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To Be or Not to Be By Kurt Vonnegut Jr. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times Got a problem? Just pick up the phone. It solved them all, and all the same way. Everything was perfectly swell. There were no prisons, no slums, no insane asylums, no cripples, no poverty, no wars. All diseases were conquered. So was old age. Death, barring accidents, was an adventure for volunteers. The population of the United States was stabilized at 40 million souls. One bright morning in the Chicago Lying in hospital, a man named Edward K. Welling Jr. Waited for his wife to give birth. He was the only man waiting. Not many people were born a day anymore. Whaling was 56, a mere stripling in a population whose average age was 129. X rays had revealed that his wife was killing going to have triplets. The children would be his first. Young Weyland was hunched in his chair, his head in his hand. He was so rumpled, so still and colorless as to be virtually invisible. His camouflage was perfect, since the waiting room had a disorderly and demoralized air, too. Chairs and ashtrays had been moved away from the walls. The floor was paved with splattered drop cloths. The room was being redecorated. It was being redecorated as a memorial to a man who had volunteered to die. A sardonic old man about 200 years old sat on a stepladder painting a mural he did not like. Back in the days when people aged visibly, his age would have been guessed at 35 or so. Aging had touched him that much before the cure for aging was found. The mural he was working on depicted a very neat garden. Men and women in white doctors and nurses turned the soil, planted seedlings, sprayed bugs, spread fertilizer. Men and women in purple uniforms pulled up weeds, cut down plants that were old and sickly, raked leaves, carried refuse to trash burners. Never, never, never, not even in medieval Holland nor old Japan had a garden been more formal, been better tended. Every plant had all the loam, light, water, air, and nourishment it could use. A hospital orderly came down the corridor, singing under his breath a popular song. If you don't like my kisses, honey, here's what I will do I'll go see a girl in purple Kiss this sad world Toodaloo if you don't want my lovin' why should I take up all the space? I'll get off this old planet Let some sweet baby have my place. The orderly looked in at the mural and the muralist. Looks so real, he said. I can practically imagine I'm standing in the middle of it. What makes you think you're not in it? Said the painter. He gave a satiric smile. It's called the Happy Garden of Life, you know. That's good old Dr. Hitz, said the orderly. He was referring to one of the male figures in white whose head was a portrait of Dr. Benjamin Hitz, the hospital's chief obstetrician. Hitz was a blindingly handsome man. Lots of faces still to fill in, said the orderly. He meant that the faces of many of the figures in the mural were still blank. All blanks were to be filled with portraits of important people on either the hospital staff or from the Chicago office of the Federal Bureau of Termination. Must be nice to be able to make pictures that look like something, said the orderly. The painter's face curdled with scorn. You think I'm proud of this daub? He said. You think this is my idea of what life really looks like? What's your idea of what life looks like? Said the orderly. The painter gestured at a foul drop cloth. There's a good picture of it, he said. Frame that and you'll have a picture a damn sight more honest than this one. You're a gloomy old duck, aren't you? Said the orderly. Is that a crime? Said the painter. The orderly shrugged. If you don't like it here, Grandpa, he said, and he finished the thought with the trick telephone number that people who didn't want to live any more were supposed to call. The zero in the telephone number he pronounced not. The number was to be or not to be. It was the telephone number of an institution whose fanciful sub requests included Automat, Birdland, Cannery, Cat Box, Delouser, Easy Go, Goodbye, Mother, Happy hooligan, Kiss me quick, Lucky Pierre, cheap dip wearing blender. Weep no more and why worry? To be or not to be was the telephone number of the municipal gas chambers of the Federal Bureau of Termination. The painter thumbed his nose at the orderly. When I decide it's time to go, he said, it won't be at the sheep dip. Do it yourself with a said the orderly. Messy business, Grandpa. Why don't you have a little consideration for the people who have to clean up after you? The painter expressed with an obscenity his lack of concern for the tribulations of his survivors. The world could do a good deal more mess if you asked me, he said. The orderly laughed and moved on, whaling. The waiting father mumbled something without raising his head, and then he fell silent again. A coarse, formidable woman strode into the waiting room on spike heels. Her shoes, stockings, trench coat, bag, and overseas cap were all purple. The purple the painter called the color of grapes on Judgment Day. The medallion on her purple musette bag was the seal of the Service Division of the Federal Bureau of Termination. An eagle perched on a turnstile. The woman had a lot of facial hair, an unmistakable mustache. In fact. A curious thing about guest chamber hostesses was that no matter how lovely and feminine they were, when recruited, they all sprouted mustaches within five years or so. Is this where I'm supposed to come? She said to the painter. A lot would depend on what your business was, he said. You aren't about to have a baby, are you? They told me I was supposed to pose for some picture, she said. My name's Leora Duncan. She waited. And you dunk people, he said. What? She said. Skip it, he said. That sure is a beautiful picture, she said. Looks just like heaven or something. Or something, said the painter. He took a list of names from his smock pocket. Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, he said, scanning the list. Yes, here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left. She studied the mural bleakly. Gee, she said. They're all the same to me. I don't know anything about art. A body's a body, eh? He said. Alrighty. As a master of fine art, I recommend this body here. He indicated a faceless figure of a woman who was carrying dried stalks to a trash burner. Well, said Leora Duncan, that's more the disposal people, isn't it? I mean, I'm in service. I don't do any disposing. The painter clapped his hands in mock delight. You say you don't know anything about art and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do. Of course the sheaf carrier is wrong for a hostess. A snipper, a pruner. That's more your line. He pointed to a figure in purple who was sawing a dead branch from an apple tree. How about her? He said. You like her at all? Gosh, she said, and she blushed and became humble. That. That puts me right next to Dr. Hitz. That upsets you, he said. Couldn't gravy know, she said. It's. It's Just such an honor. Ah, you admire him, eh? He said. Who doesn't admire him? She said, worshiping the portrait of Hits. It was the portrait of a tanned, white haired, omnipotent Zeus, 240 years old. Who doesn't admire him? She said again. He was responsible for setting up the very first gas chamber in Chicago. Nothing would please me more, said the painter, than to put you next to him for all time, sawing off a limb that strikes you as appropriate. That is kind of like what I do, she said. She was demure about what she did. What she did was make people comfortable while she killed them. And while Leora Duncan was posing for her portrait into the waiting room, bounded by Dr. Hitz himself. He was seven feet tall and he boomed with importance, accomplishments and the joy of living. Well, Ms. Duncan, Ms. Duncan, he said, and he made a joke. What are you doing here? He said. This isn't where the people leave. This is where they come in. We're going to be in the same picture together, she said shyly. Good, said Dr. Itz heartily. And say, isn't that some picture? I sure am honored to be in it with you, she said. Let me tell you, he said, I'm honored to be in it with you. Without women like you, this wonderful world we've got wouldn't be possible. He saluted her and moved toward the door that led to the delivery rooms. Guess what was just born, he said. I can't, she said. Triplets, he said. Triplets, she said. She was exclaiming over the legal implications of triplets. The law said that no newborn child could survive unless the parents of the child could find someone who would volunteer to die triplets if they were all to live. Call for three volunteers. Did the parents have three volunteers? Said Leora Duncan. Last I heard, said Dr. Hitz. They had one and were trying to scrape another two up. I don't think they made it, she said. Nobody made three appointments with us. Nothing but singles going through today. Unless somebody called in after I left. What's the name? Welling, said the waiting father, sitting up, red eyed and frowsy. Edward K. Welling Jr. Is the name of the happy father to be. He raised his right hand, looking at a spot on the wall, gave a hoarsely wretched chuckle. Present, he said. Oh, Mr. Welling, said Dr. Hits. I didn't see you, the invisible man, said Welling. They just phoned me that your triplets have been born, said Dr. Hitz. They're all fine and so is the mother. I'm on my way in to see them now. Hooray, said Welling emptily. You don't sound very happy, said Dr. Hitz. One man in my shoes wouldn't be happy, said Welling. He gestured with his hands to symbolize carefree simplicity. All I have to do is pick out which one of the triplets is going to live, then deliver my maternal grandfather to the happy hooligan, and come back here with a receipt. Dr. Hitz became rather severe with Welling towered over him. You don't believe in population control, Mr. Wellington? He said. I think it's perfectly keen, said Welling tautly. Would you like to go back to the good old days when the population of the Earth was 20 billion about to become 40 billion, then 80 billion, then 160 billion? Do you know what a Drupal it is, Mr. Welling? Said Hitz. Nope, said Welling sulkily. A druplet, Mr. Welling, is one of the little knobs, one of the little pulpy grains of a BlackBerry, said Dr. Heads. Without population control, human beings would now be packed on the surface of this old planet like druplets on a BlackBerry. Think of it. Welling continued to stare at the same spot on the wall. In the year 2000, said Dr. Hitz, before scientists stepped in and laid down the law, there wasn't even enough drinking water to go around, and nothing to eat but seaweed. And still people insisted on their right to reproduce like jack rabbits, and their right, if possible, to live forever. I want those kids, said Welling quietly. I want all three of them. Of course you do, said Dr. Hitz. That's only human. I don't want my grandfather to die either, said Welling. Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the cat box, said Dr. Hitz gently, sympathetically. I wish people wouldn't call it that, said Leora Duncan. What? Said Dr. Hitz. I wish people wouldn't call it the Cat Box and things like that, she said. It gives people the wrong impression. You're absolutely right, said Dr. Hitz. Forgive me, he corrected himself, gave the municipal gas chambers their official title, a title no one ever used in conversation. I should have said Ethical Suicide Studios, he said. That sounds so much better, said Leora Duncan. This child of yours, whichever one you decide to keep, Mr. Welling, said Dr. Hitz. He or she is going to live on a happy, roomy, clean, rich planet, thanks to population control, in a garden like that mural there. He shook his head. Two centuries ago, when I was a young man, it was a hell that nobody thought could last another 20 years. Now centuries of peace and plenty stretch before us as far as the imagination cares to travel. He smiled luminously. The smile faded as he saw that Whaling had just drawn a revolver. Whaling shot doctor Hits dead. There's room for one, a great big one, he said. And then he shot Leora Duncan. It's only death, he said to her as she fell there. Room for two. And then he shot himself, making room for all three of his children. Nobody came running. Nobody seemingly heard the shots. The painter sat on the top of his stepladder, looking down reflectively on the sorry scene. The painter pondered the mournful puzzle of life, demanding to be born and once born, demanding to be fruitful, to multiply and to live as long as possible, to do all that on a very small planet that would have to last forever. All the answers that the painter could think of were grim, even grimmer surely than a cat box, a happy hooligan, an easy go. He thought of war. He thought of plague. He thought of starvation. He knew that he would never paint again. He let his paintbrush fall to the drop cloths below. And then he decided he had had about enough of life in the happy garden of life, too, and he came slowly down from the ladder. He took Welling's pistol, really intending to shoot himself, but he didn't have the nerve. And then he saw the telephone booth in the corner of the room. He went to it, dialed the well remembered number. To be or not to be. Federal Bureau of Termination, said the very warm voice of the hostess. How soon could I get an appointment? He asked, speaking very carefully. We could probably fit you in late this afternoon, sir, she said. It might even be earlier if we get a cancellation. All right, said the painter. Fit me in, if you please. And he gave her his name, spelling it out. Thank you, sir, said the hostess. Your city thanks you. Your country thanks you. Your planet thanks you. But the deepest thanks of all is from future generations. End of to be or not to be by kurt vonnegut jr. And all the Earth a Grave by CC MCAP this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times and All the Earth a grave by C.C. macap there's nothing wrong with dying. It just hasn't ever had the proper sales pitch. It all began when the new bookkeeping machine of a large Midwestern coffin manufacturer slipped a cog or blew a transistor or something. It was fantastic that the error, one or two decimal places, should enjoy a straight run of okays, human and mechanical, clear down the line. But when the figures clacked out at the last clacking out station, there it was. The figures were now sacred, immutable, and it is doubtful whether the president of the concern or the chairman of the board would have dared question them, even if either of those two gentlemen had been in town. As for the advertising manager, the last thing he wanted to do was question them. He carried them they were the budget for the coming fiscal year into his office, staggering a little on the way, and dropped dazedly into his chair. They showed the budget for his own department as exactly 100 times what he'd been expecting, that is to say 50 times what he'd put in for. When the initial shock began to wear off, his face assumed an expression of intense thought. In about five minutes he leaped up from his chair, dashed out of the office with a shouted syllable or two for his secretary, and got his car out of the parking lot. At home he tossed clothes into a traveling bag and barged toward the door, giving his wife a quick kiss and an equally quick explanation. He didn't bother to call the airport. He meant to be on the next plane east, and no nonsense about it, with one thing or another. The economy hadn't been exactly in overdrive that year, and predictions for the Christmas season were gloomy. Early retail figures bore them out. Gift buying dribbled along feebly until Thanksgiving. Despite brave speeches by the administration, the holiday passed more in self pity than in thankfulness among owners of gift oriented businesses. Then, on Friday following Thanksgiving, the coffin ads struck. Struck may be too mild a word. People on the streets saw feverishly working crews at holiday rates slapping up posters on billboards. The first poster was a dilly A toothy and toothsome young woman leaned over a coffin she'd been unwrapping. She smiled as if she'd just received overtures of matrimony from an 80 year old billionaire. There was a Christmas tree in the background and the coffin was appropriately wrapped. So was she. She looked as if she had just gotten out of bed or were ready to get into it. For amorous young men, and some not so young, the message was plain. The motto the gift that will last more than a lifetime seemed hardly to the point. Those at home were assailed on TV by a variety of bright and clever skits of the same import. Some of them hinted that if the young lady's gratitude were really precipitous and the bedroom too far away. The coffin might be comfy. Of course, the more settled elements of the population were not neglected. For the older married man, there was a blow directly between the eyes. Do you want your widow to be half safe? And for the spinster without immediate hopes. I dreamt I was caught dead without my virgin form. Casket. Newspapers, magazines and every other medium added to the assault, never letting it cool. It was the most horrendous campaign for sheer concentration that had ever been battered at the public mind. The public reeled, blinked, shook its head to clear it, gawked, and rushed out to buy. Christmas was not going to be a failure after all. Department store managers, who had grudgingly and under strong sales pressure made space for a single coffin somewhere at the rear of the store, now rushed to the telephones like touts. With a direct pronouncement from a horse, everyone who possibly could got into the act. Grocery. Supermarkets put in casket departments. The association of pharmaceutical retailers, who felt they had some claim to priority, tried to get court injunctions to keep caskets out of service stations, but were unsuccessful because the judges were all out buying caskets. Beauty parlors showed real ingenuity in merchandising. Roads and streets were clogged with delivery trucks, rented trailers and whatever else could haul a coffin. The stock market went completely mad. Strikes were declared and settled within hours. Congress was called into session early. The president got authority to ration lumber and other materials such as suddenly in starvation, short supply. State laws were passed against cremation. Under heavy lobby pressure, a new racket called box jacking blossomed overnight. The advertising manager who had put the thing over had been fighting with all the formidable weapons of his breed to make his plant managers build up a stockpile. They had, but it went like a toupee in a wind tunnel. Competitive coffin manufacturers were caught napping. But by Wednesday after Thanksgiving, they, along with the original one, were on a 24 hour, 7 day basis. Still, only a fraction of the demand could be met. Jet passenger planes were stripped of their seats, supplied with Yankee gold, and sent to plunder the world of its coffins. It might be supposed that Christmas goods other than caskets would take a bad dumping. That was not so. Such was the upsurge of prosperity and such was the shortage of coffins that nearly everything, with a few exceptions, enjoyed the biggest season on record. On Christmas Eve, the frenzy slumped to a crawl, though on Christmas morning there were still optimists out prowling the empty stores. The nation sat down to breathe. Mostly it sat on coffins because there wasn't space in the living rooms for any other furniture. There was hardly an individual in the United States who didn't have, in case of sudden sharp pains in the chest, several boxes to choose from. As for the rest of the world, it had better not die just now, or it would be literally a case of dust to dust. Of course, everyone expected a doozy of a slump after Christmas. But our advertising manager, who by now was of course sales manager and first vice president, also wasn't settling for any boom and bust. He'd been a frustrated victim of his choice of industries for so many years that now, with his teeth in something, he was going to give it the old bite. He gave people a short breathing spell to arrange their coffin pavements and move the presents out of the front rooms. Then, late in January, his new campaign came down like a hundred megatonner Within a week, everyone saw quite clearly that his Christmas models were now obsolete. The coffin became the new status symbol. The auto industry was, of course demolished. Even people who had enough money to buy a new car weren't going to trade in the old one and let the new one stand out in the rain. The garages were full of coffins. Petroleum went along with autos. Though there were those who whispered knowingly that the same people merely moved over into this new industry. It was noticeable that the center of it became Detroit. A few trucks and buses were still being built, but that was all. Some of the new caskets were true works of art. Others, well, there was variety. Compact models appeared in which the occupants feet were to be doubled up alongside his ears. One manufacturer pushed a circular model, claiming that by all the laws of nature, the fetal position was the only right one. At the other extreme were virtual houses, ornate and lavishly equipped. Possibly the largest of all was the togetherness model. Triangular, with graduated recesses for father, mother, mother, eight children plus two playmates. And in the far corner, beyond the baby, the cat. The slump was over. Still, economists were that the new boom couldn't last either. They reckoned, without the advertising manager, whose eyes gleamed brighter all the time. People already had coffins, which they polished and kept on display, sometimes in the new coffin ports being added to houses. The advertising manager's reasoning was direct and to the point. He must get people to use the coffins, and now he had all the money to work with that he could use. The new note was woven in so gradually that it is not easy to put a finger on any one ad and say it began here. One of the first was surely the widely printed one showing a tattooed, smiling young man with his chin thrust out manfully lying in a coffin. He was rugged looking and likable. Not too rugged for the spindly limb to identify with. And he oozed, even though obviously dead, virility at every pore. He was probably the finest looking corpse since Richard the Lion Hearted. Neither must one overlook the singing commercials, possibly the catchiest of these. A really cute little thing was achieved by jazzing up the funeral march. It started gradually and it was all so unviolent that few saw it as suicide. Teenagers began having popping off parties. Some of their elders protested a little, but adults were taking it up too. The tired, the unappreciated, the ill and the heavy laden lay down in growing numbers and expired. A black market in poisons operated for a little while, but soon pinched out. Such was the pressure of persuasion that few needed artificial aids. The boxes were very comfortable. People just closed their eyes and exited smiling. The beatniks, who had their own models of coffin, moldy, scroungy and without lids, since the beatniks insisted on being seen, placed their boxes on the Grant Avenue in San Francisco. They died with highly intellectual expressions and eventually were washed by the gentle rain. Of course there were voices shouting calamity when aren't there. But in the long run, and not a very long one at that, they availed not. It isn't hard to imagine the reactions of the rest of the world, so let us imagine a few. The communist bloc immediately gave its stamp of disapproval, denouncing the movement as a filthy capitalist imperialist pig plot. Red China, which had been squabbling with Russia for some time about a matter of method, screamed for immediate war. Russia exposed this as patent stupidity, saying that if the capitalists wanted to die, warring upon them would only help them. China surreptitiously tried out the thing as an answer to excess population and found it good. It also appealed to the well known melancholy facet of Russian nature. Besides, after pondering for several days, the Red block decided it could not afford to fall behind in anything. So it started its own program, explaining with much logic how it differed. An elderly British philosopher endorsed the movement on the grounds that a temporary setback in evolution was preferable to to facing up to anything. The free block, the red block, the neutral block, and such scraps as had been too obtuse to find themselves a block were drawn into the whirlpool in an amazingly short time. If in a variety of ways, in less than two years, the world was rid of most of what had been bedeviling it. Oddly enough, the country where the movement began was the last to succumb completely. Or perhaps it is not so odd. Coffin maker to the world, the American casket industry had by now almost completely automated box making and grave digging, with some interesting assembly lines and packaging arrangements. There still remained the jobs of management and distribution. The president of General Mortuary and a bulient fellow affectionately called Sarcophagus Sam put it well. As long as I have a single prospective customer and a single stockholder, he said, mangling a stogie and beetling his brows at the one reporter who'd showed up for the press conference, I'll try to put him in a coffin so I can pay him a dividend. Finally, though, a man who thought he must be the last living human wandered contentedly about the city of Denver looking for the coffin he liked best. He settled at last upon a rich mahogany number with platinum trimmings, an automatic self adjusting cadaver contour, inner spring wherever plastic covered mattress with a built in bar. He climbed in, drew himself a generous slug of fine scotch, giggled as the mattress prodded him exploringly, closed his eyes, and sighed in solid comfort. Soft music played as the lid closed itself. From a building nearby, a turkey buzzard swooped down, cawing in raucous anger. Because it had let its attention wander for a moment, it was too late. It clawed, screaming at the solid cover, hissed in frustration, and finally gave up. It flapped into the air again, still grumbling. It was tired of living on dead small rodents and coyotes. It thought it would take a swing over to Los Angeles, where the pickings were pretty good. As it moved westward over parched hills, it espied two black dots a few miles to its left. It circled over for a closer look, then grunted and went on its way. It had seen them before. The old prospector and his burro had been in the mountains for so long, the buzzard had concluded that they didn't know how to die. The prospector his name was Adams, trudged behind his burrow toward the buildings that shimmered in the heat, humming to himself now and then or addressing some remark to the beast. When he reached the outskirts of Denver, he realized something was amiss. He stood and gazed at the quiet scene. Nothing moved except for some skinny pack rats and a few sparrows foraging for grain among the unburied coffins. Tar Nation, he said to the burro Martians. A half buried piece of newspaper fluttered in the breeze. He walked forward slowly and picked it up. It told him enough so that he understood. They're gone, Evie, he said to the burro. All gone. He put his arm affectionately around her neck. I reckon it's up to me and you again. We got to start all over. He stood back and gazed at her with mild reproach. I shore hope they don't favor your side of the house so much this time. And all the earth a grave by cc mcap aka carol m. Capps.
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Arm of the Law by Harry Harrison this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Greg Marguerite Arm of the Law by Harry Harrison at one time this was before the robot restriction laws. They even allowed them to make their own decisions. It was a big coffin shaped plywood box that looked like it weighed a ton. This brawny type just dumped it through the door of the police station and started away. I looked up from the blotter and shouted at the truckers vanishing back. What the hell is that? How should I know? He said as he swung up into the cab. I just deliver. I don't X ray em. It came in on the morning rocket from Earth is all I know. He gunned the truck more than he had to and threw up a billowing cloud of red dust. Jokers, I growled to myself. Mars is full of jokers. When I went over to look at the box, I could feel the dust grate between my teeth. Chief Craig must have heard the racket because he came out of his office and helped me stand and look at the box. Think it's a bomb? He asked in a bored voice. Why would anyone bother, particularly with a thing this size and all the way from Earth. He nodded agreement and walked around to look at the other end. There was no sender's address anywhere on the outside. Finally we had to dig out the crowbar and I went to work on the top. After some prying, it pulled free and fell off. That was when we had our first look at Ned. We all would have been a lot happier if it had been our last look as well. If we had just put the lid back on and shipped the thing back to Earth. I know now what they mean about Pandora's box, but we just stood there and stared like a couple of rubes. Ned lay motionless and stared back at us. A robot, the chief said. Very observant. It's easy to see you went to the police academy. Ha ha. Now find out what he's doing here. I hadn't gone to the academy, but this was no handicap to my finding the letter. It was sticking up out of a thick book in a pocket in the box. The chief took the letter and read it with little enthusiasm. Well, well. United Robotics have the brainstorm that robots correctly used will tend to prove invaluable to police work. They want us to cooperate in a field test robot. Enclosed is the latest experimental model, valued at 120,000 credits. We both looked back at the robot, sharing the wish that the credits had been in the box instead of it. The chief frowned and moved his lips through the rest of the letter. I wondered how we got the robot out of its plywood coffin. Experimental model or not, this was a nice looking hunk of machinery. A uniform, navy blue all over, though the outlet cases, hooks and such, were a metallic gold. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to get that effect. This was as close a robot could look to a cop in uniform without being a joke. All that seemed to be missing was the badge and gun. Then I noticed the tiny glow of light in the robot's eye lenses. It had never occurred to me before that the thing might be turned on. There was nothing to lose by finding out. Get out of that box, I said. The robot came up smooth and fast as a rocket, landing 2ft in front of me and whipping out a snappy salute. Police Experimental Robot, serial number XP0456934B, reporting for duty, sir. His voice quivered with alertness, and I could almost hear the humming of those taut cable muscles. He may have had a stainless steel hide and a bunch of wires for a brain, but he spelled rookie cop to me just the same. The fact that he was man height with two arms, two legs, and that painted on uniform helped. All I had to do was squint my eyes a bit and there stood Ned, the rookie cop, fresh out of school and raring to go. I shook my head to get rid of the illusion this was just 6ft of machine that boffins and brain boys had turned out for their own amusement. Relax, Ned, I said. He was still holding the salute. At ease. You'll get a hernia of your exhaust pipe if you stay so tense. Anyways, I'm just the sergeant here. That's the chief of police over there. Ned did an about face and slid over to the chief with that same greased lightning motion. The chief just looked at him like something that sprang out from under the hood of a car. While Ned went through the same report routine, I Wonder if it does anything else beside salute and report, the Chief said while he walked around the robot looking it over like a dog with a hydrant. The functions, operations, and responsible courses of action open to the police experimental robots are outlined on pages 184-2213 of the manual. Ned's voice was muffled for a second while he half dived back into his case and came up with the volume mentioned. A detailed breakdown of these will also be found on pages 103521267 inclusive. The chief, who has trouble reading an entire comic page at one sitting, turned the 6 inch thick book over in his hands like it would maybe bite him. When he had a rough idea of how much it weighed and a good feel of the binding, he threw it on my desk. Take care of this, he said to me as he headed towards his office and the robot too. Do do something with it. The Chief's span of attention never was great, and it had been strained to the limit. This time I flipped through the book, wondering. One thing I never have had much to do with is robots, so I know just as much about them as any joe in the street. Probably less. The book was filled with pages of fine print, fancy mathematics, wiring diagrams and charts in nine colors, and that kind of thing. It needed close attention, which attention I was not prepared to give it at the time. The book slid shut and I eyed the newest employee of the city of Nineport. There's a broom behind the door. Do you know how to use it? Yes, sir. In that case you will sweep out this room, raising as small a cloud of dust as possible. At the same time, he did a very neat job of it. I watched a hundred and twenty thousand credits worth of machinery making a tidy pile of butts and sand and wondered why it had been sent to Nineport. Probably because there wasn't another police force in the solar system that was smaller or more unimportant than ours. The engineers must have figured this would be a good spot for a field test. Even if the thing blew up, nobody would really mind. There would probably be someone along some day to get a report on it. Well, they had picked the right spot all right. Nineport was just a little bit beyond nowhere, which of course was why I was there. I was the only real cop on the force. They needed at least one to give an illusion of the wheels going around. The chief, Alonzo Craig, had just enough sense to take graft without dropping the money. There were two patrolmen, one old and drunk most of the time, the other so young. The only scar he had was the mark of the atram. I had 10 years on a metropolitan force Earthside. Why I left is nobody's damn business. I I have long since paid for any mistakes I made there by ending up in Nineport. Nineport is not a city. It's just a place where people stop. The only permanent citizens are the ones who cater to those on the way through. Hotel keepers, restaurant owners, gamblers, barkeeps, and the rest. There is a spaceport, but only some freighters come there to pick up the metal from some of the mines that are still working. Some of the settlers still came in for supplies. You might say that Nineport was a town that just missed the boat. In a hundred years, I doubt if there will be enough left sticking out of the sand to even tell where it used to be. I won't be there either, so I couldn't care less. I went back to the blotter. Five drunks in the tank, an average night's haul. While I wrote them up, Fats dragged in the sixth one locked himself and the ladies john at the spaceport and, resisting a rest, he reported, Dd throw him in with the rest. Fats steered his limp victim across the floor, matching him step for dragging step. I always marveled at the way Fats took care of drunks, since he usually had more under his belt than they had. I have never seen him falling down drunk or completely sober. About all he was good for was keeping a blurred eye on the lockup and running in drunks. He did well at that, no matter what they crawled under or on top of. He found them, no doubt due to the same shared natural instincts. Fats clanged the door behind number six and weaved his way back in. What's that? He asked, peering at the robot along the purple beauty of his nose. That is a robot. I have forgotten the number his mother gave him at the factory, so we will call him Ned. He works here now. Good for him. He can clean up the tank after we throw the bums out. The that's my job, billy said, coming in through the front door. He clutched his nightstick and scowled out from under the brim of his uniform cap. It is not that Billy is stupid, just that most of his strength has gone into his back instead of his mind. That's Ned's job now. Because you have a promotion, you are going to help me with some of my work. Billy came in very handy at times, and I was anxious that the Force shouldn't lose him. My explanation cheered him because he sat down by Fats and watched Ned do the floor. That's the way things went. For about a week we watched Ned sweep and polish until the station began to take on a positively antiseptic look. The chief, who always had an eye out for that type of thing, found out that Ned could file the odd ton of reports and paperwork that cluttered his office. All this kept the robot busy, and we got so used to him we were hardly aware he was around. I knew he had moved the packing case into the storeroom and fixed himself up a cozy sort of robot dormitory coffin. Other than that, I didn't know or care. The operation manual was buried in my desk and I never looked at it. If I had, I might have had some idea of the big changes that were in store. None of us knew the littlest bit about what a robot can or cannot do. Ned was working nicely as a combination janitor, file clerk, and should have stayed that way. He would have, too, if the Chief hadn't been so lazy. That's what started it all. It was around nine at night and the Chief was just going home when the call came in. He took it, listened for a moment, then hung up. Greenback's Liquor Store. He got held up again. Says to come at once. That's a change. Usually we don't hear about it until a month later. What's he paying protection money for? If China Joe ain't protecting, what's the rush now? The chief chewed his loose lip for a while, finally and painfully reached a decision. You better go around and see what the trouble is. Sure, I said, reaching for my cap, but no one else is around. You'll have to watch the desk until I get back. That's no good, he moaned. I'm dying from hunger, and sitting here isn't going to help me any. I will go take the report, ned said, stepping forward and snapping his usual well greased salute. At first the Chief wasn't buying. You would think the water cooler came to life and offered to take over his job. How could you take a report? He growled, putting the wise guy water cooler in its place. But he had phrased his little insult as a question, so he had only himself to blame. In exactly three minutes, Ned gave the chief a summary of the routine necessary for a police officer to make a report on an armed robbery or other reported theft. From the glazed look in Chief's protruding eyes, I could tell Ned had quickly passed the boundaries of the Chief's meager knowledge. Enough. The harried man finally gasped. If you know so much, why don't you make a report? Which to me sounded like another version of if you're so damn smart, why ain't you rich? Which we used to snarl at the brainy kids in grammar school. Ned took such things literally though, and turned towards the door. Do you mean you wish me to make a report on this robbery? Yes, the chief said, just to get rid of him, and we watched his blue shape vanish through the door. He must be brighter than he looks, I said. He never stopped to ask where Greenback's store is. The chief nodded and the phone rang again. His hand was still resting on it so he picked it up by reflex. He listened for a second and you would have thought someone was pumping blood out of his heel from the way his face turned white. The hold up's still on, he finally gasped. Greenback's delivery boy is on the line calling back to see where we are. Says he's under a table in the back room. I never heard the rest of it because I was out the door and into the car. There were a hundred things that could have happened if Ned got there before me. Guns could go off, people hurt, lots of things, and the police would be to blame for it all. Sending a tin robot to do a cop's job. Maybe the chief had ordered Ned there, but clearly, as if the words were painted on the windshield of the car, I knew I would be dragged into it. It never gets very warm on Mars, but I was sweating. Nine Port has 14 traffic regulations and I broke all of them before I had gone a block. Fast as I was, Ned was faster. As I turned the corner I saw him open the door of Greenback Store and walk in. I screamed, brakes in behind him and arrived just in time to have a gallery seat. A shooting gallery at that. There were two hold up punks, one behind the counter making like a clerk and the other lounging off to one side. Their guns were out of sight, but blue coated Ned bursting through the door was too much for their keyed up nerves. Up came both guns like they were on strings and Ned stopped dead. I grabbed for my own gun and waited for pieces of busted robot to come flying through the window. Ned's reflexes were great, which I suppose is what you should expect of a robot. Drop your guns. You are under arrest. He must have had on full power or something. His voice blasted so loud my ears hurt. The result was just what you might expect. Both torpedoes let go at once and the air was filled with flying slugs. The show windows went out with A crash and I went down on my stomach. From the amount of noise I knew they both had recoilless 50s. You can't stop one of those slugs. They go right through you and anything else that happens to be in the way. Except they didn't seem to be bothering Ned. The only notice he seemed to take was to cover his eyes open. A little shield with a thin slit popped down over his eye lenses. Then he moved in on the first thug. I knew he was fast, but not that fast. A couple of slugs jarred him as he came across the room, but before the punk could change his aim, Ned had the gun in his hand. That was the end of that. He put on one of the sweetest hammerlocks I've ever seen and neatly grabbed the gun when it dropped from the limp fingers. With the same motion that slipped the gun into a pouch, he whipped out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them on the punk's wrists. Holdupnick number two was heading for the door by then and I was waiting to give him a warm reception. There was never any need. He hadn't gone halfway before Ned slid in front of him. There was a thud when they hit that didn't even shake Ned, but gave the other a glazed look. He never even knew it when Ned slipped the cuffs on him and dropped him down next to his partner. I went in, took their guns from Ned and made the arrest official. That was all Greenback saw when he crawled out from behind the counter and it was all I wanted him to see. The place was a foot deep in broken glass and smelled like the inside of a Jack Daniels bottle. Greenback began to howl like a wolf over his lost stock. He didn't seem to know any more about the phone call than I did, so I grabbed a hold of a pimply looking kid who staggered out of the storeroom. He was the one who had made the calls. It turned out to be a matter of sheer stupidity. He had worked for Greenback only a few days and didn't have enough brains to realize that all hold ups should be reported to the protection boys instead of the police. I told Greenback to wise up his boy as look at the trouble that got caused. Then pushed the two ex holdup men out to the car. Ned climbed in back with them and they clung together like two waifs in a storm. The robot's only response was to pull a first aid kit from his hip and fix up a ricochet hole in one of the thugs that no one had noticed in the excitement. The chief was still sitting there with that bloodless look when we marched in. I didn't believe it could be done, but he went two shades whiter. You made the pinch, he whispered. Before I could straighten him out, a second and more awful idea hit him. He grabbed a handful of shirt on the first torpedo and poked his face down. You with China Joe. He snarled. The punk made the error of trying to be cute, so the Chief let him have one on the head with the open hand that set his eyes rolling like marbles. When the question got asked again, he found the right answer. I never heard from no China Joe. We just hit town today and freelance, by God. The chief sighed and collapsed into his chair. Lock em up and quickly tell me what in hell happened. I slammed the gate on them and pointed a none too steady finger at Ned. There's the hero, I said. Took them on single handed, wrastled them for a fall and made the capture. He's a one robot tornado, a power for good in this otherwise evil community. And he's bulletproof too. I ran a finger over Ned's broad chest. The paint was chipped by the slugs, but the metal was hardly scratched. This is going to cause me big trouble. Big trouble. The chief wailed. I knew he meant with the protection boys. They did not like punks getting arrested and guns going off without their okay. But Ned thought the Chief had other worries and rushed in to put them right. There will be no trouble. At no time did I violate any of the robotic restriction laws. They are part of my control circuits and therefore fully automatic. The men who drew their guns violated both robotic and human laws when they threatened violence. I did not injure the men, merely restrained them. It was all over the Chief's head, but I like to think I could follow it. And I had been wondering how a robot, a machine, could be involved in something like law, application and violence. Ned had the answer to that one too. Robots have been assuming these functions for years. Don't recording radar meters pass judgment on human violation of automobile regulations? A robot alcohol detector is better qualified to assess the sobriety of a prisoner than the arresting officer. At one time robots were even allowed to make their own decisions about killing. Before the robotic restriction laws, automatic gun pointers were in general use. Their final development was a self contained battery of large anti aircraft guns. Automatic scan radar detected all aircraft in the vicinity. Those that could not return the correct identifying signal had their courses tracked and computed. Automatic fuse cutters and loaders readied the computer aimed guns which were fired by the robot Mechanism. There was little I could argue about with Ned, except maybe his college professor vocabulary, so I switched the attack. But a robot can't take the place of a cop. It's a complex human job. Of course it is. But taking a human policeman's place is not the function of a police robot. Primarily, I combine the functions of numerous pieces of police equipment, integrating their operations and making them instantly available. In addition, I can aid in the mechanical process of law enforcement. If you arrest a man, you handcuff him, but if you order me to do it, I have made no moral decision. I am just a machine for attaching handcuffs. At that point, my raised hand cut off the flow of robotic argument. Ned was hipped to his ears with facts and figures, and I had a good idea who would come off second best in any continued discussion. No laws had been broken when Ned made the pinch, that was for sure. But there are other laws than those that appear on the books. China Joe is not going to like this. Not at all, the chief said, speaking my own thoughts. The law of tooth and claw. That's one that wasn't in the law books. And that was what ran Nineport. The place was just big enough to have a good population of gambling joints, bawdy houses, and drunk rollers. They were all run by China Joe, as was the police department. We were all in his pocket, and you might say he was the one who paid our wages. This is not the kind of thing, though, that you explain to a robot. Yeah, China Joe. I thought it was an echo at first, then realized that someone had eased in the door behind me. Something called Alex. Six feet of bone, muscle, and trouble. China Joe's right hand man. He imitated a smile at the chief, who sank a bit lower in his chair. China Joe wants you should tell him why you got smart cops going around and putting the arm on people and letting them shoot up good liquor. He's mostly angry about the hooch. He says that he had enough guff and after this you should. I am putting you under robot arrest pursuant to Article 46, paragraph 19 of the revised Statutes. Ned had done it before we realized he had even moved right in front of our eyes. He was arresting Alex and signing our death warrants. Alex was not slow as he turned to see who had grabbed him. He had already dragged out his cannon. He got one shot in square against Ned's chest before the robot plucked the gun away and slipped on the cuffs. While we all gaped like dead fish, Ned recited the charge in what I swear was a satisfied tone. The prisoner is Peter Rakjomski, alias Alex the Axe, wanted in Canal City for armed robbery and attempted murder. Also wanted by local police of Detroit, New York and Manchester on charges of. Get it off me. Alex howled. We might have too, and everything might have still been straightened out if Benny Bug hadn't heard the shot. He popped his head in the front door just long enough to roll his eyes over our little scene. Alex, they're putting the arm on Alex. Then he was gone, and when I hit the door he was nowhere in sight. China Joe's boys always went around in pairs, and in 10 minutes he would know all about it. Book him, I told Ned. It wouldn't make any difference if we let him go now. The world has already come to an end. Fats came in then, mumbling to himself, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder when he saw me. What's up? I see little Benny Bug coming out of here like the place was on fire and almost get killed driving away. Then Fats saw Alex with the bracelets on and turned sober in one second. He just took a moment to gape. Then his mind was made up. Without a trace of stagger, he walked over to the chief and threw his badge on the desk in front of him. I am an old man and I drink too much to be a cop. Therefore I am resigning from the force because if that is whom I think it is over there with the cuffs on, I will not live to be a day older as long as I am around here. Rat. The chief growled in pain through his clenched teeth. Deserting the sinking ship. Rat. Squeak. Fat said and left. The chief was beyond caring at this point. He didn't blink an eye when I took Fat's badge off the desk. I don't know why I did it. Perhaps I thought it was only fair. Ned had started all the trouble and I was just angry enough to want him on the spot. When it was finished, there were two rings on his chest plate and I was not surprised when the badge pin fitted them neatly. There. Now you're a real cop. Sarcasm dripped from the words. I should have realized that robots are immune to sarcasm. Ned took my statement at face value. This is a very great honor, not only for me, but for all robots. I will do my best to fulfill all the obligations of the office. Jack Armstrong in tin underwear. I could hear the little motors in his guts humming with joy as he booked Alex. If everything else hadn't been so bad, I would have enjoyed that. Ned had more police equipment built into him than Nineport had ever owned. There was an ink pad that snapped out of one hip and he efficiently rolled Alex's fingertips across it and stamped them on a card. Then he held the prisoner at arm's length while something clicked in his abdomen once more sideways, and two instant photographs dropped out of a slot. The mug shots were stuck on the card, arrest details and such