PukeOnAPlate

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

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

Welcome to the Dalek chanel, where we value your mind, and not just your eighteen year old daughters body. Movies are wonderful things. The Marvels Cinematic Universe is a marvelous thing. Superhero Marvel movies have apparently made a lot of money. But, we ask, exactly how crappy are they? How crappy is the Marvel Crapatronic Universe? All data taken from the website The Numbers, and only domestic US sales are included. Here we utilize the Iso-Crap model of movie revenue. Equally crappy movies have the same proportionally crappy evolution. Whether they interest the same people, or because of the same marketing. Or perhaps the Hurricanes in California, they have a few similar features. These financially underperforming fantasy genre movies of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, or M C U are examined here. All of the domestic box office revenue is normalized, meaning divided by the first three days of revenue, or the day three as reported from the numbers. As an example the MCU phase five movie: Blue Beetle had an initial three day opening of: 25 point zero million. And a total domestic box office of: 72 point 49 million. Therefore, the iso-crap of blue beetle is a value of 1 after three days, and 72.48 divided by 25.0 or 2.896 at day 77. To put it another way, for every dollar Blue beetle bought in in the first three days, it needed another two and a half months to get the next two dollars. But what was it like back in the old days? Well let’s have a look at MCU phase one. The MCU Phase one consisted of: Iron Man, Hulk, Iron Man two, Thor, Captain America and the Avengers. The evolution of these films is shown in figure one. Normalizing their three day revenue to one, the average over the MCU phase one is 2.75. What does this curve illustrate? Well, after the three day opening, at some value determined by buzz, advertising, fan interest, or a piece of dirt on the radar screen at Norad, the movie revenue evolves. Reviews are written. Reviews are read. And the toxic fandom word of mouth spreads, and people are drawn into the theatre. The iso-crap here is the revenue divided by whatever the movie made in its first three days, so all the films are comparable to their initial interest. The best long term performer, the one with the highest iso crap, was Iron Man, with an Iso Crap of three point one two. In figure one point one, we add an average movie. And it’s a very average movie, as we will reveal later. As we can see, even in the glory days of MCU phase one, none of the films bought in more movie goers compared to the three day opening than an average movie. The plot of this average movie is shown on the numbers “Average-ness graph”, to display how thoroughly average it was. Time went on, and along came MCU Phase two. It bought us such memorable gems as Iron Man one hundred and eleven, or perhaps that’s a three, Thor, the Dark World, Captain America, The Winter Soldier, Guardians of the Galaxy, the Avengers, AOU, and I can’t remember what AOU stands for, and last but not least, Ant-man. All their revenue is shown in Figure 2. The best Isocrap was Guardians of the Galaxy, which reached the level of averageness with an Iso-crap of three point five four. Overall, the iso-crappiness of the MUC phase two was: two point seven four. So Guardians of the Galaxy bought in as many people after its three day opening, as any average film. It achieved the peak transitional breakthrough of being average. Figure three: Along came MCU phase three, from twenty sixteen to twenty nineteen. Phase three had such wonderful little gems as Captain America and the semi colons, and the Civil war. Doctor Strange, and a semi colon and something else in the title. Guardians of the Galaxy vengeance Waffe two, Spiderman Homecoming. Thor and the Semi Colon of Ragnerok. Black Panther, Avengers Infinity War, Ant man and the Wasp, Captain Marvel and Avengers Endgame, which also had the memorable semi colon. Here again, the average iso-crap of the MCU was two point seven six. Almost indistinguishable from the earlier phases. The peak performer was Black Panther with an Iso-Crap of three point four six. Figure Four. And the came MCU phase four or five, along with the inevitable semi colons. We had movies like Blue Beetle, Ant-man and some more semi colon quantum things, The Flash, The Marvels, That blonde chick and her aunt, which was released under the title of “Black Widow”, Shang Chi, Doctor Strange, in some other movie, Thor and the love of Chunder, Black Panther in some other sequel movie, the Eternals, and the aforementioned Guardians Volume three. Guardians of the Galaxy Volume three peaked three point zero one, and the whole Phase four to five Had an isocrap of two point four five. Over all, the Entire MCU to date, Ignoring the Marvels, which has not crapped to completion in theatres, the MCU averages two point six five. The best performers? With iso-craps near three, we have Blue beetle, Shang Chi, and Guardians of the Galaxy. Indiana Jones and the Rotary phone time travel thing as also iso-crapic with these three. The worst? The Flash and Ant-man, both iso-craps of each other at around two point zero. So what? Well, if an MCU movie is released, and makes a hundred million in three days, the average final domestic box office will be two point six five million. Or in other words, for every dollar bought in during the first three days, the rest of the domestic box office run will bring in one dollar sixty five cents. If we ignore overseas income, which is usually a smaller fraction of box office revenues, a movie studio will receive as income about half of the box office revenue. For an Average MCU movie, this is about half of the average iso-crap, or one point three two times its three day opening. So, if an average MCU movie is released, and makes one hundred million over three days, the Movie studio is likely to receive, on average, one thirty two million back. Which means, that average MCU movie is going to have to cost less than one thirty two million to make if the Studio wants to see any profit. We might then ask, what did the MCU movies make as a three day opening, over all phases? Here we include the Marvels, since it has emphatically had its three day opening. And the number is: MCU phase one, average three day 103 million. MUC Phase two, three day opening 116 million. MCU Phase three, average of 165 million. MCU Phase 4 to 5, a value of 95.9 million. Or about 120 million, over all phases, and close enough to one hundred million if we consider phase one or phase four to five by themselves. For optimistic accounting, if we took the MCU phase three average of 165 million three day opening, and the Average MCU phase three iso-crap of two point seven six, then for a fifty percent return of the domestic gross, and ignoring foreign sales, the average movie would have to cost less than two hundred and eighteen million to break even. Well, the best of the best performers of the MCU, the original Guardians of the Galaxy, and Black Panther, bought in movies like an average move, with iso-craps of about three point five. Whatever happened with reviews, twitter-bots, word of mouth, those two movies grew the initial pool of movie goers like the average flick does. What was that average movie with an iso-crap of about 3.5 that beat almost everything, and tied with the best the MCU could produce? Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull. 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Reformatted for Machine Text 2023. 1 The Roads Must Roll. Astounding Science Fiction, June 1940. 2 The Green Hills of Earth. The Saturday Evening post, February 1947. 3 Space Jockey. The Saturday Evening post, April 1947. 4 Waldo. Astounding Science Fiction 1942. 5 The Long Watch. American Legion Magazine 1949. 6 We Also Walk Dogs. Astounding Science Fiction, July 1941. 7 Black Pits of Luna. The Saturday Evening post, January 1948. 8 Witchs Daughter. 1946, Published New Destinies 1988. 9 Successful Operation. Futuria Fantasia, Spring 1940. THE ROADS MUST ROLL. by Robert Anson Heinlein. First published in 1940. "Who makes the roads roll?" The speaker stood still on the rostrum and waited for his audience to answer him. The reply came in scattered shouts that cut through the ominous, discontented murmur of the crowd. "We do! We do! Damn right!" "Who does the dirty work 'down inside', so that Joe Public can ride at his ease?" This time it was a single roar: "We do!" The speaker pressed his advantage, his words tumbling out in a rasping torrent. He leaned toward the crowd, his eyes picking out individuals at whom to fling his words. "What makes business? The roads! How do they move the food they eat? The roads! How do they get to work? The roads! How do they get home to their wives? The roads!" He paused for effect, then lowered his voice. "Where would the public be if you boys didn't keep them roads rolling? Behind the eight ball, and everybody knows it. But do they appreciate it? Pfui! Did we ask for too much? Were our demands unreasonable? 'The right to resign whenever we want to.' Every working stiff in any other job has that. 'The same Pay as the engineers.' Why not? Who are the real engineers around here? D'yuh have to be a cadet in a funny little hat before you can learn to wipe a bearing, or jack down a rotor? Who earns his keep: The gentlemen in the control offices, or the boys down inside? What else do we ask? "The right to elect our own engineers.' Why the hell not? Who's competent to pick engineers? The technicians, or some damn dumb examining board that's never been down inside, and couldn't tell a rotor bearing from a field coil?" He changed his pace with natural art, and lowered his voice still further. "I tell you, brother, it's time we quit fiddlin' around with petitions to the Transport Commission, and use a little direct action. Let 'em yammer about democracy; that's a lot of eyewash, we've got the power, and we're the men that count!" A man had risen in the back of the hall while the speaker was haranguing. He spoke up as the speaker paused. "Brother Chairman," he drawled, "may I stick in a couple of words?" "You are recognized, Brother Harvey." "What I ask is: What's all the shootin' for? We've got the highest hourly rate of pay of any mechanical guild, full insurance and retirement, and safe working conditions, barring the chance of going deaf." He pushed his antinoise helmet farther back from his ears. He was still in dungarees, apparently just up from standing watch. "Of course we have to give ninety days' notice to quit a job, but, cripes, we knew that when we signed up. The roads have got to roll, they can't stop every time some lazy punk gets tired of his billet. "And now Soapy", the crack of the gavel cut him short, "Pardon me, I mean Brother Soapy, tells us how powerful we are, and how we should go in for direct action. Rats! Sure, we could tie up the roads, and play hell with the whole community, but so could any screwball with a can of nitroglycerin, and he wouldn't have to be a technician to do it, neither. "We aren't the only frogs in the puddle. Our jobs are important, sure, but where would we be without the farmers, or the steel workers, or a dozen other trades and professions?" He was interrupted by a sallow little man with protruding upper teeth, who said: "Just a minute, Brother Chairman, I'd like to ask Brother Harvey a question," then turned to Harvey and inquired in a sly voice: "Are you speaking for the guild, brother, or just for yourself? Maybe you don't believe in the guild? You wouldn't by any chance be", he stopped and slid his eyes up and down Harvey's lank frame, "a spotter, would you?" Harvey looked over his questioner as if he had found something filthy in a plate of food. "Sikes," he told him, "if you weren't a runt, I'd stuff your store teeth down your throat. I helped found this guild. I was on strike in '60. Where were you in '60? With the finks?" The chairman's gavel pounded. "There's been enough of this," he said. "Nobody that knows anything about the history of this guild doubts the loyalty of Brother Harvey. We'll continue with the regular order of business.'' He stopped to clear his throat.' 'Ordinarily, we don't open our floor to outsiders, and some of you boys have expressed a distaste for some of the engineers we work under, but there is one engineer we always like to listen to whenever he can get away from his pressing duties. I guess maybe it's because he's had dirt under his nails the same as us. Anyhow, I present at this time Mister Shorty Van Kleeck,'' A shout from the floor stopped him. "Brother Van Kleeck," "O K, Brother Van Kleeck, chief deputy engineer of this roadtown." "Thanks, Brother Chairman." The guest speaker came briskly forward, and grinned expansively at the crowd. He seemed to swell under their approval. "Thanks, brothers. I guess our chairman is right. I always feel more comfortable here in the guild hall of the Sacramento Sector, or any guild hall for that matter, than I do in the engineers' clubhouse. Those young punk cadet engineers get in my hair. Maybe I should have gone to one of the fancy technical institutes, so I'd have the proper point of view, instead of coming up from down inside. "Now, about those demands of yours that the Transport Commission just threw back in your face, Can I speak freely?'' "Sure you can, Shorty! You can trust us!" "Well, of course I shouldn't say anything, but I can't help but understand how you feel. The roads are the big show these days, and you are the men who make them roll. It's the natural order of things that your opinions should be listened to, and your desires met. One would think that even politicians would be bright enough to see that. Sometimes, lying awake at night, I wonder why we technicians don't just take things over, and." "Your wife is calling, Mister Gaines." "Very well." He flicked off the office intercommunicator and picked up a telephone handset from his desk. "Yes, darling, I know I promised, but, You're perfectly right, darling, but Washington has especially requested that we show Mister Blekinsop anything he wants to see. I didn't know he was arriving today. No, I can't turn him over to a subordinate. It wouldn't be courteous. He's Minister of Transport for Australia. I told you that. Yes, darling, I know that courtesy begins at home, but the roads must roll. It's my job; you knew that when you roamed me. And this is part of my job. That's a good girl. We'll positively have breakfast together. Tell you what, order horses and a breakfast pack and we'll make it a picnic. I'll meet you in Bakersfield, usual place. Good-by, darling. Kiss Junior good night for me." He replaced the handset, whereupon the pretty but indignant features of his wife faded from the visor screen. A young woman came into his office. As she opened the door, she exposed momentarily the words painted on its outer side: "Diego-Reno Roadtown, Office of the Chief Engineer." He gave her a harassed glance. "Oh, it's you. Don't marry an engineer, Dolores, marry an artist. They have more home life." "Yes, Mister Gaines. Mister Blekinsop is here, Mister Gaines." "Already? I didn't expect him so soon. The Antipodes ship must have grounded early." "Yes, Mister Gaines." "Dolores, don't you ever have any emotions?" "Yes, Mister Gaines." "Hum, it seems incredible, but you are never mistaken. Show Mister Blekinsop in." "Very good, Mister Gaines." Larry Gaines got up to greet his visitor. Not a particularly impressive little guy, he thought, as they shook hands and exchanged formal amenities. The rolled umbrella, the bowler hat, were almost too good to be true. An Oxford accent partially masked the underlying clipped, flat, nasal twang of the native Australia. "It's a pleasure to have you here, Mister Blekinsop, and I hope we can make your stay enjoyable." The little man smiled. "I'm sure it will be. This is my first visit to your wonderful country. I feel at home already. The eucalyptus trees, you know, and the brown hills." "But your trip is primarily business?" "Yes, yes. My primary purpose is to study your roadcities and report to my government on the advisablity of trying to adapt your startling American methods to our social problems Down Under. I thought you understood that such was the reason I was sent to you." "Yes, I did, in a general way. I don't know just what it is that you wish to find out. I suppose that you have heard about our roadtowns, how they came about, how they operate, and so forth." "I've read a good bit, true, but I am not a technical man, Mister Gaines, not an engineer. My field is social and political. I want to see how this remarkable technical change has affected your people. Suppose you tell me about the roads as if I were entirely ignorant. And I will ask questions." "That seems a practical plan. By the way, how many are there in your party?" "Just myself. My secretary went on to Washington." "I see." Gaines glanced at his wrist watch. "It's nearly dinner time. Suppose we run up to the Stockton Sector for dinner. There is a good Chinese restaurant up there that I'm partial to. It will take us about an hour and you can see the ways in operation while we ride." "Excellent." Gaines pressed a button on his desk, and a picture formed on a large visor screen mounted on the opposite wall. It showed a strong-boned, angular young man seated at a semicircular control desk, which was backed by a complex instrument board. A cigarette was tucked in one corner of his mouth. The young man glanced up, grinned, and waved from the screen. "Greetings and salutations, chief. What can I do for you?" "Hi, Dave. You've got the evening watch, eh? I'm running up to the Stockton Sector for dinner. Where's Van Kleeck?" "Gone to a meeting somewhere. He didn't say." "Anything to report?" "No, sir. The roads are rolling, and all the little people are going ridey-ridey home to their dinners." "O K, keep 'em rolling." "They'll roll, chief." Gaines snapped off the connection and turned to Bleckinsop. "Van Kleeck is my chief deputy. I wish he'd spend more time on the road and less on politics. Davidson can handle things, however. Shall we go?" They glided down an electric staircase, and debouched on the walkway which bordered the north-bound five-mile-an-hour strip. After skirting a stairway trunk marked "Overpass to Southbound Road," they paused at the edge of the first strip. "Have you ever ridden a conveyor strip before?" Gaines inquired. "It's quite simple. Just remember to face against the motion of the strip as you get on." They threaded their way through homeward-bound throngs, passing from strip to strip. Down the center of the twenty-mile-an-hour strip ran a glassite partition which reached nearly to the spreading roof. The Honorable Mister Blekinsop raised his eyebrows inquiringly as he looked at it. "Oh, that?" Gaines answered the unspoken question as he slid back a panel door and ushered his guest through. "That's a wind break. If we didn't have some way of separating the air currents over the strips of different speeds, the wind would tear our clothes off on the hundred mile an hour strip." He bent his head to Blekinsop's as he spoke, in order to cut through the rush of air against the road surfaces, the noise of the crowd, and the muted roar of the driving mechanism concealed beneath the moving strips. The combination of noises inhibited further conversation as they proceeded toward the middle of the roadway. After passing through three more wind screens located at the forty, sixty, and eighty-mile-an hour strips, respectively, they finally reached the maximum-speed strip, the hundred-mile-an-hour strip, which made the round trip, San Diego to Reno and back, in twelve hours. Blekinsop found himself on a walkway, twenty feet wide, facing another partition. Immediately opposite him an illuminated show-window proclaimed: JAKE'S STEAK HOUSE Number 4. The Fastest Meal on the Fastest Road! "To dine on the fly Makes the miles roll by!" "Amazing!" said Mister Blekinsop. "It would be like dining in a tram. Is this really a proper restaurant?" "One of the best. Not fancy, but sound." "Oh, I say, could we." Gaines smiled at him. "You'd like to try it, wouldn't you, sir?" "I don't wish to interfere with your plans." "Quite all right. I'm hungry myself, and Stockton is a long hour away. Let's go in." Gaines greeted the manageress as an old friend. "Hello, Missus McCoy. How are you tonight?" "If it isn't the chief himself! It's a long time since we've had the pleasure of seeing your face." She led them to a booth somewhat detached from the crowd of dining commuters. "And will you and your friend be having dinner?" "Yes, Missus McCoy. Suppose you order for us, but be sure it includes one of your steaks." "Two inches thick, from a steer that died happy." She glided away, moving her fat frame with surprising grace. With sophisticated foreknowledge of the chief engineer's needs, Missus McCoy had left a portable telephone at the table. Gaines plugged it into an accommodation jack at the side of the booth, and dialed a number. "Hello, Davidson? Dave, this is the chief. I'm in Jake's Steak House Number 4 for supper. You can reach me by calling 10-L-6-6." He replaced the handset, and Blekinsop inquired politely: "Is it necessary for you to be available at all times?" "Not strictly necessary," Gaines told him, "but I feel safer when I am in touch. Either Van Kleeck, or myself, should be where the senior engineer of the watch, that's Davidson this shift, can get hold of us in a pinch. If it's a real emergency, I want to be there, naturally." "What would constitute a real emergency?" "Two things, principally. A power failure on the rotors would bring the road to a standstill, and possibly strand millions of people a hundred miles, or more, from their homes. If it happened during a rush hour, we would have to evacuate those millions from the road, not too easy to do." "You say millions, as many as that?" "Yes, indeed. There are twelve million people dependent on this roadway, living and working in the buildings adjacent to it, or within five miles of each side." The Age of Power blends into the Age of Transportation almost imperceptibly, but two events stand out as landmarks in the change: The invention of the Sun-power screen, and the opening of the first moving road. The power resources of oil and coal of the United States had, save for a few sporadic outbreaks of common sense, been shamefully wasted in their development all through the first half of the twentieth century. Simultaneously, the automobile, from its humble start as a one-lunged horseless carriage, grew into a steel-bodied monster of over a hundred horsepower and capable of making more than a hundred miles an hour. They boiled over the countryside, like yeast