavier as control had reverted to fully manual. Also driven by the hydraulic system were the wing flaps that consisted of four separate sections, located between the fuselage and the engine nacelles and between the nacelles and the ailerons. Selectable flap positions were available between fully up and fully down at forty degrees. Intermediate positions could be selected by the use of the selector lever in the pilot’s cockpit. Power for the flaps was supplied by the engine driven pumps. Emergency flap could be lowered using the emergency lowering system which diverted flow from the emergency pump to the flaps. Only the down selection was available using this system, no up selection was possible. Hydraulics also powered the undercarriage system, the main undercarriage units retracted inwards towards the wing roots while the nose wheel assembly retracted aft into its bay. As the main gear retracted into the bays the wheel brakes came on automatically to stop the wheels spinning. The nose wheel unit also incorporated a steering unit that also acted as an anti shimmy unit when disengaged. The B-45 was also fitted with a hydraulically driven tail skid which automatically extended and retracted in sequence with the undercarriage. During approach the main undercarriage fairing doors remained open to increase drag for deceleration during landing. Should the undercarriage selector be placed in the down position during landing the main gear doors would close automatically on touchdown, however should further drag be needed during the landing roll the selector had to be left in the neutral position although it had to be returned to down prior to engine shut-down. In common with many aircraft the B-45 would normally be fitted with ground locks and a safety cover over the selector to prevent inadvertent retraction. Indication of the undercarriage position was courtesy of a light sequence, thus green indicated fully down and locked, red indicated unlocked while amber indicated that the gear was in transit. Should there be a failure in the hydraulic system the undercarriage could be lowered using the emergency system. This was activated using a hand pump located behind the bombardier’s position. The initial cycles released the undercarriage gear and door uplocks, after free falling the legs were pumped into the locked position. In the later build aircraft the hand pump was replaced by two switches located close to the forward bomb bay bulkhead in the rear of the pilot’s cockpit. Selection of door open and gear down would see the locks disconnected mechanically after which the undercarriage dropped down into the locked position. Other hydraulic units driven by the aircraft’s systems included the nose wheel steering unit that would only operate when the nose wheels were on the ground and the shock absorber jack was compressed. When operated by the pilot using the switch on the control wheel, this allowed the pilot to move the unit 45 degrees either side of the centreline. For ground movement the steering unit and antishimmy unit could be disconnected by removing a pin thus ensuring these units were undamaged during ground movements. The aircraft’s brakes were controlled using the toe pedals on the rudder pedals. Top: North American B-45C-1-N-A Tornado, 48-001, retained by North American for trials. Black anti-dazzlepanels nose and engine cowlings. All lettering in black. National markings on fuselage sides, above port and below starboard wings. USAF in black above starboard and below port wings. Center: North American B-45C-1-NA Tornado, 48-010, Eighty-fifth Bomber Squadron, forty-seventh Bomber Group USAF, Nineteen fifty-two. Natural metal overall with black anti-dazzle panels nose and engine cowlings. Yellow trim, outlined in black on nose and vertical tail surfaces. All lettering in black; note 7065 is carried in black below US script on fin, covered by the tailplane. National markings on fuselage sides, above port and below starboard wings; USAF in black above starboard and below port wing. Unit badge on a black disk on nose. Preserved at Wright Patterson Air Force Base Museum. Bottom: North American B-45A-1-NA Tornado, 47-0008 bailed to North American as a test aircraft. Natural metal overall with Dark Olive Green TT-C-595 3406 anti-dazzle panels nose and engine cowlings. Black wing, tailplane, and engine air intakes leading edges; black lettering. Red bands around fuselage, vertical tail surfaces, and wing and tailplane undersides. National markings on fuselage sides, above port and below starboard wings. USAF in black above starboard and below port wings. Shown as in September 1981 at China Lake for restoration for Castle Air Museum. Top: Bailed to Northrop Aircraft as an EDB-45C 48-005 was used as a drone control test aircraft on behalf of the USAF. Note the lack of wingtip tanks and the cone over the tail gun turret position. Bottom: Photographed while still based at Langley AFB is this group of B-45’s belonging to the forty-seventh BW. In this view the rear gunner’s position is clearly shown. Visible is the remotely operated gun turret, minus guns, plus the sighting mechanism in its clear dome. Also shown are the rear escape hatch and deflector panels. For emergency use there were emergency levers at both pilot’s positions and that at the pilot’s position could be used as a parking brake. The bomber versions of the B-45 were fitted with two different types of engine, the Dash One was powered by four Allison J35 engines mounted in pairs under each wing. Two variants were used, these being the J35-A-9 and the J35-A-11. The subsequent Dash Five and B-45C were powered by either the J47-GE-7, 13 or the J47-GE-9, 15 all of which were manufactured by General Electric. Each Allison power plant was provided with a pressure type oil system that contained 12.7 gallons of usable fluid. Monitoring of tank contents was via gauges mounted on the pilot’s panel. The oil system provided for the GE engines was similar in operation although the tank content was reduced to 6.7 gallons of usable fluid. The B-45 could be fitted with external tanks mounted under the engine nacelles containing water methanol and injection of this mix into the engines could be used to improve take-off performance. To use the water injection system the flaps needed to be set to 20 degrees while the trim tabs had to be set at zero. The fuel system installed in the B-45 consisted of eight fuel tanks made up of 22 cells interconnected to make up the groups. Each wing group under normal circumstances fed the engines on that side of the aircraft although in an emergency a fuel system cross feed line could be opened to supply fuel to the engines on the opposite wing. When the jettisonable wing tanks, each holding 1,250 US gallons, were installed they were referred to as Number four fuel tank. Under normal circumstances each tank fed the relevant pair of engines although should one become inoperative the remaining tank could be switched to feed all four engines. Unlike the main system the wingtip tanks had no gauging, however each had an empty light that illuminated when their contents had been used. All fuel tanks were fitted with booster pumps as were the bomb bay tanks when fitted. When a single tank was fitted in the bomb bay both fuselage pumps