inserted. There was more like this, but I forced myself away. There were more important things to think about, like staying alive. Any ideas, Chief? A groan was my only answer, so I let it go at that. Billy the balance of the police force came in. Then I gave him a quick rundown. Either through stupidity or guts, he elected to stay and I was proud of the boy. Ned locked away the latest prisoner and began sweeping up. That was the way we were when China Joe walked in. Even though we were expecting it, it was still a shock. He had a bunch of his toughest hoods with him and they crowded through the door like an overweight baseball team. China Joe was in front, hands buried in the sleeves of his long mandarin gown. No expression at all on his ascetic features. He didn't waste time talking to us, just gave the word to his own boys, clean up this place. The new police chief will be here in a while and I don't want him to see any bombs hanging around. It made me angry. Even with the graft. I like to feel I'm still a cop, not on a cheap punk's payroll. I was also curious about China Joe, had been ever since I tried to get a line on him and never found a thing. I still wanted to know Ned. Take a good look at that Chinese guy in the rayon bathrobe and let me know who he is. My, but those electronic circuits work fast. Ned shot the answer back like a straight man who had been rehearsing his lines for weeks. He is a pseudo oriental utilizing a natural sallowness of the skin heightened with dye. He is not Chinese. There has also been an operation on his eyes, scars of which are still visible. This has been undoubtedly done in an attempt to conceal his real identity, but bertillion measurements of his ears and other features make identity positive. He is on the very wanted list of Interpol and his real name is China Joe was angry and with reason. That's the thing. That big mouth tin radio set over there. We heard about it and were taking care of it. The mob jumped aside then or hit the deck and I saw there was a guy kneeling in the door with a rocket launcher shaped anti tank charges. No doubt that was My last thought as the thing let go with a whoosh. Maybe you can hit a tank with one of those things, but not a robot. At least not a police robot. Ned was sliding across the floor on his face when the back wall blew up. There was no second shot. Ned closed his hand on the tube of the bazooka and it was so much old drainpipe. Billy decided that anyone who fired a rocket in a police station was breaking the law. So he moved in with his club. I was right behind him, since I did not want to miss any of the fun. Ned was at the bottom somewhere, but I didn't doubt he could take care of himself. There were a couple of muffled shots and someone screamed. No one fired after that because we were all too tangled up. A punk named Brooklyn Eddy hit me on the side of the head with his gun butt and I broke his nose all over his face with my fist. There is a kind of fog over everything after that, but I do remember it was very busy for a while. When the fog lifted a bit, I realized I was the only one still standing, or leaning rather. It was a good thing the wall was there. Ned came in through the street door carrying a very bashed looking Brooklyn Eddy. I hoped I had done all that. Eddie's wrists were fastened together with cuffs. Ned laid him gently next to the heap of thugs who I suddenly realized all wore the same kind of handcuffs. I wondered vaguely if Ned made them as he needed them or had a supply tucked away in a hollow leg or something. There was a chair a few feet away, and sitting down helped. Blood was all over everything, and if a couple of the hoods hadn't groaned, I would have thought they were corpses. One was, I noticed suddenly a bullet had caught him in the chest. Most of the blood was probably his. Ned burrowed in the bodies for a moment and dragged Billee out. He was unconscious, a big smile on his face and the splintered remains of his nightstick still stuck in his fist. It takes very little to make some people happy. A bullet had gone through his leg and he never moved while Ned ripped the pants leg off and put on a bandage. The Sperry's China Joe and one other man escaped in a car, Ned reported. Don't let it worry you, I managed to croak. Your batting average still leads the league. It was then I realized the chief was still sitting in his chair where he had been when the brouhaha started, still slumped down with that glazed look. Only after I started to talk to him did I realize that Alonzo Craig, Chief of Police of Nineport, was now dead. A single shot, small caliber gun, maybe a.22 right through the heart. And what blood there had been was soaked up by his clothes. I had a good idea where the gun would be that fired that shot. A small gun, the kind that would fit in a wide Chinese sleeve. I wasn't tired or groggy any more, just angry. Maybe he hadn't been the brightest or most honest guy in the world, but he deserved a better end than that. Knocked off by a two bit racket boss who thought he was being crossed. Right about then I realized I had a big decision to make. With Billy out of the fight and Fats gone, I was the Nineport police force. All I had to do to be clear of this mess was to walk out the door and keep going. I would be safe enough. Ned, buzzed by, picked up two of the thugs and hauled them off to the cells. Maybe it was the sight of his blue back, or maybe I was tired of running. Either way, my mind was made up. Before I realized it. I carefully took off the chief's gold badge and put it on in place of my old one. The new Chief of Police of Nineport, I said to no one in particular. Yes, sir, ned said as he passed. He put one of the prisoners down long enough to salute, then went on with his work. I returned the salute. The hospital meat wagon hauled away the dead and wounded. I took an evil pleasure in ignoring the questioning stares of the attendants. After the doc fixed the side of my head, everyone cleared out. Ned mopped up the floor. I ate 10 aspirin and waited for the hammering to stop so I could think what to do next. When I pulled my thoughts together, the answer was obvious. Too obvious. I made as long a job as I could of reloading my gun. Refill your handcuff box, Ned. We are going out like a good cop. He asked no questions. I locked the outside door when we left and gave him the key. Here. There's a good chance you'll be the only one left to use this before the day is over. I stretched the drive over to China Joe's place just as much as I could, trying to figure if there was another way of doing it. There wasn't. Murder had been done and Joe was the boy I was going to pin it on, so I had to get him. The best I could do was stop around the corner and give Ned a briefing. This combination bar in dice room is the sole property of he whom we will still call China Joe until there's Time for you to give me a rundown on him right now. I got enough distractions. What we have to do is go in there, find Joe, and bring him to justice. Simple, simple, ned answered in his sharp Joe College voice. But wouldn't it be simpler to make the arrest now, when he is leaving in that car instead of waiting until he returns? The car in mention was doing 60 as it came out of the alley ahead of us. I only had a glimpse of Joe in the back seat as it tore by us. Stop them. I shouted, mostly for my own benefit since I was driving. I tried to shift gears and start the engine at the same time and succeeded in doing exactly nothing. So Ned stopped them. It had been phrased as an order. He leaned his head out of the window and I saw at once why most of his equipment was located in his torso. Probably his brain as well. There sure wasn't much room left in his head when that cannon was tucked away in there. A.75 recoilless. A plate swiveled back right where his nose should have been, if he had one, and the big muzzle pointed out. It's a neat idea when you think about it. Right between the eyes for good aiming up high, always ready. The boom boom almost took my head off. Of course, Ned was a perfect shot. So would I be with a computer for a brain. He had holed one rear tire with each slug and the car flap flapped to a stop a little ways down the road. I climbed out slowly while Ned sprinted there in seconds flat. They didn't even try to run this time. What little nerve they had left must have been shattered by the smoking muzzle of that 75 poking out from between Ned's eyes. Robots are neat about things like that, so he must have left it sticking out deliberately. Probably he had a course in psychology back in robot school. Three of them in the car, all waving their hands in the air like the last reel of a Western, and the rear floor covered with interesting little suitcases. Everyone came along quietly. China Joe only snarled while Ned told me that his name really was Stanton, and the Almira hot seat was kept warm all the time in hopes he would be back. I promised Joe Stanton I would be happy to arrange it that same day, thereby not worrying about any slip ups with the local authorities. The rest of the mob would stand trial in Canal City. It was a very busy day. Things have quieted down a good deal since then. Billy is out of the hospital and wearing my old sergeant's stripes. Even Fats is back, though he is sober. Once in a while now and has trouble looking me in the eye. We don't have much to do because in addition to being a quiet town, this is now an honest one. Ned is on foot patrol nights and in charge of the lab and files days. Maybe the Policeman's Benevolent wouldn't like that, but Ned doesn't seem to mind. He touched up all the bullet scratches and keeps his badge polished. I know a robot can't be happy or sad, but Ned seems to be happy. Sometimes I would swear I can hear him humming to himself. But of course that's only the motors and things going around when you start thinking about it. I suppose we set some kind of precedent here, what with putting on a robot as a full fledged police officer. No one ever came around from the factory yet, so I have never found out if we're the first or not. And I'll tell you something else, I'm not going to stay in this broken down town forever. I have some letters out now looking for a new job, so some people are going to be very surprised when they see who their new Chief of police is after I leave. End of arm of the law by harry harrison.
[72:24]
The Bell Tone by Edmund H. Leftwich this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times the Bell Tone by Edmund H. Leftwich it is no use. It's too late. The Earth I must dig Alone To Whom it may Concern in order to clear up any misunderstanding or false impressions regarding the amazing case of my beloved friend and co worker, Professor Howard E. Edwards. I submit herewith extracts from the Professor's notebook which I found on the desk. Evans Barclay, BS Fellow Ire January 25th last night in my dreams I was a monstrous ant and had been digging myself a burrow in the soft fresh earth. The dream was intensely real and when I awoke I felt as tired as if I had actually been digging. My arms ached and I was astonished upon examining my hands to find them raw. Dressing hastily, I rushed to the back yard and there, sure enough, near the fence, was a large hole about 2ft deep and 3ft long. Hurriedly I filled it in and returned to the house. I must rest for a few days as I feel that the intense excitement caused by my investigations is preying too heavily upon my mind. At this time I feel that I should make a brief summary of my findings in respect to the ants so that Barclay may go over these notes upon his return from his vacation. First, the ant colony is the source of the powerful bell like tone which is radiated continuously on two wavelengths,.0018 meter and 0.00176 meter. This tone acts as a radio beacon and directs the ants to the colony, no matter where they may be located. The 0018 meter wave is used by the ants for their clacking conversations by means of which they communicate with each other and the colony, receiving orders from the directing intelligence, reporting the location of food and requesting help when needed. The wave 00176 meter is used for sending thought images or pictures which may be sent with the clacking code or independently. I cannot conceive a more efficient or highly specialized communication system. I must learn their secret, their methods. January 30th. This morning, while sitting at the receiver in a semi doze, with a bell tone ringing in my ears, I fell into that state known as daydreaming. Little Nippy, my beloved fox, terrier and constant companion, rushed into the laboratory and ran up to me. For a moment my mind went blank. My hand shot out. I grasped the dog around the throat and began to throttle him. I had risen from my chair and the dog was nearly dead when I slipped and fell, pulling the phone plug out of the receiver. Instantly, my mind cleared and words cannot express the remorse I felt at my inhuman actions. Nippy would have nothing to do with me and crawled dejectedly from the room, a terrified look in his eyes. I have no explanation for my actions. February 3rd. The transmitter is ready for operation. I have constructed a pair of metal disc electrodes which clamp tightly to my head and press against my temples. This device will pick up the thought impulses from my brain, feed them directly into the radio frequency amplifier which where they will be amplified and then radiated in a tight directed beam. My two ants were in their little enclosure under the microscope. When I threw the switch to the send position. I pictured myself as I looked as a man and sent the thought I am a man. Hastily, I threw the switch on to the receive position. I looked through the microscope. The ants were lying on their sides. Somehow I felt that the power was too great and had stunned them. Keeping my eye to the microscope, I again threw the switch to send and cut the power to half. Get up, friends, get up, I thought as I pictured them rising. Sure enough, the ants slowly regained their feet. They looked about in apparent bewilderment. Back again in received position, I was conscious of the thought image. The man. He is the man. The man holds us here. He is killing us. We must kill the man. They gnashed their fierce looking mandibles. I snapped back, descend. And thought, no. You must not kill the man. The man will not harm you. He is your friend. He will help you. As I watched, the ants seemed to become less excited. From the larger of the two, I received the thought, we are dying. The man is killing us with his strong vibrations. We must kill the man. Then a very powerful thought impression burst upon my brain. It seemed to come from the colony three feet away. Warning to the Man. Stop your thought transmissions at once. Your vibrations are killing us. We want nothing from you. We have everything we need. You will learn nothing from us. You will stop at once. I threw the switch to send. Viewed through the microscope, the two ants were lying on their backs, dead to all appearances. What if I don't stop? I sent the thought question. I want to learn the secret of your communication. In return, I will teach you many things. I can't stop now. I changed to receive and the answer came back, if you do not stop, we will kill you. I turned off the apparatus, but the powerful bell tone continued to pound incessantly into my brain. I laughed. They'd kill me. Would they? Those tiny insects, what could they do? Well, let them try. But I'd get what I was after. I would not quit now with success so near. What if my transmissions did kill a few of them? Of what importance were the lives of a few ants as compared to the advancement of the science of communication? February 9th. I found myself digging again in the back yard yesterday. As before, I had been day dreaming when an overwhelming desire to go outside and feel the cool, moist earth between my fingers and on my face took possession of me. I rushed out into the back yard and began digging feverishly madly until finally I fell exhausted. Then my mind cleared and I filled in the hole. About half the ants have died, due no doubt, to the strength of my radiations. No matter how low I cut the power, they still cannot live but a short time. Under the force of my transmissions, they have stopped sending thought impressions entirely and are only using their clacking code signals which they seem to realize I cannot understand. I feel that they are undertaking some sort of campaign against me. For hours they congregate, closely packed, their antenna stiffly pointed straight up. Their thought currents seem to be flowing into and merging with the bell tone, which grows stronger and more penetrating day by day. In my backyard there are four large ant hills, and at each hill, curiously, there is no activity except the same mass concentration of the ants have they too been affected by my radiations and joined forces with the original colony against myself? The bell tone continues to grow stronger. February 11th. Mrs. Winslow, the middle aged widow who comes to clean my house and laboratory twice a week, was here this morning. She is short, dumpy and inclined to be stout. As she went about her work, I noticed particularly the fat, firm flesh of her neck just below the jaw. I felt an uncontrollable desire to sink my teeth deep into that flesh and enjoy the taste of warm, fresh blood. I had actually risen from my chair to accomplish my desire when the telephone rang and my mind cleared. February 14th. I have decided to stop my experiments with the ants as they refuse to send any more thought impressions. There is nothing further I can learn from them. Somehow I feel that they are gaining a hold upon my mind and that every time I listen in on the perceiver, that hold becomes stronger. I firmly believe that I would have attacked the poor Mrs. Winslow had not the ringing of the phone so opportunely interrupted me. I have sent word for her to stay away. As I cannot trust myself. I keep a box of fresh earth on the table in my laboratory. I often run my fingers through it and taste it. It is remarkable how much this soothes my nerves. February 16th. It is too late. For two days I have kept my apparatus shut off. I have not so much as looked at the ants, but still that confounded bell tone rings in my ears with all the insistence of African tom toms. Hour by hour the tone becomes more penetrating. I cannot sleep and can eat but little. As a last resort, I destroyed my ant colony. I even went so far as to pour boiling water on the four anthills in my yard. Still the bell tone persists. I can stand it no longer. Perhaps if I were to dig again in the yard, in the soothing earth, I could forget. News clipping from Philadelphia Banner Radio communications engineer Dead. Howard E. Edwards suicide. Philadelphia, February 18. The body of Howard E. Edwards, B.S. ph.D. Member IRE eminent authority on radio communications, aged 56, was found this morning in the back yard of his residence, 1427 Rains Ave. The body was almost completely buried in a long, narrow hole in the ground. At first foul play was suspected, but later it appeared that Edwards had dug himself into the ground and died of suffocation as his nostrils and mouth were filled with dirt. Dr. P.A. hoffner, who examined the body, found no wounds, stated that Edwards had been dead for about two days and pronounced the death as a clear case of suicide. The strange means employed, probably due to an unbalanced mental condition. Elaborate radio apparatus upon which Edwards had been working had been smashed to bits. End of the bell tone.
[85:11]
The Gun by Philip K. Dick this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Greg Marguerite the Gun by Philip K. Dick. Nothing moved or stirred. Everything was silent. Dead. Only the guns showed signs of life, and the trespassers had wrecked that for all time. The return journey to pick up the treasure would be a cinch. They smiled. The captain peered into the eyepiece of the telescope. He adjusted the focus quickly. It was an atomic fission we saw, all right, he said presently. He sighed and pushed the eyepiece away. Any of you who wants to look may do so, but it's not a pretty sight. Let me look, Tance, the archaeologist said. He bent down to look, squinting. Good Lord. He leaped violently back, knocking against Doorly, the chief navigator. Why did we come all this way, then? Doorly asked, looking around at the other men. There's no point even in landing. Let's go back at once. Perhaps he's right, the biologist murmured. But I'd like to look for myself, if I may. He pushed past Tance and peered into the sight. He saw a vast expanse of endless surface of gray stretching to the edge of the planet. At first he thought it was water, but after a moment he realized that it was slagpitted, fused slag, broken only by hills of rock jutting up at intervals. Nothing moved or stirred. Everything was silent. Dead. I see, fomar said, backing away from the eyepiece. Well, I won't find any legumes there. He tried to smile, but his lips stayed unmoved. He stepped away and stood by himself, staring past the others. I wonder what the atmospheric sample will show, tance said. I think I can guess, the captain answered. Most of the atmosphere is poisoned. But didn't we expect all this? I don't see why we're so surprised. A fission visible as far away as our system must be a terrible thing. He strode off down the corridor, dignified and expressionless. They watched him disappear into the control room. As the captain closed the door, the young woman turned. What did the telescope show? Good or bad? Bad. No life could possibly exist. Atmosphere poisoned. Water vaporized. All the land fused. Could they have gone underground? The captain slid back the port windows so that the surface of the planet under them was visible. The two of them stared down, silent and disturbed. Mile after mile of unbroken ruin stretched out Blackened slag, pitted and scarred, and occasional heaps of rock. Suddenly Nasha jumped. Look. Over there at the edge. Do you see it? They stared. Something rose up. Not rock, not an accidental formation. It was round. A circle of dots, white pellets on the dead skin of the planet. A city. Buildings of some kind. Please turn the ship, nasha said excitedly. She pushed her dark hair from her face. Turn the ship and let's see what it is. The ship turned, changing its course as they came over the white dots. The captain lowered the ship, dropping it down as much as he dared. Piers, he said. Piers of some sort of stone, perhaps. Poured artificial stone. The remains of a city. Oh dear, nasha murmured. How awful. She watched the ruins disappear behind them in a half circle. The white squares jutted from the slag, chipped and cracked like broken teeth. There's nothing alive, the captain said at last. I think we'll go right back. I know most of the crew want to get the government receiving station on the sender and tell them what we've found and that we he staggered. The first atomic shell had struck the ship, spinning it around. The captain fell to the floor, crashing into the control table. Papers and instruments rained down on him as he started to his feet. The second shell struck. The ceiling cracked open. Struts and girders twisted and bent. The ship shuddered, falling suddenly down, then righting itself as automatic controls took over. The captain lay on the floor by the smashed control board in the center. Nasha struggled to free herself from the debris. Outside, the men were already sealing the gaping leaks in the side of the ship, through which the precious air was rushing, dissipating into the void beyond. Help me. Dorley was shouting. Fire over here. Wiring ignited. Two men came running. Tance watched helplessly, his eyeglasses broken and bent. So there is life here after all, he said, half to himself. But how could Give us a hand, fomar said, hurrying past. Give us a hand. We've got to land the ship. It was night. A few stars glinted above them, winking through the drifting silt that blew across the surface of the planet. Doorly peered out, frowning. What a place to be stuck in. He resumed his work, hammering the bent metal hull of the ship back into place. He was wearing a pressure suit. There were still many small leaks, and radioactive particles from the atmosphere had already found their way into the ship. Nasha and Fomar were sitting at the table in the control room, pale, solemn, studying the inventory lists. Low on carbohydrates, Fomar said, we can Break down the stored fats if we want to, but I wonder if we could find anything outside. Nasha went to the window. How uninviting it looks. She paced back and forth, very slender and small, her face dark with fatigue. What do you suppose an exploring party would find? Fomar shrugged. Not much. Maybe a few weeds growing in cracks here and there. Nothing we could use. Anything that would adapt to this environment would be toxic. Lethal. Nasha paused, rubbing her cheek. There was a deep scratch there, still red and swollen. Then how do you explain it? According to your theory, the inhabitants must have died in their skins, fried like yams. But who fired on us? Somebody detected us, made a decisionaimed a gun, and gauged distance, the captain said feebly. From the cot in the corner. He turned toward them. That's the part that worries me. The first shell put us out of commission. The second almost destroyed us. They were well aimed. Perfectly aimed. We're not such an easy target. True. Fomar nodded. Well, perhaps we'll know the answer before we leave here. What a strange situation. All our reasoning tells us that no life could exist. The whole planet burned dry, the atmosphere itself gone, completely poisoned. The gun that fired the projectiles survived, Nasha said. Why not people? It's not the same. Metal doesn't need air to breathe. Metal doesn't get leukemia from radioactive particles. Metal doesn't need food and water. There was silence. A paradox, nasha said. Anyhow, in the morning I think we should send out a search party. And meanwhile we should keep on trying to get the ship in condition for the trip back. It'll be days before we can take off, omar said. We should keep every man working here. We can't afford to send out a party. Nasha smiled a little. We'll send you out in the first party. Maybe you can discover. What was it you were so interested in? Legumes. Edible legumes. Maybe you can find some of them. Only. Only what? Only watch out. They fired on us once without even knowing who we were or what we came for. Do you suppose they fought with each other? Perhaps they couldn't imagine anyone being friendly under any circumstances. What a strange evolutionary trait. Interspecies warfare. Fighting within the race. We'll know in the morning, fomar said. Let's get some sleep. The sun came up, chill and austere. The three people, two men and a woman, stepped through the port, dropping down on the hard ground below. What a day, doorly said grumpily. I said how glad I'd be to walk on Firm ground again. But come on, nasha said up beside me. I want to say something to you. Will you excuse us, Tance? Tance nodded gloomily. Dorli caught up with Nasha. They walked together, their metal shoes crunching the ground underfoot. Nasha glanced at him. Listen. The captain is dying. No one knows except the two of us. By the end of the day period of this planet, he'll be dead. The shock did something to his heart. He was almost 60, you know. Doorly nodded. That's bad. I have a great deal of respect for him. You will be captain in his place, of course, since you're vice captain now. No, I prefer to see someone else lead. Perhaps you or Fomar. I've been thinking over the situation, and it seems to me that I should declare myself mated to one of you. Whichever of you wants to be captain. Then I could devolve the responsibility. Well, I don't want to be captain. Let Fomhor do it. Nasha studied him, tall and blond, striding along beside her in his pressure suit. I'm rather partial to you, she said. We might try it for a time, at least. But do as you like. Look, we're coming to something. They stopped walking, letting Tance catch up. In front of them was some sort of a ruined building. Doorly stared around thoughtfully. Do you see? This whole place is a natural bowl, a huge valley. See how the rock formations rise up on all sides, protecting the floor. Maybe some of the great blast was deflected here. They wandered around the ruins, picking up rocks and fragments. I think this was a farm, tant said, examining a piece of wood. This was part of a tower. Windmill, really. Nasha took the stick and turned it over. Interesting. But let's go. We don't have much time. Look, dorley said suddenly. Off there. A long way off. Isn't that something? He pointed. Nasha sucked in her breath. The white stones. What? Nasha looked up at Dorli. The white stones. The great broken teeth. We saw them, the captain and I, from the control room. She touched Dorli's arm gently. That's where they fired from. I didn't think we had landed so close. What is it? Tant said, coming up to them. I'm almost blind without my glasses. What do you see? The city where they fired from. Oh. All three of them stood together. Well, let's go, tant said. There's no telling what we'll find there. Doorly frowned at him. Wait. We don't know what we would be getting into. They must have patrols. They probably have seen us already. For that matter, they probably have seen the ship itself, tant said. They probably know right now where they can find it, where they can blow it up. So what difference does it make whether we go closer or not? That's true, nasha said. If they really want to get us, we haven't a chance. We have no armaments at all. You know that. I have a hand weapon. Dorli nodded. Well, let's go on, then. I suppose you're right, Tance. But let's stay together. Tance said nervously. Gnasha, you're going too fast. Nasha looked back. She laughed. If we expect to get there by nightfall, we must go fast. They reached the outskirts of the city at about the middle of the afternoon. The sun, cold and yellow, hung above them in the colorless sky. Doorly stopped at the top of a ridge overlooking the city. Well, there it is. What's left of it. There was not much left. The huge concrete piers, which they had noticed were not piers at all, but the ruined foundations of buildings. They had been baked by the searing heat, baked and charred almost to the ground. Nothing else remained, only this irregular circle of white squaresperhaps four miles in diameter. Doorly spat in disgust. More wasted time. A dead skeleton of a city, that's all. But it was from here that the firing came, tance murmured. Don't forget that. And by someone with a good eye and a great deal of experience, nasha added. Let's go. They walked into the city between the ruined buildings. No one spoke. They walked in silence, listening to the echo of their footsteps. It's macabre, dorley muttered. I've seen ruined cities before, but they died of old age. Old age and fatigue. This was killed. Seared to death. This city didn't die. It was murdered. I wonder what the city was called, nasha said. She turned aside, going up the remains of a stairway from one of the foundations. Do you think we might find a signpost? Some kind of plaque? She peered into the ruins. There's nothing there, doorly said impatiently. Come on. Wait. Nasha bent down, touching a concrete stone. There's something inscribed on this. What is it? Tance hurried up. He squatted in the dust, running his gloved fingers over the surface of the stone. Letter's all right. He took a writing stick from the pocket of his pressure suit and copied the inscription on a bit of paper. Doorly glanced over his shoulder. The inscription was Franklin Apartments. That's this city, nasha said softly. That was its name. Tance put the paper in his pocket, and they went on. After a time, Doorly said, nasha, you know, I think we're being watched. But don't look around. The woman stiffened. Oh? Why do you say that? Did you see something? No. I can feel it, though. Don't you? Nasha smiled a little. I feel nothing. But perhaps I'm more used to being stared at. She turned her head slightly. Oh. Dorley reached for his hand weapon. What is it? What do you see? Tance had stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth half open. The gun, nasha said. It's the gun. Look at the size of it. The size of the thing. Doorly unfastened his hand weapon slowly. That's it, all right. The gun was huge, stark and immense. It pointed up at the sky, a mass of steel and glass set in a huge slab of concrete. Even as they watched, the gun moved on, its swivel base whirring underneath, a slim vane turned with the wind, a network of rods atop a high pole. It's alive, nasha whispered. It's listening to us. Watching us. The gun moved again, this time clockwise. It was mounted so that it could make a full circle. The barrel lowered a trifle, then resumed its original position. But who fires it? Tant said. Dorley laughed. No one. No one fires it. They stared at him. What do you mean, it fires itself? They couldn't believe him. Nasha came close to him, frowning, looking up at him. I don't understand. What do you mean, it fires itself? Watch. I'll show you. Don't move. Dorley picked up a rock from the ground. He hesitated a moment and then tossed the rock high in the air. The rock passed in front of the gun. Instantly the great barrel moved, the veins contracted. The rock fell to the ground. The gun paused, then resumed its calm swivel, its slow circling. You see? Dorley said. It noticed the rock as soon as I threw it up in the air. It's alert to anything that flies or moves above the ground level. Probably it detected us as soon as we entered the gravitational field of the planet. It probably had a beat on us from the start. We don't have a chance. It knows all about the ship. It's just waiting for us to take off again. I understand about the rock, nasha said, nodding. The gun noticed it, but not us, since we're on the ground, not above. It's only designed to combat objects in the sky. The ship is safe until it takes off again. Then the end will come. But what's this gun for? Tance put in. There's no one alive here. Everyone is dead. It's a machine, doorly said. A machine that was made to do a job. And it's doing the job. How it survived the blast, I don't know. On it goes. Waiting for the enemy. Probably they came by air in some sort of projectiles. The enemy, Nasha said. Their own race. It is hard to believe that they really bombed themselves. Fired at themselves. Well, it's over with. Except right here where we're standing, this one gun still alert, ready to kill. It'll go on until it wears out, and by that time we'll be dead, nasha said bitterly. There must have been hundreds of guns like this, doorly murmured. They must have been used to the sight. Guns, weapons, uniforms. Probably they accepted it as a natural thing, part of their lives, like eating and sleeping. An institution like the church and the state. Men trained to fight, to lead armies. A regular profession. Honored, respected. Tance was walking slowly toward the gun, peering near sightedly up at it. Quite complex, isn't it? All those veins and tubes. I suppose this is some sort of a telescopic sight. His gloved hand touched the end of a long tube. Instantly the gun shifted, the barrel. Reacting, it swung. Don't move. Dorley cried. The barrel swung past them as they stood rigid and still. For one terrible moment it hesitated over their heads, clicking and whirring, settling into position. Then the sounds died out and the gun became silent. Tance smiled foolishly inside his helmet. I must have put my finger over the lens. I'll be more careful. He made his way up onto the circular slab, stepping gingerly behind the body of the gun. He disappeared from view. Where did he go? Nasha said irritably. He'll get us all killed. Tance, come back. Doorly shouted. What's the matter with you? In a minute. There was a long silence. At last the archaeologist appeared. I think I found something. Come up and I'll show you. What is it, Dorley? You said the gun was here to keep the enemy off. I think I know why they wanted to keep the enemy off. They were puzzled. I think I found what the gun is supposed to guard. Come and give me a hand. All right, dorley said abruptly. Let's go. He seized Nash's hand. Come on, let's see what he's found. I thought something like this might happen when I saw that the gun was like what? Nasha pulled her hand away. What are you talking about? You act as if you knew what he's found. I do. Dorley smiled down at her. Do you remember the legend that all races have? The myth of the buried treasure and the dragon? The serpent that watches it, guards it, keeps everyone away? She nodded. Well. Dorley pointed up at the gun. That, he said, is the dragon. Come on. Between the three of them, they managed to pull up the steel cover and lay it to one side. Doorly was wet with perspiration when they finished. It isn't worth it, he grunted. He stared into the dark, yawning hole. Or is it? Nasha clicked on her hand lamp, shining the beam down the stairs. The steps were thick with dust and rubble. At the bottom was a steel door. Come on, tant said excitedly. He started down the stairs. They watched him reach the door and pull hopefully on it without success. Give a hand. All right. They came gingerly after him. Dorley examined the door. It was bolted shut, locked. There was an inscription on the door, but he could not read it. Now what? Nasha said. Dorley took out his hand weapon. Stand back. I can't think of any other way. He pressed the switch. The bottom of the door glowed red. Presently it began to crumble. Doorly clicked the weapon off. I think we can get through. Let's try. The door came apart easily. In a few minutes they had carried it away in pieces and stacked the pieces on the first step. Then they went on, flashing the light ahead of them. They were in a vault. Dust lay everywhere, on everything, inches thick. Wood crates lined the walls. Huge boxes and crates, packages and containers. Tance looked around curiously, his eyes bright. What exactly are all these? He murmured. Something valuable, I would think. He picked up a round drum and opened it. A spool fell to the floor, unwinding a black ribbon. He examined it, holding it up to the light. Look at this. They came around him. Pictures, nasha said. Tiny pictures. Records of some kind. Tance closed the spool up in the drum again. Look. Hundreds of drums. He flashed the light around. And those crates? Let's open one. Doorly was already prying at the wood. The wood had turned brittle and dry. He managed to pull a section away. It was a picture, a boy in a blue garment, smiling pleasantly, staring ahead. Young and handsome. He seemed almost alive, ready to move toward them in the light of the hand lamp. It was one of them. One of the ruined race. The race that had perished for a long time. They stared at the picture. At last, Doorly replaced the board. All these other crates, nasha said. More pictures. And these drums. What are in these boxes? This is their treasure, tant said, almost to himself. Here are their pictures, their records. Probably all their literature is here. Their stories, their myths, their ideas about the universe, and their history, nasha said. We'll be able to trace their development and find out what it was that made them become what they were. Doorly was wandering around the vault. Odd, he murmured. Even at the end, even after they had begun to fight, they still knew someplace down inside them, that their real treasure was this. Their books and pictures, their myths. Even after their big cities and buildings and industries were destroyed. They probably hoped to come back and find this after everything else was gone. When we get back home, we can agitate for a mission to come here, tant said. All this can be loaded up and taken back. We'll be leaving about he stopped. Yes, dorley said dryly. We'll be leaving about three day periods from now. We'll fix the ship, then take off. Soon we'll be home. That is, if nothing happens. Like being shot down by that. Oh, stop it, nasha said impatiently. Leave him alone. He's right. All this must be taken back home. Sooner or later we'll have to solve the problem of the gun. We have no choice. Doorly nodded. What's your solution, then? As soon as we leave the ground, we'll be shot down. His face twisted bitterly. They've guarded their treasure too well. Instead of being preserved, it will lie here until it rots. It serves them right. How? Don't you see? This was the only way they knew, building a gun and setting it up to shoot anything that came along. They were so certain that everything was hostile, the enemy coming to take their possessions away from them. Well, they can keep them. Nasha was deep in thought, her mind far away. Suddenly she gasped. Dorley, she said. What's the matter with us? We have no problem. The gun is no menace at all. The two men stared at her. No menace, dorley said. It's already shot us down once, and as soon as we take off again. Don't you see? Nasha began to laugh. The poor foolish gun. It's completely harmless. Even I could deal with it alone. You? Her eyes were flashing. With a crowbar, with a hammer or a stick of wood. Let's go back to the ship and load up. Of course. We're at its mercy in the air. That's the way it was made. It can fire into the sky, shoot down anything that flies. But that's all. Against something on the ground, it has no defenses. Isn't that right? Dorli nodded slowly. The soft underbelly of the dragon. In the legend, the dragon's armor doesn't cover its stomach. He began to laugh. That's right. That's perfectly right. Let's go then, nasha said. Let's get back to the ship. We have work to do here. It was early the next morning when they reached the ship. During the night the captain had died and the crew had ignited his body. According to custom, they had stood solemnly around it until the last ember died. As they were going back to their work, the woman and the two men appeared dirty and tired, still excited, and presently from the ship a line of people came, each carrying something in his hands. The line marched across the gray slag, the eternal expanse of fused metal. When they reached the weapon, they all fell on the gun at once, with crowbars, hammers, anything that was heavy and hard. The telescopic sights shattered into bits. The wiring was pulled out, torn to shreds. The delicate gears were smashed, dented. Finally the warheads themselves were carried off and the firing pins removed. The gun was smashed, the great weapon destroyed. The people went down into the vault and examined the treasure. With its metal armored guardian dead, there was no danger any longer. They studied the pictures, the films, the crates of books, the jeweled crowns, the cups, the statues. At last, as the sun was dipping into the gray mists that drifted across the planet, they came back up the stairs again. For a moment they stood around the wrecked gun, looking at the unmoving outline of it. Then they started back to the ship. There was still much work to be done. The ship had been badly hurt. Much had been damaged and lost. The important thing was to repair it as quickly as possible, to get it into the air. With all of them working together, it took just five more days to make it spaceworthy. Nasha stood in the control room, watching the planet fall away behind them. She folded her arms, sitting down on the edge of the table. What are you thinking of? Dorli said. I. Nothing. Are you sure? I was thinking that there must have been a time when this planet was quite different, when there was life on it. I suppose there was. It's unfortunate that no ships from our system came this far. But then we had no reason to suspect intelligent life until we saw the fission glow in the sky. And then it was too late. Not quite too late. After all, there are possessions. There are music, books. There are pictures. All of that will survive. We'll take them home and study them, and they'll change us. We won't be the same afterwards. They're sculpturing especially. Did you see the one of the great winged creature without a head or arms broken off, I suppose. But those wings. It looked very old. It will change us a great deal when we come back. We won't find the gun waiting for us, nasha said. Next time it won't be there to shoot us down. We can land and take the treasure, as you call it. She smiled up at Dorley. You'll lead us back there, as a good captain should. Captain Dorli grinned. Then you've decided? Nasha shrugged. Fomar argues with me too much, I think. All in all, I really prefer you. Then let's go, dorley said. Let's go back home. The ship roared up, flying over the ruins of the city. It turned in a huge arc and then shot off beyond the horizon, heading into outer space. Down below in the center of the ruined city, a single half broken detector vane moved slightly, catching the roar of the ship. The base of the great gun throbbed painfully, straining to turn. After a moment, a red warning light flashed on down inside its destroyed works. And a long way off, a hundred miles from the city, another warning light flashed on. Far underground. Automatic relays flew into action. Gears turned. Belts whined. On the ground above, a section of metal slag slipped back. A ramp appeared. A moment later a small cart rushed to the surface. The cart turned toward the city. A second cart appeared behind it. It was loaded with wiring cables. Behind it a third cart came loaded with telescopic tube sights, and behind came more carts, some with relays, some with firing controls, some with tools and parts, screws and bolts, pins and nuts. The final one contained atomic warheads. The carts lined up behind the first one, the lead cart. The lead cart started off across the frozen ground, bumping calmly along, followed by the others moving toward the city to the damaged gun. End of the Gun By Philip K. Dick.
[113:09]
History Repeats by George O. Smith this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times History Repeats by George O. Smith There are, and very probably will always be, some terrestrials who can't and for that matter, don't want to call their souls their own. Zanibar lays across the Spiral Arm, a sprawling sphere of influence, vast, mighty, solid at the core. Only the far flung boundary shows the slight ebb and flow of contingent cultures that may win a system or two today and lose them back tomorrow or a hundred years from now. Zanibar is the trading post of the galaxy for Only Zanibar is strong enough to stand over the trading table when belligerents meet and offer to take them both at once if they do not sheathe their swords for this service. Zanibar assesses her percentage. Therefore Zanibar is rich. Her riches buy her mercenaries to enforce her doctrines. Therefore Zanibar is rotten at the undercore, for mercenaries have no God but gold. The clatter of a hundred tongues mingled with the clink of glasses and and floated through strata of smoke from the burning weeds of a hundred planets. From one of the tables, voices rise in mild disagreement. There is a jeering laugh from one side and a roar of anger from the other. Two men rise and face one another, ready to follow their insults with violence. Before the eruption can start, a mercenary steps forward, forward on lithe feet and lightly catches the backswung arm. A quick hand removes the poise glass before it can be thrown into the adversary's face. Set, says the mercenary in a cold voice. And they sit still, glaring at one another. Now, says the mercenary, settle your differences by talk or departure in opposite directions. This is Zanibar. He lies. He brags. I do not lie. They are barbarians. I do not brag. I can bring you one. You a wager, Said the mercenary. A wager? Zanibar can take no tax in blood. He faces one. You claim you can do that which he says you cannot. Then, not waiting for a reply, he faces the other. And if he does, how much are you willing to pay? How much is his life worth? How much are you willing to pay? Demands the mercenary coldly.500 weight in crystal cut. An honorable sum, do you agree? Not enough for a task as easy as you claim it to be, said the mercenary.500 weight of crystal cut seems honorable, but it means we in Zanibar are not interested in the details, only in the tax and honest wager contract outlanders. Otherwise I rule that your eruption here disturbed the peace. The two outlanders look at one another. Schoolboys caught fighting in the alley by a monitor who demands a bite of their apple in lieu of a visit to the principal. As if loathe to touch one another, they reach forward hesitantly and handshake and a quick light grip. Good, glows the mercenary. He waves a hand and his fellows converge with contract platen and etching stylus. Now, gentlemen, please state the terms for Zannabar. Peter Hawley strolled down a side street with a dog at his heel. It was a dog of many breeds, but not a mixture of careless parentage. Peter paused at a cross street and looked uncertainly to left and right. What do you make, Beauregard? The noble dog says right, replied Beauregard. Right, said Peter, turning up the street. And stop this noble dog man is dog's best friend, said Beauregard. If you'd called me something sensible, I wouldn't have looked it up. There's a statue to me in the Okefenokee back on Earth. I am the noble dog. Pogo says so. I Easy, Peter, said the dog in a near whisper. All right. Do we play down the chatter? Beauregard sat, lifted his nose, and sniffed. His natural voice gave a faint whine of discontent. I'm supposed to have a nose, he complained. This is like trying to smell out a lone mouse in a zoological garden in midsummer. Why the warning? Asked Peter. All races smell the same when they are poised for violence, said the dog. Trouble is, that man smell isn't pointed the way it's going, only where it's coming from. Peter grunted. Catch any woman smell? Just the usual whiff. Stale scent. She was here. She passed this way. But which way? We can guess. They made it away from the spaceport. Unless, said the dog, taking another sniff of the air, they're taking her back to some other spacecraft. Beauregard looked up at Peter. Do you catch anything? Just the usual mingled fright and danger. Frantic despair. Directional. Peter shook his head. No, he said. The source is too close. Let's stroll up this street to the end and come back on the other side, said the dog quietly. In a saunter they went, alert and poised. A man and his dog from all appearances. But in Zanibar, the principal city of Zanibar, the Empire, they were huntsman and companion. Like all cities of more than 10 million souls, Zanibar had its glistening and lofty area and its slums and what would have been a waterfront region. In a seafaring city, the conditions were the same as they'd been everywhere for a few decades of thousands of years. Only the technology changes. Man's cave is stainless steel and synthetic plastic. The cave's man is swinging a better axe, and his hide is protected from the weather by stuff far more durable than his own skin. But he's the same man with the same hackles. They just rise for a few more thousand reasons than the hackles of his ancestors. Got it, said Beauregard, coming to a brief point at a closed door. Let's go in. Beauregard's reply was half snarl and half look out, Peter world. Catch a glimpse of a man upon him with pencil ray coming to point. He faded down and toward the other, almost in a fall, out of the path of the pencil ray that flicked on and began to sweep upward and in. Peter caught his balance. At the same time he clutched the wrist in his right hand. Then he went on down, around and over, rising on his knees to flip the other man, heels high in an arc that ended with a full length, spine thudding, body smash on the pavement. Beauregard leapt in and slashed at the hand clutching the pencil ray, snapped his head back and forth thrice and sent the weapon flying. Then, with a savage growl, he set a soft mouth against the other's throat and let the man feel the pressure of his fangs. Easy, said Peter. Beauregard backed away a few inches. Easy nothing, he snapped. This man is the noble dog's worst enemy. He wanted your blood. Take it easy. I want his information. The man looked up. Barbarian terrestrial, he snarled. Peter sneered. And this is the capital city of the glorious civilization called Zanibar. Marble palaces with nobles of the blood and slinking alleys with human rats. Where is she? The stranger spat. Beauregard. Want some red meat? He'd make me upchuck. Only rodents eat their own kind. Just a bite. Do I have to swallow? No, just slash. Wait. Barbarian. Barbarian terrestrial am I? You were maybe going to invite me for tea and cakes. With that pencil ray I. Talk, Snapped Peter. Where is she? Who? Beauregard? Yes, boss. The throat or the other hand. All right, for the good it'll do you. She's in there. Go on in and we'll have two of you. Beauregard growled. Three of us, and we might be hard to handle. Peter stood up and hauled the stranger to his feet. His right hand dripped blood from the dog's teeth. Peter looked for and found the pencil ray smashed against the stone front of the building. He cuffed the stranger across the face, turned him around and pointed him toward the far corner. I count three, he said. If you're not out of sight by three, it'll be a pleasure. Peter, said Beauregard. The stranger loped away on a crazy run. As he turned the corner, he ran face on to one of the uniformed mercenaries of Zanibar. The mercenary collared the stranger and took a quick inventory of the slashed right hand, the ripped clothing, and adding those to the frightened gallop. He came back with the stranger's left arm held in a backlog. Haughtily, he demanded, what goes on in Zanibar? Peter eyed the mercenaries sourly. Kidnapping and attempted murder. Who says such lawlessness runs rife In Zanibar. I say so. Peter Hawley of the Extraterrestrial Service. I say so. You are mistaken, barbarian. I say so, said Beauregard. You're an animal. I am. And so are you. I'll not be insulted by an animal. I am. Take it easy, Beauregard. Take it easy nothing. This mercenary foot soldier forgets one thing. Or maybe he doesn't know about it. Don't call His Excellency's Peacekeepers mercenaries, snapped the mercenary. Peacekeeper chuckled the dog. Well, listen and become wise. Dog and man. Man and dog have been together for about a half million years. Once dog helped man and war and peace, and man gave dog food and shelter. Dog helped man rise above the level of the savage, and man has helped dog rise to the level of intelligence. But dog has one advantage. None of us has been intelligent long enough to really believe that dog has a soul. And those of us who who do believe that also know that dog soul is devoted to man. Do you know about dog, Zenabian Peacekeeper? No. Then don't force me to show you what kind of adversary intelligent dog can be. Mere man is a pushover. Bah. Beauregard loped in a mad circle around the mercenary. His Excellency's Peacekeeper turned to stay facing the dog, but found himself turning his back on Peter. He stepped back and to one side and reached for his heavy duty pencil. The dog gave a low growl of warning and crouched for a leap. He means it, Peacekeeper, said Peter Hawley quietly. Draw that pencil and he'll have your hand in ribbons before you can level it. The mercenary drew in his breath. Whistle for help and he'll have your throat. I shall not permit this high handed. Then stop sounding off and listen to us, snapped Peter. I charged the Empire of Zanibar with the crime of being indifferent to the welfare of the stranger within her gate. I charge kidnapping and attempted murder. And I charge the latter against the specimen you hold in your hand. An outlander. Does he bring his own law to Zanibar? If he does, then so do I. I arrest you all for breaking the peace of Zanibar. Me too? Asked Beauregard. The mercenary ignored the dog's eager sally. You are armed, terrestrial. So was he. So am I, snarled Beauregard, showing a fine set of white fangs in the most effective gesture. This must cease, thundered the mercenary. You cannot threaten His Excellency's Peacekeepers. Beauregard growled. Slip the mercenary a crystal cut, boss. We've got a girl to find. A girl? A terrestrial girl. Asked the mercenary with his eyes opening. The daughter of our envoy to Lunafite, Ms. Vanessa Lewis, last reported in her stateroom aboard the terrestrial spacecraft Polaris during landing pattern at Xanaboro Citadel Spaceport, the mercenary said. The work of outlanders, riff raff such as this. Well, snapped Peter Hawley, do His Excellency's peacemakers condone such goings on? We keep the peace of Zanibar. Your charge is your word. Terrestrial. Terrestrial barbarian, isn't it? I arrest you. Oh, stop it. For five weight a crystal cut. Can you be bribed to haul that specimen off to jail and let me go about making my own peace with Zanibar? You accuse me of accepting bribes? You're a mercenary, aren't you? Seven weight of crystal cut. Ten. Seven, said Peter. Ten, said the mercenary. And you have one more caper coming. Ten, agreed Peter.