in ferment. In the middle of the century it was estimated that there was a motor vehicle for every two persons in the United States. They contained the seeds of their own destruction. Seventy million steel juggernauts, operated by imperfect human beings at high speed, are more destructive than war. In the same reference year the premiums paid for compulsory liability and property damage insurance by automobile owners exceeded in amount the sum paid the same year to purchase automobiles. Safe driving campaigns were chronic phenomena, but were mere pious attempts to put Humpty-Dumpty together again. It was not physically possible to drive safely in those crowded metropolises. Pedestrians were sardonically divided into two classes, the quick and the dead. But a pedestrian could be defined as a man who had found a place to park his car. The automobile made possible huge cities, then choked those same cities to death with their numbers. In 1900 Herbert George Wells pointed out that the saturation point in the size of a city might be mathematically predicted in terms of its transportation facilities. From a standpoint of speed alone the automobile made possible cities two hundred miles in diameter, but traffic congestion, and the inescapable, inherent danger of high-powered, individually operated vehicles canceled out the possibility. Federal Highway Number 66 from Los Angeles to Chicago, "The Main Street of America," was transformed into a superhighway for motor vehicles, with an under-speed limit of sixty miles per hour. It was planned as a public works project to stimulate heavy industry; it had an unexpected byproduct. The great cities of Chicago and St. Louis stretched out urban pseudopods toward each other, until they met near Bloomington, Illinois. The two parent cities actually shrank in population. The city of San Francisco replaced its antiquated cable cars with moving stairways, powered with the Douglas-Martin Solar Reception Screens. The largest number of automobile licenses in history had been issued that calendar year, but the end of the automobile was in sight. The National Defense Act closed its era. This act, one of the most bitterly debated ever to be brought out of committee, declared petroleum to be an essential and limited material of war. The army and navy had first call on all oil, above or below the ground, and seventy million civilian vehicles faced short and expensive rations. Take the superhighways of the period, urban throughout their length. Add the mechanized streets of San Franciso's hills. Heat to boiling point with an imminent shortage of gasoline. Flavor with Yankee ingenuity. The first mechanized road was opened between Cincinnati and Cleveland. It was, as one would expect, comparatively primitive in design. The fastest strip moved only thirty miles per hour, and was quite narrow, for no one had thought of the possibility of locating retail trade on the strips themselves. Nevertheless, it was a prototype of the social pattern which was to dominate the American scene within the next two decades, neither rural nor urban, but partaking equally of both, and based on rapid, safe, cheap, convenient transportation. Factories, wide, low buildings whose roofs were covered with solar power screens of the same type that drove the road, lined the roadway on each side. Back of them and interspersed among them were commercial hotels, retail stores, theaters, apartment houses. Beyond this long, thin, narrow strip was the open countryside, where much of the population lived. Their homes dotted the hills, hung on the banks of creeks, and nestled between the farms. They worked in the "city," but lived in the "country", and the two were not ten minutes apart. Missus McCoy served the chief and his guest in person. They checked their conversation at the sight of the magnificent steaks. Up and down the six-hundred-mile line, sector engineers of the watch were getting in their hourly reports from their subsector technicians. "Subsector One, check!" "Subsector Two, check!" Tensiometer readings, voltage, load, bearing temperatures, synchrotachometer readings, "Subsector Seven, check!" Hard-bitten, able men in dungarees, who lived much of their lives down inside amidst the unmuted roar of the hundred-mile strip, the shrill whine of driving rotors, and the complaint of the relay rollers. Davidson studied the moving model of the road, spread out before him in the main control room at Fresno Sector. He watched the barely perceptible crawl of the miniature hundred-mile strip and subconsciously noted the reference number on it which located Jake's Steak House Number 4. The chief would be getting into Stockton soon; he'd give him a ring after the hourly reports were in. Everything was quiet; traffic tonnage normal for rush hour; he would be sleepy before this watch was over. He turned to his cadet engineer of the watch. "Mister Barnes." "Yes, sir." "I think we could use some coffee." "Good idea, sir. I'll order some as soon as the hourlies are in." The minute hand of the control board chronometer reached twelve. The cadet watch officer threw a switch. "All sectors, report!" he said, in crisp, self-conscious tones. The faces of two men flicked into view on the visor screen. The younger answered him with the same air of acting under supervision. "Diego Circle, rolling!" They were at once replaced by two more. "Angeles Sector, rolling!" Then: "Bakersfield Sector, rolling!" And: "Stockton Sector, rolling!'' Finally, when Reno Circle had reported, the cadet turned to Davidson and reported: "Rolling, sir." "Very well, keep them rolling!" The visor screen flashed on once more. "Sacramento Sector, supplementary report." "Proceed." "Cadet Engineer Guenther, while on visual inspection as cadet sector engineer of the watch, found Cadet Engineer Alec Jeans, on watch as cadet subsector technician, and R. J. Ross, technician second class, on watch as technician for the same subsector, engaged in playing cards. K was not possible to tell with any accuracy how long they had neglected to patrol their subsector." "Any damage?" "One rotor running hot, but still synchronized. It was jacked down, and replaced." "Very well. Have the paymaster give Ross his time, and turn him over to the civil authorities. Place Cadet Jeans under arrest and order him to report to me." "Very well, sir." "Keep them rolling!" Davidson turned back to control desk and dialed Chief Engineer Games' temporary number. "You mentioned that there were two things that could cause major trouble on the road, Mister Gaines, but you spoke only of power failure to the rotors." Gaines pursued an elusive bit of salad before answering. "There really isn't a second major trouble, it won't happen. However, we are traveling along here at one hundred miles per hour. Can you visualize what would happen if this strip under us should break?" Mister Blekinsop shifted nervously in his chair. "Hum! Rather a disconcerting idea, don't you think? I mean to say, one is hardly aware that one is traveling at high speed, here in this snug room. What would the result be?" "Don't let it worry you; the strip can't part. It is built up of overlapping sections in such a fashion that it has a safety factor of better than twelve to one. Several miles of rotors would have to shut down all at once, and the circuit breakers for the rest of the line fail to trip out before there could possibly be sufficient tension on the strip to cause it to part. "But it happened once, on the Philadelphia-Jersey City road, and we aren't likely to forget it. It was one of the earliest high-speed roads, carrying a tremendous passenger traffic, as well as heavy freight, since it serviced a heavily industrialized area. The strip was hardly more than a conveyor belt, and no one had foreseen the weight it would carry. It happened under maximum load, naturally, when the high-speed way was crowded. The part of the strip behind the break buckled for miles, crushing passengers against the roof at eighty miles per hour. The section forward of the break cracked like a whip, spilling passengers onto the slower ways, dropping them on the exposed rollers and rotors down inside, and snapping them up against the roof. "Over three thousand people were killed in that one accident, and there was much agitation to abolish the roads. They were even shut down for a week by presidential order, but he was forced to reopen them again. There was no alternative." "Really? Why not?" "The country had become economically dependent on the roads. They were the principal means of transportation in the industrial areas, the only means of economic importance. Factories were shut down; food didn't move; people got hungry, and the president was forced to let them roll again. It was the only thing that could be done; the social pattern had crystallized in one form, and it couldn't be changed overnight. A large, industrialized population must have large-scale transportation, not only for people, but for trade." Mister Blekinsop fussed with his napkin, and rather diffidently suggested: "Mister Gaines, I do not intend to disparage the ingenious accomplishments of your great people, but isn't it possible that you may have put too many eggs in one basket in allowing your whole economy to become dependent on the functioning of one type of machinery?" Gaines considered this soberly. "I see your point. Yes, and no, every civilization above the peasant-and-village type is dependent on some key type of machinery. The old South was based on the cotton gin. Imperial England was made possible by the steam engine. Large populations have to have machines for power, for transportation, and for manufacturing in order to live. Had it not been for machinery the large populations could never have grown up. That's not a fault of the machine; that's its virtue. "But it is true that whenever we develop machinery to the point where it will support large populations at a high standard of living we are then bound to keep that machinery running, or suffer the consequences. But the real hazard in that is not the machinery, but the men who run the machinery. These roads, as machines, are all right. They are strong and safe and will do everything they were designed to do. No, it's not the machines, it's the men. "When a population is dependent on a machine, they are hostages of the men who tend the machines. If their morale is high, their sense of duty strong." Someone up near the front of the restaurant had turned up the volume control of the radio, letting out a blast of music that drowned out Gaines' words. When the sound had been tapered down to a more nearly bearable volume, he was saying: "Listen to that. It illustrates my point." Blekinsop turned an ear to the music. It was a swinging march of compelling rhythm, with a modern interpretive arrangement. One could near the roar of machinery, the repetitive clatter of mechanisms. A Pleased smile of recognition spread over the Australian's face. "It's your field artillery song, 'The Roll of the Caissons,' isn't it? But I don't see the connection." "You're right; it was 'The Roll of the Caissons,' but we adapted it to our own purposes. It's "The Road Song of the Transport Cadets,' too. Wait!" The persistent throb of the march continued, and seemed to blend with the vibration of the roadway underneath into a single timpano. Then a male chorus took up the verse: "Hear them hum! Watch them run! Oh, our job is never done, For our roadways go rolling along! While you ride, While you glide, We are watching down inside, So your roadways keep rolling along! "Oh, it's Hie! Hie! Hee! The rotor men are we, Check off the sectors loud and strong! ONE! TWO! THREE! Anywhere you go, You are bound to know, That your roadways are rolling along! KEEP THEM ROLLING! That your roadways are rolling along!" "See?" said Gaines, with more animation in his voice. "See? That is the real purpose of the United States Academy of Transport. That is the reason why the transport engineers are a semi-military profession, with strict discipline. We are the bottle neck, the sine qua non, of all industry, all economic life. Other industries can go on strike, and only create temporary and partial dislocations. Crops can fail here and there, and the country takes up the slack. But if the roads stop rolling, everything else must stop; the effect would be the same as a general strike, with this important difference: It takes a majority of the population, fired by a real feeling of grievance, to create a general strike; but the men that run the roads, few as they are, can create the same complete paralysis. "We had just one strike on the roads, back in '60. It was justified, I think, and it corrected a lot of real abuses, but it mustn't happen again." "But what is to prevent it happening again, Mister Gaines?" "Morale, esprit de corps. The technicians in the road service are indoctrinated constantly with the idea that their job is a sacred trust. Besides, we do everything we can to build up their social position. But even more important is the academy. We try to turn out graduate engineers imbued with the same loyalty, the same iron self-discipline, and determination to perform their duty to the community at any cost, that Annapolis and West Point and Goddard are so successful in inculcating in their graduates." "Goddard? Oh, yes, the rocket field. And have you been successful, do you think?" "Not entirely, perhaps, but we will be. It takes time to build up a tradition. When the oldest engineer is a man who entered the academy in his teens we can afford to relax a little and treat it as a solved problem." "I suppose you are a graduate?" Gaines grinned. "You flatter me, I must look younger than I am. No, I'm a carry-over from the army. You see, the war department operated the roads for some three months during reorganization after the strike in '60. I served on the conciliation board that awarded pay increases and adjusted working conditions, then I was assigned." The signal light of the portable telephone glowed red. Gaines said, "Excuse me," and picked up the handset. "Yes?" Blekinsop could overhear the voice at the other end. "This is Davidson, chief. The roads are rolling." "Very well. Keep them rolling!" "Had another trouble report from the Sacramento Sector." "Again? What this time?" Before Davidson could reply he was cut off. As Gaines reached out to dial him back, his coffee cup, half full, landed in his lap. Blekinsop was aware, even as he was lurched against the edge of the table, of a disquieting change in the hum of the roadway. "What has happened, Mister Gaines?" "Don't know. Emergency stop, God knows why." He was dialing furiously. Shortly he flung the phone down, without bothering to return the handset to its cradle. "Phones are out. Come on! No! You'll be safe here. Wait." "Must I?" 'Well, come along then, and stick close to me." He turned away, having dismissed the Australian cabinet minister from his mind. The strip ground slowly to a rest, the giant rotors and myriad rollers acting as flywheels in preventing a disastrous sudden stop. Already a little knot of commuters, disturbed at their evening meal, were attempting to crowd out the door of the restaurant. "Halt!" There is something about a command issued by one used to being obeyed which enforces compliance. It may be intonation, or possibly a more esoteric power, such as animal tamers are reputed to be able to exercise in controlling ferocious beasts. But it does exist, and can be used to compel even those not habituated to obedience. The commuters stopped in their tracks. Gaines continued: "Remain in the restaurant until we are ready to evacuate you. I am the chief engineer. You will be in no danger here. You!" He pointed to a big fellow near the door. "You're deputized. Don't let anyone leave without proper authority. Missus McCoy, resume serving dinner." Gaines strode out the door, Blekinsop tagging along. The situation outside permitted no such simple measures. The hundred-mile strip alone had stopped; twenty feet away the next strip flew by at an unchecked ninety-five miles an hour. The passengers on it flickered past, unreal cardboard figures. The twenty-foot walkway of the maximum speed strip had been crowded when the breakdown occurred. Now the customers of shops, of lunch stands, and of other places of business, the occupants of lounges, of television theaters, all came crowding out onto the walkway to see what had happened. The first disaster struck almost immediately. The crowd surged, and pushed against a middle-aged woman on its outer edge. In attempting to recover her balance she put one foot over the edge of the flashing ninety-five-mile strip. She realized her gruesome error, for she screamed before her foot touched the ribbon. She spun around and landed heavily on the moving strip, and was rolled by it, as the strip attempted to impart to her mass, at one blow, a velocity of ninety-five miles per hour, one hundred and thirty-nine feet per second. As she rolled she mowed down some of the cardboard figures as a sickle strikes a stand of grass. Quickly, she was out of sight, her identity, her injuries, and her fate undetermined, and already remote. But the consequences of her mishap were not done with. One of the flickering cardboard figures bowled over by her relative moment fell toward the hundred-mile strip, slammed into the shockbound crowd, and suddenly appeared as a live man, but broken and bleeding, amidst the luckless, fallen victims whose bodies had checked his wild flight. Even there it did not end. The disaster spread from its source, each hapless human ninepin more likely than not to knock down others so that they fell over the danger-laden boundary, and in turn ricocheted to a dearly-bought equilibrium. But the focus of calamity sped out of sight, and Blekinsop could see no more. His active mind, accustomed to dealing with large numbers of individual human beings, multiplied the tragic sequence he had witnessed by twelve hundred miles of thronged conveyor strip, and his stomach chilled. To Blekinsop's surprise, Gaines made no effort to succor the fallen, nor to quell the fear-infected mob, but turned an expressionless face back to the restaurant. When Blekinsop saw that he was actually reentering the restaurant, he plucked at Gaines' sleeve. "Aren't we going to help those poor people?" The cold planes of the face of the man who answered him bore no resemblance to his genial, rather boyish host of a few minutes before. "No, bystanders can help them, I've got the whole road to think of. Don't bother me." Crushed, and somewhat indignant, the politician did as he was ordered. Rationally, he knew that the chief engineer was right, a man responsible for the safety of millions cannot turn aside from his duty to render personal service to one, but the cold detachment of such viewpoint was repugnant to him. Gaines was back in the restaurant. "Missus McCoy, where is your getaway?" "In the pantry, sir." Gaines hurried there, Blekinsop at his heels. A nervous Filipino salad boy shrank out of Gaines' way as he casually swept a supply of prepared green stuffs onto the floor, and stepped up on the counter where they had rested. Directly above his head and within reach was a circular manhole, counterweighted and operated by a handwheel set in its center. A short steel ladder, hinged to the edge of the opening, was swung up flat to the ceiling and secured by a hook. Blekinsop lost his hat in his endeavor to clamber quickly enough up the ladder after Gaines. When he emerged on the roof of the building, Gaines was searching the ceiling of the roadway with a pocket flashlight. He was shuffling along, stooped double in the awkward four feet of space between the roof underfoot and ceiling. He found what he sought, some fifty feet away, another manhole similar to the one they had used to escape from below. He spun the wheel of the lock, and stood up in the space, then rested his hands on the sides of the opening, and with a single lithe movement vaulted to the roof of the roadways. His companion followed him with more difficulty. They stood in darkness, a fine, cold rain feeling at their faces. But underfoot, and stretching beyond sight on each hand, the Sun-power screens glowed with a faint opalescent radiance, their slight percentage of inefficiency as transformers of radiant Sun power to available electrical power being evidenced as a mild induced radioactivity. The effect was not illumination, but rather like the ghostly sheen of a snow-covered plain seen by starlight. The glow picked out the path they must follow to reach the rain-obscured wall of buildings bordering the ways. The path was a narrow black stripe which arched away into the darkness over the low curve of the roof. They started away on this path at a dogtrot, making as much speed as the slippery footing and the dark permitted, while Blekinsop's mind still fretted at the problem of Gaines' apparently callous detachment. Although possessed of a keen intelligence, his nature was dominated by a warm, human sympathy, without which no politician, irrespective of other virtues or shortcomings, is long successful. Because of this trait he distrusted instinctively any mind which was guided by logic alone. He was aware that, from a standpoint of strict logic, no reasonable case could be made out for the continued existence of human race, still less for the human values he served. Had he been able to pierce the preoccupation of his companion, he would have been reassured. On the surface, Gaines' exceptionally intelligent mind was clicking along with the facile ease of an electromechanical integrator, arranging data at hand, making tentative decisions, postponing judgments without prejudice until necessary data were available, exploring alternatives. Underneath, in a compartment insulated by stern self discipline from the acting theater of his mind, his emotions were a torturing storm of self reproach. He was heartsick at the suffering he had seen, and which he knew too well was duplicated up and down the line. Although he was not aware of any personal omission, nevertheless the fault was somehow his, for authority creates responsibility. He had carried too long the superhuman burden of kingship, which no sane mind can carry lightheartedly, and was at this moment perilously close to the frame of mind which sends captains down with their ships. But the need for immediate, constructive action sustained him. But no trace of this conflict reached his features. At the wall of buildings glowed a green line of arrows, pointing to the left. Over them, at the terminus of the narrow path, shone a sign: "Access down." They pursued this, Blekinsop puffing in Gaines' wake, to a door let in the wall, which gave into a narrow stairway lighted by a single glow tube. Gaines plunged down this, still followed, and they emerged on the crowded, noisy, stationary