PukeOnAPlate

A Voyage to Arcturus, published in 1920. by DAVID LINDSAY. “Shall I speak with many words, or few words?” “If you wish to say what is not, many words will not suffice. If you wish to say what is, a few words will be enough.”

https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html Copyright © 1956, 1985 by Robert A. Heinlein, © 2003 by The Robert A. and Virginia Heinlein Prize Trust Cover design by Passageway Pictures, Incorporated. This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. Reformatted for Machine Speech, PukeOnAPlate 2023. For A. P. and Phyllis, Mick and Annette, Ailurophiles All. THE DOOR INTO SUMMER. Robert “A.” Heinlein. One. One winter shortly before the Six Weeks War my tomcat, Petronius the Arbiter, and I lived in an old farmhouse in Connecticut. I doubt if it is there any longer, as it was near the edge of the blast area of the Manhattan near-miss, and those old frame buildings burn like tissue paper. Even if it is still standing it would not be a desirable rental because of the fallout, but we liked it then, Pete and I. The lack of plumbing made the rent low and what had been the dining room had a good north light for my drafting board. The drawback was that the place had eleven doors to the outside. Twelve, if you counted Pete’s door. I always tried to arrange a door of his own for Pete, in this case a board fitted into a window in an unused bedroom and in which I had cut a cat strainer just wide enough for Pete’s whiskers. I have spent too much of my life opening doors for cats, I once calculated that, since the dawn of civilization, nine hundred and seventy-eight man-centuries have been used up that way. I could show you figures. Pete usually used his own door except when he could bully me into opening a people door for him, which he preferred. But he would not use his door when there was snow on the ground. While still a kitten, all fluff and buzzes, Pete had worked out a simple philosophy. I was in charge of quarters, rations, and weather; he was in charge of everything else. But he held me especially responsible for weather. Connecticut winters are good only for Christmas cards; regularly that winter Pete would check his own door, refuse to go out it because of that unpleasant white stuff beyond it (he was no fool), then badger me to open a people door. He had a fixed conviction that at least one of them must lead into summer weather. Each time this meant that I had to go around with him to each of eleven doors, hold it open while he satisfied himself that it was winter out that way, too, then go on to the next door, while his criticisms of my mismanagement grew more bitter with each disappointment. Then he would stay indoors until hydraulic pressure utterly forced him outside. When he returned the ice in his pads would sound like little clogs on the wooden floor and he would glare at me and refuse to purr until he had chewed it all out, whereupon he would forgive me until the next time. But he never gave up his search for the Door into Summer. On 3 December 1970, I was looking for it too. My quest was about as hopeless as Pete’s had been in a Connecticut January. What little snow there was in southern California was kept on mountains for skiers, not in downtown Los Angeles, the stuff probably couldn’t have pushed through the smog anyway. But the winter weather was in my heart. I was not in bad health (aside from a cumulative hangover), I was still on the right side of thirty by a few days, and I was far from being broke. No police were looking for me, nor any husbands, nor any process servers; there was nothing wrong that a slight case of amnesia would not have cured. But there was winter in my heart and I was looking for the door to summer. If I sound like a man with an acute case of self-pity, you are correct. There must have been well over two billion people on this planet in worse shape than I was. Nevertheless, I was looking for the Door into Summer. Most of the ones I had checked lately had been swinging doors, like the pair in front of me then, the SANS SOUCI Bar Grill, the sign said. I went in, picked a booth halfway back, placed the overnight bag I was carrying carefully on the seat, slid in by it, and waited for the waiter. The overnight bag said, “Waarrrh?” I said, “Take it easy, Pete.” “Naaow!” “Nonsense, you just went. Pipe down, the waiter is coming.” Pete shut up. I looked up as the waiter leaned over the table, and said to him, “A double shot of your bar Scotch, a glass of plain water, and a split of ginger ale.” The waiter looked upset. “Ginger ale, sir? With Scotch?” “Do you have it or don’t you?” “Why, yes, of course. But.” “Then fetch it. I’m not going to drink it; I just want to sneer at it. And bring a saucer too.” “As you say, sir.” He polished the tabletop. “How about a small steak, sir? Or the scallops are very good today.” “Look, mate, I’ll tip you for the scallops if you’ll promise not to serve them. All I need is what I ordered, and don’t forget the saucer.” He shut up and went away. I told Pete again to take it easy, the Marines had landed. The waiter returned, his pride appeased by carrying the split of ginger ale on the saucer. I had him open it while I mixed the Scotch with the water. “Would you like another glass for the ginger ale, sir?” “I’m a real buckaroo; I drink it out of the bottle.” He shut up and let me pay him and tip him, not forgetting a tip for the scallops. When he had gone I poured ginger ale into the saucer and tapped on the top of the overnight bag. “Soup’s on, Pete.” It was unzipped; I never zipped it with him inside. He spread it with his paws, poked his head out, looked around quickly, then levitated his forequarters and placed his front feet on the edge of the table. I raised my glass and we looked at each other. “Here’s to the female race, Pete, find ’em and forget ’em!” He nodded; it matched his own philosophy perfectly. He bent his head daintily and started lapping up ginger ale. “If you can, that is,” I added, and took a deep swig. Pete did not answer. Forgetting a female was no effort to him; he was the natural-born bachelor type. Facing me through the window of the bar was a sign that kept changing. First it would read: WORK WHILE YOU SLEEP. Then it would say: AND DREAM YOUR TROUBLES AWAY. Then it would flash in letters twice as big: MUTUAL ASSURANCE COMPANY. I read all three several times without thinking about them. I knew as much and as little about suspended animation as everybody else did. I had read a popular article or so when it was first announced and two or three times a week I’d get an insurance-company ad about it in the morning mail; I usually chucked them without looking at them since they didn’t seem to apply to me any more than lipstick ads did. In the first place, until shortly before then, I could not have paid for cold sleep; it’s expensive. In the second place, why should a man who was enjoying his work, was making money, expected to make more, was in love and about to be married, commit semi-suicide? If a man had an incurable disease and expected to die anyhow but thought the doctors a generation later might be able to cure him, and he could afford to pay for suspended animation while medical science caught up with what was wrong with him, then cold sleep was a logical bet. Or if his ambition was to make a trip to Mars and he thought that clipping one generation out of his personal movie film would enable him to buy a ticket, I supposed that was logical too, there had been a news story about a café- society couple who got married and went right straight from city hall to the sleep sanctuary of Western World Insurance Company with an announcement that they had left instructions not to be called until they could spend their honeymoon on an interplanetary liner, although I had suspected that it was a publicity gag rigged by the insurance company and that they had ducked out the back door under assumed names. Spending your wedding night cold as a frozen mackerel does not have the ring of truth in it. And there was the usual straightforward financial appeal, the one the insurance companies bore down on: “Work while you sleep.” Just hold still and let whatever you have saved grow into a fortune. If you are fifty-five and your retirement fund pays you two hundred a month, why not sleep away the years, wake up still fifty-five, and have it pay you a thousand a month? To say nothing of waking up in a bright new world which would probably promise you a much longer and healthier old age in which to enjoy the thousand a month? That one they really went to town on, each company proving with incontrovertible figures that its selection of stocks for its trust fund made more money faster than any of the others. “Work while you sleep!” It had never appealed to me. I wasn’t fifty-five, I didn’t want to retire, and I hadn’t seen anything wrong with 1970. Until recently, that is to say. Now I was retired whether I liked it or not (I didn’t); instead of being on my honeymoon I was sitting in a second-rate bar drinking Scotch purely for anesthesia; instead of a wife I had one much-scarred tomcat with a neurotic taste for ginger ale; and as for liking right now, I would have swapped it for a case of gin and then busted every bottle. But I wasn’t broke. I reached into my coat and took out an envelope, opened it. It had two items in it. One was a certified check for more money than I had ever had before at one time; the other was a stock certificate in Hired Girl, Incorporated They were both getting a little mussed; I had been carrying them ever since they were handed to me. Why not? Why not duck out and sleep my troubles away? Pleasanter than joining the Foreign Legion, less messy than suicide, and it would divorce me completely from the events and the people who had made my life go sour. So why not? I wasn’t terribly interested in the chance to get rich. Oh, I had read H G Wells’ The Sleeper Awakes, not only when the insurance companies started giving away free copies, but before that, when it was just another classic novel; I knew what compound interest and stock appreciation could do. But I was not sure that I had enough money both to buy the Long Sleep and to set up a trust large enough to be worthwhile. The other argument appealed to me more: go beddy-bye and wake up in a different world. Maybe a lot better world, the way the insurance companies would have you believe, or maybe worse. But certainly different. I could make sure of one important difference: I could doze long enough to be certain that it was a world without Belle Darkin, or Miles Gentry, either, but Belle especially. If Belle was dead and buried I could forget her, forget what she had done to me, cancel her out, instead of gnawing my heart with the knowledge that she was only a few miles away. Let’s see, how long would that have to be? Belle was twenty-three, or claimed to be (I recalled that once she had seemed to let slip that she remembered Roosevelt as president). Well, in her twenties anyhow. If I slept seventy years, she’d be an obituary. Make it seventy-five and be safe. Then I remembered the strides they were making in geriatrics; they were talking about a hundred and twenty years as an attainable “normal” life span. Maybe I would have to sleep a hundred years. I wasn’t certain that any insurance company offered that much. Then I had a gently fiendish idea, inspired by the warm glow of Scotch. It wasn’t necessary to sleep until Belle was dead; it was enough, more than enough, and just the fitting revenge on a female to be young when she was old. Just enough younger to rub her nose in it, say about thirty years. I felt a paw, gentle as a snowflake, on my arm. “Mooorrre!” announced Pete. “Greedy gut,” I told him, and poured him another saucer of ginger ale. He thanked me with a polite wait, then started lapping it. But he had interrupted my pleasantly nasty chain of thought. What the devil could I do about Pete? You can’t give away a cat the way you can a dog; they won’t stand for it. Sometimes they go with the house, but not in Pete’s case; to him I had been the one stable thing in a changing world ever since he was taken from his mother nine years earlier, I had even managed to keep him near me in the Army and that takes real wangling. He was in good health and likely to stay that way even though he was held together with scar tissue. If he could just correct a tendency to lead with his right he would be winning battles and siring kittens for another five years at least. I could pay to have him kept in a kennel until he died (unthinkable!) or I could have him chloroformed (equally unthinkable), or I could abandon him. That is what it boils down to with a cat: You either carry out the Chinese obligation you have assumed, or you abandon the poor thing, let it go wild, destroy its faith in the eternal rightness. The way Belle had destroyed mine. So, Danny boy, you might as well forget it. Your own life may have gone as sour as dill pickles; that did not excuse you in the slightest from your obligation to carry out your contract to this super-spoiled cat. Just as I reached that philosophical truth Pete sneezed; the bubbles had gone up his nose. “Gesundheit,” I answered, “and quit trying to drink it so fast.” Pete ignored me. His table manners averaged better than mine and he knew it. Our waiter had been hanging around the cash register, talking with the cashier. It was the after-lunch slump and the only other customers were at the bar. The waiter looked up when I said “Gesundheit,” and spoke to the cashier. They both looked our way, then the cashier lifted the flap gate in the bar and headed toward us. I said quietly, “MPs, Pete.” He glanced around and ducked down into the bag; I pushed the top together. The cashier came over and leaned on my table, giving the seats on both sides of the booth a quick double-O. “Sorry, friend,” he said flatly, “but you’ll have to get that cat out of here.” “What cat?” “The one you were feeding out of that saucer.” “I don’t see any cat.” This time he bent down and looked under the table. “You’ve got him in that bag,” he accused. “Bag? Cat?” I said wonderingly. “My friend, I think you’ve come down with an acute figure of speech.” “Huh? Don’t give me any fancy language. You’ve got a cat in that bag. Open it up.” “Do you have a search warrant?” “What? Don’t be silly.” “You’re the one talking silly, demanding to see the inside of my bag without a search warrant. Fourth Amendment, and the war has been over for years. Now that we’ve settled that, please tell my waiter to make it the same all around, or fetch it yourself.” He looked pained. “Brother, this isn’t anything personal, but I’ve got a license to consider. No dogs, no cats, it says so right up there on the wall. We aim to run a sanitary establishment.” “Then your aim is poor.” I picked up my glass. “See the lipstick marks? You ought to be checking your dishwasher, not searching your customers.” “I don’t see no lipstick.” “I wiped most of it off. But let’s take it down to the Board of Health and get the bacteria count checked.” He sighed. “You got a badge?” “No!” “Then we’re even. I don’t search your bag and you don’t take me down to the Board of Health. Now if you want another drink, step up to the bar and have it, on the house. But not here.” He turned and headed up front. I shrugged. “We were just leaving anyhow.” As I started to pass the cashier’s desk on my way out he looked up. “No hard feelings?” “Nope. But I was planning to bring my horse in here for a drink later. Now I won’t.” “Suit yourself. The ordinance doesn’t say a word about horses. But just one more thing, does that cat really drink ginger ale?” “Fourth Amendment, remember?” “I don’t want to see the animal; I just want to know.” “Well,” I admitted, “he prefers it with a dash of bitters, but he’ll drink it straight if he has to.” “It’ll ruin his kidneys. Look here a moment, friend.” “At what?” “Lean back so that your head is close to where mine is. Now look up at the ceiling over each booth, the mirrors up in the decorations. I knew there was a cat there, because I saw it.” I leaned back and looked. The ceiling of the joint had a lot of junky decoration, including many mirrors; I saw now that a number of them, camouflaged by the design, were so angled as to permit the cashier to use them as periscopes without leaving his station. “We need that,” he said apologetically. “You’d be shocked at what goes on in those booths, if we didn’t keep an eye on ’em. It’s a sad world.” “Amen, brother.” I went on out. Once outside, I opened the bag and carried it by one handle; Pete stuck his head out. “You heard what the man said, Pete. It’s a sad world. Worse than sad when two friends can’t have a quiet drink together without being spied on. That settles it.” “Now?” asked Pete. “If you say so. If we’re going to do it, there’s no point in stalling.” “Now!” Pete answered emphatically. “Unanimous. It’s right across the street.” The receptionist at the Mutual Assurance Company was a fine example of the beauty of functional design. In spite of being streamlined for about Mach Four, she displayed frontal-mounted radar housings and everything else needed for her basic mission. I reminded myself that she would be Whistler’s Mother by the time I was out and told her that I wanted to see a salesman. “Please be seated. I will see if one of our client executives is free.” Before I could sit down she added, “Our Mister Powell will see you. This way, please.” Our Mister Powell occupied an office which made me think that Mutual did pretty well for itself. He shook hands moistly, sat me down, offered me a cigarette, and attempted to take my bag. I hung onto it. “Now, sir, how can we serve you?” “I want the Long Sleep.” His eyebrows went up and his manner became more respectful. No doubt Mutual would write you a camera floater for seven bucks, but the Long Sleep let them get their patty-paws on all of a client’s assets. “A very wise decision,” he said reverently. “I wish I were free to take it myself. But, family responsibilities, you know.” He reached out and picked up a form. “Sleep clients are usually in a hurry. Let me save you time and bother by filling this out for you, and we’ll arrange for your physical examination at once.” “Just a moment.” “Eh?” “One question. Are you set up to arrange cold sleep for a cat?” He looked surprised, then pained. “You’re jesting.” I opened the top of the bag; Pete stuck his head out. “Meet my sidekick. Just answer the question, please. If the answer is no, I want to sashay up to Central Valley Liability. Their offices are in this same building, aren’t they?” This time he looked horrified. “Mister, Uh, I didn’t get your name?” “Dan Davis.” “Mister Davis, once a man enters our door he is under the benevolent protection of Mutual Assurance. I couldn’t let you go to Central Valley.” “How do you plan to stop me? Judo?” “Please!” He glanced around and looked upset. “Our company is an ethical company.” “Meaning that Central Valley is not?” “I didn’t say that; you did. Mister Davis, don’t let me sway you.” “You won’t.” “But get sample contracts from each company. Get a lawyer, better yet, get a licensed semanticist. Find out what we offer, and actually deliver, and compare it with what Central Valley claims to offer.” He glanced around again and leaned toward me. “I shouldn’t say this, and I do hope you won’t quote me, but they don’t even use the standard actuarial tables.” “Maybe they give the customer a break instead.” “What? My dear Mister Davis, we distribute every accrued benefit. Our charter requires it, while Central Valley is a stock company.” “Maybe I should buy some of their, Look, Mister Powell, we’re wasting time. Will Mutual accept my pal here? Or not? If not, I’ve been here too long already.” “You mean you want to pay to have that creature preserved alive in hypothermia?” “I mean I want both of us to take the Long Sleep. And don’t call him ‘that creature’; his name is Petronius.” “Sorry. I’ll rephrase my question. You are prepared to pay two custodial fees to have both of you, you and, uh, Petronius committed to our sanctuary?” “Yes. But not two standard fees. Something extra, of course, but you can stuff us both in the same coffin; you can’t honestly charge as much for Pete as you charge for a man.” “This is most unusual.” “Of course it is. But we’ll dicker over the price later, or I’ll dicker with Central Valley. Right now I want to find out if you can do it.” “Uh.” He drummed on his desktop. “Just a moment.” He picked up his phone and said, “Opal, get me Doctor Berquist.” I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, for he switched on the privacy guard. But after a while he put down the instrument and smiled as if a rich uncle had died. “Good news, sir! I had overlooked momentarily the fact that the first successful experiments were made on cats. The techniques and critical factors for cats are fully established. In fact there is a cat at the Naval Research Laboratory in Annapolis which is and has been for more than twenty years alive in hypothermia.” “I thought NRL was wiped out when they got Washington?” “Just the surface buildings, sir, not the deep vaults. Which is a tribute to the perfection of the technique; the animal was unattended save by automatic machinery for more than two years, yet it still lives, unchanged, unaged. As you will live, sir, for whatever period you elect to entrust yourself to Mutual.” I thought he was going to cross himself. “Okay, okay, now let’s get on with the dicker.” There were four factors involved: first, how to pay for our care while we were hibernating; second, how long I wanted us to sleep; third, how I wanted my money invested while I was in the freezer; and last, what happened if I conked out and never woke up. I finally settled on the year 2000, a nice round number and only thirty years away. I was afraid that if I made it any longer I would be completely out of touch. The changes in the last thirty years (my own lifetime) had been enough to bug a man’s eyes out, two big wars and a dozen little ones, the downfall of communism, the Great Panic, the artificial satellites, the change to atomic power, why, when I was a kid they didn’t even have multimorphs. I might find 2000 A.D. pretty confusing. But if I didn’t jump that far Belle would not have time to work up a fancy set of wrinkles. When it came to how to invest my dough I did not consider government bonds and other conservative investments; our fiscal system has inflation built into it. I decided to hang onto my Hired Girl stock and put the cash into other common stocks, with a special eye to some trends I thought would grow. Automation was bound to get bigger. I picked a San Francisco fertilizer firm too; it had been experimenting with yeasts and edible algae, there were more people every year and steak wasn’t going to get any cheaper. The balance of the money I told him to put into the company’s managed trust fund. But the real choice lay in what to do if I died in hibernation. The company claimed that the odds were better than seven out of ten that I would live through thirty years of cold sleep, and the company would take either end of the bet. The odds weren’t reciprocal and I didn’t expect them to be; in any honest gambling there is a breakage to the house. Only crooked gamblers claim to give the sucker the best of it, and insurance is legalized gambling. The oldest and most reputable insurance firm in the world, Lloyd’s of London, makes no bones about it, Lloyd’s associates will take either end of any bet. But don’t expect better-than-track odds; somebody has to pay for Our Mister Powell’s tailor-made suits. I chose to have every cent go to the company trust fund in case I died, which made Mister Powell want to kiss me and made me wonder just how optimistic those seven-out-of-ten odds were. But I stuck with it because it made me an heir (if I lived) of everyone else with the same option, if they died, Russian roulette with the survivors picking up the chips, and with the company, as usual, raking in the house percentage. I picked every alternative for the highest possible return and no hedging if I guessed wrong; Mister Powell loved me, the way a croupier loves a sucker who keeps playing the zero. By the time we had settled my estate he was anxious to be reasonable about Pete; we settled for 15 percent of the human fee to pay for Pete’s hibernation and drew up a separate contract for him. There remained consent of court and the physical examination. The physical I didn’t worry about; I had a hunch that, once I elected to have the company bet that I would die, they would accept me even in the last stages of the Black Death. But I thought that getting a judge to okay it might be lengthy. It had to be done, because a client in cold sleep was legally in chancery, alive but helpless. I needn’t have worried. Our Mister Powell had quadruplicate originals made of nineteen different papers. I signed till I got finger cramps, and a messenger rushed away with them while I went to my physical examination; I never even saw the judge. The physical was the usual tiresome routine except for one thing. Toward the end the examining physician looked me sternly in the eye and said, “Son, how long have you been on this binge?” “Binge?” “Binge.” “What makes you think that, Doctor? I’m as sober as you are. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled.” “Knock it off and answer me.” “Hum, I’d say about two weeks. A little over.” “Compulsive drinker? How many times have you pulled this stunt in the past?” “Well, as a matter of fact, I haven’t. You see,” I started to tell him what Belle and Miles had done to me, why I felt the way I did. He shoved a palm at me. “Please. I’ve got troubles of my own and I’m not a psychiatrist. Really, all I’m interested in is finding out whether or not your heart will stand up under the ordeal of putting you down to four degrees centigrade. Which it will. And I ordinarily don’t care why anyone is nutty enough to crawl into a hole and pull it in after him; I just figure it is one less damn fool underfoot. But some residual tinge of professional conscience prevents me from letting any man, no matter how sorry a specimen, climb into one of those coffins while his brain is sodden with alcohol. Turn around.” “Huh?” “Turn around; I’m going to inject you in your left buttock.” I did and he did. While I was rubbing it he went on, “Now drink this. In about twenty minutes you will be more sober than you’ve been in a month. Then, if you have any sense, which I doubt, you can review your position and decide whether to run away from your troubles, or stand up to them like a man.” I drank it. “That’s all; you can get dressed. I’m signing your papers, but I’m warning you that I can veto it right up to the last minute. No more alcohol for you at all, a light supper and no breakfast. Be here at noon tomorrow for final check.” He turned away and didn’t even say good-bye. I dressed and went out of there, sore as a boil. Powell had all my papers ready. When I picked them up he said, “You can leave them here if you wish and pick them up at noon tomorrow, the set that goes in the vault with you, that is.” “What happens to the others?” “We keep one set ourselves, then after you are committed we file one set with the court and one in the Carlsbad Archives. Uh, did the doctor caution you about diet?” “He certainly did.” I glanced at the papers to cover my annoyance. Powell reached for them. “I’ll keep them safe overnight.” I pulled them back. “I can keep them safe. I might want to change some of these stock selections.” “Uh, it’s rather late for that, my dear Mister Davis.” “Don’t rush me. If I do make any changes I’ll come in early.” I opened the overnight bag and stuck the papers down in a side flap beside Pete. I had kept valuable papers there before; while it might not be as safe as the public archives in the Carlsbad Caverns, they were safer than you might think. A sneak thief had tried to take something out of that flap on another occasion; he must still have the scars of Pete’s teeth and claws. Two. My car was parked under Pershing Square where I had left it earlier in the day. I dropped money into the parking attendant, set the bug on arterial-west, got Pete out and put him on the seat, and relaxed. Or tried to relax. Los Angeles traffic was too fast and too slashingly murderous for me to be really happy under automatic control; I wanted to redesign their whole installation, it was not a really modern “fail safe.” By the time we were west of Western Avenue and could go back on manual control I was edgy and wanted a drink. “There’s an oasis, Pete.” “Blurrrt?” “Right ahead.” But while I was looking for a place to park, Los Angeles was safe from invasion; the invaders wouldn’t find a place to park, I recalled the doctor’s order not to touch alcohol. So I told him emphatically what he could do with his orders. Then I wondered if he could tell, almost a day later, whether or not I had taken a drink. I seemed to recall some technical article, but it had not been in my line and I had just skimmed it. Damnation, he was quite capable of refusing to let me cold-sleep. I’d better play it cagey and lay off the stuff. “Now?” inquired Pete. “Later. We’re going to find a drive-in instead.” I suddenly realized that I didn’t really want a drink; I wanted food and a night’s sleep. Doc was correct; I was more sober and felt better than I had in weeks. Maybe that shot in the fanny had been nothing but B1; if so, it was jet-propelled. So we found a drive-in restaurant. I ordered chicken in the rough for me and a half pound of hamburger and some milk for Pete and took him out for a short walk while it was coming. Pete and I ate in drive-ins a lot because I didn’t have to sneak him in and out. A half hour later I let the car drift back out of the busy circle, stopped it, lit a cigarette, scratched Pete under the chin, and thought. Dan, my boy, the doc was right; you’ve been trying to dive down the neck of a bottle. That’s okay for your pointy head but it’s too narrow for your shoulders. Now you’re cold sober, you’ve got your belly crammed with food and it’s resting comfortably for the first time in days. You feel better. What else? Was the doc right about the rest of it? Are you a spoiled infant? Do you lack the guts to stand up to a setback? Why are you taking this step? Is it the spirit of adventure? Or are you simply hiding from yourself, like a Section Eight trying to crawl back into his mother’s womb? But I do want to do it, I told myself, the year 2000. Boy! Okay, so you want to. But do you have to run off without settling the beefs you have right here? All right, all right!, but how can I settle them? I don’t want Belle back, not after what she’s done. And what else can I do? Sue them? Don’t be silly, I’ve got no evidence, and anyhow, nobody ever wins a lawsuit but the lawyers. Pete said, “Well? Y’know!” I looked down at his waffle-scarred head. Pete wouldn’t sue anybody; if he didn’t like the cut of another cat’s whiskers, he simply invited him to come out and fight like a cat. “I believe you’re right, Pete. I’m going to look up Miles, tear his arm off, and beat him over the head with it until he talks. We can take the Long Sleep afterward. But we’ve got to know just what it was they did to us and who rigged it.” There was a phone booth back of the stand. I called Miles, found him at home, and told him to stay there; I’d be out. My old man named me Daniel Boone Davis, which was his way of declaring for personal liberty and self-reliance. I was born in 1940, a year when everybody was saying that the individual was on the skids and the future belonged to mass man. Dad refused to believe it; naming me was a note of defiance. He died under brainwashing in North Korea, trying to the last to prove his thesis. When the Six Weeks War came along I had a degree in mechanical engineering and was in the Army. I had not used my degree to try for a commission because the one thing Dad had left me was an overpowering yen to be on my own, giving no orders, taking no orders, keeping no schedules, I simply wanted to serve my hitch and get out. When the Cold War boiled over, I was a sergeant-technician at Sandia Weapons Center in New Mexico, stuffing atoms in atom bombs and planning what I would do when my time was up. The day Sandia disappeared I was down in Dallas drawing a fresh supply of Schrecklichkeit. The fallout on that was toward Oklahoma City, so I lived to draw my GI benefits. Pete lived through it for a similar reason. I had a buddy, Miles Gentry, a veteran called back to duty. He had married a widow with one daughter, but his wife had died about the time he was called back. He lived off post with a family in Albuquerque so as to have a home for his stepchild Frederica. Little Ricky (we never called her “Frederica”) took care of Pete for me. Thanks to the cat-goddess Bubastis, Miles and Ricky and Pete were away on a seventy-two that awful weekend, Ricky took Pete with them because I could not take him to Dallas. I was as surprised as anyone when it turned out we had divisions stashed away at Thule and other places that no one suspected. It had been known since the ’30s that the human body could be chilled until it slowed down to almost nothing. But it had been a laboratory trick, or a last-resort therapy, until the Six Weeks War. I’ll say this for military research: If money and men can do it, it gets results. Print another billion, hire another thousand scientists and engineers, then in some incredible, left-handed, inefficient fashion the answers come up. Stasis, cold sleep, hibernation, hypothermia, reduced metabolism, call it what you will, the logistics-medicine research teams had found a way to stack people like cordwood and use them when needed. First you drug the subject, then hypnotize him, then cool him down and hold him precisely at four degrees centigrade; that is to say, at the maximum density of water with no ice crystals. If you need him in a hurry he can be brought up by diathermy and posthypnotic command in ten minutes (they did it in seven at Nome), but such speed tends to age the tissues and may make him a little stupid from then on. If you aren’t in a hurry two hours minimum is better. The quick method is what professional soldiers call a “calculated risk.” The whole thing was a risk the enemy had not calculated, so when the war was over I was paid off instead of being liquidated or sent to a slave camp, and Miles and I went into business together about the time the insurance companies started selling cold sleep. We went to the Mojave Desert, set up a small factory in an Air Force surplus building, and started making Hired Girl, my engineering and Miles’ law and business experience. Yes, I invented Hired Girl and all her kinfolk, Window Willie and the rest, even though you won’t find my name on them. While I was in the service I had thought hard about what one engineer can do. Go to work for Standard, or du Pont, or General Motors? Thirty years later they give you a testimonial dinner and a pension. You haven’t missed any meals, you’ve had a lot of rides in company airplanes. But you are never your own boss. The other big market for engineers is civil service, good starting pay, good pensions, no worries, thirty days’ annual leave, liberal benefits. But I had just had a long government vacation and wanted to be my own boss. What was there small enough for one engineer and not requiring six million man-hours before the first model was on the market? Bicycle-shop engineering with peanuts for capital, the way Ford and the Wright brothers had started, people said those days were gone forever; I didn’t believe it. Automation was booming, chemical-engineering plants that required only two gauge-watchers and a guard, machines that printed tickets in one city and marked the space “sold” in six other cities, steel moles that mined coal while the UMW boys sat back and watched. So while I was on Uncle Sam’s payroll I soaked up all the electronics, linkages, and cybernetics that a “Q” clearance would permit. What was the last thing to go automatic? Answer: any housewife’s house. I didn’t attempt to figure out a sensible scientific house; women didn’t want one; they simply wanted a better-upholstered cave. But housewives were still complaining about the Servant Problem long after servants had gone the way of the mastodon. I had rarely met a housewife who did not have a touch of slaveholder in her; they seemed to think there really ought to be strapping peasant girls grateful for a chance to scrub floors fourteen hours a day and eat table scraps at wages a plumber’s helper would scorn. That’s why we called the monster Hired Girl, it brought back thoughts of the semi-slave immigrant girl whom Grandma used to bully. Basically it was just a better vacuum cleaner and we planned to market it at a price competitive with ordinary suck brooms. What Hired Girl would do (the first model, not the semi-intelligent robot I developed it into) was to clean floors, any floor, all day long and without supervision. And there never was a floor that didn’t need cleaning. It swept, or mopped, or vacuum-cleaned, or polished, consulting tapes in its idiot memory to decide which. Anything larger than a BB shot it picked up and placed in a tray on its upper surface, for someone brighter to decide whether to keep or throw away. It went quietly looking for dirt all day long, in search curves that could miss nothing, passing over clean floors in its endless search for dirty floors. It would get out of a room with people in it, like a well-trained maid, unless its mistress caught up with it and flipped a switch to tell the poor thing it was welcome. Around dinnertime it would go to its stall and soak up a quick charge, this was before we installed the everlasting power pack. There was not too much difference between Hired Girl, Mark One, and a vacuum cleaner. But the difference, that it would clean without supervision, was enough; it sold. I swiped the basic prowl pattern from the “Electric Turtles” that were written up in Scientific American in the late forties, lifted a memory circuit out of the brain of a guided missile (that’s the nice thing about top-secret gimmicks; they don’t get patented), and I took the cleaning devices and linkages out of a dozen things, including a floor polisher used in army hospitals, a soft-drink dispenser, and those “hands” they use in atomics plants to handle anything “hot.” There wasn’t anything really new in it; it was just the way I put it together. The “spark of genius” required by our laws lay in getting a good patent lawyer. The real genius was in the production engineering; the whole thing could be built with standard parts ordered out of Sweet’s Catalogue, with the exception of two three-dimensional cams and one printed circuit. The circuit we subcontracted; the cams I made myself in the shed we called our “factory,” using war-surplus automated tools. At first Miles and I were the whole assembly line, bash to fit, file to hide, paint to cover. The pilot model cost $4,317.09; the first hundred cost just over $39 each, and we passed them on to a Los Angeles discount house at $60 and they sold them for $85. We had to let them go on consignment to unload them at all, since we could not afford sales promotion, and we darn near starved before receipts started coming in. Then Life ran a two-page on Hired Girl, and it was a case of having enough help to assemble the monster. Belle Darkin joined us soon after that. Miles and I had been pecking out letters on a 1908 Underwood; we hired her as a typewriter jockey and bookkeeper and rented an electric machine with executive typeface and carbon ribbon and I designed a letterhead. We were plowing it all back into the business and Pete and I were sleeping in the shop while Miles and Ricky had a nearby shack. We incorporated in self-defense. It takes three to incorporate; we gave Belle a share of stock and designated her secretary-treasurer. Miles was president and general manager; I was chief engineer and chairman of the board, with 51 percent of the stock. I want to make clear why I kept control. I wasn’t a hog; I simply wanted to be my own boss. Miles worked like a trouper, I give him credit. But better than 60 percent of the savings that got us started were mine and 100 percent of the inventiveness and engineering were mine. Miles could not possibly have built Hired Girl, whereas I could have built it with any of a dozen partners, or possibly without one, although I might have flopped in trying to make money out of it; Miles was a businessman while I am not. But I wanted to be certain that I retained control of the shop, and I granted Miles equal freedom in the business end, too much freedom, it turned out. Hired Girl, Mark One, was selling like beer at a ball game and I was kept busy for a while improving it and setting up a real assembly line and putting a shop master in charge, then I happily turned to thinking up more household gadgets. Amazingly little real thought had been given to housework, even though it is at least 50 percent of all work in the world. The women’s magazines talked about “labor saving in the home” and “functional kitchens,” but it was just prattle; their pretty pictures showed living-working arrangements essentially no better than those in Shakespeare’s day; the horse-to-jet-plane revolution had not reached the home. I stuck to my conviction that housewives were reactionaries. No “machines for living”, just gadgets to replace the extinct domestic servant, that is, for cleaning and cooking and baby tending. I got to thinking about dirty windows and that ring around the bathtub that is so hard to scrub, as you have to bend double to get at it. It turned out that an electrostatic device could make dirt go spung! off any polished silica surface, window glass, bathtubs, toilet bowls, anything of that sort. That was Window Willie and it’s a wonder that somebody hadn’t thought of him sooner. I held him back until I had him down to a price that people could not refuse. Do you know what window washing used to cost by the hour? I held Willie out of production much longer than suited Miles. He wanted to sell it as soon as it was cheap enough, but I insisted on one more thing: Willie had to be easy to repair. The great shortcoming of most household gadgets was that the better they were and the more they did, the more certain they were to get out of order when you needed them most, and then require an expert at five dollars an hour to make them move again. Then the same thing will happen the following week, if not to the dishwasher, then to the air conditioner, usually late Saturday night during a snowstorm. I wanted my gadgets to work and keep on working and not to cause ulcers in their owners. But gadgets do get out of order, even mine. Until that great day when all gadgets are designed with no moving parts, machinery will continue to go sour. If you stuff a house with gadgets some of them will always be out of order. But military research does get results and the military had licked this problem years earlier. You simply can’t lose a battle, lose thousands or millions of lives, maybe the war itself, just because some gadget the size of your thumb breaks down. For military purposes they used a lot of dodges, “fail safe,” stand-by circuits, “tell me three times,” and so forth. But one they used that made sense for household equipment was the plugin component principle. It is a moronically simple idea: don’t repair, replace. I wanted to make every part of Window Willie which could go wrong a plug-in unit, then include a set of replacements with each Willie. Some components would be thrown away, some would be sent out for repair, but Willie himself would never break down longer than necessary to plug in the replacement part. Miles and I had our first row. I said the decision as to when to go from pilot model to production was an engineering one; he claimed that it was a business decision. If I hadn’t retained control Willie would have gone on the market just as maddeningly subject to acute appendicitis as all other sickly, half-engineered “labor-saving” gadgets. Belle Darkin smoothed over the row. If she had turned on the pressure I might have let Miles start selling Willie before I thought it was ready, for I was as goofed up about Belle as is possible for a man to be. Belle was not only a perfect secretary and office manager, she also had personal specs which would have delighted Praxiteles and a fragrance which affected me the way catnip does Pete. With top-notch office girls as scarce as they were, when one of the best turns out to be willing to work for a shoestring company at a below-standard salary, one really ought to ask “why?”, but we didn’t even ask where she had worked last, so happy were we to have her dig us out of the flood of paperwork that marketing Hired Girl had caused. Later on I would have indignantly rejected any suggestion that we should have checked on Belle, for by then her bust measurement had seriously warped my judgment. She let me explain how lonely my life had been until she came along and she answered gently that she would have to know me better but that she was inclined to feel the same way. Shortly after she smoothed out the quarrel between Miles and myself she agreed to share my fortunes. “Dan darling, you have it in you to be a great man, and I have hopes that I am the sort of woman who can help you.” “You certainly are!” “Shush, darling. But I am not going to marry you right now and burden you with kids and worry you to death. I’m going to work with you and build up the business first. Then we’ll get married.” I objected, but she was firm. “No, darling. We are going a long way, you and I. Hired Girl will be as great a name as General Electric. But when we marry I want to forget business and just devote myself to making you happy. But first I must devote myself to your welfare and your future. Trust me, dear.” So I did. She wouldn’t let me buy her the expensive engagement ring I wanted to buy; instead I signed over to her some of my stock as a betrothal present. I went on voting it, of course. Thinking back, I’m not sure who thought of that present. I worked harder than ever after that, thinking about wastebaskets that would empty themselves and a linkage to put dishes away after the dishwasher was through. Everybody was happy, everybody but Pete and Ricky, that is. Pete ignored Belle, as he did anything he disapproved of but could not change, but Ricky was really unhappy. My fault. Ricky had been “my girl” since she was a six-year-old at Sandia, with hair ribbons and big solemn dark eyes. I was “going to marry her” when she grew up and we would both take care of Pete. I thought it was a game we were playing, and perhaps it was, with little Ricky serious only to the extent that it offered her eventual full custody of our cat. But how can you tell what goes on in a child’s mind? I am not sentimental about kids. Little monsters, most of them, who don’t civilize until they are grown and sometimes not then. But little Frederica reminded me of my own sister at that age, and besides, she liked Pete and treated him properly. I think she liked me because I never talked down (I had resented that myself as a child) and took her Brownie activities seriously. Ricky was okay; she had quiet dignity and was not a banger, not a squealer, not a lap climber. We were friends, sharing the responsibility for Pete, and, so far as I knew, her being “my girl” was just a sophisticated game we were playing. I quit playing it after my sister and mother got it the day they bombed us. No conscious decision, I just didn’t feel like joking and never went back to it. Ricky was seven then; she was ten by the time Belle joined us and possibly eleven when Belle and I became engaged. She hated Belle with an intensity that I think only I was aware of, since it was expressed only by reluctance to talk to her, Belle called it “shyness” and I think Miles thought it was too. But I knew better and tried to talk Ricky out of it. Did you ever try to discuss with a subadolescent something the child does not want to talk about? You’ll get more satisfaction shouting in Echo Canyon. I told myself it would wear off as Ricky learned how very lovable Belle was. Pete was another matter, and if I had not been in love I would have seen it as a clear sign that Belle and I would never understand each other. Belle “liked” my cat, oh, sure, sure! She adored cats and she loved my incipient bald spot and admired my choice in restaurants and she liked everything about me. But liking cats is hard to fake to a cat person. There are cat people and there are others, more than a majority probably, who “cannot abide a harmless, necessary cat.” If they try to pretend, out of politeness or any reason, it shows, because they don’t understand how to treat cats, and cat protocol is more rigid than that of diplomacy. It is based on self-respect and mutual respect and it has the same flavor as the dignidad de hombre of Latin America which you may offend only at risk to your life. Cats have no sense of humor, they have terribly inflated egos, and they are very touchy. If somebody asked me why it was worth anyone’s time to cater to them I would be forced to answer that there is no logical reason. I would rather explain to someone who detests sharp cheeses why he “ought to like” Limburger. Nevertheless, I fully sympathize with the mandarin who cut off a priceless embroidered sleeve because a kitten was sleeping on it. Belle tried to show that she “liked” Pete by treating him like a dog, so she got scratched. Then, being a sensible cat, he got out in a hurry and stayed out a long time, which was well, as I would have smacked him, and Pete has never been smacked, not by me. Hitting a cat is worse than useless; a cat can be disciplined only by patience, never by blows. So I put iodine on Belle’s scratches, then tried to explain what she had done wrong. “I’m sorry it happened, I’m terribly sorry! But it will happen again if you do that again.” “But I was just petting him!” “Uh, yes, but you weren’t cat-petting him; you were dog-petting him. You must never pat a cat, you stroke it. You must never make sudden movements in range of its claws. You must never touch it without giving it a chance to see that you are about to, and you must always watch to see that it likes it. If it doesn’t want to be petted, it will put up with a little out of politeness, cats are very polite, but you can tell if it is merely enduring it and stop before its patience is exhausted.” I hesitated. “You don’t like cats, do you?” “What? Why, how silly! Of course I like cats.” But she added, “I haven’t been around them much, I suppose. She’s pretty touchy, isn’t she?” “He. Pete is a he-male cat. No, actually he’s not touchy, since he’s always been well treated. But you do have to learn how to behave with cats. Uh, you must never laugh at them.” “What? Forevermore, why?” “Not because they aren’t funny; they’re extremely comical. But they have no sense of humor and it offends them. Oh, a cat won’t scratch you for laughing; he’ll simply stalk off and you’ll have trouble making friends with him. But it’s not too important. Knowing how to pick up a cat is much more important. When Pete comes back in I’ll show you how.” But Pete didn’t come back in, not then, and I never showed her. Belle didn’t touch him after that. She spoke to him and acted as if she liked him, but she kept her distance and he kept his. I put it out of my mind; I couldn’t let so trivial a thing make me doubt the woman who was more to me than anything in life. But the subject of Pete almost reached a crisis later. Belle and I were discussing where we were going to live. She still wouldn’t set the date, but we spent a lot of time on such details. I wanted a ranchette near the plant; she favored a flat in town until we could afford a Bel-Air estate. I said, “Darling, it’s not practical; I’ve got to be near the plant. Besides, did you ever try to take care of a tomcat in a city apartment?” “Oh, that! Look, darling, I’m glad you mentioned it. I’ve been studying up on cats, I really have. We’ll have him altered. Then he’ll be much gentler and perfectly happy in a flat.” I stared at her, unable to believe my ears. Make a eunuch of that old warrior? Change him into a fireside decoration? “Belle, you don’t know what you’re saying!” She tut-tutted me with the old familiar “Mother knows best,” giving the stock arguments of people who mistake cats for property, how it wouldn’t hurt him, that it was really for his own good, how she knew how much I valued him and she would never think of depriving me of him, how it was really very simple and quite safe and better for everybody. I cut in on her. “Why don’t you arrange it for both of us?” “What, dear?” “Me, too. I’d be much more docile and I’d stay home nights and I’d never argue with you. As you pointed out, it doesn’t hurt and I’d probably be a lot happier.” She turned red. “You’re being preposterous.” “So are you!” She never mentioned it again. Belle never let a difference of opinion degenerate into a row; she shut up and bided her time. But she never gave up, either. In some ways she had a lot of cat in her, which may have been why I couldn’t resist her. I was glad to drop the matter. I was up to here in Flexible Frank. Willie and Hired Girl were bound to make us lots of money, but I had a bee in my bonnet about the perfect, all-work household automaton, the general-purpose servant. All right, call it a robot, though that is a much- abused word and I had no notion of building a mechanical man. I wanted a gadget which could do anything inside the home, cleaning and cooking, of course, but also really hard jobs, like changing a baby’s diaper or replacing a typewriter ribbon. Instead of a stable of Hired Girls and Window Willies and Nursemaid Nans and Houseboy Harrys and Gardener Guses I wanted a man and wife to be able to buy one machine for, oh, say about the price of a good automobile, which would be the equal of the Chinese servant you read about but no one in my generation had ever seen. If I could do that it would be the Second Emancipation Proclamation, freeing women from their age-old slavery. I wanted to abolish the old saw about how “women’s work is never done.” Housekeeping is repetitious and unnecessary drudgery; as an engineer it offended me. For the problem to be within the scope of one engineer, almost all of Flexible Frank had to be standard parts and must not involve any new principles. Basic research is no job for one man alone; this had to be development from former art or I couldn’t do it. Fortunately there was an awful lot of former art in engineering and I had not wasted my time while under a “Q” clearance. What I wanted wasn’t as complicated as the things a guided missile was required to do. Just what did I want Flexible Frank to do? Answer: any work a human being does around a house. He didn’t have to play cards, make love, eat, or sleep, but he did have to clean up after the card game, cook, make beds, and tend babies, at least he had to keep track of a baby’s breathing and call someone if it changed. I decided he did not have to answer telephone calls, as ATandT was already renting a gadget for that. There was no need for him to answer the door either, as most new houses were being equipped with door answerers. But to do the multitude of things I wanted him to do, he had to have hands, eyes, ears, and a brain, a good enough brain. Hands I could order from the atomics-engineering equipment companies who supplied Hired Girl’s hands, only this time I would want the best, with wide-range servos and with the delicate feedback required for microanalysis manipulations and for weighing radioactive isotopes. The same companies could supply eyes, only they could be simpler, since Frank would not have to see and manipulate from behind yards of concrete shielding the way they do in a reactor plant. The ears I could buy from any of a dozen radio-TV houses, though I might have to do some circuit designing to have his hands controlled simultaneously by sight, sound, and touch feedback the way the human hand is controlled. But you can do an awful lot in a small space with transistors and printed circuits. Frank wouldn’t have to use stepladders. I would make his neck stretch like an ostrich and his arms extend like lazy tongs. Should I make him able to go up and down stairs? Well, there was a powered wheelchair that could. Maybe I should buy one and use it for the chassis, limiting the pilot model to a space no bigger than a wheelchair and no heavier than such a chair could carry, that would give me a set of parameters. I’d tie its power and steering into Frank’s brain. The brain was the real hitch. You can build a gadget linked like a man’s skeleton or even much better. You can give it a feedback-control system good enough to drive nails, scrub floors, crack eggs, or not crack eggs. But unless it has that stuff between the ears that a man has, it is not a man, it’s not even a corpse. Fortunately I didn’t need a human brain; I just wanted a docile moron, capable of largely repetitive household jobs. Here is where the Thorsen memory tubes came in. The intercontinental missiles we had struck back with “thought” with Thorsen tubes, and traffic control systems in places like Los Angeles used an idiot form of them. No need to go into theory of an electronic tube that even Bell Labs doesn’t understand too well, the point is that you can hook a Thorsen tube into a control circuit, direct the machine through an operation by manual control, and the tube will “remember” what was done and can direct the operation without a human supervisor a second time, or any number of times. For an automated machine tool this is enough; for guided missiles and for Flexible Frank you add side circuits that give the machine “judgment.” Actually it isn’t judgment, in my opinion a machine can never have judgment, the side circuit is a hunting circuit, the programming of which says “look for so-and-so within such-and-such limits; when you find it, carry out your basic instruction.” The basic instruction can be as complicated as you can crowd into one Thorsen memory tube, which is a very wide limit indeed!, and you can program so that your “judgment” circuits (moronic back-seat drivers, they are) can interrupt the basic instructions anytime the cycle does not match that originally impressed into the Thorsen tube. This meant that you need cause Flexible Frank to clear the table and scrape the dishes and load them into the dishwasher only once, and from then on he could cope with any dirty dishes he ever encountered. Better still, he could have an electronically duplicated Thorsen tube stuck into his head and could handle dirty dishes the first time he ever encountered them, and never break a dish. Stick another “memorized” tube alongside the first one and he could change a wet baby first time, and never, never, never stick a pin in the baby. Frank’s square head could easily hold a hundred Thorsen tubes, each with an electronic “memory” of a different household task. Then throw a guard circuit around all the “judgment” circuits, a circuit which required him to hold still and squawl for help if he ran into something not covered by his instructions, that way you wouldn’t use up babies or dishes. So I did build Frank on the framework of a powered wheelchair. He looked like a hat rack making love to an octopus, but, boy, how he could polish silverware! MILES LOOKED OVER the first Frank, watched him mix a martini and serve it, then go around emptying and polishing ashtrays (never touching ones that were clean), open a window and fasten it open, then go to my bookcase and dust and tidy the books in it. Miles took a sip of his martini and said, “Too much vermouth.” “It’s the way I like them. But we can tell him to fix yours one way and mine another; he’s got plenty of blank tubes in him. Flexible.” Miles took another sip. “How soon can he be engineered for production?” “Uh, I’d like to fiddle with him for about ten years.” Before he could groan I added, “But we ought to be able to put a limited model into production in five.” “Nonsense! We’ll get you plenty of help and have a Model-T job ready in six months.” “The devil you will. This is my magnum opus. I’m not going to turn him loose until he is a work of art, about a third that size, everything plug-in replaceable but the Thorsens, and so all-out flexible that he’ll not only wind the cat and wash the baby, he’ll even play ping-pong if the buyer wants to pay for the extra programming.” I looked at him; Frank was quietly dusting my desk and putting every paper back exactly where he found it. “But ping-pong with him wouldn’t be much fun; he’d never miss. No, I suppose we could teach him to miss with a random-choice circuit. Hum, yes, we could. We will, it would make a nice selling demonstration.” “One year, Dan, and not a day over. I’m going to hire somebody away from Loewy to help you with the styling.” I said, “Miles, when are you going to learn that I boss the engineering? Once I turn him over to you, he’s yours, but not a split second before.” Miles answered, “It’s still too much vermouth.” I PIDDLED ALONG with the help of the shop mechanics until I had Frank looking less like a three-car crash and more like something you might want to brag about to the neighbors. In the meantime I smoothed a lot of bugs out of his control system. I even taught him to stroke Pete and scratch him under his chin in such a fashion that Pete liked it, and, believe me, that takes negative feedback as exact as anything used in atomics labs. Miles didn’t crowd me, although he came in from time to time and watched the progress. I did most of my work at night, coming back after dinner with Belle and taking her home. Then I would sleep most of the day, arrive late in the afternoon, sign whatever papers Belle had for me, see what the shop had done during the day, then take Belle out to dinner again. I didn’t try to do much before then, because creative work makes a man stink like a goat. After a hard night in the lab shop nobody could stand me but Pete. Just as we were finishing dinner one day Belle said to me, “Going back to the shop, dear?” “Sure. Why not?” “Good. Because Miles is going to meet us there.” “Huh?” “He wants a stockholders’ meeting.” “A stockholders’ meeting? Why?” “It won’t take long. Actually, dear, you haven’t been paying much attention to the firm’s business lately. Miles wants to gather up loose ends and settle some policies.” “I’ve been sticking close to the engineering. What else am I supposed to do for the firm?” “Nothing, dear. Miles says it won’t take long.” “What’s the trouble? Can’t Jake handle the assembly line?” “Please, dear. Miles didn’t tell me why. Finish your coffee.” Miles was waiting for us at the plant and shook hands as solemnly as if we had not met in a month. I said, “Miles, what’s this all about?” He turned to Belle. “Get the agenda, will you?” This alone should have told me that Belle had been lying when she claimed that Miles had not told her what he had in mind. But I did not think of it, hell, I trusted Belle!, and my attention was distracted by something else, for Belle went to the safe, spun the knob, and opened it. I said, “By the way, dear, I tried to open that last night and couldn’t. Have you changed the combination?” S

