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Science Fiction Books - Daily
Four Science Fiction Stories - Alan E Nourse
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"Four Science Fiction Stories" by Alan E. Nourse showcases the author's unique blend of medical insight and imaginative storytelling, featuring tales originally published in renowned magazines like Science Fiction Adventures and Galaxy Science...
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Norse bear trap part one the huge transport plane eased down through the rainy drizzle enshrouding New York International Airport about five o' clock in the evening. Tom Sandor glanced sourly through the port at the wet landing strip, saw the dim landing lights reflected in the steaming puddles on an adjacent field. He could see the rows and rows of jet fighters, wings up in the foggy rain, poised like ridiculous birds in the darkness. With a sigh, he ripped the sheet of paper from the small, battered portable typewriter on his laptop and zipped the machine up in its slicker case. Across the troop hole the soldiers were beginning to stir, yawning, shifting their packs, collecting their gear. Occasionally they stared at Shandar as if he were totally alien to their midst, and he shivered a little as he collected the sheets of paper scattered on the deck around him, checked the date, 27 September 1982, and rolled them up to fit in the slim, round mailing container. Ten minutes later he was shouldering his way through the crowd of khaki clad men scowling up at the sky, his nondescript fedora jammed down over his eyes to keep out the rain, slicker collar pulled up about his ears. At the gangway he stopped before a tired looking lieutenant and flashed the small fluorescent card in his palm. Public Information Board. The officer nodded wearily and gave his coat and typewriter a cursory check, then motioned him on. He strode across the wet field, scowling at the fog toward the dimmed out waiting rooms. He found a maline chute and popped the Maline tube down the slot as if he were glad to be rid of it. Into the speaker he said, special delivery. PIB business. It goes to press tonight. The female voice from the speaker said something and the red clear signal blinked. Chander slipped off his hat and shook it, then stopped at a coffee machine and extracted a cup of steaming stuff from the bottom. After trying the coin three times, finally he walked across the room to an empty video booth and sat down into the chair with an exhausted sigh. Flipping a switch, he waited several minutes for an operator to appear. He gave her a number and then said, let's scramble it, please. Official. He showed her the card and settled back, his whole body tired. He was a tall man, rather slender, with flat bland features punctuated only by blond carrot shaped eyebrows. His grey eyes were heavy lidded now, his mouth in expressionless line as he waited sunk back into his coat with a long cultivated air of lifeless boredom. He watched the screen without interest as it bleeped a time or two, then shifted into the familiar scrambled image pattern. After a moment he muttered the Public Information Board audio code words and saw the screen even out into the clear image of a large, heavy set man at a desk. Hart said, chander, story's on its way. I just dropped it from the airport a minute ago with a rush tag on it. You should have it for the morning editions. The big man in the screen blinked and his heavy face lit up. The story on the rocket project. Sander nodded. The whole scoop. I'm going home now. He started his hand for the cut off switch. Wait a minute. Hart picked up a pencil and fiddled with it for a moment. He glanced over his shoulder and his voice dropped a little. Is the line scrambled? Chander nodded. What's the scoop, boy? How's the rocket project coming? Chander grinned wryly. Read the report, Daddy. Everything's just ducky. Of course. It's all ready for press. You've got the story. Why should I repeat it? Hart scowled impatiently. No, no. I mean the scoop. The real stuff. How's the project going? Not so hot. Chander's face was weary. Material cut off is holding them up something awful. Among other things, the sabotage has really fouled up the West Coast. Trains and shipments haven't been coming through on schedule. You know, they ask for one thing and get the wrong weight or their supplier is out of material or something goes wrong and there's personnel trouble too. Too much direction and too little work. It's beginning to look as if they'll never get going. And now it looks like there's going to be another administration shake up, and you know what that means. Hart nodded thoughtfully. They'd better get hopping, he muttered. The conference in Berlin is on the xkids. It could be hours now. He looked up. But you got the story rigged all right. Chander's face flattened in distaste. Sure, sure. You know me, Hart. Anything to keep the people happy. Everything's running as smooth as satin. Work going fine except a test run in a month, and we should be on the moon in half a year, more or less. Maybe, we hope. The usual swill. I'll be in to work out the war stories in the morning. Right now I'm for bed. He snapped off the video before Hart could interrupt and started for the door. The rain hit him as he stepped out with a wave of cold, wet depression, but a cab slid up to the curb before him and he stepped in. Sinking back, he tried to relax, to get his stomach to stop complaining, but he couldn't fight the feeling of almost physical illness sweeping over him. He closed his eyes and sank back, trying to drive the ever plaguing thoughts from his mind, trying to focus on something pleasant, almost hoping that his long starved conscience might give a final grasp or two and die altogether. But deep in his mind he knew that his screaming conscience was almost the only thing that held him together. Lies, he thought to himself bitterly. White lies. Black lies. Whoppers. You could take your choice. There should be a flaming neon sign flashing across the sky, telling ALL people. Public INFORMATION Board Fabrication Corporation. FABRICATING OF ALL lies Neatly and expeditiously done. He squirmed, feeling the rebellion grow in his mind. Propagandate, they called it. A nice word, such a very handy word, covering a multitude of seething pots. PIB was the Grand Clearing House, the last censor of censors. And he, Tom Chandler, was the chief fabricator and purveyor of lies. He shook his head, trying to get a breath of clean air in the damp cab. Sometimes he wondered where it was leading, where it would finally end up. And what would happen if the people ever really learned or ever listened to the clever ones who tried to sneak the truth into print somewhere. But people couldn't be told the truth. They had to be coddled, urged, pushed along. They had to be kept somehow happy, somehow hopeful. They had to be kept whipped up to fever pitch because the long, long years of war and near war had exhausted them, wearied them beyond natural resiliency. No, they had to be spiked, purged, and goaded. What would happen if they learned, he sighed. No one, it seemed, could do it as well as he. No one could take a story of bitter diplomatic fighting in Berlin and simmer it down to a public, patable, peaceful, and progressive meeting. No one could quite so skillfully reduce the bloody fighting in India to a mild enemy loss, topping American losses 20 to 1. And our boys are fighting staunchly, bravely. No one could write out the lies quite so neatly, so smoothly, as Tom Chandler. The cab swung into his house and he stepped out, tipped the driver, and walked up the walk, eager for the warm, dry room. Coffee helped sometimes when he felt this way, but other things helped even more. He didn't even take his coat off before mixing and drowning a stiff fry in ginger, and he was almost forgetting his unhappy conscience by the time the video began. Blinking, he flipped the receiver switch and sat down, groggily blinked at John Hart's heavy face as it materialized on the screen. Hart's eyes were wide, his voice tight and nervous as he leaned forward. You better get into the office pronto, he said, his eyes bright. You've really got a story to work on now. Shandor blinked. The war. Hart took a deep breath. Worse, he said. David Ingersoll is dead. Tom Chandor shouldered his way through the crowd of men in the anteroom and went into the inner office, closing the door behind him. Coolly, he faced the man at the desk and threw a thumb over his shoulder. Who's the goons? He growled. You haven't released a story yet. John Hart sighed, his pinkish face drawn. The press. I don't know how they got the word. There hasn't been a word released, but he shrugged and motioned Chander to have a seat. You know how it goes. Chandler sat down, his face blank, eyeing the information chief woodenly. The room was silent for a moment, a tense, anticipatory silence. Then Hart said, the Rocket story was great, Tommy. A real writing job. You've got the touch when it comes to a ticklish news release. Sandor allowed an expression of distaste to cross his face. He looked at the chubby man across the desk and felt the distaste deepen and crystallize. John Hart's face was round, with little lines going up from the eyes, an almost grotesque, burlesque comic face that belied the icy, practical nature of the man behind it. A thoroughly distasteful face, Chandra thought. Finally he said, the story, Jon on Ingersoll. Let's have it straight out. Hart shrugged his stocky shoulders, spreading his hands. Ingersoll's dead, he said. That's all there is to it. He's stone cold dead. But he can't be dead. Roared Chander, his face flushed. We just can't afford to have him dead. Hart looked up wearily. Look, I didn't kill him. He went home from the White House this evening, apparently sound enough after a long, stiff, nasty conference with the president. Ingersoll wanted to go to Berlin and call a showdown at the international conference there, and he had a policy brawl with the president, and the president wouldn't let him go, sent an under secretary instead, and threatened to kick Ingersoll out of the Cabinet unless he quieted down. Ingersoll got home at 4:30, collapsed at 5, and he was dead before the doctor arrivedcerebral hemorrhage. Pretty straightforward. Ingersoll's been killing himself for years. He knew it and everyone else in Washington knew it. It was bound to happen sooner or later. He was trying to prevent a war, said Chander dully. And he was all by himself. Nobody else wanted to stop it. Nobody that mattered, at any rate. Only the people didn't want war, and whoever listens to them. Ingersoll got the people behind him. So they gave him a couple of Nobel Peace Prizes and made him Secretary of State, and then cut his throat every time he tried to do anything. No wonder he's dead. Hart shrugged again, eloquently indifferent. So he was a nice guy. He wanted to prevent a war as far as I'm concerned. He was a pain in the neck, the way he was forever jumping down information's throat. But he's dead now. He isn't around any more. His eyes narrowed sharply. The important thing, Tommy, is that the people won't like it that he's dead. They trusted him. He's been the people's golden boy, their last ditch hope for peace. If they think their last chance is gone with his death, they're going to be mad. They won't like it, and there'll be hell to pay. Chandor lit a smoke with trembling fingers, his eyes smouldering. So the people have to be eased out of the picture, he said flatly. They've got to get the story so they won't be so angry. Hart nodded, grinning. We've got to have a real story, Tommy. Big blown up. What a great guy he was. Defender of the peace. Greatest, most influential man in America has turned out since the half century. You know what they lap up? The usual garbage, only on a slightly higher plane. They've got to think that he's really saved them that he's turned over the reins to other hands just as worthy as his. You can give the President a big hand there. They've got to think his work is the basis of our present