walkway adjoining the northbound road. Immediately adjacent to the stairway, on the right, was a public tele-booth. Through the glassite door they could see a portly, well-dressed man speaking earnestly to his female equivalent, mirrored in the visor screen. Three other citizens were waiting outside the booth. Gaines pushed past them, flung open the door, grasped the bewildered and indignant man by the shoulders and hustled him outside, kicking the door closed after him. He cleared the visor screen with one sweep of his hand, before the matron pictured therein could protest, and pressed the emergency-priority button. He dialed his private code number, and was shortly looking into the troubled face of his engineer of the watch, Davidson. "Report!" "It's you, chief! Thank God! Where are you?" Davidson's relief was pathetic. "Report!" The senior watch officer repressed his emotion, and complied in direct, clipped phrases: "At 7:09 p.m. the consolidated tension reading, Strip 20, Sacramento Sector, climbed suddenly. Before action could be taken, tension on Strip 20 passed emergency level; the interlocks acted, and power to subject strip cut out. Cause of failure unknown. Direct communication to Sacramento control office has failed. They do not answer the auxiliary, nor commercial. Effort to reestablish communication continues. Messenger dispatched from Stockton Subsector 10. "No casualties reported. Warning broadcast by public announcement circuit to keep clear of Strip 19. Evacuation has commenced." "There are casualties," Gaines cut in. "Police and hospital emergency routine. Move!" "Yes, sir!" Davidson snapped back, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder, but his cadet officer of the watch had already jumped to comply. "Shall I cut out the rest of the road, chief?" "No, no more casualties are likely after the first disorder. Keep up the broadcast warnings. Keep those other strips rolling, or we will have a traffic jam the devil himself couldn't untangle." Gaines had in mind the impossibility of bringing the strips up to speed under load. The rotors were not powerful enough to do this. If the entire road was stopped, he would have to evacuate every strip, correct the trouble on Strip 20, bring all strips up to speed, and then move the accumulated peak-load traffic. In the meantime, over five million stranded passengers would constitute a tremendous police problem. It was simpler to evacuate passengers on Strip 20 over the roof, and allow them to return home via the remaining strips. "Notify the mayor and the governor that I have assumed emergency authority. Same to the chief of police and place him under your orders. Tell the commandant to arm all cadets available and await orders. Move!" "Yes, sir. Shall I recall technicians off watch?" "No, this isn't an engineering failure. Take a look at your readings; that entire sector went out simultaneously. Somebody cut out those rotors by hand. Place off-watch technicians on standby status, but don't arm them, and don't send them down inside. Tell the commandant to rush all available senior-class cadets to Stockton Subsector Office Number 10 to report to me. I want them equipped with tumblebugs, pistols, and sleepgas bombs." "Yes, sir." A clerk leaned over Davidson's shoulder and said something in his ear. "The governor wants to talk to you, chief." "Can't do it, nor can you. Who's your relief? Have you sent for him?" "Hubbard, he's just come in." "Have him talk to the governor, the mayor, the press, anybody that calls, even the White House. You stick to your watch. I'm cutting off. I'll be back in communication as quickly as I can locate a reconnaissance car." He was out of the booth almost before the screen cleared. Blekinsop did not venture to speak, but followed him out to the northbound twenty-mile strip. There Gaines stopped, short of the windbreak, turned, and kept his eyes on the wall beyond the stationary walkway. He picked out some landmark or sign, not apparent to his companion, and did an Eliza crossing the ice back to the walkway, so rapidly that Blekinsop was carried some hundred feet beyond him, and almost failed to follow when Gaines ducked into a doorway, and ran down a flight of stairs. They came out on a narrow lower walkway, down inside. The pervading din claimed them, beat upon their bodies as well as their ears. Dimly, Blekinsop perceived their surroundings, as he struggled to face that wall of sound. Facing him, illuminated by the red monochrome of a neon arc, was one of the rotors that drove the five-mile strip, its great, drum-shaped armature revolving slowly around the stationary field coils in its core. The upper surface of the drum pressed against the under side of the moving way and imparted to it its stately progress. To the left and right, a hundred yards each way, and beyond at similar intervals, farther than he could see, were other rotors. Bridging the gaps between the rotors were the slender rollers, crowded together like cigars in a box, in order that the strip might have a continuous rolling support. The rollers were supported by steel-girder arches through the gaps of which he saw row after row of rotors in staggered succession, the rotors in each succeeding row turning over more rapidly than the last. Separated from the narrow walkway by a line of supporting steel pillars, and lying parallel to it on the side away from the rotors, ran a shallow paved causeway, joined to the walk at this point by a ramp. Gaines peered up and down this tunnel in evident annoyance. Blekinsop started to ask him what troubled him, but found his voice snuffed out by the sound. He could not cut through the roar of thousands of rotors and the whine of hundreds of thousands of rollers. Gaines saw his lips move, and guessed at the question. He cupped his hands around Blekinsop's right ear, and shouted: "No car, I expected to find a car here." The Australian, wishing to be helpful, grasped Gaines' arm and pointed back into the jungle of machinery. Gaines' eye followed the direction indicated and picked out something that he had missed in his preoccupation, a half dozen men working around a rotor several strips away. They had jacked down a rotor until it was no longer in contact with the road surface, and were preparing to replace it in toto. The replacement rotor was standing by on a low, heavy truck. The chief engineer gave a quick smile of acknowledgment and thanks, and aimed his flashlight at the group, the beam focused down to a slender, intense needle of light. One of the technicians looked up, and Gaines snapped the light on and off in a repeated, irregular pattern. A figure detached itself from the group and ran toward them. It was a slender young man, dressed in dungarees, and topped off with ear pads and an incongruous, pillbox cap, bright with gold braid and insignia. He recognized the chief engineer and saluted, his face falling into humorless, boyish intentness. Gaines stuffed his torch into a pocket and commenced to gesticulate rapidly with both hands, clear, clean gestures, as involved and as meaningful as deaf-mute language. Blekinsop dug into his own dilettante knowledge of anthropology and decided that it was most like an American Indian sign language, with some of the finger movements of hula. But it was necessarily almost entirely strange, being adapted for a particular terminology. The cadet answered him in kind, stepped to the edge of the causeway, and flashed his torch to the south. He picked out a car, still some distance away, but approaching at headlong speed. It braked, and came to a stop alongside them. It was a small affair, ovoid in shape, and poised on two centerline wheels. The forward, upper surface swung up and disclosed the driver, another cadet. Gaines addressed him briefly in sign language, then hustled Blekinsop ahead of him into the cramped passenger compartment. As the glassite hood was being swung back into place, a blast of wind smote them, and the Australian looked up in time to glimpse the last of three much larger vehicles hurtle past them. They were headed north, at a speed of not less than two hundred miles per hour. Blekinsop thought that he had made out the little hats of cadets through the windows of the last of the three, but he could not be sure. He had no time to wonder, so violent was the driver's getaway. Gaines ignored the accelerating surge, he was already calling Davidson on the built-in communicator. Comparative silence had settled down once the car was closed. The face of a female operator at the relay station showed on the screen. "Get me Davidson, senior watch office!" "Oh! It's Mister Gaines! The Mayor wants to talk to you, Mister Gaines." "Refer him, and get me Davidson. Move!" "Yes, sir." "And see here, leave this circuit hooked in to Davidson's board until I tell you personally to cut it." "Right." Her face gave way to the watch officer's. "That you, chief? We're moving, progress O K, no change." "Very well. You'll be able to raise me on this circuit, or at Subsector 10 office. Clearing now." Davidson's face gave way to the relay operator. "Your wife is calling, Mister Gaines. Will you take it?" Gaines muttered something not quite gallant, and answered: "Yes." Missus Gaines flashed into facsimile. He burst into speech before she could open her mouth. "Darling I'm all right don't worry I'll be home when I get there I've got to go now." It was all out in one breath, and he slapped the control that cleared the screen. They slammed to a breath-taking stop alongside the stair leading to the watch office of Subsector 10, and piled out. Three big lorries were drawn up on the ramp, and three platoons of cadets were ranged in restless ranks alongside them. Tumblebugs, small, open monocycles, used to patrol down inside, were ready nearby. A cadet trotted up to Gaines and saluted. "Lindsay, sir, cadet engineer of the watch. The engineer of the watch requests that you come at once to the control room." The engineer of the watch looked up as they came in. "Chief, Van Kleeck is calling you." "Put him on." When Van Kleeck appeared in the big visor, Gaines greeted him with: "Hello, Van. Where are you?" "Sacramento office. Now listen." "Sacramento? That's good! Report." Van Kleeck looked disgruntled. "Report, hell! I'm not your deputy any more, Gaines. Now, you." "What the hell are you talking about?" "Listen, and don't interrupt me, and you'll find out. You're through, Gaines. I've been picked as Director of the Provisional Control Committee for the New Order." "Van, have you gone off your rocker? What do you mean, the 'New Order'?" "You'll find out. This is it, the Functionalist revolution. We're in; you're out. We stopped Strip 20 just to give you a little taste of what we can do." Concerning Function: A Treatise on the Natural Order in Society, the Bible of the Functionalist movement, was first published in 1930. It claimed to be a scientifically accurate theory of social relations. The author, Paul Decker, disclaimed the "outworn and futile" ideas of democracy and human equality, and substituted a system in which human beings were evaluated "functionally", that is to say, by the role each filled in the economic sequence. The underlying thesis was that it was right and proper for a man to exercise over his fellows whatever power was inherent in his function, and that any other form of social organization was silly, visionary, and contrary to the "natural order." The complete interdependence of modern economic life seems to have escaped him entirely. His ideas were dressed up with a glib mechanistic pseudo-psychology based on the observed orders of precedence among barnyard fowls, and on the famous Pavlov conditioned reflex experiments on dogs. He failed to note that human beings are neither dogs nor chickens. Old Doctor Pavlov ignored him entirely, as he had ignored so many others who had blindly and unscientifically dogmatized about the meaning of his important, but strictly limited, experiments. Functionalism did not take hold at once, during the '30s almost everyone, from truck driver to hatcheck girl, had a scheme for setting the world right in six easy lessons; and a surprising percentage managed to get their schemes published. But it gradually spread. Functionalism was particularly popular among little people everywhere who could persuade themselves that their particular jobs were the indispensable ones, and that therefore, under the "natural order," they would be top dogs. With so many different functions actually indispensable such self-persuasion was easy. Gaines stared at Van Kleeck for a moment before replying. "Van," he said slowly, "you don't really think you can get away with this, do you?" The little man puffed out his chest. “Why not? We have gotten away with it. You can't start Strip 20 until I am ready to let you, and I can stop the whole road, if necessary.” Gaines was becoming uncomfortably aware that he was dealing with unreasonable conceit, and held himself patiently in check. "Sure you can, Van, but how about the rest of the country? Do you think the United States army will sit quietly by and let you run California as your private kingdom?" Van Kleeck looked sly. "I've planned for that. I've just finished broadcasting a manifesto to all the road technicians in the country, telling them what we have done, and telling them to arise, and claim their rights. With every road in the country stopped, and people getting hungry, I reckon the President will think twice before sending the army to tangle with us. Oh, he could send a force to capture, or kill, me, I'm not afraid to die!, but he doesn't dare start shooting down road technicians as a class, because the country can't get along without us, consequently, he'll have to get along with us, on our terms!" There was much bitter truth in what he said. If an uprising of the road technicians became general, the government could no more attempt to settle it by force than a man could afford to cure a headache by blowing out his brains. But was the uprising general? "Why do you think that the technicians in the rest of the country will follow your lead?" "Why not? It's the natural order of things. This is an age of machinery; the real power everywhere is in the technicians, but they have been kidded into not using their power with a lot of obsolete catch phrases. And of all the classes of technicians, the most important, the absolutely essential, are the road technicians. From now on they run the show, it's the natural order of things!" He turned away for a moment and fussed with some papers on the desk before him; then he added: "That's all for now, Gaines, I've got to call the White House, and let the president know how things stand. You carry on, and behave yourself, and you won't get hurt." Gaines sat quite still for some minutes after the screen cleared. So that's how it was. He wondered what effect, if any, Van Kleeck's invitation to strike had had on road technicians elsewhere. None, he thought, but then he had not dreamed that it could happen among his own technicians. Perhaps he had made a mistake in refusing to take time to talk to anyone outside the road. No, if he had stopped to talk to the Governor, or the newspapermen, he would still be talking. Still, He dialed Davidson. "Any trouble in any other sectors, Dave?" "No, chief." "Or on any other road?" "None reported." "Did you hear my talk with Van Kleeck?" "I was cut in, yes." "Good. Have Hubbard call the President and the Governor, and tell them that I am strongly opposed to the use of military force as long as the outbreak is limited to this one road. Tell them that I will not be responsible if they move in before I ask for help." Davidson looked dubious. "Do you think that is wise, chief?" "I do! If we try to blast Van and his red-hots out of their position, we may set off a real, countrywide uprising. Futhermore, he could wreck the road so that God himself couldn't put it back together. What's your rolling tonnage now?" "Fifty-three percent under evening peak." "How about Strip 20?" "Almost evacuated." "Good. Get the road clear of all traffic as fast as possible. Better have the chief of police place a guard on all entrances to the road to keep out new traffic. Van may stop all the strips any time, or I may need to myself. Here is my plan: I'm going down inside with these armed cadets. We will work north, overcoming any resistance we meet. You arrange for watch technicians and maintenance crews to follow immediately behind us. Each rotor, as they come to it, is to be cut out, then hooked into the Stockton control board. It will be a haywire rig, with no safety interlocks, so use enough watch technicians to be able to catch trouble before it happens. "If this scheme works, we can move control of the Sacramento Sector right out from under Van's feet, and he can stay in his Sacramento control office until he gets hungry enough to be reasonable." He cut off and turned to the subsector engineer of the watch. "Edmunds, give me a helmet, and a pistol." "Yes, sir." He opened a drawer, and handed his chief a slender, deadly-looking weapon. Gaines belted it on, and accepted a helmet, into which he crammed his head, leaving the antinoise ear flaps up. Blekinsop cleared his throat. "May, uh, may I have one of those helmets?" he inquired. "What?" Gaines focused his attention. "Oh, You won't need one, Mister Blekinsop. I want you to remain right here until you hear from me." "But," The Australian statesman started to speak, thought better of it, and subsided. From the doorway the cadet engineer of the watch demanded the chief engineer's attention. "Mister Gaines, there is a technician out here who insists on seeing you, a man named Harvey." "Can't do it." "He's from the Sacramento Sector, sir." "Oh! Send him in." Harvey quickly advised Gaines of what he had seen and heard at the guild meeting that afternoon. "I got disgusted and left while they were still jawin', chief. I didn't think any more about it until Strip 20 stopped rolling. Then I heard that the trouble was in Sacramento Sector, and decided to look you up." "How long has this been building up?" "Quite some time, I guess. You know how it is. There are a few sore heads everywhere, and a lot of them are Functionalists. But you can't refuse to work with a man just because he holds different political views. It's a free country." "You should have come to me before, Harvey." Harvey looked stubborn. Gaines studied his face. "No, I guess you are right. It's my business to keep tabs on your mates, not yours. As you say, it's a free country. Anything else?" "Well, now that it has come to this, I thought maybe I could help you pick out the ringleaders." "Thanks. You stick with me. We are going down inside and try to clear up this mess." The office door opened suddenly, and a technician and a cadet appeared, lugging a burden between them. They deposited it on the floor, and waited. It was a young man, quite evidently dead. The front of his dungaree jacket was soggy with blood. Gaines looked at the watch officer. "Who is he?" Edmunds broke his stare and answered: "Cadet Hughes. He's the messenger I sent to Sacramento when communication failed. When he didn't report, I sent Marston and Cadet Jenkins after him." Gaines muttered something to himself, and turned away. "Come along, Harvey." The cadets waiting below had changed in mood. Gaines noted that the boyish intentness for excitement had been replaced by something uglier. There was much exchange of hand signals and several appeared to be checking the loading of their pistols. He sized them up, then signaled to the cadet leader. There was a short interchange of signals. The cadet saluted, turned to his men, gesticulated briefly, and brought his arm down smartly. They filed upstairs, and into an empty standby room, Gaines following. Once inside, and the noise shut out, he addressed them: "You saw Hughes brought in. How many of you want a chance to kill the louse that did it?" Three of the cadets reacted almost at once, breaking ranks and striding forward. Gaines looked at them coldly. "Very well. You three turn in your weapons, and return to your quarters. Any of the rest of you that think this is a matter of private revenge, or a hunting party, may join them." He permitted a short silence to endure before continuing. "Sacramento Sector has been seized by unauthorized persons. We are going to retake it—if possible, without loss of life on either side, and, if possible, without stopping the roads. The plan is to take over down inside, rotor by rotor, and cross-connect through Stockton. The task assignment of this group is to proceed north down inside, locating and overpowering all persons in your path. You will bear in mind the probability that most of the persons you will arrest are completely innocent. Consequently, you will favor the use of sleep-gas bombs, and will shoot to kill only as a last resort. "Cadet captain, assign your men in squads of ten each, with squad leader. Each squad is to form a skirmish line across down inside, mounted on tumblebugs, and will proceed north at fifteen miles per hour. Leave an interval of one hundred yards between successive waves of skirmishers. Whenever a man is sighted, the entire leading wave will converge on him, arrest him, and deliver him to a transport car, then reform in the rear of the last wave. You will assign the transports that delivered you here to hold prisoners. Instruct the drivers to keep abreast of the second wave. "You will assign an attack group to recapture subsector control officers, but no office is to be attacked until its subsector has been cross connected with Stockton. Arrange liaison accordingly. "Any questions?" He let his eyes run over the faces of the young men. When no one spoke up, he turned back to the cadet in charge. "Very well, sir. Carry out your orders!" By the time the dispositions had been completed, the follow-up crew of technicians had arrived, and Gaines had given the engineer in charge his instructions. The cadets "stood to horse" alongside their poised tumblebugs. The cadet captain looked expectantly at Gaines. He nodded, the cadet brought his arm down smartly, and the first wave mounted and moved off. Gaines and Harvey mounted tumblebugs, and kept abreast of the cadet captain, some twenty-five yards behind the leading wave. It had been a long time since the chief engineer had ridden one of these silly-looking little vehicles, and he felt awkward. A tumblebug does not give a man dignity, since it is about the size and shape of a kitchen stool, gyro-stabilized on a single wheel. But it is perfectly adapted to patrolling the maze of machinery down inside, since it can go through an opening the width of a man's shoulders, is easily controlled, and will stand patiently upright, waiting, should its rider dismount. Heinlein: https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html