were connected to the tank although when two tanks were installed only one pump was fitted to each tank. As these pumps had a greater output than the wing tank pumps the bomb bay tanks had to be used first. Should circumstances warrant it the bomb bay tanks and or bombs could be jettisoned using the salvo panel located at the pilot’s position. However there were provisos to this instruction as the 310 US gallon tanks could not be jettisoned when the aft bomb bay shackles, Type D-7, for the 2,000 and 4,000 pound bombs were fitted. The B-45 was also capable of carrying a 1,200 US gallon tank in the bomb bay but the pilot was warned not to open the bay doors as damage could occur to the tank, although the pilot was allowed to open them when the tank was full or it required jettisoning. If fitted the wingtip tanks could also be jettisoned using the controls located at the pilots’ stations either by using a mechanical release or the salvo panel. Refuelling the B-45 was through a single pressurized refuel point located on the left hand side of the fuselage aft and below the trailing edge of the wing. The B-45 electrical system fitted to the earlier build machines used four engine driven 28 volt DC generators which acted as combination generators and starter units. Once the engines were running the 115 volt “A-C” alternators fitted to Numbers one and three engines were available for use via a selector switch in the cockpit. The electrical system provided power to the lights, booster pumps, engine starters, fuel shut-off valves, armament and communications equipment, bombing system, camera, automatic pilot, nose wheel steering, trim tabs, rudder-elevator boost, ATO ignition units, air conditioning, pressurization, emergency hydraulic pump, fire detectors and extinguisher, escape deflector flaps plus electrical instrumentation and transmitters. On later build aircraft electrical supplies also controlled the sequence valves for the landing gear doors plus the inverters for the operation of the automatic pilot, radar equipment and drift meter. The alternators in all versions operated the radar equipment, heaters for windscreen anti-icing, defrosting and surface control boost systems. The aircraft was well equipped with both interior and external lighting. The latter included the navigation lights that could be used for signal purposes; when the tip tanks were fitted they had navigation lights fitted as the wing lights were obscured. Fuselage identification lights were also fitted above and below, these too could be used for signaling. Formation lights were also installed for the rare occasions when this was practiced, other external lights included a landing light mounted in the front of the left engine nacelle, and a taxi light was mounted on the left hand undercarriage leg. The internal lighting in the aircraft included lighting for all the panels at the crew stations, lights in the passage way alongside the pilots towards the nose compartment, while in the bomb bay and unpressurised compartments there were lights to assist the ground crew in their maintenance tasks. A further light was installed in the nose wheel bay, visible through a window at floor level in the pilot’s compartment, used to check the position of the leg. Above: The fate of many an NAA Tornado, to lie battered and abused on the side of an airfield somewhere while fire and rescue crews practiced their arts. This particular aircraft is 47-056 late of the forty-seventh BW. Photo Credit: Trevor Jones. Bottom Left: RB-45C 48-012 is seen here undergoing preparation for flight prior to being delivered to the USAF. In service the aircraft flew from Alconbury on reconnaissance duties before ending its days as a rescue trainer in France. Photo Credit: USAF via DRJ. Avionics. One of the major avionics systems fitted to the B-45 was the auto pilot, the Type E-4, managed by a stowable control panel at the pilot’s position. The auto pilot could be used in conjunction with the automatic approach equipment, this being the airborne part of the instrument landing system. On the later build aircraft the auto pilot could also be engaged with the radar navigation system through a steering connector in the bombardier’s compartment, when engaged it allowed the bombardier to steer the aircraft on its bombing run. The main limitation to the auto pilot was that it could only be engaged when in level flight as engagement in a turn would cause the aircraft to divert off course. When the auto pilot was engaged the side stick controller could be used to fly the aircraft. The auto pilot could also be managed under barometric control for height maintenance although this could not be used unless the elevator servo was engaged. The B-45 was also fitted with an automatic approach control system that allowed the pilot to follow the radio beams generated by the localized approach glide path generator. To engage the approach control the auto pilot needed to be disengaged while the controller needed to be selected to either localizer or approach. As the aircraft intercepted the localizer beam it would turn to follow the beam down

Rahan. Episode Forty two. The Demon of the Swamp. Hum! Could you not point Rahan in another direction!? The ivory knife came to rest, its blade pointed towards the disturbing marshes. The son of Crao growled. He spun his weapon but the blade, once again, pointed to the murky expanse. It is good! Since you insist! Rahan will obey! Shortly after, on a crude skiff, the son of fierce ages went to meet his destiny. Page Two: He braced himself against his gaff and the raft bent the reeds, from which screaming birds flew. Still vapors floated on the muddy waters which were suddenly stirred up with strange swirls. And Rahan almost screamed in fear. Rahan dreams! Only in dreams do real demons arise! Emerging from the river a fantastic beast was silhouetted in the mist. The waves that shook the skiff told the son of Crao that it was neither a dream nor a hallucination. And his instinct told him to stop moving and make no sounds. He approaches! The time has come for Rahan to rejoin Crao! Inert as a dead man, he saw the long neck bend. The hideous mouth parted as it plunged towards the raft. Rahan will join “The Territory of the Shadows”! Page Three: This mouth scented for a moment the man holding his breath and, disdaining him. Closed on a huge clump of reeds! New eddies rocked the skiff. And the monster disappeared, as if stuck in the swamps. The little iguanas which besieged the raft seemed ridiculous to the son of Crao. Who easily pushed them away with his gaff. Rahan's ruse succeeded! The “Long-necked Beast” is not interested in dead prey! The skiff glided towards the other bank, scaring away the toads lurking on the giant lily pads. Page Four: The son of Crao was wrong to think that he was out of danger. Barely had he jumped onto the soft earth, than the bushes closed in around him! Rahan was confused. Then these bushes fell, unmasking hunters. How dare “Fire-Hair” violate the territory of “Kariak-the-demon”!! The circle of flint points was impassable. "Firehair's” name is Rahan! Rahan did not come to you as an enemy! Goading the captive with their spears, the hunters were already pushing him into the thickets. “Ourk-has-only-one-arm” will decide