Randall Garrett 3 Science Fiction stories - Randall Garrett

Summary

Podcast Summary: Classic Science Fiction Books – Randall Garrett: Three Science Fiction Stories

Podcast: Classic Science Fiction Books
Host: solgoodmedia.com
Date: August 12, 2026
Featured Author: Randall Garrett
Stories:

1. With No Strings Attached
2. The Destroyers
3. In Case of Fire

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Episode Overview

This episode presents three distinct science fiction stories by Randall Garrett, immersing the listener in narratives that span technological innovation, interplanetary war, and the subtleties of diplomacy. Each tale offers a glimpse into the speculative ideas and social commentary typical of mid-20th-century sci-fi, blending dry humor with pointed critique of bureaucracy, human behavior, and the stubborn limits of both skepticism and belief.

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Story 1: With No Strings Attached

(Starts at 01:14)

Key Themes and Purpose

A tale about human skepticism, technological breakthrough, and the paradox of belief. It explores how revolutionary inventions can be rejected or misunderstood because they challenge prevailing worldviews.

Plot and Key Points

• Submarine Mystery:
  The story opens aboard the USS Ambitious Brill, a conventionally powered submarine that has, inexplicably, just circumnavigated the globe underwater, thanks to an unknown power source.

• The Secret Box:
  Captain Dean Lacy, Commander Wayne, and a civilian, Mr. Thorn, discuss a mysterious, steel-clad box—ostensibly a revolutionary battery—quietly installed aboard the vessel (03:33).

• Commercial & Military Considerations:
  The device seems destined to revolutionize naval power, with promises of rapid, cost-effective fleet-wide adaptation.

• Backstory Revealed:
  Over brandy at a private club, Lacy inquires about the invention. Thorn recounts being invited to a test on the Salt Flats, expressing initial skepticism:

  “Genius is the word, I suppose. Now that the contracts...have been signed, I can give you the straight story. But you're wrong in saying that the thing didn't exist three months ago. It did. We just didn't know about it, that's all.” —Thorn (07:48)

• The Mysterious Inventor Sorensen:
  Sorensen—a prickly, secretive, possibly Scandinavian inventor—is introduced, carrying his heavy, battered “black suitcase” (13:30).

• The Demonstration:
  Under strict security, the suitcase is hooked up to a bank of 100 light bulbs, which burn brightly for 10 continuous hours. Sorensen warns the engineers not to tamper with the device:

  “If any of 'em tries to open that suitcase, they're likely to get blown sky high.” —Sorensen (19:52)

• Discussion of Patents & Industrial Realities:
  Sorensen reveals why he’s not patenting the device:

  “You can't patent performance. You've got to patent something solid in concrete.” —Sorensen (21:44) Cautious of industry “patent pools,” he instead sells the results—not the device—requesting $1 million for the process, not the hardware.

• A Recurring Pattern:
  Colonel Dower shares a strikingly similar tale: years prior, Sorensen pitched his “miracle battery” to the Army—also with a suitcase and similar secrecy. The Army dismisses him as a fraud (35:18).

• The Final Reveal:
  Eventually, Thorn and his team purchase the process. Opening the mysterious suitcase, they discover an array of standard nickel-cadmium cells, with a twist: the real innovation is a hydrogen fusion process providing constant recharging, hidden in plain sight (36:18).

• Irony Emphasized:
  Sorensen's device was dismissed by everyone because it didn't fit accepted theory:

  “As soon as he told anyone that he had a hydrogen fusion device...he was instantly dismissed as a nut.” —Thorn (36:48)

• Memorable Closing:
  The tale ends with Thorn reflecting ruefully on the triumph of plausible fiction over implausible truth, and the inventiveness of selling the lie people are willing to believe, rather than the truth they can’t accept.

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Story 2: The Destroyers

(Begins at 53:00)

Key Themes and Purpose

A planetary war story focused less on the machinations of generals and more on the deeply personal and societal costs of confrontation. It highlights how war forces radical change on individuals and cultures alike.

Plot and Key Points

• A Farmer’s Peaceful World:
  Unka Tom, a middle-aged field supervisor, prides himself on his agricultural skill and friendly rivalry with another supervisor, Jakovic (53:00).

• Impending Conflict:
  Dialogue with his brother, Rusat, reveals mounting rumors of off-planet war, which Unka Tom initially dismisses as irrelevant and unlikely (64:33).

• War Arrives:
  The planet Exiti, primarily agricultural and technologically unsophisticated, is invaded by an off-world power. Initial confidence in local military might is soon shaken (75:52).

• Mobilization and Leadership:
  The beloved local chief, Samas, is called to lead armored forces. In his absence, he appoints Unka Tom as acting supervisor of the barony, leaving him a daunting set of instructions (87:04).

• Societal Upheaval:
  Traditional crop cycles are upended—staples must replace Exiti’s crucial export, kataka leaves, to keep the planet alive.

  “We will not plant Kataka... What we need now is not kataka, but food." —Chief Samas (99:17)

• Personal Struggle:
  Unka Tom gathers the support of his rivals, promotes the lazy but smart Basam, and tries to hold together a battered social order as supplies dwindle and anxiety rises.

• Invasion and Defeat:
  Despite initial successes, Exiti is overwhelmed. Their villages and castles are destroyed. Unka Tom’s world is literally and figuratively reduced to ruins (116:56).

• Occupation and Change:
  Union Army representatives arrive, announce the war's end, and proclaim a “new freedom”—abolishing serfdom and instituting wages. But to Unka Tom and the others, the loss of tradition and security feels like extinction rather than liberation (118:37).

  “He just stood there...as his world dissolved around him. He could hear dimly the voice...as he read off the death warrant for Exiti and for Ankhatam.” —Narration (118:37)

• Memorable Moment:
  The story closes with Unka Tom in numb confusion, symbolizing the trauma of culture shock and the ambiguous aftermath of “liberation.”

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Story 3: In Case of Fire

(Starts at 120:50)

Key Themes and Purpose

A wry look at the workings of interstellar diplomacy, disability, and the unexpected advantages of individual quirks in high-stakes situations.

Plot and Key Points

• Meet Bertrand Malloy:
  Malloy, the Terran ambassador to the planet Sarkad, is responsible for keeping vital trade with an alien culture uninterrupted—despite the peculiarity that neither he nor his staff ever meet the locals face-to-face (120:50).

• The “Cull” Staff:
  Malloy’s team is infamous for being assembled from the diplomatic corps’ misfits:

  “Every man in the diplomatic corps who developed a twitch or a quirk was shipped to Sarkad IV to work under Bertrand Malloy.” —Narration (120:50)

• War and the Peace Conference:
  The Earth-Karna war is ending, and an armistice conference is called with little warning (134:12). Earth must send negotiators immediately; Malloy is tapped as plenipotentiary.

• Inventive Staffing:
  With top talent unavailable, Malloy strategically appoints two of his “damaged” men:

  • Norden: brilliant, but paralyzed when faced with multiple choices.
  • Braneck: a highly perceptive paranoiac, suspicious of hidden motives everywhere.

• Malloy’s Genius:
  Malloy recognizes that the Karna are expert in setting diplomatic traps involving false choices and hidden pitfalls. His “damaged” team, immune to these tactics, proves unexpectedly formidable.

• Success Through Flaws:
  The team succeeds spectacularly:

  “These two men are honestly doing their best to win at the peace conference, and they've got the Karna reeling.” —Malloy (144:46)

• Self-Deprecating Finale:
  Malloy reveals to his superior he cannot have gone himself—he has agoraphobia and xenophobia:

  “The reason why I'm here, cooped up in this office...is because I like it that way. I suffer from agoraphobia and xenophobia.” —Malloy (144:46)

  The tale closes on this comedic, ironic note.

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Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

• On What People Will Believe:

  “A man will always be willing to buy something he wants and believes in, even if it is impossible, rather than something he believes is impossible. So sell him what he thinks he wants.” —Opening epigraph of With No Strings Attached (01:14)

• On Patent Pools and Industry:

  “If one company buys a patent, all of them can use it... You’ll be offered a few measly thousand for it. Why should they offer more?” —Sorensen (21:44)

• On the Loss of a World:

  “He just stood there...as his world dissolved around him. He could hear dimly the voice of the blue clad union officer as he read off the death warrant for Exiti and for Ankhatam.” —Narration, The Destroyers (118:37)

• On Unlikely Teamwork:

  “These two men are honestly doing their best to win at the peace conference, and they've got the Karna reeling.” —Malloy (144:46)

• Reversal of Skepticism:

  “As soon as he told anyone that he had a hydrogen fusion device...he was instantly dismissed as a nut.” —Thorn (36:48)

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Segment Timestamps

• With No Strings Attached

  • Story begins: 01:14
  • Salt Flats demonstration: 13:23
  • Army's earlier encounter: 35:18
  • Final reveal: 36:18

• The Destroyers

  • Story begins: 53:00
  • War announced: 64:33
  • Chief’s speech and transition of power: 87:04
  • Barony’s destruction: 116:56
  • Occupation and new order: 118:37

• In Case of Fire

  • Story begins: 120:50
  • Malloy assembles his team: 134:12
  • Peace conference outcome: 144:46

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Tone & Style Notes

Throughout all three stories, Garrett’s tone is dry, often gently satirical, and steeped in skepticism about both human nature and institutions. Ordinary people’s reasoning and bureaucratic obfuscation are lampooned, but there’s also real empathy for the pain of change, the uncertainties of innovation, and the heroism of modest men.

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Takeaway

This Randall Garrett triple-feature episode represents classic mid-century science fiction’s impulse to both entertain and provoke thought, poking holes in the pretensions of progress and the inflexible dogmas—scientific, political, and social—that can doom revolutions before they begin or snuff out worlds when they finally succeed.