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

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

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

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

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

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

Movies are wonderful things. Movie revenue starts on an opening weekend, and then the income decreases, and the movie is pulled from theatres. Here we introduce the Iso-Crap model of movie revenue. Equally crappy movies have the same proportionally crappy opening, and so might be scaled. That’s the theory, and for five minutes or less it might be sorta accurate. We take as examples, Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny, Blue Beetle, Ant man Quantum-mania, and Blue Beetle. These are financially underperforming recent movies of the same fantasy genre. All of the domestic box office revenue is normalized, meaning divided by the first three days of revenue. Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny has an initial three day opening of: 60 point 4 million. And a total domestic box office of: 174 million. Therefore, the iso-crap of Indiana Jones has a value of 1 at three days, and 174 divided by 60.4 or 2.89 at day 77. Blue Beetle had an initial three day opening of: 25 point zero million. And a total domestic box office of: 72 point 49 million. Therefore, the iso-crap of blue beetle is a value of 1 after three days, and 72.48 divided by 25.0 or 2.896 at day 77. Blue Beetle and Indiana Jones and the Dustbin of density have very similar iso-craps. Ant Man Quantum-mania had an initial three day opening of: 106 point one million. And a total domestic box office of: 214 point five million. Therefore, the iso-crap of Ant Man Quantum-mania has a value of 1 at three days, and 214.5 divided by 106 or 2.02 at day 119. The Flash had an initial three day opening of: 55 point zero million. And a total domestic box office of: 108 point one million. Therefore, the iso-crap of The Flash has a value of 1 at three days, and 108.1 divided by 55.0 or 1.96 at day 63. Ant Man Quantum-Mania and The flash have similar iso-craps, Figure One. The iso-craps for these four movies are shown in the figure. So, Where does captain marvel and the Mids come in? The Marvels had an opening three day of 46 point one million. Assuming it is iso-crappy with Antman and the Flash, it will have a domestic iso-crap of around 2 when it finally is pulled, and hence a domestic box office of 92 million. If the Marvels has an Isocrap of Indian Jones and the thing we’ve already forgotten about, it will top off at three times the initial three day opening, or three times forty six, or a domestic revenue of about 138 million dollars. The performance of The Marvels is shown in Figure two. At this point, after ten days, it does not appear that the Marvels is noticeably different from the four other randomly chosen movies. As always, we love all of our subscribers.