BUYING A FISHING ROD. FOR MY GRANDFATHER. STORIES. GAO XINGJIAN. Translated from the Chinese by Mabel Lee. Reformatted for Machine Text, PukeOnaAPlate 2023. THE TEMPLE. We were deliriously happy: delirious with the hope, infatuation, tenderness, and warmth that go with a honeymoon. Fangfang and I had planned the trip over and over, even though we had only half a month off: ten days of wedding leave, plus one week of additional work leave. Getting married is a major event in life, and for us nothing was more important, so why not ask for some extra time? That director of mine was so miserly: anyone who went to him requesting leave had to haggle; there were never instant approvals. The two weeks I had written in my application he changed to one week, including a Sunday, and it was with reluctance that he said, “I’ll expect you to be back at work by the due date.” “Of course, of course,” I said. “We wouldn’t be able to afford the salary deduction if we stayed any longer.” It was only then that he signed his name, thereby granting us permission to go on leave. I wasn’t a bachelor anymore. I had a family. I would no longer be able to go off to restaurants with friends as soon as I got paid at the beginning of the month. I wouldn’t be able to spend so recklessly that by the end of the month I wouldn’t have the money to buy a pack of cigarettes and would have to go through my pockets and search the drawers for coins. But I won’t go into all that. I’m saying that I, we, were very happy. In our short lives, there hadn’t been much happiness. Both Fangfang and I had experienced years of hardship, and we had learned what life was all about. During those catastrophic years in this country, our families suffered through many misfortunes, and to some extent we still resented our generation’s fate. But I won’t go into that, either. What was important was that we could now count ourselves happy. We had half a month’s leave, and although it was only half a honeymoon, for us it couldn’t have been sweeter. I am not going to go into how sweet it was. You all know about that and have experienced it yourselves, but this particular sweetness was ours alone. What I want to tell you about is the Temple of Perfect Benevolence: “perfect” as in “perfect union,” and “benevolence” as in “benevolent love.” But the name of the temple is not really of great importance. It was a dilapidated ruin, and certainly not a famous tourist attraction. No one knew about it other than the locals, and I suspect that even the locals who knew what it was called were few. In any case, the temple we happened to visit wasn’t one where people burned incense or prayed, and if we hadn’t carefully examined the stone tablet with traces of writing in the drain of the water pump we wouldn’t even have known that the temple had a name. The locals referred to it as “the big temple,” but it was nothing compared with the Retreat for the Soul Temple, in Hangzhou, or the Jade Cloud Temple, in Beijing. Situated on a hill beyond the town, it was little more than an old two-story building with flying eaves and the remnants of a stone gate in front of it. The courtyard walls had collapsed. The bricks of the outer wall had been carried off by peasants to build their houses or construct pens for their pigs, and only a circle of unfired bricks remained, overgrown with weeds. However, from a distance, from the small street of the county town, the glazed yellow tiles sparkling in the sunlight caught our eyes. We had come to this town quite by accident. Our train was still at the platform after the announced departure time, probably waiting for an express that was behind schedule to pass through. The chaotic scramble of passengers getting on and off had settled and, apart from the conductors chatting at the carriage doors, there was no one on the platform. Beyond the station was a valley with an expanse of gray roofs. Farther still, a chain of heavily wooded mountains gave this ancient town an exceptional air of tranquillity. Suddenly I had an idea. I said, “Should we take a look at this town?” Fangfang, sitting opposite and looking at me lovingly, gave a slight nod. Her eyes seemed to speak, and, sensitive to each other, we communicated on the same wavelength. Without a word, we took our bags from the luggage rack and rushed to the door of our carriage. As soon as we had jumped onto the platform, we both laughed. I said, “We’ll leave on the next train.” “I don’t mind if we don’t leave at all,” Fangfang answered. After all, we were traveling, and it was our honeymoon. If we fell in love with a place, we would go there, and if we went on liking the place, we would stay longer. All the time, wherever we went, the happiness of newlyweds accompanied us. We were the happiest people in the world. Fangfang was holding my arm; I was holding our bags. We wanted the conductors on the platform and the countless pairs of eyes on the other side of the train windows to look at us with envy. We no longer had to drive ourselves mad trying to get transferred back to the city. Nor did we have to keep begging our parents for help. And we didn’t have to worry about our residential status or our jobs anymore. We even had our own apartment, our own home; it wasn’t very big, but it was comfortable. You belonged to me and I belonged to you, and, Fangfang, I know what you want to say: Our relationship was no longer immoral! And what does that mean? It means that we want everyone to share in our happiness. We’ve had so many problems, and we’ve troubled all of you with them, and you have all worried because of us. How can we repay you? With some candies and cigarettes after our wedding? No, we are repaying you with our happiness. There’s nothing wrong with what I’m saying, is there? That was how we came to this quiet old town in the valley. But it turned out that the town was nowhere near as tranquil as it had seemed when we were looking out the train window. Below the gray roof tiles, the lanes and alleys throbbed with activity. It was nine in the morning, and people were selling vegetables, rock melons, and freshly picked apples and pears. Streets in county towns like this one aren’t wide, so mule carts, horse carts, and trucks were all jammed together, with drivers cracking their whips and honking their horns. Dust filling the air, dirty water tossed out beside vegetable stalls, melon rinds all over the ground, squawking hens flapping in the hands of their buyers: these were sights that made us feel close to the town. It all felt so different from the time when we were graduates sent to work in the countryside. Now we were just visitors passing through, tourists, and the complicated relationships between the people here had nothing to do with us. Inevitably, this made us city dwellers feel somewhat superior. Fangfang clutched my arm tightly and I leaned close to her, and we could sense people’s eyes on us. But we didn’t belong to this town; we were from another world. We walked right past them, but they didn’t gossip about us; they only gossiped about the people they knew. Eventually, there were no more vegetable stalls and very few people. We had left behind the bustle and din of the market. I saw from my watch that it had taken us only a half hour to walk the length of the main road from the railway station. It was still early. It would be an anticlimax just to return to the station and wait for the next train, and Fangfang was already thinking about spending the night here! She didn’t say so, but I could see her disappointment. A man was heading toward us, ostentatiously swinging his arms as he walked. He was probably a cadre. “Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to the county hostel?” I asked. He looked at Fangfang and me for a moment, then enthusiastically pointed it out to us. “Go that way,” he told us, “then head left. The red three-story brick building is the county hostel.” He asked whom we were looking for, and seemed to want to take us there himself. We explained that we were tourists passing through and asked if there were any sights worth seeing. He patted his head: this, it seemed, was a problem. After giving the matter some thought, he said, “There actually aren’t any scenic spots in this county. But there’s a big temple up on the hill to the west of town, if you want to go there. You’ll have to climb the hill, though, and it’s steep!” “That’s not a problem. We’ve come here to do some hiking,” I said. Fangfang hastened to add, “That’s right. We’re not afraid of climbing a hill.” At this, the man led us to the corner of the street. The hill was now directly in front, and at the top was the old temple, its glazed tiles sparkling in the sun. But then the man glanced at the high-heeled shoes Fangfang was wearing and said, “You’ll have to wade across a river.” “Is the water deep?” I asked. “Above the knees.” I looked at Fangfang. “That’s nothing. I’ll manage.” She didn’t want to let me down. We thanked him and began walking in the direction he had indicated. When we turned onto the dusty dirt road, I couldn’t help but feel bad as I looked at the new highheeled shoes with thin straps that Fangfang had on. Still, she charged ahead. “You’re really a crazy little thing,” I said, catching up with her. “As long as I’m with you.” Do you remember, Fangfang? You said this as you nestled against me. We followed a path down to the riverbank. On both sides, corn grew straight, taller than a man, and we walked through the green gauze canopy, with no one in sight either ahead or behind. Taking Fangfang in my arms, I gently kissed her. What’s wrong with that? She doesn’t want me to talk about that. So let’s go back to the Temple of Perfect Benevolence. It was on the other side of the river, at the top of the hill. We could see tufts of weeds growing between the glistening yellow tiles. The river was clear and cool. I held Fangfang’s shoes and my leather sandals in one hand and Fangfang’s hand in the other, while she scooped up her skirt with her free hand. Barefoot, we felt our way across. It had been a long time since I’d walked barefoot, so my feet were sensitive to even the smooth stones on the riverbed. “Is it hurting your feet?” I asked Fangfang. “I like it,” you replied softly. On our honeymoon, even having sore feet was a happy sensation. All the misfortunes of the world seemed to flow away with the river water, and we returned for a moment to our youth. We frolicked in the water like mischievous children. As I steadied her with one hand, Fangfang leaped from rock to rock, and from time to time she hummed a song. Once across the river, we started to run up the hill, laughing and shouting. Then Fangfang cut her foot and I was very upset, but she comforted me, saying that it was all right, it would be nothing as soon as she put on her shoes. I said that it was my fault, but she replied that she’d do anything to make me happy, even let her feet get cut. All right, all right, I won’t go on about it. But because you are the friends we value most, who have shared our anxieties with us, we should also share our happiness with you. It was in this manner that we finally climbed to the top of the hill and arrived at the outer gate in front of the temple. Within the collapsed courtyard wall was a gutter with pure water from the pump running through. In what had been the courtyard, someone had planted a patch of vegetables, and next to that was a manure pit. We recalled the years we had spent shoveling manure with production units in the countryside. Those difficult times had trickled away like water, leaving some sadness but sweet memories as well. And there was our love, too. In the glorious sunlight, no one could interfere with this secure love of ours. No one would be able to harm us again. Near the big temple was an iron incense burner. It was probably too heavy to move and too thick to break apart, so it continued to keep the old temple company, standing guard in front of the main door. The door was padlocked. Boards had been nailed over the rotten wooden lattice windows, but they, too, had rotted. The place was probably now being used as a storehouse for the local production team. No one else was around, and it was very peaceful. We could hear the mountain wind moaning in the ancient pines in front of the temple, and as no one was there to disturb us, we lay down on the grass in the shade of the trees. Fangfang rested her head on my arm, and we looked up at a thread of cloud about to disappear into the blue sky. Ours was an indescribable happiness, a true contentment. Intoxicated by this tranquillity, we would have gone on lying there, but we heard heavy footsteps on the flagstones. Fangfang sat up, and I got to my feet to have a look. A man was walking along the stone path from the gate toward the temple. He was a big fellow, with a mass of tangled hair on his head and an untrimmed beard covering his cheeks. He was scowling. From beneath bushy eyebrows, his stern eyes surveyed us. The wind had turned cool. Probably noticing our curious looks, the man raised his head slightly in the direction of the temple. Then, squinting, he studied the weeds swaying among the shiny tiles. He stopped in front of the incense burner and, striking it with one hand, made it ring. His fingers, gnarled and rough, looked as if they, too, were made of cast iron. In his other hand he held a tattered black cotton bag. He didn’t seem to be a commune member who had come to tend the vegetables. He was sizing us up again, looking at Fangfang’s high-heeled shoes and our travel bags in the grass. Fangfang immediately put her shoes back on. Then, unexpectedly, he addressed us. “Are you from out of town? Are you enjoying yourselves here?” I nodded. “It’s good weather,” he said. He seemed to want to talk. The eyes under those thick eyebrows had become less stern, and he appeared well meaning. He was wearing leather shoes with soles made from rubber tires, and the seams had split in places. The legs of his trousers were wet, so it was obvious he had come across the river from town. “It’s cool, and the view is quite beautiful,” I said. “Sit down. I’ll be leaving shortly.” It seemed that he was offering a kind of apology. He, too, sat down on the grass beside the flagstones. He opened his bag and said, “Would you like a melon?” “No, thanks,” I immediately said. But he threw me one anyway. I caught it and was about to throw it back. “It’s nothing. I’ve got half a bag of them here,” he said, raising the heavy bag to show me and taking out another melon as he spoke. I couldn’t say no, so I took a parcel of snacks from my travel bag, opened it, and held it out to him. “Try our snacks,” I said. He took a small piece of cake and put it on top of his bag. “That’s enough for me,” he said. “Go on, eat it.” He squeezed the melon in his big hands, cracking the brittle skin. “They’re clean. I washed them in the river.” He tossed away a piece of rind and shouted in the direction of the gate, “Take a break! Come and eat some melon!” “But there are long-horned grasshoppers here!” A boy’s voice came from beyond the gate; then the boy himself appeared on the slope, holding a wire cage. “There are plenty of them. I’ll catch some for you later,” the man replied. The little boy came toward us, bouncing and jumping as he ran. “Is it school vacation?” I asked, and, copying the man, cracked our melon into pieces. “It’s Sunday today, so I brought him out,” he replied. We were so engrossed with our own holiday that we had forgotten what day of the week it was. Fangfang took a bite of the melon and smiled at me to indicate that he was a good man. There are, in fact, many good people in the world. “Eat it. It’s from Uncle and Auntie over there,” he said to the boy, who was staring at the cream cake on top of his bag. The boy had grown up in this town and had clearly never seen such a cake. He took it and ate it right away. “Is he your son?” I asked. The man didn’t reply, but said to the boy, “Take some melon and go play. I’ll catch grasshoppers for you later.” “I want to catch five of them!” the boy said. “All right, we’ll catch five.” The man watched as the boy ran off with the wire cage in his hand. There were deep creases at the corners of his eyes. “He isn’t my son,” he said, looking down and taking out a cigarette. He struck a match and dragged hard. Then, sensing our surprise, he added, “He’s the child of my paternal cousin. I want to adopt him, but it depends on whether he’s willing to come and stay with me.” Suddenly we understood that this stern man’s heart was churning with emotion. “What about your wife?” Fangfang couldn’t help asking. There was no reply. He puffed hard on his cigarette, got up, and left. We felt the chill of the mountain air. On the brilliant yellow tiles, the fresh grass that had sprouted in the spring was as tall as the old, withered stalks, and both swayed in the breeze. In the blue sky, a floating cloud that seemed to hang on the corner of a flying eave created the impression that the temple itself was tilting. A broken tile at the edge of the eave looked as if it were about to fall. Probably it had sat that way for years without falling. The man was standing on a mound that had once been a wall, and for a long time he just stared out at the mountains and valleys. In the distance the ridges were higher and steeper than the hill we were on, but on the mountain slopes there were no terraced fields and no houses to be seen. “You shouldn’t have asked him,” I said. “Oh stop.” Fangfang looked upset. “There’s a grasshopper here!” came the boy’s voice from the other side of the hill. It seemed far away but was quite clear. The man strode off in that direction, swinging the bag of rock melons as he disappeared from sight. I put a hand on Fangfang’s shoulder and pulled her toward me. “Don’t.” She turned away. “There’s a bit of grass in your hair,” I explained, removing a pine needle that had stuck to her hair. “That tile is about to fall,” Fangfang said. She, too, had noticed the broken tile hanging there precariously. “It would be good if it fell. Otherwise it might injure someone,” she mumbled. “It might be a while before it does fall,” I said. We walked to the mound where the man had been standing. In the valley there was a stretch of farmland, dense crops of luxuriant green barley and broomcorn millet, waiting for the autumn harvest. Below us, on a level part of the slope, stood a few mud huts, their bottom halves newly coated in brilliant white lime. The man was holding the boy’s hand as they made their way down a small winding track, past the huts and through the crops. Suddenly, like a colt that had broken free of its reins, the boy bolted off, dashing ahead, then turning and running back. He seemed to be waving the cage at the man. “Do you think the man caught grasshoppers for him?” Fangfang, do you remember asking me that? “Of course,” I said. “Of course.” “He caught five of them!” you said cheekily. Well, that’s the Temple of Perfect Benevolence that we visited on our honeymoon, and which I wanted to describe for all of you. IN THE PARK. “I haven’t strolled in a park for a long time. I never have the time to spare, or the inclination anymore.” “It’s the same with everyone. After work, people just hurry home. Life’s always a rush.” “I remember when I was a child, I really liked coming to this park to roll around on the grass.” “I used to come with my father and mother.” “I really liked it when there were other children.” “Yes.” “Especially when you were there as well.” “I remember.” “At the time, you had two little plaits.” “At the time, you always wore dungarees, and you were very cocky.” “You were unfriendly, always haughty.” “Really?” “Yes, nobody would dare antagonize you.” “I don’t remember, but I liked playing with you and I even used to kick a rubber ball with you.” “Nonsense, you didn’t ever kick a rubber ball! You used to wear little white shoes and were always afraid of getting them dirty.” “That’s right, when I was little I was really fond of wearing white sneakers.” “You were like a princess.” “Sure, a princess wearing sneakers.” “Then your family moved.” “That’s right.” “At first you often came to visit on Sundays, but later on not as much.” “I had grown up.” “My mother really liked you.” “I know.” “There were no daughters in our family.” “Everyone said we looked alike, like an older sister and a younger brother.” “Don’t forget we’re the same age, that I’m two months older.” “But I seemed older than you; I was always taller by a hand, as if I were your older sister.” “At the time, girls got tall earlier. Enough of that, let’s talk about something else.” “What will we talk about, then?” The path under the trees has clipped Japan cypresses growing on both sides. On the slope behind the cypresses, a young woman wearing a dress and carrying a red handbag sits down on a stone bench. “Let’s sit down awhile, too.” “All right.” “The sun’s about to set.” “Yes, it’s beautiful.” “I don’t like this artificial sort of beauty.” “Didn’t you say you liked going to parks?” “That was when I was little. I’ve lived in the mountain regions. I was a woodcutter for seven years in primitive forests.” “You managed to survive.” “Forests are really awesome.” The young woman wearing a dress gets up from the stone bench and looks to the end of the shady path beyond the neatly clipped cypresses. Several people are coming from that direction, among them a tall youth with hair over his temples. Beyond the treetops and the wall, the sky is infused with brilliant red and purple-red colors of the sunset, and rippling clouds begin to spread overhead. “I haven’t seen a beautiful sunset like this for a long time. The sky seems to be on fire.” “It’s like a wildfire.” “Like what?” “It’s like a forest wildfire.” “Well, keep talking.” “When there’s a forest wildfire, the sky is just like this. The fire spreads swiftly and with a vengeance, and there’s not time to cut down the forest. It’s really terrifying. All the felled trees fly into the air, and from a distance they look like bits of straw drifting up in a fire, and crazed leopards come out of the forests to throw themselves into the rivers, swimming right at you.” “Don’t the leopards attack people?” “They’re past thinking about that.” “Can’t you use your rifles on them?” “People are also traumatized; from riverbanks they just stare vacantly at the fire.” “Isn’t there anything that can be done?” “Mountain streams can’t stop it. The trees on the other side get scorched, start crackling, and suddenly they’re alight. For a distance of more than several li around it’s so smoky and hot, you can’t breathe. All you can do is wait for the wind to change or for the fire to get to the river, exhaust itself, and burn out.” The young woman in the dress sits down again on the stone bench; her red handbag is beside her. “Tell me some more about your experiences during those years.” “There’s nothing much to tell.” “How can there be nothing much to tell? All that was very interesting.” “But there’s not much point in talking about all that now. Talk about what you’ve been doing all these years.” “Me?” “Yes, you.” “I’ve got a daughter.” “How old?” “Six.” “Is she just like you?” “Everyone says she’s just like me.” “Is she like you when you were little? Does she wear white sneakers?” “No, she likes to wear leather shoes. Her father buys her one pair after another.” “You’re lucky. He sounds like a nice person.” “He’s quite good to me, but I don’t know if I’m lucky or not.” “And isn’t your work also quite good?” “Yes, compared with what many other people my age do, my work’s all right. I sit in an office, answer the phone, and take documents to my superiors.” “Are you a secretary?” “I’m looking after documents.” “That sort of work is confidential, it shows that they trust you.” “It’s much better than being a laborer. Didn’t you also manage to get through a hard time? Since you went to university, I suppose you’re doing some kind of professional work now?” “Yes, but it was all through my own efforts.” The colors of the sunset vanish. The sky is now a dark red, but on the horizon, above the treetops, there is an orange-yellow glow on the edge of a dark cloud. On the slope it is becoming dark in the grove and the young woman on the bench is sitting with her head bowed. She seems to look at her watch and then stands up. She is holding her handbag but decides to put it down again on the bench, as she looks at the path beyond the cypresses. Apparently noticing the moon by the clouds, she turns away and starts to pace, her eyes looking at the ground. “She’s waiting for someone.” “Waiting for someone is awful. Nowadays it’s the young men who don’t show up for dates.” “Are there too many young women in the city?” “There’s no shortage of young men, it’s just that there are too few decent young men.” “But this young woman is very good looking.” “If the woman falls in love first, it’s always unlucky.” “Will he turn up?” “Who knows? Having to wait really makes a person go crazy.” “Luckily we’re past that age. Have you ever waited for someone?” “It was he who first sought me. Have you ever made someone wait?” “I’ve never failed to show up for a date.” “Do you have a girlfriend?” “I seem to.” “Then why don’t you get married?” “I probably will.” “It seems you don’t really like her.” “I feel sorry for her.” “Feeling sorry is not love. If you don’t love her, don’t go on deceiving her!” “I’ve only ever deceived myself.” “That’s also deceiving the other person.” “Let’s talk about something else.” “All right.” The young woman sits down. Then she immediately stands up again, looking toward the path. The last smudge of faint red on the horizon is barely visible. She sits down again but, as if sensing people are watching, she puts down her head and appears to be fiddling with her skirt at the knees. “Will he turn up?” “I don’t know.” “This shouldn’t happen.” “There are too many things that shouldn’t happen.” “Is this girlfriend of yours pretty?” “She is a sad case.” “Don’t talk like that! If you don’t love her, don’t deceive her. Just find yourself a young woman you truly love, someone good-looking.” “Someone good-looking wouldn’t necessarily like me.” “Why?” “Because I don’t have a good father.” “Don’t talk like that, I don’t want to listen.” “Then it’s best not to listen. I think we should leave.” “Will you come to my home?” “I should bring your daughter a present. It will also count as my best wishes to you.” “Don’t talk like that.” “What’s wrong with that?” “You’re always hurting me.” “That’s never been my intention.” “I wish you happiness.” “I don’t want to hear that word.” “Then aren’t you happy?” “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s been hard just to meet this once after all these years, so let’s not talk about depressing things like that.” “Very well, then let’s talk about something else.” The young woman suddenly stands up. Someone is coming along the path, walking very quickly. “Well, at least he’s turned up.” It’s a youth carrying a canvas satchel. He doesn’t slow down and keeps walking. The young woman looks away. “It’s not the person she’s waiting for. Life’s often that way, oddly enough.” “She’s crying.” “Who?” The young woman sits down with her hands over her face, her hands are raised and seem to be covering her face, but it can’t be seen clearly. Birds are twittering. “So there are still birds here.” “Not only forests have birds.” “Well, there are still sparrows here.” “You’ve become quite arrogant.” “That’s how I managed to survive. If I hadn’t kept that bit of arrogance, I wouldn’t be here today.” “Don’t be so cynical; you’re not the only person who has suffered. Everyone was sent to work in the country. You should realize that it was much worse for the young women sent to the country where they had neither relatives or friends. The reason I married him was because I had no better option. His parents arranged for my transfer back to the city.” “I wasn’t blaming you.” “No one has the right to blame anyone.” The streetlights have turned on and produce a wan yellow light among the green leaves of the trees. The night sky is gray and indistinct; even the stars can’t be seen clearly in the city sky, making the light from the streetlights among the trees appear too bright. “I think we should leave.” “Yes, we shouldn’t have come here.” “People might think we are lovers. If your husband finds out, he won’t misunderstand, will he?” “He’s not that kind of person.” “Then, he’s a pretty good person.” “You can come and stay at our place.” “Only if he invites me.” “Won’t it be the same if I invite you?” “Too bad I didn’t know your address. That was why I went to look you up at your workplace. Otherwise, I would have gone directly to visit you at home.” “You don’t have to go into all that nonsense.” “There’s no need for us to snipe at each other like that.” “You’re the one who is saying one thing and meaning something else.” “Let’s talk about something else.” “All right.” It has become dark in the grove and the young woman can no longer be seen. However, with the light shining on them, the lustrous green leaves of a white poplar seem to glow. There’s a hint of a breeze, and the trembling leaves of the white poplar shimmer like satin. “She hasn’t left yet, has she?” “No, she’s leaning against a tree.” A big tree stands a few paces from the empty stone bench, and someone is leaning against it. “What’s she doing?” “Crying.” “It’s not worth it!” “Why not?” “It’s not worth crying over him. She won’t have a problem finding a good man who loves her, a person worthy of her love. She should just leave.” “But she’s still hoping.” “Life’s road is wide and she will find her own way.” “Don’t think you know everything; you don’t understand how a woman feels. It’s just so easy for a man to hurt a woman. The woman is always weaker.” “If she knows she is weaker, why doesn’t she try to learn to be stronger?” “Fine-sounding words.” “There’s no need to look for things to worry about. There are enough worries in life. One should be able to accept things.” “There are so many things that should be.” “I’m saying that people should only do the things that they should do.” “That’s the same as saying nothing.” “Quite right. I shouldn’t have come to see you.” “That’s also saying nothing.” “All right, we should go. I’ll buy you dinner.” “I don’t want to eat. Can’t we talk about something else?” “What about?” “Talk about yourself.” “Let’s talk about the next generation. What’s your daughter’s name?” “I wanted to have a son.” “Having a daughter is the same.” “No, when a boy grows up he won’t have to suffer as much.” “People of the future won’t have as much suffering, because we’ve already suffered for them.” “She’s crying.” The sound of rustling leaves is in the breeze overhead, but the sound of weeping is clearly in it, and coming from the direction of the stone bench and the tree. “We should go and console her.” “It wouldn’t help.” “But we should still try.” “Then you go.” “In such a situation it would only be appropriate for a woman to go.” “She doesn’t need that sort of consolation.” “I don’t understand.” “You don’t understand anything.” “Best not to. Once you do, it becomes a burden.” “Then why do you want to console others? Why don’t you just console yourself?” “What do you mean?” “You don’t understand how other people feel. If feelings are a burden, it’s best for you not to understand.” “Let’s leave.” “Will you come to my home?” “There’s no need.” “Are we going to say good-bye just like that? I’ve already invited you to come for dinner tomorrow. He’ll be there, too.” “I think it would be best if I didn’t come. What do you think?” “That’s entirely up to you.” In the darkness, the sound of weeping becomes more distinct. Intermittently, stifled sobs mingle with the sound of leaves trembling in the evening breeze. “When I get married I’ll write you a letter.” “It’s best that you don’t write anything.” “If I pass through for work later on, I might come to visit you again.” “It’s best that you don’t.” “Yes, it was a mistake.” “What mistake are you talking about?” “I shouldn’t have come to see you again.” “No, it wasn’t a mistake for you to have come!” “Neither of us is to blame. The mistakes of that era are to blame. But all that’s in the past and we have to learn to forget.” “But it’s hard to forget everything.” “Maybe with the passing of more time.” “You had best go.” “Don’t you want me to see you onto a bus?” The two of them stand up. From behind the gray tree trunk near the barely visible empty stone bench, there is a sob that couldn’t be stifled. However, the person can’t be seen. “Do you think maybe it’d be best that we urge her to go home?” The silky, tender, new green leaves on the white poplar shimmer in the glow of the streetlight. CRAMP. Cramp. His stomach is starting to cramp. Of course, he thought he could swim farther out. But about a kilometer from shore his stomach is starting to cramp. At first he thinks it’s a stomachache, that will pass if he keeps moving. But when his stomach keeps tightening, he stops swimming any farther and feels it with his hand. The right side is hard, and he knows it’s a cramp in his stomach because of the cold water. He hadn’t exercised enough to prepare himself before entering the water. After dinner, he had set off alone from the little white hostel and had come to the beach. It was early autumn, windy, and at dusk, few people were going into the water. Everyone was either chatting or playing poker. In the middle of the day men and women were lying everywhere on the beach, but now there were only five or six people playing volleyball, a young woman in a red swimsuit, the others young men. The swimsuit and the trunks were all dripping wet, they’d just come out of the water. On this autumn day, the water was probably too cold for them. Along the whole coastline no one else was in the water. He had gone straight into the water without looking back, thinking that the woman might be watching him. He can’t see them now. He looks back, toward the sun. It’s setting, about to set behind the rehabilitation hospital’s beachfront pavilion on the hill. The lingering brilliant yellow rays of the sun hurt his eyes, but he can see the beachfront pavilion on top of the hill, the outline of the hazy treetops above the coast road, and the boat-shaped rehabilitation hospital from the first floor up; anything below can’t be seen, because of the surging sea and the direct rays of the sun. Are they still playing volleyball? He is treading water. White-crested waves on the ink green sea. The surging waves surround him, but no fishing boats are at work. Turning his body, he is borne up by the waves. Up ahead on the gray-black sea is a dark spot, far in the distance. He drops down between the waves and can no longer see the surface of the sea. The sloping sea is black and shiny, smoother than satin. The cramp in his stomach gets worse. Lying on his back and floating on the water, he massages the hard spot on his abdomen until it hurts less. Diagonally in front, above his head, is a feathery cloud; up there, the wind must be even stronger. As the waves rise and fall, he is borne up and then dropped between them. But just floating like this is useless. He has to swim quickly toward shore. Turning, he tries hard to keep his legs pressed together and, by so doing, counteract the wind and the waves to enhance his speed. But his stomach that had gained some slight relief again starts hurting. This time the pain comes faster. He 3 6 Cramp feels his right leg immediately become stiff, and the water go right over his head. He can see only ink green water, so limpid and, moreover, extremely peaceful, except for the rapid string of bubbles he breathes out. His head emerges from the water and he blinks, trying to shake the water from his eyelashes. He still can’t see the coastline. The sun has set, and the sky above the undulating hills glows with the color of roses. Are they still playing volleyball? That woman, it’s all because of that red swimsuit of hers. He’s sinking again, surrendering to the pain. He rapidly strikes out with his arms but, taking in air, swallows a mouthful of water, salty seawater, and coughing feels like a needle being jabbed into his stomach. He has to turn again, to lie flat on his back with his arms and legs apart. This way he can relax and let the pain subside a little. The sky above has turned gray. Are they still playing volleyball? They are important. Did the woman in the red swimsuit notice him entering the water, and will they look out to sea? That dark spot back there in the gray-black sea, is it a small boat? Or is it a pontoon that has broken loose from its mooring, and would anyone be concerned with what has happened to it? At this point, he can rely only upon himself. Even if he calls out, there is only the sound of the surging waves, monotonous, never ending. Listening to the waves has never been so lonely. He sways, but instantly steadies himself. Next, an icy current charges relentlessly by and carries him, helpless, along with it. Turning on his side, with his left arm stroking out, his right hand pressing against his abdomen, and his feet kicking, he massages. It still hurts, but it’s bearable. He knows he can now depend only on the strength of his own kicking to fight his way out of the cold current. Whether or not he can bear it, he’ll just have to, because this is the only way he’ll be able to save himself. Don’t take it too seriously. Serious or not, he has a cramp in the abdomen and he’s one kilometer from shore, out in deep sea. He’s not sure anymore if it’s one kilometer, but senses that he’s been floating in line with the coast. The strength of his kicking barely offsets the thrust of the current. He must struggle to get out of it, or else before too long he’ll be like that dark spot floating on the waves, and vanish into the gray-black sea. He must endure the pain, he must relax, he must kick as hard as he can, he can’t slacken off, and above all he mustn’t panic. With great precision he has to coordinate his kicking, breathing, and massaging. He can’t be distracted by any other thoughts, and he can’t allow any thoughts of fear. The sun has set very quickly, and there is a hazy gray above the sea, but he can’t see any lights on the shore yet. He can’t even see the coast clearly, or the curves of the hills. His feet have kicked something! He panics, and feels a spasm in his stomach, sharp and painful. He gently moves his legs; there are stinging circles on his ankles. He has run into the tentacles of a jellyfish and he sees the gray-white creature, like an open umbrella, with thin floating membranous lips. He is perfectly capable of grabbing it and pulling out its mouth and its tentacles. Over the past few days he has learned from the children living here by the sea how to catch and preserve jellyfish. Below the windowsill of his hostel window, there are seven salted jellyfish with their tentacles and mouths pulled out. Once the water is squeezed out, all that remain are sheets of shriveled skin, and he too will be just a piece of skin, a corpse, no longer able to float to the shore. Let the thing live. But he wants to live even more, and he will never catch jellyfish again, that is, if he can return to shore, and he won’t even go into the sea again. He kicks hard, his right hand pressed against his stomach. He stops thinking about anything else, only about kicking in rhythm, evenly, as he pushes through the water. He can see the stars, they are wonderfully bright, in other words, his head is now pointing in the direction of the coast. The cramp in his abdomen has gone but he keeps rubbing it carefully, even though this slows him down. When he emerges from the sea and comes onto the shore, the beach is completely deserted. The tide is coming in again and he thinks he was helped by the tide. The wind blowing on his bare body is colder than it had been in the seawater, and he shivers. He collapses onto the beach, but the sand is no longer warm. Getting to his feet, he immediately starts running. He’s in a hurry to tell people he’s just escaped death. In the front hall of the hostel the same group is playing poker. They are all looking intently at the faces or at the cards of their opponents, and no one bothers to look up at him. He goes back to his own room, but his roommate, who is probably still chatting in the room next door, isn’t there. He takes a towel from the windowsill, aware that the jellyfish, with a coat of salt on them and squashed under a rock outside his window, are still full of water. Afterward, he puts on fresh clothes and shoes and, feeling warm, returns alone to the beach. The sound of the sea is all-embracing. The wind is stronger and lines of gray-white waves are charging onto shore. The black seawater suddenly spreads out, and because he doesn’t jump in time, his shoes get soaked. He walks a little farther off, following the shore, along the dark beach. There is no longer any starlight. He hears voices, male and female, and the figures of three people. He stops. They are pushing two bicycles, and one of them has a girl with long hair sitting on the pillion. The wheel sinks into the sand and the person pushing seems to be struggling. But they keep talking and laughing; the voice of the girl sitting on the pillion is particularly happy. They stop in front of him, holding their bicycles. A young guy takes a big bag from the back rack of the other bicycle and hands it to the woman. They start taking off their clothes. Two skinny boys, stark naked and waving their arms, prance about, yelling: “It’s really cold, it’s really cold!” There is also the happy, cackling laughter of the girl. “Do you want to drink it now?” asks the girl leaning on the bicycle. They go over, take a wine bottle from the girl, take turns drinking from the bottle, pass it back to the girl, then run toward the sea. “Hey! Hey!” “Hey.” The tide noisily charges forward and keeps rising. “Hurry back!” The girl screams out, but it is only the crashing of the waves that respond. In the faint light reflected on the sea surging up to the shore, he sees that the girl leaning on the bicycle is supporting herself on crutches. THE ACCIDENT. It happened like this. A gust of wind swept up a pile of dirt from the roadwork outside Xinhua Bookshop on the other side of the road, swirled it up in an arc, then dumped it everywhere. The dust has just settled. It is five o’clock in the afternoon, right after the fourth beep has sounded on the radio in the radio repair shop in Desheng Avenue. It isn’t the dust storm season and the weather is only starting to turn warm. Some cyclists are still wearing short gray cotton coats, although on the pavements there are already young women in pale blue spring clothes. There are endless streams of cyclists and pedestrians, but it isn’t at a time when everyone is finishing work and traffic congestion is at its worst. However, inevitably there are people who are finishing work early, as inevitably there are people on work leave, so there are busy and idle people coming and going on the street. At this time of day it’s always like this. The buses aren’t too crowded even if all the seats have been taken and some people are standing, holding on to the handrail as they look out of the windows. A bicycle fitted with an extra wheel for a baby-buggy with a red-and-blue checkered cloth shade is crossing diagonally from the other side of the road, and a man is riding it. Coming from the opposite direction is a two-carriage electric trolley bus that is going quite fast, but not too fast. It is clearly going more slowly than the small pale green sedan car about to overtake the bicycle, but neither is necessarily exceeding the city speed limit. The man on the bicycle arches his back, pedaling hard, and the little green car overtakes him on the other side. On this side, the trolley bus is heading toward him. The man hesitates but doesn’t brake, and the bicycle with the buggy unhurriedly continues to cross diagonally. The trolley bus sounds the horn but doesn’t reduce its speed. As the man crosses the white line in the middle of the road, the dust from the gust of wind has already settled, so his vision isn’t obscured. Unblinkingly, he looks up; about forty, he is not a young man, and his hat, tilted slightly to the back of his head, shows that he is balding. He must be able to see the trolley bus coming toward him, and hear the horn. He hesitates again, seems to brake, although not hard, and the bicycle with the buggy clumsily continues crossing the road diagonally. The trolley bus is now close and the horn is sounding nonstop. However, the bicycle keeps going, as before. Sitting in the buggy under the shade is a child with rosy cheeks, barely three or four years old. Suddenly there is the screech of brakes and the horn sounds louder and louder as the trolley bus fast approaches. The bicycle’s front wheel continues heading diagonally toward the bus, slowly, as the horn grows louder and the screeching of the brakes turns shrill. The bus has reduced its speed, but the front of the bus keeps moving ominously forward, closing in like a wall. The bus and the bicycle are about to collide and a woman on the pavement on this side of the road starts screaming. Pedestrians and cyclists alike all look on, but no one seems capable of moving. As the front wheel of the bicycle passes the front of the bus, the man starts pedaling hard, maybe he will just make it, but he reaches forward to touch the red-and-blue checkered shade, as if he is trying to push it down. As his hand touches the shade, the buggy flies off, bouncing on the single wheel. The man’s legs are caught as he throws up his arms and falls backward off the bicycle. In the clamor of the horn and brakes and women screaming, before onlookers have time to gasp, the man is instantly crushed under the wheels. The bicycle he was riding, completely twisted, is thrown ten or so feet along the road. The pedestrians on both sides of the road are aghast and cyclists get off their bicycles. It is quiet all around, and only the gentle singing from the radio repair shop can be heard: You may remember Our meeting in the mist, under the broken bridge. It is probably a record of some post–Deng Lijun singer from Hong Kong. Front wheels in a pool of blood, the bus comes to a halt. Blood on the front of the bus is dripping back down onto the body. The first to approach the body is the bus driver, who has opened the door and jumped down. Next, people from both sides of the road also come running, while others surround the overturned buggy, which has rolled into the gutter. A middle-aged woman takes the child from the buggy, shakes it, and examines it all over. “Is it dead?” “It’s dead!” “Is it dead?” Talk in low voices all around. The child, drained of color, has its eyes shut tight, and blue veins can be seen through the child’s soft skin. But there is no sign of external injury. “Don’t let him get away!” “Hurry, call the police!” “Don’t move anything! Don’t go over there. Leave everything as it is!” A crowd several layers deep has surrounded the front of the bus. Only one person is curious enough to lift the twisted wreck of the bicycle. The bell rings as he puts it back down. “I clearly sounded the horn and braked! Everyone saw it; he was intent on getting himself killed by charging into the bus, how can you blame me?” It is the strained voice of the driver trying to explain, but no one takes any notice. “You can all be witnesses, all of you saw it!” “Move aside! Move aside, move aside, all of you!” A policeman with a big hat emerges from the crowd. “We’ve got to hurry to save the child’s life! Quick, stop a car and get the child to a hospital!” It is a man’s voice. A young man in a coffee-colored leather jacket runs to the line in the middle of the road, waving an arm. A small Toyota sedan sounds its horn nonstop to make its way through the pedestrians who have spilled onto the roadway. Next, one of those 130 light trucks comes along, and it stops. Inside the windows of the bus involved in the accident, passengers are bickering with the conductress. Another trolley bus pulls up behind. The doors of the one in front open and the passengers surge out, blocking the trolley bus that has just arrived. There is a loud clamor of voices. I will never, never be able to forget. The singing on the stereo is drowned out. Blood is still dripping, and there is a stench of blood in the air. “Waaa.” The child’s repressed wailing finally breaks out. “It’s a good sign!” “It’s still alive!” There are sighs of happy relief. As the wailing grows louder, people also come back to life: it is as if they have been liberated. They then all rush to join the crowd surrounding the body. Screaming sirens. A police car with flashing blue lights on the roof has arrived, and the crowd parts as four policemen quickly get out. Two of them are wielding batons, and people stand back immediately. Traffic has come to a standstill and long queues of vehicles are waiting at both ends of the street. Honking horns have replaced the din of voices. One of the policemen goes to the middle of the road and waves his white-gloved hands to direct the traffic. The police summon the conductress from the second trolley bus. She tries at first to make excuses, then reluctantly takes the child from the middle-aged woman and gets into the 130 light truck. A white glove signals. The truck drives off, taking with it the child’s shrill screams and wailing. As the police wielding batons shout at them, the onlookers move back to form a rectangle that includes the twisted wreck of the bicycle. What is happening to the driver can now be seen from this side of the road. He is wiping off the sweat with his cotton cap. A policeman is questioning him. He takes out his driver’s license in its red plastic folder, and the policeman confiscates it. He immediately protests. “Why are you making excuses? If you’ve run over the man, then you’ve run over him!” A youth pushing a bicycle yells out. The conductress wearing sleeve-protectors comes out of the bus and rebukes the youth. “He was trying to get himself killed. The horn was sounding and the bus had braked, yet the man wouldn’t give way. He just went under the bus.” “The man was in the middle of the road and had a child with him. It was broad daylight, so he must have seen him!” someone in the crowd says angrily. “What does it matter to drivers like him if they run over someone? He won’t have to pay for it with his life.” This is said with derision. “What a tragedy. If he didn’t have the child with him, he would have got across long ago!” “Is there any hope for the man?” “His brain came out?” “I just heard this plop.” “You heard it?” “Yes, it went plop.” “Stop all this talk!” “Ai, life’s like that, a person can die just like that.” “He’s crying.” “Who?” “The driver.” The driver, sitting on his haunches with his head down, has covered his eyes with his cap. “He didn’t do it deliberately.” “If this had happened to anyone, they would.” “The man had a child with him? What happened to the child? What happened to the child?” someone who has just arrived asks. “The child wasn’t hurt, it was very lucky.” “Luckily the child was saved.” “The man was killed!” “Were they father and child?” “Why did he have to hook a buggy to his bicycle? It’s hard enough not to have an accident even with just one person on a bicycle.” “And he’d just picked up the child from kindergarten to take home.” “Kindergartens are hopeless, they won’t let you leave children for a whole day!” “You’re lucky if you can get into one.” “What’s there to look at! From now on, if you run without looking across the road.” A big hand drags away a child who is trying to squeeze between people in the crowd. The Hong Kong star has stopped singing. People are crowded on the steps of the radio repair shop. Red lights flashing, the ambulance has arrived. As medical personnel in white carry the body to the ambulance, the people in doorways of all the shops stand on their toes. The fat cook wearing an apron from a small eatery nearby has also come out to watch. “What happened? Was there an accident? Was someone killed?” “It was father and son, one of them is dead.” “Which of them died?” “The old man!” “What about the son?” “Unhurt.” “That’s shocking! Why didn’t he pull his father out of the way?” “It was the father who had pushed his son out of the way!” “Each generation is getting worse, the man was wasting his time bringing up the son!” “If you don’t know what happened, then don’t crap on.” “Who’s crapping on?” “I wasn’t trying to start an argument with you.” “The child was carried away.” “Was there a small child as well?” Others have just arrived. “Do you mind not shoving?” “Did I shove you?” “What’s there to look at? Move on! Everyone move on!” On the outer fringes of the crowd people are being arrested. Traffic security personnel with red armbands have arrived and they are more savage than the police. The driver, who is pushed into the police car, turns and tries to struggle, but the door shuts. People start to walk away and others get on their bicycles and leave. The onlookers thin out, but people keep arriving, stopping their bicycles or coming down off the pavement. The second trolley bus leads a long line of sedans, vans, jeeps, and big limousines slowly past the buggy with the torn red and-blue checkered shade in the gutter on this side of the road. Most of the people standing on shop steps have either gone inside or left, and the long stream of cars has passed. At the center of what has become a small crowd in the middle of the road, two policemen are taking measurements with a tape measure, while another makes notes in a little notebook. The blood under the wheels of the bus has begun to congeal and is turning black. In the trolley bus with its doors open, the conductress sits by a window staring blankly across to this side of the street. On the other side of the street, the faces in the windows of an approaching trolley bus look out and some people even poke their heads out. People have finished work: it is peak traffic time, and there are even more pedestrians and people riding bicycles. However, shouts from the police and traffic security personnel stop people from going to the middle of the road. “Was there an accident?” “Was someone killed?” “Must have been, look at all that blood.” “The day before, there was an accident on Jiankang Road. A sixteen-year-old was taken to the hospital, but they couldn’t save him, they said he was an only son.” “Nowadays, whose family doesn’t have only one son?” “Ai, how will the parents survive?” “If traffic management isn’t improved, there’ll be more accidents!” “Well, there won’t be any fewer.” “Every day after school, I worry until my Jiming gets home.” “It’s easier for you with your son, daughters are more worry to parents.” “Look, look, they’re taking photographs.” “So what if they are, it’s not going to help.” “Did he deliberately run over the man?” “Who knows?” “It couldn’t have been attached, otherwise it would have been hit for sure.” “I was just passing by.” “Some drivers drive like maniacs, and aggressively. If you don’t get out of the way, they certainly won’t make way for you!” “There are people who work off their frustrations by killing people, so anyone could be a victim.” “It’s hard to guard against such occurrences, it’s all decided by fate. In my old village there was a carpenter. He was good at his trade but he liked to drink. Once he was building someone a house and, on his way home at night, rotten drunk, he tripped and cracked his head open on a sharp rock.” “For some reason, the past couple of days my eyelid has been twitching.” “Which one?” “When you’re walking you shouldn’t be so engrossed in thought all the time. Quite a few times I’ve seen you.” “Nothing’s ever happened.” “If something had, it’d be too late and I wouldn’t be able to bear it.” “Stop it! People are looking at us.” The lovers look at one another and, holding each other’s hands even more tightly, walk off. They finish taking photographs of the scene of the accident, and the policeman with the tape measure takes a shovelful of dirt and spreads it over the blood. The wind has died down completely and it is getting dark. The conductress sitting by the window of the trolley bus has put on the lights and is counting the takings from the tickets. A policeman carries the wreckage of the bicycle on his shoulder to the car. Two men with red armbands get the buggy from the gutter, put it into the car, and leave with the policemen. It is time for dinner. The conductress is left standing at the door of the trolley bus and looks around impatiently while waiting for the depot to send a driver. Passersby only occasionally glance at the empty bus stopped for some reason in the middle of the road. It is dark and no one notices the blood covered with dirt in front of the bus that can no longer be seen. Afterward, the streetlights come on and at some time the empty bus has driven off. Cars speed endlessly on the road again and it is as if nothing has happened. By around midnight hardly anyone is about. A street-washing truck slowly approaches from the intersection some way off where traffic lights flash from time to time next to an iron railing with a blue poster. There is a row of words in white: FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY AND THAT OF OTHERS, PLEASE OBSERVE TRAFFIC RULES. At the spot where the accident had occurred, the truck slows down and, turning on its high-speed sprinkler jets, flushes clean any remaining traces of blood. The road cleaners don’t necessarily know that a few hours ago an accident had occurred and that the unfortunate victim had died right here. But who is the deceased? In this city of several million, only the man’s family and some close friends would know him. And if the dead man wasn’t carrying identification papers, right now they might not even know about the accident. The man probably was the child’s father, and when the child calms down, it will probably be able to say the father’s name. In that case, the man must have a wife. He was doing what the child’s mother should have been doing, so he was a good father and a good husband. As he loved his child, presumably he also loved his wife, but did his wife love him? If she loved him, why wasn’t she able to carry out her duties as his wife? Maybe he had a miserable life, otherwise why was he so distracted? Could it have been a personal failing and he was always indecisive? Maybe something was troubling him, something he couldn’t resolve, and he was destined not to escape this even greater misfortune. However, he wouldn’t have encountered this disaster if he had set out a little later or a little earlier. Or, if after picking up the child he had pedaled faster or slower, or if the woman at the kindergarten had spoken longer to him about his child, or if on the way a friend had stopped him to talk. It was unavoidable. He didn’t have some terminal illness but was just waiting to die. Death is inescapable for everyone, but premature death can be avoided. So if he hadn’t died in the accident, how would he have died? Traffic accidents in this city are inevitable, there are no cities free of traffic accidents. In every city there is inevitably this probability, even if the daily average is one in a million; and in a big city of this size there will always be someone encountering this sort of misfortune. He was one such unfortunate person. Didn’t he have a premonition before it happened? When he finally encountered this misfortune what did he think? Probably he didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to comprehend the great misfortune that was about to befall him. For him, there could be no greater misfortune than this. Even if he was that one in a million, like a grain of sand, before dying he had clearly thought of the child. Supposing it was his child, wasn’t it noble of him to sacrifice himself? Maybe it was not purely noble but to a certain extent instinctual, the instinct of being a father. People only talk about a mother’s instinct, but there are some mothers who abandon their babies. To have sacrificed himself for the child was indeed noble, but this sacrifice was entirely avoidable: if he had set out a little later or earlier, if at the time he had not been preoccupied, and if he were more resolute by nature, or even if he were more agile in his movements. The sum total of all these factors had hastened his death, so this misfortune was inevitable. I have been discussing philosophy again, but life is not philosophy, even if philosophy can derive from knowledge of life. And there is no need to turn life’s traffic accidents into statistics, because that’s a job for the traffic department or the public security department. Of course a traffic accident can serve as an item for a newspaper. And it can serve as the raw material for literature when it is supplemented by the imagination and written up as a moving narrative: this would then be creation. However, what is related here is simply the process of this traffic accident itself, a traffic accident that occurred at five o’clock, in the central section of Desheng Avenue in front of the radio repair shop. BUYING A FISHING ROD FOR MY GRANDFATHER. I walk past a new shop that sells fishing equipment. The different fishing rods on display make me think of my grandfather, and I want to buy him one. There’s a tenpiece fiberglass rod labeled “imported,” though it’s not clear if it’s the whole rod that’s imported or just the fiberglass, nor is it clear how being imported makes any of it better. All ten pieces overlap and probably retract into the last black tube, at the end of which is a handle like a pistol’s and a reel. It looks like an elongated revolver, like one of those Mausers that used to be in fashion. My grandfather certainly never saw a Mauser, and he never saw a fishing rod like this even in his dreams. His rods were bamboo, and he definitely wouldn’t have bought one. He’d find a length of bamboo and straighten it over a fire, cooking the sweat on his hands as he turned the bamboo brown with the smoke. It ended up looking like an old rod that had caught fish over many generations. My grandfather also made nets. A small net had about ten thousand knots, and day and night he would tie them nonstop. He’d move his lips while he knotted, as if cou