Transcript

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it done with no Strings Attached By Randall Garrett this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org with no strings attached by Randall Garrett Recording by Phil Shinnaver this story was published in Analog, February 1963. A man will always be willing to buy something he wants and believes in, even if it is impossible, rather than something he believes is impossible. So sell him what he thinks he wants. The United States submarine Ambitious Brill slid smoothly into her berth in the Brooklyn Navy Yard after far too many weeks at sea as far as her crew were concerned. After all the necessary preliminaries had been waded through, the majority of that happy crew went ashore to enjoy a well earned and long anticipated leave in the depths of the brick and glass canyons of Gomorrah on the Hudson. The trip had been uneventful in so far as nothing really dangerous or exciting had happened. Nothing indeed that could even be called out of the way, except that there was more brass aboard than usual and that the entire trip had been made underwater, with the exception of one surfacing for a careful position check in order to make sure the ship's instruments gave the same position as the stars gave they had. All was well. That is not to say that the crew of the ambitious Brill were entirely satisfied in their own minds about certain questions that had been puzzling them. They weren't, but they knew better than to ask questions even among themselves, and they said nothing whatever when they got ashore. But even the novices among submarine crews know that while the nuclear powered subs like George Washington, Patrick Henry, or Benjamin Franklin are perfectly capable of circumnavigating the globe without coming up for air, such performances are decidedly rare in a presumably diesel electric vessel such as the U.F.O. s ambitious Brill. And those few members of the crew who had seen what went on in the battery room were the most secretive and the most puzzled of all. They, and they alone knew that some of the cells of the big battery that drove the ship's electric motors had been removed to make room for a big steel clad box hardly bigger than a footlocker, and that the rest of the battery hadn't been used at all. With no one aboard but the duty watch and no one in the battery room at all, Captain Dean Lacy felt no compunction whatever in saying as he gazed at the steel clad sealed box, what a battery. The vessel's captain, Lieutenant Commander Newton Wayne, looked up from the box into the Pentagon representative's face, yes, sir, it is. His voice sounded as though his brain were trying to catch up with it and hadn't quite succeeded. This certainly puts us well ahead of the Russians. Captain Lacy returned the look. All right you are, Commander. This means we can convert every ship in the Navy in a tenth the time we had figured. Then they both looked at the third man, a civilian. He nodded complacently and at a tenth of the cost. Gentlemen, he said mildly, North American Carbide and Metals can provide these units cheaply and at a rate that will enable us to convert every ship in the Navy within the year. Captain Lacy shot a glance at Lieutenant Commander Wayne. All this is strictly top secret, you understand? Yes, sir, I understand said Wayne. Very well. He looked back at the civilian. Are we ready, Mr. Thorn? Any time you are, Captain, the civilian said. Fine. You have your instructions, Commander. Carry on. Aye, aye, sir, said Lieutenant Commander Wayne. A little less than an hour later, Captain Lacy and Mr. Thorn were in the dining room of one of the most exclusive clubs in New York. Most clubs in New York are labeled as exclusive because they exclude certain people who do not measure up to their standards of wealth. A man who makes less than, say, $100,000 a year would not even qualify for scrutiny by the executive committee. There is one club in Manhattan which reaches what is probably close to the limit on that kind of exclusiveness. Members must be white Anglo Saxon Protestant Americans who can trace their ancestry as white Anglo Saxon Protestant Americans back at least as far as the American Revolution without exception, and who are worth at least 10 millions and who can show that the fortune came into the family at least four generations back. No others need applying. It is said that this club is not a very congenial one because the two members hate each other. The club in which Lacy and Thorne ate their dinner is not of that sort. It is composed of military and naval officers and certain civilian career men in the United States government. These men are professionals. Not one of them would ever resign from government service. They are dedicated heart, body and soul to the United States of America. The life, public and private of every man jack of them is an open book to every other member. Of the three living men who have held and the one who at present holds the title of President of the United States, only one was a member of the club before he held that high office. As an exclusive club, they rank well above England's House of Peers and just a shade below the College of Cardinals of the Roman Catholic Church. Captain Lacy was a member. Mr. Richard Thorne was not, but he was among those few who qualify to be invited as guests. The carefully guarded precincts of the club were among the very few in which these two men could talk openly and at ease. After the duck came the brandy, both men having declined dessert and over the brandy, that ultra rare five star Hennessy which is procurable only by certain people and is believed by many not to exist at all. Captain Lacy finally asked the question that had been bothering him for so long. Thorne, he said. Three months ago that battery didn't exist. I know it and you know it. Who was the genius who invented it? Thorne smiled and there was a subtle wryness in the smile. Genius is the word, I suppose. Now that the contracts with the Navy have been signed, I can give you the straight story. But you're wrong in saying that the thing didn't exist three months ago. It did. We just didn't know about it, that's all. Lacy raised his bushy iron gray eyebrows. Oh, and how did it come to the attention of North American Carbide and Metals? Thorne puffed out his cheeks and blew out his breath softly before he began talking as though he were composing his beginning sentences in his mind. Then he said, the first I heard about it was four months ago. Considering what's happened since then, it seems a lot longer. He inhaled deeply from his brandy snifter before continuing as head of the development labs for nacm. I was asked to take part as a witness to a demonstration that had been arranged through some of the other officers of the company. It was to take place out on Salt Lake Flats, where It was to take place out on Salt Lake Flats where there was no chance of hanky panky. Richard Thorn, who held a PhD from one of the finest technological colleges in the east, but who preferred to be addressed as Mr. Was in a bad mood. He had flown all the way out to Salt Lake City after being given only a few hours notice and then had been bundled into a Jeep furnished by the local sales office of NACM and scooted off to the blinding gray white glare of the salt flats. It was hot and it was much too sunshiny for Thorn, but he had made the arrangements for the test himself so he couldn't argue or complain too loudly. He could only complain mildly to himself that the business office of the company which had made the final arrangements had, in his opinion, been a little too much in a hurry to get the thing over with. Thorn himself felt that the test could have at least waited until the weather cooled off. The only consolation he had was that out here the humidity was so low that he could stay fairly comfortable in spite of the heat as long as there was plenty of drinking water. He had made sure to bring plenty.

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The cavalcade of vehicles arrived at the appointed spot, umpteen miles from nowhere, and pulled up in a circle. Thorn climbed out wearily and saw the man who called himself Sorensen climb out of the second Jeep. From the first time he had seen him, Thorn had tagged Sorensen as an angry old man. Not that he was really getting old. He was still somewhere on the brisk side of 50, but he wore a perpetual scowl on his face that looked as though it had been etched there by too many years of frustration, and his voice always seemed to have an acid edge to it, like that of an old man who had decided, after decades of observation, that all men are fools. And yet, Thorn thought he occasionally caught a glimpse of mocking humor in the pale blue eyes. He was lean and rather tall, with white hair that still showed traces of blond, and he looked as Scandinavian as his name sounded. His accent was pure Minnesotan American. As he climbed out of the Jeep, Sorensen brought with him the black suitcase. Ever since he had first seen it, Thorn had thought of it as the black suit case, and after he had seen some of the preliminary tests, he had subconsciously put capitals to the words. But Richard Thorne was no fool. Too many men had been suckered before, and he, Richard Thorne, did not intend to be another sucker, no matter how impressed he might be by the performance of an invention. If this was a con game, it was going to have to be a good one to get by. Richard Thorne, Ph.D. he walked across the few feet of hard salt white ground that separated him from Sorensen, standing beside the second Jeep with the black suitcase in his hand. It was obvious to anyone who watched the way Sorensen handled the thing that it was heavy, £75 or better. Need any help? Thorn asked, knowing what the answer would be. Nope, thorensen said. I can handle it. The suitcase wasn't really black. It was a dark cordovian brown made even darker by long usage which had added oily stains to the well used leather. But Thorn thought of it as the black suitcase simply because it was the perfect example of the proverbial little black box. The box that did things as a test question in an examination, the little black box performs a useful function. The examiner draws a symbolic electronic circuit. Somewhere in the circuit. Instead of drawing the component that is supposed to be there, he draws a little black box. Then he defines the waveform voltage and amperage entering the circuit and defines whatever is coming out what is in the little black box. Except in the simplest of cases, there is never an absolute answer. The question is counted as correct if the student puts into the little black box a component or sub circuit which will produce the effect desired. The value of the answer depends on the simplicity and relative controllability of the component drawn in the place of the little black box. Sorensen's black suitcase was still a problem to Thorn. He couldn't quite figure out what was in it. Hotter' n Billy Blueblazes, sorensen said as he put the black suitcase down on the gleaming white ground. He grinned a little, which dispelled for a moment his angry old man expression, and said, you ready to go, Mr. Thorn? I'm ready anytime you are, thorn said grumpily. Sorensen looked at the NAC and M scientist sideways. You don't sound any happier' N I am, Mr. Thorn. Thorn looked at him and thought he could see that flash of odd humor in his light blue eyes. Thorn exhaled a heavy breath. I'm no happier than you are to be out in this heat. Let's get on with it. Sorensen's chuckle sounded so out of place that Thorn was almost startled. You know the difference between you and me, Mr. Thorn? Sorensen asked. He didn't wait for an answer. You think this test is probably a waste of time. Me, on the other hand. I know it is. Let's get on with it, thorn repeated. It took two hours to set up the equipment, in spite of the fact that a lot of the circuits had been prefabricated before the caravan had come out from Salt Lake City. But Richard Thorne wanted to make certain that all his data was both correct and recorded.