Rahan’s fate! Rahan should not have obeyed his knife! A village appeared. The son of fierce ages immediately noticed the bamboo cages lined up under the foliage. Page Five: As he was thinking about his weapon, a man with an amputated forearm came to tear it from the lizard sheath. You will not need this knife anymore! It now belongs to Ourk! The hunters told how they had seen the monster of the swamp spare Rahan. “Kariak-the-demon” was not as generous with Ourk! The chief of the clan shook his stump with rage. We will see if "Kariak" will still spare you! Lock him up!! The cage closed on the son of Crao. Rahan is not a beast! Release him!! Release him!! Your cries are no use, brother! “Ourk-only-has-one-arm” has decided that you will be delivered to the Demon. And you will be sooner or later!! What? Who are you? Page Six: The young woman locked in the adjoining cage gave a sad smile. I am Onoo, a girl from the two hills clan. But the swamp men captured me, like all those in these cages! And like them I am waiting to be offered as food to “Kariak-the-demon”! But why, Onoo? Rahan wants to know! Rahan learned how Ourk, once upon a time, had his arm cut off by the swamp monster. Since that day he lived in terror of "Kariak". Ourk could have taken his people to another territory. But he fears that "Kariak" will find them and decimate the entire clan! Sometimes long days go by without the demon appearing. But as soon as he emerges from his mud lair, Ourk orders that a captive be delivered to him! Page Seven: Ourk thinks that these offerings appease the anger of "Kariak"! “Only one arm” is foolish! Besides, Rahan thinks that "Kariak" does not feed on flesh, but on grasses and reeds! Rahan is right. “Kariak” does not devour “Those-who-walk-upright”. But he kills them by crushing their limbs! Oh listen. Clamors rose from the shore of the marsh. Two hunters appeared. “Kariak” Rumbles, Ourk! His fury is great! Deliver the girl from “Two-Hills” to him!! An instant later. The men of the Marshes are cowards! They would rather sacrifice a young woman to the demon than fight him! Let go of Onoo! Take Rahan in her place! While the captive was being dragged away, Ourk approached. Would Rahan be keen to join the "Territory of Shadows"? Let him be patient! His turn will come!! Page Eight: The clan leader said no more. Grabbing his arm, the son of Crao grabbed him, and pinned him to the bamboo door. Oh! And recovered his ivory knife. Rahan could take the life of "one-armed". But Rahan is not a coward! Now that he had Ourk, he cut the vines and emerged from his cage. The hunters who rushed did not dare to intervene. Give Rahan a torch and a spear! Otherwise! The leader was suffocating under the relentless grip. Obey. To. “Fire Hair”. Let him run away. Rahan does not want to run away! Rahan wants to save the girl from “Two Hills”! The son of fierce ages threw Ourk at the feet of his men, seizing the spear and the torch that had been placed near him. Page Nine: As he rushed towards the Marshes, Ourk held back his clan. Let him! "Kariak" will take care of him! Rahan quickly saw Onoo, on a raft. Her wrists shackled, she screamed in fear. Do not move, Onoo! The demon disdains that which does not move!! But it was too late! The monstrous head of the “Beast-with-long-neck” emerged from the mud. Onoo's cries of terror redoubled. Waving his torch and his spear, the son of Crao went towards “Kariak-the-demon”! The fearful maw plunged towards him. But immediately backed away. The enormous neck bent once again and suddenly straightened up. And Rahan understood. “Kariak” is afraid of fire! Page Ten: From the bank, Ourk and his men witnessed the astonishing scene. Rahan resolutely faced the monster and it retreated and retreated. Ra-ha-ha! The clamor of the son of fierce ages rolled over the marshes when the monster. Still retreating into the darkness, forced himself under the mud. A moment later the ivory blade released Onoo. Onoo owes her life to Rahan-the-Brave! Let us flee Rahan! Let us flee this cursed territory! No! “Ourk-has-only-one-arm” holds other captives in his cages who, like Onoo, will be delivered to "Kariak"! Rahan will not flee without having delivered them! Rahan is brave, and also generous! It is only faithful to the memory of Crao! And Crao taught him to love “Those-Who-Walk-Upright”! Page Eleven: We thought "Firehair" would run away. The hunters had returned to the village. An admiring murmur arose when Rahan and Onoo appeared. Ourk gave a pout of spite. The feat that the son of Crao had accomplished before the eyes of his men could not undermine his prestige as a leader. If Ourk still had his two arms! He would challenge “Firehair”! You hear Brothers! Ourk Would Face "Firehair" If he had both arms! Since Ourk wants a fight, he will get it! With a slight smile, the son of Crao drew his ivory cutlass. He threw the weapon at the feet of the hunters. Clonk! Oonoo had a shiver of worry when. And, Rahan, like Ourk, will only fight with one arm! Let your men tie this one to him. Page Twelve: Two Hunters firmly restrained, behind his back, the right arm of their companion. So the fight will be fair Ourk! The swamp clan circled around the two adversaries. Onoo remained anxious. If Rahan is defeated Ourk will be merciless! In their cages all the captives longed, without daring to hope, for the victory of the unknown "One-with-Fire-Hair". And the fight began. Ourk threw himself fiercely on the son of Crao. He had two advantages over this one. Besides the habit of his amputation. His long stump facilitated certain moves, which his opponent was not permitted. Ha-ha-ha! Ourk will strike you down! Page Thirteen: Ten times the two men rolled to the ground and ten times they got up again. Covered in sweat and dust, they panted. "Fire Hair" Should not have taken on this challenge! Ourk wants to end it! Ourk rushed forward angrily with his head down. Rahan made an incredible leap and his legs encircled the leader's neck, brutally stopping the latter's assault. Argh! It was impossible for Ourk, pinned to the ground, to free himself from this hold. In this straitjacket of muscles and nerves it was enough. Rahan also wants to end it! Do you recognize yourself as defeated!? Yes, Yes Ooh! “Fire-hair” has triumphed! As is the custom of the clan, "Fire-hair” has the right to take the life of Ourk! It belongs to him! Page Fourteen: Yes. Rahan has the right to kill you! A hunter held out the weapon which the son of Crao grabbed fiercely! But Rahan only takes the lives of “Those Who Walk Upright” when they threaten his own! Get up Ourk! Rahan spares you! But he demands that your captives be released! The son of fierce ages cut the vine that hindered his arm. No one opposed him when an instant later he cut down the lines that bound the doors of bamboo. You are free brothers! The girl from “Two-hills” watched excitedly as the men burst out of the cages. Thanks to Rahan they will not perish in the mouth of Kariak-the-demon! Rahan is Happy? Not yet Onoo! Not yet! Page Fifteen: The Ourk clan will always live in fear of the "Long-necked Beast"! Rahan will only be happy when the Marshes are rid of "Kariak"! “One-armed” had heard. Ourk respects your audacity, “Firehair”. But you should know that Kariak is invulnerable! No danger is forever