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

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

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

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

The B-58 Hustler, A Short History

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

Research in Astronomy and Astrophysics. Type One-A Supernova Explosions in Binary Systems: A Review. Zheng-Wei Liu and others. Yunnan Observatories, Chinese Academy of Sciences, Kunming, China; Abstract Type One-A supernovae, SNe One-A, play a key role in the fields of astrophysics and cosmology. It is widely accepted that SNe One-a arise from thermonuclear explosions of white dwarfs, WD’s in binary systems. We can distinguish two kinds of supernovae, corresponding to two kinds of star death: Type one-a, thought to be the thermonuclear explosions of accreting white dwarf stars, and all the rest, Type two, one-b, one-c and so on), which happen when the iron core of a massive star collapses to a neutron star or black hole. Observationally, Type one is defined by a lack of hydrogen lines in its spectrum, lines that Type two has. However, there is no consensus on the fundamental aspects of the nature of SN One-a progenitors and their actual explosion mechanism. This a fundamental limit in our understanding of these important astrophysical objects. In this review, we outline the diversity of SNe One-a and the proposed progenitor models and explosion mechanisms. We discuss the recent theoretical and observational progress in addressing the SN One-a progenitor and explosion mechanism in terms of the observables at various stages of the explosion, including rates and delay times, pre-explosion companion stars, ejecta, companion interaction, early excess emission, early radio, X-ray emission from circumstellar material (CSM) interaction, surviving companion stars, late-time spectra and photometry, polarization signals, and supernova remnant properties, etc. Despite the efforts from both the theoretical and observational side, the questions of how the WD’s reach an explosive state and what progenitor systems are more likely to produce SNe One-a remain open. No single published model is able to consistently explain all observational features and the full diversity of SNe One-a. This may indicate that either a new progenitor paradigm or the improvement of current models is needed if all SNe one-a arise from the same origin. An alternative scenario is that different progenitor channels and explosion mechanisms contribute to SNe One-a. In the next decade, the ongoing campaigns with the James Webb Space Telescope, Gaia and the Zwicky Transient Facility, and upcoming extensive projects with the Vera C Rubin Observatory Legacy Survey of Space and Time and the Square Kilometre Array will allow us to conduct not only studies of individual SNe One-a in unprecedented detail but also systematic investigations for different subclasses of SNe One-a. This will advance theory and observations of SNe One-a sufficiently far to gain a deeper understanding of their origin and explosion mechanism. One. INTRODUCTION. Supernovae (SNe) are highly energetic explosions of some stars, that are so bright that they can outshine an entire galaxy. Their typical bolometric luminosities reach the order of ten to the forty three ergs per second, which is about ten billion times the solar luminosity. SNe play an important role in the fields of astrophysics and cosmology because they have been used as cosmic distance indicators, and they are heavy-element factories, especially for intermediate mass and iron-group elements, kinetic-energy sources, and cosmic-ray accelerators in galaxy evolution. SNe are also key players in the formation of new-generation stars by triggering the collapse of molecular clouds. SNe are generally classified into two main categories according to their spectroscopic features, Type One and Type Two SNe. Type One SNe have no hydrogen, H, lines in their spectra whereas Type two SNe contain obvious H lines. Type One-a SNe, SNe Ione-a are a subclass of Type One which exhibit strong singly ionized silicon, Si, absorption, Si two at 6150, 5800 and 4000 Angstroms feature in their spectra. SNe One-a are widely thought to be thermonuclear explosions of white dwarfs (WDs) in binary systems, Hoyle and Fowler 1960. They have been found to occur in all galaxy types. Their typical peak luminosity in the B-band is about MB equals minus 19.5 magnitudes, and the typical kinetic energy is around ten to the fifty one ergs, or equivalently, ten to the forty four Joules. The light curves of SNe One-a are powered by the Compton scattering of gamma rays produced by the radioactive decay of Nickel 56 to Cobalt 56 to Iron 56, with respective half-life times of 6.1 and 77 days SNe One-a have been successfully used as cosmic distance indicators to constrain cosmological parameters, which has led to the discovery of the accelerating expansion of the Universe, a breakthrough rewarded with the 2011 Nobel Prize in physics. Despite their importance and far-reaching implications, the specific progenitor systems as well as the explosion mechanism of SNe One-a remains enigmatic. This affects the reliability of necessary assumptions such as those of universality of their calibration as distance indicators. Recently, it was found that the local measurements of the Hubble constant H sub zero, based on SNe one-a is inconsistent with the value inferred from the cosmic microwave background radiation observed by the Planck satellite assuming a Capital Lambda CDM cosmological world model. To determine whether this so-called “H sub zero tension” hints to new physics, it is critical to improve our understanding of SNe One-a and, more specifically, their progenitors and explosion mechanisms. Two. THE DIVERSITY OF SNe One-a. A large fraction of observed SNe one-a, around seventy percent, is found to show remarkable homogeneity and quantifiable heterogeneity, and they exhibit a clear empirical relationship between light curve width and peak luminosity, meaning the so-called “Phillips relation”, sometimes known as the width–luminosity relation, WLR. These SNe one-a are usually referred to as “normal SNe one-a”, and they have long been used as standard candles for measuring cosmological distances. However, an increasing number of SNe one-a has been observed that does not follow the Phillips relation, see Figure one, and they are diverse in their observational characteristics such as light curveshape, peak luminosity and spectral features. For these reasons, SNe one-a have been classified into different sub-classes diverging from normal events, which include 1991T-likes 1991bg-likes, SNe One-ax, meaning, SN 2002cx-likes, 2002es-likes, Carich Objects, meaning SN 2005E-like, super-Chandrasekhar objects, meaning SN 2003fg-likes; SNe One-a-CSM and fast decliners. The diversity of SNe One-a has recently been reviewed by Taubenberger in 2017, and so we only skim the surface here. 1991T-like objects form a luminous, slow-declining subclass of SNe One-a, named after the well-observed SN 1991T. Their optical spectra at pre-maximum phases show extremely weak Calcium Two H and K and Silicon two wavelength 6355 and strong Iron three absorption features. 91T-like SNe are expected to be on average zero point two to zero point five magnitudes more luminous than normal SNe One-a with similar decline rate. 1991T-like SNe are found preferentially in late-type galaxies, suggesting that they are likely associated with young stellar populations. It has been suggested that 1991T-like SNe could contribute two to nine percent to all SNe One-a in the local Universe. 1991bg-like objects are a cool, subluminous, and fast-declining subclass of SNe One-a with low ejecta velocity. Typically, they are fainter than normal SNe One-a in optical band up to 2.5 magnitudes. Their spectra at maximum light show strong Titanium two absorption, indicating a relatively cool photosphere. 1991bg-like SNe are found preferentially in early-type, meaning, passive galaxies. Only few 1991bg-like SNe have been found in spiral galaxies. This suggests old stellar populations for the progenitors of 1991bg-like SNe. There is no agreement about the rates of 1991bglike SNe in the literature, estimates range from six to fifteen percent of all SNe One-a. SNe One-a-x are proposed as a hot, sublumious, subclass of SNe One-a. SNe One-ax are fainter than normal SNe One-a and highly skewed to late-type galaxies. Their explosion ejecta are characterized by low expansion velocities and show strong mixing features. Their maximum-light spectra show similar features to those of 1991T-like SNe, which are characterized by weak Silicon two wavelength 6355 Angstrom features and dominated by Iron three lines. In addition, strong Helium lines are identified in spectra of two events, meaning, SN 2004cs and SN 2007J. The late-time spectra of SNe One-a-x are dominated by narrow permitted Iron two. It has been suggested that they contribute about one third of total SNe One-a. 2002es-like objects are another cool, rapidly fading, subluminous subclass of SNe One-a which have a peak luminosity and ejecta velocity around 6000 kilometers per second, similar to SN 2002cx. Their spectra at near maximum light phases share some characteristics in common with the subluminous 1991bg-like SNe, which are clearly characterized by strong Titanium two, Silicon two, and Oxygen two absorption features. However, 2002es-like SNe do not have the fast-declining light curves characteristic of 1991bg-like events. White suggested in 2015, that 2002es-like events tend to explode preferentially, but not exclusively, in massive, early-type galaxies Ganeshalingam in 2012 suggested that SN 2002es-like objects should account for around two point five percent of all SNe One-a. Calcium-rich objects, Ca-rich, constitute a peculiar subclass of SNe One-a with SN 2005E as a prototype. Ca-rich SNe are primarily characterized by peak magnitudes of minus 14 to minus 16.5 magnitudes, rapid photometric evolution with typical rise times of 12 to 15 days, and strong Calcium features in nebular phase spectra. They exhibit low ejecta and Nickel 56 masses of less than a half Solar mass, and less than a tenth of a solar mass, respectively. The majority of Calcium-rich SNe has been observed in early type galaxies and the inferred rates of such SNe are likely in the range of five to twenty percent of the normal SN One-a rates. Super-Chandrasekhar objects are sometimes known as SN 2003fg-like SNe. They are referred to as “super-Chandrasekhar SNe” because a differentially rotating WD with a super-Chandrasekhar mass of around two solar masses was used to interpret the observations of SN 2003fg. The main features of this subtype are summarized by Ashall in a 2021 article: They are generally characterized by high luminosities, B-band peak absolute magnitudes of minus 19 to minus 21 magnitudes, broad light curves, delta m 15 B less than 1.3 magnitudes, defined as the decline in the B-band magnitude light curve from peak to 15 days later, and relatively low ejecta velocities. To repeat, the quantity delta M 15 B is the decline in the B-band magnitude light curve from peak to 15 days later. This is puzzling for a theoretical explanation: the first two properties point to a powerful explosion which seems to be at odds with the low ejecta velocities. They have only one i-band maximum which peaks after the epoch of the B-band maximum, but with weak (or without) i-band secondary maximum. Their maximum-light spectra do not show a Titanium two feature; in addition, their nebular-phase spectra are characterized by a low ionization state. Super-Chandrasekhar SNe seem to be preferentially found in low-mass galaxies, indicating that they prefer a low-metallicity environment. They seem to make up a small fraction of SNe One-a, but their exact rates are still unknown SNe One-a-CSM are a subclass named after the discovery of SN 2002ic, although there is still a debate on whether these objects are SNe One-a or in fact core-collapse SNe. A list of several common features of SNe One-a-CSM has been compiled by Silverman in a 2013 article. They have a range of R-band peak absolute magnitudes of MR minus 19 to minus 21.3 magnitudes, and they exhibit narrow hydrogen emission features in their spectra. The presence of narrow H lines is thought to arise from circumstellar material, CSM, which is strongly indicative of mass loss, or outflows, of the progenitor system prior to the SN explosion. An initial systematic study of this subclass has been presented by Silverman in a 2013 article, and it has been recently updated by Sharma in 2023. SNe One-a-CSM are preferentially found in late-type spirals and irregular galaxies, indicating the origin from a relatively young stellar population. The rate of SNe One-a CSM is estimated to be no more than a few per cent of the SN one-a rates. Fast decliners are rare and the extremely rapidly declining SNe. So far, this class includes SN 1885A, SN 1939B, SN 2002bj, SN 2005ek, SN 2010X. Whether these peculiar objects arise from thermonuclear explosions of WD’s or core-collapse explosions of massive stars remains open. There is no conclusion on whether or not all of these objects actually belong to the same class of events Three. PROGENITORS AND EXPLOSION MECHANISMS. It is widely accepted that SNe One-a arise from thermonuclear explosions of white dwarfs, WD’s in binary systems, Hoyle and Fowler 1960. However, there is no consensus on the fundamental aspects of the nature of SN One-a progenitors and their explosion mechanism from both, the theoretical and observational side. In this section, potential progenitor models and explosion mechanisms of SNe One-a are briefly summarized. Three point one. Progenitor scenarios. Three point one, point one. Single-degenerate scenario. In the single-degenerate (SD) scenario, a WD accretes hydrogen-rich or helium-rich material from a nondegenerate companion star through Roche-lobe overflow, RLOF, or stellar wind until its mass approaches the Chandrasekhar-mass, around one point four solar masses, at which point a thermonuclear explosion ensues. The companion star could be either a main-sequence, MS, star, a subgiant, SG, a red giant, RG, an asymptotic giant-star, AGB, or a Helium star. It has been suggested that a Chandrasekhar-mass WD can undergo a deflagration, or a detonation or a delayed detonation to lead to a SN one-a explosion In the SD scenario, SNe One-a are thought to arise from Chandrasekhar-mass WD’s, double detonation explosions of sub-Chandrasekhar mass WD’s could happen when accreting from a Helium-star companion, the homogeneity of the majority of SNe One-a therefore can be well explained by this scenario. A schematic illustration of main binary evolutionary paths for producing SNe One-a in the SD scenario is given in Figure two. One of the key questions in the SD scenario is how the WD retains the accreted companion material and grows in mass to approach the Chandrasekhar limit, meaning the mass-retention efficiency of onto the WD. The SD scenario requires that the WD accretes material at a relatively narrow range of accretion rates of a few times ten to the minus eight or seven times the mass of the sun per year, to allow steady burning of accreted material, which causes difficulties for explaining the observed nearby SN one-a rate, see Section four. Moreover, some recent observations seem to pose a challenge to the SD scenario, see Section five, such as the missing of surviving companion stars in supernova remnants, SNR’s. The absence of swept-up Hydrogen, Helium in their late spectra and low X-ray flux from nearby elliptical galaxies. In addition, although the SD scenario makes the explosion rather homogeneous, it turns out to be difficult to cover the observed ranges in brightness and decline rates in this scenario. However, to conclude whether the SD scenario is promising for producing the majority of SNe One-a requires comparing a full range of predicted observational consequences from this scenario with the observations of SNe One-a. A number of candidate progenitors have been suggested for the SD scenario, including cataclysmic variable stars like classic novae, recurrent novae and dwarf novae, supersoft X-ray sources, symbiotic systems and WD plus hot-subdwarf binaries. In the SD scenario, a WD accretes and retains companion matter that carries angular momentum. As a consequence the WD spins with a short period which leads to an increase of the critical explosion mass. If the critical mass is higher than the actual mass of the WD, the SN explosion could only occur after the WD increases the spin period with a specific spin down timescale. This scenario is known as the “spin-up, spin-down model”. In this model, if the spin down timescale is longer than about one million years, the CSM around the progenitor system could become diffuse and reach a density similar to that of the ISM. This could explain the lack of radio and X-ray emission from SNe One-a in agreement with the current radio and X-ray observations. Also, the H rich or Helium-rich companion star, meaning, MS, subgiant, RG and Helium stars, may shrink rapidly before the SN one-a explosion occurs by exhausting most of its Hydrogen-rich or Helium-rich envelope during a long spin-down, greater than one hundred million year phase to become a WD or a hot subdwarf star. This would explain the non-detection of a pre-explosion companion star in SNe One-a and the absence of swept-up Hydrogen, Helium in their late spectra. However, no, or weak, interaction signature of shocked gas is predicted in this scenario, which makes it difficult to explain the early excess luminosity seen in some SNe One-a such as iPTF14atg and SN 2012cg. The exact spin down timescale of the WD in this model is uncertain, but it is a key to the success of the model. Three point one point two. Double-degenerate scenario. In the original double-degenerate, DD, scenario, two carbon-oxygen, CO, WD’s in a binary system are brought into contact by the emission of gravitational wave radiation and merge via tidal interaction into one single object, triggering a SN One-a explosion if the combined mass exceeds the Chandrasekhar-mass limit. There are a number of evolutionary paths that can lead to SN one-a explosions in the DD scenario, see Figure two. The key question of the original DD scenario is whether the merger of two WD’s could successfully lead to an SN one-a explosion. Different calculations have predicted that the merger of two White Dwarves would likely cause the formation of neutron stars through accretion-induces collapse, AIC, rather than SN one-a explosions. The accretion from the secondary WD onto the primary WD during the merger process may lead to burning in the outer layers of the WD rather than central burning, which would turn the original carbon-oxygen WD into an oxygen-neon-magnesium, O-Ne-Mg WD. A Chandrasekhar-mass One WD is thought to be prone to collapse into a neutron star via AIC. However, there are possibilities to avoid AIC after the merger of two CO WD’s. For instance, Yoon, in 2007 concluded that the merger of two Carbon-Oxygen White Dwarves could avoid off-center C-burning and explode as an SN one-a in the thermal evolution phase if the rotation of the WD’s is taken into account. In the past decades, a number of numerical simulations have investigated the merger of two WD’s More importantly, some recent theoretical studies have shown that the merger of two WD’s can eventually trigger an SN one-a explosion in ways that are different from the original DD scenario. For instance, a carbon detonation can be directly triggered by the interaction of the debris of the secondary WD with the primary WD during the violent merger phase of two CO WD’s to eventually trigger an SN one-a explosion, meaning the “violent merger model”. If the secondary WD in a DD binary system is a pure Helium White Dwarf, an initial Helium detonation could be triggered by accumulating a Helium shell on top of the primary Carbon-Oxygen White Dwarf through stable mass transfer, eventually triggering the C-core detonation near the center to successfully cause an SN one-a. This corresponds to the sub-Chandrasekhar-mass double detonation scenario. In addition, unstable mass transfer could also lead to the presence of Helium in the surface layers of the primary CO WD if the secondary WD is either a Helium WD or a hybrid Helium Carbon Oxygen White Dwarf, which could successfully give rise to an SN one-a during the coalescence itself through the double detonation mechanism, meaning the Helium-ignited violent merger model described in Section three point two point five. There are some evidences in favor of the DD scenario, see Sections 4 and 5 for a detailed discussion. Binary population synthesis, BPS, calculations have shown that the predicted SN one-a rates and delay times from the DD scenario could well reproduce those inferred from the observations In addition, the non-detection of pre-explosion companion stars in normal SNe One-a the lack of radio and X-ray emission around peak brightness the absence of a surviving companion star in SN one-a remnants, and the fact that no signatures of the swept-up Hydrogen, Helium have been detected in the nebular spectra of SNe One-a and the lack of X-ray flux, meaning supersoft X-ray sources, expected for accreting WD’s seem to favour the DD scenario. Also, it has been suggested that some super luminous SNe One-a that have ejecta masses of greater then two solar masses may arise from the merger of two WD’s However, the DD scenario predicts a relatively wide range of explosion masses and thus makes it difficult to explain the observed homogeneity of the majority of SNe One-a. Double WD’s, DWD’s are the primary targets of some upcoming space gravitational-wave missions and observatories such as the Laser Interferometer Space Antenna, LISA, Tianqin and Taiji. Searches for DWDs have been carried out by different surveys like the dedicated ESO Supernovae type One-a Progenitor survey, SPY. The Sloan Digital Sky Survey, SDSS, the SWARMS survey, the Extremely Low Mass, ELM, survey, the Kepler-K2 survey, and the large all-sky survey Gaia, Gaia Collaboration. However, to date, only about 150 DWD systems have been detected with detailed orbital parameters. A comprehensive list of close DWD systems, periods below 35 days, containing two low-mass WD’s are given by Schreiber in a 2022 article. Only a few DWD’s have been reported to be possible SN one-a progenitors that would merge in a Hubble time, including two systems with sub-Chandrasekhar total masses obtained by SPY (WD2020 dash 425 and HE2209 dash 1444, two super-Chandrasekhar progenitor candidates composed of a WD and a hot sub-dwarf, KPD 1930 plus 2752 and HD 265435; CD minus 30, 11223, Henize 2 dash 428 system, 458 Vulpeculae, SBS 1150 plus 599A and GD 687. Besides, Kawka in 2017 suggested that NLTT 12758 is a super-Chandrasekhar DWD system, but it would merge in a timescale longer than the Hubble time. Three point one point three. Other proposed progenitor scenarios. Some subtypes of the SD model and other possible progenitor scenarios have been proposed for SNe One-a, including: One. The CE wind model, in which the SD models are assumed to drive CE winds rather than optical thick winds when the mass transfer rate exceeds the critical accretion rate Two. The hybrid C-O-Ne WD model, in which a hybrid carbon-oxygen-neon, C-O-Ne, WD with a mass of greater than around one point three solar masses, accretes material from its companion star to approach the Chandrasekhar-mass limit and explodes as faint SNe One-a. Three. The M dwarf donor model, in which the WD accretes material from an M-dwarf star so that it approaches the Chandrasekhar-mass limit and triggers an SN one-a explosion. Four. The core-degenerate model, in which an SN One-a is produced from the merger of a COWD with the core of an AGB companion star during a common envelope, CE, evolution. Five. The triple channel, in which thermonuclear explosions in triple-star systems are triggered through both the SD and DD channels. Six. The single-star model, in which AGB stars or Helium stars with a highly degenerate CO core near the Chandrasekhar mass ignite carbon at the center to subsequently cause an SN one-a explosion if they have lost their H-rich or Helium-rich envelopes. Note that this list may not be complete and that new channels may still be proposed. Ultimately, the question of SN one-a progenitor systems has to be settled by observations. For a coarse and sketchy overview of the different progenitor scenarios of SNe One-a, we compile the different characteristics in Table one. We would like to caution here, that usually the arguments to be made in favor or against specific scenarios are more complex than what can be listed in a table. Therefore we emphasize that they are only intended for a quick overview. The main benefit of our table is to highlight open research questions that are marked with “unclear”. Three point two. Explosion models. The explosion mechanism depends mainly on the question of whether the WD explodes near the Chandrasekhar mass, or at a mass below this limit the “sub-Chandrasekhar mass” explosion scenario. To provide clues on the yet poorly understood origin and explosion mechanism of SNe One-a, one needs to compare the observational features predicted by different explosion mechanism in the context of the progenitor models discussed in Section three point one with the observations. A number of explosion models have been proposed to cover various progenitor scenarios of explosion. SNe One-a, including near Chandrasekhar-mass deflagrations, near Chandrasekhar-mass delayed detonations, gravitationally-confined detonations, sub-Chandrasekhar-mass double detonations, and violent mergers. A schematic overview of various SN One-a explosion models proposed in the framework of either Chandrasekhar-mass or sub-Chandrasekhar-mass explosion is shown in Figure three. Section three point two point one. Chandrasekhar-mass pure deflagrations. Near Chandrasekhar-mass explosions in the SD scenario have long been proposed as a potential model for SNe One-a because they could reproduce some observational features such as the light curves and spectra. Moreover, Yamaguchi and others in 2015 suggested that the detection of strong K-shell emission from stable Iron peak elements in SN one-a remnant 3C 397 requires electron captures at high density that can only be achieved by a near-Chandrasekhar mass explosion. In such a configuration, a supersonic prompt detonation would turn essentially the entire star into iron-group elements which is inconsistent with the observed features of SNe One-a: To produce the intermediate-mass elements, IME, such as Silicon and Sulphur, observed in their spectra, burning must start out as a subsonic deflagration. The WD then expands prior to being incinerated. Compared with a prompt detonation, this reduces the production of Nickel 56 and can in principle increase the IME yields. The outward propagation of the subsonic deflagration flame leads to Rayleigh-Taylor instabilities that generate turbulence at the contact between hot ashes and cold fuel. This enlarges the surface area of the burning front and accelerates it. One of commonly used near Chandrasekhar-mass explosion models is the so-called “W7 model” of Nomoto from 1984. The W7 model is a one-dimensional, 1D, pure deflagration explosion of a Chandrasekhar mass WD, in which a parametrized description was used for the turbulent burning process. To avoid free parameters in the model, multidimensional simulations, for an example, see top panels of Figure four, have been carried out. The result of these simulations is that pure deflagrations are not able to reproduce the majority of normal SNe One-a. In the framework of the the Chandrasekhar-mass deflagration model, it is difficult to produce the canonical half solar mass nickel 56 for normal SNe One-a, because the flame ultimately cannot catch up with the expansion of the WD and much of its material remains unburned. Enhancing the burning efficiency with multi-spot ignitions had only limited success. Moreover, the ignition process itself is rather uncertain and multi-spot ignition does not seem very likely according to the simulations of Nonaka from a 2012 article. However, off-center ignited weak deflagration models have been suggested to explain the particular sub-class of SNe One-ax Figure four presents an example of a 3D explosion simulation for a Chandrasekhar-mass pure deflagration model from Lach in 2022. In the weak pure deflagration model of Chandrasekhar mass WD’s, sometimes known as the “failed detonation model”, an off-center ignited pure deflagration of a Chandrasekhar-mass CO WD, or hybrid CONe WD, fails to completely unbind the entire WD, leaving behind a bound WD remnant. It has been shown that pure deflagrations in near-Chandrasekhar-mass CO WD’s and hybrid CONe WD’s can respectively reproduce the observational light curves and spectra of brighter SNe One-ax such as SN 2005hk, and, less confidently, the faint Iax event SN 2008ha have shown that the maximum light polarization signal observed in SN 2005hk can be explained in the context of a weak deflagration explosion of a Chandrasekhar-mass WD if asymmetries caused by both the SN explosion itself and the ejecta-companion interaction are considered. Therefore, the weak deflagration explosion of a Chandrasekhar-mass WD seems to be a potential model for SNe One-ax, at least the brighter members of this sub-class. Interestingly, the weak pure deflagration model of Chandrasekhar-mass WD’s predicts the existence of a surviving bound WD remnant which is significantly heated by the explosion and highly enriched by heavy elements from SN ejecta. Searches for such surviving WD remnants would be very helpful for assessing the validity of this explosion model. Section three point two point two. Chandrasekhar-mass delayed detonations. Besides pure deflagration models, pure detonations of near-Chandrasekhar-mass WD’s have also been proposed for SNe One-a. As already mentioned, the first numerically studied pure detonation model of a near-Chandrasekhar mass WD in hydrostatic equilibrium showed that this model produces too much Nickel 56 and too little IME’s to explain the observations of normal SNe One-a. This conflict indicates that an expansion of the WD is needed prior to the detonation in order to reduce the production of Nickel 56 and to increase that of IME’s. To achieve this, the “delayed detonation model” of a near Chandrasekhar-mass WD was proposed by Khokhlov in 1989: The WD expands first due to an initial deflagration and causes the subsequent detonation to burn at relatively low fuel densities, reducing the production of Nickel 56 and enhancing the yields of IME’s compared with the earlier pure detonation models. This therefore makes the delayed detonation model more favorable for explaining normal SNe One-a. Figure four shows an example of 3D explosion simulations for a Chandrasekhar-mass delayed detonation model, meaning a gravitationally confined detonation model. Several scenarios for the transition from the initial deflagration to a subsequent detonation have been proposed for SNe One-a such as the deflagration to detonation transition model, or DDT; the pulsating delayed detonation model, PDD; gravitationally confined detonation model, GCD, and the pulsational reverse detonation model. Despite substantial effort, none of the simulations could demonstrate from first principles that the transition of the deflagration to a detonation really occurs. Section three point two point three. sub-Chandrasekhar-mass double-detonations. Sub-Chandrasekhar mass WD’s can be ignited through a double detonation mechanism to give rise to thermonuclear explosions in the context of either the SD or DD progenitor scenario. The initial detonation in this model is triggered by accumulating a Helium shell on top of the primary WD through either stable mass transfer, meaning the sub-Chandrasekhar mass double-detonation model; or unstable mass-transfer, meaning the so-called D6 model; from a secondary in a binary system. In the sub-Chandrasekhar-mass double-detonation scenario, shown in figure three, the WD accretes material from a