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Polly.
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And you look the other way when I take the lid off. Still got it, said Beauregard, sniffing at the closed door but keeping one eye on the disappearing mercenary and his prisoner. I've got it too. Still. Fright and concern. Fear of harm. Concern over what happens next. Strong, definitely, said Peter, closing his eyes and holding his breath. Nothing measurable? Asked the dog after a full minute. No. Too bad I was never introduced to her. I have no idea of her strength of mind. Wait. Another minute went by in personal silence, Peter Hawley's concentration far too deep to be disturbed by the sounds of the city's spaceport slum by night. The dog backed away from the door and took an alert position to guard Peter while the man was immersed in his own mind. Finally Peter alerted and shook his head sadly. I thought for a moment that she caught me. A fleeting thought of rescue or escape, concept of freedom flight, safety. But wish thinking, not communication. Let's go in. Barge or slink? Asked the dog. Slink. Have it your way, said Beauregard. Outside, the place looked closed. The door was solid, a plastic in imitation of bronze through which neither light nor sound passed. The windows were dark, but once the door was cracked, the wave of sound came pouring out along the slit of light and filled the street with echo and re Echo. Slink. No, said the dog. So everybody makes mistakes. Inside, a woman leaned over a low counter. Check your whip. Say you can't bring that animal in here, beauregard said. He isn't bringing me. I'm here because I like it. The woman's eyes bugged. What kind? I am man's best friend, the noble dog of barbarian Terra. Yes, but. Oh, said Peter airily. We're looking for a friend. Friend? Who is he? It's a she and her name is Vanessa Lewis. She ain't here. The dame's a liar. Us, Peter. I sent her strong. We'll just take a look around, said Peter to the Czech girl. You'll have to check your weapons. I'd rather go in naked. Sorry, not today. Weapons happen to be my business today. Come on, Beauregard. Man and dog started along the hallway warily. Beauregard said, any touch got a faint impression of alarm, danger. Call out the guards. I sent violence, said the dog, and the door at the end of the hallway opened and a big man stepped out. What's going on here? He demanded flatly. The Czech girl said he wouldn't check. The big man reached for his hip pocket. Peter said, take him high, and they plunged. Peter dove for the man's knees. Beauregard went in a three stride lope like an accordion folding and unfolding, and then arched in a long leap with his snarling fangs aimed at the man's throat. Man and dog hit him low and high before he could open his mouth, before he could free the snub pencil ray. There was a short scrabble that ended when Beauregard lifted the man's head and whammed it down hard against the floor. Weakly, the Czech girl finished her statement, his weapons, and keeled over in a dead faint. Beauregard shook himself violently and worked his jaws, licking blood from his chops. Peter looked in through the open wall door opposite the check counter. The racket had not been noticed by the roomful of spacemen and riff raff. The babble of a hundred tongues still went on amid the clink of glasses and the disturbing strains of Zenabian music. Smoke from a hundred semi noxious weeds lay in strata across the room and at a table in the far corner. Two men faced one another, their expressions a mixed pair. One held heavily begrudged admiration as he paid off 500weight of crystal cut in the legal tender of Zanibar to the other, whose expression was greedy self confidence. One of His Excellencies peacekeepers presided over the exchange. Coldly he extracted a 50 weight from the pile and folded it into the signed and completed wager contract for his own coffer. He extracted a five weight and slipped it into his boot top. Peter, Hawley, and Beauregard passed on, went through the far door, dragging their late adversary ignominiously by the heels. Amid the lessened publicity of the distant hall, Peter checked the man and shrugged. He may live, he said coldly. If he doesn't bleed to death, you really ought to take him on the high side, said Beauregard plaintively. All I've got is my teeth to grab with. They don't bleed so bad from the ankle. They don't stay stopped that way, either, said Peter harshly. You'd not be getting any praise from the chief for that sort of brutality. If Zanibar weren't rotten to the core, we wouldn't be plowing through it in the first place. Now let's get going. Shouldn't you call for the rest of the crew? Not until I'm certain the girl's here. I'd hate to cut the city wide, search for cold evidence. She's here. I sent her. Maybe it's past tense, Beauregard. Or maybe it's another woman. Could be. But one thing it is definitely terrestrial woman. The dog sniffed again. You get anything? No more than before. It's close, and they're the same sort of impressions. Yet any woman would be frantic with fear and concern. I sh Beauregard's sharp ears lifted instinctively at a distant sound not heard by the man. With a toss of his head, the dog folded one ear back, uncovering the inner shell like a sonic direction finder. Beauregard turned his head and listened. Man, he finally said with a low, growling voice, peter, there'll be hell to pay around here. Directly he stumbled over our recent conquest. Let's get cuttin. Peter started trying doors and peering in. The dog raced on ahead of the man, sniffing deep at the bottom of each. It was the dog that found the room. He called, here, and Peter raced forward just as the fellow on the stairs yelled something in his native tongue. Peter hit the door with the heel of his foot and slammed it open by splintering the door frame. The dog crouched low and poised. Peter slipped in and around, feeling for a light switch. From inside there was a voiceless whimper of fright, and from outside and below there came the pounding of several sets of heavy feet. Peter found the switch and flooded the room with light. The girl, whether she was Ms. Vanessa Lewis or someone else and kidnap wise, it was still a terrestrial girl, lay trussed on the bed, a patch of surgical tape over her mouth. Sorry, said Peter in a voice that he hoped was soothing. He reached, freed a corner of the tape, and ripped it off in a single swipe. The girl howled. Peter slapped her lightly. Stop it, he commanded sharply. Vanessa Lewis? Yes, but call out the Marines, Peter, snarled the dog. No, Bo back. Reluctantly, the dog backed into the room. He crouched low, poised to spring with his nose just beyond the door frame. Four of em, he whimpered pleadingly. I can get two. Well, I can't get the other two unless I'm lucky, snapped Peter. Don't be so eager to die for nothing, Beauregard. All this calculation, grumbled the dog sourly. I don't call it a loss if I get two for one. I call it a loss if I don't get four for nothing. Or the whole damn empire of Zanibar for nothing. For that matter. We've a job to do, and it ain't dying until Ms. Lewis is out of this glorious citadel. The girl looked from one to the other. They did not need any identification. They were their own bona fides. Only man, terrestrial man had intelligent dogs to work beside him. Period. Question closed. Beauregard snarled at the door warningly while Peter stripped surgical tape from wrists and ankles. Outside, someone called. Come out, are we? Blast. Beauregard snarled. Come in and we'll cut you to bits. The quick flash of a pencil ray flicked in a lance above the dog's nose. Beauregard snapped back as the lancet of light cut downward, then snapped forward for a quick look outside as the little pencil of danger flickered dark. Careful, Bo. You call the boys, snapped the dog. I'll. Something came twisting forward to hit the door frame. It dropped just inside the door jamb. Beauregard leapt, snapped at the thing, and caught it in midair, snapped his head in a vicious shake and sent it whirling back outside again. Before it could be identified, the dog sunfished and landed on all four. Then the thing went off with a dull poof. Outside there was a gentle flash of quick light that was smothered by a billow of smoke. Beauregard leapt into the cloud and disappeared. There was a hoarse shriek and the mad scrabble of dog claws on the hard floor. The sound of a heavy thud and the angry snarl of a dog with its teeth fastened into something soft. Then there was the fast patter of dog feet, and Beauregard came around the door on a dead run, sliding sideways to carom off the open door into safety just as a pencil ray flicked to follow him. Got him, said the dog in a satisfied tone. That's one. He took his post by the door frame again, the tip of his nose just outside. There was a consultation out there in the hallway, at which Beauregard called. Make a wild rush for us. What are we going to do? Fight it out, said Peter. They can't win so long as we're alive. Now I've got my crew on its way in a dead run, and if we make enough noise, some of His Excellency's peacemakers will step in and demand their cut of the finances. He grinned. How much are you worth, Ms. Lewis? She shuddered. I don't know how much my father would pay. Hit him low, Peter. Came Beauregard's snarl. Three of them came in aslant, bounced shoulders against the open door, caught their bearings, and hell was out for noon. Beauregard caught the first with a slash at the throat. They went down in a mad whirl of dog and thug paws, tail, arms, legs, and a spurt of blood. The second flicked his pencil ray at Peter. Its capsule charge faded to a mere sting before it cut into him. The third aimed a kick at the struggling dog. Vanessa Lewis snatched a box from the bureau and hurled it at the second. Peter thumbed his pencil ray and winged the third man in the biceps. Beauregard leapt for the second man's gun hand and closed on it as the hurled box opened and scatter shotted his face with bric a brac. The man with the bloody throat flailed out and caught Peter by the ankle. Peter stopped his face with his other heel. Ms. Lewis picked up the table lamp and with a single motion turned off the light and finished felling the one with the rayburn shoulder. Beauregard dropped from the second man's wrist and crouched to spring. The man cowered back, his good arm covering his throat and his other arm hanging limp. He mouthed fright noises in some tongues, native to some star a thousand light years across the galaxy. Coldly, Peter stepped forward and belted him in the plexus. Now, he said calmly, we shall vacate the premises. They went side by side, facing slightly outward. Beauregard between them and slightly ahead were coming out, called the dog. Three barbarians from Tara. Down on the dark street they met their mercenary again. He eyed them sourly. I see you were in a sense successful, Peter. Holly faced the mercenary. We were successful. And would you like to make something of it? I'm going to have to arrest you, you know. You'll lose an arm trying, snapped the dog. There's murder been committed to night, said His Excellency's peacemaker. The peace of Zanibar has been disturbed. Why, you chiselling crook. There's been kidnapping tonight, and I'm afraid that I shall have to ask that the young lady produce her passport, said the mercenary. Otherwise she's in Zanibar Citadel illegally, Beauregard said, hit him low, Peter. Here Come the boys. No. Just for once, for fun. No. I want our money grubbing peacekeeper to carry a message to His Excellency. I want His Excellency to read some terrestrial history. Once upon a time there was a place called the Byzantine Empire that laid across the trade routes. The upper crust of people used to serve the presence of God in a golden throne. Whilst their underlings dealt in human slaves and procured comely concubines for the Emperor. Their policemen took bribes and. And human life was cheap. And when Byzantium fell, all the world was forced to seek a new trade route. So tell His Excellency that he better clean up his own foul mess or some barbarians will clean it up for him. And that said Beauregard, goes for your dad. Ratted.
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Ca.
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End of history repeats by georgio smith.
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Keep out by Frederick Brown this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Greg Marguerite Keep out by Frederick Brown with no more room left on Earth, and with Mars hanging up there empty of life, somebody hit on the plan of starting a colony on the red planet. It meant changing the habits and physical structure of the immigrants, but. And that worked out fine. In fact, every possible factor was covered, except one of the flaws of human nature. Daptein is the secret of it. Adapt Teen they called it first. Then it got shortened to Daptine. It let us adapt. They explained it all to us when we were 10 years old. I guess they thought we were too young to understand before then, although we knew a lot of it already. They told us just after we landed on Mars. You're home, children. The head teacher told us after we had gone into the glassite dome they'd built for us there. And he told us there'd be a special lecture for us that evening, an important one that we must all attend. And that evening he told us the whole story and the whys and wherefores. He stood up before us. He had to wear a heated space suit and helmet, of course, because the temperature in the dome was comfortable for us, but already freezing cold for him. And the the air was already too thin for him to breathe. His voice came to us by radio from inside his helmet. Children, he said, you are home. This is Mars, the planet on which you will spend the rest of your lives. You are Martians, the first Martians. You have lived five years on earth and another five in space. Now you will spend 10 years until you are adults in this dome, although toward the end of that time you will be allowed to spend increasingly long periods outdoors. Then you will go forth and make your own homes, live your own lives as Martians. You will intermarry and your children will breed true. They too will be Martians. It is time you were told the history of this great experiment of which each of you is a part. Then he told us. Man, he said, had first reached Mars in 1985. It had been uninhabited by intelligent life. There's plenty of plant life and a few varieties of non flying insects. And he had found it, by terrestrial standards, uninhabitable. Man could survive on Mars only by living inside glassite domes and wearing space suits when he went outside of them, except by day. In the warmer seasons, it was too cold for him, the air was too thin for him to breathe, and long exposure to sunlight, less filtered of rays harmful to him than on Earth beyond because of the lesser atmosphere, could kill him. The plants were chemically alien to him and he could not eat them. He had to bring all his food from Earth or grow it in hydroponic tanks. For 50 years he had tried to colonize Mars, and all his efforts had failed. Besides this dome, which had been built for us, there was only one other outpost, another glassite dome, much smaller and less than a mile away. It had looked as though mankind could never spread to the other planets of the solar system besides Earth, for of all of them, Mars was the least inhospitable. If he couldn't live here, there was no use even trying to colonize the others. And then, in 20, 34, 30 years ago, a brilliant biochemist named Weymouth had discovered Daptine, a miracle drug that worked not on the animal or person to whom it was given, but on the progeny he conceived during a limited period of time after inoculation. It gave his progeny almost limitless adaptability to changing conditions, provided the conditions were made gradually. Dr. Weymouth had inoculated and then mated a pair of guinea pigs. They had borne a litter of five, and by placing each member of the litter under different and gradually changing conditions, he had obtained amazing results. When they attained maturity, one of those guinea pigs was living comfortably at a temperature of 40 below zero Fahrenheit. Another was quite happy at 150 above. A third was thriving on a diet that would have been deadly poison for an ordinary animal, and a fourth was contented under a constant X ray bombardment that would have killed one of its parents within minutes. Subsequent experiments with many Litters showed that animals who had been adapted to similar conditions bred true and their progeny was conditioned from birth to live under those conditions ten years later. Ten years ago, the headteacher told us, you children were born born of parents carefully selected from those who volunteered for the experiment. And from birth you have been brought up under carefully controlled and gradually changing conditions. From the time you were born, the air you have breathed has been very gradually thinned and its oxygen content reduced. Your lungs have compensated by becoming much greater in capacity, which is why your chests are so much larger than those of your teachers and attendants. When you are fully mature and are breathing air like that of Mars, the difference will be even greater. Your bodies are growing fur to enable you to stand the increasing cold. You are comfortable now under conditions which would kill ordinary people quickly. Since you were 4 years old, your nurses and teachers have had to wear special protection to survive conditions that seem normal to you. In another 10 years at maturity, you will be completely acclimated to Mars. Its air will be your air, its food, plants, your your food. Its extremes of temperature will be easy for you to endure, and its median temperatures pleasant to you. Already, because of the five years we spent in space under a gradually decreased gravitational pull, the gravity of Mars seems normal to you. It will be your planet to live on and to populate. You are the children of Earth, but you are the first Martians. Of course, we had known a lot of those things already. The last year was the best. By then, the air inside the dome, except for the pressurized parts where our teachers and attendants live, was almost like that outside, and we were allowed out for increasingly long periods. It is good to be in the open. The last few months they relaxed segregation of the sexes so we could begin choosing mates. Although they told us there is to be no marriage until after the final day, after our full clearance. Choosing was not difficult in my case. I had made my choice long since, and I'd felt sure that she felt the same way. I was right. Tomorrow is the day of our freedom. Tomorrow we will be Martians. The Martians. Tomorrow we shall take over the planet. Some among us are impatient, have been impatient for weeks now. But wiser counsel prevailed. And we are waiting. We have waited 20 years, and we can wait until the final day. And tomorrow is the final day. To morrow. At a signal, we will kill the teachers and other Earthmen among us before we go forth. They do not suspect, so it will be easy. We have dissimilated for years now, and they don't know how we hate them. They do not know how disgusting and hideous we find them with their ugly misshapen bodies, so narrow shouldered and tiny chested, their weak sibilant voices that need amplification to carry in our Martian air, and above all their white, pasty, hairless skins. We shall kill them and then we shall go and smash the other dome so all earthmen there will die too. If more earthmen ever come to punish us, we can live and hide in the hills where they'll never find us. And if they try to build more domes here, we'll smash them. We want no more to do with Earth. This is our planet and we want no aliens. Keep off. End of keep out by frederick brown.
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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 Patricia Oakley My Father the Cat By Henry Slazar My mother was a lovely, delicate woman from the coast of Brittany who was miserable sleeping on less than three mattresses and who, it is said, was once injured by a falling leaf in her garden. My grandfather, a descendant of the French nobility whose family had ridden the tumdrills of the Revolution, tended her fragile body and spirit with the same loving care given rare, brief blooming flowers. You may imagine from this his attitude concerning marriage. He lived in terror of the vulgar, heavy handed man who would one day win my mother's heart, and at last this persistent dread killed him. His concern was unnecessary, however, for my mother chose a suitor who was as free of mundane brutality as a husband could be. Her choice was Dauphin, a remarkable white cat which strayed onto the estate shortly after his death. Dolphin was an unusually large angora, and his ability to speak in cultured French, English, and Italian was sufficient to cause my mother to adopt him as a household Peter. It did not take long for her to realize that Dafa deserved a higher status, and he became her friend, protector, and confidant. He never spoke of his origin, nor where he had acquired the classical education which made him such an entertaining companion. After two years it was easy for my mother, an unworldly woman at best, to forget the dissimilarity in their species. In fact, she was convinced that Dauphin was an enchanted prince, and Dafa, in consideration of her illusions, never dissuaded her. At last they were married by an understanding clergyman of the locale who solemnly felt, filled in the marriage application with the name of M. Edouard Dauphin. I, Etienne Dauphin, am their son. To be candid, I am a Handsome youth, not unlike my mother in the delicacy of my features. My father's heritage is evident in my large feline eyes and in my slight body and quick movements. My mother's death when I was four left me in the charge of my father and his coterie of loyal servants, and I could not have wished for a finer upbringing. It is to my father's patient tutoring that I owe whatever graces I now possess. It was my father, the cat whose gentle paws guided me to the treasure houses of literature, art and music, whose whiskers bristled with pleasure at a goose well cooked, at a meal well served, at a wine well chosen. How many happy hours we shared. He knew more of life and the humanities, my father, the cat, than any human I have met in all my 23 years until the age of 18. My education was his personal challenge. Then it was his desire to send me into the world outside the gates. He chose for me a university in America, for he was deeply fond of what he called that great raw country where he believed my feline qualities might be tempered by the aggressiveness of the rough coating barking dogs I would be sure to meet. I must confess to a certain amount of unhappiness in my early American years, torn as I was from the comforts of the estate and the wisdom of my father, the cat. But I became adapted and even upon my graduation from the university, sought and held employment in a metropolitan art museum. It was there I met Joanna, the young woman I intended to make my bride. Joanna was a product of the great American southwest, the daughter of a cattle raiser. There was a blooming vitality in her face and her body, a lustiness born of open skies and desert. Her hair was not the gold of antiquity. It was new gold, freshly mined from the black rock. Her eyes were not like Old World diamonds. Their sparkle was that of sunlight on a cascading river. Her figure was bold, an open declaration of her sex. She was perhaps an unusual choice for the son of fairy, like mother and an angora cat. But from the first meeting of our eyes, I knew that I would someday bring Joanna to my father's estate to present her as my fiance. I approached that occasion with understandable trepidation. My father had been explicit in his advice before I departed for America, but on no point had he been more emphatic than secrecy concerning himself. He assured me that revelation of my paternity would bring ridicule and unhappiness upon me. The advice was sound, of course, and not even Joanna knew that Our journey's end would bring us to the estate of a large, cultured and conversing cat. I had deliberately fostered the impression that I was orphaned, believing that the proper place for revealing the truth was the atmosphere of my father's home in France. I was certain that Joanna would accept her father in law without distress. Indeed, hadn't nearly a score of human servants remained devoted to their feline master for almost a generation. We had agreed to be Wed on 1 June, and on May 4, implanted in new York for Paris. We were met at Orley Field by Francois, my father's solemn manservant, who had been delegated not so much as escort as he was chaperone, my father having retained much of the Old World proprieties. It was a long trip by automobile to our estate in Brittany, and I must admit to a brooding silence throughout the drive, which frankly puzzled Joanna. However, when the great stone fortress that was our home came within view, my fears and doubts were quickly dispelled. Joanna, like so many Americans, was thrilled at the aura of venerability and royal custom surrounding the estate. Francois placed her in charge of Madame Joliet, who clapped her plump old hands with delight at the sight of her fresh blonde beauty and chattered and clucked like a mother hen as she led Joanna to her room on the second floor. As for myself, I had one immediate wish. To see my father, the cat. He greeted me in the library, where he had been anxiously awaiting our arrival, curled up in his favorite chair by the fireside, a wide mouthed goblet of cognac by his side. As I entered the room, he lifted a paw formally, but then his reserve was dissolved by the emotion of our reunion, and he licked my face in unashamed joy. Francois refreshed his glass and poured another for me, and we toasted each other's well being. To you, Monper, I said, using the affectionate name of my childhood memory. To Joanna, my father said. He smacked his lips over the cognac and wiped his whiskers gravely. And where is this paragon With Madame Joliet. She will be down shortly. And you have told her everything? I blushed. No, Monper, I have not. I thought it best to wait until we were home. She is a wonderful woman, I added impulsively. She will not be horrified, my father said. What makes you so certain, my son? Because she is a woman of great heart, I said stoutly. She was educated at a fine college for women in Eastern America. Her ancestors were rugged people, given to legend and folklore. She Is a warm, human person. Human? My father sighed and his tail swished. You are expecting too much of your beloved, Etienne. Even a woman of the finest character may be dismayed in this situation. But my mother. Your mother was an exception, a changeling of the fairies. You must not look for your mother's soul in Joanna's eyes. He jumped from his chair and came towards me, resting his paw upon my knee. I am glad you have not spoken of me again. Now you must keep your silence forever. I was shocked. I reached down and touched my father's silky fur, saddened by the look of his age in his gray gold flecked eyes and by the tinge of yellow in his white coat. No, mon per, I said. Joanna must know the truth. Joanna must know how proud I am to be the son of Edouard Dauphin. Then you will lose her. Never. That cannot happen. My father walked stiffly to the fireplace, staring into the gray ashes. Ring for Francois, he said. Let him build the fire. I am cold again. I walked to the cord and pulled it. My father turned to me and said, you must wait, my son. At dinner this evening, perhaps. Do not speak of me until then. Very well, father. When I left the library, I encountered Joanna at the head of the stairway, and she spoke to me excitedly. Oh, Etienne, what a beautiful old house. I know I will love it. May we see the rest? Of course, I said. You look troubled. Is something wrong? No, no. I was thinking how lovely you. We embraced, and her warm, full body against mine confirmed my conviction that we should never be parted. She put her arm in mine and we strolled through the great rooms of the house. She was ecstatic at their size and elegance, exclaiming over the carpeting, the gnarled furniture, the ancient silver and pewter, the gallery of family paintings. When she came upon an early portrait of my mother, her eyes misted. She was lovely, Joanna said, Like a princess. And what of your father? Is there no portrait of him? No, I said hurriedly. No portrait. I had spoken my first lie to Joanna, for there was a painting, half completed, which my mother had begun in the last year of her life. It was a whispering little water color, and Joanna discovered it, to my consternation. What a magnificent cat, she said. Was it a pet? It is Dafa, I said nervously. She laughed. He has your eyes, Etienne. Joanna, I must tell you something. And this ferocious gentleman with the mustaches, who is he? My grandfather. Joanna, you must listen. Francois, who had been following our inspection tour at shadow's length, interrupted. I suspected that his timing was no mere coincidence. We will be serving dinner at 7:30, he said. If the lady would care to dress. Of course, Joanna said. Will you excuse me, Etienne? I bowed to her and she was gone. At 15 minutes to the appointed dining time, I was ready and hastened below to talk once more with my father. He was in the dining room instructing the servants as to the placement of the silver and accessories. My father was proud of the excellence of his table and took all his meals in the splendid manner. His appreciation of food and wine was unsurpassed in my experience, and it had always been the greatest of pleasures for me to watch him at table, stalking across the damask and dipping delicately into the silver dishes prepared for him. He pretended to be too busy with his dinner preparations to engage me in conversation, but I insisted. I must talk to you, I said. We must decide together how to do this. It will not be easy, he answered with a twinkle. Consider Joanna's view. A cat as large and as old as myself is cause enough for comment. A cat that speaks is alarming. A cat that dines at table with the household is shocking. And a cat whom you must introduce as your. Stop it. I cried. Joanna must know the truth. You must help me reveal it to her. Then you will not heed my advice in all things but this. Our marriage can never be happy unless she accepts you for what you are. And if there is no marriage? I would not admit to this possibility. Joanna was mine. Nothing could alter that. The look of pain and bewilderment in my eyes must have been evident to my father, for he touched my arm gently with his paw and said, I. I will help you, Etienne. You must give me your trust always. Then come to dinner with Joanna and explain nothing. Wait for me to appear. I grasped his paw and raised it to my lips. Thank you, Father. He turned to Francois and snapped. You have my instructions. Yes, sir, the servant replied. Then all is ready. I shall return to my room now, Etienne, you may bring your fiance to dine. I hastened up the stairway and found Joanna ready, strikingly beautiful and shimmering white satin. Together we descended the grand staircase and entered the room. Her eyes shone at the magnificence of the service set upon the table at the soldiery array of fine wines, some of them already poured into their proper glasses for my father's enjoyment. Haute Medoc from Saint Estef, authentic Chablis Epernay Champagne, and an American import from the Napa Valley, of which he was fond. I waited expectantly for his appearance as we sipped our aperitif while Joanna chatted about innocuous matters with no idea of the tormented state I was in at 8 o'. Clock. My father had not yet made his appearance, and I grew ever more distraught as Francois signalled for the serving of the bouillon au Madeira. Had he changed his mind? Would I be left to explain my status without his help? I hadn't realized until this moment how difficult a task I had allotted for myself, and the fear of losing Joanna was terrible within me. The soup was flat and tasteless on my tongue, and the misery in my manner was too apparent for Joanna to miss. What is it, Etienne? She said. You've been so morose all day. Can't you tell me what's wrong? No, it's nothing. It's just. I let the impulse take possession of my speech. Joanna, there's something I should tell you about my mother and my father. Ahem, francois said. He turned to the doorway, and her glances followed his. Oh, Etienne. Joanna cried in a voice ringing with delight. It was my father, the cat. Watching us with his gray gold flecked eyes, he approached the dining table, regarding Joanna with timidity and caution. It's the cat in the painting, joanna said. You didn't tell me he was here, Etienne. He's beautiful. Joanna, this is Dauphin. I would have known him anywhere. Here, Dauphin. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. Slowly my father approached her outstretched hand and allowed her to scratch the thick fur on the back of his neck. Aren't you the pretty little pussy? Aren't you the sweetest little thing, Joanna? She lifted my father by the haunches and held him in her lap, stroking his fur and cooing the silly little words that women address to their pets. The sight pained and confused me, and I sought to find an opening word that would allow me to explain, yet hoping all the time that my father would himself provide the answer. Then my father spoke. Meow, he said. Are you hungry? Joanna asked solicitously. Is the little pussy hungry? Meow, my father said, and I believed my heart broke then and there. He leaped from her lap and padded across the room. I watched him through blurred eyes as he followed Francois to the corner where the servant had placed a shallow bowl of milk. He lapped it eagerly until the last white drop was gone. Then he yawned and stretched and trotted back to the doorway with one fleeting glance in my direction that spoke articulately of what I must do next. What a wonderful animal, joanna said. Yes, I answered. He was my mother's favorite. End of my father. The Cat by Henry Slazar. Of Time in Texas by William F. Nolan this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings from the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Joe Pillsbury of Time in Texas by William F. Nolan in one fell swoop, declared Professor C. Sidwick omes, releasing a thin blue ribbon of pipe smoke and rocking back on his heels, I intend to solve the greatest problem facing mankind today. Colonizing the polar waste was a messy and fruitless business, and the enforced birth control program couldn't be enforced. Overpopulation still remains the thorn on our side, gentlemen. He paused to look each of the assembled reporters in the eye. There is but one answer.
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Mass annihilation.
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Quavered a local reporter. Posh, boy, certainly not.
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The professor bristled.
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The answer is time. Time? Exactly, nodded Holmes. With a dramatic flush he swept aside a red velvet drape to reveal a tall structure of gleaming metal as witness. Golly, what is that thing? Queried the cub. This thing, replied the professor acidly, is the C. Sidwick Ohms Time Door. Willick is a time machine. Not so, not so. Please, boy. A time machine in the popular sense is impossible. Wild fancy. However, the professor tapped on the dottle from his pipe. By a mathematically precise series of infinite calculations, I've developed the remarkable C. Sidwick Ohm's Time Door.
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Open it.
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Take but a single step and presto. The past. But where in the past? Professor Holmes smiled easily down on the tense ring of faces. Gentlemen, beyond this door lies the sprawling giant of the Southwest. Enough land to absorb the Earth's overflow. Like that. He snapped his fingers. I speak, gentlemen of Texas. 1957. What if the Texans object? We have no choice. The Time Door is strictly one way passage. I thought of that. It would be utterly impossible for anyone in 1957 to re enter our world of 2057. And now Pastor Waits. He tossed aside his professoral robes. Under them Sidwick Holmes wore an ancient and bizarre costume. Black riding boots, highly polished and trimmed in silver wool chaps. A wide jewel studded belt with an immense buckle. A brightly checked shirt topped with a blazing red bandana. Briskly he snapped a tall 10 gallon hat on his head and stepped to the chime door. Gripping an ebony handle, he tugged upwards the huge metal door oiled slowly back. Time, said Sidra Combe simply gesturing towards the grey nothingness beyond the door. The reporters and photographers surged forwards, notebooks and cameras at the ready. What if the door swings shut after you've gone? One of them asked a groundless fear boy assured omes. I've spinted that the Time Door can never be closed. And now goodbye, gentlemen. Or she used the proper colloquialism. So long, hombres. Holmes bowed from the waist, gave his 10 gallon hat a final tug, and took a single step forwards and did not disappear. He stood blinking. Then he swore, beat upon the unyielding wall of greyness with clenched fists, and fell back, panting, to his desk. I've failed, he moaned in a lost voice.
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The Sea Siddlegom's Time Door is a botch.
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He buried his head in trembling hands. The reporters and photographers began to file out. Suddenly a professor raised his head.
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Listen, he warned.
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A slow rumbling, muted with distance, emanated from the dense grayness of the Time Door. Faint yips and whoopings were distinct above the rumble. The sound grew steadily through a thousand beating drums, the rolling sea of thunder shrieking. The reporters and photographers scattered to the stairs. Ah, another knotty problem to be solved, mused Professor Sidwick Holmes, swinging with some difficulty onto one of 3,000 Texas Steers stampeding into the laboratory. End of time in texas
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by william
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f. Nolan recording by joe pillsbury.
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Operation Lorelei by William P. Salton this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times Operation Lorelei by William P. Salton it was a new time and a vast new war of complete and awful annihilation. Yet some things never change, and as in ancient times, Ulysses walked again, brave and unconquerable, and again the sirens wove their deadly spell. With a smile and a song, they came like monsters rather than men, into the vast ruin of what had once been a great city. They walked carefully, side by side, speaking to each other by radio as though they were in deep space rather than upon solid ground. The winding way they followed through the ruins was marked by blurred footsteps and the dust, and the two men, clumsy in their bulky suits, found the going difficult. They stopped, and one of them held out an instrument. He studied the dial. All clear, and both men removed their helmets. They wiped sweat from their faces and glanced at each other. The blond man said, the air is okay, Jarvis. Everything seems all right. I don't get it, Jarvis, his dark eyes wary, scowled as he looked about. It seems all right, but we know it isn't. It can't be. I'm shucking the suit. Don't be a fool, Mark. But the dial read clear, man, and we know nobody is going to shoot us all? Life had to be wiped out. How about minor power installations? Jarvis took a chocolate bar from his pocket, sat down on a piece of broken rubble and began to eat. You're too careless. Far too careless, Mark. Mark laughed. You've always been cautious enough for both of us. Got me out of plenty of scrapes back in school, too. Don't think I've forgotten. Affection warmed his blue eyes as they rested on the face of his friend. Okay, okay. But what happened to them? Where did they go? Jarvis took nervous bites from his second chocolate bar. Then he too peeled off his suit. He sniffed the air distrustfully as he wiggled his shoulders to free them from the clinging, damp shirt. Then he took a few experimental steps forward. Seems all right, Mark. But how do you explain about Hank and Garland? Never were two more careful guys. Probably a simple miscalculation or an accident. We know it couldn't have been. Enemy action tests proved conclusively that we wiped them out. To a man. He took deep gulps of air into his lungs and stretched like a cat. We'll find out soon enough. Boy, I feel great. They deflated and folded their safety suits and added the bundles to the other equipment on their backs. Then, with their instruments held before them, they probed their way into the twisted wreckage, still following the faint dust filled footprints, bent and rusted. Girders rose on all sides like the bones of prehistoric monsters. Nothing stirred. The dust lay ages thick on everything. Gives you the spooks, doesn't it? Jarvis was still tense, poised to respond to the first signal of danger. Feels like we're the last men alive. Funny about Hank and Garland. There's nothing here to harm anyone. Jarvis looked at his watch. Better contact HQ for instructions. The two stepped off the path into the shade of a grotesque chunk of broken masonry. Mark set up the radio and twirled the dials. Team 4 calling HQ. Team 4 reporting. HQ here. The voice from the radio blared loud in the stillness. Give your report, Team four. Looks like nothing's moved here in a thousand years. Safe as a baby's dream. Rock solid air. Morning pure. But he hesitated, trying not to sound like a scared schoolboy. No sign of team three. Or of teams one and two, either. Over. Look here, Team four. It's your job to find out the earth didn't just swallow them. Final report from each team placed them well within the city. It's been 10 days since the last contact. Probe every inch of the place. Right. But be careful. We can't afford to lose any more Men. Roger. Roger. There was only one way now. Ahead, it lay clearly marked. The dim footsteps never strayed or faltered. 3 hours of search revealed no pitfalls, no dangers, and no trace of the missing men. Then night was upon them and they bedded down gratefully. Strange, isn't it? The war over, the invaders blasted from the earth, all peril gone. And yet men disappear. Jarvis stared at the ruins around them. I can't take much more, Mark. 12 years of war is enough. Are we never to have a life, have our home and women back and peace? Sure, it's been tough, but think of the women and children isolated on that sub satellite. It's tougher for them just waiting. Stretched on his back, Mark stared at the cloudless evening sky. But pretty soon we'll get this planet cleaned up and bring them in. Christ, four years without even seeing a woman. I remember the last time. Okay, Jarvis interrupted impatiently. Let's get to sleep. Sure, pal. Goodnight. They fell asleep to dream of green hills, corn ripening, apples roasting over an open fire, peace and home and girls, their firm legs flashing in the sun. Soldier like Mark was suddenly awake. He lay without motion, sensitive to some subtle change in the surroundings. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jarvis, wrapped in sleep. The silence seemed eternal. Then, whisper soft, came a murmur. A sound, a voice. A girl's voice, sighing and singing from deep in that devastated spot. A woman. Instantly, Mark was on his feet. No need to wake Jarvis. Plenty of time for Jarvis to find out afterwards. But not yet. A miracle that a girl had survived in all that wreckage. But a miracle. He wanted to save her alone. Ahead, the path turned and Mark followed it as he went forward again, downhill between the massed walls. Rubble. Now the voice swelled, a melancholy song. Well, she won't be melancholy for long, Mark thought. Her solitary ordeal was over. Mark Jarvis stood up on an upturned lintel 10ft above Mark's head. As Mark jerked to a stop at the cry, Jarvis jumped into his path. You fool. Don't you know it's a trap? So that's how you want to play it? The noble friend protecting me from myself. He slammed a fist into the side of Jarvis head. Well, I won't bite. She's mine. I found her. In silence, in the narrow passage between the rocks, the two fought. Suddenly, above the sound of fist on flesh, came the voice of the girl again, clear, young. She is there, thought Jarvis. He could almost taste her lips on his. The sensation came as a shock. How did he know? He'd never had a woman that's what came from listening to the tales of Mark's exploits with women. Now he had to have that girl. The mounting tension of the fighting snapped something in Jarvis. Seething mind, danger, friendship, duty all meant nothing. Only one thing mattered. The girl. Mark had had more than his share of girls. He, Jarvis, was the one who should have her. He'd been deprived of his manhood long enough. His frenzied brain hunted a trick to gain his ends. Mark's superior strength began to force Jarvis to give ground. Then a final blow sent him reeling. He reached out to break his fall. His hand closed on a rock. He threw it. Mark crashed to the ground. His knee smashed, his leg useless. Then the tomb stillness of the dead city took over. The dust settled. Slowly. Mark came to his feet. Jarvis was gone. Dragging his useless leg, Mark forced himself to crawl forward. Jarvis had to be stopped. Ahead, a shadow moved, and for a moment the moon threw the silhouette of a man against a cavernous opening in the debris. Jarvis. An electric flash shattered the darkness. The jagged teeth of the bolt spit tongues of fire, cordite, mingled with the raw, nausean, revolting smell of scorched flesh and hair. The figure tottered and fell into the black mouth of the cave. Then, as the flame faded, it lit up small bundles of charred bones near the fallen body. There was a whirr and a click of mechanism 15ft away. Mark watched as the arm of a phonograph rose move slowly back to the starting point. Then the record began once more to grind out its death trap. Melody. Ebook of operation lorelei by william p. Salt.