insurmountable! No enemy is forever invulnerable! And Rahan alone was able to push back “Kariak-the-demon” Think of what a whole clan could do, united and strong! A clan whose men have driven fear from their heads and their hearts! All together we can face killing “Kariak”! We will follow Rahan! The ex-captives approved the son of Crao, though Ourk protested Page Sixteen: Evil spirits inhabit the body of "Kayak-the-demon" and. Evil spirits do not exist! “Kariak” is just a beast of flesh and blood! We will kill her! “Fire-hair” is free to send to death those he has delivered! But Ourk will not launch his brothers into this senseless hunt! Later. "Those-from-the-Swamp" will not help you. Why risk your life for them? Rahan said that "Kariak" was vulnerable, he must be able to prove it! There will not be enough of us to pin down "Kariak"! He meditated thus when. “Fire Hair” has awakened the courage that was slumbering in us! Page Seventeen: All the torches of the clan light the path that will lead us to the “Territory of Shadows”! Rahan was filled with joy. “Ourk-has-only-one-arm” running followed by his hunters. Ourk has thought deeply! He does not want his family to name him "Ourk-the-coward"! Ourk will lead the hunt at your side! His Arm can still strike true and hard! A glimmer of worry remained in the chef's eyes. And the son of Crao felt moved. He loved that “Those who walk upright” could conquer their fear. If “Fire-hair” must die, Ourk will die with him! From then on the animation redoubled. The hunters cleared deep thickets. Rafts that for moons they had no longer dared to put in the water. And the flotilla spread out over the black waters of the marshes. Each skiff carried two men. One brandished a torch, the other a bundle of spears. Page Eighteen: The “Long-necked Beast” suddenly emerged from its mud kingdom, immense, and terrible! Rahan and Ourk screamed at the same time! Strike! Strike! Hard! Twenty spears punctured the sides of the monster whose gigantic tail whipped the mud. The menacing mouth plunged towards the rafts, but retreated before the waving torches! Twenty other spears and twenty more were thrown, piercing the neck and the chest. Take this torch, “Fire-hair”! Ourk owes a debt to “Kariak”! Page Nineteen: Ourk was no longer afraid. His single arm projected with force and precision the spears handed to him by the son of Crao. Die demon, die! And suddenly, Rahan's clamor erupted. His life escaping through a hundred wounds, "Kariak" slowly sank into the mud. Ra-ha-ha! A few swirls shook the skiffs again and the monster disappeared forever. His blood reddened the surface of the water all the way to the bank. The "Long-neck Beast" will no longer terrorize the swamp clan! We owe you a lot, “Fire-hair”. You gave us an example of courage! That night was a great night. Delivered from the nightmare, the hunters celebrated the son of Crao. Ourk has guessed what would please Rahan the most!! Page Twenty: “Ourk-has-only-one-arm” grabbed a torch. A moment later, all the bamboo cages were on fire! Never again will we imprison “Those-who-walk-upright” in cages! If Rahan is happy, he can stay with us! Yes, the son of wild ages was happy. But he could not attach himself to this clan or to any other. Rahan promised Onoo to take her home! When he left the territory the calm waters of the swamp were still red, but it was nothing more than the blaze of the sun. The son of Crao, for once, did not entrust his destiny to his ivory knife. He had a specific goal. To protect Onoo throughout the long road that would lead them to the “Two Hills”. Page Twenty-One: This protection proved necessary. Fear not, Onoo! Rahan does not fear the “Pumas” After the fantastic confrontation with the "Marsh Demon". The fight with the puma seemed almost like a game to him! He easily triumphed over the beast. Ra-ha-ha! The sun was setting when the village of the “Two-Hills” clan appeared in the distance. Go and rejoin yours, Onoo! Rahan is happy to have met you! Why do you not stay with us Rahan? We could live together, you and I, and have children. It is impossible, Onoo. Rahan still has too many territories to discover. Too many things to learn. One day, maybe, Rahan will come back one day, one day. To hide his emotion from Onoo, The son of Crao shortened the farewell. Page Twenty-Two: Rahan cannot attach himself to a clan. Not yet! One day, no doubt, like the other hunters. He will have a companion who will give him “Little men”. But later! Later! The discovery of a pheasant carcass reminded him that he had not eaten anything for a long time. Hum. Not a strip of flesh left! More than bones and feathers! These feathers gave him the idea of making a bow and arrows. This work kept him busy until nightfall. Yes, one day Rahan will take a companion. But his life is too adventurous at the moment! At daybreak, he set off again. He was crossing a clearing, when. Oh, at last! Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

A Study on Quantum Radar Technology Developments and Design Consideration for its Integration. Manoj Mathews. Department of Electrical and Computer Engineering, New Jersey, USA. Abstract. This paper presents a study on quantum radar technology developments, design Consideration for its integration, and the quantum radar cross section (QRCS) based on quantum electrodynamics and interferometric considerations. Quantum radar systems supported by quantum measurement can fulfill not only conventional target detection and recognition tasks but are also capable of detecting and identifying RF stealth platforms and weapons systems. The development of radar technology is of the utmost importance in many avenues of research. The concept of a quantum radar has been proposed which utilizes quantum states of photons to establish information on a target at a distance. A photon, or a little cluster of photons, is distributed towards the target. The photons are absorbed and re-emitted from the target and into the receiver. The measurement process may be executed in two alternative ways. One can perform an interferometric measurement, or phase measurement, on the photon, or one can simply count the number of photons that return. The first method is named Interferometric Quantum Radar, and the latter method is termed Quantum Illumination. For either of those methods, one can use stationary quantum states of photons or use entangled states. It has been shown that entangled states provide the most effective possible improvement in resolution, achieving close to the ideal case. The benefit of using quantum states is that they exhibit extra degrees of correlation to obtain information compared to classical methods. These extra correlations, called quantum correlations, serve to improve the resolution and signal to noise (SNR) that may be achieved within the radar system. To obtain information, a relation study is done between the two photons. In order to beat the diffraction limit, coherent state quantum radar depends on the use of coherent state photons and a quantum detection scheme. This paper also reviews the principles of design and operation of applied quantum trends. One. INTRODUCTION. Quantum radar could be a new exemplar that exploits quantum phenomena to improve the resolution of a radar system, making it more