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Sorensen had nothing to do but watch. He had no hand in setting up the equipment. He had brought the black suitcase, and that was all he was going to be allowed to do. From the top of the black suitcase projected two 1 inch copper electrodes, 14 inches apart. The North American Carbide and Metals technicians set up the circuits that were connected to the electrodes without any help from Sorensen. But just before they started to work, Sorensen, there's just one thing I think you ought to warn those men about, Mr. Thorne. What's that? Thorn asked. If any of em tries to open that suitcase, they're likely to get blown sky high. And I don't want em getting funny with me either. He had his hand in his trouser pocket, and Thorn was suddenly quite certain that the man was holding a revolver. He could see the outlines against the cloth. Thorn sighed. Don't worry, Mr. Sorensen. We don't have any ulterior designs on your invention. He did not add that the investigators of NACNM had already assumed that anyone who was asking $1 million for an invention which was, in effect, a pig in a poke would be expected to take drastic methods to protect his gadget. But there would be no point in telling Sorensen that his protective efforts had already been anticipated and that the technicians had already been warned against touching the black suitcase any more than necessary to connect the leads. Giving Sorensen that information might make him even more touchy. Thorn only hoped that the bomb, or whatever it was that Sorensen had put in the suitcase was well built, properly fused, and provided with adequate safeties. When everything was set up, Sorensen walked over to his device and turned it on by shoving the blade of a heavy duty switch into place. Okay, he said. One of the technicians began flipping other switches, and a bank of ordinary incandescent light bulbs came on four at a time. Finally, there were 100 of them burning, each one a hundred watt bulb that glowed brightly but did not appear to be contributing much to the general brightness of the Utah sun. The technicians checked their recording voltmeters and ammeters and reported that, sure enough, some 10 kilowatts of power at a little less than 115v DC was coming from the black suitcase. Sorensen and Thorn sat in the tent, which had been erected to ward off the sun's rays. They watched the lights shine. One of the technicians came in, wiping his forehead with a big blue bandana. Well, There she goes, Mr. Sorensen. If that thing is dangerous, hadn't we better back off a little way from Isn't dangerous? Sorensen said. Nothing's going to happen. The technician looked unhappy then. I don't see why we couldn't have tested the thing back in the shop. Would have been a lot easier there, to say nothing of more comfortable. Thorn lit a cigarette in silence. Sorensen nodded and said, yes, Mr. Siegel, it would have been. Siegel sat down on one of the camp stools and lit a cigarette. Mr. Sorensen, he asked in all innocence, have you got a patent on that battery? The humorous glint returned to Sorensen's eyes as he said, nope. I didn't patent the battery in that suitcase. That's why I don't want anybody fooling around with it. How come you don't patent it? Siegel asked. Nobody could steal it if you patented it, couldn't they? Sorensen asked with a touch of acid in his voice. Do you know anything about batteries, Mr. Siegel? A little. I'm not an expert on em or anything like that. I'm an electrician. But I know a little bit about em. Sorensen nodded. Then you should know, Mr. Siegel, that battery making is an art, not a science. You don't stick a couple of electrodes into a solution of electrolyte and consider that your work is done with the same two metals and the same electrolyte. You could make batteries that would run the gamut from terrible to excellent. Some of em maybe wouldn't hold a charge more than an hour, while others would have a shelf life fully charged of as much as a year. Batteries don't work according to theory. If they did, potassium chlorate would be a better depolarizer than manganese dioxide instead of the other way around. What you get out of a voltaidic cell depends on the composition and strength of the electrolyte, the kind of depolarizer used, the shape of the electrodes, the kind of surfaces they have, their arrangement and spacing, and a hundred other little things. I've heard that, siegel said. Thorne smoked in silence. He had heard Sorensen's arguments before. Sorensen didn't mind discussing his battery in the abstract, but he was awfully close mouthed when it came to talking about it in concrete terms. He would talk about batteries in general, but not about this battery in particular. Not that Thorn blamed him in the least. Sorensen was absolutely correct in his statements about the state of the art of making voltaic cells. If Sorensen had something new, and Thorn was almost totally convinced that he did, then he was playing it smart by not trying to patent it. Now then, Sorensen went on, let's suppose that my battery is made up of lead and lead dioxide plates in a sulfuric acid solution. Except that I've added a couple of trifling things and made a few small changes in the physical structure of the plates. I'm not saying that's what the battery is, mind you. I'm saying suppose. Ok, suppose, said Siegel. Couldn't you patent it? What's to patent? The PB? PB02H2SO4 cell is about half as old as the United States Patent Office itself. Can't patent that. Copper oxide, maybe as a depolarizer. Old hat. Can't patent that. Laminated plates, maybe? Nope, can't patent that either. Siegel looked out at the hundred glowing light bulbs. You mean you can't patent it even if it works a hundred times better than an ordinary battery? Hell, man, sorensen said, you can't patent performance. You've got to patent something solid in concrete. Oh, I'll grant that. A top notch patent attorney might be able to get me some kind of a patent on it, but I wouldn't trust it standing up in court if I had to try to squash an infringement. Besides, even if I had an iron bound patent, what good would it do me? Ever hear of a patent pool? No, said Siegel. What's a patent pool. I'll give you an example. If all the manufacturers of a single product get together and agree to form a patent pool, it means that if one company buys a patent, all of them can use it. Say the automobile companies have one. That means that if you invent a radical new design for an engine one maybe that would save them millions of dollars. You'll be offered a few measly thousand for it. Why should they offer more? Where else are you going to sell it? If one company gets it, they all get it. There's no competition. And if you refuse to sell it at all, they just wait a few years until the patent runs out and use it for free. That may take a little time, but a big industry has plenty of time. They have a longer lifespan than human beings. North American Carbide and Metals, said Thorn quietly, is not a member of any patent pool, Mr. Sorensen. I know, sorensen said agreeably. Battery patents are trickier than automobile machinery patents. That's why I'm doing this my way. I'm not selling the gadget as such. I'm selling results for $1 million tax paid. I will agree to show your company how to build a device that will turn out electric power at such and such a it, and that will have so and so characteristics, just like it says in the contract you read. I guarantee that it can be made at the price I quote. That's all. He looked out at the bank of light bulbs. They were still burning. They kept burning. They kept burning for 10 solid hours, said Thorn. Then he went out and shut off his battery. Captain Lacy was scowling. That's damned funny, he muttered. What is? Asked Thorn, wondering why the naval officer had interrupted his story. What you're telling me, Lacy, I'll swear I've heard. He stopped and snapped his fingers suddenly. Sure, by golly. He stood up from the table. Would you excuse me for a minute? I want to see if a friend of mine is here. If he is, he has a story you ought to hear. Damned funny coincidence. And he was off in a hurry, leaving Thorn staring somewhat blankly after him. Three minutes later, while Thorn was busily pouring himself a second helping of Five Star Hennessy, Captain Lacey returned to the table with an army officer wearing the insignia of a bird. Colonel, Colonel Downer, the captain said, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Richard Thorne, the top research man with North American carbide and metals. Mr. Thorne, this is Colonel Edward Dower. The men shook hands. A third brandy snifter was brought, and a gentleman's potation was poured for the colonel. Ed, said Captain Lacy, as soon as his fellow officer had inhaled a goodly lungful of the heady fumes. Do you remember you were telling me a couple of years ago about the test you were in on out in the Mojave Desert? Colonel Downer frowned. Test? Something to do with cars? No, not that one. Something to do with a power supply. Power supply? Oh. His frown faded and became a smile. You mean the crackpot with his little suitcase? Thorn looked startled. And Captain Lacy? That's the one. Sure I remember, said the colonel. What about it? Oh, nothing, lacy said with elaborate unconcern. I just thought Mr. Thorne here might like to hear the story. That is, if it isn't classified. Col. Dower chuckled. Nothing classified about it. Just another crackpot inventor. Had a little suitcase that he claimed was a marvelous new power source. Wanted a million dollars cash for it, tax free, no strings attached. But he wouldn't show us what was in it. Not really very interesting. Go ahead, Colonel, said Thorn. I'm interested, really I am. Well, as I said, there's nothing much to it, the Colonel said. He showed us a lot of impressive looking stuff in his laboratory, but it's didn't mean a thing. He had this suitcase, as I told you. There were a couple of thick copper electrodes coming out of the side of it, and he claimed that they could be tapped for tremendous amounts of power. Well, we listened and we watched his demonstrations in the lab. He ran some heavy duty motors off of it and a few other things like that. I don't remember what all. And he wanted to sell it to you sight unseen? Thorn asked. That's right, said the Colonel. Well, actually he wasn't trying to sell it to the army. As you know, we don't buy ideas. All we buy is hardware, the equipment itself or the components. But the company he was trying to sell his gadget to wanted me to take a look at it as an observer. I've had experience with that sort of thing, and they wanted my opinion. I see, thorne said. What happened? Well, said the colonel, we wanted him to give us a demonstration out in the Mojave Desert. Out in the Mojave Desert? The inventor asked. Whatever for, Colonel Dower, we just want to make sure you haven't got any hidden power sources hooked up to that suitcase of yours. We know a place out in the Mojave where there aren't any power lines for miles. We'll pick the place. The inventor frowned at him out of pale blue eyes. Look, he gestured at the suitcase sitting on the laboratory table. You can see there's nothing faked about that. Colonel Dower shook his head. You won't tell us what's in the suitcase? All we know is that it's supposed to produce power. From what? How? You won't tell us? Did you ever hear of the Keeley motor? No. What was the Keeley motor? Something along the lines of what you have here, the colonel said dryly. Except that Keeley at least had an explanation of where he was getting his power. Back around 1874, a man named John Keely claimed he had invented a wonderful new power source. He called it a breakthrough in the field of perpetual motion. An undiscovered source of power, he said, controlled by harmony. He had a machine in his lab which would begin to turn a flywheel. When he blew a chord on a harmonica, he would stop it by blowing a sour note. He claimed that this power was all around, but that it was easiest to get it out of water. He claimed that a pint of his charged water would run a train from Philadelphia to New York and back and only cost a tenth as much as coal.