Summary8 min read

Classic Science Fiction Books Podcast

Episode: Short Science Fiction Collection 020 – Various
Host: solgoodmedia.com
Date: August 4, 2026

Overview

This anthology audio episode features dramatic readings of classic short science fiction stories, each representing the speculative visions and existential questions that defined the genre’s golden age. Listeners journey through dystopian futures, technological paradoxes, alien encounters, and satirical fables—all brought to life through vintage prose and unforgettable characters. These stories, ranging from the chillingly prophetic to the darkly humorous, challenge the listener to ponder humanity's place in a transformed universe.

Notable Quotes Snapshot

| Timestamp | Speaker | Quote | |-----------|------------|--------| | 05:28 | Orderly | "If you don't like it here, Grandpa ... the number is to be or not to be." | | 11:22 | Dr. Hitz | "Without population control, human beings would now be packed...like druplets on a Blackberry." | | 18:06 | Narrator | "There's nothing wrong with dying. It just hasn't ever had the proper sales pitch." | | 50:44 | Ned | "Robots have been assuming these functions for years..." | | 96:30 | Dorley | "It's a machine...and it's doing the job." | | 155:40 | Martian narrator | "We want no more to do with Earth. This is our planet and we want no aliens. Keep off." | | 184:35 | Narrator | "Ah, another knotty problem to be solved, mused Professor Sidwick Holmes..." |

Episode Tone & Takeaways

Wry, Ironic, and Reflective: Many stories use dark humor and irony to critique technological hubris and human nature.
Largely Unsentimental: Tragedy and absurdity abound; "solutions" to existential problems often create new—and worse—troubles.
Consistently Thought-Provoking: These classic tales remind us of the costs and consequences of progress, the depth of our primal drives, and the difficulty of transcending our oldest flaws.

For the Listener

Whether you’re a fan of dystopian parables or slyly comic sci-fi, this collection offers a kaleidoscope of the genre’s most persistent anxieties and fascinations: the search for meaning, the dangers of automation, the ambiguity of progress, and the unresolved contradictions of being human. The episode is a must-listen for anyone curious about science fiction’s roots in both satire and prophecy.