Rahan. Episode Fifty Six. By Roger Lecureux, drawn by Andre Cheret. The eaters of men. Exhausted by the long chase that had led to the edge of the endless river, the Son of Crao had dozed off in the shade of an uprooted tree. He did not hear the approach of the man. And when the sound of footsteps alerted him, it was too late! His knife had disappeared! The thief is not far away. Rahan will catch him! On the sand of the shore, the tracks of the thief were easy to follow. Hum, Rahan will without doubt have trouble recovering his knife! Page Two. Brandishing the ivory weapon, the man rejoined his clan. Gaham has surprised an enemy! He brings this magical object back to Gurg! In these fierce times any unusual object was considered "Magic." Maybe this thing is bad for the clan! Why did Gaham not kill the enemy?! The men watched with some fear as Rahan approached them. But Gurg issued an order. Capture the enemy! He will have to give us the secret, the secret of this object! I am not an enemy! I am Rahan, the son of Crao! This cutlass is not magic, it is only a weapon for the hunter! Overcoming their anxiety, the whole clan rushed towards Rahan who, despite his vigor, could not resist this pack! Page Three. A moment later he was summarily tied to the trunk of a palm tree. Gurg wants to know if this thing brings good luck or misfortune. And if "Fire hair" refuses to reveal his secret, the clan will share his body and Gurg will eat his heart! Crao-the-wise sometimes spoke, in the past, of the existence of tribes feeding on human flesh. But it was the first time that Rahan found himself facing beings capable of such horror! Even the “Four Hands” don’t eat each other! Only monsters do it! Gurg is a monster! Gurg and his people no longer listened to their captive. Their anxious gazes fixed on the horizon of the "Great River" which was rapidly darkening. Page Four. Gurg knew that this "Thing" would bring misfortune! The arrival of “Fire hair” unleashed the wrath of the great river! The chief had thrown the ivory cutlass at Rahan's feet with repulsion. He joined his men who were fleeing towards the forest. And the son of Crao understood the reason for this sudden panic. The stormy ocean launched its enormous waves to attack the shore. If Rahan does not free himself, he will be eaten by the great river! The wind was now blowing with incredible violence. A fantastically high wave had formed in the distance and was rapidly approaching. Page Five. In a few seconds this mountain of water would crash onto the shore! No! Rahan does not want to join the "Shadow Territory"! The son of Crao had finally managed to cut his bonds. Ra-ha-ha! While he rushed towards the forest the wave continued its course, followed by another even more gigantic! Page Six. Rahan had often seen volcanoes erupt and earthquakes, but he had never before witnessed a tidal wave. The great river has gone crazy! It wants to devour the forest! The waves indeed break between the trees, uprooting the weakest! The roaring waves spread on all sides, swallowed up the copses, submerged the clearings. Rahan has only one hope left. They were chasing the son of Crao who was soon in water up to his knees. Rahan cannot run away anymore! The big river is faster than him! It is because this tree resists the fury of the great river! But the son of Crao was not the only one to have chosen this refuge. Page Seven. A growl alerted him. And he narrowly avoided the claws of the lynx lurking above him. A new attack from a paw almost threw him off balance. One of us is too many on this tree, “Chincha”! And Rahan prefers it to be you! Suddenly grabbing the lynx's tail, Rahan pulled with all his might. The beast that clung to the branch was pried loose! Ra-ha-ha! He disappeared, carried away by the rushing flood. But another danger already threatened the son of Crao. Page Eight. Carried by the flood, was a huge trunk heading straight towards his refuge! This tree will not be able to resist! Waboum! The shock was terrible. Uprooted by this blow, the tree fell, throwing Rahan into the swirls. Like the lynx a moment earlier, the son of Crao was carried away by the crashing waves. Swimming in these whirlpools and swirls was impossible. And yet, the time had not come for Rahan to join the “Territory of Shadows”! He managed to grab some vines from a tree which was not in danger of being uprooted, as he passed. Ra-ha-ha! Page Nine. Rahan hopes that the "Four Hands" will share their refuge with him! Frightened by the cataclysm, monkeys screamed in the foliage, but they were harmless. In the distance the ocean had stopped roaring. The anger of the Great River is appeased! But Rahan will have to take the path of the “Four Hands”! A moment later the son of Crao was flying, from branch to branch. Beneath him the flooded forest offered a strange spectacle. Gurg and his clan undoubtedly had time to take refuge on a mountain! Rahan suddenly saw a group of “Two-horned” antelopes fleeing before the flood. But it had lost its violence. Page Ten. The fury of the great river is over! It recalls his own waves! Indeed, the waters withdrew in their ebb the corpses of wild animals which had not had time to escape. Rahan has nothing left to do in this territory! The son of Crao had no desire to find Gurg and his clan. But fate would decide otherwise! Gurg! A curious spectacle, in fact, soon stopped him in his tracks! In a natural pit dug in the rock, he could see a few men. A thick portal of trunks obstructed this pit from which the Gurg clan returned. Page Eleven. When these men passed under the tree Rahan could not resist the Pleasure of manifesting himself. Hello man eaters! Is Gurg still hoping to eat Rahan's heart? A brief moment of astonishment froze the clan. How had “Fire hair”, tied up on the shore, been spared by the great river? We will kill you "Fire hair"! The men of Gurg were already throwing stones towards Rahan. Who dove towards another branch, escaping the projectiles! Ha-ha-ha! But he had assumed too much of his agility. Hands slid over the bark. And that was the fall! Page Twelve. His chest hit a branch, his neck almost burst on another. Ah! Stunned, he did not see the men rushing towards him, brandishing their flints. No! Do not finish him! “Fire hair” is a choice take! We will share his body at night when the full moon returns! And do not touch this magic thing! It was that which provoked the anger of the great river! The son of Crao was dragged to the pit, to this door which was maintained. Closed with a crude but indestructible bar. Page thirteen. When he regained consciousness, several men were leaning over him. Who are you brother? I, I am Rahan. The son of Crao. And you? Who are you? Why are you locked in this stone trap!? The anguish could be seen in the eyes of the captives. We belonged to the Green Marsh Clan. But one day. Gurg attacked us for no other reason than to provide human flesh for his clan of savages! Gurg captured as many hunters that day as our two hands have fingers. He locked us in this cursed pit. Page Fourteen. And today we are no more numerous than the fingers of one hand. The others were eaten! The son of Crao was torn between horror and indignation. Those who act like Gurg do not deserve the name of man! They are monsters! Our clan dries fish in the sun to store them. Gurg, he made this pit his reserve of human flesh! But why did you not try to run away!? Escaping from this pit is impossible! Rahan will understand quickly! Rahan never stayed in a trap for long! He will find a way to escape! And you with him! Page Fifteen. The son of Crao, all day long looking for this way to escape. But in vain. The high granite wall, polished by time, showed no rough spots! No vines were hanging, which would have allowed the climbing of this rock wall. And the largest of the trunks, forgotten in this pit, did not allow climbing either! Ten times he bruised his shoulders trying to force the door that was held by the trunk across it. Ra-ha-ha. This is all useless, brother! We might as well resign ourselves to our fate! Rahan never gives up!! And the Pyramid that Rahan made his companions make was no more fortunate. Rahan will find it! Rahan must figure out how to escape! Page Sixteen. As the night passed, the distant murmur of the ocean finally reached and calmed the captives. Those who walk upright are of the same race. From the same horde. They must not kill each other! They should not eat each other like monsters do! Gurg will not eat Rahan's heart! But he would need the strength of the great river to break down this door! Oh! The great river. The Trunk! The son of Crao saw again the trunk uprooting his tree he had taken refuge in. In his mind this vision faded to give way to another. Himself and the captives replaced the great river, and the tree collapsed under their blows! Page Seventeen. Is this how, in these wild times, the idea of the "Ram" was born in the mind of a man? Listen to Rahan Freres! He knows how to escape! A moment later, uniting their efforts, the captives attacked the impassable gate. But this one, shaken by the terrible shock, resisted! Courage brothers! We will succeed! It was at the fifth blow, more violent than the previous ones, that the traverse broke and the door was dislocated. Boom! Ra-ha-ha! But Rahan and his companions were not yet saved! Gurg and some men of his clan came running. You have undoubtedly come to choose the next victim of your vile feasts! But you will have to fight! Page Eighteen. Forward brothers! With this trunk! Those of the green marsh had understood Rahan's intention to keep the "Ram” before them. They rushed to meet the man-eaters! You are definitely a demon, “Fire hair”! Gurg will kill you with his own hands! Surprised by this strange assault, a few men were swept away by the trunk. The others fled. And the son of Crao found himself face to face with Gurg, who was foaming with rage. Before eating Rahan's heart, it will have to be ripped out! And Rahan knows how to defend his heart! Gurg rushed forward, clutching his formidable flint. But Rahan agilely dodged this first attack. Rahan hates killing “Those Who Walk Upright”. Page Nineteen. But maybe Gurg will force him to do it! The hand on his knife, Rahan moved back to. Parry the next attack. And suddenly, stumbling against the trunk, he fell backwards! Gurg rushed towards him, letting out a wild howl. Grao! The son of Crao did not have time to get up. Gurg, pinning him to the ground, brandished his flint. And came to impale himself on a branch driven from the trunk. Rahan rose without uttering the clamor with which he usually highlighted his victories. The wooden spike stole Gurg's life! Page Twenty. What a terrible end for a man! Rahan did not want it! No brother! Gurg was not a man! He was a monster. He does not deserve our pity! Thanks to you, “Those-who-walk-upright” will no longer fear the eaters of human flesh! The Green Swamp Clan will be grateful to you for saving us! Come with us, brother! Come, come! Rahan fingered his necklace, the claw symbolizing loyalty. Had he been loyal during this fight? Yes, he had been! Resolutely following in the footsteps of his new companions, he plunged into the forest. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