Helium-burning star or a Helium WD companion via stable mass-transfer to accumulate a Helium-layer on its surface. If the Helium shell reaches a critical mass of around zero point zero two, to zero point two Solar masses, which is, however, quite uncertain, an initial detonation of the Helium shell is triggered and eventually ignites a second detonation in the core. This leads to a thermonuclear explosion of the entire sub-Chandrasekhar mass WD. On the one hand, several binary systems composed of a WD and a Helium-rich companion star have been detected observationally, for example KPD 1930 plus 2752, V445 Pup, HD 49798, and others; which seems to support this scenario. For example, CD minus thirty, 11223 is a binary system containing a WD and a sub-dwarf-B, sdB, star, in which the WD mass is MWD equals zero point seven six solar masses, the companion mass is MsdB equal to zero point five one solar masses, and the orbital period is only Porb around one point two hours. Venneset and others suggested that CD minus thirty, 11223 will likely explode as a SN One-a via the sub-Chandrasekhar double-detonation mechanism during its future evolution. Very recently, Kupfer in 2022 predicted that PTF1 J2238 plus 7430 would lead to a thermonuclear explosion in the context of the sub-Chandrasekhar double-detonation scenario with a thick Helium shell of around zero point seventeen solar masses. On the other hand, different studies in the literature have shown that the sub-Chandrasekhar-mass double detonation models with a thick Helium shell zero point one to zero point two solar masses, produce an outer layer of SN ejecta enriched with titanium, Ti, chromium, Cr, and nickel, Ni, leading to predicted spectra and light curves that are inconsistent with the observations of SNe One-a. However, numerous complications remain to be solved in such a model, and both the production of IGEs in the outer layers and the predicted observables, such as spectra and color, are rather sensitive to the total mass, the thermal and the chemical conditions of the Helium shell, and to details of the treatment of radiative transfer modeling. For instance, Kromer showed that pollution of the Helium shell with carbon 12 helps to bring the predicted observables into better agreement with observations of normal SNe One-a. More recently, some updated simulations have shown that double detonations of sub-Chandrasekhar mass WD’s with a thin and C-polluted Helium shell holds promise for explaining SNe One-a, including normal SNe One-a and peculiar objects. Figure five shows an example of the sub-Chandrasekhar-mass double-detonation simulation of a one solar mass CO WD with a thin Helium shell of zero point zero sixteen solar masses from have suggested that the sub-Chandrasekhar-mass double-detonation scenario might be viable for producing spectroscopically normal SNe One-a if the Helium layer is sufficiently thin, around one hundredth of a solar mass, and modestly enriched with core material. This indicates that double detonations of sub-Chandrasekhar-mass WD’s may contribute the bulk of observed SNe One-a. However, the exact critical Helium shell mass required for successfully initiating double detonations of the entire sub-Chandrasekhar mass WD remains uncertain. In addition, the exact Helium retention efficiency of the accreting WD in the progenitor system is still poorly constrained. Section three point one point four. Carbon-ignited violent mergers. The “C-ignited violent merger model” of figure three is one of the modern versions of the DD scenario. In this model, unstable dynamical accretion of material from the secondary, less massive, WD on to the primary WD causes compressional heating sufficient to directly trigger a detonation of a CO core in primary WD, producing an SN one-a. While the original DD scenario assumes an explosion of a merged object exceeding the Chandrasekhar mass limit, in the violent merger model the explosion triggers already during the merger process before the two stars are completely disrupted. Therefore it proceeds in sub-Chandrasekhar mass WD’s. This scenario avoids the problem of a potential collapse to a neutron star in an AIC. It has been shown that the violent mergers of two CO WD’s that involve a single carbon detonation in the primary star can generally explain the observational properties of a sub luminous SNe One-a, such as 1991bg-like events SN 2010lp and the SN 2002es-like event iPTF14atg. However, the triggering of the detonation during the violent merger phase is still poorly constrained. Section three point two point five. Helium-ignited violent mergers. The Helium-ignited violent merger model, or “dynamically driven double-degenerate double-detonation” (D6) model, is another modern version of sub-Chandrasekhar explosions in the DD scenario, in which SNe One-a are produced through the double detonation mechanism during the merger of two WD’s, see Figure three. In the D6 model, an initial Helium detonation triggers on the surface of a heavier CO WD primary due to unstable dynamical Helium accretion from the less massive secondary which could be either another CO WD with thin surface Helium layers, a Helium WD, or a hybrid Helium-CO WD. Via a double-detonation mechanism, the initial Helium detonation initiates into a detonation of CO core, producing an SN one-a, shown in figure six. Because the Helium detonation in this model proceeds in a dynamic stage and not in a massive Helium layer at hydrostatic equilibrium conditions, the impact of the Helium detonation products on the observables is reduced compared to the classical sub-Chandrasekhar mass double detonation scenario. For instance, it has been shown that the double detonation explosion in the violent merger of two COWD’s with masses ofzero point nine and one point one solar masses can closely resemble normal SNe One-a, indicating that the D6 model has the potential to explain the bulk of normal SNe One-a. Interestingly, the secondary WD may survive from the explosion in the D6 model and become a hypervelocity WD with a velocity of greater than around 1000 kilometers per second, suggested that three hypervelocity runaway stars with a velocity of greater than around 1000 kilometers per second detected in the Gaia survey are likely to be WD companions that survived the D6 SNe One-a scenario. However, the fate of the secondary WD in this model is rather unclear. Recent investigations of the fate of secondary WD’s with self-consistent 3D hydrodynamical simulations, have confirmed that the primary WD can explode as an SN one-a. But there is a large uncertainty on the question of whether the secondary WD detonates or not. In contrast, others claim that an initial Helium detonation does not ignite a carbon detonation in the underlying WD. Section three point two point six. Other proposed explosion models. In the framework of either Chandrasekhar-mass or sub-Chandrasekhar-mass explosion, some other possible explosion models have been proposed for SNe One-a, including: One. The core-degenerate model, in which the WD merges with the core of an AGB star during the CE phase, triggering a thermonuclear explosion inside the envelope. Two. Tidal disruptions, in which the tidal interaction of a WD with a black hole triggers a thermonuclear explosion. Three. Head-on collisions of two WD’s, in which two WD’s collide in a binary or triple-star system, leading to a thermonuclear explosion due to the resultant shock compression. Four. The spiral instability model, in which a spiral mode instability in the accretion disk forms during the merger of two WD’s and leads to a detonation on a dynamical timescale resulting a SN one-a. In Table 2, we present an overview of the main characteristics of different explosion mechanisms of SNe One-a. Again, the same cautionary remark as for Table 1 applies. Four. RATES AND DELAY TIMES. The observationally-inferred SN one-a rate in our Galaxy is about 2.84 plus or minus zero point six times ten per thousand years. The observed delay-time distribution of SNe One-a, DTD’s, meaning the distribution of durations between star formation and SN one-a explosion, covers a wide range from around ten mega years to ten giga-years. By comparing the expected rates and DTD’s of SNe One-a from BPS calculations for different proposed progenitor models with those inferred from the observation, several studies attempted to place constraints on the nature of SN one-a progenitor systems In summary, no single proposed progenitor model is able to consistently reproduce both the observed SN one-a rates and the DTD’s, see Figure seven. The DD progenitor model generally predicts a broad range of delay times that follow an inverse t power-law, which is similar to the overall behavior of the observed DTD. But a sharp decrease of SN one-a rates for delay times shorter than 200Myr is seen in the DD model. This is inconsistent with a significant detection of prompt SNe One-a with delay times of t bounded by 35 to 200 mega years. BPS calculations have predicted that SD models with a MS or a RG donor mainly contribute to intermediate delay times of a hundred million to a billion years, and long delay times of greater than 3 Giga-years, respectively. SD models with a Helium star donor are expected to contribute to delay times shorter than a hundred mega years. The SD scenario generally tends to predict much lower SN one-a rates than those of the DD scenario However, a large variation of the results among different BPS studies is seen. One should always keep in mind that there are significant uncertainties in the theoretical predictions of SN one-a rates and delayed times from BPS calculations. On the one hand, constraints on the mass-retention efficiencies in the SD scenario are still rather weak yet studies show that there is a significant impact of the mass-retention efficiencies on BPS results such as rates and DTD’s. On the other hand, the predictions of BPS calculations sensitively rely on the assumed parameters in specific BPS codes such as the CE evolution, star-formation rate and initial mass function. However, to date, strong constraints on these parameters, for example the CE efficiency, are still lacking. This limits the predictive power of the BPS results. Section five. OBSERVABLES OF THERMONUCLEAR SUPERNOVAE. The approach to compare the observational features predicted by different progenitor models with observations has long been used to provide important clues to the yet poorly understood origin and explosion mechanism of SNe One-a. Over the past decades, substantial effort in modeling SNe One-a aimed at the prediction of optical observables light curves and spectra; The main goal was to distinguish between explosions of Chandrasekhar mass and sub-Chandrasekhar mass WD explosions as well as different mechanisms of thermonuclear combustion in these events. Despite all efforts, degeneracies make it difficult to draw firm conclusions. Besides optical light curves and spectra predicted by radiative transfer calculations in the context of different explosion mechanisms, certain other observational signatures are also expected to be indicative for different progenitor scenarios, including the detection of pre-explosion companions, H, Helium lines in SN one-a late-time spectra caused by material stripped from the companion during its interaction with the SN ejecta, early excess emission due to the ejecta–companion interaction, narrow absorption signatures of circumstellar material, CSM, radio and X-ray emission from CSM interactions, surviving companion Stars, and WD remnants, polarization signals, SN remnant, SNR, morphology, etc. In this section, we will give a detailed overview to the observables predicted for different phases, from the pre-explosion phase to the SNR phase, of SNe One-a from currently proposed progenitor scenarios and their comparisons with the observations. In particular, we focus on the question of how a binary companion star in the SD scenario shapes the observables of SNe One-a. Section five point one. Pre-explosion companion stars. The companion stars in potential progenitor models of SNe One-a fall into two categories One. Nondegenerate companion stars (MS, SG, RG, AGB or Heburning stars) in the SD scenario; Two. WD companions in the DD scenario. Becuase a non-degenerate companion star is much brighter than a WD, a luminous source is expected to be detected in pre-explosion images at position of the SNe One-a if they are generated from the SD progenitor scenario. Therefore, analyzing pre-explosion images from the SN position provides a direct way to test the SD progenitor scenario. On the theoretical side, Han in 2008 has comprehensively addressed the pre-explosion observable properties, luminosities, effective temperatures, masses, surface gravity, orbital and spin velocities, of MS companion stars at the moment of SN one-a explosion by performing BPS calculations for the WD + MS progenitor model. Following this work, Liu in 2015, extended the calculations to present pre-explosion properties of different non-degenerate companion stars, including the MS, SG, RG companions in the SD scenario, and the Helium-burning companion stars from both the SD and sub-Chandrasekhar mass double-detonation scenarios. Wong in 2021 also made predictions for the properties of the Helium-star donors at the time of explosion for a set of progenitor systems involving a CO WD and a Helium star. On the observational side, different studies have attempted to search for the expected non-degenerate companion stars by analyzing pre-explosion images at the SN position, for example, those taken by the Hubble Space Telescope, HST. To date, however, no progenitor companion star has been firmly detected in the analysis of pre explosion images of normal SNe One-a But there are some possible pre-explosion detections recently reported in several SNe One-ax. For instance, in 2014 McCully detected a blue luminous source in pre-explosion image of an SN one-ax event, SN 2012Z. As shown in Figure eight, the properties of this pre-explosion luminous source, SN 2012Z minus S1, have been found to be consistent with those of a Helium-star companion to the exploding WD. Interestingly, latetime observations taken about 1400 days after the explosion by the HST have shown that SN 2012Z is brighter than the normal SN 2011fe by a factor of two at this epoch. Comparing with theoretical models, this suggests the excess flux to be a composite of several sources: the shock-heated companion, a bound WD remnant that could drive a wind, and light from the SN ejecta due to radioactive decay. Analyzed pre-explosion HST images of another SN one-ax, SN 2014dt, but no source could be detected in this case. Section five point two. Ejecta–companion interaction. After the explosion in the SD scenario, the ejecta expand freely for a few minutes to hours before hitting the non-degenerate companion star, engaging into ejecta– companion interaction. The effect of a SN explosion on a nearby companion star has been studied since the 1970’s There are several ways in which the SN blast wave can modify the properties of companion stars during the ejecta-companion interaction, giving rise to observables that can be used to constrain SN one-a progenitors. First, the SN ejecta significantly interact with the companion star after the explosion, stripping some H-rich and Helium-rich material from its surface. This effect is caused either by the direct transfer of momentum or by the conversion of the blast kinetic energy into internal heat, meaning, by evaporation, ablation. As a consequence, some H, Helium lines caused by the stripped material may be present in late-time spectra of SNe One-a. Second, the shock heating injects thermal energy into the companion star during the interaction, leading to a dramatic expansion of the surviving companion star so that it displays signatures that are different from a star without experiencing the ejecta–companion interaction. For example, it could become more luminous and have a lower surface gravity. Third, radiative diffusion from shock-heated ejecta during the interaction is expected to produce an early excess in optical, UV or X-ray emission, see Kasen 2010. Fourth, the surface of a companion star may be enriched with heavy elements, for example, Nickel, Iron or Calcium, deposited by the SN One-a ejecta, which might be detectable in the spectra of a surviving companion star. Finally, the companion star survives from the explosion and retains its pre-explosion orbital velocity after the SN explosion, which leads a high peculiar velocity compared with other stars in the vicinity. The typical pre-explosion orbital velocities of the Hydrogen rich and Helium-rich companions in the SD Chandrasekhar mass scenario are eighty to two eighty kilometers per second, and around two fifty to five hundred kilometers per second, respectively. The Helium star companions in the sub-Chandrasekhar mass double detonation scenario and the Helium WD, or the CO WD which transfers its outer Helium layers, companions in the D6 model are respectively expected to have pre-explosion orbital velocities of around four hundred to one thousand kilometers per second and greater than a thousand kilometers per second. Section five point two point one. Searches for stripped hydrogen and helium. The earliest study of the effect of a SN explosion on a companion star was done by Colgate in 1970. Helium suggested that the companion star receives a kick that is mainly caused by the evaporation from the stellar surface, meaning the ablation, although there is also a small kick from the direct collision with the SN ejecta. Cheng in 1974 further investigated the impact of a SN shell onto a two point eight two and twenty solar mass MS companion star for various binary separations, SN shell masses, and velocities. Helium concluded that the MS companion star could survive from the interaction with SN shell. Upon these two works, several analytical models were developed to estimate the amount of stripped H mass and the kick velocity received by the companion star during the ejecta–companion interaction for MS companion stars with an n equals three and and n equals two thirds polytrope, which is appropriate for a low-mass MS, and for RG companion stars. To test the analytic prescription of Wheeler from 1975, several numerical simulations were performed for low-mass MS companions and RG stars. In particular, Livne suggested in 1992 that almost the entire envelope of a RG star could be stripped off by the SN blast, imparting a velocity to the stripped material around a thousand kilometers per second, much smaller than that of SN ejecta, of around ten thousand kilometers per second. Following the 1975 work of Wheeler, Meng in 2007 semi-analytically estimated the amount of stripped Hydrogen mass due to SN One-a explosions by adopting the binary and companion properties constructed with detailed binary evolution calculations. However, they underestimated the total stripped companion masses because of neglecting the effect of the ablation on the companion surface. More recently, updated two-dimensional 2D and 3D simulations with grid-based or smoothed particle hydrodynamics, SPH, methods have been presented that investigate the details of the interaction between SN one-a ejecta and the companion star. For instance, Marietta performed high-resolution 2D simulations in 2000 to comprehensively study the interaction of SN one-a ejecta in a variety of plausible progenitor systems with MS, SG and RG companions. However, they assumed the structure of single MS, SG, RG stars for the companion in their simulations. The 2000 study of Marietta for MS companion stars was updated to 3D simulations with the smoothed particle hydrodynamics (SPH) method by Pakmor in 2008, in which they considered the effect of pre-explosion mass transfer on the structures of a companion star at the moment of SN explosion. However, they computed their companion star models by constantly removing mass while evolving a single MS star to mimick the detailed mass transfer processes in a binary system. This makes their MS star model much more compact than one constructed from a full binary evolution calculation. Therefore, they predicted a small amount of stripped H masses of one to six percent of a solar mass for MS donor model. Liu further developed the work of Pakmor by adopting more realistic companion star models constructed from detailed, state-of-the-art binary evolution calculations. They also extended simulations to cover different companion stars, MS, SG and Helium-star, and a range of binary separations and explosion energies. Pan in 2012 employed adaptive mesh refinement, AMR, simulations to study the ejecta, companion interaction for MS, RG and Helium-star companions with different binary separations and explosion energies. In their simulations, however, they did not follow the full binary evolution but used initial conditions with a constant mass-loss rate when constructing their companion stars. The main results of ejecta–companion interaction of SNe One-a in the literature can be summarized as follows. One. 2D or 3D hydrodynamical simulations have predicted that about 5 per cent to 30 per cent of the companion mass, meaning greater than around ten percent of a solar mass can be stripped off from the outer layers of a MS or SG companion star, see top panel of figure ten. For RG companions, almost the entire envelope is removed by SN one-a blast wave. In the case of a Helium companion star, about one to three per cent of the mass is lost in the interaction. Two. The SN impact affects not only the companion star, but also the SN ejecta themselves. The presence of a companion star strongly breaks the symmetry of the SN one-a ejecta after the interaction. The stripped companion material is largely confined to the downstream region behind the companion star, creating a hole in the SN debris with an opening angle of about thirty to a hundred and fifteen degrees. Three. Depending on the different stellar types, the companion stars receive kick velocities of a few ten kilometers per second to one hundred kilometers per second , which are lower that their pre-explosion orbital velocities. This indicates that the surviving companion star should move with a velocity which is largely determined by its pre-explosion orbital velocity. Four. The characteristic velocities of stripped companion material for the MS, SG, RG and Helium star companions are five hundred to eight hundred kilometers per second , less than around nine hundred kilomeers per seonc, four to seven hundred kilometers per second, and eight hundred to a thousand kilometers per second respectively, which are slower than the maximum velocity of SN one-a ejecta, ten thousand kilometers per second, by about one order of magnitude. This implies that Hydrogen, Helium lines caused by stripped companion material become visible only at late-times when the photosphere recedes and moves to low velocity regions, revealing the inner SN one-a ejecta. Five. For a given companion model, the amount of stripped companion mass and kick velocity received by the companion star during the interaction decrease as the binary separation increases, which can be fitted by power-law relations. Six. The dependence of the amount of stripped mass and kick velocity on the explosion energy is in agreement with linear relations. Both quantities increase as the explosion energy increases. Seven. The companion star is generally expected to survive the explosion and becomes a runaway or hypervelocity star. However, whether a Helium WD companion in the double-detonation model would survive the explosion is still unclear. Eight. The companion surface could be enriched with heavy elements, contamination, from the low-expansion velocity tail of SN one-a ejecta, which provides a way to observationally identify the surviving companion stars in SNRs. However, the exact level of contamination is still rather uncertain in current models because of uncertainties of mixing of the contaminants in the envelope. One of the key questions of the SD scenario is whether the signatures of swept-up H or Helium due to the interaction can be detected in late-time spectra of SNe One-a. On the theoretical side, by performing the 1D parameterized spherically symmetric radiative transfer calculations, Mattila concluded in 2005 that Balmer lines should be detectable in SN one-a nebular spectra if the stripped H masses are greater than around three percent of a solar mass. In their models, they artificially added some uniform density solar-abundance material with a low expansion velocity of a thousand kilometers per second at the center of SN one-a ejecta of the W7 model from Nomoto 1984. Recently for the first time were performed, 3D Monte Carlo simulations with a non-local thermodynamic equilibrium, NLTE, radiative transport code to determine the signatures of stripped companion material in nebular spectra of SNe One-a as a function of viewing angle. In this study, more realistic distributions of stripped companion material and post-explosion SN One-a ejecta structures were adopted based on 2D hydrodynamical simulations of the ejecta–companion interaction. However, the Sobolev approximation as well as the simplified treatment on line overlap and multiple scattering causing some uncertainties in the results. Extension of previous calculations with a set of 1D NLTE steady-state radiative transfer simulations by covering a broader parameter space, a large range of masses for the ejecta, Nickel 56, and stripped material, and computing line overlap and line blanketing explicitly. These models adopted a 1D parameterized spherically symmetric SN ejecta structure. In summary, all radiative transfer calculations in the literature for SNe One-a with stripped companion material have concluded that the ejecta-companion interaction in the SD scenario produces significant and detectable signatures of stripped Hydrogen, Helium in late-time spectra. They further provided the dependence of line luminosities from stripped H-Helium-rich material on the amount of stripped H-Helium mass. This indicates that searching for Hydrogen-Helium emission due to stripped companion material in late-time spectra of SNe One-a is promising for identifying the SD or DD nature of the progenitor system. On the observational side, a series of observations have attempted to search for narrow, low-velocity H, Helium emission lines expected to be caused by swept-up H, Helium in late-time spectra of SNe One-a. But to date, no strong evidence for such H, Helium emission has been found in late-time spectra of most SNe One-a, even for the nearby SNe One-a with very high quality observations, meaning, SN 2011fe and SN 2014J. A detection was reported only for two fast-declining, sub-luminous events, SN 2018cqj and ASASSN 18tb. However, the H alpha emission lines detected in SN 2018cqj and ASASSN-18tb have been suggested to be caused by either CSM interaction or by H material stripped from a companion star. Furthermore, by analyzing late-time spectra of SNe One-a, one can convert the line luminosity limits to limits on the mass of H, Helium in SN one-a progenitors based on the current radiative transfer calculations for stripped companion material. Statistical limits on stripped H, Helium mass by analyzing a number of SN one-a late-time spectra have been given by Tucker in 2020, and they are summarized in Figure eleven. Comparing these statistical limits from the observation with the stripped H, Helium masses derived from numerical simulations, we can examine the validity of SD scenario for SNe One-a. As shown in Figure eleven, the observational constraints on the swept-up H, Helium masses are generally much lower than those from theoretical predictions, which poses a serious challenge for the SD scenario. Current radiative transfer simulations for SNe One-a with stripped material are still afflicted with uncertainties, because they either simply assume parameterized spherically-symmetric SN ejecta, or the treat line overlap and multiple scattering in an approximate way. For stricter predictions of the strength of H and Helium lines in late-epoch spectra, multi-dimensional NLTE radiative transfer calculations are needed that use the output ejecta model from 3D impact simulations and treat line overlap and multiple scatterings in detail. Moreover, there are some other possibilities that may explain to the lack of H-He emission in late-time spectra. For instance, the “spin-up, spin-down” model may lead to a compact companion star whose H, He-rich envelope has been stripped before the explosion, causing the absence of stripped H, Helium material during the interaction. Section five point two point two. Early excess emission. Different progenitor models and explosion mechanisms of SNe One-a may produce distinct early light curves. Therefore, early light curves of SNe One-a have been thought to play an important role in constraining their progenitor systems and explosion mechanism. For example, Nugent used the early light curves of the nearby SN 2011fe to constrain the radius of its exploding star, confirming that it must have been a WD. In the literature, different mechanisms have been proposed to cause an excess emission, meaning a “bump”, in early light curves of SNe One-a within the days following explosion, which will be described in detail below. Companion interaction: Kasen (2010) predicted that the shock caused by the ejecta–companion interaction significantly heats SN one-a ejecta to high temperatures, which causes a strong excess emission during the first few days after the explosion that is observable in the light curves within certain viewing angles in the SD scenario. This early-time excess emission is expected to be brightest in the ultraviolet (UV) wavelengths and becomes subordinate at longer optical wavelengths. However, it can still cause a blue color evolution in the optical light curve. By applying BPS results to the analytical models presents the distributions of expected early UV emission for different SD progenitor systems. Because the DD scenario does not predict such early UV emission, detecting early strong UV emission within the days following explosion has long been considered a smoking gun for the SD scenario of SNe One-a. For a given explosion model, early UV emission caused by the ejecta– companion interaction is strongly dependent on the ratio of binary separation to companion radius, assuming RLOF, at the moment of SN explosion. Therefore, the properties of this early UV emission are expected to provide a clue to the types of non-degenerate companions. Sub-Chandrasekhar-mass double-detonations: The burning of the initial Helium shell in sub-Chandrasekhar-mass double-detonation explosions can leave heavy, radioactive material in the outermost ejecta. A more massive Helium shell is expected to produce more radioactive material. The decay of this heavy, radioactive material could create an excess luminosity in the early light curves of SNe One-a. This may produce the early gamma emissions detected in SN 2014J Nickel-shell models: Piro and Nakar in 2013 suggested that the location of Nickel 56 in SN one-a ejecta could have noticeable impact on early-time light curves of SNe One-a. Further investigation showed how the distribution of Nickel 56 in the outer layers of the ejecta shapes early light curves of SNe One-a. More recently, comprehensive predictions of early-time curves of SNe One-a from a series of models containing Nickel 56 shells with different masses and widths in outer layers of SN one-a ejecta. They have shown that a Nickel 56 shell in outer SN one-a ejecta will lead to an early excess luminosity at a few days after the explosion. CSM interaction: The presence of CSM is expected in different progenitor scenarios, which can also significantly affect early light curves of SNe One-a. The presence of CSM can lead to a significant shock cooling emission during the first few days after the explosion, which can affect the early-time rise of the light curves of SNe One-a. Depending on the degree of mixing of Nickel 56 in the exploding WD and the detailed configurations of the CSM, this shock cooling emission can lead to early-time signatures, such as the early colour evolution, similar to those caused by the eject