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Transcript24 lines

[00:01]
Narrator
To Be or Not to Be By Kurt Vonnegut Jr. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times Got a problem? Just pick up the phone. It solved them all, and all the same way. Everything was perfectly swell. There were no prisons, no slums, no insane asylums, no cripples, no poverty, no wars. All diseases were conquered. So was old age. Death, barring accidents, was an adventure for volunteers. The population of the United States was stabilized at 40 million souls. One bright morning in the Chicago Lying in hospital, a man named Edward K. Welling Jr. Waited for his wife to give birth. He was the only man waiting. Not many people were born a day anymore. Whaling was 56, a mere stripling in a population whose average age was 129. X rays had revealed that his wife was killing going to have triplets. The children would be his first. Young Weyland was hunched in his chair, his head in his hand. He was so rumpled, so still and colorless as to be virtually invisible. His camouflage was perfect, since the waiting room had a disorderly and demoralized air, too. Chairs and ashtrays had been moved away from the walls. The floor was paved with splattered drop cloths. The room was being redecorated. It was being redecorated as a memorial to a man who had volunteered to die. A sardonic old man about 200 years old sat on a stepladder painting a mural he did not like. Back in the days when people aged visibly, his age would have been guessed at 35 or so. Aging had touched him that much before the cure for aging was found. The mural he was working on depicted a very neat garden. Men and women in white doctors and nurses turned the soil, planted seedlings, sprayed bugs, spread fertilizer. Men and women in purple uniforms pulled up weeds, cut down plants that were old and sickly, raked leaves, carried refuse to trash burners. Never, never, never, not even in medieval Holland nor old Japan had a garden been more formal, been better tended. Every plant had all the loam, light, water, air, and nourishment it could use. A hospital orderly came down the corridor, singing under his breath a popular song. If you don't like my kisses, honey, here's what I will do I'll go see a girl in purple Kiss this sad world Toodaloo if you don't want my lovin' why should I take up all the space? I'll get off this old planet Let some sweet baby have my place. The orderly looked in at the mural and the muralist. Looks so real, he said. I can practically imagine I'm standing in the middle of it. What makes you think you're not in it? Said the painter. He gave a satiric smile. It's called the Happy Garden of Life, you know. That's good old Dr. Hitz, said the orderly. He was referring to one of the male figures in white whose head was a portrait of Dr. Benjamin Hitz, the hospital's chief obstetrician. Hitz was a blindingly handsome man. Lots of faces still to fill in, said the orderly. He meant that the faces of many of the figures in the mural were still blank. All blanks were to be filled with portraits of important people on either the hospital staff or from the Chicago office of the Federal Bureau of Termination. Must be nice to be able to make pictures that look like something, said the orderly. The painter's face curdled with scorn. You think I'm proud of this daub? He said. You think this is my idea of what life really looks like? What's your idea of what life looks like? Said the orderly. The painter gestured at a foul drop cloth. There's a good picture of it, he said. Frame that and you'll have a picture a damn sight more honest than this one. You're a gloomy old duck, aren't you? Said the orderly. Is that a crime? Said the painter. The orderly shrugged. If you don't like it here, Grandpa, he said, and he finished the thought with the trick telephone number that people who didn't want to live any more were supposed to call. The zero in the telephone number he pronounced not. The number was to be or not to be. It was the telephone number of an institution whose fanciful sub requests included Automat, Birdland, Cannery, Cat Box, Delouser, Easy Go, Goodbye, Mother, Happy hooligan, Kiss me quick, Lucky Pierre, cheap dip wearing blender. Weep no more and why worry? To be or not to be was the telephone number of the municipal gas chambers of the Federal Bureau of Termination. The painter thumbed his nose at the orderly. When I decide it's time to go, he said, it won't be at the sheep dip. Do it yourself with a said the orderly. Messy business, Grandpa. Why don't you have a little consideration for the people who have to clean up after you? The painter expressed with an obscenity his lack of concern for the tribulations of his survivors. The world could do a good deal more mess if you asked me, he said. The orderly laughed and moved on, whaling. The waiting father mumbled something without raising his head, and then he fell silent again. A coarse, formidable woman strode into the waiting room on spike heels. Her shoes, stockings, trench coat, bag, and overseas cap were all purple. The purple the painter called the color of grapes on Judgment Day. The medallion on her purple musette bag was the seal of the Service Division of the Federal Bureau of Termination. An eagle perched on a turnstile. The woman had a lot of facial hair, an unmistakable mustache. In fact. A curious thing about guest chamber hostesses was that no matter how lovely and feminine they were, when recruited, they all sprouted mustaches within five years or so. Is this where I'm supposed to come? She said to the painter. A lot would depend on what your business was, he said. You aren't about to have a baby, are you? They told me I was supposed to pose for some picture, she said. My name's Leora Duncan. She waited. And you dunk people, he said. What? She said. Skip it, he said. That sure is a beautiful picture, she said. Looks just like heaven or something. Or something, said the painter. He took a list of names from his smock pocket. Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, he said, scanning the list. Yes, here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left. She studied the mural bleakly. Gee, she said. They're all the same to me. I don't know anything about art. A body's a body, eh? He said. Alrighty. As a master of fine art, I recommend this body here. He indicated a faceless figure of a woman who was carrying dried stalks to a trash burner. Well, said Leora Duncan, that's more the disposal people, isn't it? I mean, I'm in service. I don't do any disposing. The painter clapped his hands in mock delight. You say you don't know anything about art and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do. Of course the sheaf carrier is wrong for a hostess. A snipper, a pruner. That's more your line. He pointed to a figure in purple who was sawing a dead branch from an apple tree. How about her? He said. You like her at all? Gosh, she said, and she blushed and became humble. That. That puts me right next to Dr. Hitz. That upsets you, he said. Couldn't gravy know, she said. It's. It's Just such an honor. Ah, you admire him, eh? He said. Who doesn't admire him? She said, worshiping the portrait of Hits. It was the portrait of a tanned, white haired, omnipotent Zeus, 240 years old. Who doesn't admire him? She said again. He was responsible for setting up the very first gas chamber in Chicago. Nothing would please me more, said the painter, than to put you next to him for all time, sawing off a limb that strikes you as appropriate. That is kind of like what I do, she said. She was demure about what she did. What she did was make people comfortable while she killed them. And while Leora Duncan was posing for her portrait into the waiting room, bounded by Dr. Hitz himself. He was seven feet tall and he boomed with importance, accomplishments and the joy of living. Well, Ms. Duncan, Ms. Duncan, he said, and he made a joke. What are you doing here? He said. This isn't where the people leave. This is where they come in. We're going to be in the same picture together, she said shyly. Good, said Dr. Itz heartily. And say, isn't that some picture? I sure am honored to be in it with you, she said. Let me tell you, he said, I'm honored to be in it with you. Without women like you, this wonderful world we've got wouldn't be possible. He saluted her and moved toward the door that led to the delivery rooms. Guess what was just born, he said. I can't, she said. Triplets, he said. Triplets, she said. She was exclaiming over the legal implications of triplets. The law said that no newborn child could survive unless the parents of the child could find someone who would volunteer to die triplets if they were all to live. Call for three volunteers. Did the parents have three volunteers? Said Leora Duncan. Last I heard, said Dr. Hitz. They had one and were trying to scrape another two up. I don't think they made it, she said. Nobody made three appointments with us. Nothing but singles going through today. Unless somebody called in after I left. What's the name? Welling, said the waiting father, sitting up, red eyed and frowsy. Edward K. Welling Jr. Is the name of the happy father to be. He raised his right hand, looking at a spot on the wall, gave a hoarsely wretched chuckle. Present, he said. Oh, Mr. Welling, said Dr. Hits. I didn't see you, the invisible man, said Welling. They just phoned me that your triplets have been born, said Dr. Hitz. They're all fine and so is the mother. I'm on my way in to see them now. Hooray, said Welling emptily. You don't sound very happy, said Dr. Hitz. One man in my shoes wouldn't be happy, said Welling. He gestured with his hands to symbolize carefree simplicity. All I have to do is pick out which one of the triplets is going to live, then deliver my maternal grandfather to the happy hooligan, and come back here with a receipt. Dr. Hitz became rather severe with Welling towered over him. You don't believe in population control, Mr. Wellington? He said. I think it's perfectly keen, said Welling tautly. Would you like to go back to the good old days when the population of the Earth was 20 billion about to become 40 billion, then 80 billion, then 160 billion? Do you know what a Drupal it is, Mr. Welling? Said Hitz. Nope, said Welling sulkily. A druplet, Mr. Welling, is one of the little knobs, one of the little pulpy grains of a BlackBerry, said Dr. Heads. Without population control, human beings would now be packed on the surface of this old planet like druplets on a BlackBerry. Think of it. Welling continued to stare at the same spot on the wall. In the year 2000, said Dr. Hitz, before scientists stepped in and laid down the law, there wasn't even enough drinking water to go around, and nothing to eat but seaweed. And still people insisted on their right to reproduce like jack rabbits, and their right, if possible, to live forever. I want those kids, said Welling quietly. I want all three of them. Of course you do, said Dr. Hitz. That's only human. I don't want my grandfather to die either, said Welling. Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the cat box, said Dr. Hitz gently, sympathetically. I wish people wouldn't call it that, said Leora Duncan. What? Said Dr. Hitz. I wish people wouldn't call it the Cat Box and things like that, she said. It gives people the wrong impression. You're absolutely right, said Dr. Hitz. Forgive me, he corrected himself, gave the municipal gas chambers their official title, a title no one ever used in conversation. I should have said Ethical Suicide Studios, he said. That sounds so much better, said Leora Duncan. This child of yours, whichever one you decide to keep, Mr. Welling, said Dr. Hitz. He or she is going to live on a happy, roomy, clean, rich planet, thanks to population control, in a garden like that mural there. He shook his head. Two centuries ago, when I was a young man, it was a hell that nobody thought could last another 20 years. Now centuries of peace and plenty stretch before us as far as the imagination cares to travel. He smiled luminously. The smile faded as he saw that Whaling had just drawn a revolver. Whaling shot doctor Hits dead. There's room for one, a great big one, he said. And then he shot Leora Duncan. It's only death, he said to her as she fell there. Room for two. And then he shot himself, making room for all three of his children. Nobody came running. Nobody seemingly heard the shots. The painter sat on the top of his stepladder, looking down reflectively on the sorry scene. The painter pondered the mournful puzzle of life, demanding to be born and once born, demanding to be fruitful, to multiply and to live as long as possible, to do all that on a very small planet that would have to last forever. All the answers that the painter could think of were grim, even grimmer surely than a cat box, a happy hooligan, an easy go. He thought of war. He thought of plague. He thought of starvation. He knew that he would never paint again. He let his paintbrush fall to the drop cloths below. And then he decided he had had about enough of life in the happy garden of life, too, and he came slowly down from the ladder. He took Welling's pistol, really intending to shoot himself, but he didn't have the nerve. And then he saw the telephone booth in the corner of the room. He went to it, dialed the well remembered number. To be or not to be. Federal Bureau of Termination, said the very warm voice of the hostess. How soon could I get an appointment? He asked, speaking very carefully. We could probably fit you in late this afternoon, sir, she said. It might even be earlier if we get a cancellation. All right, said the painter. Fit me in, if you please. And he gave her his name, spelling it out. Thank you, sir, said the hostess. Your city thanks you. Your country thanks you. Your planet thanks you. But the deepest thanks of all is from future generations. End of to be or not to be by kurt vonnegut jr. And all the Earth a Grave by CC MCAP this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times and All the Earth a grave by C.C. macap there's nothing wrong with dying. It just hasn't ever had the proper sales pitch. It all began when the new bookkeeping machine of a large Midwestern coffin manufacturer slipped a cog or blew a transistor or something. It was fantastic that the error, one or two decimal places, should enjoy a straight run of okays, human and mechanical, clear down the line. But when the figures clacked out at the last clacking out station, there it was. The figures were now sacred, immutable, and it is doubtful whether the president of the concern or the chairman of the board would have dared question them, even if either of those two gentlemen had been in town. As for the advertising manager, the last thing he wanted to do was question them. He carried them they were the budget for the coming fiscal year into his office, staggering a little on the way, and dropped dazedly into his chair. They showed the budget for his own department as exactly 100 times what he'd been expecting, that is to say 50 times what he'd put in for. When the initial shock began to wear off, his face assumed an expression of intense thought. In about five minutes he leaped up from his chair, dashed out of the office with a shouted syllable or two for his secretary, and got his car out of the parking lot. At home he tossed clothes into a traveling bag and barged toward the door, giving his wife a quick kiss and an equally quick explanation. He didn't bother to call the airport. He meant to be on the next plane east, and no nonsense about it, with one thing or another. The economy hadn't been exactly in overdrive that year, and predictions for the Christmas season were gloomy. Early retail figures bore them out. Gift buying dribbled along feebly until Thanksgiving. Despite brave speeches by the administration, the holiday passed more in self pity than in thankfulness among owners of gift oriented businesses. Then, on Friday following Thanksgiving, the coffin ads struck. Struck may be too mild a word. People on the streets saw feverishly working crews at holiday rates slapping up posters on billboards. The first poster was a dilly A toothy and toothsome young woman leaned over a coffin she'd been unwrapping. She smiled as if she'd just received overtures of matrimony from an 80 year old billionaire. There was a Christmas tree in the background and the coffin was appropriately wrapped. So was she. She looked as if she had just gotten out of bed or were ready to get into it. For amorous young men, and some not so young, the message was plain. The motto the gift that will last more than a lifetime seemed hardly to the point. Those at home were assailed on TV by a variety of bright and clever skits of the same import. Some of them hinted that if the young lady's gratitude were really precipitous and the bedroom too far away. The coffin might be comfy. Of course, the more settled elements of the population were not neglected. For the older married man, there was a blow directly between the eyes. Do you want your widow to be half safe? And for the spinster without immediate hopes. I dreamt I was caught dead without my virgin form. Casket. Newspapers, magazines and every other medium added to the assault, never letting it cool. It was the most horrendous campaign for sheer concentration that had ever been battered at the public mind. The public reeled, blinked, shook its head to clear it, gawked, and rushed out to buy. Christmas was not going to be a failure after all. Department store managers, who had grudgingly and under strong sales pressure made space for a single coffin somewhere at the rear of the store, now rushed to the telephones like touts. With a direct pronouncement from a horse, everyone who possibly could got into the act. Grocery. Supermarkets put in casket departments. The association of pharmaceutical retailers, who felt they had some claim to priority, tried to get court injunctions to keep caskets out of service stations, but were unsuccessful because the judges were all out buying caskets. Beauty parlors showed real ingenuity in merchandising. Roads and streets were clogged with delivery trucks, rented trailers and whatever else could haul a coffin. The stock market went completely mad. Strikes were declared and settled within hours. Congress was called into session early. The president got authority to ration lumber and other materials such as suddenly in starvation, short supply. State laws were passed against cremation. Under heavy lobby pressure, a new racket called box jacking blossomed overnight. The advertising manager who had put the thing over had been fighting with all the formidable weapons of his breed to make his plant managers build up a stockpile. They had, but it went like a toupee in a wind tunnel. Competitive coffin manufacturers were caught napping. But by Wednesday after Thanksgiving, they, along with the original one, were on a 24 hour, 7 day basis. Still, only a fraction of the demand could be met. Jet passenger planes were stripped of their seats, supplied with Yankee gold, and sent to plunder the world of its coffins. It might be supposed that Christmas goods other than caskets would take a bad dumping. That was not so. Such was the upsurge of prosperity and such was the shortage of coffins that nearly everything, with a few exceptions, enjoyed the biggest season on record. On Christmas Eve, the frenzy slumped to a crawl, though on Christmas morning there were still optimists out prowling the empty stores. The nation sat down to breathe. Mostly it sat on coffins because there wasn't space in the living rooms for any other furniture. There was hardly an individual in the United States who didn't have, in case of sudden sharp pains in the chest, several boxes to choose from. As for the rest of the world, it had better not die just now, or it would be literally a case of dust to dust. Of course, everyone expected a doozy of a slump after Christmas. But our advertising manager, who by now was of course sales manager and first vice president, also wasn't settling for any boom and bust. He'd been a frustrated victim of his choice of industries for so many years that now, with his teeth in something, he was going to give it the old bite. He gave people a short breathing spell to arrange their coffin pavements and move the presents out of the front rooms. Then, late in January, his new campaign came down like a hundred megatonner Within a week, everyone saw quite clearly that his Christmas models were now obsolete. The coffin became the new status symbol. The auto industry was, of course demolished. Even people who had enough money to buy a new car weren't going to trade in the old one and let the new one stand out in the rain. The garages were full of coffins. Petroleum went along with autos. Though there were those who whispered knowingly that the same people merely moved over into this new industry. It was noticeable that the center of it became Detroit. A few trucks and buses were still being built, but that was all. Some of the new caskets were true works of art. Others, well, there was variety. Compact models appeared in which the occupants feet were to be doubled up alongside his ears. One manufacturer pushed a circular model, claiming that by all the laws of nature, the fetal position was the only right one. At the other extreme were virtual houses, ornate and lavishly equipped. Possibly the largest of all was the togetherness model. Triangular, with graduated recesses for father, mother, mother, eight children plus two playmates. And in the far corner, beyond the baby, the cat. The slump was over. Still, economists were that the new boom couldn't last either. They reckoned, without the advertising manager, whose eyes gleamed brighter all the time. People already had coffins, which they polished and kept on display, sometimes in the new coffin ports being added to houses. The advertising manager's reasoning was direct and to the point. He must get people to use the coffins, and now he had all the money to work with that he could use. The new note was woven in so gradually that it is not easy to put a finger on any one ad and say it began here. One of the first was surely the widely printed one showing a tattooed, smiling young man with his chin thrust out manfully lying in a coffin. He was rugged looking and likable. Not too rugged for the spindly limb to identify with. And he oozed, even though obviously dead, virility at every pore. He was probably the finest looking corpse since Richard the Lion Hearted. Neither must one overlook the singing commercials, possibly the catchiest of these. A really cute little thing was achieved by jazzing up the funeral march. It started gradually and it was all so unviolent that few saw it as suicide. Teenagers began having popping off parties. Some of their elders protested a little, but adults were taking it up too. The tired, the unappreciated, the ill and the heavy laden lay down in growing numbers and expired. A black market in poisons operated for a little while, but soon pinched out. Such was the pressure of persuasion that few needed artificial aids. The boxes were very comfortable. People just closed their eyes and exited smiling. The beatniks, who had their own models of coffin, moldy, scroungy and without lids, since the beatniks insisted on being seen, placed their boxes on the Grant Avenue in San Francisco. They died with highly intellectual expressions and eventually were washed by the gentle rain. Of course there were voices shouting calamity when aren't there. But in the long run, and not a very long one at that, they availed not. It isn't hard to imagine the reactions of the rest of the world, so let us imagine a few. The communist bloc immediately gave its stamp of disapproval, denouncing the movement as a filthy capitalist imperialist pig plot. Red China, which had been squabbling with Russia for some time about a matter of method, screamed for immediate war. Russia exposed this as patent stupidity, saying that if the capitalists wanted to die, warring upon them would only help them. China surreptitiously tried out the thing as an answer to excess population and found it good. It also appealed to the well known melancholy facet of Russian nature. Besides, after pondering for several days, the Red block decided it could not afford to fall behind in anything. So it started its own program, explaining with much logic how it differed. An elderly British philosopher endorsed the movement on the grounds that a temporary setback in evolution was preferable to to facing up to anything. The free block, the red block, the neutral block, and such scraps as had been too obtuse to find themselves a block were drawn into the whirlpool in an amazingly short time. If in a variety of ways, in less than two years, the world was rid of most of what had been bedeviling it. Oddly enough, the country where the movement began was the last to succumb completely. Or perhaps it is not so odd. Coffin maker to the world, the American casket industry had by now almost completely automated box making and grave digging, with some interesting assembly lines and packaging arrangements. There still remained the jobs of management and distribution. The president of General Mortuary and a bulient fellow affectionately called Sarcophagus Sam put it well. As long as I have a single prospective customer and a single stockholder, he said, mangling a stogie and beetling his brows at the one reporter who'd showed up for the press conference, I'll try to put him in a coffin so I can pay him a dividend. Finally, though, a man who thought he must be the last living human wandered contentedly about the city of Denver looking for the coffin he liked best. He settled at last upon a rich mahogany number with platinum trimmings, an automatic self adjusting cadaver contour, inner spring wherever plastic covered mattress with a built in bar. He climbed in, drew himself a generous slug of fine scotch, giggled as the mattress prodded him exploringly, closed his eyes, and sighed in solid comfort. Soft music played as the lid closed itself. From a building nearby, a turkey buzzard swooped down, cawing in raucous anger. Because it had let its attention wander for a moment, it was too late. It clawed, screaming at the solid cover, hissed in frustration, and finally gave up. It flapped into the air again, still grumbling. It was tired of living on dead small rodents and coyotes. It thought it would take a swing over to Los Angeles, where the pickings were pretty good. As it moved westward over parched hills, it espied two black dots a few miles to its left. It circled over for a closer look, then grunted and went on its way. It had seen them before. The old prospector and his burro had been in the mountains for so long, the buzzard had concluded that they didn't know how to die. The prospector his name was Adams, trudged behind his burrow toward the buildings that shimmered in the heat, humming to himself now and then or addressing some remark to the beast. When he reached the outskirts of Denver, he realized something was amiss. He stood and gazed at the quiet scene. Nothing moved except for some skinny pack rats and a few sparrows foraging for grain among the unburied coffins. Tar Nation, he said to the burro Martians. A half buried piece of newspaper fluttered in the breeze. He walked forward slowly and picked it up. It told him enough so that he understood. They're gone, Evie, he said to the burro. All gone. He put his arm affectionately around her neck. I reckon it's up to me and you again. We got to start all over. He stood back and gazed at her with mild reproach. I shore hope they don't favor your side of the house so much this time. And all the earth a grave by cc mcap aka carol m. Capps.
[38:00]
Arm of the Law by Harry Harrison this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Greg Marguerite Arm of the Law by Harry Harrison at one time this was before the robot restriction laws. They even allowed them to make their own decisions. It was a big coffin shaped plywood box that looked like it weighed a ton. This brawny type just dumped it through the door of the police station and started away. I looked up from the blotter and shouted at the truckers vanishing back. What the hell is that? How should I know? He said as he swung up into the cab. I just deliver. I don't X ray em. It came in on the morning rocket from Earth is all I know. He gunned the truck more than he had to and threw up a billowing cloud of red dust. Jokers, I growled to myself. Mars is full of jokers. When I went over to look at the box, I could feel the dust grate between my teeth. Chief Craig must have heard the racket because he came out of his office and helped me stand and look at the box. Think it's a bomb? He asked in a bored voice. Why would anyone bother, particularly with a thing this size and all the way from Earth. He nodded agreement and walked around to look at the other end. There was no sender's address anywhere on the outside. Finally we had to dig out the crowbar and I went to work on the top. After some prying, it pulled free and fell off. That was when we had our first look at Ned. We all would have been a lot happier if it had been our last look as well. If we had just put the lid back on and shipped the thing back to Earth. I know now what they mean about Pandora's box, but we just stood there and stared like a couple of rubes. Ned lay motionless and stared back at us. A robot, the chief said. Very observant. It's easy to see you went to the police academy. Ha ha. Now find out what he's doing here. I hadn't gone to the academy, but this was no handicap to my finding the letter. It was sticking up out of a thick book in a pocket in the box. The chief took the letter and read it with little enthusiasm. Well, well. United Robotics have the brainstorm that robots correctly used will tend to prove invaluable to police work. They want us to cooperate in a field test robot. Enclosed is the latest experimental model, valued at 120,000 credits. We both looked back at the robot, sharing the wish that the credits had been in the box instead of it. The chief frowned and moved his lips through the rest of the letter. I wondered how we got the robot out of its plywood coffin. Experimental model or not, this was a nice looking hunk of machinery. A uniform, navy blue all over, though the outlet cases, hooks and such, were a metallic gold. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to get that effect. This was as close a robot could look to a cop in uniform without being a joke. All that seemed to be missing was the badge and gun. Then I noticed the tiny glow of light in the robot's eye lenses. It had never occurred to me before that the thing might be turned on. There was nothing to lose by finding out. Get out of that box, I said. The robot came up smooth and fast as a rocket, landing 2ft in front of me and whipping out a snappy salute. Police Experimental Robot, serial number XP0456934B, reporting for duty, sir. His voice quivered with alertness, and I could almost hear the humming of those taut cable muscles. He may have had a stainless steel hide and a bunch of wires for a brain, but he spelled rookie cop to me just the same. The fact that he was man height with two arms, two legs, and that painted on uniform helped. All I had to do was squint my eyes a bit and there stood Ned, the rookie cop, fresh out of school and raring to go. I shook my head to get rid of the illusion this was just 6ft of machine that boffins and brain boys had turned out for their own amusement. Relax, Ned, I said. He was still holding the salute. At ease. You'll get a hernia of your exhaust pipe if you stay so tense. Anyways, I'm just the sergeant here. That's the chief of police over there. Ned did an about face and slid over to the chief with that same greased lightning motion. The chief just looked at him like something that sprang out from under the hood of a car. While Ned went through the same report routine, I Wonder if it does anything else beside salute and report, the Chief said while he walked around the robot looking it over like a dog with a hydrant. The functions, operations, and responsible courses of action open to the police experimental robots are outlined on pages 184-2213 of the manual. Ned's voice was muffled for a second while he half dived back into his case and came up with the volume mentioned. A detailed breakdown of these will also be found on pages 103521267 inclusive. The chief, who has trouble reading an entire comic page at one sitting, turned the 6 inch thick book over in his hands like it would maybe bite him. When he had a rough idea of how much it weighed and a good feel of the binding, he threw it on my desk. Take care of this, he said to me as he headed towards his office and the robot too. Do do something with it. The Chief's span of attention never was great, and it had been strained to the limit. This time I flipped through the book, wondering. One thing I never have had much to do with is robots, so I know just as much about them as any joe in the street. Probably less. The book was filled with pages of fine print, fancy mathematics, wiring diagrams and charts in nine colors, and that kind of thing. It needed close attention, which attention I was not prepared to give it at the time. The book slid shut and I eyed the newest employee of the city of Nineport. There's a broom behind the door. Do you know how to use it? Yes, sir. In that case you will sweep out this room, raising as small a cloud of dust as possible. At the same time, he did a very neat job of it. I watched a hundred and twenty thousand credits worth of machinery making a tidy pile of butts and sand and wondered why it had been sent to Nineport. Probably because there wasn't another police force in the solar system that was smaller or more unimportant than ours. The engineers must have figured this would be a good spot for a field test. Even if the thing blew up, nobody would really mind. There would probably be someone along some day to get a report on it. Well, they had picked the right spot all right. Nineport was just a little bit beyond nowhere, which of course was why I was there. I was the only real cop on the force. They needed at least one to give an illusion of the wheels going around. The chief, Alonzo Craig, had just enough sense to take graft without dropping the money. There were two patrolmen, one old and drunk most of the time, the other so young. The only scar he had was the mark of the atram. I had 10 years on a metropolitan force Earthside. Why I left is nobody's damn business. I I have long since paid for any mistakes I made there by ending up in Nineport. Nineport is not a city. It's just a place where people stop. The only permanent citizens are the ones who cater to those on the way through. Hotel keepers, restaurant owners, gamblers, barkeeps, and the rest. There is a spaceport, but only some freighters come there to pick up the metal from some of the mines that are still working. Some of the settlers still came in for supplies. You might say that Nineport was a town that just missed the boat. In a hundred years, I doubt if there will be enough left sticking out of the sand to even tell where it used to be. I won't be there either, so I couldn't care less. I went back to the blotter. Five drunks in the tank, an average night's haul. While I wrote them up, Fats dragged in the sixth one locked himself and the ladies john at the spaceport and, resisting a rest, he reported, Dd throw him in with the rest. Fats steered his limp victim across the floor, matching him step for dragging step. I always marveled at the way Fats took care of drunks, since he usually had more under his belt than they had. I have never seen him falling down drunk or completely sober. About all he was good for was keeping a blurred eye on the lockup and running in drunks. He did well at that, no matter what they crawled under or on top of. He found them, no doubt due to the same shared natural instincts. Fats clanged the door behind number six and weaved his way back in. What's that? He asked, peering at the robot along the purple beauty of his nose. That is a robot. I have forgotten the number his mother gave him at the factory, so we will call him Ned. He works here now. Good for him. He can clean up the tank after we throw the bums out. The that's my job, billy said, coming in through the front door. He clutched his nightstick and scowled out from under the brim of his uniform cap. It is not that Billy is stupid, just that most of his strength has gone into his back instead of his mind. That's Ned's job now. Because you have a promotion, you are going to help me with some of my work. Billy came in very handy at times, and I was anxious that the Force shouldn't lose him. My explanation cheered him because he sat down by Fats and watched Ned do the floor. That's the way things went. For about a week we watched Ned sweep and polish until the station began to take on a positively antiseptic look. The chief, who always had an eye out for that type of thing, found out that Ned could file the odd ton of reports and paperwork that cluttered his office. All this kept the robot busy, and we got so used to him we were hardly aware he was around. I knew he had moved the packing case into the storeroom and fixed himself up a cozy sort of robot dormitory coffin. Other than that, I didn't know or care. The operation manual was buried in my desk and I never looked at it. If I had, I might have had some idea of the big changes that were in store. None of us knew the littlest bit about what a robot can or cannot do. Ned was working nicely as a combination janitor, file clerk, and should have stayed that way. He would have, too, if the Chief hadn't been so lazy. That's what started it all. It was around nine at night and the Chief was just going home when the call came in. He took it, listened for a moment, then hung up. Greenback's Liquor Store. He got held up again. Says to come at once. That's a change. Usually we don't hear about it until a month later. What's he paying protection money for? If China Joe ain't protecting, what's the rush now? The chief chewed his loose lip for a while, finally and painfully reached a decision. You better go around and see what the trouble is. Sure, I said, reaching for my cap, but no one else is around. You'll have to watch the desk until I get back. That's no good, he moaned. I'm dying from hunger, and sitting here isn't going to help me any. I will go take the report, ned said, stepping forward and snapping his usual well greased salute. At first the Chief wasn't buying. You would think the water cooler came to life and offered to take over his job. How could you take a report? He growled, putting the wise guy water cooler in its place. But he had phrased his little insult as a question, so he had only himself to blame. In exactly three minutes, Ned gave the chief a summary of the routine necessary for a police officer to make a report on an armed robbery or other reported theft. From the glazed look in Chief's protruding eyes, I could tell Ned had quickly passed the boundaries of the Chief's meager knowledge. Enough. The harried man finally gasped. If you know so much, why don't you make a report? Which to me sounded like another version of if you're so damn smart, why ain't you rich? Which we used to snarl at the brainy kids in grammar school. Ned took such things literally though, and turned towards the door. Do you mean you wish me to make a report on this robbery? Yes, the chief said, just to get rid of him, and we watched his blue shape vanish through the door. He must be brighter than he looks, I said. He never stopped to ask where Greenback's store is. The chief nodded and the phone rang again. His hand was still resting on it so he picked it up by reflex. He listened for a second and you would have thought someone was pumping blood out of his heel from the way his face turned white. The hold up's still on, he finally gasped. Greenback's delivery boy is on the line calling back to see where we are. Says he's under a table in the back room. I never heard the rest of it because I was out the door and into the car. There were a hundred things that could have happened if Ned got there before me. Guns could go off, people hurt, lots of things, and the police would be to blame for it all. Sending a tin robot to do a cop's job. Maybe the chief had ordered Ned there, but clearly, as if the words were painted on the windshield of the car, I knew I would be dragged into it. It never gets very warm on Mars, but I was sweating. Nine Port has 14 traffic regulations and I broke all of them before I had gone a block. Fast as I was, Ned was faster. As I turned the corner I saw him open the door of Greenback Store and walk in. I screamed, brakes in behind him and arrived just in time to have a gallery seat. A shooting gallery at that. There were two hold up punks, one behind the counter making like a clerk and the other lounging off to one side. Their guns were out of sight, but blue coated Ned bursting through the door was too much for their keyed up nerves. Up came both guns like they were on strings and Ned stopped dead. I grabbed for my own gun and waited for pieces of busted robot to come flying through the window. Ned's reflexes were great, which I suppose is what you should expect of a robot. Drop your guns. You are under arrest. He must have had on full power or something. His voice blasted so loud my ears hurt. The result was just what you might expect. Both torpedoes let go at once and the air was filled with flying slugs. The show windows went out with A crash and I went down on my stomach. From the amount of noise I knew they both had recoilless 50s. You can't stop one of those slugs. They go right through you and anything else that happens to be in the way. Except they didn't seem to be bothering Ned. The only notice he seemed to take was to cover his eyes open. A little shield with a thin slit popped down over his eye lenses. Then he moved in on the first thug. I knew he was fast, but not that fast. A couple of slugs jarred him as he came across the room, but before the punk could change his aim, Ned had the gun in his hand. That was the end of that. He put on one of the sweetest hammerlocks I've ever seen and neatly grabbed the gun when it dropped from the limp fingers. With the same motion that slipped the gun into a pouch, he whipped out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them on the punk's wrists. Holdupnick number two was heading for the door by then and I was waiting to give him a warm reception. There was never any need. He hadn't gone halfway before Ned slid in front of him. There was a thud when they hit that didn't even shake Ned, but gave the other a glazed look. He never even knew it when Ned slipped the cuffs on him and dropped him down next to his partner. I went in, took their guns from Ned and made the arrest official. That was all Greenback saw when he crawled out from behind the counter and it was all I wanted him to see. The place was a foot deep in broken glass and smelled like the inside of a Jack Daniels bottle. Greenback began to howl like a wolf over his lost stock. He didn't seem to know any more about the phone call than I did, so I grabbed a hold of a pimply looking kid who staggered out of the storeroom. He was the one who had made the calls. It turned out to be a matter of sheer stupidity. He had worked for Greenback only a few days and didn't have enough brains to realize that all hold ups should be reported to the protection boys instead of the police. I told Greenback to wise up his boy as look at the trouble that got caused. Then pushed the two ex holdup men out to the car. Ned climbed in back with them and they clung together like two waifs in a storm. The robot's only response was to pull a first aid kit from his hip and fix up a ricochet hole in one of the thugs that no one had noticed in the excitement. The chief was still sitting there with that bloodless look when we marched in. I didn't believe it could be done, but he went two shades whiter. You made the pinch, he whispered. Before I could straighten him out, a second and more awful idea hit him. He grabbed a handful of shirt on the first torpedo and poked his face down. You with China Joe. He snarled. The punk made the error of trying to be cute, so the Chief let him have one on the head with the open hand that set his eyes rolling like marbles. When the question got asked again, he found the right answer. I never heard from no China Joe. We just hit town today and freelance, by God. The chief sighed and collapsed into his chair. Lock em up and quickly tell me what in hell happened. I slammed the gate on them and pointed a none too steady finger at Ned. There's the hero, I said. Took them on single handed, wrastled them for a fall and made the capture. He's a one robot tornado, a power for good in this otherwise evil community. And he's bulletproof too. I ran a finger over Ned's broad chest. The paint was chipped by the slugs, but the metal was hardly scratched. This is going to cause me big trouble. Big trouble. The chief wailed. I knew he meant with the protection boys. They did not like punks getting arrested and guns going off without their okay. But Ned thought the Chief had other worries and rushed in to put them right. There will be no trouble. At no time did I violate any of the robotic restriction laws. They are part of my control circuits and therefore fully automatic. The men who drew their guns violated both robotic and human laws when they threatened violence. I did not injure the men, merely restrained them. It was all over the Chief's head, but I like to think I could follow it. And I had been wondering how a robot, a machine, could be involved in something like law, application and violence. Ned had the answer to that one too. Robots have been assuming these functions for years. Don't recording radar meters pass judgment on human violation of automobile regulations? A robot alcohol detector is better qualified to assess the sobriety of a prisoner than the arresting officer. At one time robots were even allowed to make their own decisions about killing. Before the robotic restriction laws, automatic gun pointers were in general use. Their final development was a self contained battery of large anti aircraft guns. Automatic scan radar detected all aircraft in the vicinity. Those that could not return the correct identifying signal had their courses tracked and computed. Automatic fuse cutters and loaders readied the computer aimed guns which were fired by the robot Mechanism. There was little I could argue about with Ned, except maybe his college professor vocabulary, so I switched the attack. But a robot can't take the place of a cop. It's a complex human job. Of course it is. But taking a human policeman's place is not the function of a police robot. Primarily, I combine the functions of numerous pieces of police equipment, integrating their operations and making them instantly available. In addition, I can aid in the mechanical process of law enforcement. If you arrest a man, you handcuff him, but if you order me to do it, I have made no moral decision. I am just a machine for attaching handcuffs. At that point, my raised hand cut off the flow of robotic argument. Ned was hipped to his ears with facts and figures, and I had a good idea who would come off second best in any continued discussion. No laws had been broken when Ned made the pinch, that was for sure. But there are other laws than those that appear on the books. China Joe is not going to like this. Not at all, the chief said, speaking my own thoughts. The law of tooth and claw. That's one that wasn't in the law books. And that was what ran Nineport. The place was just big enough to have a good population of gambling joints, bawdy houses, and drunk rollers. They were all run by China Joe, as was the police department. We were all in his pocket, and you might say he was the one who paid our wages. This is not the kind of thing, though, that you explain to a robot. Yeah, China Joe. I thought it was an echo at first, then realized that someone had eased in the door behind me. Something called Alex. Six feet of bone, muscle, and trouble. China Joe's right hand man. He imitated a smile at the chief, who sank a bit lower in his chair. China Joe wants you should tell him why you got smart cops going around and putting the arm on people and letting them shoot up good liquor. He's mostly angry about the hooch. He says that he had enough guff and after this you should. I am putting you under robot arrest pursuant to Article 46, paragraph 19 of the revised Statutes. Ned had done it before we realized he had even moved right in front of our eyes. He was arresting Alex and signing our death warrants. Alex was not slow as he turned to see who had grabbed him. He had already dragged out his cannon. He got one shot in square against Ned's chest before the robot plucked the gun away and slipped on the cuffs. While we all gaped like dead fish, Ned recited the charge in what I swear was a satisfied tone. The prisoner is Peter Rakjomski, alias Alex the Axe, wanted in Canal City for armed robbery and attempted murder. Also wanted by local police of Detroit, New York and Manchester on charges of. Get it off me. Alex howled. We might have too, and everything might have still been straightened out if Benny Bug hadn't heard the shot. He popped his head in the front door just long enough to roll his eyes over our little scene. Alex, they're putting the arm on Alex. Then he was gone, and when I hit the door he was nowhere in sight. China Joe's boys always went around in pairs, and in 10 minutes he would know all about it. Book him, I told Ned. It wouldn't make any difference if we let him go now. The world has already come to an end. Fats came in then, mumbling to himself, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder when he saw me. What's up? I see little Benny Bug coming out of here like the place was on fire and almost get killed driving away. Then Fats saw Alex with the bracelets on and turned sober in one second. He just took a moment to gape. Then his mind was made up. Without a trace of stagger, he walked over to the chief and threw his badge on the desk in front of him. I am an old man and I drink too much to be a cop. Therefore I am resigning from the force because if that is whom I think it is over there with the cuffs on, I will not live to be a day older as long as I am around here. Rat. The chief growled in pain through his clenched teeth. Deserting the sinking ship. Rat. Squeak. Fat said and left. The chief was beyond caring at this point. He didn't blink an eye when I took Fat's badge off the desk. I don't know why I did it. Perhaps I thought it was only fair. Ned had started all the trouble and I was just angry enough to want him on the spot. When it was finished, there were two rings on his chest plate and I was not surprised when the badge pin fitted them neatly. There. Now you're a real cop. Sarcasm dripped from the words. I should have realized that robots are immune to sarcasm. Ned took my statement at face value. This is a very great honor, not only for me, but for all robots. I will do my best to fulfill all the obligations of the office. Jack Armstrong in tin underwear. I could hear the little motors in his guts humming with joy as he booked Alex. If everything else hadn't been so bad, I would have enjoyed that. Ned had more police equipment built into him than Nineport had ever owned. There was an ink pad that snapped out of one hip and he efficiently