Reformatted for Machine Speech, 2023. RECORD ONE. An Announcement. The Wisest of Lines. A Poem. This is merely a copy, word for word, of what was published this morning in the State newspaper: "In another hundred and twenty days the building of the Integral will be completed. The great historic hour is near, when the first Integral will rise into the limitless space of the universe. One thousand years ago your heroic ancestors subjected the whole earth to the power of the United State. A still more glorious task is before you: the integration of the indefinite equation of the Cosmos by the use of the glass, electric, fire-breathing Integral. Your mission is to subjugate to the grateful yoke of reason the unknown beings who live on other planets, and who are perhaps still in the primitive state of freedom. If they will not understand that we are bringing them a mathematically faultless happiness, our duty will be to force them to be happy. But before we take up arms, we shall try the power of words. “In the name of the Well-Doer, the following is announced herewith to all Numbers of the United State: "Whoever feels capable must consider it his duty to write treatises, poems, manifestoes, odes, and other compositions on the greatness and the beauty of the United State. "This will be the first cargo which the Integral will carry. "Long live the United State! Long live the Numbers! Long live the Well-Doer!" I feel my cheeks burn as I write this. To integrate the colossal, universal equation! To unbend the wild curve, to straighten' it out to a tangent-to a straight line! For the United State is a straight line, a great, divine, precise, wise line, the wisest of lines! I, D-503, the builder of the Integral, I am only one of the many mathematicians of the United State. My pen, which is accustomed to figures, is unable to express the march and rhythm of consonance; therefore I shall try to record only the things I see, the things I think, or, to be more exact, the things we think. Yes, "we"; that is exactly what I mean, and We, therefore, shall be the title of my records. But this, will only be a derivative of our life, of our mathematical, perfect life in the United State. If this be so, will not this derivative be a poem in itself, despite my limitations? It will. I believe it, I know it. "'My cheeks still burn as I write this. I feel something similar to what a woman probably feels when for the first time she senses within herself the pulse of a tiny, blind, human being. It is I, and at the same time it is not I. And for many long months it will be necessary to feed it with my life, with my blood, and then with a pain at my heart, to tear it from myself and lay it at the feet of the. United State. Yet I am ready, as everyone, or nearly everyone of us, is. I am ready. RECORD TWO. Ballet. Square Harmony. X. SPRING. From behind the Green Wall, from some unknown plains the wind brings to us the yellow honeyed pollen of Rowers. One's lips are dry from this sweet dust. Every moment one passes one's tongue over them. Probably all women whom I meet in the street (and certainly men also) have sweet lips today. This somewhat disturbs my logical thinking. But the sky! The sky is blue. Its limpidness is not marred by a single cloud. (How primitive was the taste of the ancients, since their poets were always inspired by these senseless, formless, stupidly rushing accumulations of vapor!) I love, I am sure it will not be an error if I say too love, only such a sky-a sterile, faultless sky. On such days the whole universe seems to be moulded of the same eternal glass, like the Green Wall, and like all our buildings. On such days one sees their wonderful equations, hitherto unknown. One sees these equations in everything, even in the most ordinary, everyday things. Here is an example: this morning I was on the dock where the Integral is being built, and I saw the lathes; blindly, with abandon, the balls of the regulators were rotating; the cranks were swinging from side to side with a glimmer; the working beam proudly swung its shoulder, and the mechanical chisels were dancing to the melody of unheard tarantellas. I suddenly perceived all the music, all the beauty, of this colossal, this mechanical ballet, illumined by light blue rays of sunshine. Then the thought came: why beautiful? Why is the dance beautiful? Answer: because it is an unfree movement. Because the deep meaning of the dance is contained in its absolute, ecstatic submission, in the ideal non-freedom. If it is true that our ancestors would abandon themselves in dancing at the most inspired moments of their lives (religious mysteries, military parades), then it means only one thing: the instinct of non-freedom has been characteristic of human nature from ancient times, and we in our life of today, we are only consciously. I was interrupted. The switchboard clicked. I raised my eyes-a-go, of course! In half a minute she will be here to take me for the walk. Dear O! She always seems to me to look like her name, O. She is approximately ten centimeters shorter than the required Maternal Norm. Therefore she appears round all over; the rose-colored O of her lips is open to meet every word of mine. She has a round soft dimple on her wrist. Children have such dimples. As she came in, the logical flywheel was still buzzing in my head, and following its inertia, I began to tell her about my new formula which embraced the machines and the dancers and all of us. "Wonderful, isn't it?" I asked. "Yes, wonderful. Spring!" she replied, with a rosy smile. You see? Spring! She talks about Spring! Females! I became silent. We were down in the street. The avenue was crowded. On days when the weather is so beautiful, the afternoon personal hour is usually the hour of the supplementary walk. As always, the big Musical Tower was playing the March of the United State with all its pipes. The Numbers, hundreds, thousands of Numbers in light blue unifs, probably a derivative of the ancient uniform, with golden badges on the chest-the State number of each one, male or female-the Numbers were walking slowly, four abreast, exaltedly keeping step. I, we four, were but one of the innumerable waves of a powerful torrent: to my left, O-90 (if one of my long-haired ancestors were writing this a thousand years ago he would probably call her by that funny word, mine); to my right, two unknown Numbers, a she-Number and a he-Number. Blue sky, tiny baby suns in each one of our badges; our faces are unclouded by the insanity of thoughts. Rays. Do you picture it? Everything seems to be made of a kind of smiling, a ray-like matter. And the brass measures: Tra-ta-ta-tam, Tra-ta-ta-tafil. Stamping on the brassy steps that sparkle in the sun, with every step you rise higher and higher into the dizzy blue heights. Then, as this morning on the dock, again I saw, as if for the first time in my life, the impeccably straight streets, the glistening glass of the pavement, the divine parallelepipeds of the transparent dwellings, the square harmony of the grayish-blue rows of Numbers. And it seemed to me that not past generations, but I myself, had won a victory over the old god and the old life, that I myself had created all this. I felt like a tower: I was afraid to move my elbow, lest the walls, the cupola, and the machines should fall to pieces. Then without warning-a jump through centuries: I remembered (apparently through an association by contrast) a picture in the museum, a picture of an avenue of the twentieth century, a thundering, many-colored confusion of men, wheels, animals, billboards, trees, colors, and birds. They say all this once actually existed! It seemed to me so incredible, so absurd, that I lost control of myself and laughed aloud. A laugh, as if an echo of mine, reached my ear from the right. I turned. I saw white, very white, sharp teeth, and an unfamiliar, female face. "I beg your pardon," she said, "but you looked about you like an inspired mythological god on the seventh day of creation. You look as though you are sure that I, too, was created by you, by no one but you. It is very flattering." All this without a smile, even with a certain degree of respect (she may know that I am the builder of the Integral). In her eyes, nevertheless, and on her brows, there was a strange irritating X, and I was unable to grasp it, to find an arithmetical expression for it. Somehow I was confused; with a somewhat hazy mind, I tried logically to explain my laughter. "It was absolutely clear that this contrast, this impassable abyss, between the things of today and of years ago." "But why impassable?" (What bright, sharp teeth!) "One might throw a bridge over that abyss. Please imagine: a drum battalion, rows-all this existed before and consequently." "Oh, yes, it is clear," I exclaimed. It was a remarkable intersection of thoughts. She said almost in the same words the things I had written down before the walk! Do you understand? Even the thoughts! It is because nobody is one, but one of. We are all so much alike. "Are you sure?" I noticed her brows that rose to the temples in an acute angle-like the sharp corners of an X. Again I was confused, casting a glance to the right, then to the left. To my right-she, slender, abrupt, resistantly flexible like a whip, I-330 (I saw her number now). To my left, 0, totally different, all made of circles with a childlike dimple on her wrist; and at the very end of our rowan unknown he-Number, double-curved like the letter S. We were all so different from one another. The one to my right, I-330, apparently caught the confusion in my eye, for she said with a sigh, "Yes, alas!" I don't deny that this exclamation was quite in place, but again there was something in her face or in her voice. With an abruptness unusual for me, I said, "Why, alas? Science is developing and if not now, then within fifty or one hundred years." "Even the noses will." "Yes, noses!" This time I almost shouted, "Since there is still a reason, no matter what, for envy. Since my nose is button-like and someone else's is." "Well, your nose is rather classic, as they would have said in ancient days, although your hands. No, no, show me your hands!" I hate to have anyone look at my hands; they are covered with long hair-a stupid atavism. I stretched out my hand and said as indifferently as I could, "Apelike." She glanced at my hand, then at my face. "No, a very curious harmony." She weighed me with her eyes as though with scales. The little horns again appeared at the corners of her brows. "He is registered in my name," exclaimed O-90 with a rosy smile. I made a grimace. Strictly speaking, she was out of order. This dear O, how shall I say it? The speed of her tongue is not correctly calculated; the speed per second of her tongue should be slightly less than the speed per second of her thoughts-at any rate not the reverse. At the end of the avenue the big bell of the Accumulating Tower resounded seventeen. The personal hour was at an end. I-330 was leaving us with that S-like he-Number. He has such a respectable, and I noticed then, such a familiar, face. I must have met him somewhere, but where I could not remember. Upon leaving me I-330 said with the same X-like smile: "Drop in day after tomorrow at auditorium 112.” I shrugged my shoulders: "If I am assigned to the auditorium you just named." She, with a peculiar, incomprehensible certainty: “You will be." The woman had a disagreeable effect upon me, like an irrational component of an equation which you cannot eliminate. I was glad to remain alone with dear O, at least for a short while. Hand in hand with her, I passed four lines of avenues; at the next corner she went to the right, I to the left. O timidly raised her round blue crystalline eyes. “I would like so much to come to you today and pulldown the curtains, especially today, right now." How funny she is. But what could I say to her? She was with me only yesterday and she knows as well as I that our next sexual day is day after tomorrow. It is merely another case in which her thoughts are too far ahead. It sometimes happens that the spark comes too early to the motor. At parting I kissed her twice-no, I shall be exact, three times, on her wonderful blue eyes, such clear, unclouded eyes. RECORD THREE. A Coat. A Wall. The Tables. I looked over all that I wrote down yesterday and I find that my descriptions are not sufficiently clear. That is, everything would undoubtedly be clear to one of us, but who knows to whom my Integral will someday bring these records? Perhaps you, like our ancestors, have read the great book of civilization only up to the page of nine hundred years ago. Perhaps you don't know even such elementary things as the Hour Tables, Personal Hours, Maternal Norm, Green Wall, Well-Doer. It seems droll to me, and at the same time it is very difficult to explain these things. It is as though, let us say, a writer of the twentieth century should start to explain in his novel such words as coat, apartment, wife. Yet if his novel had been translated for primitive races, how could he have avoided explaining what a coat meant? I am sure that the primitive man would look at a coat and think, "What is this for? It is only a burden, an unnecessary burden." I am sure that you will feel the same, if I tell you that not one of us has ever stepped beyond the Green Wall since the Two Hundred Years' War. But, dear readers, you must think, at least a little. It helps. It is clear that the history of mankind, as far as our knowledge goes, is a history of the transition from nomadic forms to more sedentary ones. Does it not follow that the most sedentary form of life (ours) is at the same time the most perfect one? There was a time when people rushed from one end of the earth to another, but this was the prehistoric time when such things as nations, wars, commerce, different discoveries of different Americas still existed. Who has need of these things now? I admit that humanity acquired this habit of a sedentary form of life not without difficulty and not all at once. When the Two Hundred Years' War had destroyed all the roads, which later were overgrown with grass, it was probably very difficult at first. It must have seemed uncomfortable to live in cities which were cut off from each other by green debris. But what of it? Man soon after he lost his tail probably did not learn at once how to chase away flies without its help. I am almost sure that at first he was even lonesome without his tail; but now, can you imagine yourself with a tail? Or can you imagine yourself walking in the street naked, without clothes? (It is possible you go without clothes still.) Here we have the same case. I cannot imagine a city which is not surrounded by a Green Wall. I cannot imagine a life which is not surrounded by the figures of our Tables. Tables. Now even, purple figures look at me austerely yet kindly from the golden background of the wall. Involuntarily I am reminded of the thing which was called by the ancients "Sainted Image," and I feel a desire to compose verses, or prayers, which are the same. Oh, why am I not a poet, so as to be able to glorify the Tables properly, the heart and pulse of the United State! All of us and perhaps all of you read in childhood, while in school, that greatest of all monuments of ancient literature, the Official Railroad Guide. But if you compare this with the Tables, you will see side by side graphite and diamonds. Both are the same, carbon. But how eternal, transparent, how shining the diamond! Who does not lose his breath when he runs through the pages of the Guide? The Tables transformed each one of us, actually, into a six-wheeled steel hero of a great poem. Every morning, with six-wheeled precision, at the same hour, at the same minute, we wake up, millions of us at once. At the very same hour, millions like one, we begin our work, and millions like one, we finish it. United into a single body with a million hands, at the very same second, designated by the Tables, we carry the spoons to our mouths; at the same second we all go out to walk, go to the auditorium, to the halls for the Taylor exercises, and then to bed. I shall be quite frank: even we have not attained the absolute, exact solution of the problem of happiness. Twice a day, from sixteen to seventeen o'clock and from twenty-one to twenty-two, our powerful united organism dissolves into separate cells; these are the personal hours designated by the Tables. During these hours you would see the curtains discreetly drawn in the rooms of some; others march slowly over the pavement of the main avenue or sit at their desks as I sit now. But I firmly believe, let them call me an idealist and a dreamer, I believe that sooner or later we shall somehow find a place in the general formula even for these hours. Somehow, all of the 86,400 seconds will be incorporated in the Tables of Hours. I have had opportunity to read and hear many improbable things about those times when human beings still lived in the state of freedom, that is, in an unorganized primitive state. One thing has always seemed to me most improbable: how could a government, even a primitive government, permit people to live without anything like our Tables-without compulsory walks, without precise regulation of the time to eat, for instance? They would get up and go to bed whenever they liked. Some historians even say that in those days the streets were lighted all night, and all night people went about the streets. That I cannot understand. True, their minds were rather limited in those days. Yet they should have understood, should they not, that such a life was actually wholesale murder, although slow murder, day after day? The State (humanitarianism) forbade in those days the murder of one person, but it did not forbid the killing of millions slowly and by inches. To kill one person, that is, to reduce the individual span of human life by fifty years, was considered criminal, but to reduce the general sum of human life by fifty million years was not considered criminal! Isn't it droll? Today this simple mathematical moral problem could easily be solved in half a minute's time by any ten year-old Number, yet they couldn't do it! All their Immanuel Kants together couldn't do it! It didn't enter the heads of all their Kants to build a system of scientific ethics, that is, ethics based on adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing. Further, is it not absurd that their State (they called it State!) left sexual life absolutely without control? On the contrary, whenever and as much as they wanted, absolutely unscientific, like beasts! And like beasts they blindly gave birth to children! Is it not strange to understand gardening, chicken farming, fishery (we have definite knowledge that they were familiar with all these things), and not to be able to reach the last step in this logical scale, namely, production of children not to be able to discover such things as Maternal and Paternal Norms? It is so droll, so improbable, that while I write this I am afraid lest you, my unknown future readers, should think I am merely a poor jester. I feel almost as if you may think I want simply to mock you and with a very serious face try to relate absolute nonsense to you. But first I am incapable of jesting, for in every joke a lie has its hidden function. And second, the science of the United State contends that the life of the ancients was exactly what I am describing, and the science of the United State does not make mistakes! Yet how could they have State logic, since they lived in a condition of freedom like beasts, like apes, like herds? What could one expect of them, since even in our day one hears from time to time, coming from the bottom, the primitive depths, the echo of the apes? Fortunately it happens only from time to time, very seldom. Happily, it is only a case of small parts breaking; these may easily be repaired without stopping the eternal great march of the whole machine. And in order to eliminate a broken peg we have the skillful heavy hand of the Well-Doer, we have the experienced eyes of the Guardians. By the way, I just thought of that Number whom I met yesterday, the double-curved one like the letter S; I think I have seen him several times coming out of the Bureau of Guardians. Now I understand why I felt such an instinctive respect for him and a kind of awkwardness when I saw that strange I-330 at his side. I must confess that, that I, they ring the bell, time to sleep, it is twenty-two thirty. Till tomorrow, then. RECORD FOUR. The Wild Man with a Barometer. Epilepsy. If. Until today everything in life seemed to me clear, that is why, I think, I always had a sort of partiality toward the word "clear", but today, I don’t understand. First, I really was assigned to auditorium 112, as she said, although the probability was 500 to 10,000,000 or I to 20,000. Five hundred is the number of auditoriums and there are 10,000,000 Numbers. And second. But let me relate things in proper order. The auditorium: an enormous half-globe of glass with the sun piercing through. The circular rows of noble, globelike, closely shaven heads. With joy in my heart I looked around. I believe I was looking in the hope of seeing the rose-colored scythe, the dear lips of O somewhere among the blue waves of the unifs. Then I saw extraordinarily white, sharp teeth like the. But no! Tonight at twenty-one o’clock O was to come to me; therefore my desire to see her was quite natural. The bell. We stood up, sang the Hymn of the United State, and our clever phono-Iecturer appeared on the platform with-a sparkling golden loud-speaker. "Respected Numbers, not so long ago our archaeologists dug up a book written in the twentieth century. In this book the ironical author tells about a Wild Man and a barometer. The Wild Man noticed that every time the barometer's hand stopped on the word rain, it actually rained. And as the Wild Man craved rain, he let out as much mercury as was necessary to put it at the level of the word rain on the screen a Wild Man with feathers, letting out the mercury. Laughter. "You are laughing at him, but don't you think the European of that age deserves more to be laughed at? He, like the Wild Man, wanted rain-rain with a little 'r,' an algebraic rain; but he remained standing before the barometer like a wet hen. The Wild Man at least had more courage and energy and logic, although primitive logic. The Wild Man showed the ability to establish a connection between cause and effect: by letting out the mercury he made the first step on the path which." Here, I repeat, I am not concealing anything, I am setting down everything, I suddenly became impermeable to the quickening currents coming from the loud-speaker. I suddenly felt I had come here in vain (why in vain and how could I not have come here, since I was assigned to come here?). Everything seemed to me empty like a shell. I succeeded with difficulty in tuning my attention in again when the phono-Iecturer came to the main theme of the evening-to our music as a mathematical composition, mathematics is the cause, music the effect. The phono-lecturer began the description of the recently invented musicometer. “By merely rotating this handle anyone is enabled to produce about three sonatas per hour. What difficulties our predecessors had in making music! They were able to compose only by bringing themselves to attacks of inspiration, an extinct form of epilepsy. Here you have an amusing illustration of their achievements: the music of Scriabin, twentieth century. This black box," a curtain patted on the platform, and we saw an ancient instrument, "this box they called the Royal Grand. They attached to this idea of regality, which also goes to prove how their music.” And I don't remember anything further. Very possibly because, I'll tell you frankly, because she, I-330, came to the "Royal” box. Probably I was simply startled by her unexpected appearance on the platform. She was dressed in a fantastic dress of the ancient time, a black dress closely fitting the body, sharply delimiting the white of her shoulders and breasts, and that warm shadow waving with her breath between. And the dazzling, almost angry teeth. A smile, a bite, directed downward. She took her seat; she began to play something wild, convulsive, loud like all their life then-not a shadow of rational mechanism. Of course all those around me were right; they were laughing. Only a few. But why is it that I, too, I? Yes, epilepsy, a mental disease, a pain. A slow, sweet pain, bite, and it goes deeper and becomes sharper. And then, slowly, sunshine-not our sunshine, not crystalline, bluish, and soft, coming through the glass bricks. No, a wild sunshine, rushing and burning, tearing everything into small bits. The Number at my left glanced at me and chuckled. I don't know why but I remember exactly how a microscopic saliva bubble appeared on his lips and burst. That bubble brought me back to myself. I was again I. Like all the other Numbers I heard now only the senseless, disorderly crackling of the chords. I laughed; I felt so light and simple. The gifted phono-Iecturer represented to us only too well that wild epoch. And that was all. With what a joy I listened afterward to our contemporary music. It was demonstrated to us at the end of the lecture for the sake of contrast. Crystalline, chromatic scales converging and diverging into endless series; and synthetic harmony of the formulae of Taylor and McLauren, wholesome, square, and massive like the "trousers of Pythagoras." Sad melodies dying away in waving movements. The beautiful texture of the spectrum of planets, dissected by Frauenhofer lines, what magnificent, what perfect regularity! How pitiful the willful music of the ancients, not limited except by the scope of their wild imaginations! As usual, in good order, four abreast, all of us left the auditorium. The familiar double-curved figure passed swiftly by. I respectfully bowed. Dear O was to come in an hour. I felt agitated, agreeably and usefully. Home at last! I rushed to the house office, handed over to the controller on duty my pink ticket, and received a certificate permitting the use of the curtains. This right exists in our State only for the sexual days. Normally we live surrounded by transparent walls which seem to be knitted of sparkling air; we live beneath the eyes of everyone, always bathed in light. We have nothing to conceal from one another; besides, this mode of living makes the difficult and exalted task of the Guardians much easier. Without it many bad things might happen. It is possible that the strange opaque dwellings of the ancients were responsible for their pitiful cellish psychology. “My (sic!) home is my fortress!" How did they manage to think such things? At twenty-two o'clock I lowered the curtain and at the same second O came in smiling, slightly out of breath. She extended to me her rosy lips and her pink ticket. I tore off the stub but I could not tear myself away from the rosy lips up to the last moment, twenty-two-fifteen. Then I showed her my diary and I talked; I think I talked very well on the beauty of a square, a cube, a straight line. At first she listened so charmingly, she was so rosy; then suddenly a tear appeared in her blue eyes, then another, and a third fell straight on the open page (page 7). The ink blurred; well, I shall have to copy it again. "My dear O, if only you, if." "What if? If what?" Again the old lament about a child or perhaps something new regarding, regarding, the other one? Although it seems as though some. But that would be too absurd! RECORD FIVE. The Square. The Rulers of the World. An Agreeable and Useful Function. Again with you, my unknown reader; I talk to you as though you were, let us say, my old comrade, R-13, the poet with the lips of a Negro-well, everyone knows him. Yet you are somewhere on the moon, or on Venus, or on Mars. Who knows you? Where and who are you? Imagine a square, a living, beautiful square. Imagine that this square is obliged to tell you about itself, about its life. You realize that this square would hardly think it necessary to mention the fact that all its four angles are equal. It knows this too well. This is such an ordinary, obvious thing. I am in exactly the same square position. Take the pink checks, for instance, and all that goes with them: for me they are as natural as the equality of the four angles of the square. But for you they are perhaps more mysterious and hard to understand than Newton's binomial theorem. Let me explain: an ancient sage once said a clever thing, accidentally, beyond doubt. He said, “Love and Hunger rule the world." Consequently, to dominate the world, man had to win a victory over hunger after paying a very high price. I refer to the great Two Hundred Years' War, the war between the city and the land. Probably on account of religious prejudices, the primitive peasants stubbornly held on to their “bread.” This word came down to us for use only as a poetic form, for the chemical constitution of this substance is unknown to us. In the thirty-fifth year before the foundation of the United State our contemporary petroleum food was invented. True, only about two tenths of the population of the globe did not die out. But how beautifully shining the face of the earth became when it was cleared of its impurities! Accordingly the 0.2 which survived have enjoyed the greatest happiness in the bosom of the United State. But is it not clear that supreme bliss and envy are only the numerator and the denominator, respectively, of the same fraction, happiness? What sense would the innumerable sacrifices of the Two Hundred Years' War have for us if a reason were left in our life for jealousy? Yet such a reason persisted because there remained button like noses and classical noses, cf our conversation during the promenade. For there were some whose love was sought by everyone, and others whose love was sought by no one. Naturally, having conquered hunger, that is, algebraically speaking, having achieved the total of bodily welfare, the United State directed its attack against the second ruler of the world, against love. At last this element also was conquered, that is, organized and put into a mathematical formula. It is already three hundred years since our great historic Lex Sexualis was promulgated: "A Number may obtain a license to use any other Number as a sexual product." The rest is only a matter of technique. You are carefully examined in the laboratory of the Sexual Department where they find the content of the sexual hormones in your blood, and they accordingly make out for you a Table of sexual days. Then you file an application to enjoy the services of Number so and so, or Numbers so and so. You get for that purpose a checkbook (pink). That is all. It is clear that under such circumstances there is no reason for envy or jealousy. The denominator of the fraction of happiness is reduced to zero and the whole fraction is thus converted into a magnificent infiniteness. The thing which, was for the ancients a source of innumerable stupid tragedies has been converted in our time into a harmonious, agreeable, and useful function of, the organism, a function like sleep, physical labor, the taking of food, digestion, etc., etc. Hence you see how the great power of logic purifies everything it happens to touch. Oh, if only you unknown readers can conceive this divine power! If you will only learn to follow it to the end! It is very strange. While I was Writing today of the loftiest Summit of human history, all the while I breathed the purest mountain air of thought, but within me it was and remains cloudy, cobwebby, and there is a kind of cross-like, four-pawed X. Or perhaps it is my paws and I feel like that only because they are always before my eyes, my hairy paws. I don't like to talk about them, I dislike them. They are a trace of a primitive epoch, is it possible that there is in me? I wanted to strike out all this because it trespasses on the limits of my synopsis. But then I decided: no, I shall not! Let this diary give the curve of the most imperceptible vibrations of my brain, like a precise seismograph, for at times such vibrations serve as fore warnings. Certainly this is absurd! This certainly should be stricken out; we have conquered all the elements; catastrophes are not possible any more, Now everything is clear to me, The peculiar feeling inside is a result of that very same square situation of which I spoke in the beginning. There is no X in me. There can be none. I am simply afraid lest some X will be left in you; my unknown readers. I believe you will understand that it is harder for me to write than it ever was for any author throughout human history, Some of them wrote for contemporaries, some for future generations, but none of them ever wrote for their ancestors, or for beings' like their primitive, distant ancestors. RECORD SIX. An Accident. The Cursed "It's Clear." Twenty-four Hours. I must repeat, I have made it my duty to write concealing nothing. Therefore I must point out now that, sad as it may be, the process of the hardening and crystallization of life has evidently not been completed even here in our State. A few steps more and we will be within reach of our ideal. The ideal (it's clear) is to be found where nothing happens, but here. I will give you an example: in the State paper I read that in two days the holiday of Justice will be celebrated on the Plaza of the Cube. This means that again some Number has impeded the smooth running of the great State machine. Again something that was not foreseen, or fore-calculated, happened. Besides, something happened to me. True, it occurred during the personal hour, that is during the time specifically assigned to unforeseen circumstances, yet. At about sixteen (to be exact, ten minutes to sixteen), I was at home. Suddenly the telephone: "D-503?" A woman's voice. "Yes." "Are you free?' "Yes." "It is I, I-330. I shall run over to you immediately. We shall go together to the Ancient House. Agreed?" I-330! This I irritates me, repels me. She almost frightens me; but just because of that I answered, "Yes." In five minutes we were in an aero. Blue sky of May. The bright sun in its own golden aero buzzed behind us without catching up and without lagging behind. Ahead of us a white cataract of a cloud. Yes, a white cataract of a cloud, nonsensically Huffy like the cheeks of an ancient cupid. That cloud was disturbing. The front window was open; it was windy; lips were dry. Against one's will one passed the tongue constantly over them and thought about lips. Already we saw in the distance the hazy green spots on the other side of the Wall. Then a slight involuntary sinking of the heart, down-down-down, as if from a steep mountain, and we were at the Ancient House. That strange, delicate, blind establishment is covered all around with a glass shell, otherwise it would undoubtedly have fallen to pieces long ago. At the glass door we found an old woman all wrinkles, especially her mouth, which was all made up of folds and pleats. Her lips had disappeared, having folded inward; her mouth seemed grown together. It seemed incredible that she should be able to talk, and yet she did. "Well, dear, come again to see my little house?" Her wrinkles shone, that is, her wrinkles diverged like rays, which created the impression of shining. ""Yes, Grandmother," answered I-330. The wrinkles continued to shine. "And the sun, eh, do you see it, you rogue, you! I know, I know. It's all right. Go all by yourselves, I shall remain here in the sunshine." Hum. Apparently my companion was a frequent guest here. Something disturbed me; probably that unpleasant optical impression, the cloud on the smooth blue surface of the sky. While we were ascending the wide, dark stairs, I-330 said, "I love her, that old woman." "Why?" "I don't know. Perhaps for her mouth-or perhaps for nothing, just so." I shrugged my shoulders. She continued walking upstairs with a faint smile, or perhaps without a smile at all. I felt very guilty. It is clear that there must not be "love, just so," but "love because of." For all elements of nature should be. “It's clear." I began, but I stopped at that word and cast a furtive look at I-330. Did she notice it or not? She looked somewhere, down; her eyes were closed like curtains. It struck me suddenly: evening about twenty-two; you walk on the avenue and among the brightly lighted, transparent, cubic cells are dark spaces, lowered curtains, and there behind the curtains. What has she behind her curtains? Why did she phone me today? Why did she bring me here? and all this. She opened a heavy, squeaking, opaque door and we found ourselves in a somber disorderly space (they called it an "apartment"). The same strange "royal" musical instrument and a wild, unorganized, crazy loudness of colors and forms like their ancient music. A white plane above, dark blue walls, red, green, orange bindings of ancient books, yellow bronze candelabra, a statue of Buddha, furniture with lines distorted by epilepsy, impossible to reduce to any clear equation. I could hardly bear that chaos. But my companion apparently possessed a stronger constitution. "This is my most beloved," she suddenly caught herself, again a smile, bite, and white sharp teeth,"to be more exact, the most nonsensical of all apartments." "Or, to be most exact, of all the States. Thousands of microscopic States, fighting eternal wars, pitiless like." "Oh, yes, it's clear," said I-330 with apparent sincerity. We passed through a room where we found a few small children's beds (children in those days were also private property). Then more rooms, glimmering mirrors, somber closets, unbearably loud-colored divans, an enormous "fireplace," a large mahogany bed. Our contemporary beautiful, transparent, eternal glass was represented here only by pitiful, delicate, tiny squares of windows. "And to think; here there was love just so; they burned and tortured themselves." Again the curtain of the eyes was lowered. "What a stupid, uneconomical spending of human energy. Am I not right?" She spoke as though reading my thoughts, but in her smile there remained always that irritating X. There behind the curtains something was going on, I don't know what, but something that made me lose my patience. I wanted to quarrel with her, to scream at her (exactly, to scream), but I had to agree. It was impossible not to agree, we stopped in front of a mirror, At that moment I saw only her eyes. An idea came to me: human beings are built as nonsensically as these stupid "apartments," human heads are opaque, and there are only two very small windows that lead inside, the eyes. She seemed to have guessed my thoughts; she turned around: "Well, here they are, my eyes. Well" (this suddenly, then silence). There in front of me were two gloomy, dark windows and behind them, inside, such strange hidden life. I saw there only fire, burning like a peculiar "fireplace," and unknown figures resembling. All this was certainly very natural; I saw in her eyes the reflection of my own face. But my feelings were unnatural and not like me. Evidently the depressing influence of the surroundings was beginning to tell on me. I definitely felt fear. I felt as if I were trapped in a strange cage. I felt that I was caught in the wild hurricane of ancient life, "Do you know." said I-330. "Step for a moment into the next room." Her voice came from there, from inside, from behind the dark window eyes, where the fireplace was blazing. I went in, sat down. From a shelf on the wall there looked straight into my face, somewhat smiling, the snub nosed, asymmetrical physiognomy of one of the ancient poets; I think it was Pushkin. "Why do I sit here enduring this smile with such resignation, and what is this all about? Why am I here? And why all these strange sensations, this irritating, repellent female, this strange game?" The door of the closet slammed; there was the rustle of silk. I felt it difficult to restrain myself from getting up and, and, I don't remember exactly; probably I wanted to tell her a number of disagreeable things. But she had already appeared. She was dressed in a short, bright-yellowish dress, black hat, black stockings. The dress was of light silk. I saw clearly very long black stockings above the knees, an uncovered neck, and the shadow between. ''It's clear that you want to seem original. But is it passible that you?" "It is clear," interrupted I-330, "that to be original means to stand out among others; consequently, to be original means to violate the law of equality. What was called in the language of the ancients to be common is with us only the fulfilling of one's duty. For." "Yes, yes, exactly," I interrupted impatiently, "and there is no use, no use." She came near the bust of the snub-nosed poet, lowered the curtain on the wild fire of her eyes, and said, this time I think she was really in earnest, or perhaps she merely wanted to soften my impatience with her, but she said a very reasonable thing: "Don't you think it surprising that once people could stand types like this? Not only stand them, but worship them? What a slavish spirit, don't you think so?" “It's clear, that is!" I wanted, damn that cursed "it's clear!" “Oh, yes, I understand. But in fact these poets were stronger rulers than the crowned ones. Why were they not isolated and exterminated? In our State." "Oh, yes, in our State." I began. But suddenly she laughed. I saw the laughter in her eyes. I saw the resounding sharp curve of that laughter, flexible, tense like a whip. I remember my whole body shivered. I thought of grasping her and I don't know what. I had to do something, it mattered little what, automatically I looked at my golden badge, glanced at my watch-ten minutes to seventeen! "Don't you think it is time to go?" I said in as polite a tone as possible. "And if I should ask you to stay here with me?" "What? Do you realize what you are saying? In ten minutes I must be in the auditorium." "And Call the Numbers must take the prescribed courses in art and science," said I-330 with my voice. Then she lifted the curtain, opened her eyes-through the dark windows the fire was blazing. "I have a physician in the Medical Bureau; he is registered to me; if I ask him, he will give you a certificate declaring that you are ill. All right?" Understood! At last I understood where this game was leading. "Ah, so! But you know that every honest Number as a matter of course must immediately go to the office of the Guardians and." "And as a matter not of course?" (Sharp smile-bite.) "I am very curious to know: will you or will you not go to the Guardians?" "Are you going to remain here?" I grasped the knob of the door. It was a brass knob, a cold, brass knob, and I heard, cold like brass, her voice: "Just a minute, may I?" She went to the telephone, called a Number, I was so upset it escaped me, and spoke loudly: "I shall be waiting for you in the Ancient House. Yes, yes, alone." I turned the cold brass knob. “May I take the aero?" "Oh, yes, certainly, please!" In the sunshine at the gate the old woman was dozing like a plant. Again I was surprised to see her grown-together mouth open, and to hear her say: "And your lady, did she remain alone?" "Alone." The mouth of the old woman grew together again; she shook her head; apparently even her weakening brain understood the stupidity and the danger of that woman's behavior. At seventeen o’clock exactly I was at the lecture. There I suddenly realized that I did not tell the whole truth to the old woman. I-330 was not there alone now. Possibly this fact, that I involuntarily told the old woman a lie, was torturing me now and distracting my attention. Yes, not alone-that was the point. After twenty-one-thirty o'clock I had a free hour; I could therefore have gone to the office of the Guardians to make my report. But after that stupid adventure I was so tired; besides, the law provides two days. I shall have time tomorrow; I have another twenty-four hours. RECORD SEVEN. An Eyelash. Taylor. Henbane and Lily of the Valley. Night. Green, orange, blue. The red royal instrument. The yellow dress. Then a brass Buddha. Suddenly it lifted the brass eyelids and sap began to How from it, from Buddha. Sap also from the yellow dress. Even in the mirror, drops of sap, and from the large bed and from the children's bed and soon from myself. It is horror, mortally sweet horror! I woke up. Soft blue light, the glass of the walls, of the chairs, of the table was glimmering. This calmed me. My heart stopped palpitating. Sap! Buddha! How absurd! I am sick, it is clear; I never saw dreams before. They say that to see dreams was a common normal thing with the ancients. Yes, after all, their life was a whirling carousel: green, orange, Buddha, sap. But we, people of today, we know all too well that dreaming is a serious mental disease. I, Is it possible that my brain, this precise, clean, glittering mechanism, like a chronometer without a speck of dust on it, is? Yes, it is, now. I really feel there in the brain some foreign body like an eyelash in the eye. One does not feel one's whole body, but this eye with a hair in it; one cannot forget it for a second. The cheerful, crystalline sound of the bell at my head. Seven o'clock. Time to get up. To the right and to the left as in mirrors, to the right and to the left through the glass walls I see others like myself, other rooms like my own, other clothes like my own, movements like mine, duplicated thousands of times. This invigorates me; I see myself as a part of an enormous, vigorous, united body; and what precise beauty! Not a single superfluous gesture, or bow, or tum. Yes, this Taylor was undoubtedly the greatest genius of the ancients. True, he did not come to the idea of applying his method to the whole life, to every step throughout the twenty-four hours of the day; he was unable to integrate his system from one o'clock to twenty four. I cannot understand the ancients. How could they write whole libraries about some Kant and take only slight notice of Taylor, of this prophet who saw ten centuries ahead? Breakfast was over. The hymn of the United State had been harmoniously sung; rhythmically, four abreast we walked to the elevators, the motors buzzed faintly, and swiftly we went down, down, down, the heart sinking slightly. Again that stupid dream, or some unknown function of that dream. Oh, yes! Yesterday in the aero, then down, down! Well, it is all over, anyhow. Period. It is very fortunate that I was so firm and brusque with her. The car of the underground railway carried me swiftly to the place where the motionless, beautiful body of the Integral, not yet spiritualized by fire, was glittering in the docks in the sunshine. With closed eyes I dreamed in formulae. Again I calculated in my mind what was the initial velocity required to tear the Integral away from the earth. Every second the mass of the Integral would change because of the expenditure of the explosive fuel. The equation was very complex, with transcendent figures. As in a dream I felt, right here in the firm calculated world, how someone sat down at my side, barely touching me and saying, "Pardon." I opened my eyes. At first, apparently because of an association with the Integral, I saw something impetuously flying into the distance-a head; I saw pink wing ears sticking out on the sides of it, then the curve of the overhanging back of the head, the double-curved letter S. Through the glass walls of my algebraic world again I felt the eyelash in my eye. I felt something disagreeable, I felt that today I must. "Certainly, please." I smiled at my neighbor and bowed. I saw Number 8-4711 glittering on his golden badge, that is why I associated him with the letter S from the very first moment: an optical impression which remained unregistered by consciousness. His eyes sparkled, two sharp little drills; they were revolving swiftly, drilling in deeper and deeper. It seemed that in a moment they would drill in to the bottom and would see something that I do not even dare to confess to myself. That bothersome eyelash became wholly clear tome. S was one of them, one of the Guardians, and it would be the simplest thing immediately, without deferring, to tell him everything! "I went yesterday to the Ancient House." My voice was strange, husky, flat, I tried to cough. "That is good. It must have given you material for some instructive deductions." “Yes, but. You see, I was not alone; I was in the company of I-330, and then." "I-330? You are fortunate. She is a very interesting, gifted woman; she has a host of admirers." But he, too-then during the promenade. Perhaps he is even assigned as her he-Number! No, it is impossible to tell him, unthinkable. This was perfectly clear. “Yes, yes, certainly, very.” I smiled, more and more broadly, more stupidly, and felt as if my smile made me look foolish, naked. The drills reached the bottom; revolving continually they screwed themselves back into his eyes. S smiled double-curvedly, nodded, and slid to the exit. I covered my face with the newspaper. I felt as if everybody were looking at me, and soon I forgot about the eyelash, about the little drills, about everything, I was so upset by what I read in the paper: "According to authentic information, traces of an organization, which still remains out of reach, have again been discovered. This organization aims at liberation from the beneficial yoke of the State." Liberation! It is remarkable how persistent human criminal instincts are! I use deliberately the word "criminal," for freedom and crime are as closely related as-well, as the movement of an aero and its speed: if the speed of an aero equals zero, the aero is motionless; if human liberty is equal to zero, man does not commit any crime. That is clear. The way to rid man of criminality is to rid him of freedom. No sooner did we rid ourselves of freedom, in the cosmic sense centuries are only a "no sooner," than suddenly some unknown pitiful degenerates. No, I cannot understand why I did not go immediately yesterday to the Bureau of Guardians. Today, after sixteen o'clock, I shall go without fail. At sixteen-ten I was in the street; at once I noticed O-90 at the corner; she was all rosy with delight at the encounter. She has a simple, round mind. A timely meeting, she would understand and lend me support. Or, no, I did not need any support; my decision was firm. The pipes of the Musical Tower thundered out harmoniously the March-the same daily March. How wonderful the charm of this dailiness, of this constant repetition and mirror-like smoothness! "Out for a walk?" Her round blue eyes opened toward me widely, blue windows leading inside; I penetrate there unhindered; there is nothing in there, I mean nothing foreign, nothing superfluous. "No, not for a walk. I must got I told her where. And to my astonishment I saw her rosy round mouth form a crescent with the horns downward as if she tasted something sour. This angered me. "You she-Numbers seem to be incurably eaten up by prejudices. You are absolutely unable to think abstractly. Forgive me the word, but this I call bluntness of mind." "You? To the spies? How ugly! And I went to the Botanical Garden and brought you a branch of lily of the valley." "Why and I? Why this and? Just like a woman!" Angrily, this I must confess, I snatched the flowers. "Here they are, your lilies of the valley. Well, smell them! Good? Yes? Why not use a little bit of logic? The lilies of the valley smell good; all right! But you cannot say about an odor, about the conception of an odor, that it is good or bad, can you? You can't, can you? There is the smell of lilies of the valley, and there is the disagreeable smell of henbane. Both are odors. The ancient States had their spies; we have ours, yes, spies! I am not afraid of words. But is it not clear to you that there the spies were henbane, here they are lilies of the valley? Yes, lilies of the valley. Yes!" The rosy crescent quivered. Now I understand that it was only my impression, but at that moment I was certain she was going to laugh. I shouted still louder: "Yes, lilies of the valley! And there is nothing funny about it, nothing funny!” The smooth round globes of heads passing by were turning toward us. O-90 gently took my hand. "You are so strange today are you ill?" My dream. Yellow color Buddha. It was at once borne clearly upon me that I must go to the Medical Bureau. "Yes, you are right, I am sick," I said with joy, that seems to me an inexplicable contradiction; there was nothing to be joyful about. "You must go at once to the doctor. You understand that; you are obliged to be healthy; it seems strange to have to prove it to you." "My dear O, of course you are right. Absolutely right.” I did not go to the Bureau of Guardians; I could not; I had to go to the Medical Bureau; they kept me there until seventeen o'clock. In the evening, incidentally, the Bureau of Guardians is closed evenings, in the evening O came to see me. The curtains were not lowered. We busied ourselves with the arithmetical problems of an ancient textbook. This occupation always calms and purifies our thoughts. 0sat over her notebook, her head slightly inclined to the left; she was so assiduous that she poked out her left cheek with the tongue from within. She looked so childlike, so charming. I felt everything in me was pleasant, precise, and simple. She left. I remained alone. I breathed deeply two times, it is very good exercise before retiring for the night. Suddenly-an unexpected odor reminiscent of something very disagreeable! I soon found out what was the matter, a branch of lily of the valley was hidden in my bed. Immediately everything was aroused again, came up from the bottom. Decidedly, it was tactless on her part to put these lilies of the valley there surreptitiously. Well, true I did not go; I didn't, but was it my fault that I had felt indisposed? RECORD EIGHT. An Irrational Root. R-13. The Triangle. It was long ago, during my school days, when I first encountered the square root of minus one. I remember it all very clearly: a bright globe like class hall, about a hundred round heads of children, and Plappa our mathematician. We nicknamed him Plappa; it was a very much used-up mathematician, loosely screwed together; as the member of the class who was on duty that day would put the plug into the socket behind, we would hear at first from the loud-speaker, "Plap-plap-plap-plaptshshsh." Only then the lesson would follow. One day Plappa told us about irrational numbers, and I remember I wept and banged the table with my fist and cried, “I do not want that square root of minus one; take that square root of minus one away!" This irrational root grew into me as something strange, foreign, terrible; it tortured me; it could not be thought out. It could not be defeated because it was beyond reason. Now, that square root of minus one is here again. I read over what I have written and I see clearly that I was insincere with myself, that I lied to myself in order to avoid seeing that square root of minus one. My sickness is all nonsense! I could go there. I feel sure that if such a thing had happened a week ago I should have gone with out hesitating. Why, then, am I unable to go now? Why? Today, for instance, at exactly sixteen-ten I stood before the glittering Glass Wall. Above was the shining, golden, sun-like sign: "Bureau of Guardians." Inside, a long queue of bluish-gray unifs awaiting their turns, faces shining like the oil lamps in an ancient temple. They had come to accomplish a great thing: they had come to put on the altar of the United State their beloved ones, their friends, their own selves. My whole being craved to join them, yet. I could not; my feet were as though melted into the glass plates of the sidewalk. I simply stood there looking foolish. "Hey, mathematician! Dreaming?" I shivered. Black eyes varnished with laughter looked at me-thick Negro lips! It was my old friend the poet, R-13, and with him rosy O. I turned around angrily. I still believe that if they had not appeared I should have entered the Bureau and have torn the square root of minus one out of my flesh. "Not dreaming at all. If you will, standing in adoration," I retorted quite brusquely. "Oh, certainly, certainly! You, my friend, should never have become a mathematician; you should have become a poet, a great poet! Yes, come over to our trade, to the poets. Eh? If you will, I can arrange it in a jiffy. Eh?" R-13 usually talks very fast. His words run in torrents, his thick lips sprinkle. Every "p" is a fountain, every "poets" a fountain. "So far I have served knowledge, and I shall continue to serve knowledge." I frowned. I do not like, I do not understand jokes, and R-13 has the bad habit of joking. "Oh, to the deuce with knowledge. Your much-heralded knowledge is but a form of cowardice. It is a fact! Yes, you want to encircle the infinite with a wall, and you fear to cast a glance behind the wall Yes, sir! And if ever you should glance beyond the wall, you would be dazzled and close your eyes-yes." "Walls are the foundation of every human," I began. R-13 sprinkled his fountain. O laughed rosily and roundly. I waved my hand. "Well, you may laugh, I don't care." I was busy with something else. I had to find a way of eating up, of crashing down, that square root of minus one. “Suppose," I offered,” we go to my place and do some arithmetical problems." The quiet hour of yesterday afternoon came to my memory; perhaps today also. O glanced at R, then serenely and roundly at me; the soft, endearing color of our pink checks came to her cheeks. “But today I am, I have a check to him today." A glance at R, “And tonight he is busy, so." The moist, varnished lips whispered good-naturedly: "Half an hour is plenty for us, is it not, O? I am not a great lover of your problems; let us simply go over to my place and chat." I was afraid to remain alone with myself or, to be more correct, with that strange new self who by some curious coincidence bore my number, D-503. So I went with R. True, he is not precise, not rhythmic, his logic is jocular and turned inside out, yet we are. Three years ago we both chose our dear, rosy O. This tied our friendship more firmly together than our school days did. In R's room everything seems like mine: the Tables, the glass of the chairs, the table, the closet, the bed. But as we entered, R moved one chair out of place, then another-the room became confused, everything lost the established order and seemed to violate every rule of Euclid's geometry. R remained the same as always; in Taylor and in mathematics he always lagged at the tail of the class. We recalled Plappa, how we boys used to paste the whole surface of his glass legs with paper notes expressing our thanks, we all loved Plappa. We recalled our priest, it goes without saying that we were not taught the "law" of ancient religion but the law of the United State. Our priest had a very powerful voice; a real hurricane would come out of the loud-speaker. And we children would yell the prescribed texts after him with all our lung power. We recalled how our scapegrace, R-13, used to stuff the priest with chewed paper; every word was thus accompanied by a paper wad shot out. Naturally, R was punished, for what he did was undoubtedly wrong, but now we laughed heartily-by we I mean our triangle, R, O, and I. I must confess, I, too. "And what if he had been a living one? Like the ancient ones, eh? We'd have b, b,” a fountain running from the fat bubbling lips. The sun was shining through the ceiling, the sun above, the sun from the sides, its reflection from below. O on R-13's lap and minute drops of sunlight in O’s blue eyes. Somehow my heart warmed up. The square' root of minus one became silent and motionless. "Well, how is your Integral? Will you soon hop off to enlighten the inhabitants of the planets? You'd better hurry up, my boy, or we poets will have produced such a devilish lot that even your Integral will be unable to lift the cargo. Every day from eight to eleven," R wagged his head and scratched the back of it. The back of his head is square; it looks like a little valise, I recalled for some reason an ancient painting "In the Cab". I felt more lively. "You, too, are writing for the Integral? Tell me about it. What are you writing about? What did you write today, for instance?" "Today I did not write; today I was busy with something else." "B-b-busy" sprinkled straight into my face. "What else?" R frowned. What? What? "Well, if you insist I'll tell you. I was busy with the Death Sentence. I was putting the Death Sentence into verse. An idiot-and to be frank, one of our poets. For two years we all lived side by side with him and nothing seemed wrong. Suddenly he went crazy. I, said he, am a genius! and I am above the law. All that sort of nonsense. But it is not a thing to talk about." The fat lips hung down. The varnish disappeared from the eyes. He jumped up, turned around, and stared through the wall. I looked at his tightly closed little "valise" and thought, "What is he handling in his little valise now?" A moment of awkward, asymmetric silence. I could not see clearly what was the matter, but I was certain there was something, to "Fortunately the antediluvian time of those Shakespeares and Dostoevskys, or what were their names? is past," I said in a voice deliberately loud. R turned his face to me. Words sprinkled and bubbled out of him as before, but I thought I noticed there was no more joyful varnish to his eyes. "Yes, dear mathematician, fortunately, fortunately. We are the happy arithmetical mean. As you would put it, the integration from zero to infinity, from imbeciles to Shakespeare. Do I put it right?" I do not know why, it seemed to me absolutely uncalled for, I recalled suddenly the other one, her tone. A thin, invisible thread stretched between her and R, what thread? The square root of minus one began to bother me again. I glanced at my badge; sixteen-twenty five o'clock! They had only thirty-five minutes for the use of the pink check. "Well, I must go." I kissed O, shook hands with R, and went to the elevator. As I crossed the avenue I turned around. Here and there in the huge mass of glass penetrated by sunshine there were grayish-blue squares, the opaque squares of lowered curtains, the squares of rhythmic, Taylorized happiness. On the seventh floor I found R-13's square. The curtains were already lowered. Dear O. Dear R. He also has, I do not know why I write this "also," but I write as it comes from my pen, he, too, has something which is not entirely clear in him. Yet I, he, and O, we are a triangle; I confess, not an isosceles triangle, but a triangle nevertheless. We, to speak in the language o

Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html Rahan. Episode Fifty-five. Drawn by Andre Cheret, text by Roger Lecureux. The one who makes clouds. Rahan will not eat today! The “Birds-that-swim” are faster than him! The panicked ducks once again escaped the son of Crao. Disappointed, he returned to the bank. Rats hunt better than Rahan! They only left the bones and feathers! The carcass, still feathered, was dried out. A long time ago, no doubt, water rats had devoured the entrails of this great duck. Page Two. The “Birds-that-swim” will not always taunt Rahan! Reproaching himself for not having had this idea sooner, the son of Crao let himself slide under the water. Swimming gently at the bottom of the river, he was soon under the ducks. Up above, the webbed feet beat the surface. He propelled himself with a vigorous kick of his heel and. Ra-ha-ha! Rahan hunts as well as rats! Shortly after, in the shade of the palm trees, he lit a fire. He was still unaware that all his actions were being observed! A light breeze rose. While the duck roasted, the son of Crao watched the plumes of smoke rise. Oh! And suddenly! Page Three. Blown down by the wind, large palm fronds sometimes stopped the rise of these volutes. And small clouds rose in the sky. Amused by this curious phenomenon, Rahan ate cheerfully. The foliage cuts the smoke into pieces, like Rahan has cut the bird that swims. Cries both worried and threatening suddenly alerted him. A solid spear stuck into the heart of his fire. Schlong. On the other bank, a hunter was screaming. A woman and a child stood behind him. Arrak does not fear demons! If you enter our territory, he will kill you! The son of Crao only heard a few words, but he understood their meaning. Why do they want to prevent Rahan from crossing to the other side of the waterway? Page Four. Over there, in concert, the trio monitored the river without ceasing. What do they say? Rahan would like to know! But they will not let him near them! Oh! The gutted and dried carcass of the duck inspired him with a ruse. A rush slid into the neck restored the appearance of life to this carcass. Through these holes, Rahan will be able to see without being seen! The hunter and his companions, on the other bank, did not notice the reeds that were parting. Nor do they pay attention to this “Bird-who-swims” which, a moment later, was innocently crossing the river! Page Five. Two tigers emerged from the rushes, and gathered together to pounce. Rahan should not have thrown the spears into the water! You could have resisted the “Striped Skin”! Rahan hopes he can atone for his mistake! Gripping his ivory knife, the son of Crao attacked. He felt capable of triumphing over the feline who had just knocked him down. But the other? What would these unfortunate people do, disarmed in the face of the other beast? As he dealt a fatal blow to the "Striped Skin", he responded with a victorious clamor. Ra-ha-ha! Arakk had just broken the neck of the great tigress! Crack! Rahan has met few hunters who dare to confront a “striped skin” with their hands alone! Page Six. Exhausted by the effort the man panted Araak had to save his wife. And his son! Araak is brave! He could be Rahan's friend! No! You make clouds! And the clouds are bad for the clan! Rahan knows how to make fire, it is true! He knows how to make smoke, it is true! And what you saw was not clouds, but smoke! The hunter, troubled, looked gravely at the son of Crao. Rahan says strange things! The clan will never believe them! Rahan will tell your brothers that he is not lying! Do you want to take him to yours? A little later. Usually, women and children do not accompany hunters. Why are they with you? Page Seven. To find game we often have to walk for days and many of our hunters have never found the way back to the village! They died in the jungle without even seeing those they loved again! This is why, for a few moons our clan has decided. That men would go hunting with their families! So, if death strikes, they join the “Territory of Shadows” together! Araak affectionately hugged his wife and son. The new clan law is: “Live together or die together”! It was a long and difficult walk. Araak often stopped, looking for a landmark to orient himself Rahan understands better why so many hunters go astray! Page Eight. The trees looked similar. The thickets looked the same. The bushes looked the same. Everything was so similar that Rahan was amazed. To suddenly emerge into a sunny clearing. Mine have the face of bad days! A new misfortune has struck the clan! Hostile groups approached. “Body of Stone” Did not come back from the hunt! And you, Araak, you bring back a stranger! Would you have realized that food is rare, and. Your tongue will speak differently when you have heard Araak! Araak recounted his meeting with the son of Crao and the fight with the "Striped Skins". He spoke of fire and "Clouds". But as the hunters remained incredulous. You do not believe Araak? Well, Rahan is going to show you these things you have never seen! Page Nine. Very often, Rahan had amazed clans by making fire spring from the “stones that throw the stars”. This time again he provoked astonishment and then enthusiasm. But the fear returned when the palm fronds he was swinging formed volutes. You are an evil spirit! You make the clouds that bring the storm! These are not clouds! Would the clan be afraid of simple tufts of smoke!? Look! The swirls quickly dissipated into the azure. “Fire Hair” is right! Real clouds do not disappear like this! Can you do other miracles? Eh? Eh! Rahan does not perform miracles! But he knows many things that he will teach his brothers. When he finds the one you call "Stone Body!" Page Ten. “Stone Body” Is our leader. He had to pursue game and went too deep into the forest. Did you look for him? No! Clan law forbids it! In the past, we tried to find those who got lost. But we were losing more hunters than those we hoped to save! Rahan does not belong to the clan! He does not have to obey this law! He will bring back "Body of Stone"! A murmur of admiration arose. Araak will accompany “Hair of Fire”! "Stone body" went to the side of "red teeth". We will go there! Rahan and Araak, shortly after, plunged into the thick jungle. You said your people still hunt as a family? Our leader has neither wife nor children. He always leaves alone! Page Eleven. When the two men reached the "Red Teeth", the sunset fires brightened the pink granite of the rocks. Look! These are not the tracks of a hunter, Araak. But those of a great “Four Hands” Night interrupted their search. Only “Body of Stone” Knows this territory! If we don't find him alive, we are lost too!! He is alive, Araak! Listen! Among the thousand cries of birds which greeted the near return of daylight, Rahan's trained ear had just distinguished distant calls. It is the echo of the ravine that brings us these cries! The son of Crao and his companion followed the steep-sided fault for a long time. Over there! It is "Body of Stone"! He is hurt! The man had seen them. He was waving one arm, but the other seemed dead. It is the good sense of the hunters who sent you, Araak! With only one hand "Body of Stone" would not be safe from this trap! Page Twelve. Body-of-stone was surprised by a "Four-hands” which knocked him unconscious and threw him into the ravine. He could have reached the territory of shadows but only his arm was broken! The son of Crao was already tying strong vines. A moment later. Hmm, Rahan now understands why you are calling your chief the “Body of Stone”! Rahan and Araak had to make terrible efforts. To hoist the colossus which could only use his feet, and was still in the void. When furious growls came from behind the two men. Smashing the branches, a large male gorilla was about to charge them!! Page thirteen. If they let go of the line to face the danger, "Body of Stone” would crash to the bottom of the ravine! And Araak's spear was stuck twenty paces away! If Araak runs towards his spear, Rahan will not be able to hold back "Stone Body"! He must! Araak! He must! Araak and the great ape rushed towards the weapon at the same time. With incredible energy, the son of Crao tied the vine around his waist. He saw the "Four-hands" throw his companion to the ground and he himself, dragged down by the weight of the colossus, lost his balance! As the gorilla angrily broke the spear, Araak rushed. Greek! Courage “Fire Hair”! Courage brother! Finding no hold to hold on to, Rahan slipped towards the abyss! Page Fourteen. Everything had happened very quickly. What followed was even more so! While Araak, braced against the line, relieved Rahan, the latter drew his cutlass. And the gorilla charged again! A melee was unthinkable. Rahan had to kill from afar! If Rahan misses the "Four Hands", we will no longer have a weapon! The three of us will all join the “Territory of Shadows”! The knife flew towards the black chest of the monster. Save Rahan knife! Save him once again! Ra-ha-ha! Chtok! The large ivory blade disappeared into the flesh. The gorilla remained motionless for a moment, as if struck by amazement. Then, feeling death creeping into him, he leapt towards the thickets, towards his domain. Let us get the “body of stone” back up! Quick! Quick! Quick! Page Fifteen. It was only when his leader was safe that Araak understood the haste of the son of Crao. If Rahan loses track of the “Four Hands”, he will never find his knife! Trampled bushes. Crushed herbs. The trail was easy to follow. But anxiety choked Rahan's throat. Perhaps the "Four Hands" had rid itself of the weapon? Perhaps it was already buried in this inextricable mess? This knife and the necklace of claws that Crao-the-wise had once left him were his only possessions! Deprived of one or the other he no longer felt quite himself. That was why he screamed with joy when he finally discovered the great ape. The ivory weapon had done its work! Ra-ha-ha! Page Sixteen. But his joy was soon to be over! Rahan has taken too many detours! He cannot even find his own tracks! Oh! Chance had led him to “Body of stone”, they too were lost! It is the evil spirit that brings us together, "Fire Hair"! It wants us to die together! We will wander for days and days in the jungle. And we will end up being torn to pieces by the wild beasts, like so many others! No! We will find your clan! Rahan, agile, climbed into a tree. What is the point, "Fire Hair"! “Stone body” has often tried to locate the village this way! It is impossible! Even from the top of the biggest tree you cannot see the "Red Teeth"! A moment later the son of Crao dominated the ocean of greenery. Up to the horizon it was just a mass of trees. Where did the “Red Teeth” stand? On which side was the village located? Nothing was left to him but guessing! Page Seventeen. With bitterness in his heart, he was going to abandon the summit. And suddenly there was a miracle. Ra-ha-ha! Rahan knows where the clan is! The hunters imitated Rahan! All the way over there, tiny clouds escaped from the foliage, signaling the location of the village that no one could have discerned! A little later. We will be near yours before sunset! The “Clouds” will guide our steps! Under cover, there was a great risk of getting lost again. But the son of Crao often re-orientated himself. And the village was in sight in the evening. Never again will hunters get lost in the jungle! Unaware that they had allowed their return, the clan cheered the three men. We did like Rahan! We made fire spring from the “Stones-that-threw-stars”. We made clouds! Page Eighteen. And thanks to these "Clouds”, lost hunters will always find their way back to the village! Maybe even talk from afar. Like this. A few clouds will say that things are "going well". Many clouds will say that they are going badly. It will be enough to agree on a language! We owe you a lot! But what are you doing? "Stone body” will soon be able to brandish a spear! Rahan carefully ligated the broken limb, as Crao had instructed him. And Araak believed, on the river, that you were a demon! Araak was stupid! Will you forgive him? Rahan smiled brotherly. He always forgave the ignorance of "Those-who-walk-upright", when they recognized it loyally.

Rahan. Episode Fifty Four. By Roger Lecureux, drawn by Andre Cheret. The mother of mothers. As the entwined skeletons were still clutching axes, the son of Crao understood that the two hunters had killed each other at the bottom of this gorge. And together they joined the “Territory of Shadows”! Which one was right? Which one was wrong? Why did they waste their lives? Rahan will never know! As he climbed the cliff he heard strange rumors. Long moans punctuated by angry screams. Page Two. But they rose from the forest and he only saw the large shimmering lake at the foot of the hill. Oh! Why were these unfortunate people abandoned to the “Wood skins”? A large skiff ran aground in the rushes in the middle of the lake. A man and a woman were restrained there! The “Wood skins” will soon pour out on this raft, and devour them! The son of Crao was already hurtling down the slope, jumping the trees felled by lightning. Ah! As he fell on a trunk it rolled, throwing him off balance. Other trunks, suddenly loosened, rolled in their turn. And he was carried by the wave of wood to a large rock. Page Three. Against which this wave suddenly broke up! A huge trunk was coming towards him. Oh! Rahan will be crushed! He only had time to dive behind the rock. Ra-ha-ha! Bong! Avoiding the blasted trees that littered the slope, the son of Crao descended towards the bank. Rahan will have to be more careful! Between him and the skiff, numerous and worrying saurians were swimming. The "Wood skins" would kill Rahan before he reached that raft! Page Four. He thought about making a lasso but gave up because the skiff offered no grip on the loop. Oh! Rahan knows how to bring back the raft! Rahan risks reaching these unfortunate people. But this is the only chance to save them! The ivory knife was firmly tied into the bamboo. Thrown with as much force as precision, the javelin flew towards the skiff. Ra-ha-ha! Bang! And stuck deep in a tree trunk, right between the two inert bodies! Bringing the skiff back to shore was now easy. Rahan hopes life has not yet fled their bodies! Page Five. A moment later. They live! These beatings in their chest say that they have not crossed the border of the “territory of shadows”! The son of Crao knew how to find the "Sun Fruits" whose benefits he knew. What? Who are you? What do you want from us? Rahan saved you from the "Wooden Skins". Still dazed, the man observed the lake where countless crocodiles floated like stumps. Saved? So you have not seen Ohana's color!? Yes, but Rahan is not surprised, he has already lived among black-skinned hunters. These words stunned the man. In our territory, whites and blacks hate each other and fight each other! You don't seem to hate Ohana though! Rahan, mischievous, pointed to the young woman who had recovered her spirits. Page Six. Garakk Loves Ohana! But mine claim that black-skinned hunters are not men but beasts! Because Ohana and Garakk love each other, they wanted to punish us! A slow death! Said the wizard. Mine are crazy to believe that because they have light skin, they are the only sons of the mother of mothers! And they delivered us to the lake. To the “Wood skins”! And we remained attached to the raft as many days as the hand has fingers! Intrigued, the son of Crao asked many questions. He learned that Garakk’s clan, since the death of its leader, was terrorizing that of Ohana. Page Seven. Any black man captured becomes a slave to my clan. Baha-the-witch commissions him to bring the great mother of mothers back to the village. The great “mother of mothers”? Rahan also learned that clan of Garakk had discovered in the mountain an enormous rock whose shape evoked the mother of mothers. In these fierce times, the “Mother of mothers” was the symbol, the representation of life. And the sorcerer demanded that this rock, of fantastic weight, be brought back to the village and erected in front of his hut! A superhuman task imposed on black slaves! Every day one of my brothers succumbs. Baha be damned! All white men be damned! Garakk Also? Do not let yourself be blinded by anger, Ohana! There are good white men. Garakk is proof! Attention Rahan! Hunters approach! Page Eight. If they are mine, Ohana will die! If it is Ohana's brothers, we will die! Give me your weapon, Rahan, I want to defend Ohana-the-sweet. Ah! Thrown from the thickets, a club struck Garakk. The son of Crao narrowly avoided the one that was destined for him. And caught a glimpse of the two hunters who were clearing the bushes. And rushed towards him. Leave this man, brothers! He is not an enemy! He saved Ohana from the “Wood skins”! Ohana betrayed our clan! Her place is no longer among us! One of the hunters was going to pick up the club. Page Nine. He did not have time! Rahan hates fighting with "Those Who Walk Upright", whether they are white or black! But he must defend himself! Schak! Raised by the knee, the man immediately collapsed under the punch that followed. Ra-ha-ha! Attention Rahan! A second hunter, was going to deliver a terrifying blow. He was torn from the ground and rolled off Rahan’s shoulder. Then fluttered several steps. “Fire hair” is the strongest! What is he going to do? Kill us on the spot or make us die slowly by bringing the mother of mothers back to the white wizard! Page Ten. Garakk had come to his senses. They attacked me! You have the right to kill them! Rahan leaves this right to wild beasts! These are not wild animals, but men! One day they will understand that Rahan is a friend! The hunters were amazed. And they were even more so when Rahan returned their clubs to them. Go back and tell your people that not all white people are like Baha! Tell them that black and white hunters can live together. Like Ohana and Garakk decided to do! The two men disappeared into the thickets. Thank you for my brothers, Rahan! And thank you for mine! Let your wise words be heard! Page Eleven. We will first have to get them admitted by Baha-the-sorcerer! Rahan was thoughtful, but his resolution was made. He would not leave this territory without having brought back harmony between “Those-who-walk-upright”! However, a hundred stone throws from them. I saw him as I see you, Baha! This fiery-haired hunter has delivered the black girl and Garakk-the-traitor! Bring back that hunter! Baha wants to see alive the fool who had the audacity to oppose his orders! A few men went into the forest. They showed no enthusiasm. Since Baha replaced Tanguy the clan has not been doing good things! Baha is no longer satisfied with black slaves. He wants us to capture a white hunter. Soon he will demand that we fight among ourselves! Page Twelve. During this time. My people will not listen to Rahan-the-wise! But if you do not give up on this idea, Garakk will lead you to them! An Ohana? Ohana promised to never leave Garakk! She will go with you! You will conduct Rahan to the outskirts of the village and then flee! We will not make it to the village! Look! Brandishing their long spears, five men emerged from the forest. Do not resist, fire hair! We have orders to bring you back alive! Rahan wanted to join your clan. He could not hope to find better guides. Page thirteen. And Garakk? And the black girl? Baha only talked about "Fire Hair". He does not need to know that we found these two! Our clan has already tormented them enough. Let them go and live in peace in another territory! The men exchanged knowing glances. And Rahan understood that these white hunters could still have good sentiment. Farewell, Garakk! Farewell, Ohana! Rahan wishes you lots of happiness! The sun was still high, when escorted by men, he left the forest. If you do not oppose Baha-the sorcerer, he will perhaps spare you! Down below, on the rocky slope, dozens of black men were busy around an enormous rock. They pulled, braced themselves, and their groans underlined their superhuman efforts. Page Fourteen. This explained the complaints that had intrigued Rahan as he climbed the cliff. And these unfortunate people have no chance of escaping! Indeed, from place to place, hunters armed with bows monitored the slaves. How many seasons will pass before the mother of mothers stands in the village? The rock is so heavy that the slaves could not advance more than a spear length each day! Baha-the-sorcerer must be crazy to impose such suffering! The men did not respond, but Rahan guessed their approval. Baha approached. This then is the one who opposed my will! Why did all of you not disarm him? He agreed to follow us without resistance, Baha! I believe he is a loyal hunter! Page Fifteen. He delivered Garakk-the-traitor! He will be punished! Garakk did not betray his people! He has the right to love a black-skinned woman! A woman!? Black skins are beasts! And must be treated as such! And since you too betray your race, you will suffer the fate of these! And if tomorrow, at sunset, the Mother of Mothers has not arrived at this bush, it is you who will be put to death! The son of Crao was pushed among the slaves. Do not rebel, hair of fire, otherwise Baha will kill you with his own hands as he has killed so many of us! Your life depends on our efforts! His knife had been left with Rahan but the archers did not take their eyes off him. These unfortunate people are exhausting themselves to save Rahan! Page Sixteen. The vines hurt the hands. The gravel bruises the shoulders. And the rock only moved imperceptibly. As night fell, the torture ended. The slaves were herded under a tree. Tomorrow, everything will start again and it has been like this for years! Every day, Baha designates the place to which we must pull the mother of mothers. If we do not get there, he'll kill one of us at random. The son of Crao did not sleep. He thought of the vanity and cruelty of Baha who wanted the immense mother of mothers to stand before his hut. He thought of the archers who prevented any escape. But he thought, that night, of something else. Page Seventeen. The day was breaking when his cries woke the sorcerer. Rahan wants to speak, Baha! No, Baha! Rahan offers you a trade! The “Mother of mothers” will rise here in two days if you promise to free your captives! Two days! When I had planned two seasons? Ha-ha-ha! If you are capable of this miracle, you have my word! We will need axes! Your people might watch us but will let us do as we please. Understood! But if you fail, you will be skinned alive! The son of Crao had no trouble convincing his unfortunate companions. That morning there reigned on the rocky slope, an unusual activity. They brought trunks. And they dug the ground in front of the loose rock. Page Eighteen. Since the trees have carried away Rahan, they will carry away the mother of mothers. The carpet of trunks was finally ready. The sorcerer, stunned, witnessed the “Miracle”! The rock, like a granite monster, was crawling on this carpet! As soon as it was no longer supported by a trunk, that trunk was placed back in front of her. And what took days of effort required only a moment! Was Rahan at the origin of this prodigious invention that is the “Wheel”? Who knows? Fire hair has more power than Baha! He is sent from the gods. Let us drive out Baha from the clan. Just one day is enough to accomplish the impossible. The same evening, whites and blacks set up the idol in the village. Page Nineteen. The mother of mothers never made a distinction between her sons! She will watch over you all! A clamor of joy arose. Answered by that of the “black skins” emerging from all sides. Garakk was among them. We were coming to deliver the slaves but Rahan beat us to it! They will search in vain for Baha. Knowing he would forever be discredited, the sorcerer fled to another territory. This is the first night of peace since our leader, supported by Baha, challenged the leader of the "Black skins". The two leaders must have killed each other in the forest because no one ever saw them again! Page Twenty. Rahan found their bodies at the bottom of a ravine. He will take you there! You will see how similar “Those-who-walk-upright” are when they have joined the kingdom of shadows! The next day, led by the son of Crao, the two clans discovered the entwined skeletons. Who had been the white leader? Who had been the black leader? No one knew how to say it. If men are alike in death, they are also alike in life, whatever the color of their skin! You will now live in peace, brothers! Like Ohana and Garakk, you will know happiness! In the protective shadow of the mother of mothers, Garakk embraced his companion. This couple, tomorrow, would symbolize the reconciliation of the hunters. It was because he was certain of it that the son of Crao felt so happy! Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

I Am a Strange Loop. 2007, Douglas Hofstadter, A Puke (TM) Audiobook A successor to GEB, Godel, Escher, Bach. https://rumble.com/v3t4yzj-index-of-science.-music-by-dan-vasc.html https://rumble.com/v39y44y-goedel-escher-bach-part-i.-1979-book-by-douglas-hofstadter..html https://rumble.com/v3a6wlu-gdel-escher-bach-an-eternal-golden-braid-part-two.-by-douglas-hofstadter..html