foreign policy. Can't you see the implications? It's got to be spread on with a trowel laid on skillfully. Chander's face flushed deep red and he ground the stub of his smoke out viciously. I'm sick of this stuff, Hart, he exploded. I'm sick of you. I'm sick of this whole rotten set up, this business of writing reams and reams of lies to just keep things under control. Ingersoll was a great man, A really great man, and he was wasted. Thrown away. He worked to make peace and he got laughed at. He hasn't done a thing because he couldn't. Everything he has tried has been useless, wasted. That's the truth. Why not tell that to the people? Hart stared. Get hold of yourself, he snapped. You know your job. There's a story to write, the life of David Ingersoll that has to go down smooth. His dark eyes shifted to his hands and back sharply to Chandler. A propagandist has to write it, Tommy. An ace propagandist. You're the only one I know that could do the job. Not me, said Chander flatly, standing up. Count me out. I'm through with this as of now. Get yourself some other whipping boy. Ingersoll was one man people could trust, and he was one man I could never face. I'm not good enough for him to spit on, and I'm not going to sell him down the river now that he's dead. With a little sigh, John Hart reached into his desk. That's very odd, he said softly, because Ingersoll left a message for you. Chander snapped about, eyes wide. Message? The chubby man handed him a small envelope. Apparently he wrote that a long time ago, told his daughter to send it to Public Information Board immediately in the event of his death. Read it. Chandra unfolded the thin paper and, blinking unbelievingly, in the event of my death? During the next few months, a certain amount of biographical writing will be inevitable. It is my express wish that this writing, in whatever form it may take, be done by Mr. Thomas L. Chander, staff writer of the Federal Public Information Board. I believe that man alone is qualified to handle this assignment. David P. Ingersoll, Secretary of State, United States of America, 4June 1981 Sandor read the message a second time, then folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket, his forehead creased. I suppose you want the story to be big, he said dully. Hart's eyes gleamed, a moment of triumph. As big as you can make it, he said eagerly. Don't spare time or effort, Tommy. You'll be relieved of all assignments until you have it done, if you'll take it. Oh yes, said Chander softly. I'll take it. He landed the small PIB copter on an airstrip in the outskirts of Georgetown, haggled with security officials for a few moments, and grabbed an old weather beaten cab giving the address of the Ingersoll estate as he settled back in the cushions. A small radio was set inside the door. He snapped it on, fiddled with the dial until he found a PIB news report, and as he listened he felt his heart sink lower and lower, and the old familiar feeling of dirtiness swept over him, the feeling of being a part of an enormous overpowering scheme of corruption and degradation. The Berlin conference was reaching a common meeting ground, the report said, with Russian, Chinese, and American officials making the first real progress in the week of talks, hope rising for an early armistice on the Indian front. Suddenly he hunched forward, blinking in surprise as the announcer continued the broadcast. The Secretary of State, David Ingersoll, was stricken with a slight head cold this evening on the eve of his departure for the Berlin conference, and was advised to postpone the trip temporarily. John Harris Darby, first under secretary, was despatched in his place. Mr. Ingersoll expressed confidence that Mr. Darby would be able to handle the talks as well as himself in view of the optimistic trend in Berlin last night. Sandor snapped the radio off viciously, a roar of disgust rising in his throat. Cut off just in time. Lies, lies, lies. Some people knew they were lies. What could they really think? People like David Ingersoll's wife. Carefully he reined in his thoughts, channeled them. He had called the Ingersoll home the night before, announcing his arrival this morning. The taxi ground up the gravel driveway, stopped before an army jeep at the iron grilled gateway. A security officer flipped a cigarette into the ground, taking his head. Can't go in. Secretary's orders. Sandor stepped from the cab, briefcase under his arm. He showed his card, scowled when the officer continued shaking his head. Orders say nobody look, blockhead, chander grated. If you want to hang up by your toes, I can put through a special check line to Washington to confirm my appointment here. I'll also recommend you for the salt mines. The officer growled, wise guy, and shuffled into the guard shack. Minutes later he appeared again, jerked his thumb toward the estate. Take off, he said. See that you check here at the gate before you leave. He was admitted to the huge house by a stone faced butler who led him through a maze of corridors into a huge dining room. Morning sunlight gleamed through the glassed in wall and Chandor stopped at the door, almost speechless. He knew he'd seen the girl somewhere, at one of the Washington parties or in the newspapers. Her face was unmistakable. It was the sort of face that a man never forgets once he glimpses it. Thin, puckish, with wide set grey eyes that seemed both sombre and secretly amused. A full, sensitive mouth and blond hair, exceedingly fine, cropped close about the ears. She was eating her breakfast, a rolled up newspaper beside her plate, and as she looked up her eyes were not warm. She just stared at Chander angrily for a moment, then set down her coffee cup and threw the paper to the floor with a slam. You're Chander, I suppose? Chander looked at the paper, then back at her. Yes, I'm Tom Chander. But you're not Mrs. Ingersoll. A profound observation. Mother isn't interested in seeing anyone this morning, particularly you. She motioned to a chair. You can talk to me if you want to. Chandra sat down in the proffered seat, struggling to readjust his thinking. Well, he said finally, I. I wasn't expecting you. He broke into a grin. But I should think you could help. You know what I am trying to do. I mean about your father. I want to write a story, and the logical place to start would be with his family. The girl blinked wide eyes innocently. Why don't you start with the newspaper files? She asked, her voice silky. You'd find all sorts of information about Daddy there. Pages and pages. No, no, I don't want that kind of information. You're his daughter, Ms. Ingersoll. You could tell me about him as a man. Something about his personal life, what sort of man he was. She shrugged indifferently, buttered a piece of toast as Chander felt most acutely the pangs of his own missed breakfast. He got up at seven every morning, she said. He brushed his teeth and ate breakfast. At nine o' clock the State Department called for him. Chandra shook his head unhappily. No, no, that's not what I mean. Then perhaps you'd tell me precisely what you do mean. Her voice was clipped and hard. Chander sighed in exasperation. The personal angle, his likes and dislikes, how he came to formulate his views, his relationship with his wife, with you. He was a kind and loving father, she said, her voice mocking. He loved to read. He loved music. Oh yes, Put that down. He was a great lover of music. His wife was the apple of his eye, and he tried for all the duties of his position to provide us with a happy home life. Ms. Ingersoll. She stopped in mid sentence, her gray eyes veiled, and shook her head slightly. That's not what you want to hear either. Chandra stood up and walked to a window looking out over the wide veranda. Carefully he snubbed his cigarette in an ashtray, then turned sharply to the girl. Look, if you want to play games, I can play games too. Either you're going to help me or you're not. It's up to you. But you forget one thing. I'm a propagandist. I might say I'm an expert propagandis. I can tell a true story from a false one. You won't get anywhere lying to me or evading me. And if you choose to try, we can call it off right now. You know exactly the type of information I need from you. Your father was a great man and he rates a fair shake in the write ups. I'm asking you to help me. Her lips formed a sneer. And you're going to give him a fair shake, I'm supposed to believe? She pointed to the newspaper. With garbage like that? Head cold, her face flushed and she turned her back angrily. I know your writing, Mr. Chander. I've been exposed to it for years. You've never written an honest, true story in your life. But you always want the truth to start with, don't you? I'm going to give you the truth and let you do what you want with it. Is that the idea? No dice, Mr. Chander. And you even have the gall to brag about it. Chander flushed angrily. You're not being fair. The story is going to press straight and true, every word of it. This is one story that won't be altered. And then she was laughing, choking, holding her sides as the tears streamed down her cheeks. Chandra watched her reddening anger growing up to choke him. I'm not joking, he snapped. I'm breaking with the routine. Do you understand? I'm through with the lies now. I'm riding this one straight. She wiped her eyes and looked at him, bitter lines under her smile. You couldn't do it, she said, still laughing. You're a fool to think so. You could write it and you'd be out of a job so fast you wouldn't even know what hit you. But you'd never get it into print, and you know it. You'd never even get the story to the inside offices. Chandra stared at her. That's what you think, he said slowly. This story will get to the press if it kills me. The girl looked up at him, eyes wide, incredulous. You mean that, don't you? I never meant anything more in my life. She looked at him wonderingly, motioned him to the table, a faraway look in her eyes. Have some coffee, she said, and then turned to him, her eyes wide with excitement. The sneer was gone from her face, the coldness and hostility, and her eyes were pleading. If there were some way to do it, if you really meant what you said, if you'd really do it, give people a true story. Chander's voice was low. I told you, I'm sick of this mill. There is something wrong with this country, something wrong with the world. There's a rottenness in it, and your father was fighting to cut out the rottenness. This story is going to be straight and it's going to be printed if I get shot for treason. And it could split things wide open at the seams. She sat down at the table. Her lower lip trembled and her voice was tense with excitement. Let's get out of here, she said. Let's go someplace where we can talk. They found a quiet place off the business section in Washington, one of the newer places with the small enclosed booths catering to people weary of eavesdropping and overheard conversations. Sandor ordered beers, then lit a smoke and leaned back, facing Anne Ingersoll. It occurred to him that she was exceptionally lovely, but he was almost frightened by the look on her face, the suppressed excitement, the cold, bitter lines about her mouth. Incongruously, the thought crossed his mind that he'd hate to have this woman against him. She looked as though she would be capable of more than he'd care to tangle with. For all her lovely face, there was an edge of thin ice to her smile, a razor sharp, dangerous quality that made him curiously uncomfortable. But now she was nervous, withdrawing a cigarette from his pack with trembling fingers, fumbling with his lighter until he struck a match for her. Now, he said, why the secrecy? She glanced at the closed door to the booth. Mother would kill me if she knew I was helping you. She hates you, and she hates the Public Information Board. I think dad hated you too. Sandor took the folded letter from his pocket. Then what do you think of this? He asked softly. Doesn't this strike you a Little odd. She read Ingersoll's letter carefully, then looked up at Tom, her eyes wide with surprise. So