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The inventor folded his arms across his chest and looked grimly at Colonel Dower. I see. Go on. Well, he got some wealthy men interested. A lot of them invested money, big money in the Keeley Motor Company. Every so often he'd bring them down to his lab and show them what progress he was making and then tell them how much more money he needed. He always got them to shell out, and he was living pretty high on the hog. He kept at it for years. Finally, in the late 90s, the Scientific America exposed the whole hoax. Keeley died and his lab was given a thorough going over. It turned out that all his marvelous machines were run by compressed air cleverly channeled through the floor and the legs of tables. I see, repeated the inventor, narrowing his eyes. And I suppose my invention is run by compressed air. I didn't say your invention was a phony, Col. Dower said placatingly. I merely mentioned the Keely motor to show you why we want to test it out somewhere away from your laboratory. Are you willing to go? Anytime you are, Colonel. A week or so later they went out into the Mojave and set up the test. The suit case, the suitcase, said the Colonel, was connected up to a hundred hundred watt light bulbs. He let the thing run for 10 hours before he shut it off. He chuckled. He never would let us look into that suitcase. Naturally. We wouldn't buy a pig and a poke, as the saying goes. We told him that any time we could be allowed to look at his invention, we'd be glad to see him again. He left in a huff, and that was the last we saw of him. How do you explain, thorn said carefully, the fact that his suitcase did run all those lights? The Colonel chuckled again. Hell, we had that figured out. He just had a battery of some kind in his suitcase. No fancy gimmick for deriving power from perpetual motion or anything like that? Nope. Just a battery, that's all. Captain Dean Lacy was grinning hugely. Thorn said, tell me, Colonel, what was this fellow's name? Oh, I don't recall. Big blond chap had a Swedish name, or maybe a Norwegian Sanderson? No. Something like that, though. Sorensen? Thorn asked. That's it. Sorensen. Do you know him? We've done business with him, said Thorn dryly. He didn't palm his phony machine off on you, did he? The Colonel asked with a light laugh. No, no, thorn said. Nobody sold us a battery disguised as a perpetual motion device. Our relations with him have been quite profitable, thank you, I'd say. You still ought to watch him, said Col. Dower. Once a con man always a con man is my belief. Captain Lacy rubbed his hands together. Ed, tell me something. Didn't it ever occur to you that a battery which would do all that, a battery which would hold a hundred kilowatt hours of energy in a suitcase, would be worth the million he was asking for it? Colonel Dower looked startled. Why? Why, no. The man was obviously a phony. He wouldn't tell us what the power source was. He. Colonel Dower stopped. Then he set his jaw and went on. Besides, if it were a battery, why didn't he say so? A phony like that shouldn't be. He stopped again, looking at the naval officer. Lacy was still grinning. We have discovered, Ed, he said in an almost sweet voice, that Sorensen's battery will run a submarine. With all due respect to your rank and ability, Captain Thorn said, I have a feeling that you'd have been skeptical about any such story, too. Oh, I'll admit that, lacy said. But I still would have been impressed by the performance. Then he looked thoughtful. But I must admit that it lowers my opinion of your inventor to hear that he tells all these cock and bull stories. Why not just come out with the truth? Evidently he'd learned something. Thorn said, let me tell you what happened after the contracts had been signed the contracts had been signed after a week of negotiation. Thorn was, he admitted to himself, a little nervous. As soon as he had seen the test out on Salt Flats, he had realized that Sorensen had developed a battery that was worth every cent he had asked for it. Thorn himself had pushed for the negotiations to get them through without too much friction. A million dollars was a lot of loot, but there was no chance of losing it, really. As Sorensen said, the contract did not call for the delivery of a specific device. It called for a device that would produce specific results if Sorensen's device didn't produce those results, or if they couldn't be duplicated by Thorn after having had the device explained to him then, the contract wasn't fulfilled, and the ambitious Mr. Sorensen wouldn't get any million dollars. Now the time had come to see what was inside that mysterious little black suitcase. Sorensen had obligingly brought the suitcase to the main testing and development laboratory of North American Carbide and Metals. Sorensen put it on the lab table, but he didn't open it right away. Now, I want you to understand, Mr. Thorn, he began, that I myself don't exactly know how this thing works. That is, I don't completely understand what's going on inside there. I'VE built several of them, and I can show you how to build them, but that doesn't mean I understand them completely. That's not unusual in battery work, thorn said. We don't completely understand what's going on in a lot of cells. As long as the thing works according to the specifications of the contract, we'll be satisfied. All right, fine. But you're going to be surprised when you see what's in here. I probably will. I've been expecting a surprise, thorn said. What he got was a real surprise. There was a small pressure tank of hydrogen inside one of the little ones that are sometimes used to fill toy balloons. There was a small batch of electronic circuitry that looked as though it might be the insides of an FMAM radio. All the rest of the space was taken up by batteries, and every single one of the cells was a familiar little canister. They were small, rechargeable nickel cadmium cells, and every one bore the trademark of North American carbide and metals. One of the men in the lab said, what kind of a joke is this? Do you mean, Mr. Sorensen? Thorn asked with controlled precision, that your million dollar process is merely some kind of gimmickry with our own batteries? No, said Sorensen. It' swait a minute, said one of the others. Is it some kind of hydrogen fuel cell? In a way, sorensen said. Yes. In a way. It isn't as efficient as I'd like, but it gets its power by converting hydrogen to helium. I need those batteries to start the thing after it gets going. These leads here from the reactor cell keep the batteries charged. The he was interrupted by five different voices, all trying to speak at once. He could hardly. He could hardly get a word in edgewise at first, said Thorn. He was enjoying the look of shocked amazement on Colonel Dower's face when Sorensen finally did get it explained. We still didn't know much. We built another one, and it worked as well as the one he had. And the contract didn't specifically call for a battery. He had us good, he did. Now wait, colonel Dower said. You mean to say it wasn't a battery after all? Of course not. Then why all the folderol? Colonel Thorn said. Sorensen patented that device nine years ago. It only has eight years to run. But he couldn't get anyone at all to believe that it would do what he said it would do. After years of beating his head against a stone wall, years of trying to convince people who wouldn't even look twice at his gadget, he decided to get smart. He began to realize that everybody knew that hydrogen fusion wasn't that simple. It was his theory that no one would listen to. As soon as he told anyone that he had a hydrogen fusion device that could be started with a handful of batteries and could be packed into a suitcase, he was instantly dismissed as a nut. I did a little investigating after he gave us the full information on what he had done. Incidentally, he signed over the patent to us, which was more than the contract called for, in return for a job with our outfit so that he could help develop the fusion device. As I said, he finally got smart. If the theory was what was making people give him the cold shoulder, he'd tell them nothing. You know the results of that, Colonel Dower? At least he got somebody to test the machine. He managed to get somebody to look at what it would do, but that wasn't enough. He didn't have, apparently, any legitimate excuse for keeping it under wraps that way, so everyone was suspicious. But why tell you it was a battery? Asked Colonel Lacy. That was probably suggested by Colonel Dower's reaction to the tests he saw. Thorn, said somebody, I think it was George Gamow, but I'm not certain. Once said that having a theory isn't enough. The theory has to make sense. Well, Sorensen's theory of hydrogen fusion producing electric current didn't make sense. It was true, but it didn't make sense. So he came up with a theory that did make sense. If everybody wanted to think it was nothing but a battery, then, by heaven, he'd sell it as a battery. And that, gentleman, was a theory. We were perfectly willing to believe it wasn't true, but it did make sense. As far as I was concerned, it was perfectly natural for a man who had invented a new type of battery to keep it under wraps that way. Naturally, after we had invested a million dollars in the thing, we had to investigate worked, and we had to find out why and how. Naturally, said Col. Dower, looking somewhat uncomfortable, I presume this is all under wraps, eh? What about the Russians? Couldn't they get hold of the patent papers? They could have, Thorn admitted, but they didn't. They dismissed him as a crackpot, too, if they heard about him at all. Certainly they never requested a copy of his patent. The patent number is now top secret, of course, and if anyone does write in for a copy, the patent office will reply that there are temporarily no copies available, and the FBI will find out who is making the request. Well, said Colonel Dower, at least I'm glad to hear that I was not the only one who didn't believe him. Captain Lacey chuckled. And Mr. Thorn here believed a lie only because it made more sense than the truth, thorn said. And he added, you shouldn't laugh, Captain. Remember, we succored the Navy in almost the same way. End of the with no Strings Attached By Randall Garrett this story read By Phil Shinnevair November of 2016. The Destroyers by Randall Garrett this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Phil Shinnavier Randall Garrett three science fiction stories the Destroyers Any war is made up of a hoard of personal tragedies, but the greater picture is the tragedy of the death of a way of life. For a way of life, good, bad, or indifferent, exists because it is dearly loved. Ankitam stretched his arms out as though he were trying to embrace the whole world. He pushed himself up on his tiptoes, arched his back, and gave out with a prodigious yawn that somehow managed to express all the contentment and pleasure that filled his soul. He felt a faint twinge in his shoulders and there was a dull ache in the small of his back, both of which reminded him that he was no longer the man he had been 20 years before. But he ignored them and stretched again. He was still strong, un Khattam thought. Still strong enough to do his day's work for the Chief without being too tired to relax and enjoy himself afterwards. 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Ankhatam had kept his crew sweating to get them all in, but now the greenhouses were all empty and ready for seeding in the next crop, while this one grew to maturity. But that could wait. By working just a little harder for just a little longer each day, he and his crew had managed to get the transplanting done a good four days ahead of schedule, which meant four days of fishing or hunting or just plain loafing. The chief didn't care how a man spent his time so long as the work was done. He thumbed his broad brimmed hat back from his forehead and looked up at the sky. There were a few thin clouds overhead, but there was no threat of rain, which was good in this part of Exiti. The spring rains sometimes hit hard and washed out the transplanted seedlings before they had a chance to take root properly. If rain would hold off for another 10 days, UN Katam thought, then it could fall all it wanted. Meanwhile, the irrigation reservoir was full to brimming, and that would supply all the water the young chutes needed to keep them from being burnt by the sun. He lowered his eyes again, this time to look at the next section over toward the south, where Jakovic and his crew were still working. He could see their bent figures outlined against the horizon just at the brow of the slope, and he grinned to himself. He had beaten Jakovic out again. Ankitam and Jakovic had had a friendly feud going for years, each trying to do a better, faster job than the other. None of the other supervisors on the chief's land even came close to beating out Ankhetam or Jakovic, so it was always between the two of them which one came out on top. Sometimes it was one, sometimes the other. At the last harvest, Jacovic had been very pleased with himself when the tallies showed that he'd beaten out Un Kattam by a hundred kilos of cut leaves, but the chief had taken him down a good bit when the report came through that Un Katam's leaves had made more money than because they were better quality. He looked all around the horizon. From here only Jakovic's section could be seen, and only Jakovic's men could be seen moving. When Ankhetam's gaze touched the northern horizon, his gray eyes narrowed a little. There was a darkness there, a faint indication of cloud buildup. He hoped it didn't mean rain. Getting the transplants in early was all right, but it didn't count for anything if they were washed out. He pushed the thought out of his mind. Rain or no rain, there was nothing could be done about it except put up shelters over the rows of plants. He'd just