https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html JOB: A Comedy of Justice. Robert Anson Heinlein. Copyright 1984. Behold, happy is the man whom God correcteth: Therefore despise not thou the chastening of The Almighty. Job Chapter 5, verse 17. Chapter One. When thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned. Isaiah Chapter forty three, verse two. THE FIRE pit was about twenty-five feet long by ten feet wide, and perhaps two feet deep. The fire had been burning for hours. The bed of coals gave off a blast of heat almost unbearable even back where I was seated, fifteen feet from the side of the pit, in the second row of tourists. I had given up my front-row seat to one of the ladies from the ship, delighted to accept the shielding offered by her well-fed carcass. I was tempted to move still farther back, but I did want to see the fire walkers close up. How often does one get to view a miracle? “It’s a hoax,” the Well-Traveled Man said. “You’ll see.” “Not really a hoax, Gerald,” the Authority-on-Everything denied. “Just somewhat less than we were led to expect. It won’t be the whole village, probably none of the hula dancers and certainly not those children. One or two of the young men, with calluses on their feet as thick as cowhide, and hopped up on opium or some native drug, will go down the pit at a dead run. The villagers will cheer and our kanaka friend there who is translating for us will strongly suggest that we should tip each of the fire walkers, over and above what we’ve paid for the luau and the dancing and this show. “Not a complete hoax,” he went on. “The shore excursion brochure listed a “demonstration of fire walking”. That’s what we’ll get. Never mind the talk about a whole village of fire walkers. Not in the contract. “The Authority looked smug. “Mass hypnosis,” the Professional Bore announced. I was tempted to ask for an explanation of mass hypnosis, but nobody wanted to hear from me; I was junior, not necessarily in years but in the cruise ship Konge Knut. That’s how it is in cruise ships: Anyone who has been in the vessel since port of departure is senior to, anyone who joins the ship later. The Medes and the Persians laid down this law and nothing can change it. I had flown down in the Count Von Zeppelin, at Papeete I would fly home in the Admiral Moffett, so I was forever junior and should keep quiet while my betters pontificated. Cruise ships have the best food and, all too often, the worst conversation in the world. Despite this I was enjoying the islands; even the Mystic and the Amateur Astrologer and the Parlor Freudian and the Numerologist did not trouble me, as I did not listen. “They do it through the fourth dimension,” the Mystic announced. “Isn’t that true, Gwendolyn!” “Quite true, dear,” the Numerologist agreed. “Oh, here they come now! It will be an odd number, you’ll see.” “You’re so learned, dear.” “Humph,” said the Skeptic. The native who was assisting our ship’s excursion host raised his arms and spread his palms for silence. “Please, will you all listen! Mauruuru roa. Thank you very much. The high priest and priestess will now pray the Gods to make the fire safe for the villagers. I ask you to remember that this is a religious ceremony, very ancient; please behave as you would in your own church. Because.” An extremely old kanaka interrupted; he and the translator exchanged words in a language not known to me Polynesian, I assumed; it had the right liquid flow to it. The younger kanaka turned back to us. “The high priest tells me that some of the children are making their first walk through fire today, including that baby over there in her mother’s arms. He asks all of you to keep perfectly silent during the prayers, to insure the safety of the children. Let me add that I am a Catholic. At this point I always ask our Holy Mother Mary to watch over our children, and I ask all of you to pray for them in your own way. Or at least keep silent and think good thoughts for them. If the high priest is not satisfied that there is a reverent attitude, he won’t let the children enter the fire, I’ve even known him to cancel the entire ceremony. “There you have it, Gerald,” said the Authority-on-Everything in a third-balcony whisper. “The build-up. Now the switch, and they’ll blame it on us.” He snorted. The Authority, his name was Cheevers, had been annoying me ever since I had joined the ship. I leaned forward and said quietly into his ear, “If those children walk through the fire, do you have the guts to do likewise?” Let this be a lesson to you. Learn by my bad example. Never let an oaf cause you to lose your judgement. Some seconds later I found that my challenge had been turned against me and, somehow!, all three, the Authority, the Skeptic, and the Well-Traveled Man, had each bet me a hundred that I would not dare walk the fire pit, stipulating that the children walked first. Then the translator was shushing us again and the priest and priestess stepped down into the fire pit and everybody kept very quiet and I suppose some of us prayed. I know I did. I found myself reciting what popped into my mind: Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Somehow it seemed appropriate. The priest and the priestess did not walk through the fire; they did-something quietly more spectacular and (it seemed to me) far more dangerous. They simply stood in the fire pit, barefooted, and prayed for several minutes. I could see their lips move. Every so often the old priest sprinkled something into the pit. Whatever it was, as it struck the coals it burst into sparkles. I tried to see what they were standing on, coals or rocks, but I could not tell, and could not guess which would be worse. Yet this old woman, skinny as gnawed bones, stood there quietly, face placid, and with no precautions other than having tucked up her lava-lava so that it was almost a diaper. Apparently she fretted about burning her clothes but not about burning her legs. Three men with poles had been straightening out the burning logs, making sure that the bed of the pit was a firm and fairly even footing for the fire walkers. I took a deep interest in this, as I expected to be walking in that pit in a few minutes, if I didn’t cave in and forfeit the bet. It seemed to me that they were making it possible to walk the length of the fire pit on rocks rather than burning coals. I hoped so! Then I wondered what difference it would make recalling sun-scorched sidewalks that had blistered my bare feet when I was a boy in Kansas. That fire had to be at least seven hundred degrees; those rocks had been soaking in that fire for several hours. At such temperatures was there any real choice between frying pan and fire? I Meanwhile the voice of reason was whispering in my ear that forfeiting three hundred was not much of a price to pay to get out of this bind, or would I rather walk the rest of my life on two barbecued stumps? Would it help if I took an aspirin? The three men finished fiddling with the burning logs and went to the end of the pit at our left; the rest of the villagers gathered behind them, including those darned kids! What were their parents thinking about, letting them risk something like this? Why weren’t they in school where they belonged? The three fire tenders led off, walking single file down the center of the fire, not hurrying, not dallying. The rest of the men of the village followed them, a slow, steady procession. Then came the women, including the young mother with a baby on her hip. When the blast of heat struck the infant, it started to cry. Without varying her steady pace, its mother swung it up and gave it suck; the baby shut up. The children followed, from pubescent girls and adolescent boys down to the kindergarten level. Last was a little girl, nine? Eight? Who was leading her round-eyed little, brother by, the hand. He seemed to be about four and was dressed only in his skin. I looked at this kid and knew with mournful certainty that I was about to be served up rare; I could no longer back out. Once the baby boy stumbled; his sister kept him from falling. He went on then, short sturdy steps. At the far end someone reached down and lifted him out. And it was my turn. The translator said to me, “You understand that the Polynesia Tourist Bureau takes no responsibility for your safety? That fire can burn you, it can kill you. These people can walk it safely because they have faith.” I assured him that I had faith, while wondering how I could be such a barefaced liar. I signed a release he presented. All too soon I was standing at one end of the pit, with my trousers rolled up to my knees. My shoes and socks and hat and wallet were at the far end, waiting on a stool. That was my goal, my prize, if I didn’t make it, would they cast lots for them? Or would they ship them to my next of kin? He was saying: “Go right down the middle. Don’t hurry but don’t stand still.” The high priest spoke up; my mentor listened, then said, “He says not to run, even if your feet burn. Because you might stumble and fall down. Then you might never get up. He means you might die. I must add that you probably would not die, unless you breathed flame. But you would certainly be terribly burned. So don’t hurry and don’t fall down. Now see that flat rock under you? That’s your first step. Que le bon Dieu vous garde. Good luck.” “Thanks.” I glanced over at the Authority-on-Everything, who was smiling ghoulishly, if ghouls smile. I gave him a mendaciously jaunty wave and stepped down. I had taken three steps before I realized that I didn’t feel anything at all. Then I did feel something: scared. Scared silly and wishing I were in Peoria. Or even Philadelphia. Instead of alone in this vast smoldering waste. The far end of the pit was a city block away. Maybe farther. But I kept plodding toward it while hoping that this numb paralysis would not cause me to collapse before reaching it. I felt smothered and discovered that I had been holding my breath. So I gasped, and regretted it. Over a fire pit that vast there is blistering gas and smoke and carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide and something that may be Satan’s halitosis, but not enough oxygen to matter.” I chopped off that gasp with my eyes watering and my throat raw and tried to estimate whether or not I could reach the end without breathing. Heaven help me, I could not see the far end! The smoke had billowed up and my eyes would barely open and would not focus. So I pushed on, while trying to remember the formula by which one made a deathbed confession and then slid into Heaven on a technicality. Maybe there wasn’t any such formula. My feet felt odd and my knees were becoming unglued, “Feeling better, Mister Graham?” I was lying on grass and looking up into a friendly, brown face. “I guess so,” I answered. “What happened? Did I walk it?” “Certainly you walked it. Beautifully. But you fainted right at the end. We were standing by and grabbed you, hauled you out. But you tell me what happened. Did you get your lungs full of smoke?” “Maybe. Am I burned?” “No, Oh, you may form one blister on your right foot. But you held the thought perfectly. All but that faint, which must have been caused by smoke.” “I guess so.” I sat up with his help. “Can you hand me my shoes and socks? Where is everybody?” “The bus left. The high priest took your pulse and checked your breathing but he wouldn’t let anyone disturb you. If you force a man to wake up when his spirit is still walking about, the spirit may not come back in. So he believes and no one dares argue with him.” “I won’t argue with him; I feel fine. Rested. But how do I get back to the ship?” Five miles of tropical paradise would get tedious after the first mile. On foot. Especially as my feet seemed to have swelled a bit. For which they, had ample excuse. “The bus will come back to take the villagers to the boat that takes them back to the island they live on. It then could take you to your ship. But we can do better. My cousin has an automobile. He will take you.” “Good. How much will he charge me?” Taxis in Polynesia are always outrageous, especially when the drivers have you at their mercy, of which they have none. But it occurred to me that I could afford to be robbed as I was bound to show a profit on this jape. Three hundred minus one taxi fare. I picked up my hat. “Where’s my wallet?” “Your wallet?” “My billfold. I left it in my hat. Where is it? This isn’t funny; my money was in it. And my cards.” “Your money? Oh! Votre portefeuille. I am sorry; my English is not perfect. The officer from your ship, your excursion guide, took care of it.” “That was kind of him. But how am I to pay your cousin? I don’t have a franc on me.” We got that straightened out. The ship’s excursion escort, realising that he would be leaving me strapped in rescuing my billfold, had prepaid my ride back to the ship. My kanaka friend took me to his cousin’s car and introduced me to his cousin, not too effectively, as the cousin’s English was limited to “Okay, Chief!” and I never did get his name straight. “His automobile was a triumph of baling wire and faith. We went roaring back to the dock at full throttle, frightening chickens and easily outrunning baby goats. I did not pay much attention as I was bemused by something that had happened just before we left. The villagers were waiting for their bus to return; we walked right through them. Or started to. I got kissed. I got kissed by all of them. I had already seen the Polynesian habit of kissing where we would just shake hands, but this was the first time it had happened to me. My friend explained it to me: “You walked through their fire, so you are an honorary member of their village. They want to kill a pig for you. Hold a feast in your honor.” I tried to answer in kind while explaining that I had to return home across the great water but I would return someday, God willing. Eventually we got away. But that was not what had me most bemused. Any unbiased judge would have to admit that I am reasonably sophisticated. I am aware that some places do not have America’s high moral standards and are careless about indecent exposure. I know that Polynesian women used to run around naked from the waist up until civilization came along, shucks, I read the National Geographic. But I never expected to see it. Before I made my fire walk the villagers were Dressed just as you would expect: grass skirts but with the women’s bosoms covered. But when they kissed me hello-goodbye they were not. Not covered, I mean. Just like the National Geographic. Now I appreciate feminine beauty. Those delightful differences, seen under proper circumstances with the shades decently drawn, can be dazzling. But forty-odd (no, even) of them are intimidating. I saw more human feminine busts than I had ever seen before, total and cumulative, in my entire life. The Methodist Episcopal Society for Temperance and Morals would have been shocked right out of their wits. With adequate warning I am sure that I could have enjoyed the experience. As it was, it was too new, too much, too fast. I could appreciate it only in retrospect. Our tropical Rolls-Royce crunched to a stop with the aid of hand brake, foot brake, and first-gear compression; I looked up from bemused euphoria. My Driver announced, “Okay, Chief!” I said, “That’s not my ship.” “Okay, Chief?” “You’ve taken me to the wrong dock. Uh, it looks like the right dock but it’s the wrong ship.” Of that I was certain. M.V. Konge Knut has white sides and superstructure and a rakish false funnel. This ship was mostly red with four tall black stacks. Steam, it had to be, not a motor vessel. As well as years out of date. “No, No!” “Okay, Chief. Votre vapeur! Voila!” “Non!” “Okay, Chief.” He got out, came around and opened the door on the passenger Side, grabbed my arm, and pulled. I’m in fairly good shape, but his arm had been toughened by swimming, climbing for coconuts, hauling in fishnets, and pulling tourists who don’t want to go out of cars. I got out. He jumped back in, called out, “Okay, Chief! Merci bien! Au voir!” and was gone. I went, Hobson’s choice, up the gangway of the strange vessel to learn, if possible, what had become of the Konge Knut. As I stepped aboard, the petty officer on gangway watch saluted and said, “Afternoon, sir. Mister Graham, Mister Nielsen left a package for you. One moment.” He lifted the lid of his watch desk, took out a large manila envelope. “Here you are, sir.” The package had written on it: A L Graham, cabin C109. I opened it, found a well-worn wallet. “Is everything in order, Mister Graham?” “Yes, thank you. Will you tell Mister Nielsen that I received it? And give him my thanks.” “Certainly, sir.” I noted that this was D deck, went up one flight to find cabin C109. All was not quite in order. My name is not “Graham”. Chapter Two. The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be, and that which is done is that which shall be done, and there is no new thing under the sun. Ecclesiastes Chapter one, verse nine. THANK HEAVEN ships use a consistent numbering system. Stateroom C109 was where it should be: on C deck, starboard side forward, between C107 and C111; I reached it without having to speak to anyone. I tried the door; it was locked, Mister Graham apparently believed the warnings pursers give about locking doors, especially in port. The key, I thought glumly, is in Mister Graham’s pants pocket. But where is Mister Graham? About to catch me snooping at his door? Or is the trying my door while I am trying his door? There is a small but not zero chance that a given key will fit a strange lock. I had in my own pocket my room key from the Konge Knut. I tried it. Well, it was worth trying. I stood there, wondering whether to sneeze or Drop dead, when I heard a sweet voice behind me: “Oh, Mister Graham!” A young and pretty woman in a maid’s costume, Correction: stewardess’ uniform. She came bustling toward me, took a pass key that was chained to her belt, opened C109, while saying, “Margrethe asked me to watch for you. She told me that you had left your cabin key on your desk. She let it stay but told me to watch for you and let you in.” “That’s most kind, of you, Miss, uh.” “I’m Astrid. I have the matching rooms on the port side, so Marga and I cover for each other. She’s gone ashore this afternoon.” She held the door for me. “Will that be all, sir?” I thanked her, she left. I latched and bolted the door, collapsed in a chair and gave way to the shakes. Ten minutes later I stood up, went into the bathroom, put cold water on my face and eyes. I had not solved anything and had not wholly calmed down, but my nerves were no longer snapping like a flag in a high wind. I had been holding myself in ever since I had begun to suspect that something was seriously wrong, which was, when? When nothing seemed quite right at the fire pit? Later? Well, with utter certainty when I saw one 20,000-ton ship substituted for another. My father used to tell me, “Alex, there is nothing wrong with being scared, as long as you don’t let it affect you until the danger is over. Being hysterical is okay, too, afterwards and in private. Tears are not unmanly, in the bathroom with the door locked. The difference between a coward and a brave man is mostly a matter of timing.” I’m not the man my father was but I try to follow his advice. If you can learn not to jump when the firecracker goes off, or whatever the surprise is, you stand a good chance of being able to hang tight until the emergency is over. This emergency was not over but I had benefited by the catharsis of a good case of shakes. Now I could take stock. Hypotheses: a) Something preposterous has happened to the world around me, or b) Something preposterous has happened to Alex Hergensheimer’s mind; he should be locked up and sedated. I could not think of a third hypothesis; those two seemed to cover all bases. The second hypothesis I need not waste time on. If, I were raising snakes in my hat, eventually other people would notice and come around with a straitjacket and put me in a nice padded room. So let’s assume that I am sane, or nearly so; being a little bit crazy is helpful. If I am okay, then the world is out of joint. Let’s take stock. That wallet. Not mine. Most wallets are generally similar to each other and this one was much like mine. But carry a wallet for a few years and it fits you; it is distinctly yours. I had known at once that this one was not mine. But I did not want to say so to a ship’s petty officer who insisted on, recognizing me as Mister Graham. I took out Graham’s wallet and opened it. Several hundred francs, count it later. Eighty-five dollars in paper, legal tender of “The United States of North America.” A Driver’s license issued to A L Graham. There were more items but I came across a window occupied by a typed notice, one that stopped me cold: Anyone finding this wallet may keep any money in it as a reward if he will be so kind as to return the wallet to A L Graham, cabin C109, S S KONGE KNUT, Danish American Line, or to any purser or agent of the line. Thank you. A L G. So now I knew what had happened to the Konge Knut; she had undergone a sea change. Or had I? Was there truly a changed world and therefore a changed ship? Or were there two worlds and had I somehow walked through fire into the second one? Were there indeed two men and had they swapped destinies? Or had Alex Hergensheimer metamorphized into Alec Graham while M V Konge Knut changed into S S Konge Knut? While the North American Union melted into the United States of North America? Good questions. I’m glad you brought them up. Now, class, are there any more questions When I was in middle school there was a spate of magazines publishing fantastic stories, not alone ghost stories but weird yarns of every sort. Magic ships plying the ether to other stars. Strange inventions. Trips to the centre of the earth. Other “Dimensions”. Flying machines. Power from burning atoms. Monsters created in secret laboratories. I used to buy them and hide them inside copies of Youth’s Companion and of Young Crusaders knowing instinctively that my parents would disapprove and confiscate. I loved them and so did my outlaw chum Bert. It couldn’t last. First there was an editorial in Youth’s Companion: “Poison to the Soul, Stamp it Out!” Then our pastor, Brother Draper, preached a sermon against such mind-corrupting trash, with comparisons to the evil effects of cigarettes and booze. Then our state outlawed such publications under the standards of the community doctrine even before passage of the national law and the parallel executive order. And a cache I had hidden Perfectly in our attic disappeared. Worse, the works of Mister H G Wells and M Jules Verne and some others were taken out of our public library. You have to admire the motives of our spiritual leaders and elected officials in seeking to protect the minds of the young. As Brother Draper pointed out, there are enough exciting and adventurous stories in the Good Book to satisfy the needs of every boy and girl in the world; there was simply no need for profane literature. He was not urging censorship of books for adults, just for the impressionable young. If persons of mature years wanted to read such fantastic trash, suffer them to do so, although he, for one, could not see why any grown man would want to. I guess I was one of the “Impressionable young”, I still miss them. I remember particularly one by Mister Wells: Men like Gods. These people were driving along in an automobile when an explosion happens and they find themselves in another world, much like their own but better. They meet the people who live there and there is explanation about parallel universes and the fourth dimension and such. That was the first installment. The Protect-Our-Youth state law was passed right after that, so I never saw the later installments. One of my English professors who was bluntly opposed to censorship once said that Mister Wells had invented every one of the basic fantastic themes, and he cited this story as the origin of the multiple-universes concept. I was intending to ask this prof if he knew where I could find a copy, but I put it off to the end of the term when I would be legally “Of mature years”, and waited too long; the academic senate committee on faith and morals voted against tenure for that professor, and he left abruptly without finishing the term. Did something happen to me like that which Mister Wells described in Men like Gods? Did Mister Wells have the holy gift of prophecy? For example, would men someday actually fly to the moon? Preposterous! But was it more preposterous than what had happened to me? As may be, here. I was in Konge Knut, even though she was not my, Konge Knut, and the sailing board at the gangway showed her getting underway at 6 p.m. It was already late afternoon and high time for me to decide. What to do? I seemed to have mislaid my own ship, the Motor Vessel Konge Knut. But the crew, some of the crew, of the Steamship Konge Knut seemed ready to accept me as Mister Graham, passenger. Stay aboard and try to brazen it out? What if Graham comes aboard (any minute now!) and demands to know what I am doing in his room? Or go ashore, as I should, and go to the authorities with my problem? Alex, the French colonial authorities will love you. No baggage, only the clothes on your back, no money, not a soul, no passport! Oh, they will love you so much they’ll give you room and board for the rest of your life, in an oubliette with a grill over the top. There’s money in that wallet. So? Ever heard of the Eighth Commandment? That’s his money. But it stands to reason that he walked through the fire at the same time you did but on this side, this world or whatever, or his wallet would not have been waiting for you. Now he has your wallet. That’s logical. Listen, my retarded friend, do you think logic has anything to do with the predicament we are in? Well Speak up! No, not really. Then how about this? Sit tight in this room. If Graham shows up before, the ship sails, you get kicked off the ship, that’s sure. But you would be no worse off than you will be if you leave now. If he does not show up, then you take his place at least as far as Papeete. That’s a big city; your chances of coping with the situation are far better there. Consuls and such. You talked me into it. Passenger ships usually publish a daily newspaper for the passengers, just a single or double sheet filled with thrilling items such as “There will be a boat drill at ten o’clock this morning. All passengers are requested, and “Yesterday’s mileage pool was won by Missus Ephraim Glutz of Bethany, Iowa and, usually, a few news items picked up by the wireless operator. I looked around for the ship’s paper and for the “Welcome Aboard!” This latter is a booklet, perhaps with another name, intended to make the passenger newly aboard sophisticated in the little world of the ship: names of the officers, times of meals, location of barber shop, laundry, dining room, gift shop, notions, magazines, toothpaste, and how to place a morning call, plan of the ship by decks, location of life preserver, how, to find your lifeboat station, where to get your table assignment. Table assignment! Ouch! A passenger who has been aboard even one day does not have to ask how to find his table in the dining room. It’s the little things that trip you. Well, I’d have to bull it through. The welcome-aboard booklet was tucked into Graham’s desk. I thumbed through it, with a mental note to memorize all key facts before I left this room, if I was still aboard when the ship sailed, then put it aside, as I had found the ship’s newspaper: The King’s Skald it was headed and Graham, bless him, had saved all of them from the day he had boarded the ship, at Portland, Oregon, as I deduced from the place and date line of the, earliest issue. That suggested that Graham was ticketed for the entire cruise, which could be important to me. I had expected to go back as I had arrived, by airship, but, even if the dirigible liner Admiral Moffett existed in this world or dimension or whatever, I no longer had a ticket for it and no money with which to buy one. What do these French colonials do to a tourist who has no money? Burn him at the stake? Or merely draw and quarter him? I did not want to find out. Graham’s roundtrip ticket, if he had one, might keep me from having to find out. If he didn’t show up in the next hour and have me kicked off the ship. I did not consider remaining in Polynesia. Being a penniless beachcomber on Bora-Bora or Moorea may have been practical a hundred years ago but today the only thing free in these islands is contagious disease. It seemed likely that I would be just as broke and just as much a stranger in America but nevertheless I felt that I would be better off in my native land. Well, Graham’s native land. I read some of the wireless news items but could not make sense of them, so I put them aside for later study. What little I had learned from them was not comforting. I had cherished deep down an illogical hope that this would turn out to be just a silly mixup that would soon be straightened out, don’t ask me how. But those news items ended all hoping. I mean to say, what sort of world is it in which the “President” of Germany visits London? In my world Kaiser Wilhelm the fourth rules the German Empire, a “President” for Germany sounds as silly as a “King” for America. This might he a pleasant world, but it was not the world I was born into. Not by those weird news items. As I put away Graham’s file of The King’s Skald I noted on the top sheet today’s prescribed Dress for dinner: “Formal”. I was not surprised; the Konge Knut in her other incarnation as a motor vessel was quite formal. If the ship was underway, black tie was expected. If you didn’t wear it, you were made to feel that you really ought to eat in your stateroom. I don’t own a tuxedo; our church does not encourage vanities. I had compromised by wearing a blue serge suit at dinners underway, with a white shirt and a snap-on black bow tie. Nobody said anything. It did not matter, as I was below the salt anyhow, having come aboard at Papeete. I decided to see if Mister Graham owned a dark suit. And a black tie. Mister Graham owned lots of clothes, far more than I did. I tried on a sports jacket; it fit me well enough. Trousers? Length seemed okay; I was not sure about the waistband, and too shy to try on a pair and thereby risk being caught by Graham with one leg in his trousers. What does one say? Hi, there! I was just waiting for you and thought I would pass the time by trying on your pants. Not convincing. He had not one but two tuxedos, one in conventional black and the other in dark red, I had never heard of such frippery. But I did not find a snap-on bow tie. He had black bow ties, several. But I have never learned how to tie a bow tie. I took a deep breath and thought about it. There came a knock at the door. I didn’t jump out of my skin, just almost. “Who’s there!” Honest, Mister Graham, I was just waiting for you! “Stewardess, sir.” “Oh. Come in, come in!” I heard her try her key, then I jumped to turn back the bolt. “Sorry. I had forgotten that I had used the dead bolt. Do come in.” Margrethe turned out to be about the age of Astrid, youngish, and even prettier, with flaxen hair and freckles across her nose. She spoke textbook-correct English with a charming lilt to it. She was carrying a short white jacket on a coat hanger. “Your mess jacket, sir. Karl says the other one will be ready tomorrow.” “Why, thank you, Margrethe! I had forgotten all about it. I thought you might. So I came back aboard a little early, the laundry was just closing. I’m glad I did; it’s much too hot for you to wear black.” “You shouldn’t have come back early; you’re spoiling me.” “I like to take good care of my guests. As you know.” She hung the jacket in the wardrobe, turned to leave. “I’ll be back to tie your tie. Six-thirty as usual, sir?” “Six-thirty is fine. What time is it now?” Tarnation, my watch was gone wherever Motor Vessel Konge Knut had vanished; I had not worn it ashore. “Almost six o’clock.” She hesitated. “I’ll lay out your clothes before I go; you don’t have much time.” “My dear girl! That’s no part of your duties.” “No, it’s my pleasure.” She opened a Drawer, took out a Dress shirt, placed it on my, Graham’s bunk. “And you know why.” With the quick efficiency of a person who knows exactly where everything is, she opened a small desk Drawer that I had not touched, took out a leather case, from it laid out by the shirt a watch, a ring, and shirt studs, then inserted studs into the shirt, placed fresh underwear and black silk socks on the pillow, placed evening pumps by the chair with shoe horn tucked inside, took from the wardrobe that mess jacket, hung it and black Dress trousers, braces attached, and dark red cummerbund on the front of the wardrobe. She glanced over and refreshed the layout, added a wing collar, a black tie, and a fresh handkerchief to the stack on the pillow, cast her eye over it again, placed the room key and the wallet by the ring and the watch, glanced again, nodded. “I must run or I’ll miss dinner. I’ll be back for the tie.” And she was gone, not running but moving very fast. Margrethe was so right. If she had not laid out everything, I would still be struggling to put myself together. That shirt alone would have stopped me; it was one of the dive-in-and-button-up-the-back sort. I had never worn one. Thank heaven Graham used an ordinary brand of safety razor. By six-fifteen I had touched up my morning shave, showered, necessary! And washed the smoke out of my hair. His shoes fit me as if I had broken them in myself. His trousers were a bit tight in the waist, a Danish ship is no place to lose weight and I had been in the Motor Vessel Konge Knut for a fortnight. I was still struggling with that consarned backwards shirt when Margarethe let herself in with her pass key. She came straight to me, said, “Hold still,” and quickly buttoned the buttons I could not reach. Then she fitted that fiendish collar over its collar buttons, laid the tie around my neck. “Turn around, please.” Tying a bow tie properly involves magic. She knew the spell. She helped me with the cummerband, held my jacket for me, looked me over and announced, “You’ll do. And I’m proud of you; at dinner the girls were talking about you.” I wish I had seen it. You are very brave.” “Not brave. Foolish. I talked when I should have kept still.” “Brave. I must go, I left Kristina guarding a cherry tart for me. But if I stay away too long someone will steal it.” “You run along. And thank you loads. Hurry and save that tart.” “Aren’t you going to pay me?” “Oh. What payment would you like?” “Don’t tease me!” She moved a few inches closer, turned her face up. I don’t know much about girls, who does? But some signals are large print. I took her by her shoulders, kissed both cheeks, hesitated just long enough to be certain that she was neither displeased nor surprised, then placed one right in the middle”. Her lips were full and warm. “Was that the payment you had in mind?” “Yes, of course. But you can kiss better than that. You know you can.” She pouted her lower lip, then dropped her eyes. “Brace Yourself.” Yes, I can kiss lots better than that. Or could by the time we had used up that kiss. By letting Margrethe lead it and heartily cooperating in whatever way she seemed to think a better kiss should go I learned more about kissing in the next two minutes than I had learned in my entire life up to then. My ears roared. For a moment after we broke she held still in my arms and looked up at me most soberly. “Alec,” she said softly, “That’s the best you’ve ever kissed me. Goodness. Now I’m going to run before I make you late for dinner.” She slipped out of my arms and left as she did everything, quickly. I inspected myself in the mirror. No marks. A kiss that emphatic ought to leave marks. What sort of person was this Graham? I could wear his clothes, but could I cope with his woman? Or was she his? Who knows? I did not. Was he a lecher, a womanizer? Or was I butting in on a perfectly nice if somewhat indiscreet romance? How do you walk back through a fire pit? And did I want to? Go aft to the main companionway, then down two decks and go aft again, that’s what the ship’s plans in the booklet showed. No problem. A man at the door of the dining saloon, Dressed much as I was but with a menu under his arm, had to be the head waiter, the chief dining-room steward. He confirmed it with a big professional smile. “Good evening, Mister Graham.” I paused. “Good evening. What’s this about a change in seating arrangements? Where am I to sit tonight?” If you grab the bull by the horns, you at least confuse him. “It’s not a permanent change, sir. Tomorrow you will be back at table fourteen. But tonight the Captain has asked that you sit at his table. If you will follow me, sir.” He led me to an oversize table amidships, started to seat me on the Captain’s right, and the Captain stood up and started to clap, the others at his table followed suit, and shortly everyone in the dining room, it seemed, was standing and clapping and some were cheering. I learned two things at that dinner. First, it was clear that Graham had pulled the same silly stunt I had, but it still was not clear whether there was one of us or two of us, I tabled that question. Second, but of major importance: Do not Drink ice-cold Aalborg akvavit on an empty stomach, especially if you were brought up White Ribbon as I was. Chapter 3. Wine is a mocker, strong Drink is raging. Proverbs. Chapter twenty, verse one. I am not blaming Captain Hansen. I have heard that Scandinavians put ethanol into their blood as antifreeze, against their long hard winters, and consequently cannot understand people who cannot take strong Drink. Besides that, nobody held my arms, nobody held my nose, nobody forced spirits down my throat. I did it myself. Our church doesn’t hold with the doctrine that the flesh is weak and therefore sin is humanly understandable and readily forgiven. Sin can be forgiven but just barely and you are surely going to catch it first. Sin should suffer. I found out about some of that suffering. I’m told it is called a hangover. That is what my Drinking uncle called it. Uncle Ed maintained that no man can cope with temperance who has not had a full course of intemperance, otherwise when temptation came his way, he would not know how to handle it. Maybe I proved Uncle Ed’s point. He was considered a bad influence around our house and, if he had not been Mother’s brother, Dad would not have allowed him in the house. As it was, he was never pressed to stay longer and was not urged to hurry back. Before I even sat down at the table, the Captain offered me a glass of akvavit. The glasses used for this are not large; they are quite small, and that is the deceptive part of the danger. The Captain had a glass like it in his hand. He looked me in the eye and said, “To our hero! Skaal!”, threw his head back and tossed it down. There were echoes of “Skaal!” all around the table and everyone seemed to gulp it down just like the Captain. So I did. I could say that being guest of honor laid certain obligations on me. ”When in Rome” and all that. But the truth is I did not have the requisite strength of character to refuse. I told myself, “One tiny glass can’t hurt,” and gulped it down. No trouble. It went down smoothly. One pleasant ice-cold swallow, then a spicy aftertaste with a hint of licorice. I did not know what I was Drinking but I was not sure that it was alcoholic. It seemed not to be. We sat down and somebody put food in front of me and the Captain’s steward poured another glass of schnapps for me. I was about to start nibbling the food, Danish hors d’oeuvres and delicious, smorgasbord tidbits, when someone put a hand on my shoulder. I looked up. The Well-Traveled Man. With him were the Authority and the Skeptic. Not the same names. Whoever, Whatever? was playing games with my life had not gone that far. “Gerald Fortescue” was now “Jeremy Forsyth”, for example. But despite slight differences I had no trouble recognizing each of them and their new names were close enough to show that someone, or something, was continuing the joke. Then why wasn’t my new name something like Hergensheimer? Hergensheimer has dignity about it, a rolling grandeur. Graham is a so-so name. “Alec,” Mister Forsyth said, “we misjudged you. Duncan and I and Pete are happy to admit it. Here’s the three thousand we owe you, and,” He hauled his right hand out from behind his back, held up a large bottle. “The best champagne in the ship as a mark of our esteem.” “Steward!” said the Captain. Shortly, the wine steward was going around, filling glasses at our table. But before that, I found myself again standing up, making Skaal! in akvavit three times, once to each of the losers, while clutching three thousand dollars States of North America dollars. I did not have, lime then to wonder why three hundred had changed to three thousand, besides, it was not as odd as what had happened to the Konge Knut. Both of her. And my wonder circuits were overloaded anyhow. Captain Hansen told his waitress to place chairs at the table for Forsyth and company, but all three insisted that their wives and table mates expected them to return. Nor was there room. Not that it would have mattered to Captain Hansen. He, is a Viking, half again as big as a house; hand him a hammer and he would be mistaken for Thor, he has muscles where other men don’t even have places. It is very hard to argue with him. But he jovially agreed to compromise. They could go back to their tables and finish their dinners but first they must join him and me in pledging Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, guardian angels of our shipmate Alec. In fact the whole table must join in. “Steward!” So we said, “Skaal!” three more times, while bouncing Danish antifreeze off our tonsils. Have you kept count? That’s seven, I think. You can stop counting, as that is where I lost track. I was beginning to feel a return of the numbness I had felt halfway through the fire pit. The wine steward had completed pouring champagne, having renewed his supply at a gesture from the Captain. Then it was time to toast me again, and I returned “The compliment to the three losers, then we all toasted Captain Hansen, and then we toasted the good ship Konge Knut. The Captain toasted the United States and the whole room stood and Drank with him, so I felt it incumbent to answer by toasting the Danish Queen, and that got me toasted again and the Captain demanded a speech from me. “Tell us how it feels to be in the fiery furnace!” I tried to refuse and there were shouts of “Speech! Speech!” from all around me. I stood up with some difficulty, tried to remember the speech I had made at the last foreign missions fund-raising dinner. It evaded me. Finally I said, “Aw, shucks, it wasn’t anything. Just put your ear to the ground and your shoulder to the wheel, and your eyes on the stars and you can do it too. Thank you, thank you all and next, time you must come to my house.” They cheered and we skaaled again, I forget why, and the lady on the Captain’s left got up and came around and kissed me, whereupon all the ladies at the Captain’s table clustered around and kissed me. That seemed to inspire the other ladies in the room, for there was a steady procession coming up to claim a buss from me, and usually kissing the Captain while they were about it, or perhaps the other way around. During this parade someone removed a steak from in front of me, one I had had plans for. I didn’t miss it too much, because that endless orgy of osculation had me bewildered, plus bemusement much like that caused by the female villagers of the fire walk. Much of this bemusement started when I first walked into the dining room. Let me put it this way: My fellow passengers, female, really should have been in the National Geographic. Yes. Like that. Well, maybe not quite, but what they did wear made them look nakeder than those friendly villagers. I’m not going to describe those, “Formal evening Dresses” because I’m not sure I could, and I am sure I shouldn’t. But none of them covered more than twenty percent of what ladies usually keep covered at fancy evening affairs in the world I grew up in. Above the waist I mean. Their skirts, long, some clear to the, floor, were nevertheless cut or slit in most startling ways. Some of the ladies had tops to their Dresses that covered everything, but the material was transparent as glass. Or almost. And some of the youngest ladies, girls really, actually, did belong in the National Geographic, just like my villagers. Somehow, these younger ladies did not seem quite as immodest as their elders. I had noticed this display almost the instant I walked in. But, I tried not to stare and the Captain and others kept me so busy at first that I really did not have time to sneak glances at the incredible exposure. But, look, when a lady comes up and puts her arms around you and insists on kissing you, it is difficult not to notice that she isn’t wearing enough to ward off pneumonia. Or other chest complaints. But I kept a tight rein on myself despite increasing dizziness and numbness. Even bare skin did not startle me as much as bare words, language I had never heard in public in my life and extremely seldom even in private among men only. Men, I said, as gentlemen don’t talk that way even with no ladies present, in the world I knew. The most shocking thing that ever happened to me in my boyhood was one day crossing the town square, noticing a crowd on the penance side of the courthouse, joining it to see who was catching it and why, and finding my Scoutmaster in the stocks. I almost fainted. His offence was profane language, so the sign on his chest told us. The accuser was his own wife; he did not dispute it and had thrown himself on the mercy of the court, the judge was Deacon Brumby, who didn’t know the word. Mister Kirk, my Scoutmaster, left town two weeks later and nobody ever saw him again, being exposed, in the stocks was likely to have that effect on a man. I don’t know what the bad language was that Mister Kirk had used, but it couldn’t have been too bad, as all Deacon Brumby could give him was one dawn-to-dusk. That night at the Captain’s table in the Konge Knut I heard a sweet lady of the favorite-grandmother sort address her husband in a pattern of forbidden words involving blasphemy and certain criminal sensual acts. Had she spoken that way in public in my home town she would have received maximum exposure in stocks followed by being ridden out of town. Our town did not use tar and feathers; that was regarded as brutal. Yet this dear lady in the ship was not even chided. Her husband simply smiled and told her that she worried too much. Between shocking speech, incredible immodest exposure, and effects of two sorts of strange and deceptive potions lavishly administered, I was utterly confused. A stranger in a strange land, I was overcome by customs new and shocking. But through it all I clung to the conviction that I must appear to be sophisticated, at home, unsurprised. I must not let anyone suspect that I was not Alec Graham, shipmate, but instead Alexander Hergensheimer, total stranger, or something terrible might happen. Of course I was wrong; something terrible had already happened. I was indeed a total stranger in an utterly strange and confusing land, but I do not think, in retrospect, that I would have made my condition worse had I simply blurted out my predicament. I would not have been believed. How else? I had trouble believing it myself. Captain Hansen, a hearty no-nonsense man, would have bellowed with laughter at my “Joke” and insisted on another toast. Had I persisted in my “Delusion” he would have had the ship’s doctor talk to me. Still, I got through that amazing evening easier by holding tight to the notion that I must concentrate on acting the part of Alec Graham while never letting anyone suspect that I was a changeling, a cuckoo’s egg. There had just been placed in front of me a slice of princess cake, a beautiful multilayered confection I recalled from the other Konge Knut, and a small cup of coffee, when the Captain stood up. “Come, Alec! We go to the lounge now; the show is ready to start, but they can’t start till I get there. So come on! You don’t want all that sweet stuff; it’s not good for you. You can have coffee in the lounge. But before that we have some man’s Drinks, henh? Not these joke Drinks. You like Russian vodka?” He linked his arm in mine. I discovered that I was going to the lounge. Volition did not enter into it. That lounge show was much the mixture I had found earlier in M V Konge Knut, a magician who did improbable things but not as improbable as what I had done, or been done to?, a standup comedian who should have sat down, a pretty girl who sang, and dancers. The major differences were two I had already been exposed to: bare skin and bare words, and by then I was so numb from earlier shock and akvavit that these additional proofs of a different world had minimal effect. The girl who sang just barely had clothes on and the lyrics of her songs would have caused her trouble even in the underworld of Newark, New Jersey. Or so I think; I have no direct experience with that notorious sink of iniquity. I paid more attention to her appearance, since here I need not avert my eyes; one is expected to stare at performers. If one admits for the sake of argument that customs in Dress can be wildly different without destroying the fabric of society (a possibility. I do not concede but will stipulate), then it helps, I think, if the person exhibiting this difference is young and healthy and comely. The singer was young and healthy and comely. I felt a twinge of regret when she left the spotlight The major event was a troupe of Tahitian dancers, and I was truly not surprised that they were costumed bare to the waist save for flowers or shell beads, by then I would have been surprised had they been otherwise. What was still surprising, although I suppose it should not have been, was the subsequent behavior of my fellow passengers. First the troupe, eight girls, two men, danced for us, much the same dancing that had preceded the fire walk today, much the same as I had seen when a troupe had come aboard M V Konge Knut in Papeete. Perhaps you know that the hula of Tahiti differs from the slow and graceful hula of the Kingdom of Hawaii by being at a much faster beat and is much more energetic. I’m no expert on the arts of the dance but at least I have seen both styles of hula in the lands where each was native. I prefer the Hawaiian hula, which I had seen when the Count von Zeppelin had stopped at Hilo for a day on her way to Papeete. The Tahitian hula strikes me as an athletic accomplishment rather than an art form. But its very energy and speed make it still more startling in the Dress or undress these native girls wore. There was more to come. After a long dance sequence, which included paired dancing between girls and each of the two young men, in which they did things that would have been astonishing even among barnyard fowl. I kept expecting Captain Hansen to put a stop to it), the ship’s master of ceremonies or cruise director stepped forward. “Ladeez and gentlemen,” he announced, “And the rest of you intoxicated persons of irregular birth, I am forced to amend his language. Most of you setters and even a few pointers have made good use of the four days our dancers have been with us to add the Tahitian hula to your repertoire. Shortly you’ll be given a chance to demonst rate what you’ve learned and to receive diplomas as authentic Papeete papayas. But what you don’t know is that others in the good ole knutty Knut have been practicing, too. Maestro, strike up the band!” Out from behind the lounge stage danced a dozen more hula dancers. But these girls were not Polynesian; these girls were Caucasian. They were Dressed authentically, grass skirts and necklaces, a flower in the hair, nothing else. But instead of warm brown, their skins were white; most of them were blondes, two were redheads. It makes a difference. By then I was ready to concede that Polynesian women were correctly and even modestly Dressed in their native costume. Other places, other customs. Was not Mother Eve modest in her simplicity before the Fall? I But white women are grossly out of place in South Seas garb. However, this did not keep me from watching the dancing. I was amazed to see that these girls danced that fast and complex dance as well (to my untutored eye) as did the island girls. Remarked on it to the Captain. “They learned to dance that precisely in only four days?” He snorted. “They practice every cruise, those who ship with us before. All have practiced at least since San Diego.” At that point I recognized one of the dancers, Astrid, the sweet young woman who had let me into “My” stateroom, and I then understood why they had had time and incentive to practice together: These girls were ship’s crew. I looked at her, stared, in fact, with more interest. She caught my eye and smiled. Like a dolt, a bumpkin, instead of smiling back I looked away and blushed, and tried to cover my embarrassment by taking a big sip of the Drink I found in my hand. One of the kanaka dancers whirled out in front of the white girls and called one of them out for a pair dance. Heaven save me, it was Margrethe! I choked up and could not breathe. She was the most blindingly beautiful sight I had ever seen in all my life. Behold, thou art fair, my, love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from Mount Gilead. Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies. Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins. Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee. Chapter Four. Although affliction cometh not forth of the dust, neither doth trouble spring out of the ground; yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward. Job Chapter five, verses six to seven. I SLOWLY became aware of myself and wished I had not; a most terrible nightmare was chasing me. I jammed my eyes shut against the light and tried to go back to sleep. Native Drums were beating in my head; I tried to shut them out by covering my ears. They got louder. I gave up, opened my eyes and lifted my head. A mistake, my stomach flip-flopped and my ears shook. My eyes would not track and those infernal drums were tearing my skull apart. I finally got my eyes to track, although the focus was fuzzy. I looked around, found that I was in a strange room, lying on top of a bed and only half Dressed. That began to bring it back to me. A party aboard ship. Spirits. Lots of spirits. Noise. Nakedness. The Captain in a grass skirt, dancing heartily, and the orchestra keeping step with him. Some of the lady passengers wearing grass skirts and some wearing even less. Rattle of bamboo, boom of drums. Drums. Those weren’t drums in my head; that was the booming of the worst headache of my life. Why in Ned did I let them. Never mind “Them”. You did it yourself, chum. Yes, but. “Yes, but.” Always “Yes, but.” All your life it’s been “Yes, but.” When are you going to straighten up and take full responsibility for your life and all that happens to you? Yes, but this isn’t my fault. I’m not A L Graham. That isn’t my name. This isn’t my ship. It isn’t? You’re not? Of course not. I sat up to Shake off this bad Dream. Sitting up was a mistake; my head did not fall off but a stabbing pain at the base of my neck added itself to the throbbing inside my skull. I was wearing black Dress trousers and apparently nothing else and I was in a strange room that was rolling slowly. Graham’s trousers. Graham’s room. And that long, slow roll was that of a ship with no stabilizers. Not a dream. Or if it is, I can’t shake myself out of it. My teeth itched, my feet didn’t fit. Dried sweat all over me except where I was clammy. My armpits, don’t even think about armpits! My mouth needed to have lye dumped into it. I remembered everything now. Or almost. The fire pit. Villagers. Chickens scurrying out of the way. The ship that wasn’t my ship, but was. Margrethe. Margrethe! “Thy two breasts are like two doves, thou art all fair, my love!” Margrethe among the dancers, her bosom as bare as her feet. Margrethe dancing with that villainous kanaka, and shaking her. No wonder I got Drunk! Stow it, chum! You were drunk before that. All you’ve got against that native lad is that it was he instead of you. You wanted to dance with her yourself. Only you can’t dance. Dancing is a snare of Satan. And don’t you wish you knew how! Like two roes! Yes I do! I heard a light tap at the door, then a rattle of keys. Margrethe stuck her head in. “Awake? Good.” She came in, carrying a tray, closed the door, came to me. “Drink this.” “What is it?” “Tomato juice, mostly. Don’t argue, Drink it!” “I don’t think I can.” “Yes, you can. You must. Do it.” I sniffed it, then I took a small sip. To my amazement it did not nauseate me. So I Dranksome more. After one minor quiver it went down smoothly and lay quietly inside me. Margrethe produced two pills. “Take these. Wash them down with the rest of the tomato juice.” “I never take medicine.” She sighed, and said something I did not understand. Not English. Not quite. “What did you say?” “Just something my grandmother used to say when grandfather argued with her. Mister Graham, take those pills. They are just aspirin and you need them. If you won’t cooperate, I’ll stop trying to help you. I’ll, I’ll swap you to Astrid, that’s what I’ll do.” “Don’t do that.” “I will if you keep objecting. Astrid would swap, I know she would. She likes you, she told me you were watching her dance last night.” I accepted the pills, washed them down with the rest of the tomato juice, ice-cold and very comforting. “I did until I spotted you. Then I watched you.” She smiled for the first time. “Yes? Did you like it?” “You were beautiful.” And your dance was obscene. Your immodest Dress and your behaviour shocked me out of a year’s growth. I hated it, and I wish I could see it all over again this very instant! “You are very graceful.” The smile grew dimples. “I had hoped that you would like it, sir.” “I did. Now stop threatening me with Astrid.” “All right. As long as you behave. Now get up and into the shower. First very hot, then very cold. Like a sauna.” She waited. “Up, “I said. I’m not leaving until that shower is running and steam is pouring out.” “I’ll shower. After you leave.” “And you’ll run it lukewarm, I know. Get up, get those trousers off, get into that shower. While you’re showering, I’ll fetch your breakfast tray. There is just enough time before they shut down the galley to set up for lunch, so quit wasting time. Please!” “Oh, I can’t eat breakfast! Not today. No, “Food, what a disgusting thought.” “You must eat. You Dranktoo much last night, you know you did. If you don’t eat, you will feel bad all day. Mister Graham, I’ve finished making up for all my other guests, so I’m off watch now. I’m fetching your tray, then I’m going to stay and see that you eat it.” She looked at me. “I should have taken your trousers off when I put you to bed. But you were too heavy.” “You put me to bed?” “Ori helped me. The boy I danced with.” My face must have given me away, for she added hastily, “Oh, I didn’t let him come into your room, sir. I undressed you myself. But I did have to have help to get you up the stairs.” “I wasn’t criticizing.” Did you go back to the party then? Was he there? Did you dance with him again? jealousy is cruel as the grave; the coals thereof are coals of fire “I have no right. “I thank you both. I must have been a beastly nuisance.” “Well, brave men often Drink too much, after danger is over. But it’s not good for you.” “No, it’s not.” I got up off the bed, went into the bathroom, said, “I’ll turn it up hot. Promise.” I closed the door and bolted it, finished undressing. So I got so stinking, rubber-limp Drunk that a native boy had to help get me to bed. Alex, you’re a disgusting mess! And you haven’t any right to be jealous over a nice girl. You don’t own her, her behavior is not wrong by the standards of this place, wherever this place is, and all she’s done is mother you and, take care of you. That does not give you a claim on her. I did turn it up hot, though it durn near kilt poor old Alex. But I left it hot until the nerve ends seemed cauterized, then suddenly switched it to cold, and screamed. I let it stay cold until it no longer felt cold, then shut it off and dried down, having opened the door to let out the moisture-charged air. I stepped out into the room, and suddenly realized that I felt wonderful. No headache. No feeling that the world is ending at noon. No stomach queasies. Just hunger. Alex, you must never get drunk again, but if you do, you must do exactly what Margrethe tells you to. You’ve got a smart head on her shoulders, boy, appreciate it. I started to whistle and opened Graham’s wardrobe. I heard a key in the door, hastily grabbed his bathrobe, managed to cover up before she got the door open. She was slow about it, being hampered by a heavy tray. When I realized this I held the door for her. She put down the tray, then arranged dishes and food on my desk. “You were right about the sauna-type shower,” I told her. “It was just what the doctor ordered. Or the nurse, I should say.” “I know, it’s what my grandmother used to do for my grandfather.” “A smart woman. My, this smells good!” Scrambled eggs, bacon, lavish amounts of Danish pastry, milk, coffee, a side dish of cheeses, fladbrod, and thin curls of ham, some tropic fruit I can’t name. “What was that your grandmother used to say when your grandfather argued?” “Oh, she was sometimes impatient.” “And you never are. Tell me.” “Well, She used to say that God created men to test the souls of women.” “She may have a point. Do you agree with her?” Her smile produced dimples. “I think they have other uses as well.” Margrethe tidied my room and cleaned my bath (okay, okay, Graham’s room, Graham’s bath, satisfied?) while I ate. She laid out a pair of slacks, a sport shirt in an island print, and sandals for me, then removed the tray and dishes while leaving coffee and the remaining fruit. I thanked her as she left, wondered if I should offer “Payment” and wondered, too, if she performed such valet services for other passengers. It seemed unlikely. I found I could not ask. I bolted the door after her and proceeded to search Graham’s room. I was wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed, answering to his name, and now I must decide whether or not I would go whole hawg and be “A L Graham”, or should I go to some authority. American consul? If not, whom? Admit the impersonation, and ask for help? Events were crowding me. Today’s King Skald showed that S S Konge Knut was scheduled to dock at Papeete at 3 p.m. and sail for MazatIan, Mexico, at 6 p.m. The purser notified all passengers wishing to change francs into dollars that a representative of the Bank of Papeete would be in the ship’s square facing the purser’s office from docking until fifteen minutes before sailing. The purser again wished to notify passengers that shipboard indebtedness such as bar and shop b