this is what that note was. This doesn't wash, Tom. You're telling me it doesn't wash. Nice wording. I believe that man alone is qualified to handle this assignment. Why me? And of all things, why me alone? He knew my job, and he fought me and the PIB every step of his career. Why a note like this? She looked up at him. Do you have any idea? Sure, I've got an idea. A crazy one, but an idea. I don't think he wanted me because of the writing. I think he wanted me because I'm a propagandist. She scowled. It still doesn't wash. There are lots of propagandists. And why would he want a propagandist? Sander's eyes narrowed. Let's let it ride for a moment. How about his files in his office in the State Department? He didn't keep anything personal at home. Her eyes grew wide. Oh, no, he wouldn't have dared. Not the sort of work he was doing with his files locked under key. And the key in the State Department. Nothing could be touched without his knowledge. But at home, anybody might have walked in. Of course. How about enemies? Did he have any particular enemies? She laughed humorously. Name anybody in the current administration? I think he had more enemies than anybody else in the Cabinet. Her mouth turned down bitterly. He was a stumbling block. He got in people's way and they hated him for it. They killed him for it. Chander's eyes widened. You mean you think he was murdered? Oh, no. Nothing so crude. They didn't have to be crude. They just let him butt his head against a stone wall. Everything he tried was blocked, or else it didn't lead anywhere. Like this Berlin Conference. It was a powder keg. Dad gambled everything on going there, forcing the delegates to face facts, to really put their cards on the table. Ever since the United nations fell apart in 72, dad had been trying to get America and Russia to sit at the same table, but the president cut him out at the last minute. It was planned that way, to let him get up to the very brink of it, then slap him down hard. They did it all along. This was just the last he could take. Chandra was silent for a moment. Any particular thorns in his side? Anne shrugged. Munitions people, mostly. Dartmouth Baring had a pressure lobby that was trying to throw him out of the cabinet. The president sided with them, but he didn't dare do it for the fear people would squawk. He was planning to blame the failure of the Berlin conference on dad and get him oust it that way. Chander stared. But what if that conference fails? We're in full scale war. Of course. That's the whole point. She scowled at her glass, blinking back tears. Dad could have stopped it, but they wouldn't let him. It killed him. Tom Chander watched the smoke curling up from his cigarette. Look, he said, I've got an idea, and it's going to take some fast work. That conference could blow up any minute, and then I think we're going to be in real trouble. I want you to go to your father's office and get the contents of his personal file. Not the business files, his personal files. Put them in a brief case and Subway express them to your home. If you have any trouble, have them check with pib. We have full authority and I'm it right now. I'll call them and give them the word. Then meet me here again with the files at 7:30 this evening. She looked up, her eyes wide. What? What are you going to do? Chander snubbed out his smoke, his eyes bright. I've got an idea that we may be onto something. Just something I want to check. But I think if we work it right, we can lay these boys that fought your father out by the toes. End of section 1. Section 2 of 4 Science fiction stories by Alan E. Norse this Librivox recording is in the public domain. Bear trap Part 2 the Library of Congress had been moved when the threat of bombing in Washington had become acute. Sandor took a cab to Georgetown Airstrip, checked the fuel in the copter. Ten minutes later he started the motor and headed up wind into the haze over the hills. In less than half an hour he settled to the library landing field in western Maryland and strode across to the rear entrance. The electronic cross index had been the last improvement in the library since the war with China had started in 1958. Chandra found a reading booth in one of the cloves on the second floor and plugged in the index. The cold metallic voice of the automatic chirped twice and said, your reference, please. Chander thought a moment. Give me your newspaper files on David Ingersoll, Secretary of State. Through which dates please start with the earliest reference and carry through to the current. The speaker burped and he sat back, waiting. A small gate in the panel before him popped open and a small spool plopped out onto a spindle. Another followed, and another. He turned to the reader and reeled the first spool into the intake slot. The light snapped on and he began reading. Spools continued to plop down. He read for several hours, taking a dozen pages of notes. The references commenced in June 1961 with the small notice that David Ingersoll, Republican from New Jersey, had been nominated to run for state senator before that date. Nothing. Chandra scowled, searching for some item predating that one. He found nothing. Scratching his head, he continued reading, outlining chronologically Ingersoll's election to State Senate, then to the United States Senate, his rise to national prominence as economist for the post war administrator of President Drayton in 1966, his meteoric rise as a peacemaker in the nation. Tired from endless dreary years of fighting in China and India, his tremendous popularity as he tried to stall the reintensifying Cold War with Russia, the first Nobel Peace Prize in 1969 for the ill fated Ingersoll Plan for world sovereignty. Pages and pages and pages of newsprint. Sandor growled angrily, surveying the pile of notes with a sinking feeling of incredulity. The articles, the writing, the tone. It was all too familiar. Carefully, he checked the newspaper sources. Some of the dispatches were Associated Press. Many came direct desk from Public Information Board in New York to other networks sponsored some of the wordage, but the tone was all the same. Finally, disgusted, Tom stuffed the notes into his briefcase and flipped down the librarian Leverage. Sources, please. A light blinked, and in a moment a buzzer sounded at its elbow. A female voice, quite human, spoke as he lifted the receiver. Can I help you on sources? Yes. I've been reading the newspaper files on David Ingersoll. I'd like the bylines on this copy. There was a moment of silence. Which dates, please? Chandler read off his list giving dates. The silence continued for several minutes as he waited impatiently. He was about to hang up and leave when the voice spoke up again. I'm sorry, sir. Most of that material has no byline. Except for one or two items. It's all staff. Written by whom? I'm sorry, no source is available. Perhaps the PIB offices could help you. All right. Bring them for me, please. He waited another five minutes, saw the PIB cross index clerk appear on the video screen. Hello, Mr. Shander. Can I help you? I'm trying to trace down the names of the Associated Press and PIB writers who covered stories on David Ingersoll over a period from June 1961 to the present date. The girl disappeared for several moments. When she reappeared, her face was puzzled. Why, Mr. Chander, you've been doing all the work on Ingersoll from August 1978 to September 1982. We haven't closed the files on this last month yet. He scowled in annoyance. Yes, yes, I know that. I want the writers before I came. The clerk paused. Until you started your work there, there was no definite assignment. The information just isn't here. But the man you replaced in PIB was named Frank Merrill. Chander turned the name over in his mind, decided that it was familiar but that he couldn't quite place it. What's this man doing now? The girl shrugged. I don't know just now, and I have no sources. But according to our files, he left Public Information Board to go to work in some capacity for Dartmouth Bearing Corporation. Sandor flipped the switch and settled back in the reading chair. Once again he fingered through his notes, frowning, a doubt gnawing through his mind into certainty. He looked up a dozen of the stories, analyzed them carefully, word for word, sentence by sentence. Then he sat back, his body tired, eyes closed in concentration, an incredible idea twisting and writhing and solidifying in his mind. It takes one to catch one. That was his job. Telling lies. Writing stories that weren't true and making them believable. Making people think one thing when the truth was something else. It wasn't so strange that he could detect exactly the same sort of thing when he ran into it. He thought it through again and again, and every time he came up with the same answer. There was no doubt reading the newspaper files had accomplished only one thing. He had spent the afternoon reading a voluminous, neat, smoothly written, extremely convincing batch of bold faced lies. Lies about David Ingersoll. Somewhere at the bottom of those lies was a shred or two of truth. A shred hard to analyze, impossible to segregate from the garbage surrounding it. But somebody had written the lies. That meant that somebody knew the truths behind them. Suddenly he galvanized into action. The video blinked protestingly at his urgent summons, and the Washington Visiphone operator answered. Somewhere in those listings of yours, chander said, you've got a man named Frank Merrill. I want his number. He reached the downtown restaurant half an hour early and ducked into a nearby Visiphone station to ring Heart. The PIB director's chubby face materialized on the screen after a moment's confusion, and Chandor said, john, what are your plans for releasing the Ingersoll story? The morning papers left him with a slight head cold. If I remember right, try as he would, he couldn't conceal the edge of sarcasm in his voice. Hart scowled. How's the Biography coming? The biography's coming along fine. I want to know what kind of quicksand I'm wading through, that's all. Hart shrugged and spread his hands. We can't break the story proper until you're ready with your buffer story. Current plans say that he gets pneumonia tomorrow and goes to Walter Reed tomorrow night. We're giving it as little emphasis as possible running the Berlin conference stories for right hand column stuff. That'll give you all day tomorrow and half the next day for the preliminary stories on his death. Okay, that's not enough time. Chander's voice was tight. It's enough for a buffer release. Hart scowled at him, his round face red and annoyed. Look, Tom, you get that story in and never mind what you like or don't like. This is dynamite you're playing with. The conference is going to be on the rocks in a matter of hours. That's straight from the Under Secretary. And on top of it all, there's trouble down in Arizona. Chandra's eyes widened. The rocket project? Hart's mouth twisted. Sabotage. They picked up the whole ring that's been operating for over a year. Caught them red handed, but not before they burned out half the calculator wing. They'll have to move in new machines now before they can go on. Set the project back another week, and that could lose the war for us right there. Now get that story in. He snapped the switch down, leaving Chander blinking at the darkened screen. Ten minutes later Anne Ingersoll joined him in the restaurant booth. She was wearing a chic white linen outfit with her hair fresh like a blond halo around her head. In the fading evening light, her freshness contrasted painfully with Tom's curling collar and dirty tie, and he suddenly wished he'd picked up a shave. He looked up and grunted when he saw the fat briefcase under the girl's arm, and she dropped it on the table between them and sank down opposite him, studying his face. The reading didn't go well, she said. The reading went lousy, he admitted sheepishly. This the personal file? She nodded shortly and lit a cigarette. The works? They didn't even bother me, but I can't see why. All the precaution. I mean. The express