sensitive than its classical counterpart. There are two emerging methods to accomplish this, and every method has its own unique characteristics. Quantum phenomena, such as quantum entanglement, as a kind of natural resource, have been widely used in quantum computation and quantum communication. It provides a solid material basis for the advancement of the science of quantum knowledge. Quantum metrology makes use of quantum phenomena to improve measurement sensitivity. Theoretical research shows that quantum measurements can break through the normal quantum limits and calculate supersensitivity. Quantum information technology will become the key to improving the efficiency of sensor systems in the near future. Radar systems Based on quantum measurement are not only able to perform conventional target detection and recognition but also able to accomplish the detection and identification of RF stealth platform and weapons systems. Due to the clear connection between entangled photons, any attempt to deceive quantum radar would be exposed. On the other hand, stealth aircraft can be tracked at great distances due to the supersensitivity of quantum measurement, and even for stealth aircraft such as the F-22 and B-2, the detection range could be reached at several hundred to several thousand kilometers. Quantum radars will lead to a new technology revolution in electronic warfare just like the RF stealth technology did in the past 20 years. In addition to military applications, quantum measurement technology can be widely used in interplanetary defense and space exploration. TWO. QUANTUM RADAR THEORY. “A.” The Fundamental Limits of Quantum Radar. Quantum radar can be defined as a type of stand-off measuring device that uses microwave photons, optical photons, and quantum phenomena to enhance the efficiency of target detection and recognition. The biggest advantage of quantum radars over traditional classical radars is inherited from the nature of entanglement states used in the transmitting signals. Examples of this kind are interferometric quantum radars and radars with quantum illumination. The so-called quantum entanglement refers to the strong correlations between quantum systems which are non-classical and non-local. Theoretically, no matter how far the gap divides, including one on the planet and the other on the edge of the Milky Way, the peculiar bond between two intertwined states exists. For example, when one of them is manipulated, and measured, the other changes to the corresponding state immediately. The correlation between the entangled states can’t be explained classically and therefore Einstein called it a kind of ‘Spooky Action at a Distance’. In any event, most detection strategies are based on the exact same principle: perform collective measurements after highly correlated states have been injected into the system. Such is the case with the interferometric quantum radar that crosses the Heisenberg limit by using strongly entangled states. Many improved imaging developments have been made possible by recent innovations in quantum mechanics. Entangled photon-number (NOON) states have allowed Heisenberg-limited phase measurement and led to the development of radar systems with quantum-enhanced resolution. The fundamental limit given by Heisenberg’s principle based on Noon states phase measurement is as below, equation one Delta psi is greater than or equal to one over N. Where delta psi represent the phase fluctuation, N is the entangled photons in the quantum system, means taking the average. The Heisenberg limit does not depend on measurement strategy and it is unavoidable. At the same time the sensitivity of most modern sensors is bounded by the standard quantum limit, meaning the Shot noise limit. In the case of standard quantum limit the phase measurement resolution is as below. Delta psi is greater than or equal to one over the square root of N. The Super-sensitivity Regime is called a regimen of variables for which the sensitivity of a sensor exceeds the value imposed by the normal quantum limit, and the sensor is said to be Supersensitive. It should be remembered that the metrology of the Heisenberg limit is still very difficult to achieve in a functional framework. There is a wide range of variables at these high accuracy scales that have major contributions and should not be ignored, such as thermal noise, platform vibrations, imperfect alignment of optical elements, and so on. What is more exciting about quantum radar is that every third party except for the radar transmitter and receiver will not accurately copy or secretly change the quantum states due to the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle and the strong global association between entangled states. Also, the most sophisticated stealth aircraft such as B-2 and F-22 have nowhere to hide under the surveillance of quantum radar systems, invalidating any existing jamming and deception approach to quantum radars. B. Standoff Quantum Sensor Classification. Standoff quantum sensing architectures can be classified according to the type of quantum phenomena exploited by the system. The three basic categories are the following: Type 1: The quantum sensor transmits un-entangled quantum states of light. Type 2: The quantum sensor transmits classical states of light, but uses quantum photo-sensors to boost its performance. Type 3: The quantum sensor transmits quantum signal states of light that are entangled with quantum ancilla states of light kept at the transmitter. The principal examples of quantum radar systems are the single photon quantum radar and the entangled photon quantum radar. These are Type-1 and Type-3 sensors, respectively. On the other hand, quantum LADAR is an example of a Type-2 sensor. C. Single-Photon Quantum Radar. Quantum radar can be divided into two specific groups according to the signals emitted by transmitters: One. Quantum radars that use un-entangled signals. Two. Quantum radars using entangled photons. Single-photon quantum radars, in Figure one, are Type-1 sensors. These systems work in a manner close to that of a classical radar. Its transmitter generates signal pulses contain a single photon (by single it means in an average way) and sends pulses towards a target. And its receiver attempts to collect the reflected photons and detects photon-counting. A radar is not a true quantum radar if it utilizes the quantum phenomenon purely with a single photon. But the unintended benefit of single-photon quantum radar is that if low photon number pulses are used for target detection, the radar cross section is larger. That is to say, the target appears to look bigger when using single-photon pulses than using classical light beams. D. Entangled-Photon Quantum Radar. Through the use of entangled states of light, the greatest advantage of quantum radars is obtained. These are Type-3 sensors. As shown in Figure 2, an entangled pair of photons is generated. One photon is sent to the target and the other is retained in the radar device. The outgoing photon is reflected by the target and subsequently received by the radar. To improve detection efficiency, the correlations embedded in the entangled states are exploited. Interferometric Quantum Radar and Quantum Illumination are examples of such