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

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

arXiv:2205.05696v3 [astro-ph.EP] 26 Jul 2023 https://arxiv.org/abs/2205.05696 https://arxiv.org/pdf/2205.05696.pdf https://rumble.com/v3t4yzj-index-of-science.-music-by-dan-vasc.html Direct Imaging and Spectroscopy of Extrasolar Planets. Thayne Currie, and others, 2023. Abstract. Direct imaging and spectroscopy is the likely means by which we will someday identify, confirm, and characterize an Earth-like planet around a nearby Sun-like star. This Chapter summarizes the current state of knowledge regarding discovering and characterizing exoplanets by direct imaging and spectroscopy. We detail instruments and software needed for direct imaging detections and summarize the current inventory of confirmed and candidate directly-imaged exoplanets. Direct imaging and spectroscopy in the past decade has provided key insights into Jovian planet atmospheres, probed the demographics of the outskirts of planetary systems, and shed light on gas giant planet formation. We forecast the new tools and future facilities on the ground and in space that will enhance our capabilities for exoplanet imaging and will likely image habitable zone rocky planets around the nearest stars. 1. Introduction. Identifying, confirming, and characterizing an Earth-like planet around a nearby Sun-like star is a key goal of exoplanet science. In the coming decades, direct imaging and spectroscopy are the likely means by which this goal will be achieved. Over 5000 extrasolar planets and candidates have been detected through indirect means. In contrast, 20 to 25 exoplanets have been directly imaged, see Figure one. Despite this relatively low yield of discoveries, direct imaging comprises a large fraction of the known exoplanet population amenable to atmospheric characterization, since the method provides photons from the planets themselves instead of just inferring their Presence. Almost all of the directly imaged planets known thus far are young, self-luminous gas giants detected in thermal emission. They represent the extremes of planet formation, planets with masses of 2 Jupiter Masses or more orbiting at moderate to wide separations, around ten to 250 astronomical units. A subset of directly detected planets appear to be in or just finished with the final stages of assembly, protoplanets. The direct imaging field currently also provides key insights into Jovian planet formation and the demographics of the outskirts of planetary systems. Remarkably, the direct imaging method enables the acquisition of hundreds to thousands of spectroscopic data points on exoplanets in a few hours of telescope time. This wealth of information can critically constrain individual planet atmospheric properties, for example temperature, clouds, chemistry, and gravity, as well as the atmospheric evolution of gas giants as a population. The first direct images and spectra of planet candidates relied on facility, general-use adaptive optics (AO) systems to deblur starlight or space telescopes, meaning the Hubble Space Telescope, coupled with simple coronagraphs. The past decade has seen the development, demonstration, and honing of dedicated extreme AO systems coupled with advanced coronagraphs and sophisticated post-processing methods, allowing the detection of planets that are fainter and less massive and, or located at smaller angular separations that probe tighter orbits. In-development extreme AO systems and upgrades to first-generation extreme AO systems will provide images of many exoplanets near the ice line. The Coronagraphic Instrument on NASA’s Roman Space Telescope (Roman-CGI) could provide the first detections of mature planets in reflected light, Figure Two. Planned ground-based extremely large telescopes and proposed space missions promise to make the discovery and confirmation of a habitable, Earth-like exoplanet around a Sun-like star a reality within the next 25 years. These facilities will endeavor to reveal biomarkers, for example water, oxygen, ozone, in individual systems. Their surveys will provide the first assessment of potential habitability around stars of different masses and thus the true context for life on Earth. Technological innovation, atmospheric characterization, and demographic studies of young Jovian planets over the past decade provide first, key steps towards this goal. In this Chapter, we provide an updated description of the state of our knowledge about detecting and characterizing exoplanets by direct imaging. The last dedicated direct imaging review chapter in Protostars and Planets was written in 2007, before the first incontrovertible exoplanet imaging detections: super Jovian planets around HR 8799 and Beta Pictoris. Previous reviews from Traub and Oppenheimer in 2010 and Bowler in 2016 bracket the start and end of the era of direct imaging surveys with facility, conventional AO systems. Now, more than 5 years later, the first generation of extreme AO surveys have ended, bringing new discoveries, fundamentally new insights into atmospheric properties of individual systems and imaged planet demographics, motivating substantially more powerful instrumentation and tangible plans for directly detecting true solar system analogues, including Earths. This Chapter is pedagogical in nature and is organized as follows. In Section 2, we outline key direct imaging instrumentation and methods, describing the challenges in achieving planet detections by direct imaging, and detailing critical, novel hardware and software needed to image planets. Section 3 summarizes our current inventory of directly imaged exoplanets, discusses challenges with interpreting direct imaging detections, and outlines synergies with other detection techniques. Section 4 focuses on atmospheric characterization of exoplanets by direct imaging and spectroscopy, using other substellar objects, meaning brown dwarfs, as anchors to provide empirical constraints on exoplanet atmospheres and employing atmospheric models to infer intrinsic properties, including clouds, chemistry, and gravity. Next we overview the architecture of directly imaged planetary systems gleaned from astrometric monitoring, dynamical models, and planet-disk interactions, Section 5. Section 6 summarizes recent direct imaging surveys, the occurrence rates and demographics derived from them, and what these results mean for models of Jovian planet formation. Finally, in Section 7 we forecast the future of direct imaging, describing how technological innovations and new, vastly more powerful facilities may provide humanity with a glimpse of a habitable world for the first time. 2. Direct Imaging Instrumentation and Methods. Direct imaging detections require separating the halo of bright, highly structured scattered starlight from faint exoplanet light. The key metric used to determine the detectability of extrasolar planets is the planet-to-star contrast ratio at a given off-axis angular separation: the contrast ratio needed for a detection varies with planet properties. Section 2.1. Critical hardware like AO, or, more generally, wavefront control systems consisting of sensors and deformable mirrors, and coronagraphs sharpen and then suppress scattered starlight, Section 2.2 to achieve deep raw contrasts. Novel observing techniques allow post-processing algorithms to further remove residual starlight, increasing achievable contrast ratios and thus improving planet detection capabilities, section 2.3. 2.1. Detectability of Planets by Direct Imaging. Even in the absence of an atmosphere to blur starlight, an astronomical image of a point source, for example a distant star, will not be a single point: its intensity distribution follows from the Fourier transform of the telescope pupil function. For a simple unobscured circular aperture, the image intensity follows an Airy pattern whose values compared to the peak intensity I zero at angular separation rho, effective telescope aperture diameter D, and wavenumber k equals two pi over lambda is the standard airy pater using a Bessel function J1, where J1 is the Bessel function of the first kind of order one. The first null of the Airy function occurs at about 1.22 lambda over D. The full-width at half maximum (FWHM) of this point source on the sky, defining the telescope diffraction limit, is given by equation one: Theta in arc seconds is about zero point two one times wavelength in microns over telescope diameter in meters. Even current telescopes in principal have the angular resolution needed to image planets on solar system-like scales orbiting nearby stars. An Earth twin orbiting at a projected separation of 150 Giga-meters, or 1 A-U from a Sun-like star at 308 Peta-meters, or 10 parsec subtends an angle of a tenth of a second of arc, or a half a micro-radian. Diffraction limited imaging with the Hubble Space Telescope at optical wavelengths or with 8 to 10 meter class telescopes like VLT, Subaru, and Keck at near infrared (IR) wavelengths is sufficient to resolve objects at Earth-Sun projected physical separations out to a distance of three to six hundred Peta-meters, which is 10 to 20 parsec. However, the star’s halo light must be reduced through hardware and software to a level sufficient to make the planet’s light detectable. The starlight suppression level required to detect a planet by direct imaging depends on whether the detection is in reflected light or thermal emission and varies with the planet angular separation, age, size, temperature, and other properties, see Figure two. 2.1.1. Reflected Light. Planets reflect the light of the stars they orbit. At optical wavelengths, the contrast ratio for a planet in reflected light can be approximated as equation two: Contrast Ratio is a function of square of the ratio of planet radius to planet-star separation times an Albedo function, and a phase function. The Albedo and the phase function depend on the planet’s atmospheric properties. For a Lambertian phase function, valid for high albedo atmospheres, the phase function follows a simple trigonometric relation. Other potential scattering phase functions include isotropic scattering and Rayleigh scattering. The value of the phase function is considerably lower for Rayleigh scattering appropriate for Jovian atmospheres at angles of sixty to ninety degrees. For an exo-Jupiter and exo-Earth emitting as Lambertian spheres with measured geometric albedos of 0.52 and 0.367, these contrasts at maximum elongation reduce to equations three and four in the text. Contrast ratios are of the order of ten to the minus nine to ten. At V band, a Jupiter and Earth at around 300 Peta-meters, 10 parsec, will then have apparent magnitudes of slightly greater than 27 and 29, respectively, and require starlight removal at angular separations of one half and one tenth arc second better than one part in ten to the minus nine and ten to the minus ten, respectively. These required contrasts are well beyond the capabilities of current ground and space-based high-contrast imaging instruments. Thus far, exoplanet direct imaging has therefore focused on the detection of thermal emission from self-luminous Jovian planets. 2.1.2. Thermal Emission. Like brown dwarfs, Jovian planets cool and contract with time, releasing gravitational potential energy as thermal emission. At ages of one to ten mega year, models for the luminosity evolution of one to ten mass of Jupiter exoplanets predict temperatures of around 500 to 3000 Kelvin and radii up of r p around 2.5 to 3 Radii of Jupiter. By 1 Giga year, these models predict that these planets cool to temperatures T less than around 500 Kelvin and contract to Jupiter-like radii, r p around one to one point two RJ. Thus, thermal emission from young Jovian exoplanets peaks at near-to-mid IR wavelengths at the youngest ages, moving to well into the mid-IR at older ages, see Figure three. The contrast ratio for planets in thermal emission depends on the radius and effective temperature of the planet and star and other properties, equation five. Which can include a function of temperature and atmosphere composition, the thermal flux from the planet as a function of wavelength, The Flux function is the thermal flux from the star as a function of wavelength, and X depends on the planet’s atmospheric characteristics, such as clouds, chemistry, and gravity. Figure three shows how the contrast ratios vary for various types of exoplanets orbiting a G2 dwarf star. In the near-IR, young super Jovian, ten mass Jupiter exoplanets similar to Beta Pictoris B and HR 8799 cde are roughly a factor of ten to the minus three to ten to the minus five fainter than a Sun-like star. In the red optical, predicted contrasts from these planets are 100 times larger; however, mid-IR contrasts are a factor of 10 smaller. Jovian exoplanets of similar masses around much older stars are far cooler, another factor of 100 to a 1000 fainter in the red optical and near-IR, but remain bright in the mid IR. A true Jupiter analogue emits negligible thermal emission for wavelengths greater than four to five microns. Rocky terrestrial planets also emit thermally. An exo-Earth analogue with an effective temperature of 260 Kelvin has blackbody emission peaking at 10 microns, its contrast ratio is ten to the minus seven, a factor of 1000 shallower than its reflected light contrast. 2.2. Wavefront Control and Coronagraphy. 2.2.1. Atmospheric Wavefront Control for Direct Imaging. Wavefront errors, whether induced by atmospheric turbulence on the ground or intrinsic to an optical imaging system on the ground or in space, substantially limit an image system’s achievable contrast. Left unmitigated, these errors preclude the direct detection of exoplanets. In the past decade, the direct imaging field has made key strides in wavefront control hardware and software to drastically reduce wavefront errors and has developed sophisticated coronagraph designs to further suppress diffracted starlight. For ground-based imaging systems, turbulence arising from many atmospheric layers along the path from the star to the telescope induces changes in the optical path length difference of starlight, blurring images. These aberrations must be corrected by an AO system consisting of wavefront sensors and deformable mirrors (DMs). An AO system splits incoming light from a guide star between the science detector and a wavefront sensor to measure and then correct, with a DM(s), atmospheric turbulence distorting the incoming wavefront, sharpening starlight at the image plane. Key terms driving the wavefront error budget for an AO system include: 1) Measurement error sigma m, which depends on the noise properties of a wavefront sensor and the guide star brightness, 2) Temporal bandwidth error Sigma T, which depends on the AO system time lag tau compared to the atmospheric coherence time tau zero, and, 3) The fitting error sigma f which depends on the coherence length r zero compared to the DM actuator density. The quadrature-added sum of these terms sets the Strehl ratio, a measure of the optical quality of the image, and the raw contrast versus angular separation. At the angular separations relevant for most current planet searches theta around zero point two to one arc second, wavefront measurement error and temporal bandwidth error set the contrast floor. Wavefront chromaticity and non-common path aberrations due to instrument optics can also limit contrast. Facility, conventional AO systems were used for the first direct imaging searches. They typically sample and correct the incoming wavefront at frequencies of p;oint two to one kilo Hertz and use DMs with a few hundred actuators: aberrations are measured by standard Shack-Hartmann wavefront sensors. These systems yielded partial corrections, achieving modest Strehl ratios of zero point one to zero point four at near-IR wavelengths focused on by most exoplanet imaging Searches. The past 5 to 10 years have seen the deployment of numerous extreme AO systems on 5 to 10 meter telescopes, which have wavefront control loop speeds of greater than one kilo Hertz and DMs with more than a 1000 actuators. Examples of extreme AO systems include the Large Binocular Telescope Adaptive Optics system, LBTAO, PALM-3000 on the Hale telescope at Palomar Observatory, the Gemini Planet Imager on Gemini South, and the Spectro-Polarimetric High-contrast Exoplanet REsearch instrument (SPHERE) at the VLT, the Subaru Coronagraphic Extreme Adaptive Optics project (SCExAO) on the Subaru Telescope, and MagAO-X on the Clay telescope at the Magellan Observatory. These systems obtain higher-quality AO corrections, Strehl ratios of pont seven to zero point nine five at 1.6 microns, and yield a factor of 10 to a 100 deeper contrast at sub-arc second separations than conventional AO systems. Extreme AO systems have relied on hardware developments in three key areas to operate high-performance AO correction: detectors, deformable mirrors, and computing hardware. Most extreme AO platforms utilize fast ultra-low noise detectors like Electron-Multiplying Charge-Coupled Devices (EMCCDs) to record stellar photons used for wavefront sensing with reduced measurement errors. High-actuator count DMs are now available. For example, the micro-electromechnical-type DMs (MEMS) offer unprecedented actuator density around 10 actuators per square millimeter, allowing for fairly compact extreme AO instruments. Other systems employ adaptive secondary mirrors (usually voice-coil DMs) whose low emissivity makes them especially well suited for exoplanet imaging in thermal IR. High performance computing hardware with low latency can handle the demanding computation requirements of fast, high order extreme AO systems. Extreme AO systems also differ from conventional AO systems in their optical design and system architecture. Wavefront sensors (WFS) optimized for speed, sensitivity, accuracy and precision such as the Pyramid wavefront sensor have been adopted by many leading extreme AO systems (top panel of Figure four, while the more established Shack-Hartmann WFS approach has been upgraded with spatial filtering to improve performance. Wavefront correction is often performed in two steps: a conventional coarse “woofer” correction is followed by a faster and more accurate “tweeter” correction. Extreme AO systems also include dedicated sensing and control of pointing for precise co-alignment of the star and coronagraph mask, which is essential to maintain high contrast, especially at the smallest angular separations. Advances in wavefront control algorithms are also enabling significant improvements in high-contrast imaging performance. Recent advances include predictive control and sensor fusion. These and other new software, hardware advances are described in Section 7.1. 2.2.2. Optical Starlight Suppression. Starlight suppression is primarily performed by dedicated coronagraph optics: phase and amplitude masks deployed in the beam to remove starlight while preserving planet light. These optical elements include occulters in the image plane to directly block out on-axis starlight, as well as optical elements in the pupil plane to manage the telescope diffraction pattern. Many coronagraph designs and approaches are available providing a wide range of performance characteristics. For example, the well-established conventional Lyot coronagraph combines an occulter in the image plane with a Lyot stop in the pupil plane to deliver robust performance at moderate contrast and large angular separations. Phase-mask coronagraphs or interferometric designs, for example, the vector vortex coronagraph, can be highly optimized for deep contrast at small inner working angles, Figure four, bottom panel. The highest-performing coronagraphs are also the most demanding in terms of wavefront quality and stability. Consequently, extreme AO systems first adopted Lyot coronagraphs, while more recent systems or upgrades deploy higher performance solutions as the corresponding wavefront quality improves. Wavefront control is also becoming an important component of starlight suppression in the form of speckle control. In speckle control, a feedback loop from the post-coronagraph image to an upstream deformable mirror allows for residual speckles to be measured and canceled. This approach has been used in laboratory testbed to reach deep contrast levels, ten to the minus seven to ten to the minus ten, in support of future space-based missions. Deployment on ground-based systems remains challenging due to the dynamic nature of atmospheric turbulence, but has been successful in removing a fraction of static and slow speckles. Sensing and compensation of non-common path aberrations can also be performed using a dedicated sensor, for example a Zernike phase-mask sensor. 2.3. Observing, Post-Processing, and Spectral Extraction Methods. At sub-arcsecond separations, the raw, instrument delivered, planet-to-star contrasts obtained by the first generation of facility and now extreme AO systems, ten to the minus three to minus four point five, are still too shallow to yield decisive detections of many young Jovian exoplanets. Residual quasi-static speckle noise, due to nanometer-scale imperfections in telescope optics, thermal flexure, etc., limits instrumental contrasts and fails to simply average out over time like photon, white, noise. Speckle noise statistics follow a modified Rician distribution whose long positive tail can lead to many false positives. Therefore, novel observing techniques coupled with advanced post-processing methods are critical to optimizing our ability to image exoplanets by further suppressing stellar halo light by orders of magnitude and making residual noise more Gaussian “whitening”. Various forms of differential imaging techniques are utilized to remove speckle noise for direct imaging. Commonly used techniques include: Angular Differential Imaging, ADI. ADI exploits the quasi-static nature of residual speckle noise in AO corrected high-contrast images from the ground and diffraction-limited imaging from space. For ground-based AO imaging, quasistatic speckles evolve on a characteristic timescale of 10 seconds to minutes to an hour or more. For space-based imaging, PSF breathing due to thermal variations and other small mechanical changes cause the quasi-static halo to evolve, but the halo for a given target can remain well correlated for months or years. By turning off the instrument rotator that keeps north fixed on the detector (on the ground) or obtaining observations at different roll angles (space), astrophysical objects off-axis from a star change position angle on the detector while the speckle halo remains fixed. Subtracting images obtained in an ADI sequence can then suppress speckle noise without fully suppressing planet signals. ADI efficiently suppresses speckles on the ground and in space. It is the most widely used observing method in direct imaging. ADI’s advantages are most limited at small angular separations where the displacement of the planet’s PSF is smallest for a given parallactic angle change or roll angle change. Typically, ADI induces signal loss, which must be corrected to achieve absolute spectrophotometric calibration for planets (see below). Spectral Differential Imaging, SDI. At raw contrasts shallower than the ten to the minus seven levels needed to image self-luminous Jovian exoplanets, achromatic phase errors dominate the wavefront errors responsible for the speckle halo. For data obtained simultaneously at multiple wavelengths for example dual-channel imaging or an integral field spectrograph (IFS), the speckle halo as a function of wavelength, scaled in radius by the central passband wavelength, is extremely well correlated. Since the images at different wavelengths are obtained simultaneously with the target, they do not suffer from are temporal decorrelation as with ADI. SDI then suppresses the speckle halo in a given passband by constructing a reference PSF drawn from (rescaled) images at other wavelengths. Like ADI, SDI induces signal loss and is least effective at small angular separations, where bandpass rescaling yields small displacements of a (de-)magnified planet PSF. SDI’s efficacy is also limited by non-common path errors, differential sampling of the point-source PSFs across wavelength channels, and the spectrum of the planet to be detected. Extracting throughput-corrected spectra from data processed with SDI is also more challenging than with other differential imaging techniques. Reference Star Differential Imaging, RDI. RDI subtracts the PSF of a companion-less reference star from the target. It is widely used in the ultra-stable environment of space. While ADI and SDI may yield superior speckle suppression at moderate to wide separations, RDI may be advantageous at very small angular separations where other techniques suffer from self subtraction. RDI requires a very stable PSF to efficiently operate. Using it on ground-based telescopes may require fast switching between the target and reference star(s) for maximum contrast gain, in broad bandpasses, it also requires a reference star that is extremely well color matched. These differential imaging techniques are used in combination with PSF subtraction algorithms. Many widely-used, advanced PSF subtraction methods are different forms of least-squares algorithms, which construct a reference PSF that minimizes the variance when subtracted from a given target image. The locally-optimized combination of images (LOCI) algorithm constructs a reference PSF from a linear combination of reference images weighted by coefficients c determined from the solution to the matrix equation C equals A inverse times b, where A is the (square) covariance matrix for the reference library and b is the column matrix populated by elements multiplying each reference image by the target image. Another approach exploits principal component analysis (PCA), computing the Karhunen-Lo`eve transform of the reference image set and projects this set onto the target image to construct a combination of weighted eigen-images to subtract from the target (Karhunen-Loeve Image Plane algorithm, henceforth KLIP. Multiple successor algorithms such as TLOCI and A-LOCI draw from the lineage of LOCI and, or KLIP, employing advances such as correlation-based frame selection, pixel masking, various rank-truncations of the covariance matrix, free parameter optimization or exploiting high-performance computing to solve for the variance-minimizing coefficients directly. Separate approaches involve maximum-likelihood methods to model and remove the stellar PSF or statistically modeling non-stationary covariances in small regions of images to improve PSF subtraction. The relative performances of these algorithms vary in the literature and may depend on their exact implementation and suitability for a particular data set, although some work suggests that the newer algorithms descended from LOCI and KLIP can offer significant improvements. In general, all of these algorithms enable significant contrast gains over simple, classical methods, especially at small angular separations. ADI, SDI, and RDI combined with PSF subtraction methods can attenuate and distort planet signals. The first methods to measure these biases and recover true planet flux measurements and astrometry injected synthetic planets into data at other locations or iteratively subtracted negative copies of planets at their apparent positions. Recently, several authors have developed efficient forward-modeling methods to estimate photometric and astrometric biases at the planet’s location. Planet forward models in turn can be used as matched filters to improve planet detection capabilities themselves. Analyses of images whose speckle noise is partially suppressed by advanced PSF subtraction techniques have revised notions of how to quantify detection significances and spectroscopic uncertainties. For instance, finite sample sizes impact our definitions for contrast limits drawn from images with noise whitened by KLIP, LOCI, and other algorithms, especially at small, one to three lambda over D, separations. In IFS data, residual speckle noise may be spatially and spectrally correlated. Considering the full spectral covariance has a substantial impact on deriving planet atmospheric parameters from model comparisons. Figure five shows the combined effect of high-contrast imaging hardware and software on imaging exoplanets, stepping through the successive improvements found from using extreme AO, coronagraphy, and PSF subtraction. 3. Direct Imaging Detections. 3.1. Taxonomy of Directly-Imaged Companions. Figure one shows the demographics of planetary mass companions to stars detected via various methods. Community consensus on the planethood of many imaged objects, such as HR 8799 bcde, Beta Pictoris bc, 51 Eridani b, and so on, is clear. However, identifying the exact criteria needed to distinguish between planets and brown dwarfs is challenging. Planets have often been identified as objects with masses below the deuterium-burning limit, nominally 13 times the mass of Jupiter, JUPITER MASS, the IAU Working Group Definition. However, this simple criterion is poorly motivated. In addition to being time and metallicity dependent, deuterium burning arguably does not identify a meaningful boundary for the evolution of low-mass objects, as some objects below the deuterium burning limit have been found in configurations which imply formation by cloud formation and other objects above the deuterium burning limit have been found in configurations which imply formation like a planet in a disk. For instance, recent imaging surveys have found objects that are members of quadruple systems, clearly formed by molecular cloud fragmentation, with inferred masses down to 5 Jupiter masses and free-floating objects with sub-deuterium burning masses as well. In contrast, RV surveys have identified some systems, for example the 2.7 solar mass star nu Oph, with companions at around 150 Giga-meters, one astronomical unit, with masses of 22 and 24 Jupiter masses that are nevertheless locked in a mean-motion resonance indicating formation in a disk, meaning like a planet. The physics of planet formation does not require that gas accretion shuts off once 13 Jupiter masses of material is accreted. An alternate definition leverages formation processes: a planet is an object formed in a circumstellar disk around a young star. Demographic analyses of substellar objects can provide empirically-motivated criteria for separating planets from brown dwarfs. Studies of the substellar mass function from previous RV surveys and recent ones, meaning the California Legacy Survey, show a local minimum at m sine (i) around 16 to 30 Jupiter masses. The minimum in the companion mass function may be proportional to the primary mass, indicating that companion mass ratio (q) could be a key discriminator. Theory also suggests that the semi major axes (ap) and mass ratios (q) of companions also help distinguish between bona fide planets and brown dwarfs. Binary companions to more massive stars with q greater than about 0.025 are exceptionally rare. Distributions of protoplanetary disk radii peak at around 200 au and fall to low frequencies by 30 Tera meters, 300 Astronomical Units. Companions at wider separations are far less likely to have formed from a disk unless scattered to their current locations by unseen companions. Thus, we set the following limits for a planet versus a brown dwarf: Mass less than 25 Jupiter Masses, q less than 0.025, and ap less than about 45 Tera-meters (300 Astronomical Units. Our linked spreadsheet lists the current inventory of directly imaged exoplanets, protoplanets, higher mass ratio, wider separation planet-mass companions, and controversial cases, hyperlink in text. As of 19 October 2022, we identify 22 directly imaged exoplanets that fit our criteria, three of which are imaged protoplanets. We also list another 34 dozen companions that may instead be better considered as brown dwarfs instead of planets, including companions orbiting brown dwarfs, and 6 “controversial” cases. Some of these individual classifications will undoubtedly change pending new analysis as may the exact values used to separate planets from brown dwarfs. Objects in each category will certainly be added over the next few years. Below, we describe general properties of fully-formed directly imaged planets within 45 Terameters, 300 astronomical units and discuss three well-studied, emblematic cases, HR 8799, Beta Pictoris, and 51 Eridani. We also summarize our current knowledge of protoplanets and challenges with identifying imaged exoplanets. 3.2. Fully-formed Exoplanets. 3.2.1. General Properties. Most directly imaged planets known thus far have near-IR contrasts ranging between ten to the minus four, kappa Andromedae b, and ten to the minus six, 51 Eridani b. All of them are self-luminous, made visible by thermal radiation released as the planets cool and contract. On the sky, the planets generally lie at angular separations of point two to two seconds of arc, or about one to ten micro radians in grown up units, around 5 to 40 lambda over D for an 8m telescope. Stars hosting imaged exoplanets typically have ages of 10 to 100 Mega years, many are found in young nearby stellar associations, often less than 100 parsec, 3,000 Peta-meters, with ages less than one hundred Mega years, that share similar kinematics (proper motions, space motions) and formed in the same star-forming region, such as Scorpius Centaurusor the beta Pictoris Moving group. See Section 6.1 for more details on such associations as sites for exoplanet searches. Most stars with imaged planets to date are B, A, or F stars, at least 50 percent more massive than the Sun. Most systems with imaged planets, including systems with the first detections, HR 8799, beta pictoris, also have Kuiper belt-like debris disks. Planets detected to date share similar spectral types and temperatures with more massive field brown dwarfs, but often show evidence of low surface gravity in their spectra. Brown dwarfs and exoplanets alike cool monotonically with age, beginning life as hot M type objects, cooling to the L spectral type (with very red near-IR colors and silicate condensate clouds, the cooler T spectral type (with blue near-IR colors and strong methane absorption at 1.6 micron and 2.2 micron, and eventually to the very cool Y spectral type. Thus, there is an age, mass, temperature degeneracy for these objects, rendering mass estimates based on models very sensitive to the age assumed for the system. Most mass estimates for imaged planets depend on luminosity evolution models, challenges for which are described in Section 3.4. Some planets have dynamical mass measurements or limits. Masses inferred from luminosity evolution or derived from dynamics are typically around 5 to 10 Jupiter masses. Some planets have masses near the deuterium-burning limit, kappa Andromedae b, HD 206893 b. 51 Eridani b may have a far lower mass, as little as about 2 Jupiter Masses. Mass ratios for most imaged planets are q around 0.005 to 0.01. 51 Eridani b may have the lowest mass ratio, with q about 0.001. Even leading extreme AO systems are typically not sufficiently sensitive to detect young Jupiter-mass planets, let alone Saturn-mass planets. However, future capabilities will close these gaps (See Section 7). 3.2.2. Emblematic Systems. While planetary mass companions to brown dwarfs had previously been detected as early as 2004 (most notably 2M1207b, the near simultaneous announcements of HR 8799bcd and Beta Pictrois b are widely regarded as the first bonafide directly-imaged exoplanet detections. Planets in both systems were detected from ground-based facility AO systems in the near-to-mid IR in thermal emission, not scattered light. Just over 7 years later, Macintosh et al announced the first exoplanet discovered with extreme AO, 51 Eridani b. HR 8799 is a nearby, around 40 parsec, 1200 Peta-meters, mid-A field star with an estimated age of about 40 Mega years. The star hosts a massive, resolved Kuiper belt-like debris disk and a warm debris population interior to 1.5 Tera meters, ten Astronomical units consistent with an asteroid belt, possible signposts of massive, perturbing planets. In 2008, Marois et al. announced the direct imaging discovery of HR 8799 bcd followed by a fourth planet discovery in 2010, HR 8799 e, located at projected separations of 2.25 to 10.5 Tera meters, 15 to 70 astronomical Units, Figure 6, left panel. Soon after HR 8799 bcde’s announcements, other studies identified one or more planets in archival or separately obtained data. A decade of Keck Observatory monitoring showed that HR 8799 bcde orbit close to the 1 to 2 to 4 to 8 resonance. Current analyses suggest that the planet orbits are nearly coplanar with the disk, with a small inclination of about 27 degrees. However, HR 8799 e may not orbit on a plane strictly coplanar with HR 8799 bcd Originally, masses inferred from the planets’ luminosities spanned a wide range of values, 5 to 13 Jupiter masses. However, dynamical stability modeling strongly favors masses below 10 Jupiter Masses, 7 Jupiter Masses for HR 8799 cde, HR 8799 b. Using Hipparcos and Gaia, measured a dynamical mass for HR 8799 e of about ten Jupiter masses, consistent with these limits, see Section 3.5. Additional planets may explain the shape of the inner edge of HR 8799’s cold belt, especially if they are near or below Jupiter’s mass. Any planets interior to HR 8799 e must be below three or four Jupiter masses at one to one point five Tera meters, 7 to 10 Astronomical Units, and five to six Jupiter Masses at six hundred to a thousand Giga-meters, or 4 to 7 Astronomical Units. The HR 8799 planetary system resembles a scaled-up version of our own outer solar system. HR 8799 bcde have been benchmark objects for understanding the atmospheres of young Jovian planets. Their photometry and low-resolution spectra differ from those of older, field substellar objects thought to have similar temperatures, identifying features diagnostic of clouds, chemistry, and gravity. Higher resolution spectra probe molecular abundances connected to formation mechanisms. Section 4 discusses HR 8799 bcde’s spectra and atmospheres in more detail. Beta Pictoris. The A6V star Beta Pictoris is the eponymous member of a collection of kinematically-associated stars known as the Beta Pictoris Moving Group, with an age of around 20 million years. The star hosts an edge-on debris disk, imaged since the mid-eighties from the ground and space. The disk consists of a planetesimal ring at ten to 15 Tera-meters responsible for the bulk of the dust through collisions and an outer extension comprised of small dust grains blown out by radiation pressure. Lagrange et al. first identified Beta Pictoris b from data obtained in 2003 with VLT, NaCo; follow-up data obtained one year later confirmed the planet. Thanks to Beta Pictoris’ b’s small semi-major axis 1 point 35 Tera-meters, or around 9 Astronomical Units, over 75 percent of its orbit has been monitored. More recently, a second planet Beta Pictoris c was identified from RV data and then recovered with high contrast inteferometric imaging with VLTI, GRAVITY. Beta Pictoris b may partially explain the observed warp in the edge-on debris disk and the many evaporating exocomets identified over the past 30 years. Planets besides Beta Pictoris b c could explain why the inner 70 Astronomical Units, 10 Tera-meters is relatively devoid of debris dust; localized features in the disk also suggest additional planets could be present. From RV and astrometric data estimate a mass of 9.3 and 8.3 Jupiter Masses for Beta Pictoris b and c respectively. Although these values heavily depend on the assumed uncertainties on the RV data. RV and direct imaging data combined exclude additional planets more massive than 2.5 JUPITER MASS from 15 Giga meters to Tera meters, 0.1 to hundreds of Astronomical Units. Beta Pictois b is more luminous and hotter than the HR 8799 planets, effective temperature 1700 to 1800 Kelvin, just slightly redder than field early L-type dwarfs, and is likely cloudy, dusty with a low gravity. Beta Pictois c probably has a temperature intermediate between its sibling and the HR 8799 planets. 51 Eridani. 51 Eridani is a 29 parsec,900 Peta meter, distant early F star, a member of the about 20 million years old beta pictoris Moving Group, and a member of a wide hierarchical triple system that includes an M dwarf binary GJ 3305. 51 Eridani has a detected infrared excess, modeled with a cold dust belt located approximately between 750 to twelve thousand Giga-meters, 5 to 80 Astronomical Units. The GPI campaign (GPIES) team discovered 51 Eridani b, a faint planet at projected around 2 Tera-meters, 13 Astronomical Unit, Figure 6, right panel. The planet is the first discovered using extreme AO and the first incontrovertible T dwarf planet, showing strong methane absorption in H band. The planet is likely more eccentric than either beta pictoris b or HR 8799 bcde. If confirmed, an eccentric orbit could indicate the presence of an additional massive body or could be due to gravitational perturbations from GJ 3305AB. Assuming a hot-start luminosity evolution, current data rule out other planets more massive than 4 JUPITER MASS beyond 5 Astronomical Units and more massive than 2 JUPITER MASS beyond 9 Astronomical Units. The mass of 51 Eridani b is not well constrained: values derived from comparing 51 Eridani b’s luminosity and age to evolutionary models favor about 2 JUPITER MASS, while atmospheric modeling may favor larger values, up to about 9 JUPITER MASS . Different characterization studies also find slightly diverging atmosphere properties, illustrating the challenge associated with characterizing very faint exoplanets with direct imaging Analysis of Gaia and Hipparcos astrometry set an upper limit of 11 JUPITER MASS for 51 Eridani b The planet likely has a temperature of around 700 Kelvin and either lacks clouds or is only partially covered by clouds. 