and all that. Chandler looked at her sharply. If what you said this morning was true, that file's a gold mine for us. But more particularly for your father's enemies. I'll go over it closely when I get out of here. Meantime, there are one or two other things I want to talk over with you. She settled herself and grinned. Okay, boss. Fire away. He took a deep breath and tiredness lined his face. First off, what did your father do before he went into politics? Her eyes widened and she arrested the cigarette halfway to her mouth, put it back on the ashtray with a puzzled frown on her face. That's funny, she said softly. I thought I knew, but I guess I don't. He was an industrialist. Way far back. Years and years ago when I was just a little brat. And then we got into the war with China and I don't know what he did. He was always making business trips. I can remember going to the airport with Mother to meet him, but I don't know what he did. Mother always avoided talking about him, and I never got to see him enough to talk. Chanders sat forward, his eyes bright. Did he ever entertain any business friends during that time? Any that you can remember? She shook her head. I can't remember. Seems to me a man or two came home with him on a couple of occasions, but I don't know who. I don't remember much before the night he came home and said he was going to run for Congress. Then there were people galore. Have been ever since. And what about his work at the end of the China War, after he was elected, while he was doing all that work to try to smooth things out with Russia? Can you remember him saying anything to you or to your mother about what he was doing and how? She shook her head again. Oh, yes. He'd talk. He and Mother would talk sometimes argue. I had the feeling that things weren't too well with Mother and Dad many times, but I can't remember anything specific except that he used to say over and over how he hated the thought of another war. He was afraid it was going to come. Chander looked up sharply. But he hated it. Yes. Her eyes widened. Oh, yes, he hated it. Dad was a good man, Tom. He believed with all his heart that the people of the world wanted peace and that they were being dragged to war because they couldn't find any purpose to keep them from it. He believed that if the people of the world had a cause, a purpose, a driving force, that there wouldn't be any more wars. Some men fought him for preaching peace, but he wouldn't be swayed. Especially he hated the pure profit lobbies, the patriotic drumbeaters who stood to get rich in a war. But dad had to die, and there aren't many men like him left now. I guess I know. Chander fell silent, stirring his coffee glumly. Tell me, he said. Did Your father have anything to do with a man named Mariel? Anne's eyes narrowed. Frank Mariel. He was the newspaper man. Yes, that had plenty to do with him. He hated Dad's guts because dad fought his writing so much. Mariel was one of the fight now and get rich school that were continually plaguing dad. Would you say that they were enemies? She bit her lip, wrinkling her brow in thought. Not at first. More like a big dog with a little flea. At first, Mariel pistered. Dad and dad tried to scratch him away, but Mariel got into Pib and then. I suppose you could call them enemies. Sandor sat back, frowning, his face dark with fatigue. He stared at the table top for a long moment, and when he looked up at the girl, his eyes were troubled. There's something wrong with this, he said softly. I can't quite make it out, but it just doesn't look right. Those newspaper stories I read. Pure bourgeois from beginning to end. I'm dead certain of it. And yet. He paused, searching for words. Look, it's like I'm looking at a jigsaw puzzle that looks like it's all completed and lying out on a table. But there's something that tells me I'm being foxed, that it isn't a complete puzzle at all, just an illusion. Yet somehow I can't even tell for sure where pieces are missing. The girl leaned over the table, her gray eyes deep with concern. Tom, she said, almost in a whisper. Suppose there is something, Tom. Something big. What's it going to do to you, Tom? You can't fight anything as powerful as Pib, and these men that hated dad could break you. Tom grinned tiredly, his eyes far away. I know, he said softly. But a man can only swallow so much somewhere. I guess I've still got a conscience. It's a nuisance, but it's still there. He looked closely at the lovely girl across from him. Maybe it's just that I'm tired of being sick of myself. I'd like to like myself for a change. I haven't liked myself for years. He looked straight at her, his voice very small in the still booth. I'd like some other people to like me, too, so I've got to keep going. Her hand was in his then, grasping his fingers tightly, and her voice was trembling. I didn't think there was anybody left like that, she said. Tom, you aren't by yourself. Remember that no matter what happens, I'm with you all the way. I'm afraid. But I'm with You. He looked up at her then, and his voice was tight. Listen, Anne, your father planned to go to Berlin before he died. What was he going to do if he went to the Berlin conference? She shrugged helplessly. The usual diplomatic folderol, I suppose. He always. No, no, that's not right. He wanted to go so badly that. That he died when he wasn't allowed to, Anne. He must have had something in mind, something concrete, something tremendous, something that would have changed the picture a great deal. And then she was staring at Chander, her face white, grey, eyes wide. Of course he had something. She exclaimed. He must have. Oh, I don't know what. He wouldn't say what was in his mind. But when he came home after that meeting with the President, he was furious. I've never seen him so furious, Tom. He was almost out of his mind with anger, and he paced the floor and swore and nearly tore the room apart. He wouldn't speak to anyone, just stamped around and through things. And then we heard him cry out, and when we got to him, he was unconscious on the floor, and he was dead when the doctor came. She set her glass down with trembling fingers. He had something big, Tom, I'm sure of it. He had some information that he planned to drop on the conference table with such a bang it would stop the whole world cold. He knew something that the conference doesn't know. Tom Chandler stood up, trembling, and took the briefcase. It should be here, he said, if not the whole story, at least the missing pieces. He started for the booth door. Go home, he said. I'm going where I can examine these files without any interference. Then I'll call you. And then he was out the door, shouldering his way through the crowded restaurant, frantically weaving his way to the street. He didn't hear Anne's voice as she called him to stop, didn't see her stop at the booth door, watch a confusion of fear and tenderness, and collapse into the booth, sobbing as if her heart would break, because a crazy, twisted, impossible idea was in his mind, an idea that had plagued him since he had started reading that morning, an idea with an answer, an acid test folded in the briefcase under his arm. He bumped into a fat man at the bar, grunted angrily and finally reached the street, whistled at the cab that lingered nearby. The car swung up before him, the door springing open automatically. He had one foot on the running board before he saw the trap, saw the tight, yellowish face and the glittering eyes inside the cab. Suddenly there was an explosion of bright purple brilliance, and he was screaming, twisting and screaming and reeling backward onto the sidewalk, doubled over with agonising fire that burned through his side and down one leg, forcing scream after scream from his throat as he blindly staggered to the wall of the building, pounded it with his fists for relief from the searing pain. And then he was on his side on the sidewalk, sobbing, blubbering incoherently to the uniformed policeman who was dragging him gently to his feet, seeing through burning eyes the group of curious people gathering round. Suddenly realization dawned through the pain and he let out a cry of anger and bolted for the curb, knocking the policeman aside, his eyes wild, searching the receding stream of traffic for the cab. A picture of the occupant burned indelibly into his mind, a face he had seen, recognised. The cab was gone, he knew, gone like a breath of wind. The brief case was also gone. He gave the address of the Essex University Hospital to the cabby and settled back in the seat, gripping the handguard tightly to fight down the returning pain in his side and leg. His mind was whirling, fighting in a welter of confusion, trying to find some avenue of approach, some way to make sense of the mess. The face in the cab recurred again and again before his eyes, the gaunt, putty coloured cheeks, the sharp glittering eyes. His acquaintance with Frank Mariel had been brief and unpleasant in the past, but that was a face he would never forget. But how could Mariel have known where he would be and when? There was precision in that attack, far too smooth precision to have been left to chance or even to independent planning. His mind skirted the obvious a dozen times and each time rejected it angrily. Finally, he knew he could no longer reject the thought, the only possible answer. Mariel had known where he would be and at what time. Therefore someone must have told him. He stiffened in the seat, the pain momentarily forgotten. Only one person could have told Mariel. Only one person knew where the phial was and where it would be. After he left the restaurant, he felt cold bitterness creep down his spine. She had known and sat there, making eyes at him and telling him how wonderful he was, how she was with him no matter what happened, and she'd already sold him down the river. He shook his head angrily, trying to keep his thoughts on a rational plane. Why? Why had she strung him along? Why had she even started to help him? And why, above all, turn against her own father? The hospital driveway crunched under the cab. Andy hopped out, wincing with every step, and walked into a phone booth off the lobby. He gave a name and in a Moment heard the PA system echoing it. Dr. Prex. Calling Dr. Prex. In a moment he heard a receiver click off and a familiar voice said, prex speaking. Prex, this is Chander. Got a minute? The voice was cordial. Dozens of them. Where are you? I'll be up in your quarters. Chander slammed down the receiver and started for the elevator to the resident physician's wing. He let himself in by a key and settled down in the darkened room to wait an eternity before a tall, gaunt man walked in, snapped on a light, and loosened the white jacket at his neck. He was a young man, no more than 30, with a tired, sober face and jet black hair falling over his forehead. His eyes lighted as he saw Sandor, and he grinned. You look like you've been through the mill. What happened? Sandor stripped off his clothes, exposing the angry red of the seared skin. The tall man whistled softly, the smile fading. Carefully he examined the burned area, his fingers gentle on the tender surface. Then he turned troubled eyes to Chander. You've been messing around with dirty guys, Tom. Nobody but a real dog would turn a scalder on a man. He went to a cupboard, returned with a jar of salve and bandages. Is it serious? Chander's face was deathly white. I've been fighting shock with thiamine for the last hour, but I don't think I can hold out much longer. Prex shrugged. You didn't get enough to do any permanent damage, if that's what you mean. Just fried the pain receptors in your skin to a crisp, is all. A little dose is so painful you can't do anything but holler for a while. But it won't hurt you permanently unless you get it all over you. Enough can kill you. He dressed the burned areas carefully, then bared Chander's arm and used a pressure syringe for a moment. Who's using one of those things? Chandra was silent for a moment. Then he said, look, Prex, I need some help badly. His eyes looked up in dull anger. I'm going