rolled Alex's fingertips across it and stamped them on a card. Then he held the prisoner at arm's length while something clicked in his abdomen once more sideways, and two instant photographs dropped out of a slot. The mug shots were stuck on the card, arrest details and such inserted. There was more like this, but I forced myself away. There were more important things to think about, like staying alive. Any ideas, Chief? A groan was my only answer, so I let it go at that. Billy the balance of the police force came in. Then I gave him a quick rundown. Either through stupidity or guts, he elected to stay and I was proud of the boy. Ned locked away the latest prisoner and began sweeping up. That was the way we were when China Joe walked in. Even though we were expecting it, it was still a shock. He had a bunch of his toughest hoods with him and they crowded through the door like an overweight baseball team. China Joe was in front, hands buried in the sleeves of his long mandarin gown. No expression at all on his ascetic features. He didn't waste time talking to us, just gave the word to his own boys, clean up this place. The new police chief will be here in a while and I don't want him to see any bombs hanging around. It made me angry. Even with the graft. I like to feel I'm still a cop, not on a cheap punk's payroll. I was also curious about China Joe, had been ever since I tried to get a line on him and never found a thing. I still wanted to know Ned. Take a good look at that Chinese guy in the rayon bathrobe and let me know who he is. My, but those electronic circuits work fast. Ned shot the answer back like a straight man who had been rehearsing his lines for weeks. He is a pseudo oriental utilizing a natural sallowness of the skin heightened with dye. He is not Chinese. There has also been an operation on his eyes, scars of which are still visible. This has been undoubtedly done in an attempt to conceal his real identity, but bertillion measurements of his ears and other features make identity positive. He is on the very wanted list of Interpol and his real name is China Joe was angry and with reason. That's the thing. That big mouth tin radio set over there. We heard about it and were taking care of it. The mob jumped aside then or hit the deck and I saw there was a guy kneeling in the door with a rocket launcher shaped anti tank charges. No doubt that was My last thought as the thing let go with a whoosh. Maybe you can hit a tank with one of those things, but not a robot. At least not a police robot. Ned was sliding across the floor on his face when the back wall blew up. There was no second shot. Ned closed his hand on the tube of the bazooka and it was so much old drainpipe. Billy decided that anyone who fired a rocket in a police station was breaking the law. So he moved in with his club. I was right behind him, since I did not want to miss any of the fun. Ned was at the bottom somewhere, but I didn't doubt he could take care of himself. There were a couple of muffled shots and someone screamed. No one fired after that because we were all too tangled up. A punk named Brooklyn Eddy hit me on the side of the head with his gun butt and I broke his nose all over his face with my fist. There is a kind of fog over everything after that, but I do remember it was very busy for a while. When the fog lifted a bit, I realized I was the only one still standing, or leaning rather. It was a good thing the wall was there. Ned came in through the street door carrying a very bashed looking Brooklyn Eddy. I hoped I had done all that. Eddie's wrists were fastened together with cuffs. Ned laid him gently next to the heap of thugs who I suddenly realized all wore the same kind of handcuffs. I wondered vaguely if Ned made them as he needed them or had a supply tucked away in a hollow leg or something. There was a chair a few feet away, and sitting down helped. Blood was all over everything, and if a couple of the hoods hadn't groaned, I would have thought they were corpses. One was, I noticed suddenly a bullet had caught him in the chest. Most of the blood was probably his. Ned burrowed in the bodies for a moment and dragged Billee out. He was unconscious, a big smile on his face and the splintered remains of his nightstick still stuck in his fist. It takes very little to make some people happy. A bullet had gone through his leg and he never moved while Ned ripped the pants leg off and put on a bandage. The Sperry's China Joe and one other man escaped in a car, Ned reported. Don't let it worry you, I managed to croak. Your batting average still leads the league. It was then I realized the chief was still sitting in his chair where he had been when the brouhaha started, still slumped down with that glazed look. Only after I started to talk to him did I realize that Alonzo Craig, Chief of Police of Nineport, was now dead. A single shot, small caliber gun, maybe a.22 right through the heart. And what blood there had been was soaked up by his clothes. I had a good idea where the gun would be that fired that shot. A small gun, the kind that would fit in a wide Chinese sleeve. I wasn't tired or groggy any more, just angry. Maybe he hadn't been the brightest or most honest guy in the world, but he deserved a better end than that. Knocked off by a two bit racket boss who thought he was being crossed. Right about then I realized I had a big decision to make. With Billy out of the fight and Fats gone, I was the Nineport police force. All I had to do to be clear of this mess was to walk out the door and keep going. I would be safe enough. Ned, buzzed by, picked up two of the thugs and hauled them off to the cells. Maybe it was the sight of his blue back, or maybe I was tired of running. Either way, my mind was made up. Before I realized it. I carefully took off the chief's gold badge and put it on in place of my old one. The new Chief of Police of Nineport, I said to no one in particular. Yes, sir, ned said as he passed. He put one of the prisoners down long enough to salute, then went on with his work. I returned the salute. The hospital meat wagon hauled away the dead and wounded. I took an evil pleasure in ignoring the questioning stares of the attendants. After the doc fixed the side of my head, everyone cleared out. Ned mopped up the floor. I ate 10 aspirin and waited for the hammering to stop so I could think what to do next. When I pulled my thoughts together, the answer was obvious. Too obvious. I made as long a job as I could of reloading my gun. Refill your handcuff box, Ned. We are going out like a good cop. He asked no questions. I locked the outside door when we left and gave him the key. Here. There's a good chance you'll be the only one left to use this before the day is over. I stretched the drive over to China Joe's place just as much as I could, trying to figure if there was another way of doing it. There wasn't. Murder had been done and Joe was the boy I was going to pin it on, so I had to get him. The best I could do was stop around the corner and give Ned a briefing. This combination bar in dice room is the sole property of he whom we will still call China Joe until there's Time for you to give me a rundown on him right now. I got enough distractions. What we have to do is go in there, find Joe, and bring him to justice. Simple, simple, ned answered in his sharp Joe College voice. But wouldn't it be simpler to make the arrest now, when he is leaving in that car instead of waiting until he returns? The car in mention was doing 60 as it came out of the alley ahead of us. I only had a glimpse of Joe in the back seat as it tore by us. Stop them. I shouted, mostly for my own benefit since I was driving. I tried to shift gears and start the engine at the same time and succeeded in doing exactly nothing. So Ned stopped them. It had been phrased as an order. He leaned his head out of the window and I saw at once why most of his equipment was located in his torso. Probably his brain as well. There sure wasn't much room left in his head when that cannon was tucked away in there. A.75 recoilless. A plate swiveled back right where his nose should have been, if he had one, and the big muzzle pointed out. It's a neat idea when you think about it. Right between the eyes for good aiming up high, always ready. The boom boom almost took my head off. Of course, Ned was a perfect shot. So would I be with a computer for a brain. He had holed one rear tire with each slug and the car flap flapped to a stop a little ways down the road. I climbed out slowly while Ned sprinted there in seconds flat. They didn't even try to run this time. What little nerve they had left must have been shattered by the smoking muzzle of that 75 poking out from between Ned's eyes. Robots are neat about things like that, so he must have left it sticking out deliberately. Probably he had a course in psychology back in robot school. Three of them in the car, all waving their hands in the air like the last reel of a Western, and the rear floor covered with interesting little suitcases. Everyone came along quietly. China Joe only snarled while Ned told me that his name really was Stanton, and the Almira hot seat was kept warm all the time in hopes he would be back. I promised Joe Stanton I would be happy to arrange it that same day, thereby not worrying about any slip ups with the local authorities. The rest of the mob would stand trial in Canal City. It was a very busy day. Things have quieted down a good deal since then. Billy is out of the hospital and wearing my old sergeant's stripes. Even Fats is back, though he is sober. Once in a while now and has trouble looking me in the eye. We don't have much to do because in addition to being a quiet town, this is now an honest one. Ned is on foot patrol nights and in charge of the lab and files days. Maybe the Policeman's Benevolent wouldn't like that, but Ned doesn't seem to mind. He touched up all the bullet scratches and keeps his badge polished. I know a robot can't be happy or sad, but Ned seems to be happy. Sometimes I would swear I can hear him humming to himself. But of course that's only the motors and things going around when you start thinking about it. I suppose we set some kind of precedent here, what with putting on a robot as a full fledged police officer. No one ever came around from the factory yet, so I have never found out if we're the first or not. And I'll tell you something else, I'm not going to stay in this broken down town forever. I have some letters out now looking for a new job, so some people are going to be very surprised when they see who their new Chief of police is after I leave. End of arm of the law by harry harrison.
[72:24]
The Bell Tone by Edmund H. Leftwich this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times the Bell Tone by Edmund H. Leftwich it is no use. It's too late. The Earth I must dig Alone To Whom it may Concern in order to clear up any misunderstanding or false impressions regarding the amazing case of my beloved friend and co worker, Professor Howard E. Edwards. I submit herewith extracts from the Professor's notebook which I found on the desk. Evans Barclay, BS Fellow Ire January 25th last night in my dreams I was a monstrous ant and had been digging myself a burrow in the soft fresh earth. The dream was intensely real and when I awoke I felt as tired as if I had actually been digging. My arms ached and I was astonished upon examining my hands to find them raw. Dressing hastily, I rushed to the back yard and there, sure enough, near the fence, was a large hole about 2ft deep and 3ft long. Hurriedly I filled it in and returned to the house. I must rest for a few days as I feel that the intense excitement caused by my investigations is preying too heavily upon my mind. At this time I feel that I should make a brief summary of my findings in respect to the ants so that Barclay may go over these notes upon his return from his vacation. First, the ant colony is the source of the powerful bell like tone which is radiated continuously on two wavelengths,.0018 meter and 0.00176 meter. This tone acts as a radio beacon and directs the ants to the colony, no matter where they may be located. The 0018 meter wave is used by the ants for their clacking conversations by means of which they communicate with each other and the colony, receiving orders from the directing intelligence, reporting the location of food and requesting help when needed. The wave 00176 meter is used for sending thought images or pictures which may be sent with the clacking code or independently. I cannot conceive a more efficient or highly specialized communication system. I must learn their secret, their methods. January 30th. This morning, while sitting at the receiver in a semi doze, with a bell tone ringing in my ears, I fell into that state known as daydreaming. Little Nippy, my beloved fox, terrier and constant companion, rushed into the laboratory and ran up to me. For a moment my mind went blank. My hand shot out. I grasped the dog around the throat and began to throttle him. I had risen from my chair and the dog was nearly dead when I slipped and fell, pulling the phone plug out of the receiver. Instantly, my mind cleared and words cannot express the remorse I felt at my inhuman actions. Nippy would have nothing to do with me and crawled dejectedly from the room, a terrified look in his eyes. I have no explanation for my actions. February 3rd. The transmitter is ready for operation. I have constructed a pair of metal disc electrodes which clamp tightly to my head and press against my temples. This device will pick up the thought impulses from my brain, feed them directly into the radio frequency amplifier which where they will be amplified and then radiated in a tight directed beam. My two ants were in their little enclosure under the microscope. When I threw the switch to the send position. I pictured myself as I looked as a man and sent the thought I am a man. Hastily, I threw the switch on to the receive position. I looked through the microscope. The ants were lying on their sides. Somehow I felt that the power was too great and had stunned them. Keeping my eye to the microscope, I again threw the switch to send and cut the power to half. Get up, friends, get up, I thought as I pictured them rising. Sure enough, the ants slowly regained their feet. They looked about in apparent bewilderment. Back again in received position, I was conscious of the thought image. The man. He is the man. The man holds us here. He is killing us. We must kill the man. They gnashed their fierce looking mandibles. I snapped back, descend. And thought, no. You must not kill the man. The man will not harm you. He is your friend. He will help you. As I watched, the ants seemed to become less excited. From the larger of the two, I received the thought, we are dying. The man is killing us with his strong vibrations. We must kill the man. Then a very powerful thought impression burst upon my brain. It seemed to come from the colony three feet away. Warning to the Man. Stop your thought transmissions at once. Your vibrations are killing us. We want nothing from you. We have everything we need. You will learn nothing from us. You will stop at once. I threw the switch to send. Viewed through the microscope, the two ants were lying on their backs, dead to all appearances. What if I don't stop? I sent the thought question. I want to learn the secret of your communication. In return, I will teach you many things. I can't stop now. I changed to receive and the answer came back, if you do not stop, we will kill you. I turned off the apparatus, but the powerful bell tone continued to pound incessantly into my brain. I laughed. They'd kill me. Would they? Those tiny insects, what could they do? Well, let them try. But I'd get what I was after. I would not quit now with success so near. What if my transmissions did kill a few of them? Of what importance were the lives of a few ants as compared to the advancement of the science of communication? February 9th. I found myself digging again in the back yard yesterday. As before, I had been day dreaming when an overwhelming desire to go outside and feel the cool, moist earth between my fingers and on my face took possession of me. I rushed out into the back yard and began digging feverishly madly until finally I fell exhausted. Then my mind cleared and I filled in the hole. About half the ants have died, due no doubt, to the strength of my radiations. No matter how low I cut the power, they still cannot live but a short time. Under the force of my transmissions, they have stopped sending thought impressions entirely and are only using their clacking code signals which they seem to realize I cannot understand. I feel that they are undertaking some sort of campaign against me. For hours they congregate, closely packed, their antenna stiffly pointed straight up. Their thought currents seem to be flowing into and merging with the bell tone, which grows stronger and more penetrating day by day. In my backyard there are four large ant hills, and at each hill, curiously, there is no activity except the same mass concentration of the ants have they too been affected by my radiations and joined forces with the original colony against myself? The bell tone continues to grow stronger. February 11th. Mrs. Winslow, the middle aged widow who comes to clean my house and laboratory twice a week, was here this morning. She is short, dumpy and inclined to be stout. As she went about her work, I noticed particularly the fat, firm flesh of her neck just below the jaw. I felt an uncontrollable desire to sink my teeth deep into that flesh and enjoy the taste of warm, fresh blood. I had actually risen from my chair to accomplish my desire when the telephone rang and my mind cleared. February 14th. I have decided to stop my experiments with the ants as they refuse to send any more thought impressions. There is nothing further I can learn from them. Somehow I feel that they are gaining a hold upon my mind and that every time I listen in on the perceiver, that hold becomes stronger. I firmly believe that I would have attacked the poor Mrs. Winslow had not the ringing of the phone so opportunely interrupted me. I have sent word for her to stay away. As I cannot trust myself. I keep a box of fresh earth on the table in my laboratory. I often run my fingers through it and taste it. It is remarkable how much this soothes my nerves. February 16th. It is too late. For two days I have kept my apparatus shut off. I have not so much as looked at the ants, but still that confounded bell tone rings in my ears with all the insistence of African tom toms. Hour by hour the tone becomes more penetrating. I cannot sleep and can eat but little. As a last resort, I destroyed my ant colony. I even went so far as to pour boiling water on the four anthills in my yard. Still the bell tone persists. I can stand it no longer. Perhaps if I were to dig again in the yard, in the soothing earth, I could forget. News clipping from Philadelphia Banner Radio communications engineer Dead. Howard E. Edwards suicide. Philadelphia, February 18. The body of Howard E. Edwards, B.S. ph.D. Member IRE eminent authority on radio communications, aged 56, was found this morning in the back yard of his residence, 1427 Rains Ave. The body was almost completely buried in a long, narrow hole in the ground. At first foul play was suspected, but later it appeared that Edwards had dug himself into the ground and died of suffocation as his nostrils and mouth were filled with dirt. Dr. P.A. hoffner, who examined the body, found no wounds, stated that Edwards had been dead for about two days and pronounced the death as a clear case of suicide. The strange means employed, probably due to an unbalanced mental condition. Elaborate radio apparatus upon which Edwards had been working had been smashed to bits. End of the bell tone.
[85:11]
The Gun by Philip K. Dick this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Greg Marguerite the Gun by Philip K. Dick. Nothing moved or stirred. Everything was silent. Dead. Only the guns showed signs of life, and the trespassers had wrecked that for all time. The return journey to pick up the treasure would be a cinch. They smiled. The captain peered into the eyepiece of the telescope. He adjusted the focus quickly. It was an atomic fission we saw, all right, he said presently. He sighed and pushed the eyepiece away. Any of you who wants to look may do so, but it's not a pretty sight. Let me look, Tance, the archaeologist said. He bent down to look, squinting. Good Lord. He leaped violently back, knocking against Doorly, the chief navigator. Why did we come all this way, then? Doorly asked, looking around at the other men. There's no point even in landing. Let's go back at once. Perhaps he's right, the biologist murmured. But I'd like to look for myself, if I may. He pushed past Tance and peered into the sight. He saw a vast expanse of endless surface of gray stretching to the edge of the planet. At first he thought it was water, but after a moment he realized that it was slagpitted, fused slag, broken only by hills of rock jutting up at intervals. Nothing moved or stirred. Everything was silent. Dead. I see, fomar said, backing away from the eyepiece. Well, I won't find any legumes there. He tried to smile, but his lips stayed unmoved. He stepped away and stood by himself, staring past the others. I wonder what the atmospheric sample will show, tance said. I think I can guess, the captain answered. Most of the atmosphere is poisoned. But didn't we expect all this? I don't see why we're so surprised. A fission visible as far away as our system must be a terrible thing. He strode off down the corridor, dignified and expressionless. They watched him disappear into the control room. As the captain closed the door, the young woman turned. What did the telescope show? Good or bad? Bad. No life could possibly exist. Atmosphere poisoned. Water vaporized. All the land fused. Could they have gone underground? The captain slid back the port windows so that the surface of the planet under them was visible. The two of them stared down, silent and disturbed. Mile after mile of unbroken ruin stretched out Blackened slag, pitted and scarred, and occasional heaps of rock. Suddenly Nasha jumped. Look. Over there at the edge. Do you see it? They stared. Something rose up. Not rock, not an accidental formation. It was round. A circle of dots, white pellets on the dead skin of the planet. A city. Buildings of some kind. Please turn the ship, nasha said excitedly. She pushed her dark hair from her face. Turn the ship and let's see what it is. The ship turned, changing its course as they came over the white dots. The captain lowered the ship, dropping it down as much as he dared. Piers, he said. Piers of some sort of stone, perhaps. Poured artificial stone. The remains of a city. Oh dear, nasha murmured. How awful. She watched the ruins disappear behind them in a half circle. The white squares jutted from the slag, chipped and cracked like broken teeth. There's nothing alive, the captain said at last. I think we'll go right back. I know most of the crew want to get the government receiving station on the sender and tell them what we've found and that we he staggered. The first atomic shell had struck the ship, spinning it around. The captain fell to the floor, crashing into the control table. Papers and instruments rained down on him as he started to his feet. The second shell struck. The ceiling cracked open. Struts and girders twisted and bent. The ship shuddered, falling suddenly down, then righting itself as automatic controls took over. The captain lay on the floor by the smashed control board in the center. Nasha struggled to free herself from the debris. Outside, the men were already sealing the gaping leaks in the side of the ship, through which the precious air was rushing, dissipating into the void beyond. Help me. Dorley was shouting. Fire over here. Wiring ignited. Two men came running. Tance watched helplessly, his eyeglasses broken and bent. So there is life here after all, he said, half to himself. But how could Give us a hand, fomar said, hurrying past. Give us a hand. We've got to land the ship. It was night. A few stars glinted above them, winking through the drifting silt that blew across the surface of the planet. Doorly peered out, frowning. What a place to be stuck in. He resumed his work, hammering the bent metal hull of the ship back into place. He was wearing a pressure suit. There were still many small leaks, and radioactive particles from the atmosphere had already found their way into the ship. Nasha and Fomar were sitting at the table in the control room, pale, solemn, studying the inventory lists. Low on carbohydrates, Fomar said, we can Break down the stored fats if we want to, but I wonder if we could find anything outside. Nasha went to the window. How uninviting it looks. She paced back and forth, very slender and small, her face dark with fatigue. What do you suppose an exploring party would find? Fomar shrugged. Not much. Maybe a few weeds growing in cracks here and there. Nothing we could use. Anything that would adapt to this environment would be toxic. Lethal. Nasha paused, rubbing her cheek. There was a deep scratch there, still red and swollen. Then how do you explain it? According to your theory, the inhabitants must have died in their skins, fried like yams. But who fired on us? Somebody detected us, made a decisionaimed a gun, and gauged distance, the captain said feebly. From the cot in the corner. He turned toward them. That's the part that worries me. The first shell put us out of commission. The second almost destroyed us. They were well aimed. Perfectly aimed. We're not such an easy target. True. Fomar nodded. Well, perhaps we'll know the answer before we leave here. What a strange situation. All our reasoning tells us that no life could exist. The whole planet burned dry, the atmosphere itself gone, completely poisoned. The gun that fired the projectiles survived, Nasha said. Why not people? It's not the same. Metal doesn't need air to breathe. Metal doesn't get leukemia from radioactive particles. Metal doesn't need food and water. There was silence. A paradox, nasha said. Anyhow, in the morning I think we should send out a search party. And meanwhile we should keep on trying to get the ship in condition for the trip back. It'll be days before we can take off, omar said. We should keep every man working here. We can't afford to send out a party. Nasha smiled a little. We'll send you out in the first party. Maybe you can discover. What was it you were so interested in? Legumes. Edible legumes. Maybe you can find some of them. Only. Only what? Only watch out. They fired on us once without even knowing who we were or what we came for. Do you suppose they fought with each other? Perhaps they couldn't imagine anyone being friendly under any circumstances. What a strange evolutionary trait. Interspecies warfare. Fighting within the race. We'll know in the morning, fomar said. Let's get some sleep. The sun came up, chill and austere. The three people, two men and a woman, stepped through the port, dropping down on the hard ground below. What a day, doorly said grumpily. I said how glad I'd be to walk on Firm ground again. But come on, nasha said up beside me. I want to say something to you. Will you excuse us, Tance? Tance nodded gloomily. Dorli caught up with Nasha. They walked together, their metal shoes crunching the ground underfoot. Nasha glanced at him. Listen. The captain is dying. No one knows except the two of us. By the end of the day period of this planet, he'll be dead. The shock did something to his heart. He was almost 60, you know. Doorly nodded. That's bad. I have a great deal of respect for him. You will be captain in his place, of course, since you're vice captain now. No, I prefer to see someone else lead. Perhaps you or Fomar. I've been thinking over the situation, and it seems to me that I should declare myself mated to one of you. Whichever of you wants to be captain. Then I could devolve the responsibility. Well, I don't want to be captain. Let Fomhor do it. Nasha studied him, tall and blond, striding along beside her in his pressure suit. I'm rather partial to you, she said. We might try it for a time, at least. But do as you like. Look, we're coming to something. They stopped walking, letting Tance catch up. In front of them was some sort of a ruined building. Doorly stared around thoughtfully. Do you see? This whole place is a natural bowl, a huge valley. See how the rock formations rise up on all sides, protecting the floor. Maybe some of the great blast was deflected here. They wandered around the ruins, picking up rocks and fragments. I think this was a farm, tant said, examining a piece of wood. This was part of a tower. Windmill, really. Nasha took the stick and turned it over. Interesting. But let's go. We don't have much time. Look, dorley said suddenly. Off there. A long way off. Isn't that something? He pointed. Nasha sucked in her breath. The white stones. What? Nasha looked up at Dorli. The white stones. The great broken teeth. We saw them, the captain and I, from the control room. She touched Dorli's arm gently. That's where they fired from. I didn't think we had landed so close. What is it? Tant said, coming up to them. I'm almost blind without my glasses. What do you see? The city where they fired from. Oh. All three of them stood together. Well, let's go, tant said. There's no telling what we'll find there. Doorly frowned at him. Wait. We don't know what we would be getting into. They must have patrols. They probably have seen us already. For that matter, they probably have seen the ship itself, tant said. They probably know right now where they can find it, where they can blow it up. So what difference does it make whether we go closer or not? That's true, nasha said. If they really want to get us, we haven't a chance. We have no armaments at all. You know that. I have a hand weapon. Dorli nodded. Well, let's go on, then. I suppose you're right, Tance. But let's stay together. Tance said nervously. Gnasha, you're going too fast. Nasha looked back. She laughed. If we expect to get there by nightfall, we must go fast. They reached the outskirts of the city at about the middle of the afternoon. The sun, cold and yellow, hung above them in the colorless sky. Doorly stopped at the top of a ridge overlooking the city. Well, there it is. What's left of it. There was not much left. The huge concrete piers, which they had noticed were not piers at all, but the ruined foundations of buildings. They had been baked by the searing heat, baked and charred almost to the ground. Nothing else remained, only this irregular circle of white squaresperhaps four miles in diameter. Doorly spat in disgust. More wasted time. A dead skeleton of a city, that's all. But it was from here that the firing came, tance murmured. Don't forget that. And by someone with a good eye and a great deal of experience, nasha added. Let's go. They walked into the city between the ruined buildings. No one spoke. They walked in silence, listening to the echo of their footsteps. It's macabre, dorley muttered. I've seen ruined cities before, but they died of old age. Old age and fatigue. This was killed. Seared to death. This city didn't die. It was murdered. I wonder what the city was called, nasha said. She turned aside, going up the remains of a stairway from one of the foundations. Do you think we might find a signpost? Some kind of plaque? She peered into the ruins. There's nothing there, doorly said impatiently. Come on. Wait. Nasha bent down, touching a concrete stone. There's something inscribed on this. What is it? Tance hurried up. He squatted in the dust, running his gloved fingers over the surface of the stone. Letter's all right. He took a writing stick from the pocket of his pressure suit and copied the inscription on a bit of paper. Doorly glanced over his shoulder. The inscription was Franklin Apartments. That's this city, nasha said softly. That was its name. Tance put the paper in his pocket, and they went on. After a time, Doorly said, nasha, you know, I think we're being watched. But don't look around. The woman stiffened. Oh? Why do you say that? Did you see something? No. I can feel it, though. Don't you? Nasha smiled a little. I feel nothing. But perhaps I'm more used to being stared at. She turned her head slightly. Oh. Dorley reached for his hand weapon. What is it? What do you see? Tance had stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth half open. The gun, nasha said. It's the gun. Look at the size of it. The size of the thing. Doorly unfastened his hand weapon slowly. That's it, all right. The gun was huge, stark and immense. It pointed up at the sky, a mass of steel and glass set in a huge slab of concrete. Even as they watched, the gun moved on, its swivel base whirring underneath, a slim vane turned with the wind, a network of rods atop a high pole. It's alive, nasha whispered. It's listening to us. Watching us. The gun moved again, this time clockwise. It was mounted so that it could make a full circle. The barrel lowered a trifle, then resumed its original position. But who fires it? Tant said. Dorley laughed. No one. No one fires it. They stared at him. What do you mean, it fires itself? They couldn't believe him. Nasha came close to him, frowning, looking up at him. I don't understand. What do you mean, it fires itself? Watch. I'll show you. Don't move. Dorley picked up a rock from the ground. He hesitated a moment and then tossed the rock high in the air. The rock passed in front of the gun. Instantly the great barrel moved, the veins contracted. The rock fell to the ground. The gun paused, then resumed its calm swivel, its slow circling. You see? Dorley said. It noticed the rock as soon as I threw it up in the air. It's alert to anything that flies or moves above the ground level. Probably it detected us as soon as we entered the gravitational field of the planet. It probably had a beat on us from the start. We don't have a chance. It knows all about the ship. It's just waiting for us to take off again. I understand about the rock, nasha said, nodding. The gun noticed it, but not us, since we're on the ground, not above. It's only designed to combat objects in the sky. The ship is safe until it takes off again. Then the end will come. But what's this gun for? Tance put in. There's no one alive here. Everyone is dead. It's a machine, doorly said. A machine that was made to do a job. And it's doing the job. How it survived the blast, I don't know. On it goes. Waiting for the enemy. Probably they came by air in some sort of projectiles. The enemy, Nasha said. Their own race. It is hard to believe that they really bombed themselves. Fired at themselves. Well, it's over with. Except right here where we're standing, this one gun still alert, ready to kill. It'll go on until it wears out, and by that time we'll be dead, nasha said bitterly. There must have been hundreds of guns like this, doorly murmured. They must have been used to the sight. Guns, weapons, uniforms. Probably they accepted it as a natural thing, part of their lives, like eating and sleeping. An institution like the church and the state. Men trained to fight, to lead armies. A regular profession. Honored, respected. Tance was walking slowly toward the gun, peering near sightedly up at it. Quite complex, isn't it? All those veins and tubes. I suppose this is some sort of a telescopic sight. His gloved hand touched the end of a long tube. Instantly the gun shifted, the barrel. Reacting, it swung. Don't move. Dorley cried. The barrel swung past them as they stood rigid and still. For one terrible moment it hesitated over their heads, clicking and whirring, settling into position. Then the sounds died out and the gun became silent. Tance smiled foolishly inside his helmet. I must have put my finger over the lens. I'll be more careful. He made his way up onto the circular slab, stepping gingerly behind the body of the gun. He disappeared from view. Where did he go? Nasha said irritably. He'll get us all killed. Tance, come back. Doorly shouted. What's the matter with you? In a minute. There was a long silence. At last the archaeologist appeared. I think I found something. Come up and I'll show you. What is it, Dorley? You said the gun was here to keep the enemy off. I think I know why they wanted to keep the enemy off. They were puzzled. I think I found what the gun is supposed to guard. Come and give me a hand. All right, dorley said abruptly. Let's go. He seized Nash's hand. Come on, let's see what he's found. I thought something like this might happen when I saw that the gun was like what? Nasha pulled her hand away. What are you talking about? You act as if you knew what he's found. I do. Dorley smiled down at her. Do you remember the legend that all races have? The myth of the buried treasure and the dragon? The serpent that watches it, guards it, keeps everyone away? She nodded. Well. Dorley pointed up at the gun. That, he said, is the dragon. Come on. Between the three of them, they managed to pull up the steel cover and lay it to one side. Doorly was wet with perspiration when they finished. It isn't worth it, he grunted. He stared into the dark, yawning hole. Or is it? Nasha clicked on her hand lamp, shining the beam down the stairs. The steps were thick with dust and rubble. At the bottom was a steel door. Come on, tant said excitedly. He started down the stairs. They watched him reach the door and pull hopefully on it without success. Give a hand. All right. They came gingerly after him. Dorley examined the door. It was bolted shut, locked. There was an inscription on the door, but he could not read it. Now what? Nasha said. Dorley took out his hand weapon. Stand back. I can't think of any other way. He pressed the switch. The bottom of the door glowed red. Presently it began to crumble. Doorly clicked the weapon off. I think we can get through. Let's try. The door came apart easily. In a few minutes they had carried it away in pieces and stacked the pieces on the first step. Then they went on, flashing the light ahead of them. They were in a vault. Dust lay everywhere, on everything, inches thick. Wood crates lined the walls. Huge boxes and crates, packages and containers. Tance looked around curiously, his eyes bright. What exactly are all these? He murmured. Something valuable, I would think. He picked up a round drum and opened it. A spool fell to the floor, unwinding a black ribbon. He examined it, holding it up to the light. Look at this. They came around him. Pictures, nasha said. Tiny pictures. Records of some kind. Tance closed the spool up in the drum again. Look. Hundreds of drums. He flashed the light around. And those crates? Let's open one. Doorly was already prying at the wood. The wood had turned brittle and dry. He managed to pull a section away. It was a picture, a boy in a blue garment, smiling pleasantly, staring ahead. Young and handsome. He seemed almost alive, ready to move toward them in the light of the hand lamp. It was one of them. One of the ruined race. The race that had perished for a long time. They stared at the picture. At last, Doorly replaced the board. All these other crates, nasha said. More pictures. And these drums. What are in these boxes? This is their treasure, tant said, almost to himself. Here are their pictures, their records. Probably all their literature is here. Their stories, their myths, their ideas about the universe, and their history, nasha said. We'll be able to trace their development and find out what it was that made them become what they were. Doorly was wandering around the vault. Odd, he murmured. Even at the end, even after they had begun to fight, they still knew someplace down inside them, that their real treasure was this. Their books and pictures, their myths. Even after their big cities and buildings and industries were destroyed. They probably hoped to come back and find this after everything else was gone. When we get back home, we can agitate for a mission to come here, tant said. All this can be loaded up and taken back. We'll be leaving about he stopped. Yes, dorley said dryly. We'll be leaving about three day periods from now. We'll fix the ship, then take off. Soon we'll be home. That is, if nothing happens. Like being shot down by that. Oh, stop it, nasha said impatiently. Leave him alone. He's right. All this must be taken back home. Sooner or later we'll have to solve the problem of the gun. We have no choice. Doorly nodded. What's your solution, then? As soon as we leave the ground, we'll be shot down. His face twisted bitterly. They've guarded their treasure too well. Instead of being preserved, it will lie here until it rots. It serves them right. How? Don't you see? This was the only way they knew, building a gun and setting it up to shoot anything that came along. They were so certain that everything was hostile, the enemy coming to take their possessions away from them. Well, they can keep them. Nasha was deep in thought, her mind far away. Suddenly she gasped. Dorley, she said. What's the matter with us? We have no problem. The gun is no menace at all. The two men stared at her. No menace, dorley said. It's already shot us down once, and as soon as we take off again. Don't you see? Nasha began to laugh. The poor foolish gun. It's completely harmless. Even I could deal with it alone. You? Her eyes were flashing. With a crowbar, with a hammer or a stick of wood. Let's go back to the ship and load up. Of course. We're at its mercy in the air. That's the way it was made. It can fire into the sky, shoot down anything that flies. But that's all. Against something on the ground, it has no defenses. Isn't that right? Dorli nodded slowly. The soft underbelly of the dragon. In the legend, the dragon's armor doesn't cover its stomach. He began to laugh. That's right. That's perfectly right. Let's go then, nasha said. Let's get back to the ship. We have work to do here. It was early the next morning when they reached the ship. During the night the captain had died and the crew had ignited his body. According to custom, they had stood solemnly around it until the last ember died. As they were going back to their work, the woman and the two men appeared dirty and tired, still excited, and presently from the ship a line of people came, each carrying something in his hands. The line marched across the gray slag, the eternal expanse of fused metal. When they reached the weapon, they all fell on the gun at once, with crowbars, hammers, anything that was heavy and hard. The telescopic sights shattered into bits. The wiring was pulled out, torn to shreds. The delicate gears were smashed, dented. Finally the warheads themselves were carried off and the firing pins removed. The gun was smashed, the great weapon destroyed. The people went down into the vault and examined the treasure. With its metal armored guardian dead, there was no danger any longer. They studied the pictures, the films, the crates of books, the jeweled crowns, the cups, the statues. At last, as the sun was dipping into the gray mists that drifted across the planet, they came back up the stairs again. For a moment they stood around the wrecked gun, looking at the unmoving outline of it. Then they started back to the ship. There was still much work to be done. The ship had been badly hurt. Much had been damaged and lost. The important thing was to repair it as quickly as possible, to get it into the air. With all of them working together, it took just five more days to make it spaceworthy. Nasha stood in the control room, watching the planet fall away behind them. She folded her arms, sitting down on the edge of the table. What are you thinking of? Dorli said. I. Nothing. Are you sure? I was thinking that there must have been a time when this planet was quite different, when there was life on it. I suppose there was. It's unfortunate that no ships from our system came this far. But then we had no reason to suspect intelligent life until we saw the fission glow in the sky. And then it was too late. Not quite too late. After all, there are possessions. There are music, books. There are pictures. All of that will survive. We'll take them home and study them, and they'll change us. We won't be the same afterwards. They're sculpturing especially. Did you see the one of the great winged creature without a head or arms broken off, I suppose. But those wings. It looked very old. It will change us a great deal when we come back. We won't find the gun waiting for us, nasha said. Next time it won't be there to shoot us down. We can land and take the treasure, as you call it. She smiled up at Dorley. You'll lead us back there, as a good captain should. Captain Dorli grinned. Then you've decided? Nasha shrugged. Fomar argues with me too much, I think. All in all, I really prefer you. Then let's go, dorley said. Let's go back home. The ship roared up, flying over the ruins of the city. It turned in a huge arc and then shot off beyond the horizon, heading into outer space. Down below in the center of the ruined city, a single half broken detector vane moved slightly, catching the roar of the ship. The base of the great gun throbbed painfully, straining to turn. After a moment, a red warning light flashed on down inside its destroyed works. And a long way off, a hundred miles from the city, another warning light flashed on. Far underground. Automatic relays flew into action. Gears turned. Belts whined. On the ground above, a section of metal slag slipped back. A ramp appeared. A moment later a small cart rushed to the surface. The cart turned toward the city. A second cart appeared behind it. It was loaded with wiring cables. Behind it a third cart came loaded with telescopic tube sights, and behind came more carts, some with relays, some with firing controls, some with tools and parts, screws and bolts, pins and nuts. The final one contained atomic warheads. The carts lined up behind the first one, the lead cart. The lead cart started off across the frozen ground, bumping calmly along, followed by the others moving toward the city to the damaged gun. End of the Gun By Philip K. Dick.
[113:09]