have to keep an eye on the northern horizon and hope for the best. He didn't want to put up the shelters unless he absolutely had to, because the seedlings were invariably bruised in the process, and that would cut the leaf yield way down. He remembered one year when Jakovic had gotten panicky and put up his shelters, and the storm had been a gentle thing that only lasted a few minutes before it blew over on Katam had held off, ready to make his men work in the rain if necessary, and when the harvest had come, he'd beaten Jakovic hands down. Unketam pulled his hat down again and turned to walk toward his house in the little village that he and his crew called home. He had warned his wife to have supper ready early. I figure on being finished by sundown, he'd said. You can tell the other women I said so, but don't say anything to them till after we've gone to the fields. I don't want those boys thinking about fishing they're going to do tomorrow and then get behind in their work because they're daydreaming. The other men had already gone. They'd headed back to the village as fast as they could move as soon as he told them the job was finished. Only he had stayed to look at the fields and see them all finished each chute, casting long shadows in the ruddy light of the setting sun. He'd wanted to stand there all by himself, feeling the glow of pride and satisfaction that came over him, knowing that he was better than any other supervisor on the chief's vast acreage. His own shadow grew long ahead of him as he walked back, his steps still brisk and springy in spite of the day's hard work. The sun had set and twilight had come. By the time he reached his own home, he had glanced again toward the north and had been relieved to see that the stars were visible near the horizon. The clouds couldn't be very thick. Overhead, the great glowing cloud of the Dragon Nebula shed its soft light. That's what made it possible to work after sundown in the spring. All that time of year, the Dragon Nebula was at its brightest during the early part of the evening. The tail of it didn't vanish beneath the horizon until well after midnight in the autumn it wasn't visible at all, and the nights were dark except for the stars. Utahm pushed open the door of his home and noted with satisfaction that the warm smells of cooking filled the air, laving his nostrils and palate with fine promises. He stopped and frowned as he heard a man's voice speaking in low tones in the kitchen. Then Mamie's voice called out, is that you, Ankh? Yeah, he said, walking toward the kitchen. It's me. We've got company, she said. Guess who? I don't claim to be much good at guessing, said Ahn Khatam. I'll have to peek. He stopped at the door of the kitchen and grinned widely when he saw who the man was. Rusat. Well, by heaven, it's good to see you. There was a moment's hesitation, then a minute or two of handshaking and back slapping as the two brothers both tried to speak at the same time. Utkutam heard himself repeating, yes, sir, by heaven, it's good to see you. Real good. And Rusat was saying, same here, Unk and gee, you're looking great. I mean real great. Tough as ever, eh, Ankh? Yeah, sure. Tough as ever. Sit down, boy. Mamie, pour us something hot and get that bottle out of the cupboard, Unka. Tom pushed his brother back towards the chair and made him sit down, but Rusat was protesting. Now wait a minute. Now just you hold on, Ankh. Don't be getting out your bottle just yet. I brought some real stuff. I mean, expensive stuff you can't get very easy. I brought it just for you, and you're going to have some of it. Before you say another word. Show him, Mamie. Mamie was standing there, beaming, holding the bottle. Her blue eyes had faded slowly in the years since she and Unka Tom had married, but there was a sparkle in them now. Unka Tom looked at the bottle. Be damned, he said softly. The bottle was beautiful just as it was. It was a work of art in itself, with designs cut all through it and pretty tracings of what looked like gold thread laced in and out of the surface, and it was full to the neck with a clear red brown liquid. Unka Tom thought of the bottle in his own cupboard, plain translucent plastic filled with the water. White liquor rationed out from the commissary, and he suddenly felt very backwards and countryish. He scratched thoughtfully at his beard and said, well, Well, I don't know, Russ. I don't know. You think a plain farmer like me can take anything that fancy? Roussatt laughed, a little embarrassed. Sure you can. You mean to say you've never had brandy before? Why, down in Algia, our chief. He stopped. Unka Tom didn't look at him. Sure, Russ, sure. I'll bet Chief Samas gives a drink to his secretary too. Now and then he turned around and winked. But this stuff is for brain work, not farming. He knew Rusa was embarrassed. The boy was nearly 10 years younger than Agha Tam, but Unka Tam knew that his younger brother had more brains and ability, as far as paperwork went, than he himself would ever have. The boy on Kattam reminded himself that he shouldn't think of Rusat as a boy. After all, he was 36 now, had worked as a special secretary for one of the important chiefs in Algia for five years now. Akhatam noticed without criticism that that Rusat had grown soft with the years. His skin was almost pink, bleached from years of indoor work, and looked pale and sickly even beside Mamie's sun browned skin. And Mamie hadn't been out in the sun as much as her husband had. Akha Tom reached out and took the bottle carefully from his wife's hands. Her eyes watched him searchingly. 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Uncatom said, if this is a present, I guess I'd better open it. He peeled off the seal, then carefully removed the glass stopper and sniffed at the open mouth of the beautiful bottle. M say. Then he set the bottle down carefully on the table. You're the guest, Russ, so you can pour the tea. Ready yet, Mamie? Coming right up, said his wife gratefully. Coming right up. Alcatom watched Rusat carefully pour brandy into the cups of hot, spicy tea that Mamie set before them. Then he looked up, grinned at his wife, and said, pour yourself a cup, honey. This is an occasion. A big occasion. She nodded quickly, very pleased, and went over to get another cup. What brings you up here, Russ? Unca Tom asked. I hope you didn't just decide to pick up a bottle of your chief's brandy and then take off. He chuckled after he said that, but he was more serious than he let on. He actually worried about Rusat. At times the boy might just take it in his head to do something silly. Rusat laughed and shook his head. No, no, I'm not crazy and I'm not stupid. At least I think not. No, I got to go up to Cromden. My chief is sending word that he's ready to supply goods for the war. Akha. Tom frowned. He'd heard that There might be a war. Of course, there had been all kinds of rumors about how some of the chiefs were all for fighting, but Akha Tom didn't pay much attention to these rumors. In the first place, he knew that it was none of his business. In the second place, he didn't think there would be any war. Why should anyone pick on Exiti? What war would mean if it did come? Unka Tom had no idea. But he didn't think the chiefs would get into a war they couldn't finish. And he repeated to himself, he didn't believe there would be a war. He said as much to Rusat. His brother looked up at him in surprise. You mean you haven't heard? Heard what? Why the war has already started. Sure. Five, six days ago. We're to war, Unk Agha. Tom's frown grew deeper. He knew that there were other planets beside Exiti. He had heard that some of the stars in the sky were planets and suns. He didn't really understand how that could be, but even the chief had said it was true. So Unka Tom accepted it as he did. The truth about God. It was so, and that was enough for Unken. Why should he bother himself with other people's business but war? Why? How'd it happen? He asked. Rusat sipped at his hot drink before answering. Behind him, Mamie moved slowly around the cooker, pretending to be finishing the meal, pretending not to be listening. Well, I don't have all the information, rusad said, pinching his little short beard between thumb and forefinger, but I do know that the chiefs didn't want the embassy in Kromden. No, said On Khattam. I suppose not. I understand that they've been making all kinds of threats, rusat said, trying to tell everybody what to do. They think they run all of creation, I guess. Anyway, they were told to pull out right after the last harvest. They refused to do it, and for a while nobody did anything. Then last week the president ordered the army to throw em out. Bag and baggage. There was some fighting, I understand, but they got out finally. Now they've said they're going to smash us. He grinned. Agha Tom said, what's so funny? Oh, they won't do anything, said Rusat. They fume and fuss a lot, but they won't do anything. I hope not, said Uncatom. He finished the last of his spiked tea, and Mamie poured him another one. I don't see how they have any right to tell us how to live or how to run our own homes. They ought to mind their own business and leave us alone. You two finish those drinks, said Mamie. And quit talking about wars. The food will be ready pretty quickly. Good, said Unka Tom. I'm starved. And he admitted to himself the brandy and hot tea had gone to his head. A good meal would make him feel better. Rusa said, I don't get much of a chance to eat Mamie's cooking. I'll sure like this meal. You can stay for breakfast in the morning, can't you? Akha Tom asked. Oh, I wouldn't want to put you to all that trouble. I have to be up at your chief's house before sunrise. We get up before sunrise, unca Tom said flatly. You can stay for breakfast. Part 2 the spring planting did well. The rains didn't come until after the seedlings had taken root and anchored themselves well into the soil, and the rows showed no signs of heavy bruising. Had been watching one section in particular where young Basem had planted. Basem had a tendency to do a sloppy job, and if it had showed up as bruised or poorly planted seedlings, AKA Tom would have seen to it that Bassom got what was coming to him. But the section looked as good as anyone else's. So on. Ka Tam said nothing to Basm. Rusod had come back after 20 days and reported that there was an awful lot of fuss in Cromden, but nothing was really developing. Then he had gone on back home. As spring became summer, Agha Tom pushed the war out of his mind. Evidently there wasn't going to be any real shooting except that two of the chief's sons had gone off to join the army. Things remained the same as always. Life went on as it had. The summer was hot and almost windless. Work became all but impossible, except during the early morning and late afternoon. Fortunately, there wasn't much that had to be done at this stage of their growth. The plants pretty much took care of themselves. AKA Tom spent most of his time fishing. He and Jakovic and some of the others would go down to the river and sit under the shade trees out of the sun and dangle their lines in the water. It really didn't matter if they caught much or not. The purpose of fishing was to loaf and get away from the heat, not to catch fish. Even so, they always managed to bring home enough for a good meal at the end of the day. The day that the war intruded on Agha Tom's consciousness again had started off just as any other day. Akha Tom got his fishing gear together, including a lunch that Mamie had packed for him and gone over to pick up Bleejo. Bleejo was the oldest man in the village. Some said he was over a hundred, but Blijo himself only admitted to 80. He'd been retired a long time back and his only duties now were little odd jobs that were easy enough even for an old man. Not that there was anything feeble about old Bleejo. He still looked and acted spry enough. He was sitting on his front porch talking to young Bassom when Unca Tom came up. The old man grinned. Hello, Unc. You figure on getting a few more fish today? Why not? The river's full of em. Come along. Don't see why not, said Blijo. What do you think, Basin? The uncle man smiled and shook his head. I'll stay around home. I think I'm too lazy today to go to all that effort. Too lazy to loaf? Said Blijo, laughing. As lazy as I ever heard. AKA Tom smiled, but he didn't say anything. Basam was lazy, but AKA Tom never mentioned it unless the boy didn't get his work done. Leave that sort of kidding up to the others. It wasn't good for a supervisor to ride his men unless it was necessary for discipline. Basam was a powerful young man, tall and well proportioned if the truth were known. He probably had the ability to get a good job from the chief, become a secretary or something like Rusot. But he was sloppy in his work and, as Blijo had said, lazy. His saving grace was the fact that he took things as they came. He never showed any resentment towards Unketam if he was rebuked for not doing his work well, and he honestly tried to do better for a while at least. Not too lazy to loaf, basam said in self defense. Just too lazy to walk four miles to loaf when I can do it here. Old Pleejo was taking his fishing gear down from the rack on the porch. Without looking around, he said, cooler down by the river by the time I walked there, said Bason philosophically, walking through all that sun, I'd be so hot it would take me two hours to cool down to where I am now and another two hours to cool down any more. That's four hours wasted now. He looked at Unka Tom with a sly grin. Now if you two wanted to carry me, I'd be much obliged. Unca Tom, you could carry me piggyback while Blijo goes over to fetch my pole. If you do that, I believe I could see my way clear to go fishing with you. Uncle Tom shook his head positively. I'm afraid the sun would do you in anyway. Maybe you'd like the Chief to carry you, said Blijo. There was a bite in his voice.