to see a man tonight and I want him to talk hard and fast. I don't care right now if he nearly dies from pain, but I want him to talk. I need somebody along who knows how to make things painful. Prex scowled and then pointed to the burn. This the man? That's the man. Prex put away the salve. I suppose I'll help you, then. Is this official or a grudge? A little of both. Look, Prex, I know this is a big favor to ask, but it's on the level Believe me, it's square. Nothing shady about it. The method may not be legal, but the means are justified. I can't tell you what's up, but I am asking you to trust me. Prex grinned. You say it's all right. It's all right. When Chandra glanced at his watch. About three this morning. I think we can take your car. They talked for a while and a call took the doctor away. Sandor slept a little, then made some black coffee. Shortly before three, the two men left the hospital by the physician's entrance, and Prex's little beat up Dartmouth slid smoothly into the desultory traffic for the suburbs. The apartment was small and neatly furnished. Chander and the doctor had been admitted by a sleepy doorman who had been jolted to sudden attention by Tom's PIB card, and after five minutes, pounding on the apartment door, a sleepy eyed man opened the door a crack. Say, what's the idea of pounding on a man's door at this time of night? Haven't you? Chandra gave the door a shove with his shoulder, driving it open into the room. Shut up, he said bluntly. He turned so the light struck his face. The little man's jaw dropped in astonishment. Shandar, he whispered. Frank Muriel looked like a weasel, sallow, sunken cheeked with a yellowish cast to his skin that contrasted unpleasantly with the coal black hair. That's right, said Chandor. We've come for a little talk. Meet the doctor. Mariel's eyes shifted momentarily to Prex's stony face, then back to Sandor, ghosts of fear creeping across his face. What do you want? I've come for the files. The little man scowled. You've come to the wrong man. I don't have any files. Prex carefully took a small black case from his pocket, unsnapped a hinge, and a small shiny instrument fell out in his hand. The files, said Chander. Who has them? I. I don't know. Chander smashed a fist into the man's face, viciously knocking him reeling to the floor. You tried to kill me tonight, he snarled. You should have done it upright. You should stick to magazine editing and keep your nose out of dirty games. Mariel, who has the files? Muriel picked himself up, trembling, met Chander's fist, and sprawled again, a trickle of blood appearing at his mouth. Terry Dartmouth has the files, he groaned. They're probably in Chicago now. What do you know about Harry Dartmouth? Mariel gained a chair this time before Chander hit him. I've only met him a couple of times. He's the President of Dartmouth Bearing Corporation. And he's my boss. Dartmouth Bearing publishes Fighting World. I do what he tells me. Chander's eyes flared. Including murder, is that right? Mariel's eyes were sullen. Come on, talk. Why did Dartmouth want Ingersoll's personal files? The man just stared sullenly at the floor. Prex pressed a stud on the side of the shiny instrument and a purple flash caught Mariel's little finger. Mariel jerked and squealed with pain. Speak up, said Chander. I didn't hear you. Probably about the bonds. Mariel whimpered. His face was ashen and he eyed Prex with undistinguished pleading. Look, tell him to put that thing away. Chander grinned without humor. You don't like scalders, eh? Get a big dose and you're dead, Mariel. But I guess you know that, don't you? Think about it. But don't think too long. What about the bonds? Ingersoll has been trying to get Dartmouth Bearing Corporation on legal grounds for years. Something about the government bonds they held bought during the China wars. You know, surplus profits. Dartmouth Baring could beat the taxes by buying bonds. Harry Dartmouth thought Ingersoll's file had some legal dope against him. He was afraid you'd try to make trouble for the company. So he hired this little pixie, eh? Seems to me you've had enough on your hands editing that rag. Mariel shot him an injured look. Fighting World has the second largest magazine circulation in the country. It's a good magazine. It's a warmonger propaganda rag, snapped Sandor. He glared at the little man. What's your relation to Ingersoll? I hated his guts. He was carrying his lily livered pacism right to the White House and I couldn't see it. So I fought him every inch of the way. I'll fight what he stands for now he's dead. Chandler's eyes narrowed. That was a mistake, Mariel. You weren't supposed to know. He is dead. He walked over to the little man, whose face was a shade whiter yet funny, said Chander quietly. You say you hated him, but I didn't get that impression at all. Mariel's eyes opened wide. What do you mean? Everything you wrote for the PIB seems to have treated him kindly. A shadow of deep concern crossed Mariel's face, as though for the first time he found himself in deep water. PIB told me what to write and I wrote it. You know how they work. Yes, I know how they work. I also know that most of your Writing while you were doing Public Information Board work was never ordered by pib. Ever hear of Ben Chamberlain, Mariel, or Frank Eberhard? Or John Harding? Ever hear of them? Mariel Sanders voice cut sharply through the room. Ben Chamberlain wrote for a very large circulation magazine in the country after the Chinese war. Frank Eberhardt was the man behind Associated Press during those years. John Harding was the silent publisher of three newspapers in Washington, two in New York and one in Chicago. Ever hear of those men, Mariel? No. No. You know damned well you've heard of them, because those men were all you, every single one of them. Chandar was standing close to him now, and Mariel sat like he had seen a ghost, his lower lip quivering, forehead wet. No, no, you're wrong. No, no, I'm right, mocked Sandor. I've been in the newspaper racket for a long time, Mariel. I've got friends in pib. Real friends. Not the Shammos crowd you're acquainted with that'll take you for your last nickel and then leave you to starve. Never mind how I found out. You hated Ingersoll so much you handed him bouquets all the time. How about it, Mariel? All that writing. You couldn't praise him enough, boosting him, beating the drum for him and his policies, every trick and gimmick known in the propaganda game to give him a boost, make him the people's darling. How about it? Mariel was shaking his head, his little eyes nearly popping with fright. It wasn't him he choked. Ingersoll had nothing to do with it. It was Dartmouth Baring. They bought me into the spots, got me. The newspapers supported me. Dartmouth Baring ran the whole works, and they told me what to garbage Dartmouth Baring, the biggest munitions people in America. And I'm supposed to believe that they told you to go to bat for the country's strongest pacifist? What kind of SAP do you take me for? It's true. Ingersoll had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. Muriel's voice was almost pleading. Look, I don't know what Dartmouth Baring had in mind. Who was I to ask questions? You don't realize their power, Sandor. Those bonds I spoke of. They hold millions of dollars worth of bonds. They hold enough bonds to topple the economy of the nation. They've got bonds in the names of 10,000 subsidiary companies. They've been telling Federal Economics Commission what to do for the past 10 years. And they're getting us into this war lock, stock, and barrel. They pushed for everything they could get. And they had the money, the power, the men to do whatever they wanted. You couldn't fight them because they had everything sewed up so tight nobody could approach them. Chander's mind was racing, the missing pieces beginning suddenly to come out of the haze. The incredible, twisted idea broke through again, staggering him, driving through his mind like icy steel. Listen, Mariel. I swear I'll kill you if you lie to me. So you'd better tell the truth. Who put you on my trail? Who told you Ingersoll was dead and that I was scraping up Ingersoll's past? The little man twisted his hands, almost in tears. Harry Dartmouth told me. And who told Harry Dartmouth? Mariel's voice was so weak it could hardly be heard. The girl, he said. Chander felt the chill deepen. And where are the files now? Dartmouth has them. Probably in Chicago. I expressed them. The girl didn't dare send them direct for fear you would check or that she was being watched. I was supposed to pick them up from you and see to it that you didn't remember. Chander clinched his fist. Where are Dartmouth's plants located? The main plants are in Chicago and Newark. They've got a smaller one in Nevada. And what do they make in peacetime? Cars. In war time they make tanks and shells. And their records? Inventories, shipping orders and files. Where do they keep them? I. I don't know. You aren't thinking of. Never mind what I'm thinking of. Just answer up. Where are they? All the administration offices are in Chicago. But they'd kill you, Chandor. You wouldn't stand a chance. They can't be fought, I tell you. Chander nodded to Prex and started for the door. Keep him here until dawn. Then go on home and forget what you heard. If anything happens, give me a ring at my home. He glared at Mariel. Don't worry about me, Bud. They won't be doing anything to me when I get through with them. They just won't be doing anything at all. The idea had crystallized as he talked to Mariel Sanders. Mind was whirling as he walked down toward the thoroughfare. Incredulously, he tried to piece the picture together. He had known dart mouth bearing was big, but that big Mariel might have been talking nonsense or he might have been reading the gospel. Chander hailed a cab, sat in the back seat scratching his head. How big could Dartmouth baring be? Could any corporation be that big? He thought back, remembering the rash of post war scandals and profit gouging trials, the antitrust trials in Wartime bars are let down. No one can look with disfavor on the factories making the weapons. And if one corporation could buy and expand and buy some more, it might be too powerful to be prosecuted after the war. Chandra shook his head, realizing he was skirting the big issue. Dartmouth Bearing connected up in some absurd fashion, but there was a missing link. Mariel fit into one side of the puzzle interlocking with Dartmouth. The stolen files might even fit, for that matter. But the idea grew stronger. A great jagged piece in the middle of the puzzle was missing, the key piece which would tie everything together. He felt his skin prickle as he thought an impossible idea. And yet he realized if it were true, everything else would fall clearly into place. He sat bolt upright. It had to be true. He leaned forward and gave the cabby the landing field address, then sat back, feeling his pulse pounding through his arms and legs. Nervously, he switched on the radio. The dial fell to some jazz music, which he tolerated for a moment or two, then flipped to a news broadcast. Not that news broadcasts really meant much, but he wanted to hear the Ingersoll story release for the day. He listened impatiently to a round up of local news. David Ingersoll, stricken with pneumonia, three senators protesting the current tax bill. He brought his attention around sharply at the sound of a familiar name disappearing from his Chicago home early this morning. Mr. Dartmouth is president of Dartmouth Bearing Corporation, currently engaged in the manufacture of munitions for defense and producing much of the machinery being used at the moon rocket in Arizona. Police are following all possible leads and are confident that there has been no foul play on the international scene. The Kremlin is still blocking Chander snapped off the radio abruptly, his forehead damp. Dartmouth disappeared, and with him the files. Why and where to go now to find them. If the idea that was plaguing him was true. Sound valid? He'd have to have the files. His whole