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

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

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

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

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

Index of Sciencey stuff: https://rumble.com/v4rer9z-the-sleeping-brain-oliver-cameron-reddy.-a-puketm-audiopaper.html https://rumble.com/v4lqmyu-biological-functions-of-autophagy-genes.-beth-levine-and-guido-kroemer.-a-p.html https://rumble.com/v4lie79-open-voice-versatile-instant-voice-cloning.-zengyi-qin-mit-and-others..html https://rumble.com/v4jboxc-calorie-restriction-for-cancer-prevention.-chiara-vidoni-a-puketm-audiopape.html https://rumble.com/v4jbnuu-fasting-activates-macro-autophagy-xigui-chen.-a-puketm-audiopaper..html https://rumble.com/v4ih019-intermittent-and-periodic-fasting-longevity-and-disease.-valter-longo.-a-pu.html https://rumble.com/v4igqk3-mitochondrial-function-in-health-and-disease.-inigo-san-millan-a-puketm-aud.html https://rumble.com/v4f4fd5-apollo-11-the-haynes-workshop-manual.-a-puketm-audiobook.html https://rumble.com/v4d1x7n-mitochondrial-biogenesis-an-update.-lucia-doina-popov..html https://rumble.com/v4d1vzi-effects-of-intermittent-fasting-on-health-aging-and-disease.-by-rafael-de-c.html https://rumble.com/v4d1u9t-unravelling-the-health-effects-of-fasting-2020-franoise-wilhelmi-de-toledo-.html https://rumble.com/v49azx5-the-radiation-of-a-uniformly-accelerated-charge-camila-de-almeida.-a-puke-t.html https://rumble.com/v42u26n-direct-imaging-of-extrasolar-planets.-thayne-currie2023.-a-puke-tm-audiopap.html https://rumble.com/v406s2p-post-vaccination-syndrome-covid-19-immunization.-a-puketm-audiopaper.html https://rumble.com/v3u6d71-type-one-a-supernova-explosions-in-binary-systems-a-review.-zheng-wei-liu-a.html https://rumble.com/v3sqjja-a-simple-proof-of-bells-inequality.-lorenzo-maccone.-a-puke-tm-audiopaper.html https://rumble.com/v3qgklj-physics-of-the-hubble-expansion-sergei-m.-kopeikin.html https://rumble.com/v3ejksl-the-ten-nearest-stars.-in-space-no-one-can-hear-you-puke..html https://rumble.com/v3nhgsm-a-study-on-quantum-radar-technology-developments.-manoj-mathews..html https://rumble.com/v3kgxos-adscft-duality-user-guide-by-makoto-natsuume-a-puketm-audiobook.html https://rumble.com/v3gpw46-the-ads-cft-correspondence-v.e.hubeny.html Godel,Escher,Bach: 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/v44zun6-i-am-a-strange-loop.-2007-douglas-hofstadter-a-puke-tm-audiobook.html Misner, Thorne and Wheeler, Gravitation: https://rumble.com/v1hbzu3-gravitation-misner-thorne-and-wheeler-chapters-1-5.html https://rumble.com/v1ih5ev-gravitation-by-misner-thorne-and-wheeler-chapters-6-to-10.html https://rumble.com/v1kqxp7-gravitation-chapters-11-to-15-by-misner-thorne-and-wheeler.html https://rumble.com/v1lfecd-gravitation-by-misner-thorne-and-wheelerchapters-16-to20..html https://rumble.com/v1pp61r-gravitation-misner-thorne-and-wheeler-chapters-21-25.html https://rumble.com/v1v0j1c-gravitation-misner-thorne-and-wheeler-chapters-26-30.html https://rumble.com/v21i28i-gravitation-misner-thorne-and-wheeler-chapters-31-to-35.html https://rumble.com/v24o8ji-gravitation-misner-thorne-and-wheeler-chapters-36-to-40..html https://rumble.com/v24udwe-gravitation-by-misner-thorne-wheeler-chapters-41-44.html Chemistry: https://rumble.com/v3dqgww-a-fully-validated-multi-kilogram-cgmp-synthesis-of-mdma.-jay-b-nair-et-al.html https://rumble.com/v3627bb-a-review-of-impurities-in-methamphetamine-seizures..html https://rumble.com/v2y6kq6-synthetic-reductions-in-clandestine-amphetamine-and-methamphetamine-laborat.html https://rumble.com/v2xzc2g-methamphetamine-synthesis-harry-f-skinner..html https://rumble.com/v2xz844-a-practical-total-synthesis-of-cocaines-enantiomers.-john-f-casale..html https://rumble.com/v2okv8z-synthesis-of-natural-cocaine..html https://rumble.com/v1a1xlg-hoffman-lsd-my-problem-child.html