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Now wait, basham said apprehensively. I didn't say anything like that. I didn't mean it that way. Bleejo pointed his fishing pole at the youth. You ought to be thankful you got Ankha Tom for a supervisor. There's some supers who'd boot you good for a crack like that. Bason cast appealing eyes at Unca Tom. I am thankful. You know I am. Why, you're the best super in the Barony. Everybody knows that. I was only kidding. You know that. Before Unca Tom could say anything, the old man said, you bet your life that no other super in the Barony would put up with your laziness. Now Blijo said, uncatom. Leave the boy alone. He meant no harm. If he needs talking to, I'll do the talking. Basin looked gratefully reprieved. Sorry, Unk, said Blijo. It's just that some of these young people have no respect for their elders. He looked at Basam and smiled. Didn't mean to take it out on you, base. That's a lot worse than you, then, changing his tone. Sure you don't want to come with us? Basam looked apologetic, but he stuck to his guns. No. Thanks again. But he grinned self consciously. To be honest, I was thinking of going over to see Zilla. Her dad said I could come. Akhatom grinned at the boy. Well, now, that's an excuse I'll accept. Come on, Bleejo. This is not a sport for old men like us. Fishing is more our speed. Chuckling, Blijo shouldered his fishing pole and the two men started down the dusty village street toward the road that led to the river. They walked in silence for a while, trying to ignore the glaring sun that brought the sweat out on their skins, soaking the sweat bands of their broad brimmed hats and running in little rivulets down their bodies. I kind of feel sorry for that boy, old Bleejo said at last. Oh, said Unca Tom. How so? He'll get along. He's improving. Why, he did as good a job of transplanting as any man this spring. Last year he bruised the ceilings, but I gave him a good dressing down and he remembered it. He'll be all right. I'm not talking about that, Ank, said the old man. I mean him and Zillia. He's really got a case on that girl. Anything wrong with that? A young fellow's got a right to fall in love, hasn't he? And Zelia seems pretty keen on him, too. If her father doesn't object, everything ought to go along pretty smoothly. Her father might not object, said Blijo, looking down at his feet as they paced off the dusty road. But there's others who might object. Who, for instance? Blijo was silent for several steps. Then he said, well, Kavano for one. Ankhaton thought that over in silence. Cavano was on the chief's staff at the castle, like many staff men, including on Khattam thought wryly, his own brother, Rusat. On occasion he tended to lord it over the farmers who worked the land. Kevano has an eye on Zillia, he asked after a moment. I understand he's asked Chief Samas for her as soon as she's 18. That would be this fall, after the harvest. I see, unca Tom said thoughtfully. He didn't ask how the old man had come about his knowledge. Old Bleejo had little to do, and on occasions that he had to do some work around the chief's castle he made it a point to pick up gossip. But he was careful with his information. He didn't go spreading it around for all to hear, and he made it a point to verify his information before he passed it on. Akhattan respected the old man. He was the only one in the village who called him Unk outside of Mamie. Do you think the chief will give her to Kavanaugh? He asked. Blijo nodded. Looks like it. He thinks a great deal of Cavano. No reason why he shouldn't, said Uncle Tom. Kavanagh's a good man. Oh, I know that, said the old man. But Bassom won't like it at all, and I don't think Zillia will either. That's the way things happen, said Uncah Tom. A man can't expect to go through life having everything his own way. There's other girls around for Basin. If he can't have the prettiest, he'll have to be satisfied with someone else. He chuckled. That's why I picked Mamie. She's not beautiful and never was, but she's a wonderful wife. That's so, said Bleach. A wise man is one who only wants what he knows he can have right now. He took off his hat and wiped his bald head. All I want is a dip in that river. Swim first and then fish. I think so, don't you? Basin was right about this hot sun. I'll go along with you, agreed Uncle Tom. They made their way to the river to the shallowest place at the bend where everyone swam. There were a dozen or more kids there having a great time in the slow moving water, and several of the older people soaking themselves and keeping an eye on the kids to make sure they didn't wander out to where the water was deep and the current swift. Unca Tom and Blijo took off their clothes and cooled themselves in the water for a good half hour before they dressed again and went on upstream to a spot where Blijo swore the fish were biting. They were. In the next four hours the two men had caught six fish apiece, and Blijo was trying for his seventh here near the river. There was a slight breeze and it was fairly cool beneath the overhanging branches of the closely bunched trees. Blijo had spotted a big red and yellow striped beauty loafing quietly in a back eddy, and he was lowering his hook gently to a point just in front of the fish when both men heard the voice calling, unka Tom. Unca Tom. Blee Joe, where you at? Went on with his careful work, knowing that Ankha Tom would take care of whatever it was. AKA Tom recognized the voice. He stood up and called, over here, Basam. What's the trouble? A minute later Basam came running through the trees, his feet crashing through the underbrush. Blijo sat up abruptly, an angry look on his face. Basam, you scared my fish away. Fish nothing, said Basam. I ran all the way here to tell you. He was grinning widely and panting for breath at the same time. You suddenly got an awful lot of energy, leejo said sourly. What happened? Uncle Tom asked. The invasion, basam said between breaths. Kavanaugh himself came down to tell us. They've started the invasion. The war's on. Then what are you looking so happy about, Unca? Tom snapped. That's what I came to tell you. Basam's grin didn't fade in the least. They landed up in the frozen country where our missiles couldn't get em, according to Kevino. Then they started marching down on one of the big towns, tens of thousands of them, and we whipped em. Our army cut em to pieces and sent em running back to their base. We won. We won. Part 3 the battle had been won, but the war wasn't one yet. The invaders had managed to establish a good sized base up in the frozen country. They'd sneaked their ships in and had put up a defensive system that stopped any high speed missiles. Not that Exiti had many missiles. Exiti was an agricultural planet. Most manufactured articles were imported. It had never occurred to the government of Exedi that there would be any real need for implements of war. The invaders seemed to be limiting their use of weapons, too. They wanted to control the planet, not destroy it. Through the summer and into the autumn, Unkhotam listened to the news as it filtered down from the battlegrounds. There were skirmishes here and there, but nothing decisive. Exiti seemed to be holding her own against the invaders. After the first news of the big victory, things settled back pretty much to normal. The harvest was good that year, but after the leaves were shredded and dried they went into storage warehouses. The invaders had set up a patrol system around Exili, which prevented the slow cargo ships from taking off or landing. A few adventurous space officers managed to get a ship out now and then, but those few flights could hardly be called regular trade shipments. The cool of winter had come when Chief Samas did something he had never done before. 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Even the thorn hedge, filled as it was by the lacy leaves that concealed the hard, sharp thorns, looked soft and inviting on listened to the soft murmur of whispered conversation from the men around him. They stood quietly outside the main gate that led into the castle area, waiting for the chief to appear and wondering among themselves what it was that the chief had to say. You think the invaders have won? Ankhetam recognized the hoarse whisper from the man behind him. He turned to face the dark, squat, hard looking man who had spoken. It couldn't be Jakovic. It couldn't be. The other supervisor looked down at his big knuckle scarred hands. Instead of looking at Ankha Tom, he was not a handsome man. Djokovic. His great beak like nose was canted to one side from a break that had come in his teens. His left eye was squinted almost closed by the scar tissue that surrounded it, and the right only looked better by comparison. His eyebrows, his beard, and the fringe of hair that outlined his bald head made an incongruous pale yellow pattern against the sunburnt darkness of his face. In his youth Djokovic had been almost pathologically devoted to boxing, even to the point of picking fights with others in his village for no reason at all except to fight twice. He had been brought up before the chief's court because of the severe beating he had given to men bigger than he, and he had finally killed a man with his fists. Chief Samas had given him special punishment for that and a final warning that the next fight would be punished by death. Akha Tom didn't know whether it was that threat or the emotional reaction Jakovic had suffered from killing a man, or simply that he had some sense beaten into his head. But from that moment on, Djokovic was a different man. He had changed from a thug into a determined, ambitious man. In 22 years he had not used his fists except to discipline one of his crew, and that had only happened four times that Unka Tom knew of. Jakovic had shown that he had ability as well as strength, that he could control men by words as well as by force, and the chief had made him a supervisor. He had proved himself worthy of the job. Next to Unka Tom, he was the best supervisor in the barony, had a great deal of respect for the little wide shouldered, barrel chested man who stood there looking at the scars on the back of his hands. Chakovic turned his hands over and looked at the calloused palms. How do we know? Maybe the Council of Chiefs has given up. Maybe they've authorized the president to surrender. After all, we're not fighters, we're formers. The invaders outnumber us. They've got us cut off by a blockade to keep us from sending out the harvest. They've got machines and weapons. He looked up suddenly, his bright blue eyes looking straight into Unka Tom's. How do we know? Unka Tom's grin was hard. Look, Jock, the invaders have said that they intend to smash our whole society, haven't they? Haven't they? Jakovic nodded. And they want to break up the baronies, take everything away from the chiefs, force us farmers to give up the security we've worked all our lives for. That's what they've said, isn't it? Jakovic nodded again. Well then, Unca, Tom continued remorselessly, do you think the chiefs would give up easily? Are they going to simply smile and shake hands with the invaders and say, go ahead, take all our property, reduce us to poverty, smash the whole civilization we've built up, destroy the security and peace of mind of millions of human beings, and then send your troops in to rule us by martial law? Are they going to do that? Are they? Chakovic spread his big hard hands. I don't know. I'm not a chief. I don't know how their minds work. Do you? Maybe they'll think surrender would be better than having all of Xzedi destroyed inch by inch. Aga Tom shook his head. Never. The chiefs will fight to the very end, and they'll win in the long run because right is on their side. The invaders have no right to change our way of living. They have no right to impose their way of doing things on us. No, Jaak, the chiefs will never give up. They haven't surrendered yet, and they never will. They'll win. The invaders will be destroyed. Chakovic frowned completely closing his left eye. You've always been better at thinking things out than I Unk. He paused and looked down at his hands again. I hope you're right, Ankh. I hope you're right. In spite of his personal conviction that he was right, Ankattam had to admit that Jakovic had a reason for his opinion. He knew that many of the farmers were uncertain about the ultimate outcome of the war. Ankhatam looked around him at the several hundred men who made up the forming force of the barony. His own crew were standing nearby, mixing with Djokovic's crew and talking in low voices. In the cool winter air, Ankhutam could still detect the aroma of human bodies, the smell of sweat that always arose when a crowd of people were grouped closely together. And he thought he could detect a faint scent of fear and apprehension in that atmosphere. Or was that just his imagination, brought on by Jakovic's pessimism? He opened his lips to say something to Jakovic, but his words died unborn. The sudden silence in the throng around him, the abrupt cessation of whispering, told him more definitely than a chorus of trumpets could have done, that the chief had appeared. He turned around quickly to face the main gate again. The main gate was no higher than the thorn bush hedge that it pierced. It was a heavily built, intricately decorated piece of polished gold wood, 4ft high and 8ft across, set in a sturdy gold wood frame. The arch above the gate reached a good 10ft, giving the chief plenty of room to stand. He was just climbing up to stand on the gate itself as Unka Tom turned. Chief Samas was a tall man, lean of face and wide of brow. His smooth shaven chin was long and angular, and his dark eyes were deeply embedded beneath heavy bushy eyebrows. And he was dressed in clothing cut in a manner that Unka Tom had never seen before. He stood there, tall and proud, a half smile on his face. It was several seconds before he spoke. During that time there was no sound from the assembled farmers. Men, he said at last, I think that none of you have seen this uniform before. I look odd in it, do I not? The men recognized the chief's remark as a joke, and a ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. The chief's smile broadened. Odd indeed, yes. And do you perceive the golden emblems here at my throat? They and the uniform indicate that I have been chosen to help to lead the armed forces. A portion of them, I should say. He smiled around at the men. The Council of Chiefs has authorized the president to appoint me a colonel of light tank. 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He put his hands on his hips. None of you has ever seen a really regimented society. And I'm thankful that you haven't. I hope that you never will. Chief Samas twisted his lips into an expression of hatred. Freedom. Freedom from what? Freedom to do what? I'll tell you. Freedom to work in their factories for 12 hours a day. Freedom to work until you are no longer of any use to them, and then be turned out to die with no home and no food to support you. Freedom to live by yourselves with every man's hand against you, with every pittance that you can earn taxed. To support a government that has no thought for the individual. Is that what you want? Is that what you've worked for all your lives? A visual chorus of shaken heads accompanied the verbal chorus of no. Chief Samas dropped his hands to his sides. I thought nothing. But I will repeat. If any of you want to go to the invaders, you may do so now. Unca Tom noticed a faint movement to his right, but it stopped before it became decisive. He glanced over and he noticed that young Basam was standing there, half poised, as though unable to make up his mind. Then the chief's voice bellowed out again, very well. You are with me. I will leave the work of the Barony in your hands. I ask that you produce as much as you can next year. Next spring. We will not plant Kataka. There was a low intake of breath from the assembled men. Not plant kataka? That was the crop that they had grown since. Well, since ever. Felt as though someone had jerked a rug from beneath him. There is a reason for this, the chief went on. Because of the blockade that surrounds Exiti, we are unable to export kataka leaves. The rest of the galaxy will have to do without the drug that is extracted from the leaves. The incident of Cancer will rise to the level it reached before the discovery of kataka. When they understand that we cannot ship out because of the invader's blockade, they will force the invader to stop his attack on us. What we need now is not kataka, but food. So next spring you will plant food crops. Save aside the kataka seed until the war is over. The seedlings now in the greenhouses will have to be destroyed. But that cannot be helped. He stopped for a moment, and when he began again, his voice took on a note of sadness. I will be away from you until the war is won. While I am gone, the Barony will be run by my wife. You will obey her as you would me. The finances of the Barony will be taken care of by my trusted man, Cavano. He gestured to one side, and Cavano, who was standing there, smiled quickly and then looked grim again. As for the actual running of the Barony, as Far as labor is concerned, I think I can leave that in the hands of one of my most capable men. He raised his finger and pointed. There was a smile on his face. Unka Tom felt as though he had been struck an actual blow. The finger was pointed directly at him. Unka Tom, said the chief, I'm leaving the Barony in your hands. Until I return, you will supervise the labor of all the men here. Is that understood? Yes, sir, said Unca Tom weakly. Yes, sir, I understand. Part 4 Never for the rest of his life would the sharp outlines of that moment fade from his memory. He knew that the men of the Barony were all looking at him. He knew that the chief went on talking afterwards, but those things impressed themselves but lightly on his mind, and they blurred soon afterwards, 20 years later, in retelling the story, he would swear that the chief had ended his speech at that point. He would swear that it was only seconds later that the chief had jumped down from the gate and motioned for him to come over. His memory simply didn't register anything between those two points, but the chief's words after the speech. The words spoken to him privately were bright and clear in his mind. The chief was a good 3 inches shorter than on Katam, but Ankitam never noticed that. He just stood there in front of the chief, wondering what more his chief had to say. You've shown yourself to be a good farmer, Unka Tom, chief Samas said in a low voice. Let's see. You're of Skebbing stock, I think. Unca Tom nodded. Yes, sir. The Skebbing family has always produced good men. You're a credit to the Skebbings, Unka Tom. Thank you, sir. You've got a hard job ahead of you, said the chief. Don't fail me. Plant plenty of staple crops. Make sure there's enough food for everyone. If you think it's profitable, add more to the animal stock. I've authorized Kavano to allow money for the purchase of breeding stock. You can draw whatever you need for that purpose. This war shouldn't last too long. Another year at the very most, and we'll have forced the invaders off Exiti. When I come back, I expect to find the Barraty in good shape. Do you hear? Yes, sir. It will be. I think it will, said the chief. Good luck to you, Unca Tom. As the chief turned away, Unkentam said, thank you, sir. And good luck to you, sir. Chief Samas turned back again. By the way, he said, there's one more thing. I know that men don't always agree on everything. If there is a dispute between you and Cavanaugh, submit the question to my wife for arbitration. He hesitated. However, I trust that there will not be many such disputes. A woman shouldn't be bothered with such things any more than is absolutely necessary. It upsets them. Understand? Yes, sir. Very well. Good bye, Unka Tom. I hope to see you again before the next harvest. And with that he turned and walked through the gate toward the woman who was standing anxiously on the porch of his home. Unca Tom turned away and started towards his own village. Most of the others had already begun the trek back, but Djokovic, Blijo, and Basam were waiting for him. They fell into step beside him. After a while, Jakovic broke the silence. Well, Ank, looks like you've got a big job on your hands, that's for sure, said Unca Tom. He knew that Jakovic envied him the job. He knew that Jakovic had only missed the appointment by a narrow margin. Jock, he said, have you got a man on your crew that you can trust to take over your job? Matters could do it, I think, djokovic said cautiously. Why, this is too big a job for one man, said Unca Tom quietly. I'll need help. I want you to help me, Jock. There was a long silence while the men walked six paces. Then Jakovic said, I'll do whatever I can, Ank. Whatever I can. There was honest warmth in his voice. Again there was silence. Bleejo, unca Tom said after a time, do you mind coming out of retirement for a while? Not if you need me, Unc, said the old man. It won't be hard work, unca Tom said. I just want you to take care of the village when I'm not there. Settle arguments, assign the village work, give out punishments if necessary, things like that. As far as the village is concerned, you'll be supervisor. What about the field work, Unk? Blijo asked. I'm too old to handle that come spring. And I said, as far as the village is concerned. Unca Tom said, I've got another man in mind for the field work. And no one was more surprised than Bassom when Unca Tom said, basam, do you think you could handle the crew in the field? Basam couldn't even find his tongue for several more paces. When he discovered at last that it was still in his mouth where he left it, he said, I. I'll try, Unk. I sure will try if you want me to. But, well, I mean, why pick me? Old Blijo chuckled knowingly. Jacovic, who hardly knew the boy, just looked puzzled. Why not you? Unca Tom countered. Well, you've always thought I was lazy, and I am, I guess.