body was wet with perspiration as he reached the landing field. The trip to the Library of Congress seemed endless, yet he knew that the library wouldn't be open until 8 o' clock anyway. Suddenly he felt a wave of extreme weariness sweep over him. When had he last slept? Bored, he snapped the telephone switch and rang PIB offices for his mail. To his surprise, John Hart took the wire and exploded in his ear. Where in the hell have you been? I've been trying to get you all night. Listen, Tom. Drop the Ingersoll story cold and get in here. The faster the better. Chandra blinked. Drop the story. You're crazy. Get in here. Roared Hart from now on, you've really got a job. The Berlin conference blew up tonight, Tom. High as a kite. We're at war with Russia. Carefully, Chandor popped the receiver down on its hook, his hands like ice. Just one item first, he thought. Just one thing. I've got to know. Then back to the pib maybe. He found a booth in the library and began hunting time, pressing him into frantic speed. The idea was incredible, but it had to be true. He searched the microfilm files for three hours before he found it in a who's who dating back to 1958, three years before the war with China. A simple, innocuous listing which froze him to his seat. He read it unbelievingly, yet knowing that it was the only possible link. Finally he read it again. David P. Ingersoll, born 1922, married 1947. Educated at Rutgers University and MIT. Worked as administrator for the International Harvester until 1955. Taught Harvard University from 1955 to 1957. David P. Ingersoll, becoming in 1958 the executive president of Dartmouth Bearing Corporation. End of section 2. Section 3 of 4 Science fiction stories by Alan E. Norse this Librivox recording is in the public domain. Bear Trap, Part three He found a small wooden glade not far from the library and set the copter down skilfully. His mind numbed, fighting to see through the haze to the core of incredible truth he had discovered. The great jagged piece so long missing was suddenly plopped right down into the middle of the puzzle, and now it didn't fit. There were still holesholes that obscured the picture and twisted it into a nightmarish impossibility. He snapped the phone switch, tried three numbers without any success, and finally reached the fourth. He heard Dr. Prex's sharp voice on the wire. Anything happened since I left, Prex? Nothing remarkable. The doctor's voice sounded tired. Somebody tried to call Mariel on the Visiphone about an hour after you had gone, and then signed off in a hurry when he saw somebody else around. I don't know who it was, but he sounded mighty agitated. The doctor's voice paused. Anything new, Tom? Plenty, growled Chander bitterly. But you'll have to read it in the newspapers. He flipped off the connection before Prex could reply. Then Chander sank back and slept the sleep of total exhaustion, hoping that a rest would make the shimmering, indefinite picture hold still long enough for him to study it. And as he drifted into troubled sleep, a greater and more pressing question wormed upward into his mind. He woke with a jolt just as the sun was going down, and he knew then with perfect clarity what he had to do. He checked quickly to see that he had been undisturbed, and then manipulated the controls of the copter. Easing the ship into the sky toward Washington, he searched out a news report on the radio, listened with a dull feeling in the pit of his stomach as the story came through about the breakdown of the Berlin conference, the declaration of war, the President's meeting with Congress that morning, his formal request for full wartime power, the granting of permission by a wide eyed, frightened legislature. Chander settled back, staring dully at the ground moving below him, the wisps of evening haze rising over the darkening land. There was only one thing to do. He had to have Ingersoll's files. He knew only one way to get them. Half an hour later he was settling the ship down under cover of darkness on the vast grounds behind the Ingersoll estate, cutting the motors to effect a quiet landing. Tramping down the ravine toward the huge house, he saw it was dark down by the gate. He could see the security guard standing in a haze of blue cigarette smoke under the dim out lights. Cautiously, he slipped across the back terrace, crossing behind the house, and jangled a bell on the side porch. Ann Ingersoll opened the door and gasped as Sander forced his way in. Keep quiet, he hissed, slipping the door shut behind him. Then he sighed and walked through the entrance into the large front room. Tom. Oh, Tom. I was afraid. Oh, Tom. Suddenly she was in his arms, sobbing, pressing her face against his shirt front. Oh, I am so glad to see you, Tom. He disengaged her, turning from her and walking across the room. Let's turn it off, Anne, he said disgustedly. It's not very impressive, Tom. I. I wanted to tell you. I just didn't know what to do. I didn't believe them when they said you wouldn't be harmed. I was afraid. Oh, Tom, I wanted to tell you. Believe me. You didn't tell me, he snapped. They were nervous. They slipped up. That's the only reason I'm alive. They plan to kill me. She stared at him tearfully, shaking her head from side to side, searching for words. I. I didn't want that. He whirled, his eyes blazing. You silly fool. What do you think you're doing? When you play games with a mob like this, do you think they're going to play fair? You're no clod. You know better than that. He leaned over her, trembling with anger. You set me up for a sucker. But the plan fell through and now I'm running around loose and if you thought I was dangerous before, you haven't seen anything like how dangerous I am now. You're going to tell me some things now and you're going to tell them straight. You're going to tell me where Harry Dartmouth went with those files. Where they are right now. Understand that I want those files because when I have them, I'm going to do exactly what I started out to do. I'm going to write a story, the whole rotten story about your precious father and his two faced life. I'm going to write about Dartmouth Baring Corporation and all its funky outfits and tell them what they've done to this country and the people of this country. He paused, breathing heavily, and sank down on a chair, staring at her. I've learned things in the past 24 hours I never dreamed could be true. I should be able to believe anything, I suppose, but these things knock my stilts out from under me. This country has been had right straight down the line for a dozen years. We've been sold down the river like a pack of slaves. And now we're going to get a look at the cold, ugly truth for once. She stared at him. What do you mean about my precious father? Your precious father was at the bottom of the whole slimy mess. No, no, not dad. She shook her head, face chalky. Harry Dartmouth maybe, but not dad. Listen a minute. I didn't set you up for anything. I didn't know what Dartmouth and Mariel were up to. Dad left instructions for me to contact Harry Dartmouth immediately in case he died. He told me that, oh, a year ago. He told me that before I did anything else, I should contact Dartmouth and do as he said. So when he died, I contacted Harry and kept in contact with him. He told me you were out to burn my father, to heap garbage on him after he was dead, before the people who loved him. And he said the first thing you would want would be his personal files. Tom, I didn't know you then. I knew Harry and knew that dad trusted him for some reason, so I believed him. But I began to realize that what he said wasn't true. I got the files and he said to give them to you, to string you along and he'd pick them up from you before you had a chance to do any harm with them. He said he wouldn't hurt you, but I. I didn't believe him, Tom. I believed you that you wanted to give Dad a fair shake. Sander was on his feet, his eyes blazing. So you turned them over to Dartmouth anyway. And what do you think he's done with them? Can you tell me that? Where has he gone? Has he burnt them? If not, what's he going to do with them? Her voice was weak and she looked as if she were about to faint. That's what I'm trying to tell you, she said shakily. He doesn't have them. I have them. Chander's jaw dropped. Now wait a minute, he said softly. You gave me the briefcase. Mariel snatched it and nearly killed me. A dummy, Tom. I didn't know who to trust, but I knew. I believed you more than I believed Harry. Things happened so fast and I was so confused. She looked straight at him. I gave you a dummy, Tom. His knees walked out from under him then, and he sank into a chair. You've got them here, then, he said weakly. Yes, I have them here. The room was in the back of the house, a small, crowded study with a green shaded desk lamp. Chander dumped the contents of the brief case onto the desk and settled down, his heart pounding in his throat. He started at the top of the pile, sifting, ripping out huge sheafs of paper, receipts, notes, journals, clippings. He hardly noticed when the girl slipped out of the room, and he was deep in study when she returned half an hour later with steaming black coffee. With a grunt of thanks, he drank it, never shifting his attention from the scatter of papers. Papers from the personal file of a dead man. And slowly the picture unfolded. An ugly picture, a picture of deceit, a picture full of lies, full of secret promises. A picture of scheming, of plotting, planning, influencing, coercing, cheating, propagandizing, all with one single minded aim, with a terrible, single goal. Chandler read numbly, his mind twisting in protest as the picture unfolded. David Ingersoll's control of Dartmouth Bearing Corporation and its growing horde of subsidiaries under the figurehead of his protege Harry Dartmouth. The huge profits from the Chinese war, the relaxation of control laws, the millions of war $1 plowed back into government bonds in a thousand different names, all controlled by Dartmouth Bearing Corporation and Ingersoll's own work in the diplomatic field. An incredibly skillfully, incredibly evil channeling of power and pressure toward the inevitable goal hidden under the cloak of peaceful respectability and popular support. The careful treaties quietly organizing a dozen national economics antagonizing the great nation to the east under the all too acceptable guise of peace through streng reciprocal trade agreements bitterly antagonistic to Russian economic development the continual bickering, the skilful manipulation hidden under the powerful propaganda cloak of a hundred publications, all coursing to one ultimate, terrible goal, all with one purpose, one aim. War. War with anybody. War in the field and war on the diplomatic front. Traces even remained of the work done within the enemy nations. Bitter anti Ingersoll propaganda from within the ranks of Russia herself, manipulated to strengthen Ingersoll in America, to build him up, to drive the nations farther apart, while presenting Ingersoll as the pathetic prince of world peace, fighting desperately to stop the ponderous wheels of the irresistible juggernaut. And in America, the constant unremitting literary and editorial drumbeating, pressuring, greater war preparation, distilling hatreds in a thousand circles, focusing them into a single channel. Tremendous propaganda pressure to build armies, to build weapons, to get the moon rocket project under way. Sandor sat back, eyes drooping, fighting to keep his eyes open. His mind was numb, his body trembling. A sheaf of papers in a separate folder caught his eye. Production records of the Dartmouth Bearing Corporation, almost up to the date of Ingersoll's death. Chander frowned, a snag in the chain drawing his attention. He peered at the papers, vaguely puzzled. Invoices from the Chicago plant. Materials for tanks and guns and shells, steel, chemicals. The same for the New Jersey plant. The same with a dozen subsidiary plants. Shipments of magnesium and silver wire to the rocket project in Arizona carried through several subsidiary offices. The construction