devices. E. Interferometric Quantum Radar. In an interferometric quantum radar, as shown in Figure two, an entangled pair of photons is generated. One of these is sent towards the target and the other one is held inside of the radar receiver. Very quickly, the photon sent out is reflected back and is received by the radar. Then the correlations embedded in the entangled states are exploited to increase detection performance. Type-2 quantum radars are interferometric quantum radars and quantum illumination. An interferometric quantum radar makes phase measurements by interferometers like Mach-Zender interferometers, see Figure three. The input light field in a Mach-Zender interferometer is separated by a beam splitter into two distinct paths and recombined by another beam splitter. The phase divergence between the two paths containing the target distance information is then calculated by balanced detection of the two signals. Figure four shows an entangled pair of photons is produced; one photon is kept within the sensor while the other is emitted towards a region of space. In the system, an entangled pair of photons are created. The signal and the idler, or ancilla, photons are known to them. Inside the device, the idler photon is held while the signal photon is sent to a potential target via a medium. With a certain probability, the signal photon may, or may not encounter the target. If the target is not encountered by the signal photon, it will continue to spread in space. All measurements performed by the detector would be of noise photons in such a situation. On the other hand, if the target is present and the signal photon is received by the detector, then it will be detected with a certain probability. In a context, because of the quantum correlations due to the entanglement, the signal photon is ”tagged” and it would thus be ”easier” to correctly classify it as a signal photon rather than misidentify it as a noise photon. F. Quantum Radar Based on Quantum Illumination. The setup of the Quantum Illumination Radar is similar to the one discussed above for interferometric quantum radar, but it has a different detection strategy. One does not conduct phase measurements in the case of quantum illumination, but simple photon detection counts are adequate. Assume that a quantum illumination device is used for illuminating a target. The goal is to detect the presence of the target even in a noisy and lossy environment. And again, entanglement increases the sensitivity, but in a different way, of the detection system. Seth Lloyd at MIT first discovered quantum illumination in 2008. It is a revolutionary photonic stand-off quantum sensing technology that enhances the sensitivity of detection in noisy and lossy environments. Target illumination using entangled light can provide substantial enhancements over un-entangled light for detecting and imaging in the presence of a high level of noise and loss. The definition of quantum illumination may be clarified by a photo-taking analogy. Imagine a camera with a flashlight able to emit entangled light to take photos, and only part of these entangled photons are emitted to illuminate targets. In order to filter the noise photons that would lack correlated twins and thus significantly improve the sensitivity of imaging, the sensor compares the reflected photons with those kept within the camera. This will make it possible for radars to recognize the subtle evidence of objects usually obscured by noise. Research shows that quantum lighting with m bits of entanglements will in theory increase the efficient signal-to-noise ratio by a factor of 2 m for photon detection, an exponential improvement over un-entangled lighting. The progress continues even when the noise is so great that the detector does not withstand any entanglement. That is another unexpected advantage of quantum illumination. Quite interestingly, only in a noisy and lossy setting is the enhancement supplied by quantum illumination using entangled photons observed. Quantum illumination can be used for ranging and imaging purposes and is not limited to any specific frequency. Here a beam splitter is the element under consideration. The beam splitter will reflect a portion of the light emitted by the associated source, and the task is to detect this under the dominant thermal noise, thus discriminating against the presence of the target. Three. QUANTUM RADAR PHYSICAL REALIZATION. “A.” Entanglement Generators. The generation and detection of entangled photons are the key elements to realize quantum radar. Currently, standard parametric down-conversion (SPDC) is the most widely known technique to generate entangled photons in the visible frequency. The recent entanglement generation technique uses a non-linear crystal, Barium Boron Oxide-BBO, that splits an incoming photon into two entangled photons both in a lower frequency. One of the out-coming photons, called signal photon, is used for transmitting and the other out-coming photon, called idle photon, is kept locally and used for detection. Usually, the outcoming photons are generated as polarization entangled. None of the polarization of photons is calculated before a measurement takes place. If one photon is measured as horizontal polarization and the quantum state of the other, without further measurement, one automatically switches to vertical polarization. But the SPDC method does not work to produce microwave photons that have been commonly used in classical radar, missile guidance, navigation, environment monitoring, ground monitoring, and airport traffic control. Entangled photons could be produced at a visible frequency by the use of semiconductor nanostructures. A related intraband transfer of conduction band electrons could also produce entangled photons in the X-band in quantum dots. Photon assisted tunneling experiments have shown that these transitions are coupled to microwave photons. As a result, from spontaneous downward transitions between single-particle levels in a quantum dot, microwave photons are produced. B. Photon Detectors. In the field of photon detection, there is a similar disparity between the visible and X-band frequency regimes. Both interferometric measurement and photon counting in the visible and near-visible regimes are well developed during the research work of quantum key distribution (QKD), quantum communications, and quantum computing. But none of the techniques mentioned involves operation in the X-band. Therefore there are lots of theoretical and experimental challenges in the design and development of single photon detectors in the microwave regime. To detect single photons in the microwave regime, a novel sensing technique has recently been suggested. This detector resembles photographic film in the sense that once a photon has been absorbed by the meta-material, the device is changed into a stable and mesoscopic distinguishable state. Its limited operating bandwidth is one possible issue with the proposed design. Another potential concern is that there will be incoming photons that will not be counted if the decay process takes place. However, recent experiments appear to suggest that this process happens at a rate of a few mega Hertz, and therefore it will affect long-wave packets. Whether this