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you are, said Uncah Tom. So am I. Always have been. But a smart, lazy man can figure out things that a hard worker might overlook. He can find the fast, easy way to get a job done properly. And he doesn't overwork his men because he knows that when he's tired, the others are, too. You want to try it, Basso? I'll try, said Basso earnestly. I'll try real hard. Then, after a moment's hesitation, just one thing, Unc Tom. What's that? I don't want him coming around me. Not at all. If he ever said one word to me, I'd probably break his neck right there, Akha. Tom nodded. The chief had given Zillia to Kevano only two months before, and the only one who liked the situation was Kivano himself. I'll deal with Kevino, Bason, Unca, tom said. Don't you worry about that. All right, then, basam said. I'll do my best, Onkotam. You'd better, said Uncha Tom. If you don't, I'll just have to give the job to someone else, you hear? I hear, said Bassem. V. The war dragged on. In the spring of the following year, over a hundred thousand invader troops landed on the seacoast a hundred miles from Cromden and began a march on the capital. But somebody had forgotten to tell the invading general that it rained in that area in the spring, and that the mud was like glue. The invader army bogged down and floundering their way toward Cromden. They found themselves opposed by an army of nearly a hundred thousand Exiti troops under General John John, and the invasion came to a standstill at that point. Farther to the west, another group of 40,000 invader troops came down from the frozen country, and a Yzedi general named Oljek trounced them with a mere 17,000 men. All in all, the invaders were getting nowhere, but they seemed determined to keep on plugging. The news only filtered slowly into the areas which were situated well away from the front. A thousand miles to the west of Chief Samas Barony, the invaders began cutting deeply into Exiti territory, but they were nowhere near the capital, so no one was really worried. Unketam worked hard at keeping the barony going during the absence of the chief. Instead of Kataka, he and Jakovic planted food crops, doing on a larger scale just what they had always done in the selected sections around the villages. They had always grown their own food, and now they were doing it on a grand scale. No news came from off planet, except for unreliable rumors. What the rest of the galaxy was doing about the war on Exiti no one knew. Young Basam proved to be a reasonably competent supervisor. He was nowhere near as good as on Kotam or Jakovic, but there were were supers in the Baroning found that the biggest worry was not in the handling of the farmers, but in obtaining manufactured goods. The staff physician complained to Cavano that drugs were getting scarce. Shoes and clothing were almost impossible to obtain. Rumor had it that arms and ammunition were running short in the Exiti armies. For two centuries, Exiti had depended on other planets to provide manufactured goods for her. And now those supplies were cut off, except for a miserably slow trickle that came in via the daring space officers who managed to evade the orbital forts that the invaders had set up around the planet. Even so, Ankhetam's faith in the power of Exiti remained constant. The invading armies were still being held off from Kromden, weren't they? The capital would not fall, of that he was sure. What Ankhetam did not and could not know, was the fact that the invaders were growing tired of pussyfooting around. Instead of fighting Exiti on Exiti's terms, the invaders decided to fight it on their own. Everyone on Chief Samas's barony and the others around it expected trouble to come from the north, from the frozen country. If and when it came, they didn't look to the west, where the real trouble was brewing. Ankhetam was shocked when he heard the news that the invaders had reached Tana Lot. Having cut down through the center of the continent, dividing the inhabited part of Exiti into two almost equal parts, they knocked out Tanah Lot with a heavy shelling of paralysis gas, evacuated the inhabitants, and dusted the city with radioactive powder to make it uninhabitable for several years. Ch Ch Ch.