of a huge calculator for the project in Arizona. Motors and materials, all for Arizona. Something caught his mind, brought a frown to his large bland face, some off key note in the monstrous symphony of production and intrigue that threw up a red flag in his mind, screamed for attention. And then he sipped the fresh coffee at his elbow and sighed and looked up at the girl standing there, saw her hand tremble as she steadied herself against the desk and sat down beside him. He felt great confusion suddenly, a vast sympathy for this girl, and he wanted to take her in his arms, hold her close, protect her. Somehow she didn't know. She couldn't know about this horrible thing. She couldn't have been a party to it, a part of it. He knew. The evidence said yes, she knows the whole story. She helped them. But he also knew that the evidence somehow was wrong, that somehow he still didn't have the whole picture. She looked at him, her voice trembling. You're wrong, Tom, she said. He shook his head helplessly. I'm sorry. It's horrible, I know. But I'm not wrong. This war was planned. We've been puppets on strings, and one man engineered it from the very start. Your father. Her eyes were filled with tears and she shook her head, running a tired hand across her forehead. You didn't know him, Tom. If you did, you'd know how wrong you are. He was a great man, fine man, but above all he was a good man. Only a monster could have done what you're thinking. Dad hated war. He fought it all his life. He couldn't be the monster you think. Tom's voice was soft in the darkened room, his eyes catching the downcast face of the trembling girl fighting to believe in a phantom, and his hatred for the power that could trample a faith like that suddenly swelled up in bitter, hopeless rage. It's here on paper. It can't be denied. It's hateful, but it's here. It's what I set out to learn. It's not a lie this time, Anne. It's the truth. And this time it's got to be told. I've written my last false story. This one is going to the people the way it is. This one's going to be the truth. He stopped staring at her. The puzzling, twisted hole in the puzzle was suddenly there, staring him in the face, falling down into place in his mind with blazing clarity. Staring, he dived into the pile of papers again, searching, frantically searching for the missing piecesomething he had seen and passed over the one single piece of the story that didn't make sense, and he found it on the list of materials shipped to the Nevada plant. Pig iron, raw magnesium, raw copper, steel, electron tubes, plastics from all parts of the country, all being shipped to the Dartmouth plant in Nevada where they made only shells. At first he thought it was only a rumble in his mind, the shocking realization storming through. Then he saw Anne jump up suddenly, white faced, and race to the window, and he heard the small scream in her throat. And then the rumbling grew louder, stronger, and the house trembled. He heard the whine of jet planes screaming over the house as he joined her at the window, heard the screaming whines mingled with the rumbling thunder, and far away on the horizon the red glare was glowing, rising, burning up to a roaring conflagration in the black night sky. Washington. Her voice was small, infinitely frightened. Yes, that's Washington. Then it really has started. She turned to him with eyes wide with horror and snuggled up to his chest like a frightened child. Oh Tom, it's here. What we've been waiting for. What your father started could never be stopped any other way than this. The roar was louder now, rising to a whining scream as another squad of dark ships roared overhead, moving east and south, jets whistling in the night. This is what your father wanted. She was crying great sobs, shaking her shoulders. You're wrong. You're wrong. Oh, Tom, you must be wrong. His voice was low, almost inaudible in the thundering roar of the bombardment. Anne, I've got to go ahead. I've got to go tonight to Nevada, to the Dartmouth plant there. I know I'm right, but I have to go to check something to make sure of something. He paused, looking down at her. I'll be back, Anne, but I'm afraid of what I'll find out there. I need you behind me, especially with what I have to do. I need you. You've got to decide. Are you for me or against me? She shook her head sadly and sank into a chair, gently removing his hands from her waist. I love my father, Tom, she said in a beaten voice. I can't help what he's done. I loved him. I. I can't be with you, Tom. Far below him he could see the cars jamming the roads leaving Washington. He could almost hear the noise, the screeching of brakes, the fist fights, the shouts, the blatting of horns. He moved south over open country, hoping to avoid the places where the copter might be spotted and stopped for questioning. He knew that Hart would have an alarm out for him by now, and he didn't dare risk being stopped until he reached his destination, the place where the last piece of the puzzle could be found, the answer to the question that was burning through his mind. Shells were made of steel and chemicals. The tools that made them were also made of steel. Not manganese, not copper, not electron relays, nor plastic, nor liquid oxygen. Just steel. The copter relayed south and then turned west over Kentucky. Chander checked the auxiliary tanks which he had filled at the library landing field that morning. Then he turned the ship to robot controls and sank back in the seat to rest. His whole body clamoured for sleep, but he knew he dare not sleep. Any slip, any contact with army aircraft or security patrol would throw everything into the fire. For hours he sat gazing hypnotically at the black expanse of land below, flying high over the pitch black countryside. Not a light showed, not a sign of life. Bored, he flipped the radio button, located a news broadcast. The bombed area did not extend west of the Appalachians. Washington, D.C. was badly hit, as were New York and Philadelphia, and further raids were expected to originate from Siberia, coming across the Great Circle to the west coast or the Middle west. So far the enemy appears to have lived up to its agreement in the Ingersoll Pact to outlaw use of atomic bombs, for no atomic weapons have been used so far, but the damage with Blockbusters has been very heavy. All citizens are urged to maintain strictest blackout regulations and report as called upon in local work and civil defence pools as they are set up. The attack began. Chander sighed, checked his instrument readings. Far in the east the horizon was beginning to lighten, a healthy white gray light. His calculations placed him over eastern Nebraska, and a few moments later he nosed down cautiously and verified his location. Lincoln Air Base was a flurry of activity. The field was alive with men like little black ants, preparing the reserve fighters and pursuits for use in a fever of urgent speed. Suddenly the copter radio bleeped and Tom threw the switch over. An angry voice snarled, you up there, whoever you are. Where'd you leave your brains? No civilian craft are allowed in the air, and that's orders straight from Washington. Don't you know there's a war on? Now get down here before you're shot down, Chandra thought quickly. This is a federal security ship, he snapped. I'm just on reconnaissance. The voice was cautious. Security. What's your cooperation number? Chandler cursed. JF223R864. Name is Jerry Chandler. Give it a check if you want to. He flipped the switch and accelerated for the ridge of hills that marked the Colorado border. As the radio signal continued to bleep angrily, a trio of pursuit planes on the ground began warming up. Chander sighed, hoping they would check before they sent ships after him. It might at least delay them until he reached his destination. Another hour carried him to the heart of the Rockies and across the great salt fields of Utah. His fuel tanks were low, being emptied one by one as the tiny ship sped through the bright morning sky, and Tom was growing uneasy until suddenly, far to the west and slightly to the north, he spotted the plant nestling in the mountain foothills. It lay far below, sprawling like some sort of a giant spider across the rugged terrain. Several hundred cars spread out to the south of the plant, and he could see others speeding in from the temporary village across the ridge. Everything was quiet, orderly. He could see the shipments crated sitting in freight cars to the north, and then he saw the drill line running over to the right of the plant. He followed it, quickly, checking a topographical map in the cockpit, and his heart started pounding. The railroad branch ran between two low peaks and curved out toward the desert. Moving over it, he saw the curve, saw it as it cut off to the left, and seemed to stop in the middle of the desert sand. Chandor circled even lower, keeping one ear cocked on the radio, and settled the ship on the railroad line. And just as he cut the motors, he heard the shrill whine of three pursuit ships screaming in from the eastern horizon. He was out of the copter almost as soon as it had touched, throwing a jacket over his arm and racing for the place where the drill line ended. But he had seen, as he slid in for a landing, just what he had suspected from the topographical map. The drill didn't end in the middle of the desert at all. It went right on into the mountainside. The excavation was quite large, the entrance covered and camouflaged neatly to give the very impression that he had gotten from the air. Under the camouflage, the space was crowded, stacked with crates, boxes, materials stacked along the walls of the tunnel. He followed the rails in, lighting his way with a small pocket flashlight when the tunnel turned a corner, cutting off the daylight. Suddenly the tunnel widened, opening out into a much wider room. He sensed rather than saw the immense size of the vault, smelt the odd bitter odor in the air. With the flashlight, he probed the darkness, spotting the high vaulted ceiling above him and below him. At first he couldn't see, probing the vast excavation before him, and then, strangely, he saw but couldn't realize what he saw. He stared for a solid minute, uncomprehending, then, stifling a gasp, he knew what he was looking at. Lights. He had to have lights to see clearly what he couldn't believe. Frantically, he spun the flashlight, seeking a light panel. And then, fascinated, he turned the little oval of light back to the pit. And then he heard the barest whisper of sound, the faintest intake of breath, and he ducked, frozen, as a blow whistled past his ear. A second blow from the side caught him solidly in the blackness, grunting, flailing out into a tangle of legs and arms, cursing, catching a foot in his face, striking up into soft, yielding flesh, and his head suddenly exploded into a million dazzling lights as he sank unconscious to the ground. It was a tiny room, completely without windows, the artificial light filtering from ventilation slits near the top. Chander sat up, shaking as the chill of the room became painfully evident. A small electric heater sat in the corner, beaming valiantly, but the heat hardly reached his numbed toes. He stood up, shaking himself, slapping his arms against his sides to drive off the coldness, and he heard a noise through the door. As soon as he had made a sound, muted footsteps stopped outside the door, and a huge man stepped inside. He looked at Chander carefully, then closed the door behind him without locking it. I'm Baker, he rasped cheerfully. How are you feeling? Chander rubbed his head suddenly and acutely aware of a very sore nose and a bruised ribcage. Not so hot, he muttered. How long have I been out? Long enough. The man pulled out a plug of tobacco, ripped off a chunk with his teeth. Chew. I smoke. Chander fished for cigarettes in an empty pocket. Not in here, you don't, said Baker. He shrugged his huge shoulders and settled affably down on a bench near the wall. You feel like talking? Chander eyed the unlocked door and turned his eyes to the huge man. Sure, he