3.3. Protoplanets. Direct images of planets in active assembly, protoplanets, around stars that still retain gas and dust-rich protoplanetary disks clarify how and where planets form. The large distances to the nearest star-forming regions, around 150 parsecc, mean that protoplanets orbiting their host stars at solar system scales are located at very small angular separations. However, protoplanets can be bright, Luminosities around a hundredth to a thousandth of the solar luminosity, especially if they are surrounded by their own circumplanetary disks. The 5 megayear old 0.87 solar mass star PDS 70 hosts the first incontrovertible detections of Jovian protoplanets: PDS 70 b and PDS 70 c. Both protoplanets are located within the PDS 70 disk cavity, at angular separations Point eighteen and point twenty four arc seconds and estimated semimajor axes 20 and 34 Astronomical Units, 3 and 5.1 Tera-meters. Dynamical arguments strongly favor masses less than 10 JUPITER MASS for PDS 70 b, while PDS 70 c’s mass is more poorly constrained. Masses inferred from SED modeling range between 1 and a few Jovian masses. PDS 70 b is slightly eccentric, eccentricity 0.17, while PDS 70 c’s orbit is consistent with being circular. The protoplanets’ IR data are best fit by model atmospheres with substantial dust, extinction. PDS 70 bc show H alpha emission consistent with accretion at rates of one to two solar masses per hundred million years, slightly less than the stellar accretion rate, but lack evidence for Br gamma accretion. PDS 70 c shows direct evidence for a circumplanetary disk with an estimated mass of 0.007 to 0.03 Earth Mass. Thermal IR data may suggest that PDS 70 b is surrounded by a circumplanetary disk. Recently, data from Subaru, SCExAO and the Hubble Space Telescope over 13 years reveal evidence for a wide separation, 93 astronomical unit embedded protoplanet around the one to three million year old, 2.4 solar mass star AB Aurigae. AB Aurigae b is consistent with a protoplanet responsible for the millimeter dust cavity and CO gas spirals both seen by ALMA. It appears spatially extended, plausibly due to light from the central source reprocessed by the star’s protoplanetary disk. The best-fit composite model explaining AB Aurigae b’s optical to near-IR emission includes a 2.75 Jupiter Mass, 9 Jupiter mass source with a surface gravity of log(g) equals to 3.5, emitting at a much hotter temperature than PDS 70 bc, around 2000 to 2500K, and accreting at a rate of one point one Jupiter masses per million years. The source is detected in H alpha although it is unclear whether this emission is due to accretion. Embedded in a massive disk with numerous spiral arms at over three times Neptune’s disk instead of in a fully cleared cavity like PDS 70 bc, the properties of AB Aurigae b may point to a planet formation mechanism by disk instability (see Section 6). Prior to the discovery of PDS 70 bc, other studies claimed detections of protoplanets located within the gaps of or embedded in disks around young stars. The 2-solar mass, protoplanetary disk-hosting star HD 100546 has a protoplanet candidate at around 7.5 Tera meters, 50 astronomical units and another at around 2 tera meters, 13 astronomical uunits, just interior to the gap in the protoplanetary disk (HD 100546 bc. HD 100546 b has been detected in multiple data sets but evidence for orbital motion is not yet clear. HD 100546 c has been imaged in a single data set and inferred through spectroastrometry but not yet imaged in subsequent data. Interpreting both candidates, whether a planet or disk feature, is challenging. Both candidates require further study and confirmation. Two studies presented detections of protoplanets around the young, Sun-like star LkCa 15 through a combination ofsparse aperture masking interferometry (SAM) and H alpha differential imaging, LkCa 15 bcd. However, later direct imaging observationsshowed that the SAM detections correspond to disk features LkCa 15 b technically remains a candidate for now due to its single epoch H alpha. Other claimed protoplanet detections have been revealed to likely be misidentified disk signals instead of planets. 3.4. Challenges with Interpreting Detections. 3.4.1. Confirming Companionship. Direct imaging observations reveal many point sources that are unrelated background stars instead of bound companions, especially for systems in the Galactic plane. Confirming candidate planets as bound, meaning sharing common proper motion with and orbiting their stars, often requires multi-year observations, depending on the star’s proper motion. In some pathologicalcases, background stars can have a non-zero proper motion and thus are more easily confused with bona fide planets. In the absence of full confirmation, an object’s near-IR spectrum can provide strong evidence that it is a directly-imaged exoplanet, for example for 51 Eridani b. 3.4.2. Estimating Accurate Masses. Masses for imaged planets and planet candidates are typically not directly measured but are instead estimated using luminosity evolution models that map between an object’s brightness and mass as a function of age. Accurate mass estimates therefore are affected by uncertainties in these models and require precise system ages. Hot start models for planet luminosity evolution assume a high initial entropy, resulting in bright planets for the first one to a hundred Mega years. Cold start models assume a low initial entropy, resulting in planets that are substantially fainter for the first 100 Mega years. Originally, hot start models were used to describe planets formed by disk instability, while cold start models described planets formed by core accretion. However, recent models show that core accretion formed planets can be compatible with hot start-like luminosity evolutions, and Jovian planets may form with a range of initial entropies. Aside from 51 Eridani b, all planets imaged thus far are only consistent with a hot-start luminosity evolution. Precise ages can be exceptionally challenging to derive for isolated stars. Members of young moving groups or other nearby associations can be age-dated using a variety of methods: for example fitting group Hertzsprung-Russell (HR) diagram positions with stellar evolutionary models, Lithium abundances. Thus, moving group or association membership can yield a star’s age. However, even stars with a motion similar to bona fide moving group members could instead be interlopers, especially if they have dissimilar space positions. For isolated Sunlike stars, stellar rotation and activity can give age estimates, albeit with significant scatter. For early-type stars, HR diagram positions have provided approximate ages: optical interferometry can now provide more precise estimates by resolving the stars themselves. Revisions in the stellar age often affects the interpretation of an imaged companion. For example, based on the primary’s claimed membership in the Columba association, Kappa Andromedae b was originally thought to be 12 to 13 JUPITER MASS. In contrast, the primary’s HR diagram position resembles an older system, 220 Mega-years, which would imply the companion is around 50 JUPITER MASS. However, through optical interferometry, it has been shown that the star is likely (nearly) coeval with Columba even if it is not a member around47 Mega years, implying the object is a planet mass companion. Later, near-IR spectra of Kappa Andromedae b were found to be consistent with a planet interpretation. In contrast, the imaged companion to GJ 504 was announced as a 3 to 8.5 JUPITER MASS planet with an age of 100 to 510 Mega years. Based on interferometric, RV, and high contrast imaging data, derived a mass range of 1 to 23 JUPITER MASS, while other analysis of the star suggested an age of about 2.5 Gyr and a mass well into the brown dwarf regime. 3.4.3. Planet or disk feature? Distinguishing between highly-structured disk signals and bona fide protoplanets is a steep, chronic challenge. Advanced algorithms needed to detect protoplanets can attenuate both disk and planet signals: forward-modeling is required to ensure that a claimed planet detection is not a partially subtracted piece of the disk. For systems with hot dust, T around 1000 to 2000 K, near the star that intercepts and reprocesses emission, the disk’s scattered light spectrum may strongly resemble spectra of bona fide protoplanets. Orbital motion over multi-year timescales can better establish that a signal is an orbiting planet and not a static disk feature H alphaission can also pinpoint actively accreting protoplanets however, accretion onto protoplanets embedded in disks may be unidentifiable, since optical extinction likely renders Hα undetectable. Fomalhaut b may represent the first of yet another class of objects with a challenging interpretation The object was initially identified as a directly imaged planet, made visible by both reflected light from a circumplanetary disk and thermal emission, and responsible for sculpting the star’s Kuiper belt-like debris disk. However, later analysis showed that Fomalhaut b’s spectrum is completely explained by scattered starlight and its orbit likely crosses the ring the object is lower in mass and likely made visible purely by circumplanetary dust. Recently, from analyzing archival and unpublished data, Gaspar and Rieke (2020) proposed that Fomalhaut b may be fading and dispersing, consistent with a massive planetesimal collision. Other analyses find no clear evidence for these two trends, although they were conducted only over a subset of available data. Future observations of Fomalhaut b and, or reanalyses of recent data may clarify its true nature. 3.5. Synergies with Other Techniques. The limitations of direct imaging affect our ability to interpretdata for individual objects and to draw conclusions from large-scale population studies. For individual objects, mass estimates depend on both the age of the planet and the chosen luminosity evolutionary model (see Section 3.4). At a population level, the angular resolution of the telescope and the achievable contrast of the instrument limit the range of detectable planetary masses and semi-major axes with direct imaging. Combining direct imaging with other planet detection techniques partially mitigates these limits. Optical interferometry provides a means to directly detect bright, modest planets at small angular separations. As a prime example, GRAVITY interferometer coherently combines the light of all four VLT telescopes, yielding the equivalent angular resolution of a 130-m telescope, GRAVITY. While the GRAVITY field-of-view is small (around 50 mas), indirect detection techniques, such as RV, cna help predict the position of an exoplanet candidate. GRAVITY has yielded exceptionally high-SNR spectra and ultra-precise astrometry of known planets, the combination of GRAVITY and indirect techniques have now resulted in new planet discoveries Relative astrometric measurements of a planet around mass of the orbiting planet; the semi-major axis of the relative orbit encodes the system’s total mass, not the individual components’ masses. The system’s mass ratio, and thus the mass of the planet, can be measured if the semi-major axis of the orbit of the star around the system barycenter is known. This orbit can be measured either using absolute astrometric measurements from catalogues such as Hipparcos and Gaia, or spectroscopic observations to measure the Doppler shift of the star’s spectral lines over the course of the orbit. In some cases, high-resolution spectroscopy can measure the Doppler shift of the planet’s spectral lines, also yielding the mass ratio. Combining the star’s orbit around the barycenter with the relative astrometry between star and planet yields the mass ratio, and a dynamical mass for the planet. In multi-planet systems with high-precision astrometry, the planets’ mutual gravitation can be detected by fitting for deviations from Keplerian motion, yielding their mass estimates. The Beta Pic system is the current benchmark example of combining planet detection techniques to measure model independent masses. Relative astrometry of Beta Pic b and c combined with the star’s astrometric and RV measurements provides dynamical masses for the planets Measurements of non-Keplerian motion due to the mutual gravity of Beta Pic b and c are also now possible given the precision of recent interferometric monitoring campaigns. Combining astrometry and, or RV and direct imaging data can yield dynamical masses for other directly-imaged planets, as well as for numerous brown dwarf companions. The upcoming Gaia data releases for the full and extended mission will be used extensively in future detection and characterization studies of directly-imaged planets, yielding further dynamical masses for directly imaged companions. The extended mission will provide precision astrometric measurements of the host star over around 10 years. Combining direct imaging with other detection techniques can improve planet occurrence rate measurements and can better determine the planet frequency distribution over a range of masses, orbital periods, and host star properties. Long-term Doppler surveys are largely complete to giant planets within about 750 Giga-meters, 5 astronomical units, and partially complete to giant planets out to around10 astronomical units, the current inner limit of sensitivity of direct imaging surveys. Thus, combining results from both techniques reveals giant planet demographics out to around100 astronomical units (Section 6.3). RV studies of young stars allow occurrence rates to be compared for stars of similar ages, tracing the extent of giant planet migration over system lifetimes and its effect on planet frequency. The final Gaia planet catalog will also help place demographic measurements of young, wide-separation giant planets into context, as astrometry will be better able to probe intermediate separation giant planets. 150 to 1,500 Giga meters, around one to ten Astronomical units, Masses greater than around one Jupiter masses, around younger, higher-mass stars compared to RV. These target stars more closely match the hosts of imaged planets. A Gaia-selected survey of accelerating stars has now led to the first joint direct imaging and astrometry discovery of an exoplanet. Combining Gaia observations of younger, higher-mass stars with direct imaging will illuminate trends in occurrence rate as a function of stellar mass and age. Direct imaging also shares an important overlap with planet detection by microlensing. Both techniques are sensitive to planets beyond the snow line, with microlensing probing lower planet-star mass ratios, while the host mass of imaged planets can be directly determined, and the planet mass inferred from models. In addition, singly lensed short-period microlensing events can represent either a free-floating planet or a wide separation bound planet. Constraints on the wide-separation giant planet population can be determined from imaging, thus more definitively constraining the free-floating planet occurrence rate. 4. Atmospheric Characterization of Directly Imaged Exoplanets. Direct imaging enables characterization of young, age less than 200 Mega years Jovian exoplanets at wider separations with negligible irradiation compared to most transiting planets. In this section, we first summarize from an empirical standpoint what we have learned about the atmospheres of the current cohort of young directly imaged giant planets from their photometry and spectroscopy. We then consider the theoretical side of the picture, in particular, the state-of-the art in how we model these complex, cool atmospheres. 4.1. Empirical Constraints from Time-Averaged Observations. 4.1.1. Photometry. Photometry in the major near-to-mid IR passbands, J, H, K, Lp, Ms, covers the bulk of emission for young super Jovian planets and provided the first empirical diagnostic of young, directly-imaged planet atmospheric properties. Figure 8 displays a typical near-IR color magnitude diagram for selected directly-imaged planets and other planet mass companions compared to older, more massive field brown dwarfs and younger brown dwarfs whose ages and masses partially overlap with those of most imaged planets. Imaged planets and planet-mass companions span the full luminosity range characteristic of mature late-M, L, and T field brown dwarfs (vertical axis). However, young brown dwarfs, planets, and planet-mass companions typically have redder colors than field objects. The most pronounced differences between planet and methane-poor L-type dwarfs to methane-absorbing T-type dwarfs. The first imaged planet-mass companion, 2M 1207 B, and some of the first imaged exoplanets, for example, HR 8799 b) are particularly discrepant, appearing to populate a previously empty part of these diagrams consistent with a reddened extension of the L dwarf sequence to lower luminosities. Over the full 1 to 5 micron spectral range, photometry for these objects appears redder and more blackbody-like, Figure 10, top-left. More recent studies show that a number of other young imaged planets, planet-mass companions, for example HD 95086 b, TYC 8998-760-1 c, HD 206893 b, 2M 2236 plus 4751 B, also populate this region. Differences between field and young objects with T spectral types are less clear. Few young, T-type planet-mass companions have been identified in the last decade, for example 51 Eridani b. While GU Piscium B follows the sequence of field brown dwarfs in near-IR color-magnitude diagrams, the exoplanet 51 Eridani b is redder than field brown dwarfs. Four additional companions orbiting primary stars with intermediate ages, less than around one Giga-years. HN Pegasi B, ROSS458C, BD204-39B, and others, show similar but less pronounced deviations with respect to field dwarfs in the same luminosity range. Some directly imaged L, T transition planets and planet-mass companions have color-magnitude diagram positions discrepant from field objects in thermal IR passbands probing methane absorption (3.3 microns, Ms) but have positions similar to field objects in other passbands. 4.1.2. Spectroscopy. Over the past decade, IFS instruments, especially those used in combination with extreme AO systems (P1640, SPHERE, GPI, SCExAO-CHARIS) have provided critical low-resolution (R around 20 to 80) near-IR, 1 to 2.5 micron spectra of most directly-imaged exoplanets, a representative sample of which is displayed in Figure 9. Near-IR spectra provide key diagnostics of brown dwarf and planet atmospheres. Spectral indices derived from low-resolution data like H20 yield coarse estimates of spectral types. The H-band continuum index and (possibly) the H2-K index is a diagnostic of surface gravity. Following trends from photometry, the spectra of young directly-imaged planets and other planet-mass companions show significant differences with the spectra of field brown dwarfs. Among the most notable are the following: Chemistry. The L, T transition traces the onset of methane absorption. However, spectra of some L, T transition exoplanets and planet-mass companions, for example the HR 8799 planets, 2M 1207 B, show a lack of methane absorption compared to field dwarfs with similar temperatures and CMD positions. Thermal IR spectra confirm that the HR 8799 planets also have weaker absorption in the 3.3 microns methane filter. Gravity. The H-band spectra for L dwarf and L, T transition directly imaged exoplanets, planetarymass objects such as HR 8799 b, Kappa Andromedae b, ROXs 42Bb show highly peaked H-band spectra and, or red K-band spectra compared to field dwarfs. The H and K-band shapes probe collisionally-induced absorption (CIA) of hydrogen; lower gravities result in weaker CIA and thus peaked H-band peaks and redder K-band slopes. Dust. At least some of the HR 8799 planets have spectral properties and molecular absorptions that are well matched by those of young free-floating objects at the L, T transition (see also Section 4.3). However, no object yet reproduces the available 1 to 2.5 micron spectra of HR8799b, which may be due to the lack of identified young free-floating T-type objects. A handful of early-T-type objects such as the AB Doradus member 2MASS, number in text, can reproduce the spectral bands of HR 8799 b provided that an extra layer of extinction by sub-micron dust particles is applied to these empirical template spectra to match the spectral slope of the planet. HD 206893 b presents an even more extreme example, with an even flatter, more blackbody-like spectrum yielding an extremely red spectrum from 1 to 2.5 micron, likely due to substantial atmospheric dust. Spectra of the coolest and lowest mass imaged exoplanet known to date, 51 Eridani b, display a clear and so-far unique detection of a methane absorption at 1.6 micron in the spectrum of an imaged exoplanet, coincident with an enhancement in the K-band flux. Similar K-band flux enhancements have already been noted in young mid to late-T dwarfs but the enhancement is particularly extreme in the case of 51 Eridani b and is due to the reduced collision induced absorption of H2 in 51 Eridani b’s lower-pressure atmosphere. Protoplanets display far more featureless, black bodylike spectra. PDS 70 bc’s spectra reveal an extremely red spectral continuum devoid of the strong water-band feature, 1.3 to 1.4 micron expected given the observed luminosity of the planets. Higher resolution K-band spectra show a lack of molecular absorption in PDS 70 b’s spectrum. The circumplanetary disks and, or cocoon surrounding each planets, see Fig 7, produce significant foreground extinction and may produce spectroscopic properties similar to what is seen in the near-infrared spectra of enshrouded class one protostars. The near-IR spectrum of AB Aurigae b is reproduced by a 2000 to 2500 Kelvin blackbody but likewise lacks clear evidence for molecular absorption common in fully-formed substellar objects with similar temperatures. Aside from a few isolated cases, for example HR 8799 bcde, the spectroscopic properties of imaged exoplanets are more poorly constrained at wavelengths longward of 2.5 micron. The 3-5 micron range is particularly interesting since it contains both methane and 12 Carbon Monoxide absorption features diagnostic of carbon chemistry, Carbon Monoxide, Methane and cloud structures. The Lp-band spectra of hotter young M7 to L3 companions, show no significant difference with those of field dwarf counterparts. The Lp spectrum of kappa Andromedae b is well matched with that of yo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Post-Vaccination Syndrome: A Descriptive Analysis of Reported Symptoms and Patient Experiences After Covid-19 Immunization. https://rumble.com/v3t4yzj-index-of-science.-music-by-dan-vasc.html Harlan M. Krumholz, MD, SM, and others. Center for Outcomes Research and Evaluation, Yale New Haven Hospital, New Haven, Connecticut. Corresponding author: Dr. Harlan M. Krumholz 195 Church Street, Fifth Floor New Haven, CT 06510 203-497-1246 Email: harlan.krumholz@yale.edu medRxiv preprint doi: https://doi.org/10.1101/2023.11.09.23298266 https://www.medrxiv.org/content/10.1101/2023.11.09.23298266v1 ABSTRACT. Introduction: A chronic post-vaccination syndrome (PVS) after covid-19 vaccination has been reported but has yet to be well characterized. Methods: We included 241 individuals aged 18 and older who self-reported PVS after covid-19 vaccination and who joined the online Yale Listen to Immune, Symptom and Treatment Experiences Now (LISTEN) Study from May 2022 to July 2023. We summarized their demographics, health status, symptoms, treatments tried, and overall experience. Results: The median age of participants was 46 years, interquartile range, IQR, 38 to 56, with 192 (80%) identifying as female, 209 (87%) as non-Hispanic White, and 211 (88%) from the United States. Among these participants with PVS, 127 (55%) had received the BNT162b2, Pfizer-BioNTech, vaccine, and 86 (37%) received the mRNA-1273, Moderna vaccine. The median time from the day of index vaccination to symptom onset was three days, IQR 1 day to 8 days. The time from vaccination to symptom survey completion was 595 days (IQR: 417 to 661 days). The median Euro-QoL visual analogue scale score was 50, IQR 39 to 70. The five most common symptoms were exercise intolerance (71%), excessive fatigue (69%), numbness (63%), brain fog (63%), and neuropathy (63%). In the week before survey completion, participants reported feeling unease (93%), fearfulness (82%), and overwhelmed by worries (81%), as well as feelings of helplessness (80%), anxiety (76%), depression (76%), hopelessness (72%), and worthlessness (49%) at least once. Participants reported a median of 20, with the IQR from 13 to 30, interventions to treat their condition. Conclusions: In this study, individuals who reported PVS after covid-19 vaccination had low health status, high symptom burden, and high psychosocial stress despite trying many treatments. There is a need for continued investigation to understand and treat this condition. INTRODUCTION. The vaccines against SARS-CoV-2 have saved many lives, but adverse events have been reported. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention notes the possibility of rare complications, including anaphylaxis, thrombosis with thrombocytopenia syndrome, specifically after viral vector vaccines, Guillain-Barre Syndrome, specifically after viral vector vaccines, and myocarditis and pericarditis. These complications were not reported in the vaccine clinical trials, emphasizing the limitations of these studies in capturing rare adverse events and highlighting the critical role of post-market surveillance. A less well-characterized adverse event is a chronic syndrome with symptoms that begin soon after vaccination. A recent preprint from the US National Institutes of Health described 23 people who reported neuropathic symptoms starting within 21 days after vaccination. The cause of this syndrome is undefined, diagnostic tests and evidence-based interventions are lacking, and its connection with vaccination remains controversial. A first step in understanding what these patients experience is a description of their symptoms, treatments, and health status. This information can lay the groundwork for enabling prevention, mitigation, and treatment. Accordingly, we sought to describe the characteristics, symptoms, health status, treatment, and experience of individuals who report post-vaccination syndrome (PVS) using data from the Yale Listen to Immune, Symptom and Treatment Experiences Now (LISTEN) study, an online observational study. METHODS. Study Design. LISTEN is a cross-sectional study that collects participant-reported, participant-generated, and clinical data. Deep immune phenotyping is carried out for a subset of individuals, which involves comprehensive profiling of immune cell subtypes, their related products, and their functional states. LISTEN participants were recruited from Hugo Health Kindred, an online patient community. This platform, for which recruitment occurs mainly through social media and word of mouth, provides opportunities for information exchange, and allows members to share survey responses and health data with research studies. The LISTEN study began recruiting participants who reported PVS in May 2022. PVS was defined by self-report in response to whether the individual thought the vaccine had injured them. We summarized these individuals' symptoms, diagnoses, treatments, and experiences. Patient Involvement Patients (DH, BD) were research partners in the study and participated in identifying and prioritizing the research question. Patient partners, including DH, were involved in designing the survey, assessing the burden and time required to participate in the study, recruiting participants, and interpreting results, and will be involved in disseminating the research findings. Study Sample The study sample includes participants aged 18 years and older who reported PVS from May 2022 through July 2023. We did not include people who concurrently reported long covid. See Supplemental Figure 1. Data Collection. The Kindred platform provided a series of surveys, see Supplemental Appendix that collected demographic, infection, vaccination, clinical, and social information. The surveys were developed using an iterative process, including feedback from potential participants reporting PVS, to ensure they were relevant and understandable to those participating. The surveys were provided only in English due to funding limitations. Surveys could be completed on computers or mobile devices, and reminders were sent to encourage completion. Surveys were completed between November 2022 and July 2023, with half completed by December 2022. See Supplemental Figure 2. Data were extracted on July 7, 2023. Variables. The surveys included questions about the participants' demographic information, health status, and prior SARS-CoV-2 infection and vaccinations. The duration from the day of index vaccination to the day of the survey completion was a median of 595 days, Interquartile Range, IQR 417 to 661 days; range: 40 to 1058 days. Prior medical conditions were assessed using the question, "Have you ever been told by a doctor before January 2020 that you have any of the following?" followed by a list of 30 medical diagnostic categories, eight psychiatric diagnostic categories, "other," and "none of the above." Current medical conditions were assessed similarly, with 31 medical diagnostic categories, 8 psychiatric diagnostic categories, "other," and "none of the above." The question that assessed vaccine-associated symptoms was, "Please select all the following health conditions that you have had as a result of vaccine injury," followed by a list of 96 specific symptoms, "other," and "none of the above." Self-reported health status was assessed on a 5-point scale, excellent, very good, good, fair, or poor, based on individuals' self-perceived general health. The Euro-QoL visual analogue scale (EQ-VAS) was used to quantify the quality of life, with 100 representing the best. Symptom severity was collected by asking, "On your worst days, how bad are your symptoms, 0 being trivial illness and 100 being unbearable?" Statistical Analysis. We characterized participants by their demographics, age, gender, race, country of residence, marital status, pre-pandemic household income, employment status, and insurance status, vaccine type received, pre-pandemic comorbidities, PVS symptoms, symptom severity, duration of symptoms since vaccination, treatments tried, new-onset medical conditions since vaccination, and psychological and socioeconomic status. These characteristics are described using percentages for categorical variables and median and IQR for continuous variables. We then described the differences in characteristics by age, younger than 60 years versus 60 years or older, gender, and type of index vaccine. We also summarized the EQ-VAS score on people without prior substantial comorbidities. Such comorbidities did not include common allergies generally perceived as non-life threatening, dyslipidemia, and hypertension. All statistical analyses were performed in R version 4.3.1, June sixteenth, 2023. The Yale University Institutional Review Board approved the LISTEN study. We followed STROBE reporting guidelines. Harlan Krumholz, a co-founder of Hugo Health, developed the Hugo Kindred platform, and the Yale Conflict of Interest Committee oversees his involvement. RESULTS. Study Sample. The study population comprised 241 individuals with self-reported PVS, Supplemental Figure 1. Among the participants reporting PVS, 127 (55%) were those who had taken the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine, followed by 86 (37%) who had taken the Moderna vaccine, shown in Table 1. The participants' demographic and psychosocial characteristics are shown in Table 2. The median age was 46 years, IQR from 38 to 56; 192 (80%) identified as female; 7 (3%) reported that they were non-Hispanic Black and 209 (87%) as non-Hispanic White. There were 127 (55%) participants who received the BNT162b2, Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine, 86 (37%) the mRNA-1273, Moderna vaccine, 15 (6%) the Janssen Ad26.COV2.S Johnson and Johnson vaccine, 1 (0.4%) the NVX-CoV2373, Novavax, vaccine, and 4 (2%) the ChAdOx1 nCoV-19, AstraZeneca vaccine. Additionally, 82 (34%) participants reported being infected by the SARS-CoV-2 virus at least once. The participants were mainly from the United States (88%), and in this group, there were 5 uninsured individuals, 176 with private commercial insurance, and 8 Medicaid beneficiaries. Before the pandemic, 194 (82%) were employed. Regarding income, 166 (69%) reported an annual income greater than or equal to 75,000 dollars. Approximately three quarters had one or more pre-pandemic comorbidities including gastrointestinal issues reported by 67 (28%), anxiety by 61 (25%), asthma by 49 (20%), depression by 49 (20%), and migraines by 46 (19%). There were 59 (25%) participants who did not have any prior substantial comorbidities. The frequencies of pre-pandemic comorbidities are shown in Supplemental Table 1. The duration from the day of index vaccination to the day of the survey completion was a median of 595 days, IQR from 417 to 661 days; range: 40 to 1058 days. Participants reported numerous challenges in their daily lives, Supplemental Table 2. In the week before survey completion, 221 (93%) reported feeling unease at least once, 194 (82%) felt fearful, 192 (81%) felt overwhelmed by worries, and 180 (76%) struggled with anxiety. Furthermore, 190 (80%) felt helpless, 182 (76%) depressed, 171 (72%) hopeless, and 116 (49%) worthless at least once in the week before survey completion. Additionally, 233 (98%) felt rundown and 216 (91%) reported sleep problems. Pain interfered with the daily activities of 204 (86%) participants. Regarding social support, 98 (41%) had two or fewer supportive individuals to rely on for help. Getting help from neighbors was described as challenging or very challenging by 86 (36%), while 24 (10%) rarely or never had assistance for tasks like shopping or visiting the doctor. Loneliness was prevalent, with 47 (20%) often feeling a lack of companionship, 55 (23%) feeling left out, and 77 (32%) feeling isolated. Furthermore, 28 (12%) often or always felt lonely. Concerns related to living situations and food security were also prominent. Among all participants, 21 (9%) feared running out of food before they could afford to buy more, and 16 (7%) had stable housing but expressed worry about future loss. Transportation issues impeded 13 (5%) participants from carrying out essential non-medical tasks and 10 (4%) from attending medical appointments. Timing of Symptom Onset Following Vaccination. The median time from vaccination to the onset of any symptoms was 3 days, with an IQR of 1 to 8 days, Table 2, Supplemental Figure 3. Symptoms began after the first, second, third, and fourth (or more) vaccinations for 106 (44%), 80 (33%), 33 (14%), and 22 (9%) participants, respectively. Health Status. The median EQ-VAS score among participants was 50, IQR of 39 to 70, Figure 1. We evaluated the distributions of EQ-VAS scores in men. The median was 50, the IQR was 37 to 70, and women, median 51; IQR 39 to 69, age groups, less than 60 years old median: 50; IQR: 39 to 65. For Greater than or equal to 60 years old the median was 61, the IQR: 39 to 76. And Pfizer-BioNTech, the median was 51, the IQR was 35 to 70, and Moderna the median was 50, the IQR was 40 to 62, index vaccination types, Figure 1. The median EQ-VAS score in the participants without previous comorbidities was 52, with an IQR of 36 to 70. The median EQ-VAS score in the participants with any prior comorbidities was 50, with IQR of 39 to 66. There were 106 (44%) participants who rated their current health as fair or poor, Supplemental Table 3; Supplemental Figure 4, and their median EQ-VAS score was 40, with an IQR of 30 to 52. Symptom Severity. When asked to quantify symptom severity on their worst days, 0 representing a trivial illness and 100 for an unbearable condition, participants reported a median severity of 80, IQR of 69 to 89, Supplemental Figure 5; Supplemental Table 3. On their worst days, participants who rated their current health as fair or poor reported a median symptom severity of 80 points, with the IQR from 70 to 90. Symptom Characteristics. The symptoms reported by the participants are shown in Figure 2, Supplemental Figure 6, and Supplemental Table 4. The median number of symptoms attributed to PVS was 22, the IQR was 13 to 35. The most common symptoms were exercise intolerance reported by 170 (71%) participants, excessive fatigue by 167 (69%), numbness by 153 (63%), brain fog by 151 (63%), neuropathy by 151 (63%), insomnia by 148 (61%), palpitations by 145 (60%), myalgia by 132 (55%), tinnitus or humming in ears by 131 (54%), headache by 128 (53%), burning sensations by 121 (50%), and dizziness by 121 (50%). New Diagnoses since the Pandemic. The most common new diagnoses in the study sample since the beginning of the pandemic were anxiety, 49 (36%) participants, neurological conditions, 79, 33%, gastrointestinal issues 73, 30%, and postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), 70, 29%. Supplemental Table 5. There were 53 (22%) participants who reported migraine and 49 (20%) who reported depression. Treatments. Participants reported having taken many treatments, Figure 3, Figure 4, and Supplemental Table 6. The total number of unique treatment types was 209, which we grouped into 40 categories. The median number of individual treatments tried was 20, IQR of 13 to 30; range: 0 to 65. The most common prescription therapies reported were oral steroids 116, 48% participants, gabapentin 61, 25%, low-dose naltrexone 48, 20%, ivermectin 44, 18%, propranolol 27, 11%, and bronchodilators 26, 11%. More than 500 additional treatments were reported by participants, Supplemental Table 6. The most common non-pharmacological treatment included limiting exercise or exertion by 124, 51% of participants, quitting alcohol or caffeine, 105, 44%, hydration and increasing salt intake 105, 44%, and intermittent fasting 95, 39%. DISCUSSION. This study is the largest to describe people who report a severe, debilitating chronic condition following covid-19 vaccination. This chronic condition began soon after covid-19 vaccination and persisted in many people for a year or more. The symptoms reported are diverse and severe. Despite having tried many treatments, the median EQ-VAS score was low. Although the cause of PVS has yet to be established, this report is a step toward acknowledging the suffering it creates. It signals the need for scientific investigation to help us understand its mechanism and develop prevention, mitigation, and cure strategies. This observational study of self-referred individuals cannot determine causality or provide estimates of the incidence and prevalence of PVS. Although there is a background rate for conditions unrelated to vaccination that can produce many symptoms reported by participants, these individuals do not have other diagnoses to explain their symptoms. Many participants did not have chronic conditions before the pandemic. Also, we excluded LISTEN participants who reported long covid. PVS could be caused by several potential mechanisms, including a mechanism related to the vaccination or manufacturing process. It may represent a rare response to vaccines in susceptible individuals. Some investigators have concluded, based on their self-referred case series, that vaccines may cause immune system dysfunction. They focused on people with neuropathy after vaccination and could not identify other causes. In 2 of 5 participants, the cerebrospinal fluid had oligoclonal bands, and they found immune complexes in some skin biopsies. Nevertheless, the syndrome could be unrelated to the vaccination, occurring by chance during the vaccination period. However, the temporal relationship with clustering of symptom onset within the first 1 to 18 days from the index vaccine suggests a potential relationship. The possibility that the syndrome may be related to the vaccination has implications for future vaccine development and safety surveillance. Research in this area has the risk of being embroiled in debates about vaccinations. The net benefit of the covid-19 vaccination program is clear, and there are concerns about vaccine hesitancy. But fears of inciting vaccine hesitancy should not impede efforts to research this condition, and make progress for people who are suffering. This study has several limitations. It is an uncontrolled observational cross-sectional study of self-referred participants who reported that they had the onset of symptoms soon after vaccination, which, in many cases, persisted for more than a year. The participants are not representative, so it is not possible to estimate the incidence or who might be most susceptible to this condition. Participating in LISTEN required people to join the community, consent to the study, and complete the surveys. This approach may have skewed our sample away from people who were too ill to participate or had substantial cognitive dysfunction. Also, the study required online access, some digital literacy, and English fluency, further limiting participation and representativeness. Since participants were strongly skewed toward those who reside in the United States and self-identify as White, efforts are needed to study a more inclusive group. Future investigations need more outreach and partnerships with diverse groups, low-income communities, communities of color, and other countries to assemble a more representative participant group. CONCLUSION. In conclusion, people reporting PVS after covid-19 vaccination in this study are highly symptomatic, have poor health status, and have tried many treatment strategies without success. As PVS is associated with considerable suffering, there is an urgent need to understand its mechanism to provide prevention, diagnosis, and treatment strategies.

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

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

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

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