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Then they began to march eastward. Part 6 For the first time in his life, Unkhattam was feeling genuine fear. He had feared for his life before, yes, and he had feared for his family. But now he feared for his world, which was vaster by far. He blinked at the tall, gangling cavernot, who was still out of breath from running. Say that again. I said that the invader troops are crossing Benner Creek, cavano said angrily. They'll be at the castle within an hour. We've got to do something.

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Unca Tom asked dazedly. Fight them with what? We have no weapons. I don't know, cavanaugh admitted. I just don't know. I thought maybe you'd know. Maybe you could think of something. What about Lady Samas? What about her? Unca Tom still couldn't force his mind to function. Haven't you heard? The invaders have been looting and burning every castle in their path. And the women? Lady Samas in danger. Something crystallized in Unca Tom's mind. He pointed in the direction of the castle. Get back there, he snapped. Get everyone out of the castle, save all the valuables you can. Get everyone down to the river and tell them to hide in the brush at the big swamp. The invaders won't go there. Move. Cavano didn't even pause to answer. He ran back toward the saddle animal he had tethered at the edge of the village. Uncle Tom was running in the opposite direction, toward Basim's quarters. He didn't bother to knock. He flung open the door and yelled, basam. Basam, who had been relaxing on his bed, leaped to his feet. What is it? Unca Tom told him rapidly. Then he said, get moving. You're a fast runner. Spread the news. Tell everyone to get to the swamp. We have less than an hour, so run for all you're worth. Basam, like Kevino, didn't bother to ask questions. He went outside and started running toward the south. That's right, Akha, tom called after him. Tell Jakovic first, and get more runners to spread the word. And then Akhatam headed for his own home. Mamie had to be told on the way. He pounded on the doors of the houses, shouting the news and telling the others to get to the big swamp. By the time the invader troops came, they found the entire Samas barony empty. Not a single soul opposed their march. There was no voice to object when they leveled their beam projectors and melted the castle and the villages into shapeless masses of blackened plastic. Part 7 the wooden shelter wasn't much of a home, but it was all Unkha Tom could provide. It had been difficult to cut down the trees and make a shack of them, but at least there were four walls, and a roof stood at the door of the rude hut, looking blindly at the ruins of the village a hundred yards away. In the past few months, weeds had grown up around the charred blobs that had once been the homes of Unca Tom's crew. Unca Tom stared not at, but past and through them, seeing the ghosts of the houses that had once been there. Behind him, Mamie was speaking in soft tones to Lady Samas. Now you go ahead and eat, Lady. You can't starve yourself to death. Things won't always be this bad. You'll see. When that oldest boy of yours comes back, he'll fix the barony right back up like it was. You just see. Now. Here, try some of this soup. Lady Samas said nothing. She seemed to be entirely oblivious to her surroundings these days. Nothing mattered to her any more. Word had come back that Chief Samas had accompanied General Ealer in the fatal expedition toward the invader base, and the chief had been buried there in the frozen country. Lady Samus had nowhere else to stay. Kavanaugh was dead, his skull crushed by by someone on Khattam. Refused in his own mind to see any connection between Kevano's death and and the fact that Basim and Xilia had disappeared the same day, probably to give themselves over to the invader troops. A movement at the corner of his eye caught Ankhetam's attention. He turned his head to look. Then he spun on his heel and went into the hut. Lady Samas, he said quickly. They're coming. There's a ground car coming down the road with four invaders in it. Lady Samas looked at him, her fine old face calm and expressionless. Let them come, she said. We can't stop them, Unka Tom, and we have nothing to lose. Three minutes later, the ground car pulled up in front of the hut. Unca Tom watched silently as one of the men got out. The other three stayed in the car, their handguns ready. The officer, very tall and straight in his blue uniform, strode up to the door of the hut. He stopped and addressed Ankhetam. I understand Lady Samas is living here. That's right, ankhatam said. Would you tell her that Colonel Fedor would like to speak to her? Before Unca Tom could say anything, Lady Samas spoke. Tell the colonel to come in. Unca Tom stepped aside to let the officer enter. Lady Samos? He asked. She nodded. I am. The colonel removed his hat. Madam, I am Colonel Jammuk Feder of the Union Army. You are the owner of this land until my son returns. Yes, said Lady Samas evenly. I understand. The colonel licked his lips nervously. He was obviously ill at ease in the presence of the Lady Samas. Madam, he said, it would be useless for me to apologize for the destructions of war. Apologies are mere words. They are, said Lady Samas. None the less, I accept them. Thank you. I have come to inform you that the Exciti armies formally surrendered near Cromden early this morning. The war is over. I'm glad, said Lady Samis. So am I, said the colonel. It has not been a pleasant war. Ixidi was, and still is, the most backward planet in the galaxy. Your Council of Chiefs steadfastly refused to allow the he glanced at aqueton workers of Ixidi to govern their own lives. They have lived and died without proper education, without the medical care that would save and lengthen their lives, and without the comforts of life that any human being deserves. That situation will be changed now, but I am heartily sorry it took a war to do it. Al Khatm looked at the man. What was he talking about? He and his kind had burned and dusted cities and villages and had smashed the lives of millions of human beings on the pretense that they were trying to help. What sort of insanity was that? The colonel took a sheaf of papers from his pocket. I have an order to read to you the proclamation of the Union President. He looked down at the papers and began to read. Henceforth, all the peoples of Exciti shall be free and equal. They shall have the right to change their work at will, to be paid in lawful money. Instead of Akhatam just stood there, his mind glazed. He had worked hard all his life for the security of retirement, and now all that was gone. What was he to do? Where was he to go? If he had to be paid in money, who would do it? Lady Samas? She had nothing. Besides, Akitam knew nothing about the handling of money. He knew nothing about how to get along in a society like that. He stood there in silence as his world dissolved around him. He could hear dimly the voice of the blue clad union officer as he read off the death warrant for Exiti and for Ankhatam. End of the Destroyers By Randall Garrett this story read by Philadelphia. In Case of Fire by Randall Garrett this Librivox recording is in the Public Domain. This story was published March 1960 in Astounding Science Fiction. There are times when a broken tool is better than a sound one, or a twisted personality more useful than a whole one. For instance, a whole beer bottle isn't half the weapon that half a beer bottle is. In his office apartment on the top floor of the Terran Embassy building in Okek City, Bertrand Malloy leafed casually through the doziers of the four new men who had been assigned to him. They were typical of the kind of men who were sent to him, he thought, which meant, as usual, that they were atypical. Every man in the diplomatic corps who developed a twitch or a quirk was shipped to Sarkad IV to work under Bertrand Malloy, permanent Terran Ambassador to His utter Munificence, the Okhek of Sarkad. Take this first one, for instance. Malloy ran his finger down the columns of complex symbolism that showed the complete psychological analysis of the man. Psychopathic paranoia. The man wasn't technically insane. 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Well, he had an excellent record in the Corps. If nothing else, one of the top men in his field. And he had his memories of Diane, dead these 10 years, but still beautiful and alive in his recollections, and he grinned softly to himself. He had Sarcod. He glanced up at the ceiling and mentally allowed his gaze to penetrate it to the blue sky beyond it. Out there was the terrible emptiness of interstellar space, a great, yawning, infinite chasm capable of swallowing men, ships, planets, suns, and whole galaxies without filling its insatiable void. Malloy closed his eyes. Somewhere out there, a war was raging. He didn't even like to think of that, but it was necessary to keep it in mind. Somewhere out there, the ships of Earth were ranged against the ships of the alien Karna in the most important war that mankind had yet fought, and Malloy knew his own position was not unimportant. In that war. He was not in the battle line, nor even in the major production line. 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Malloy flipped it on with a practiced hand. Malloy here, Mr. Malloy, said a careful voice. A special communication for you has been teletyped in from Earth. Shall I bring it in? Bring it in, Ms. Drayson. Ms. Drayson was a case in point. She was uncommunicative. She liked to gather in information, but she found it difficult to give it up once it was in her possession. Malloy had made her his private secretary. Nothing, but nothing, got out of Malloy's office without his direct order. It had taken Malloy a long time to get it into Ms. Drayson's head that it was perfectly all right, even desirable, for her to keep secrets from everyone except Malloy. She came in through the door, a rather handsome woman in her middle 30s, clutching a sheaf of papers in her right hand, as though someone might at any instant snatch it from her before she could turn it over to Malloy. She laid them carefully on the desk. If anything else comes in, I'll let you know immediately, sir, she said. Will there be anything else? Malloy let her stand there while he picked up the communique. She wanted to know what his reaction was going to be. It didn't matter, because no one would ever find out from her what he had done unless she was ordered to tell someone. He read the first paragraph, and his eyes widened involuntarily. Armistice, he said in a low whisper. There's a chance that the war may be over. Yes, sir, said Ms. Drayson in a hushed voice. Malloy read the whole thing through, fighting to keep his emotions in check. Ms. Drayson stood there calmly, her face a mask. Her emotions were a secret. Finally, Malloy looked up. I'll let you know as soon as I reach a decision. Ms. Drayson. I think I hardly need to say that no news of this is to leave this office. Of course not, sir. Malloy watched her go out the door without actually seeing her. The war was over, at least for a while. He looked down at the papers again, the corner slowly being beaten back on. Every front were suing for peace. They wanted an armistice conference immediately. Earth was willing. Interstellar war is too costly to allow it to continue any longer than necessary, and this one had been going on for more than 13 years now. Peace was necessary, but not peace at any price. The trouble was that the Karna had a reputation for losing wars and winning at the peace table. They were clever, persuasive talkers. They could twist a disadvantage to an advantage and make their own strengths look like weaknesses. If they won the armistice, they'd be able to retrench and rearm, and the war would break out again within a few years. Now, at this point in time, they could be beaten. They could be forced to allow supervision of the production potential, forced to disarm, rendered impotent. But if the armistice went to their own advantage, already they had taken the offensive. In the matter of the peace talks, they had sent a full delegation to Sarkad 5, the next planet out from the Sarkad sun, a chilly world inhabited only by low intelligence animals. The Karna considered this to be fully neutral territory, and Earth couldn't argue the point very well. In addition, they demanded that the conference begin in three days terrestrial time. The trouble was that the interstellar communication beams travel a devil of a lot faster than ships. It would take more than a week for the Earth government to get a vessel to Sarkad. 5. Earth had been caught unprepared for an armistice. They objected. The corona pointed out that the Sarkad sun was just as far from Karna as it was from Earth, that it was only a few million miles from a planet which was allied with Earth, and that it was unfair for Earth to take such a so much time in preparing for an armistice. Why hadn't the Earth been prepared? Did they intend to fight to the utter destruction of Kharn? It wouldn't have been a problem at all if Earth and Karn had fostered the only two intelligent races in the galaxy. The sort of grand standing the Karna were putting on had to be played to an audience. But there were other intelligent races throughout the galaxy. Most of them had remained as neutral as possible during the Earth Karn war. They had no intention of sticking their figurative noses into a battle between the two most powerful races in the galaxy. But whoever won the armistice would find that some of the now neutral races would come in on their side if war broke out again. If the Karna played their cards right, their side would be strong enough next time to win. So Earth had to get a delegation to meet with the Karna representatives within the three day limit or lose what might be a vital point in the negotiations. And that was where Bertrand Malloy came in. He had been appointed Minister and Plenipotentiary Extraordinary to the Earth Karn peace Conference. He looked up at the ceiling again. What can I do? He said softly. On the second day after the arrival of the communique, Malloy made his decision. He flipped on his intercom and said, Ms. Drayson, get hold of James Norton and Kylan Branack. I want to see them both immediately. Send Narden in first and tell Braink to wait. Yes, sir. And keep the recorder on. You can file the tape later. Yes, sir. Malloy knew the woman would listen in on the intercom anyway, and it was better to give her permission to do so. James Norden was tall, broad shouldered and 38. His hair was graying at the temples and his handsome face looked cool and efficient. Malloy waved him to a seat. Norden, I have a job for you. It's probably one of the most important jobs you'll ever have in your life. It can mean big things for you. Promotion and prestige if you do it well. Norden nodded slowly. Yes, sir, malloy explained the problem of the corn of peace talks. We need a man who can outthink them, malloy finished. And judging from your record, I think you're that man. It involves risk, of course. If you make the wrong decisions, your name will be mud back on Earth, but I don't think there's much chance of that. Really? Do you want to handle small time operations all your life? Of course not. You'll be leaving within an hour for Sarkad 5. Narden nodded again. Yes, sir. Certainly. Am I to go alone? No, said Malloy. I'm sending an assistant with you. A man named Kylan Brainek. Ever heard of him? Norden shook his head. Not that I recall. Mr. Malloy. Should I have? Not necessarily. He's a pretty shrewd operator, though. He knows a lot about interstellar law, and he's capable of spotting a trap a mile away. You'll be in charge, of course, but I want you to pay special attention to his advice. I will, sir, norton said gratefully. A man like that can be useful. Right now you go into the anteroom over there. I've prepared a summary of the situation, and you'll have to study it and get it into your head before the ship leaves.

[B]

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[A]

That isn't much time, but it's the Corona who are doing the pushing, not us. As soon as Norton had left, Malloy said softly, send in Braneck, Ms. Drayson. Kylan Braneck was a smallish man with mouse brown hair that lay flat against his skull and hard, penetrating dark eyes that were shadowed by heavy, protruding brows. Malloy asked him to sit down again. Malloy went through the explanation of the peace conference. Naturally, they'll try to trick you every step of the way, malloy went on. They're shrewd and underhanded. We'll simply have to be more shrewd and more underhanded. Norton's job is to sit quietly and evaluate the data. Yours will be to find the loopholes they're laying out for themselves and plug them. Don't antagonize them, but don't baby them either. If you see anything underhanded going on, let Narden know immediately. They won't get anything by me, Mr. Malloy. By the time the ship from Earth got there, the peace conference had been going on for four days. Bertrand Malloy had full reports on the whole parley, as relayed to him through the ship that had taken Norden and Brainek to Sarkad 5. Secretary of State Blinwell stopped off at Sarkad 4 before going on to 5 to take charge of the conference. He was a tallish, lean man with a few strands of gray hair on the top of his otherwise bald scalp, and he wore a hearty, professional smile that didn't quite make it to his calculating eyes. He shook Malloy's hand and shook it warmly. How are you, Mr. Ambassador? Fine, Mr. Secretary. How's everything on Earth? Tense. They're waiting to see what's going to happen on Five. So am I, for that matter. His eyes were curious. You decided not to go yourself, eh? I thought it better not to. I sent a good team instead. Would you like to see the reports? I certainly would. Malloy handed them to the secretary, and as he read, Malloy watched him. Blinwell was a political appointee, a good man, Malloy had to admit, but he didn't know all the ins and outs of the diplomatic corps. When Linwell looked up from the reports at last, he said, amazing. They've held off the corona at every point. They've beaten them back. They've managed to cope with and outdo the finest team of negotiators the coroner could send. I thought they would, said Malloy, trying to appear modest. The secretary's eyes narrowed. I've heard of the work you've been doing here with, ah, sick men. Is this one of your, ah, successes? Malloy nodded. I think so. The Karna put us in a dilemma, so I threw a dilemma right back at them. How do you mean? Narden had a mental block against making decisions. If he took a girl out on a date, he'd have trouble making up his mind whether to kiss her or not. Until she made up his mind for him one way or the other. He's that kind of guy. Until he's presented with one clear, single decision which admits of no alternatives, he can't move at all. As you can see, the Karna tried to give us several choices on each point, and they were all rigged. Until they backed down to a single point and proved that it wasn't rigged. Norden couldn't possibly make up his mind. I drummed into him how important this was, and the more importance there is attached to his decisions, the more incapable he becomes of making them. The secretary nodded slowly. What about Brainak? Paranoid, said Malloy. He thinks everyone is plotting against him. In this case, that's all to the good, because the Karna are plotting against him no matter what they put forth. Brainak is convinced that there's a trap in it somewhere, and he digs to find out what the trap is. Even if there isn't a trap, the coroner can't satisfy Brainak because he's convinced that there has to be somewhere. As a result, all his advice to Norden and all his questioning on the wildest possibilities just serves to keep Norden from getting unconfused. These two men are honestly doing their best to win at the peace conference, and they've got the Karna reeling. The Karna can see that we're not trying to stall. Our men are actually working at trying to reach a decision. But what the Karna don't see is that those men as a team are unbeatable because in this situation, they're psychologically incapable of losing Again. The secretary of State nodded his approval, but there was still a question in his mind. Since you know all this, couldn't you have handled it yourself? Maybe, but I doubt it. They might have gotten around me someway by sneaking up on a blind spot. Norden and Braineck have blind spots, but they're covered with armor. No. I'm glad I couldn't go. It's better this way. The secretary of State raised an eyebrow. Couldn't go, Mr. Ambassador. Mallor looked at him. Didn't you know? I wondered why you appointed me in the first place. No, I couldn't go. The reason why I'm here, cooped up in this office, hiding from the sarcata the way a good sarcodic big shot should, is because I like it that way. I suffer from agoraphobia and xenophobia. I have to be drugged to be put on a spaceship because I can't take all that empty space, even if I'm protected from it by a stage steel shell. A look of revulsion came over his face and I can't stand aliens. End of In Case of Fire by Randall Garrett End of Randall Garrett three science fiction stories. The story recorded by Phil Shannonvair August of 2016.