History Repeats by George O. Smith this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times History Repeats by George O. Smith There are, and very probably will always be, some terrestrials who can't and for that matter, don't want to call their souls their own. Zanibar lays across the Spiral Arm, a sprawling sphere of influence, vast, mighty, solid at the core. Only the far flung boundary shows the slight ebb and flow of contingent cultures that may win a system or two today and lose them back tomorrow or a hundred years from now. Zanibar is the trading post of the galaxy for Only Zanibar is strong enough to stand over the trading table when belligerents meet and offer to take them both at once if they do not sheathe their swords for this service. Zanibar assesses her percentage. Therefore Zanibar is rich. Her riches buy her mercenaries to enforce her doctrines. Therefore Zanibar is rotten at the undercore, for mercenaries have no God but gold. The clatter of a hundred tongues mingled with the clink of glasses and and floated through strata of smoke from the burning weeds of a hundred planets. From one of the tables, voices rise in mild disagreement. There is a jeering laugh from one side and a roar of anger from the other. Two men rise and face one another, ready to follow their insults with violence. Before the eruption can start, a mercenary steps forward, forward on lithe feet and lightly catches the backswung arm. A quick hand removes the poise glass before it can be thrown into the adversary's face. Set, says the mercenary in a cold voice. And they sit still, glaring at one another. Now, says the mercenary, settle your differences by talk or departure in opposite directions. This is Zanibar. He lies. He brags. I do not lie. They are barbarians. I do not brag. I can bring you one. You a wager, Said the mercenary. A wager? Zanibar can take no tax in blood. He faces one. You claim you can do that which he says you cannot. Then, not waiting for a reply, he faces the other. And if he does, how much are you willing to pay? How much is his life worth? How much are you willing to pay? Demands the mercenary coldly.500 weight in crystal cut. An honorable sum, do you agree? Not enough for a task as easy as you claim it to be, said the mercenary.500 weight of crystal cut seems honorable, but it means we in Zanibar are not interested in the details, only in the tax and honest wager contract outlanders. Otherwise I rule that your eruption here disturbed the peace. The two outlanders look at one another. Schoolboys caught fighting in the alley by a monitor who demands a bite of their apple in lieu of a visit to the principal. As if loathe to touch one another, they reach forward hesitantly and handshake and a quick light grip. Good, glows the mercenary. He waves a hand and his fellows converge with contract platen and etching stylus. Now, gentlemen, please state the terms for Zannabar. Peter Hawley strolled down a side street with a dog at his heel. It was a dog of many breeds, but not a mixture of careless parentage. Peter paused at a cross street and looked uncertainly to left and right. What do you make, Beauregard? The noble dog says right, replied Beauregard. Right, said Peter, turning up the street. And stop this noble dog man is dog's best friend, said Beauregard. If you'd called me something sensible, I wouldn't have looked it up. There's a statue to me in the Okefenokee back on Earth. I am the noble dog. Pogo says so. I Easy, Peter, said the dog in a near whisper. All right. Do we play down the chatter? Beauregard sat, lifted his nose, and sniffed. His natural voice gave a faint whine of discontent. I'm supposed to have a nose, he complained. This is like trying to smell out a lone mouse in a zoological garden in midsummer. Why the warning? Asked Peter. All races smell the same when they are poised for violence, said the dog. Trouble is, that man smell isn't pointed the way it's going, only where it's coming from. Peter grunted. Catch any woman smell? Just the usual whiff. Stale scent. She was here. She passed this way. But which way? We can guess. They made it away from the spaceport. Unless, said the dog, taking another sniff of the air, they're taking her back to some other spacecraft. Beauregard looked up at Peter. Do you catch anything? Just the usual mingled fright and danger. Frantic despair. Directional. Peter shook his head. No, he said. The source is too close. Let's stroll up this street to the end and come back on the other side, said the dog quietly. In a saunter they went, alert and poised. A man and his dog from all appearances. But in Zanibar, the principal city of Zanibar, the Empire, they were huntsman and companion. Like all cities of more than 10 million souls, Zanibar had its glistening and lofty area and its slums and what would have been a waterfront region. In a seafaring city, the conditions were the same as they'd been everywhere for a few decades of thousands of years. Only the technology changes. Man's cave is stainless steel and synthetic plastic. The cave's man is swinging a better axe, and his hide is protected from the weather by stuff far more durable than his own skin. But he's the same man with the same hackles. They just rise for a few more thousand reasons than the hackles of his ancestors. Got it, said Beauregard, coming to a brief point at a closed door. Let's go in. Beauregard's reply was half snarl and half look out, Peter world. Catch a glimpse of a man upon him with pencil ray coming to point. He faded down and toward the other, almost in a fall, out of the path of the pencil ray that flicked on and began to sweep upward and in. Peter caught his balance. At the same time he clutched the wrist in his right hand. Then he went on down, around and over, rising on his knees to flip the other man, heels high in an arc that ended with a full length, spine thudding, body smash on the pavement. Beauregard leapt in and slashed at the hand clutching the pencil ray, snapped his head back and forth thrice and sent the weapon flying. Then, with a savage growl, he set a soft mouth against the other's throat and let the man feel the pressure of his fangs. Easy, said Peter. Beauregard backed away a few inches. Easy nothing, he snapped. This man is the noble dog's worst enemy. He wanted your blood. Take it easy. I want his information. The man looked up. Barbarian terrestrial, he snarled. Peter sneered. And this is the capital city of the glorious civilization called Zanibar. Marble palaces with nobles of the blood and slinking alleys with human rats. Where is she? The stranger spat. Beauregard. Want some red meat? He'd make me upchuck. Only rodents eat their own kind. Just a bite. Do I have to swallow? No, just slash. Wait. Barbarian. Barbarian terrestrial am I? You were maybe going to invite me for tea and cakes. With that pencil ray I. Talk, Snapped Peter. Where is she? Who? Beauregard? Yes, boss. The throat or the other hand. All right, for the good it'll do you. She's in there. Go on in and we'll have two of you. Beauregard growled. Three of us, and we might be hard to handle. Peter stood up and hauled the stranger to his feet. His right hand dripped blood from the dog's teeth. Peter looked for and found the pencil ray smashed against the stone front of the building. He cuffed the stranger across the face, turned him around and pointed him toward the far corner. I count three, he said. If you're not out of sight by three, it'll be a pleasure. Peter, said Beauregard. The stranger loped away on a crazy run. As he turned the corner, he ran face on to one of the uniformed mercenaries of Zanibar. The mercenary collared the stranger and took a quick inventory of the slashed right hand, the ripped clothing, and adding those to the frightened gallop. He came back with the stranger's left arm held in a backlog. Haughtily, he demanded, what goes on in Zanibar? Peter eyed the mercenaries sourly. Kidnapping and attempted murder. Who says such lawlessness runs rife In Zanibar. I say so. Peter Hawley of the Extraterrestrial Service. I say so. You are mistaken, barbarian. I say so, said Beauregard. You're an animal. I am. And so are you. I'll not be insulted by an animal. I am. Take it easy, Beauregard. Take it easy nothing. This mercenary foot soldier forgets one thing. Or maybe he doesn't know about it. Don't call His Excellency's Peacekeepers mercenaries, snapped the mercenary. Peacekeeper chuckled the dog. Well, listen and become wise. Dog and man. Man and dog have been together for about a half million years. Once dog helped man and war and peace, and man gave dog food and shelter. Dog helped man rise above the level of the savage, and man has helped dog rise to the level of intelligence. But dog has one advantage. None of us has been intelligent long enough to really believe that dog has a soul. And those of us who who do believe that also know that dog soul is devoted to man. Do you know about dog, Zenabian Peacekeeper? No. Then don't force me to show you what kind of adversary intelligent dog can be. Mere man is a pushover. Bah. Beauregard loped in a mad circle around the mercenary. His Excellency's Peacekeeper turned to stay facing the dog, but found himself turning his back on Peter. He stepped back and to one side and reached for his heavy duty pencil. The dog gave a low growl of warning and crouched for a leap. He means it, Peacekeeper, said Peter Hawley quietly. Draw that pencil and he'll have your hand in ribbons before you can level it. The mercenary drew in his breath. Whistle for help and he'll have your throat. I shall not permit this high handed. Then stop sounding off and listen to us, snapped Peter. I charged the Empire of Zanibar with the crime of being indifferent to the welfare of the stranger within her gate. I charge kidnapping and attempted murder. And I charge the latter against the specimen you hold in your hand. An outlander. Does he bring his own law to Zanibar? If he does, then so do I. I arrest you all for breaking the peace of Zanibar. Me too? Asked Beauregard. The mercenary ignored the dog's eager sally. You are armed, terrestrial. So was he. So am I, snarled Beauregard, showing a fine set of white fangs in the most effective gesture. This must cease, thundered the mercenary. You cannot threaten His Excellency's Peacekeepers. Beauregard growled. Slip the mercenary a crystal cut, boss. We've got a girl to find. A girl? A terrestrial girl. Asked the mercenary with his eyes opening. The daughter of our envoy to Lunafite, Ms. Vanessa Lewis, last reported in her stateroom aboard the terrestrial spacecraft Polaris during landing pattern at Xanaboro Citadel Spaceport, the mercenary said. The work of outlanders, riff raff such as this. Well, snapped Peter Hawley, do His Excellency's peacemakers condone such goings on? We keep the peace of Zanibar. Your charge is your word. Terrestrial. Terrestrial barbarian, isn't it? I arrest you. Oh, stop it. For five weight a crystal cut. Can you be bribed to haul that specimen off to jail and let me go about making my own peace with Zanibar? You accuse me of accepting bribes? You're a mercenary, aren't you? Seven weight of crystal cut. Ten. Seven, said Peter. Ten, said the mercenary. And you have one more caper coming. Ten, agreed Peter.
[130:17]
Polly.
[130:18]
And you look the other way when I take the lid off. Still got it, said Beauregard, sniffing at the closed door but keeping one eye on the disappearing mercenary and his prisoner. I've got it too. Still. Fright and concern. Fear of harm. Concern over what happens next. Strong, definitely, said Peter, closing his eyes and holding his breath. Nothing measurable? Asked the dog after a full minute. No. Too bad I was never introduced to her. I have no idea of her strength of mind. Wait. Another minute went by in personal silence, Peter Hawley's concentration far too deep to be disturbed by the sounds of the city's spaceport slum by night. The dog backed away from the door and took an alert position to guard Peter while the man was immersed in his own mind. Finally Peter alerted and shook his head sadly. I thought for a moment that she caught me. A fleeting thought of rescue or escape, concept of freedom flight, safety. But wish thinking, not communication. Let's go in. Barge or slink? Asked the dog. Slink. Have it your way, said Beauregard. Outside, the place looked closed. The door was solid, a plastic in imitation of bronze through which neither light nor sound passed. The windows were dark, but once the door was cracked, the wave of sound came pouring out along the slit of light and filled the street with echo and re Echo. Slink. No, said the dog. So everybody makes mistakes. Inside, a woman leaned over a low counter. Check your whip. Say you can't bring that animal in here, beauregard said. He isn't bringing me. I'm here because I like it. The woman's eyes bugged. What kind? I am man's best friend, the noble dog of barbarian Terra. Yes, but. Oh, said Peter airily. We're looking for a friend. Friend? Who is he? It's a she and her name is Vanessa Lewis. She ain't here. The dame's a liar. Us, Peter. I sent her strong. We'll just take a look around, said Peter to the Czech girl. You'll have to check your weapons. I'd rather go in naked. Sorry, not today. Weapons happen to be my business today. Come on, Beauregard. Man and dog started along the hallway warily. Beauregard said, any touch got a faint impression of alarm, danger. Call out the guards. I sent violence, said the dog, and the door at the end of the hallway opened and a big man stepped out. What's going on here? He demanded flatly. The Czech girl said he wouldn't check. The big man reached for his hip pocket. Peter said, take him high, and they plunged. Peter dove for the man's knees. Beauregard went in a three stride lope like an accordion folding and unfolding, and then arched in a long leap with his snarling fangs aimed at the man's throat. Man and dog hit him low and high before he could open his mouth, before he could free the snub pencil ray. There was a short scrabble that ended when Beauregard lifted the man's head and whammed it down hard against the floor. Weakly, the Czech girl finished her statement, his weapons, and keeled over in a dead faint. Beauregard shook himself violently and worked his jaws, licking blood from his chops. Peter looked in through the open wall door opposite the check counter. The racket had not been noticed by the roomful of spacemen and riff raff. The babble of a hundred tongues still went on amid the clink of glasses and the disturbing strains of Zenabian music. Smoke from a hundred semi noxious weeds lay in strata across the room and at a table in the far corner. Two men faced one another, their expressions a mixed pair. One held heavily begrudged admiration as he paid off 500weight of crystal cut in the legal tender of Zanibar to the other, whose expression was greedy self confidence. One of His Excellencies peacekeepers presided over the exchange. Coldly he extracted a 50 weight from the pile and folded it into the signed and completed wager contract for his own coffer. He extracted a five weight and slipped it into his boot top. Peter, Hawley, and Beauregard passed on, went through the far door, dragging their late adversary ignominiously by the heels. Amid the lessened publicity of the distant hall, Peter checked the man and shrugged. He may live, he said coldly. If he doesn't bleed to death, you really ought to take him on the high side, said Beauregard plaintively. All I've got is my teeth to grab with. They don't bleed so bad from the ankle. They don't stay stopped that way, either, said Peter harshly. You'd not be getting any praise from the chief for that sort of brutality. If Zanibar weren't rotten to the core, we wouldn't be plowing through it in the first place. Now let's get going. Shouldn't you call for the rest of the crew? Not until I'm certain the girl's here. I'd hate to cut the city wide, search for cold evidence. She's here. I sent her. Maybe it's past tense, Beauregard. Or maybe it's another woman. Could be. But one thing it is definitely terrestrial woman. The dog sniffed again. You get anything? No more than before. It's close, and they're the same sort of impressions. Yet any woman would be frantic with fear and concern. I sh Beauregard's sharp ears lifted instinctively at a distant sound not heard by the man. With a toss of his head, the dog folded one ear back, uncovering the inner shell like a sonic direction finder. Beauregard turned his head and listened. Man, he finally said with a low, growling voice, peter, there'll be hell to pay around here. Directly he stumbled over our recent conquest. Let's get cuttin. Peter started trying doors and peering in. The dog raced on ahead of the man, sniffing deep at the bottom of each. It was the dog that found the room. He called, here, and Peter raced forward just as the fellow on the stairs yelled something in his native tongue. Peter hit the door with the heel of his foot and slammed it open by splintering the door frame. The dog crouched low and poised. Peter slipped in and around, feeling for a light switch. From inside there was a voiceless whimper of fright, and from outside and below there came the pounding of several sets of heavy feet. Peter found the switch and flooded the room with light. The girl, whether she was Ms. Vanessa Lewis or someone else and kidnap wise, it was still a terrestrial girl, lay trussed on the bed, a patch of surgical tape over her mouth. Sorry, said Peter in a voice that he hoped was soothing. He reached, freed a corner of the tape, and ripped it off in a single swipe. The girl howled. Peter slapped her lightly. Stop it, he commanded sharply. Vanessa Lewis? Yes, but call out the Marines, Peter, snarled the dog. No, Bo back. Reluctantly, the dog backed into the room. He crouched low, poised to spring with his nose just beyond the door frame. Four of em, he whimpered pleadingly. I can get two. Well, I can't get the other two unless I'm lucky, snapped Peter. Don't be so eager to die for nothing, Beauregard. All this calculation, grumbled the dog sourly. I don't call it a loss if I get two for one. I call it a loss if I don't get four for nothing. Or the whole damn empire of Zanibar for nothing. For that matter. We've a job to do, and it ain't dying until Ms. Lewis is out of this glorious citadel. The girl looked from one to the other. They did not need any identification. They were their own bona fides. Only man, terrestrial man had intelligent dogs to work beside him. Period. Question closed. Beauregard snarled at the door warningly while Peter stripped surgical tape from wrists and ankles. Outside, someone called. Come out, are we? Blast. Beauregard snarled. Come in and we'll cut you to bits. The quick flash of a pencil ray flicked in a lance above the dog's nose. Beauregard snapped back as the lancet of light cut downward, then snapped forward for a quick look outside as the little pencil of danger flickered dark. Careful, Bo. You call the boys, snapped the dog. I'll. Something came twisting forward to hit the door frame. It dropped just inside the door jamb. Beauregard leapt, snapped at the thing, and caught it in midair, snapped his head in a vicious shake and sent it whirling back outside again. Before it could be identified, the dog sunfished and landed on all four. Then the thing went off with a dull poof. Outside there was a gentle flash of quick light that was smothered by a billow of smoke. Beauregard leapt into the cloud and disappeared. There was a hoarse shriek and the mad scrabble of dog claws on the hard floor. The sound of a heavy thud and the angry snarl of a dog with its teeth fastened into something soft. Then there was the fast patter of dog feet, and Beauregard came around the door on a dead run, sliding sideways to carom off the open door into safety just as a pencil ray flicked to follow him. Got him, said the dog in a satisfied tone. That's one. He took his post by the door frame again, the tip of his nose just outside. There was a consultation out there in the hallway, at which Beauregard called. Make a wild rush for us. What are we going to do? Fight it out, said Peter. They can't win so long as we're alive. Now I've got my crew on its way in a dead run, and if we make enough noise, some of His Excellency's peacemakers will step in and demand their cut of the finances. He grinned. How much are you worth, Ms. Lewis? She shuddered. I don't know how much my father would pay. Hit him low, Peter. Came Beauregard's snarl. Three of them came in aslant, bounced shoulders against the open door, caught their bearings, and hell was out for noon. Beauregard caught the first with a slash at the throat. They went down in a mad whirl of dog and thug paws, tail, arms, legs, and a spurt of blood. The second flicked his pencil ray at Peter. Its capsule charge faded to a mere sting before it cut into him. The third aimed a kick at the struggling dog. Vanessa Lewis snatched a box from the bureau and hurled it at the second. Peter thumbed his pencil ray and winged the third man in the biceps. Beauregard leapt for the second man's gun hand and closed on it as the hurled box opened and scatter shotted his face with bric a brac. The man with the bloody throat flailed out and caught Peter by the ankle. Peter stopped his face with his other heel. Ms. Lewis picked up the table lamp and with a single motion turned off the light and finished felling the one with the rayburn shoulder. Beauregard dropped from the second man's wrist and crouched to spring. The man cowered back, his good arm covering his throat and his other arm hanging limp. He mouthed fright noises in some tongues, native to some star a thousand light years across the galaxy. Coldly, Peter stepped forward and belted him in the plexus. Now, he said calmly, we shall vacate the premises. They went side by side, facing slightly outward. Beauregard between them and slightly ahead were coming out, called the dog. Three barbarians from Tara. Down on the dark street they met their mercenary again. He eyed them sourly. I see you were in a sense successful, Peter. Holly faced the mercenary. We were successful. And would you like to make something of it? I'm going to have to arrest you, you know. You'll lose an arm trying, snapped the dog. There's murder been committed to night, said His Excellency's peacemaker. The peace of Zanibar has been disturbed. Why, you chiselling crook. There's been kidnapping tonight, and I'm afraid that I shall have to ask that the young lady produce her passport, said the mercenary. Otherwise she's in Zanibar Citadel illegally, Beauregard said, hit him low, Peter. Here Come the boys. No. Just for once, for fun. No. I want our money grubbing peacekeeper to carry a message to His Excellency. I want His Excellency to read some terrestrial history. Once upon a time there was a place called the Byzantine Empire that laid across the trade routes. The upper crust of people used to serve the presence of God in a golden throne. Whilst their underlings dealt in human slaves and procured comely concubines for the Emperor. Their policemen took bribes and. And human life was cheap. And when Byzantium fell, all the world was forced to seek a new trade route. So tell His Excellency that he better clean up his own foul mess or some barbarians will clean it up for him. And that said Beauregard, goes for your dad. Ratted.
[147:24]
Ca.
[147:29]
End of history repeats by georgio smith.
[147:42]
Keep out by Frederick Brown this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Greg Marguerite Keep out by Frederick Brown with no more room left on Earth, and with Mars hanging up there empty of life, somebody hit on the plan of starting a colony on the red planet. It meant changing the habits and physical structure of the immigrants, but. And that worked out fine. In fact, every possible factor was covered, except one of the flaws of human nature. Daptein is the secret of it. Adapt Teen they called it first. Then it got shortened to Daptine. It let us adapt. They explained it all to us when we were 10 years old. I guess they thought we were too young to understand before then, although we knew a lot of it already. They told us just after we landed on Mars. You're home, children. The head teacher told us after we had gone into the glassite dome they'd built for us there. And he told us there'd be a special lecture for us that evening, an important one that we must all attend. And that evening he told us the whole story and the whys and wherefores. He stood up before us. He had to wear a heated space suit and helmet, of course, because the temperature in the dome was comfortable for us, but already freezing cold for him. And the the air was already too thin for him to breathe. His voice came to us by radio from inside his helmet. Children, he said, you are home. This is Mars, the planet on which you will spend the rest of your lives. You are Martians, the first Martians. You have lived five years on earth and another five in space. Now you will spend 10 years until you are adults in this dome, although toward the end of that time you will be allowed to spend increasingly long periods outdoors. Then you will go forth and make your own homes, live your own lives as Martians. You will intermarry and your children will breed true. They too will be Martians. It is time you were told the history of this great experiment of which each of you is a part. Then he told us. Man, he said, had first reached Mars in 1985. It had been uninhabited by intelligent life. There's plenty of plant life and a few varieties of non flying insects. And he had found it, by terrestrial standards, uninhabitable. Man could survive on Mars only by living inside glassite domes and wearing space suits when he went outside of them, except by day. In the warmer seasons, it was too cold for him, the air was too thin for him to breathe, and long exposure to sunlight, less filtered of rays harmful to him than on Earth beyond because of the lesser atmosphere, could kill him. The plants were chemically alien to him and he could not eat them. He had to bring all his food from Earth or grow it in hydroponic tanks. For 50 years he had tried to colonize Mars, and all his efforts had failed. Besides this dome, which had been built for us, there was only one other outpost, another glassite dome, much smaller and less than a mile away. It had looked as though mankind could never spread to the other planets of the solar system besides Earth, for of all of them, Mars was the least inhospitable. If he couldn't live here, there was no use even trying to colonize the others. And then, in 20, 34, 30 years ago, a brilliant biochemist named Weymouth had discovered Daptine, a miracle drug that worked not on the animal or person to whom it was given, but on the progeny he conceived during a limited period of time after inoculation. It gave his progeny almost limitless adaptability to changing conditions, provided the conditions were made gradually. Dr. Weymouth had inoculated and then mated a pair of guinea pigs. They had borne a litter of five, and by placing each member of the litter under different and gradually changing conditions, he had obtained amazing results. When they attained maturity, one of those guinea pigs was living comfortably at a temperature of 40 below zero Fahrenheit. Another was quite happy at 150 above. A third was thriving on a diet that would have been deadly poison for an ordinary animal, and a fourth was contented under a constant X ray bombardment that would have killed one of its parents within minutes. Subsequent experiments with many Litters showed that animals who had been adapted to similar conditions bred true and their progeny was conditioned from birth to live under those conditions ten years later. Ten years ago, the headteacher told us, you children were born born of parents carefully selected from those who volunteered for the experiment. And from birth you have been brought up under carefully controlled and gradually changing conditions. From the time you were born, the air you have breathed has been very gradually thinned and its oxygen content reduced. Your lungs have compensated by becoming much greater in capacity, which is why your chests are so much larger than those of your teachers and attendants. When you are fully mature and are breathing air like that of Mars, the difference will be even greater. Your bodies are growing fur to enable you to stand the increasing cold. You are comfortable now under conditions which would kill ordinary people quickly. Since you were 4 years old, your nurses and teachers have had to wear special protection to survive conditions that seem normal to you. In another 10 years at maturity, you will be completely acclimated to Mars. Its air will be your air, its food, plants, your your food. Its extremes of temperature will be easy for you to endure, and its median temperatures pleasant to you. Already, because of the five years we spent in space under a gradually decreased gravitational pull, the gravity of Mars seems normal to you. It will be your planet to live on and to populate. You are the children of Earth, but you are the first Martians. Of course, we had known a lot of those things already. The last year was the best. By then, the air inside the dome, except for the pressurized parts where our teachers and attendants live, was almost like that outside, and we were allowed out for increasingly long periods. It is good to be in the open. The last few months they relaxed segregation of the sexes so we could begin choosing mates. Although they told us there is to be no marriage until after the final day, after our full clearance. Choosing was not difficult in my case. I had made my choice long since, and I'd felt sure that she felt the same way. I was right. Tomorrow is the day of our freedom. Tomorrow we will be Martians. The Martians. Tomorrow we shall take over the planet. Some among us are impatient, have been impatient for weeks now. But wiser counsel prevailed. And we are waiting. We have waited 20 years, and we can wait until the final day. And tomorrow is the final day. To morrow. At a signal, we will kill the teachers and other Earthmen among us before we go forth. They do not suspect, so it will be easy. We have dissimilated for years now, and they don't know how we hate them. They do not know how disgusting and hideous we find them with their ugly misshapen bodies, so narrow shouldered and tiny chested, their weak sibilant voices that need amplification to carry in our Martian air, and above all their white, pasty, hairless skins. We shall kill them and then we shall go and smash the other dome so all earthmen there will die too. If more earthmen ever come to punish us, we can live and hide in the hills where they'll never find us. And if they try to build more domes here, we'll smash them. We want no more to do with Earth. This is our planet and we want no aliens. Keep off. End of keep out by frederick brown.
[155:56]
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 Patricia Oakley My Father the Cat By Henry Slazar My mother was a lovely, delicate woman from the coast of Brittany who was miserable sleeping on less than three mattresses and who, it is said, was once injured by a falling leaf in her garden. My grandfather, a descendant of the French nobility whose family had ridden the tumdrills of the Revolution, tended her fragile body and spirit with the same loving care given rare, brief blooming flowers. You may imagine from this his attitude concerning marriage. He lived in terror of the vulgar, heavy handed man who would one day win my mother's heart, and at last this persistent dread killed him. His concern was unnecessary, however, for my mother chose a suitor who was as free of mundane brutality as a husband could be. Her choice was Dauphin, a remarkable white cat which strayed onto the estate shortly after his death. Dolphin was an unusually large angora, and his ability to speak in cultured French, English, and Italian was sufficient to cause my mother to adopt him as a household Peter. It did not take long for her to realize that Dafa deserved a higher status, and he became her friend, protector, and confidant. He never spoke of his origin, nor where he had acquired the classical education which made him such an entertaining companion. After two years it was easy for my mother, an unworldly woman at best, to forget the dissimilarity in their species. In fact, she was convinced that Dauphin was an enchanted prince, and Dafa, in consideration of her illusions, never dissuaded her. At last they were married by an understanding clergyman of the locale who solemnly felt, filled in the marriage application with the name of M. Edouard Dauphin. I, Etienne Dauphin, am their son. To be candid, I am a Handsome youth, not unlike my mother in the delicacy of my features. My father's heritage is evident in my large feline eyes and in my slight body and quick movements. My mother's death when I was four left me in the charge of my father and his coterie of loyal servants, and I could not have wished for a finer upbringing. It is to my father's patient tutoring that I owe whatever graces I now possess. It was my father, the cat whose gentle paws guided me to the treasure houses of literature, art and music, whose whiskers bristled with pleasure at a goose well cooked, at a meal well served, at a wine well chosen. How many happy hours we shared. He knew more of life and the humanities, my father, the cat, than any human I have met in all my 23 years until the age of 18. My education was his personal challenge. Then it was his desire to send me into the world outside the gates. He chose for me a university in America, for he was deeply fond of what he called that great raw country where he believed my feline qualities might be tempered by the aggressiveness of the rough coating barking dogs I would be sure to meet. I must confess to a certain amount of unhappiness in my early American years, torn as I was from the comforts of the estate and the wisdom of my father, the cat. But I became adapted and even upon my graduation from the university, sought and held employment in a metropolitan art museum. It was there I met Joanna, the young woman I intended to make my bride. Joanna was a product of the great American southwest, the daughter of a cattle raiser. There was a blooming vitality in her face and her body, a lustiness born of open skies and desert. Her hair was not the gold of antiquity. It was new gold, freshly mined from the black rock. Her eyes were not like Old World diamonds. Their sparkle was that of sunlight on a cascading river. Her figure was bold, an open declaration of her sex. She was perhaps an unusual choice for the son of fairy, like mother and an angora cat. But from the first meeting of our eyes, I knew that I would someday bring Joanna to my father's estate to present her as my fiance. I approached that occasion with understandable trepidation. My father had been explicit in his advice before I departed for America, but on no point had he been more emphatic than secrecy concerning himself. He assured me that revelation of my paternity would bring ridicule and unhappiness upon me. The advice was sound, of course, and not even Joanna knew that Our journey's end would bring us to the estate of a large, cultured and conversing cat. I had deliberately fostered the impression that I was orphaned, believing that the proper place for revealing the truth was the atmosphere of my father's home in France. I was certain that Joanna would accept her father in law without distress. Indeed, hadn't nearly a score of human servants remained devoted to their feline master for almost a generation. We had agreed to be Wed on 1 June, and on May 4, implanted in new York for Paris. We were met at Orley Field by Francois, my father's solemn manservant, who had been delegated not so much as escort as he was chaperone, my father having retained much of the Old World proprieties. It was a long trip by automobile to our estate in Brittany, and I must admit to a brooding silence throughout the drive, which frankly puzzled Joanna. However, when the great stone fortress that was our home came within view, my fears and doubts were quickly dispelled. Joanna, like so many Americans, was thrilled at the aura of venerability and royal custom surrounding the estate. Francois placed her in charge of Madame Joliet, who clapped her plump old hands with delight at the sight of her fresh blonde beauty and chattered and clucked like a mother hen as she led Joanna to her room on the second floor. As for myself, I had one immediate wish. To see my father, the cat. He greeted me in the library, where he had been anxiously awaiting our arrival, curled up in his favorite chair by the fireside, a wide mouthed goblet of cognac by his side. As I entered the room, he lifted a paw formally, but then his reserve was dissolved by the emotion of our reunion, and he licked my face in unashamed joy. Francois refreshed his glass and poured another for me, and we toasted each other's well being. To you, Monper, I said, using the affectionate name of my childhood memory. To Joanna, my father said. He smacked his lips over the cognac and wiped his whiskers gravely. And where is this paragon With Madame Joliet. She will be down shortly. And you have told her everything? I blushed. No, Monper, I have not. I thought it best to wait until we were home. She is a wonderful woman, I added impulsively. She will not be horrified, my father said. What makes you so certain, my son? Because she is a woman of great heart, I said stoutly. She was educated at a fine college for women in Eastern America. Her ancestors were rugged people, given to legend and folklore. She Is a warm, human person. Human? My father sighed and his tail swished. You are expecting too much of your beloved, Etienne. Even a woman of the finest character may be dismayed in this situation. But my mother. Your mother was an exception, a changeling of the fairies. You must not look for your mother's soul in Joanna's eyes. He jumped from his chair and came towards me, resting his paw upon my knee. I am glad you have not spoken of me again. Now you must keep your silence forever. I was shocked. I reached down and touched my father's silky fur, saddened by the look of his age in his gray gold flecked eyes and by the tinge of yellow in his white coat. No, mon per, I said. Joanna must know the truth. Joanna must know how proud I am to be the son of Edouard Dauphin. Then you will lose her. Never. That cannot happen. My father walked stiffly to the fireplace, staring into the gray ashes. Ring for Francois, he said. Let him build the fire. I am cold again. I walked to the cord and pulled it. My father turned to me and said, you must wait, my son. At dinner this evening, perhaps. Do not speak of me until then. Very well, father. When I left the library, I encountered Joanna at the head of the stairway, and she spoke to me excitedly. Oh, Etienne, what a beautiful old house. I know I will love it. May we see the rest? Of course, I said. You look troubled. Is something wrong? No, no. I was thinking how lovely you. We embraced, and her warm, full body against mine confirmed my conviction that we should never be parted. She put her arm in mine and we strolled through the great rooms of the house. She was ecstatic at their size and elegance, exclaiming over the carpeting, the gnarled furniture, the ancient silver and pewter, the gallery of family paintings. When she came upon an early portrait of my mother, her eyes misted. She was lovely, Joanna said, Like a princess. And what of your father? Is there no portrait of him? No, I said hurriedly. No portrait. I had spoken my first lie to Joanna, for there was a painting, half completed, which my mother had begun in the last year of her life. It was a whispering little water color, and Joanna discovered it, to my consternation. What a magnificent cat, she said. Was it a pet? It is Dafa, I said nervously. She laughed. He has your eyes, Etienne. Joanna, I must tell you something. And this ferocious gentleman with the mustaches, who is he? My grandfather. Joanna, you must listen. Francois, who had been following our inspection tour at shadow's length, interrupted. I suspected that his timing was no mere coincidence. We will be serving dinner at 7:30, he said. If the lady would care to dress. Of course, Joanna said. Will you excuse me, Etienne? I bowed to her and she was gone. At 15 minutes to the appointed dining time, I was ready and hastened below to talk once more with my father. He was in the dining room instructing the servants as to the placement of the silver and accessories. My father was proud of the excellence of his table and took all his meals in the splendid manner. His appreciation of food and wine was unsurpassed in my experience, and it had always been the greatest of pleasures for me to watch him at table, stalking across the damask and dipping delicately into the silver dishes prepared for him. He pretended to be too busy with his dinner preparations to engage me in conversation, but I insisted. I must talk to you, I said. We must decide together how to do this. It will not be easy, he answered with a twinkle. Consider Joanna's view. A cat as large and as old as myself is cause enough for comment. A cat that speaks is alarming. A cat that dines at table with the household is shocking. And a cat whom you must introduce as your. Stop it. I cried. Joanna must know the truth. You must help me reveal it to her. Then you will not heed my advice in all things but this. Our marriage can never be happy unless she accepts you for what you are. And if there is no marriage? I would not admit to this possibility. Joanna was mine. Nothing could alter that. The look of pain and bewilderment in my eyes must have been evident to my father, for he touched my arm gently with his paw and said, I. I will help you, Etienne. You must give me your trust always. Then come to dinner with Joanna and explain nothing. Wait for me to appear. I grasped his paw and raised it to my lips. Thank you, Father. He turned to Francois and snapped. You have my instructions. Yes, sir, the servant replied. Then all is ready. I shall return to my room now, Etienne, you may bring your fiance to dine. I hastened up the stairway and found Joanna ready, strikingly beautiful and shimmering white satin. Together we descended the grand staircase and entered the room. Her eyes shone at the magnificence of the service set upon the table at the soldiery array of fine wines, some of them already poured into their proper glasses for my father's enjoyment. Haute Medoc from Saint Estef, authentic Chablis Epernay Champagne, and an American import from the Napa Valley, of which he was fond. I waited expectantly for his appearance as we sipped our aperitif while Joanna chatted about innocuous matters with no idea of the tormented state I was in at 8 o'. Clock. My father had not yet made his appearance, and I grew ever more distraught as Francois signalled for the serving of the bouillon au Madeira. Had he changed his mind? Would I be left to explain my status without his help? I hadn't realized until this moment how difficult a task I had allotted for myself, and the fear of losing Joanna was terrible within me. The soup was flat and tasteless on my tongue, and the misery in my manner was too apparent for Joanna to miss. What is it, Etienne? She said. You've been so morose all day. Can't you tell me what's wrong? No, it's nothing. It's just. I let the impulse take possession of my speech. Joanna, there's something I should tell you about my mother and my father. Ahem, francois said. He turned to the doorway, and her glances followed his. Oh, Etienne. Joanna cried in a voice ringing with delight. It was my father, the cat. Watching us with his gray gold flecked eyes, he approached the dining table, regarding Joanna with timidity and caution. It's the cat in the painting, joanna said. You didn't tell me he was here, Etienne. He's beautiful. Joanna, this is Dauphin. I would have known him anywhere. Here, Dauphin. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. Slowly my father approached her outstretched hand and allowed her to scratch the thick fur on the back of his neck. Aren't you the pretty little pussy? Aren't you the sweetest little thing, Joanna? She lifted my father by the haunches and held him in her lap, stroking his fur and cooing the silly little words that women address to their pets. The sight pained and confused me, and I sought to find an opening word that would allow me to explain, yet hoping all the time that my father would himself provide the answer. Then my father spoke. Meow, he said. Are you hungry? Joanna asked solicitously. Is the little pussy hungry? Meow, my father said, and I believed my heart broke then and there. He leaped from her lap and padded across the room. I watched him through blurred eyes as he followed Francois to the corner where the servant had placed a shallow bowl of milk. He lapped it eagerly until the last white drop was gone. Then he yawned and stretched and trotted back to the doorway with one fleeting glance in my direction that spoke articulately of what I must do next. What a wonderful animal, joanna said. Yes, I answered. He was my mother's favorite. End of my father. The Cat by Henry Slazar. Of Time in Texas by William F. Nolan this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings from the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Joe Pillsbury of Time in Texas by William F. Nolan in one fell swoop, declared Professor C. Sidwick omes, releasing a thin blue ribbon of pipe smoke and rocking back on his heels, I intend to solve the greatest problem facing mankind today. Colonizing the polar waste was a messy and fruitless business, and the enforced birth control program couldn't be enforced. Overpopulation still remains the thorn on our side, gentlemen. He paused to look each of the assembled reporters in the eye. There is but one answer.
[180:47]
Mass annihilation.
[180:49]
Quavered a local reporter. Posh, boy, certainly not.
[180:53]
The professor bristled.
[180:55]
The answer is time. Time? Exactly, nodded Holmes. With a dramatic flush he swept aside a red velvet drape to reveal a tall structure of gleaming metal as witness. Golly, what is that thing? Queried the cub. This thing, replied the professor acidly, is the C. Sidwick Ohms Time Door. Willick is a time machine. Not so, not so. Please, boy. A time machine in the popular sense is impossible. Wild fancy. However, the professor tapped on the dottle from his pipe. By a mathematically precise series of infinite calculations, I've developed the remarkable C. Sidwick Ohm's Time Door.
[181:40]
Open it.
[181:41]
Take but a single step and presto. The past. But where in the past? Professor Holmes smiled easily down on the tense ring of faces. Gentlemen, beyond this door lies the sprawling giant of the Southwest. Enough land to absorb the Earth's overflow. Like that. He snapped his fingers. I speak, gentlemen of Texas. 1957. What if the Texans object? We have no choice. The Time Door is strictly one way passage. I thought of that. It would be utterly impossible for anyone in 1957 to re enter our world of 2057. And now Pastor Waits. He tossed aside his professoral robes. Under them Sidwick Holmes wore an ancient and bizarre costume. Black riding boots, highly polished and trimmed in silver wool chaps. A wide jewel studded belt with an immense buckle. A brightly checked shirt topped with a blazing red bandana. Briskly he snapped a tall 10 gallon hat on his head and stepped to the chime door. Gripping an ebony handle, he tugged upwards the huge metal door oiled slowly back. Time, said Sidra Combe simply gesturing towards the grey nothingness beyond the door. The reporters and photographers surged forwards, notebooks and cameras at the ready. What if the door swings shut after you've gone? One of them asked a groundless fear boy assured omes. I've spinted that the Time Door can never be closed. And now goodbye, gentlemen. Or she used the proper colloquialism. So long, hombres. Holmes bowed from the waist, gave his 10 gallon hat a final tug, and took a single step forwards and did not disappear. He stood blinking. Then he swore, beat upon the unyielding wall of greyness with clenched fists, and fell back, panting, to his desk. I've failed, he moaned in a lost voice.
[183:50]
The Sea Siddlegom's Time Door is a botch.
[183:53]
He buried his head in trembling hands. The reporters and photographers began to file out. Suddenly a professor raised his head.
[184:02]
Listen, he warned.
[184:04]
A slow rumbling, muted with distance, emanated from the dense grayness of the Time Door. Faint yips and whoopings were distinct above the rumble. The sound grew steadily through a thousand beating drums, the rolling sea of thunder shrieking. The reporters and photographers scattered to the stairs. Ah, another knotty problem to be solved, mused Professor Sidwick Holmes, swinging with some difficulty onto one of 3,000 Texas Steers stampeding into the laboratory. End of time in texas
[184:43]
by william
[184:44]
f. Nolan recording by joe pillsbury.
[184:53]
Operation Lorelei by William P. Salton this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times Operation Lorelei by William P. Salton it was a new time and a vast new war of complete and awful annihilation. Yet some things never change, and as in ancient times, Ulysses walked again, brave and unconquerable, and again the sirens wove their deadly spell. With a smile and a song, they came like monsters rather than men, into the vast ruin of what had once been a great city. They walked carefully, side by side, speaking to each other by radio as though they were in deep space rather than upon solid ground. The winding way they followed through the ruins was marked by blurred footsteps and the dust, and the two men, clumsy in their bulky suits, found the going difficult. They stopped, and one of them held out an instrument. He studied the dial. All clear, and both men removed their helmets. They wiped sweat from their faces and glanced at each other. The blond man said, the air is okay, Jarvis. Everything seems all right. I don't get it, Jarvis, his dark eyes wary, scowled as he looked about. It seems all right, but we know it isn't. It can't be. I'm shucking the suit. Don't be a fool, Mark. But the dial read clear, man, and we know nobody is going to shoot us all? Life had to be wiped out. How about minor power installations? Jarvis took a chocolate bar from his pocket, sat down on a piece of broken rubble and began to eat. You're too careless. Far too careless, Mark. Mark laughed. You've always been cautious enough for both of us. Got me out of plenty of scrapes back in school, too. Don't think I've forgotten. Affection warmed his blue eyes as they rested on the face of his friend. Okay, okay. But what happened to them? Where did they go? Jarvis took nervous bites from his second chocolate bar. Then he too peeled off his suit. He sniffed the air distrustfully as he wiggled his shoulders to free them from the clinging, damp shirt. Then he took a few experimental steps forward. Seems all right, Mark. But how do you explain about Hank and Garland? Never were two more careful guys. Probably a simple miscalculation or an accident. We know it couldn't have been. Enemy action tests proved conclusively that we wiped them out. To a man. He took deep gulps of air into his lungs and stretched like a cat. We'll find out soon enough. Boy, I feel great. They deflated and folded their safety suits and added the bundles to the other equipment on their backs. Then, with their instruments held before them, they probed their way into the twisted wreckage, still following the faint dust filled footprints, bent and rusted. Girders rose on all sides like the bones of prehistoric monsters. Nothing stirred. The dust lay ages thick on everything. Gives you the spooks, doesn't it? Jarvis was still tense, poised to respond to the first signal of danger. Feels like we're the last men alive. Funny about Hank and Garland. There's nothing here to harm anyone. Jarvis looked at his watch. Better contact HQ for instructions. The two stepped off the path into the shade of a grotesque chunk of broken masonry. Mark set up the radio and twirled the dials. Team 4 calling HQ. Team 4 reporting. HQ here. The voice from the radio blared loud in the stillness. Give your report, Team four. Looks like nothing's moved here in a thousand years. Safe as a baby's dream. Rock solid air. Morning pure. But he hesitated, trying not to sound like a scared schoolboy. No sign of team three. Or of teams one and two, either. Over. Look here, Team four. It's your job to find out the earth didn't just swallow them. Final report from each team placed them well within the city. It's been 10 days since the last contact. Probe every inch of the place. Right. But be careful. We can't afford to lose any more Men. Roger. Roger. There was only one way now. Ahead, it lay clearly marked. The dim footsteps never strayed or faltered. 3 hours of search revealed no pitfalls, no dangers, and no trace of the missing men. Then night was upon them and they bedded down gratefully. Strange, isn't it? The war over, the invaders blasted from the earth, all peril gone. And yet men disappear. Jarvis stared at the ruins around them. I can't take much more, Mark. 12 years of war is enough. Are we never to have a life, have our home and women back and peace? Sure, it's been tough, but think of the women and children isolated on that sub satellite. It's tougher for them just waiting. Stretched on his back, Mark stared at the cloudless evening sky. But pretty soon we'll get this planet cleaned up and bring them in. Christ, four years without even seeing a woman. I remember the last time. Okay, Jarvis interrupted impatiently. Let's get to sleep. Sure, pal. Goodnight. They fell asleep to dream of green hills, corn ripening, apples roasting over an open fire, peace and home and girls, their firm legs flashing in the sun. Soldier like Mark was suddenly awake. He lay without motion, sensitive to some subtle change in the surroundings. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jarvis, wrapped in sleep. The silence seemed eternal. Then, whisper soft, came a murmur. A sound, a voice. A girl's voice, sighing and singing from deep in that devastated spot. A woman. Instantly, Mark was on his feet. No need to wake Jarvis. Plenty of time for Jarvis to find out afterwards. But not yet. A miracle that a girl had survived in all that wreckage. But a miracle. He wanted to save her alone. Ahead, the path turned and Mark followed it as he went forward again, downhill between the massed walls. Rubble. Now the voice swelled, a melancholy song. Well, she won't be melancholy for long, Mark thought. Her solitary ordeal was over. Mark Jarvis stood up on an upturned lintel 10ft above Mark's head. As Mark jerked to a stop at the cry, Jarvis jumped into his path. You fool. Don't you know it's a trap? So that's how you want to play it? The noble friend protecting me from myself. He slammed a fist into the side of Jarvis head. Well, I won't bite. She's mine. I found her. In silence, in the narrow passage between the rocks, the two fought. Suddenly, above the sound of fist on flesh, came the voice of the girl again, clear, young. She is there, thought Jarvis. He could almost taste her lips on his. The sensation came as a shock. How did he know? He'd never had a woman that's what came from listening to the tales of Mark's exploits with women. Now he had to have that girl. The mounting tension of the fighting snapped something in Jarvis. Seething mind, danger, friendship, duty all meant nothing. Only one thing mattered. The girl. Mark had had more than his share of girls. He, Jarvis, was the one who should have her. He'd been deprived of his manhood long enough. His frenzied brain hunted a trick to gain his ends. Mark's superior strength began to force Jarvis to give ground. Then a final blow sent him reeling. He reached out to break his fall. His hand closed on a rock. He threw it. Mark crashed to the ground. His knee smashed, his leg useless. Then the tomb stillness of the dead city took over. The dust settled. Slowly. Mark came to his feet. Jarvis was gone. Dragging his useless leg, Mark forced himself to crawl forward. Jarvis had to be stopped. Ahead, a shadow moved, and for a moment the moon threw the silhouette of a man against a cavernous opening in the debris. Jarvis. An electric flash shattered the darkness. The jagged teeth of the bolt spit tongues of fire, cordite, mingled with the raw, nausean, revolting smell of scorched flesh and hair. The figure tottered and fell into the black mouth of the cave. Then, as the flame faded, it lit up small bundles of charred bones near the fallen body. There was a whirr and a click of mechanism 15ft away. Mark watched as the arm of a phonograph rose move slowly back to the starting point. Then the record began once more to grind out its death trap. Melody. Ebook of operation lorelei by william p. Salt.