A simple proof of Bell’s inequality. Lorenzo Maccone. Dip. Fisica, University of Pavia, via Bassi 6, I-27100 Pavia, Italy Bell’s theorem is a fundamental result in quantum mechanics: it discriminates between quantum mechanics and all theories where probabilities in measurement results arise from the ignorance of pre-existing local properties. We give an extremely simple proof of Bell’s inequality: a single figure suffices. This simplicity may be useful in the unending debate of what exactly the Bell inequality means, since the hypothesis at the basis of the proof become extremely transparent. It is also a useful didactic tool, as the Bell inequality can be explained in a single intuitive lecture. Introduction: Einstein had a dream. He believed quantum mechanics was an incomplete description of reality and that its completion might explain the troublesome fundamental probabilities of quantum mechanics as emerging from some hidden degrees of freedom: probabilities would arise because of our ignorance of these “hidden variables”. His dream was that probabilities in quantum mechanics might turn out to have the same meaning as probabilities in classical thermodynamics, where they refer to our ignorance of the microscopic degrees of freedom (e.g. the position and velocity of each gas molecule): he wrote, “the statistical quantum theory would, within the framework of future physics, take an approximately analogous position to the statistical mechanics within the framework of classical mechanics”. A decade after Einstein’s death, John Bell shattered this dream: any completion of quantum mechanics with hidden variables would be incompatible with relativistic causality! The essence of Bell’s theorem is that quantum mechanical probabilities cannot arise from the ignorance of local pre-existing variables. In other words, if we want to assign pre-existing (but hidden) properties to explain probabilities in quantum measurements, these properties must be non-local: an agent with access to the non-local variables could transmit information instantly to a distant location, thus violating relativistic causality and awakening the nastiest temporal paradoxes. It is important to emphasize that we use “local” here in Einstein’s connotation: locality implies superluminal communication is impossible. In contrast, often quantum mechanics is deemed “non-local” in the sense that correlations among properties can propagate instantly, thanks to entanglement. This ‘quantum non-locality’ cannot be used to transfer information instantly as correlations cannot be used to that aim. In the remainder of the paper we will only use the former meaning of locality, Einstein non-locality and we warn the reader not to confuse it with the latter, quantum non-locality. Modern formulations of quantum mechanics must incorporate Bell’s result at their core: either they refuse the idea that measurements uncover pre-existing properties, or they must make use of non-local properties. In the latter case, they must also introduce some censorship mechanism to prevent the use of hidden variables to transmit information. An example of the first formulation is the conventional Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics, which, thanks to complementarity, states that the properties arise from the interaction between the quantum system and the measurement apparatus, they are not pre-existing: “unperformed experiments have no results”. An example of the second formulation is the “de Broglie-Bohm interpretation” of quantum mechanics that assumes that particle trajectories are hidden variables, they exist independently of position measurements. Bell’s result is at the core of modern quantum mechanics, as it elucidates the theory’s precarious co-existence with relativistic causality. It has spawned an impressive amount of research. However, it is often ignored in basic quantum mechanics courses since traditional proofs of Bell’s theorem are rather cumbersome and often over-burdened by philosophical considerations. Here we give an extremely simple graphical proof of Mermin’s version of Bell’s theorem. The simplicity of the proof is key to clarifying all the theorem’s assumptions, the identification of which generated a large debate in the literature. Here we focus on simplifying of the proof. Bell’s theorem: Let us define “local” a theory where the outcomes of an experiment on a system are independent of the actions performed on a different system which has no causal connection with the first. As stated previously, this refers to locality in Einstein’s connotation of the word: the outcomes of the experiment cannot be used to receive information from whoever acts on the second system, if it has no causal connection to the first. For example, the temperature of my room is independent on whether you choose to wear a purple tie today. Einstein’s relativity provides a stringent condition for causal connections: if two events are outside their respective light cones, there cannot be any causal connection among them. Page Two: Let us define “counterfactual-definite” a theory whose experiments uncover properties that are pre-existing. In other words, in a counterfactual-definite theory it is meaningful to assign a property to a system, e.g. the position of an electron, independently of whether the measurement of such property is carried out. Sometime this counterfactual definiteness property is also called “realism”, but it is best to avoid such philosophically laden term to avoid misconceptions. Bell’s theorem can be phrased as “quantum mechanics cannot be both local and counterfactual-definite”. A logically equivalent way of stating it is “quantum mechanics is either non-local or non counterfactual-definite”. To prove this theorem, Bell provided an inequality (referring to correlations of measurement results) that is satisfied by all theories that are both local and counterfactual-definite. He then showed that quantum mechanics violates this inequality, and hence cannot be local and counterfactual-definite. It is important to note that the Bell inequality can be derived also using weaker hypotheses than “Einstein locality” and “counterfactual definiteness”: such a proof is presented in Appendix A, where Einstein locality is relaxed to “Bell locality” and counterfactual definiteness is relaxed to “hidden variable models”. However, from a physical point of view, the big impact of Bell’s theorem is to prove the incompatibility of quantum mechanics with local counterfactual-definite properties, and we will stick to these hypotheses in the main text, see also Appendix B for a schematic formalization of all these results. A couple of additional hypothesis at the basis of Bell’s theorem are often left implicit: (1) our choice of which experiment to perform must be independent of the properties of the object to be measured, technically, “freedom of choice” or “no super-determinism”, meaning for example, if we decided to measure the color of red objects only, we would falsely conclude that all objects are red. (2) future outcomes of the experiment must not influence which apparatus settings were previously chosen, whereas clearly the apparatus settings will influence the outcomes. A trivial causality requirement, technically, “measurement independence”. These two hypothesis are usually left implicit because science would be impossible without them. All experiments performed to date have shown that Bell inequalities are violated, suggesting that our world cannot be both local and counterfactual definite. However, it should be noted that no experiment up to now has been able to test Bell inequalities rigorously, because additional assumptions are required to take care of experimental imperfections. These assumptions are all quite reasonable, so that only conspiratorial alternatives to quantum mechanics have yet to be ruled out, where experimental imperfections are fine-tuned to the properties of the objects, namely they violate the “freedom of choice”). In the next couple of years the definitive Bell inequality experiment will be performed: many research groups worldwide are actively pursuing it. Figure one. Proof of Bell inequality using areas to represent probabilities. In Panel “A”, the dashed area represents the probability that property Alpha of the first object and Beta of the second are equal, either they are both one or both zero. P same (Alpha, Beta). The white area represents the probability that they are different: P different (Alpha, Beta). The whole circle has area one equals P same (Alpha, Beta) plus P different (Alpha, Beta). In panel “B” the gray area represents the probability that Alpha and Gamma are equal, and the non-gray area represents the probability that Alpha and Gamma are different. If Alpha of the first object is different from both Beta and Gamma of the second, dotted area, then Beta and Gamma of the second object must be the same. Hence, the probability that Beta and Gama are the same must be larger than, or equal to, the dotted area: since Beta is the same for the two objects, P same (Beta, Gamma) must be larger than, or equal to, the dotted area. Panel “C”, the quantity P same (Alpha, Beta) plus P same (Alpha, Gamma) plus P same (Beta, Gamma) is hence larger than, or equal to, the sum of the dashed plus gray plus dotted areas, which is in turn larger than, or equal to, the full circle of area 1. This proves the Bell inequality. Note One. The reasoning fails if we do not employ counterfactual definite properties, for example if complementarity prevents us from assigning values to both properties Beta and Gamma of the second object. It also fails if we employ non-local properties, for example if a measurement of Beta on an object to find its value changes the value of Alpha of the other object. Proof of Bell’s theorem: We use the Bell inequality proposed by Preskill, following Mermin’s suggestion. Suppose we have two identical objects, namely they have the same properties. Suppose also that these properties are predetermined, counterfactual definiteness, and not generated by their measurement, and that the determination of the properties of one object will not influence any property of the other object, locality. We will only need three properties Alpha, Beta, and Gamma that can each take two values: “0” and “1”. For example, if the objects are coins, then Alpha equals zero might mean that the coin is gold and Alpha equals one that the coin is copper. Property Alpha, material. Beta equals zero means the coin is shiny and Beta equals one that it is dull. Property Beta, texture. And Gamma equals zero means the coin is large and Gamma equals one it is small. Property Gamma, size. Suppose I do not know the properties because the two coins are a gift in two wrapped boxes: I only know the gift is two identical coins, but I do not know whether they are two gold, shiny, small coins. Page Three: Alpha equals zero, Beta equals zero, Gamma equals one. Or two copper, shiny, large coins (1, 0, 0) or two gold, dull, large coins (1, 1, 0), and so on. I do know that the properties “exist”, namely, they are counterfactual-definite and pre-determined even if I cannot see them directly, and they are local, namely, acting on one box will not change any property of the coin in the other box: the properties refer separately to each coin. These are quite reasonable assumptions for two coins! My ignorance of the properties is expressed through probabilities that represent either my expectation of finding a property, Bayesian view, or the result of performing many repeated experiments with boxes and coins and averaging over some possibly hidden variable, typically indicated with the letter lambda, that determines the property, the frequentist view. For example, I might say the gift bearer will give me two gold coins with a 20 percent probability. He is stingy, but not always. Bell’s inequality refers to the correlation among measurement outcomes of the properties: call P same (Alpha, Beta) the probability that the properties Alpha of the first object and Beta of the second are the same: Alpha and Beta are both 0, the first coin is gold and the second is shiny, or they are both 1, the first is copper and the second is dull. For example, P same (Alpha, Beta) equals a half tells me that with 50 percent% chance Alpha equals Beta, namely they are both either zero 0 or both one. Since the two coins have equal counterfactual-definite properties, this also implies that with 50 percent chance I get two gold shiny coins or two copper dull coins. Note that the fact that the two coins have the same properties means that P same (Alpha, Alpha) equals P same (Beta, Beta) equals P same (Gamma, Gamma) equals one. If one is made of gold, also the other one will be, or if one is made of copper, also the other one will be, and so on. Bell’s inequality. Under the conditions that three arbitrary two-valued properties Alpha, Beta or Gamma satisfy counter-factual definiteness and locality, and that P same (X, X) equals 1 for X equals Alpha, Beta or Gamma. This means that the two objects have same properties, the following inequality among correlations holds, P same (Alpha, Beta) plus P same (Alpha, Gama) plus P same (Beta, Gamma) is greater than, or equal to one, equation one. Namely, a Bell inequality. The proof of such inequality is given graphically in Figure one. The inequality basically says that the sum of the probabilities that the two properties are the same if I consider respectively Alpha and Beta, Alpha and Gamma, and Beta and Gamma must be larger than one. This is intuitively clear: since the two coins have the same properties, the sum of the probabilities that the coins are gold and shiny, copper and dull, gold and large, copper and small, shiny and small, dull and large is greater than one: all the combinations have been counted, possibly more than once. In Figure two the events to which the probabilities represented by the Venn diagrams of Figure one refer are made explicit. This is true, of course, only if the two objects have same counterfactual-definite properties and the measurement of one does not affect the outcome of the other. Figure Two: Explicit depiction of the properties whose probabilities are represented by the areas of the Venn diagrams in figure one. The properties are represented by a triplet of numbers, Alpha, Beta, Gamma, that indicate the counterfactual-definite, local values of the properties Alpha, Beta, and Gamma for both objects. Note that in the dotted area Alpha must be different from both Beta and Gamma, so that Beta and Gamma must be equal there. Beta and Gamma are equal also in the intersection between the two smaller sets, but that is irrelevant to the proof. If we lack counterfactual-definite properties, we cannot infer that the first coin is shiny only because we measured the second to be shiny, even if we know that the two coins have the same properties: without counterfactual definiteness, we cannot even speak of the first coin’s texture unless we measure it. Moreover, if a measurement of the second coin’s texture can change the one of the first coin, non-locality, again we cannot infer the first coin’s texture from a measurement of the second: even if we know that the initial texture of the coins was the same, the measurement on the second may change such property of the first. Both the “counterfactual definiteness” and the “Einstein locality” hypotheses we used here can be relaxed somewhat, as shown in Appendix “A” suggested only to more advanced readers. To prove Bell’s theorem, we now provide a quantum system that violates the above inequality. Consider two two-level systems, qubits, in the joint entangled state: Phi plus equals zero, zero plus one, one over square root of two, and consider the two-valued properties Alpha, Beta, and Gamma obtained by projecting the qubit on the states, equation two: Alpha is composed of two states alpha zero and alpha one, is alpha zero which is the zero state, alpha one which is the one state. Beta is beta zero which is one half the zero state, plus square root three over two times the one state. And beta one which is square root three over two times the zero state, plus one half the one state. And Gamma is Gamma zero, and gamma one, similar combinations of normalized states Where gamma zero equals a half times the zero state minus square root of three over two times the one state. And gamma one equals square root of three over two times the zero state plus a half times the one state. Where it is easy to check that beta one is orthogonal to beta zero and gamma one is orthogonal to gamma one. Since the state zero and one are orthonormal this is, the inner product of state zero and state zero is one, and the inner product of state one and state one is one. And the product of the zero state and the one state is zero. The inner product of the states b zero and b one is: A half times square root of three over two times the magnitude of the state zero. Plus square root f thee over two times minus a half, times the magnitude of state one. Which is the square root of thee over four minus the square root of three over four, which is zero. Unfortunately it is common to talk of states being composed of states in quantum mechanics, and this can often lead to confusion. It is seldom made explicit that a compound state is composed of sub states, and it is merely implied. In figure two point one, consider the system of a switch being in the configuration of open, meaning zero, or closed, meaning one. The system is in the state of zero, or one. A compound system of two switches can be formed, or new state, where the individual components are open or closed, which is equivalent to zero or one. Alternatively, the system could be composed of spinning magnets with a North or South Pole, or units of electrical charge, or standing vibrational waves in a crystal, or anything two which a label of zero or one can be given. And, as usual, the entire ensemble configuration is typically referred to, with profound indifference to communicability, as some state, which is in some state, written with a Greek letter psi. If the reader is familiar with the animated series the “Smurfs” this will all be completely clear. Page Four: It is also easy to check that the state Phi plus can be written in terms of the states Alpha, Beta or Gamma, equation three. So that the two qubits have the same properties, namely P same (Alpha, Alpha) equals P same (Beta, Beta) equals P same (Gamma, Gamma) equals one. The measurement of the same property on both qubits always yields the same outcome, either both 0 or both 1. We are now ready to calculate the quantity on the left of Bell’s inequality, equation one. Just write the state Phi plus in terms of the eigenstates of the properties Alpha, Beta and Gamma. For example, writing Phi plus as alpha zero, alpha zero plus alpha one, alpha one, all over square root of two, and calculating its inner product Phi plus transpose phi plus, we obtain: Alpha zero, alpha zero transpose on alpha zero, alpha zero, plus beta zero, beta zero transposed on beta zero, beta zero, all over two, since the square root of two time the square root of two is two. Which is one plus one over two, equals one, or P same (Alpha, Alpha) equals one. Note that the state zero is equivalent to one half of the sum of b zero plus square root thee b one. And the state one is equal to a half of the difference of square root of three b zero minus b one. Substituting into the definition of Phi plus, it is easy to find the value of P same (Alpha, Beta) if we write: Phi plus in terms of alpha zero, alpha one, and beta zero, beta one. In fact, the probability of obtaining zero for both properties is the square modulus of the coefficient of alpha zero, beta zero, namely one eighth while the probability of obtaining one for both is the square modulus of the coefficient of alpha one, beta one, again one eighth. Hence, P same (Alpha, Beta) equals one eighth plus one eighth equals one quarter. Analogously, we find that P same (Alpha, gamma) equals a quarter and that P same (Beta, Gamma) equals a quarter by expressing the state as Phi plus in terms of alpha, and gamma and finding its inner product with Phi plus expressed in terms of beta and gamma. Summarizing, we have found: P same (Alpha, Beta) plus P same (Alpha, Gamma) plus P same (Beta, Gamma) equals three quarters, which is less than one, equation four. And this violates Bell’s inequality of equation one. This proves Bell’s theorem: all theories that are both local and counterfactual-definite must satisfy inequality one which is violated by quantum mechanics. Then, quantum mechanics cannot be a local counterfactual- definite theory: it must either be non-counterfactual-definite, as in the Copenhagen interpretation, or non-local, as in the de Broglie-Bohm interpretation. APPENDIX “A.” Hidden variable models. This appendix is addressed only to more advanced readers. In the spirit of the original proof of Bell’s theorem, one can relax both the “counterfactual definiteness” and the “Einstein locality” hypotheses somewhat. In fact, instead of supposing that there are some pre-existing properties of the objects (counterfactual definiteness), we can suppose that the properties are not completely pre- determined, but that a hidden variable lambda exists and the properties have a probability distribution that is a function of lambda. The “hidden variable model” hypothesis is weaker than counterfactual definiteness: if the properties are pre-existing, then their probability distribution in lambda is trivial: there is a value of lambda that determines uniquely the property, for example a value lambda zero such that the probability P, i (“A” equals zero, given Alpha, lambda zero) equals one and hence P, i (“A” equals one, given Alpha, lambda zero) equals zero, namely it is certain that property Alpha for object i has value “A” equals zero for lambda equals lambda zero. We can also relax the “Einstein locality” hypothesis, by simply requiring that the probability distributions of measurement outcomes factorize, referred to as “Bell locality”. Call P (of x, x prime given capital X, capital X prime, lambda the probability distribution, due to the hidden variable model, that the measurement of the property capital X on the first object gives result x and the measurement of capital prime on the second gives x prime, where Capital X, X prime equals Alpha, Beta, Gamma denote the three two-valued properties Alpha, Beta, and Gamma. By definition, “Bell locality” is the property that the probability distributions of the properties of the two objects factorize, namely equation five: Probability of x, x prime, given Capital X, capital X prime, lambda equals P one x, given capital X, lambda, p two, x prime, capital x prime, lambda. The factorization of the probability means that the probability of seeing some value x of the property capital X for object one is independent of which property capital X prime one chooses to measure and what result x prime obtained on object two, and vice versa. The “Bell locality” condition, equation five, is implied by and, hence, it is weaker than, Einstein locality. In fact, Einstein locality implies that the measurement outcomes at one system cannot be influenced by the choice of which property is measured on a second, distant, system. So, the probability of the outcomes of the first system P one must be independent of the choice of the measured property of the second system capital X prime, namely: P one (x, give Capital X, X prime, lambda) equals P one of x, five capital X, lambda). The same reasoning applies to the second system, which leads to condition (5). We now show that a Bell-local, hidden variable model together with the request that the two systems can have identical properties, implies counterfactual definiteness. This means that we can replace “counter-factual definiteness” with “hidden variable model” in the above proof of Bell theorem, which, with these relaxed hypothesis states that “no local hidden variable model can represent quantum mechanics”. If two objects have the same property, then P same (capital X, capital X) equals one, namely the probability that a measurement of the same property X on the two objects gives opposite results, say, x equals one and x prime equals zero, is null. In formulas, equation six, the sum over lambda of Probability of x equals one, x prime equals zero, given Capital X, capital X, lambda times p (Of lambda) equals zero. Where the sum over lambda emphasizes that we are averaging over the hidden variables, since they are hidden, and p of lambda is the probability distribution of the hidden variable lambda in the initial joint state of the two systems. Note that in Equation six we are measuring the same property capital X on both objects but we are looking for the probability of obtaining opposite results x prime not equals to x. Using the Bell locality condition of equation five the probability factorizes, namely Equation six becomes equation seven: The sum over lambda of P one of x equals one, given Capital X, lambda times P two of x prime equals zero, given Capital X, lambda times p (Of lambda) equals zero. Since P one, P two, and p, are probabilities, they must be positive. Consider the values of lambda for which p of lambda) is greater than zero. The above sum can be null only if either P one or P two is null. Page Five: Namely if P one (x equals one, given| Capital X, lambda) equals zero, which implies that X has the predetermined value x equals zero, or if P two (x prime equals zero, Capital X, lambda equals zero, which means that capital X has predetermined value x prime equals zero. We remind the reader that counterfactual definiteness means that P I (of x, give capital X, lambda) is either zero or one. It is equal to 0 if the property capital X of object i does not have the value x, and it is equal to 1 if it does have the value x. We have, hence, shown that Equation seven implies counterfactual definiteness for property X: its value is predetermined for one of the two objects. Summarizing, if we assume that a Bell-local hidden variable model admits two objects that have the same values of their properties, then we can prove counter- factual definiteness. This means that we can relax the “counterfactual definiteness” and “Einstein locality” hypotheses in the proof of the Bell theorem, replacing it with the “existence of a hidden variable model” and with “Bell locality” respectively, so that the Bell theorem takes the meaning that “no Bell-local hidden variable model can describe quantum mechanics”, the hypothesis that two objects can have the same values for the properties is implicit in the fact that such objects exist in quantum mechanics, see Equation three. Namely, if we want to use a hidden variable model to describe quantum mechanics, as in the de Broglie-Bohm interpretation, such model must violate Bell locality. Otherwise, if we want to maintain Bell locality, we cannot use a hidden variable model, as in the Copenhagen interpretation. APPENDIX B: Summary of the hypotheses used and logic formalization of Bell’s theorem: We have given two different proofs of the Bell inequality based on different hypotheses. In this appendix we summarize the logic behind the Bell inequality proofs. Hypotheses we used, rigorously defined above. (A) “Counterfactual Definiteness”. (B) “Einstein locality”. (C) “No super-determinism” (D) “Measurement independence” (A’) “Hidden variable model”, implied by (A) and by the fact that systems with same properties exist (see Appendix A). (B’) “Bell locality”, implied by (B) (see Appendix A). In the main text we have proven (Fig. 1) the following theorem: (A) AND (B) AND (C) AND (D) therefore Bell inequality, therefore NOT QM, where with “NOT QM” we mean that quantum mechanics (QM) violates the Bell inequality and is, hence, incompatible with it. Using the fact that “X AND Y implies NOT Z” is equivalent to “Z implies NOT X OR NOT Y” (modus tollens), we can state the above theorem equivalently as QM implies NOT (A) OR NOT (B) OR NOT (C) OR NOT (D). Since one typically assumes that both (C) and (D) are true, they can be dropped and the theorem can be written more compactly as QM implies NOT (A) OR NOT (B). Namely, assuming “no super-determinism” and “measurement independence”, quantum mechanics implies that either ‘‘counterfactual definiteness’’ or ‘‘Einstein locality’’ must be dropped. This is the most important legacy of Bell. We have also seen that the hypotheses (A) and (B) can be weakened somewhat, so that the Bell inequality can also be derived using only (A prime) and (B prime). Namely, we can prove (see Appendix A): (A prime) AND (B prime) AND (C) AND (D) implies Bell inequality implies NOT QM. Namely, assuming “no super-determinism” and “measurement independence”, quantum mechanics is incompatible with Bell-local hidden variable models. References: [1] A. Einstein, B. Podolsky, N. Rosen, Can quantum- mechanical description of physical reality be considered complete?, Phys. Rev. 47, 777 (1935). [2] A. Einstein, in A. 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