problem may pose a significant limitation to the use of these instruments for quantum radar applications in the X-band remains to be seen. Four. SCHEME FOR ENTANGLED PHOTON QUANTUM RADAR. This section discusses a design scheme proposed by Bassyouni for an entangled quantum radar. There have been a few different schemes suggested, but they are all quite similar. The block diagram for the entanglement radar scheme is shown in Figure Six. The suggested method for entangled photon production is that of spontaneous parametric down-conversion (SPDC). A signal photon and an idler photon are produced by the SPDC process, which is both entangled. The signal photon beam is sent towards the target via an antenna. The idler photon beam, which is used to detect the quantum state, is sent directly into the idler detector array. The idler detector output appears simultaneously and waits in the memory until the returned signal is processed in the receiver and detected in the signal detector array as soon as the transmitted signal reaches the target. To process the target parameters, the signal and idler detector outputs are added to the coincidence estimator and signal processing modules. To calculate more than one parameter for a given state, the signal is split into multiple signals through a beam splitter array. Each signal is then sent into a detector that is designed to detect certain properties of the signal. This is shown in Figure 4. Only one quantum state can pass through one of the many beam splitting paths. But on the theory of sending out multiple entangled photons, the entanglement radar works. They will randomly go through various paths of the beam splitter array upon receipt of these photons, and finally, all paths will be taken. It is necessary to note that because the SPDC process emits optical photons, this particular design is confined to the optical regime. However, if the SPDC process is replaced with a process of microwave photon generation, the same design may be implemented. A spontaneous parametric down-conversion of the photon source is (SPDC).The signal photon passes out of the antenna and is sent into the receiver by the idler photon, where it is retained until the return signal arrives. Then the two photons are sent into the coincidence estimator and data is collected from the data received. Detector arrays are used for the purpose of obtaining target parameter information. Through a beam splitter, the echo signal is split into multiple separate signals. From here to ascertain data, each split signal will go into a different measurement unit. Five. DEVELOPMENT OF QUANTUM RADAR. The concept of using the method of quantum detection to enhance target detection sensitivity appeared very early on. As early as 1991, the U.S. navy proposed a quantum detector patent exploit to increase the sensitivity of conventional radars. This patent proposed the use of tunable Rydberg detectors to improve the detection sensitivity to the quantum level of classic radar systems. The patent says that the transmitter sends classical pulses, but from today’s point of view, it is not a proper quantum radar device. In 1991, the E91 quantum key distribution protocol introduced the use of quantum entangled states as signal sources. Then as a sort of mystical natural resource, quantum entanglement started to attract the broad attention of scientists. For the last 20 years, systematic research and the use of quantum entanglements have contributed to a fundamental shift in information science. A few years later, quantum entanglement was proposed to be used to break through the normal measurement quantum limits and hit the degree of supersensitivity measurement. And quantum entanglement has also been used to improve imaging resolution. In 2005, Lockheed Martin Corporation suggested a quantum radar device based on a multi-particle source of quantum entanglement. The radar signal is composed of several entangled particles with varying frequencies in this scheme. And the radar transceiver is capable of somehow manipulating any frequency. Relatively short wavelengths of entangled particles strive to achieve high-resolution imaging, whereas longer wavelengths of entangled particles aim to achieve long-range target detection. The key benefit of this quantum radar theory is that it resolves the contradiction between resolution and detection range in conventional radars and makes radar systems capable of seeing clearly and far at the same time. Another type of quantum radar scheme based on quantum illumination was developed shortly after the grant of this U.S. patent in 2008 and submitted to the United States Patent Office in 2009. In 2012, this quantum illumination radar patent was issued. To date, not only does quantum radar remain a theoretical proposition, but it has also been adopted in laboratories for preliminary implementation. The first quantum radar demonstration in the laboratory that confirmed the anti-stealth capability of quantum radar was performed by Boyd and his research group. They constructed an imaging device that uses the location or time-of-fight information of a photon to image an object while using the polarization of the photon for protection. This technique helps the radar to produce an image that is safe from an attack in which the imaged object intercepts and resends modified information to the imaging photons. The delicate quantum state of the imaging photons must be disrupted by the target, thereby producing statistical errors that expose its behavior. In 2008, Lloyd suggested the theoretical possibility of quantum illumination imaging in a high-level noise context, but it is difficult to evaluate because of the fragility of entanglement. It is hard to test the idea. Lloyd’s proposal was experimentally demonstrated by Marco Genovese, a physicist at the National Institute for Metrological Research in Turin, Italy, and his colleagues, based on photon-number correlations in the laboratory. This will make it possible for sensors to distinguish the subtle evidence of objects currently hidden by noise. There are also other quantum radar systems in the theory stage and waiting for further experimental verifications. Six. QUANTUM RADAR CROSS SECTION. In reality, targets will present complicated geometries that will represent a complex pattern of incoming photons. The radar cross section sigma C is used within the realm of classical radar theory to assess the “radar visibility” of a particular target. As quantum radars emit a handful of photons at that time, photon-atom scattering procedures controlled by the laws of quantum electrodynamics define the radar-target interaction in this regime. As such, using the same sigma C to describe the visibility of a target illuminated by a quantum radar is theoretically inconsistent. As a result, to objectively calculate the ”quantum radar visibility” of a specified target, the concept of a quantum radar cross section sigma Q needs to be established. That is, in the scenario where the targets are not perfectly reflective objects and the radar signal is made of a handful of photons, we need to describe sigma Q to evaluate the performance of quantum radars. One. Desired properties of the quantum radar cross section sigma Q. The basic properties that are desired in