Classic Science Fiction Books Podcast

Overview

Featured Stories and Key Themes

1. To Be or Not To Be (Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quotes

Memorable Moment

2. All the Earth a Grave (C.C. MacApp)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quotes

Memorable Moment

3. Arm of the Law (Harry Harrison)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quotes

Memorable Moments

4. The Bell Tone (Edmund H. Leftwich)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quote

Memorable Moment

5. The Gun (Philip K. Dick)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quotes

Memorable Moment

6. History Repeats (George O. Smith)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quotes

Memorable Moment

7. Keep Out (Frederick Brown)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quote

8. My Father, the Cat (Henry Slesar)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Moment

9. Of Time in Texas (William F. Nolan)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quote

10. Operation Lorelei (William P. Salton)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Moment

Notable Quotes Snapshot

Episode Tone & Takeaways

For the Listener

Classic Science Fiction Books Podcast

Overview

Featured Stories and Key Themes

1. To Be or Not To Be (Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quotes

Memorable Moment

2. All the Earth a Grave (C.C. MacApp)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quotes

Memorable Moment

3. Arm of the Law (Harry Harrison)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quotes

Memorable Moments

4. The Bell Tone (Edmund H. Leftwich)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quote

Memorable Moment

5. The Gun (Philip K. Dick)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quotes

Memorable Moment

6. History Repeats (George O. Smith)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quotes

Memorable Moment

7. Keep Out (Frederick Brown)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quote

8. My Father, the Cat (Henry Slesar)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Moment

9. Of Time in Texas (William F. Nolan)

Key Points & Insights

Notable Quote

10. Operation Lorelei (William P. Salton)

Key Points & Insights