a conceptually robust definition of sigma Q. In simple analogy to the classical radar cross section, the quantum radar cross section should have these properties: Operational Meaning: The reason to define sigma Q in the first place is to have an objective measure of the quantum radar visibility of a target. Energy Conservation: As with sigma C, sigma Q should entail energy conservation in the optical regime when absorption effects are ignored. Strong Dependencies: Similarly, to sigma C, it is desirable that sigma Q strongly depends on properties of the target: geometry, absolute and relative size, shape and orientation, as well as its composition, or material properties. Weak Dependencies: In the same manner, it is desired that sigma Q is approximately independent of the properties of the radar system. That is, sigma Q should depend very weakly on the strength, architecture, physical implementation, and range of the radar system. Multi-platform Comparison: To better understand the advantages and disadvantages of quantum radars, it would be desirable to be able to directly compare sigma C and sigma Q. Asymptotic Behavior: In the large photon limit, the quantum realm gives way to classical physics and sigma Q should be proportional to sigma C. Or, equation three, in the limit as n goes to infinity, where infinity is taken with a grain of salt, sigma q is proportional to sigma classical. B. Quantum Radar Equation. It is reasonable to define sigma Q in analogy to sigma C as equation four. Sigma quantum is the limit as R goes to infinity of four pi R squared times: I s (Of x s, x d, and t), over I, and I of (X s, t). Which is a function of the Intensity of the scattered signal received I s, and the illumination signal I i. And if we assume energy conservation in the optical regime, it is possible to approximate sigma Q for a mono static quantum radar with equation five: Sigma Q is around four pi R squared times perpendicular Area times a function of the scattered and illumination signal. Where the expectation value at the receiver of the scattered intensity is taken. Unfortunately, for the analytic analysis of quantum radar, this “simplified” expression for sigma Q remains problematic. In general, to elucidate the behavior of the quantum radar cross section, numerical methods have to be used. Based on the definition of the quantum radar cross section, equation four can be re-written simply as equation six: Sigma Q equals the limit as R goes to infinity of four pi r squared Is over I i. Using the expressions for the intensities we get in the large R limit, equations seven to nine in the text. The above expression resembles the classical radar equation making replacements, equations ten and eleven. P Q at the receiver equals scattered intensity, I s times the Area of the receiver “A.” r. Then the quantum radar equation is, equation twelve. P Q r equals P q t times “A.” r sigma c, over sixteen pi squared R to the fourth. Seven. ANALYSIS OF THE QUANTUM RADAR CROSS SECTION. “A.” Sigma Q for Rectangular Targets. Figure eight shows a flat rectangular plate of Area equal to “A” times “B” in the XY plane, therefore observed at its principal angles. “A perp.”, the projected cross sectional area of the target which is a function of theta i and phi i, changes based upon the viewing angle. For flat objects, the projected cross sectional area should be zero at the extreme angles, looking from a side view, meaning when theta equals pi over two and attains a maximum when looking at normal incidence, meaning when sigma C equals zero pi. Therefore: “A” theta equals “A” perp times the absolute value of cosine theta. With “A” per is the perpendicular cross sectional area, and theta varies between minus pi over two and pi over two. The absolute value ensures that the projected area is always positive. The quantum radar cross section sigma Q is inversely proportional to the square of the wavelength, as given in Equation seventeen. When we directly compare the equations of the CRCS and the QRCS, we can determine why the QRCS provides a side lobe enhancement over the CRCS. The CRCS expression is given by, equation eighteen. The plots of these two equations for a plate size of four lambda times four lambda is shown in Figure ten. We see that the two equations are very similar. From Equations (17) and (18), we note that the QRCS equation contains an absolute cosine theta term, while the CRCS equation contains a cosine squared theta term. This term is the origin of the QRCS sidelobe advantage can be observed by comparing plots of the two cosine functions in Figure eleven. In the QRCS, it is obvious to see that the term absolute cosine theta emerges from the equation for the projected cross sectional area “A” perp. This projected area term originates from integrating the incident expected intensity over the surface of the target during the derivation of the QRCS equation. The QRCS manifests itself as a result of quantum interference from the atoms on the surface of the target which, like the infinitesimal currents on the target, scatter isotropically. The difference here is that the atoms that make up the target are not vector quantities and do not need to be decomposed into components for the integration. The result is one single surface integral instead of multiple surface integrals over the different component interactions. The difference between the cosine and cosine squared term can be explained in a more physical manner, which provides additional insights. Physically, the infinitesimal currents induced on the target during classical scattering act as small antennas, which then radiate and sum together in a particular direction. In the quantum case, the target response is from many isolated atomic transition events, which produce wave functions for a photon, which then sum together in a particular direction. Eight. Conclusion. Quantum radar is a promising technology that will have a powerful effect on civilian and military environments. Although quantum sensing technology isn’t as mature as quantum cryptography or quantum communications, it’s not as challenging as quantum computations. In General quantum radars have already got their basic feasibility within the aspects of theory and realization, and there seems no insolvable scientific obstacle against it for the instant. In contrast to its classical radar equivalent, Quantum radar offers the simplest way to significantly increase the resolution. The power to trace aircraft and weapons is additionally included within the case of entanglement radar. Due to many problems, entanglement radar is sort of a bit out of control. One major issue is that the undeniable fact that within the microwave regime, a reliable and stable single entangled photon transmitter has yet to be produced. All previously proposed models had a photon source coming from random methods of parametric down-conversion. Research work shows that the larger the value of QRCS is, the more powerful is the scattering capacity for the incident photons; accordingly, a better detection performance can be obtained between quantum radar and targets. Additional problems of target scattering characteristics, such as how to obtain more information about the target by identifying the states of photons must be solved.