said. What do you want to talk about? I don't want to talk about nothing, the big man replied indifferently. Thought you might, though. Are you the one that roughed me up? Yeah. Baker grinned. Hope I didn't hurt you much. Boss said to keep you in one piece, but we had to hurry up and take care of those army guys you brought in on your tail. That was dumb. You almost upset everything. Memory flooded back, and Chander's eyes widened. Yes, they followed me all the way from Lincoln. What happened to them? Baker grinned and chomped his tobacco. They're a long way away now. Don't worry about them. Chandra eyed the door uneasily. The latch hadn't caught and the door had swung open an inch or two. Where am I? He asked, inching toward the door. What? What are you planning to do to me? Baker watched him edge away. You're safe, he said. The boss'll talk to you pretty soon. If you feel like it. He squinted at Tom in surprise, pointing an indolent thumb toward the door. You planning to go out or something? Tom stopped short, his face red. The big man shrugged. Go ahead. I ain't going to stop you. He grinned. Go as far as you can. Without a word, Chandor threw open the door, looked out into the concrete corridor. At the end was a large, bright room. Cautiously he started down, then suddenly let out a cry and broke into a run, his eyes wide. He reached the room, a large room with heavy plastic windows. He ran to one of the windows, pulse pounding, and stared, a cry choking in his throat. The blackness of the crags contrasted dimly with the inky blackness of the sky beyond. Mile upon mile of jagged rocky crags, black rock, ageless, unaged rock, and it struck him with a jolt how easily he had been able to run, how lightning swift his movements. He stared again, and then he saw what he had seen in the pit, standing high outside the building on a rocky flat, standing bright and silvery like a phantom finger pointing to the inky heavens. Sleek, smooth, resting on polished tail fins like another worldly bird poised for flight. A voice behind him said, you aren't really going any place. You know why Run. It was a soft voice, a kindly voice, cultured, not rough and biting like Baker's voice. It came from directly behind Chander, and he felt his skin crawl. He had heard that voice before. Many times before. Even in his dreams he had heard that voice. You see, it's pretty cold out there and there isn't any air. You are on the moon, Mr. Sandor. He whirled, his face twisted and white, and he stared at the small figure standing at the door. A stoop shouldered man, white hair, slightly untidy, crow's feet about his tired eyes. An old man with eyes that carried a sparkle of youth and kindness. The eyes of David P. Ingersoll. Chandor stared for a long moment, shaking his head like a man seeing a phantom. When he found words, his voice was choked, the words retched out as if by force. You're alive. Yes, I'm alive. Then Chander shook his head violently, turning to the window and back to the small white haired man. Then your death was just a fake? The old man nodded tiredly. That's right. Just a fake. Chander stumbled to a chair and sat down woodenly. I don't get it, he said dully. I just don't get it. The war. That. That I can see. I can see how you worked it, how you engineered it. But this. He gestured feebly at the window, at the black, impossible landscape outside. This I can't see. They're bombing us to pieces. They're bombing out Washington. Probably your home, your own family last night. He stopped, frowning in confusion. No, it couldn't have been done last night. Two days ago. Well, whatever day it was, they were bombing us to pieces. And you're up here. Why? What's it going to get you? This war. This whole rotten intrigue mess. And then this. The old man walked across the room and stared for a moment at the silent ship outside. I hope I can make you understand. We had to come here. We had no choice. We couldn't do what we wanted any other way than to come here first, before anybody else. But why here? They're building a rocket there. In Arizona. They'll be up here in a few days, maybe a few weeks. Approximately 48 hours, corrected Ingersoll quietly. Within 48 hours, the Arizona rocket will Be here if the Russian rocket doesn't get here first. It doesn't make sense. It won't do you any good to be here if the earth is blasted to bits. Why come here? And why bring me here, of all people? What do you want with me? Ingersoll smiled and sat down opposite Chander. Take it easy, he said gently. You're here, you're safe, and you're going to get the whole story. I realize that this is a bit of a jolt, but you had to be jolted. With you, I think the jolt will be very beneficial, since we want you with us. That's why we brought you here. We need your help, and we need it very badly. It's as simple as that. Sandor was on his feet, his eyes blazing. No dice. This is your game, not mine. I don't want anything to do with it. But you know the game. I know plenty of the game. I followed the trail right from the start. I know the whole rotten mess. The trail led me all the way around Robin Hood's barn. But it told me things. Oh, it told me plenty. It told me about you and this war. And now you want me to help you. What do you want me to do? Go down and tell the people it isn't really so bad being pounded to shreds? Should I tell them they aren't really being bombed? It's all in their minds? Shall I tell them this is a war to defend their freedoms? That it's a great crusade against the evil forces of the world? What kind of SAP do you think I am? He walked to the window, his whole body trembling with anger. I followed this trail down to the end. I scraped my way down into the dirtiest, slimiest depths of the barrel. And I found you down there and your rotten corporations and your crowd of heelers. And on the other side are 300 million people taking the lash end of the whip on earth, helping to feed you, and you ask me to help you? Once upon a time, ingersoll interrupted quietly, there was a fox. Chander stopped and stared at him. And the fox got caught in a trap. A big bear trap with steel jaws that clamped down on him and held him fast by the leg. He wrenched and he pulled, but he couldn't break the trap open, no matter what he did. And the fox knew that the farmer would come along almost any time to open that bear trap. And the fox knew the farmer would kill him. He knew that if he didn't get out of that trap, he'd be finished, sure as sin. But he was a clever fox, and he found a way to get out of the bear trap. Ingersoll's voice was low, tense in the still room. Do you know what he did? Chander shook his head silently. It was a very simple solution, said Ingersoll. Drastic, but simple. He gnawed off his leg. Another man had entered the room, a small weasel faced man with sallow cheeks and slick black hair. Ingersoll looked up with a smile, but Mariel waved him on and took a seat nearby. So he chewed off his leg, chandra repeated dully. I don't get it. The world is a trap, said Ingersoll, watching Chander with quiet eyes. A great big bear trap. It's been in that trap for decades. Ever since the First World War. The world has come to a wall it can't climb, a trap it can't get out of, a vicious, painful, torturous trap. And the world has been struggling for seven decades to get out. It hasn't succeeded, and the time is drawing rapidly nigh for the farmer to come. Something had to be done and done fast, before it was too late. The fox had to chew off its leg, and I had to bring the world to the brink of a major war. Chander shook his head, his mind buzzing. I don't see what you mean. We never had a chance for peace. We never had a chance to get our feet on the ground from one round to the next. No time to do anything worth while in the past 70 years. I don't see what you mean about a trap. Ingersoll settled back in his chair, the light catching his face in sharp profile. It's been a century of almost continuous war, he said. You've pointed out the whole trouble. We haven't had time to catch our breath to make real peace. The First World War was a sorry affair by our standards, almost a relic of earlier European wars. Trench fighting, poor rifles, soap box aircraft. Nothing to distinguish it from earlier wars but its scope. But 20 uneasy years went by and another war began. A very different sort of war. This one had fast aircraft, fast mechanized forces, heavy bombing, and finally, to cap the climax, atomics. That Second World War could hold up its head as a real strapping fighting war in any society of wars. It was a stiff war, a terrible one, quite a bit of progress for 20 years, but essentially it was a war of ideologies, just as the previous one had been a war of intolerance, of unmixable ideas. The old man paused and drew a sip of water from the canister in the corner. Somewhere Somehow the world had missed the boat. Those wars didn't solve anything. They didn't even make a very strong pretense. They just made things worse. Somewhere, human society had gotten into the trap. A vicious cycle. It had reached the end of its progressive tether. It had no place to go, no place to expand. Too great common goal. So ideologies arose to try to solve the dilemma of a basically static society. And they fought wars. They reached a point, finally, where they could destroy themselves unless they broke the vicious cycle somehow. Chander looked up, a deep frown on his face. You're trying to say that they needed a new frontier. Exactly. They desperately needed it. There was only one more frontier they could reach for. A frontier which, once attained, had no real end. He gestured toward the black landscape outside. There's the frontier space. The one thing that could bring human wars to an end. A vast, limitless frontier which could drive men's spirits upward and outward for the rest of time. And that frontier seemed unattainable. It was blocked off by a wall, by the jaws of a trap. Oh, they tried. After the first war, the work began. The second war contributed unimaginably to the technical knowledge. But after the second war, they could go no further because it cost money. It required a tremendous effort on the part of the people of a great nation to do it, and they couldn't see why they should spend the money to get to space. After all, they had to work up the atomics and new weapons for the next war. It was a trap as strong and treacherous as any the people of the world had ever encountered. The answer, of course, was obvious. Each war brought a great surge of technological development to build better weapons to fight bigger wars. Some developments led to extremely beneficial ends, too. If it hadn't been for the second war, a certain British biologist might still be piddling around his understaffed, underpaid laboratory, wishing he had more money and wondering why it was that the dirty patch of mould on his petri dish seemed to keep bacteria from growing. But the second war created a sudden, frantic, urgent demand for something, anything, that would stop infection fast. And in no time, penicillin was in mass production, saving untold thousands of lives. There was no question of money. Look at the Manhattan Project. How many millions went into that. It gave us atomic power for war and for peace, for peaceful purposes. The money would have never been spent. But if it was for the sake of war. Ingersoll smiled tiredly. Sounds insane, doesn't it? But look at the record. I looked at the record way Back at the end of the war with China, other men looked at the record too. We got together and talked. We knew that the military advantage of a rocket base on the moon could be a deciding factor in another major war. Military experts had recognized that fact back in the 1950s. Another war could give men the technological kick they needed to get them into space. Possibly in time. If men got to space before they destroyed themselves, the trap would be broken. The frontier would be opened. And men could turn their energies away from destruction towards something infinitely greater and more important. With space on his hands, men could get along without wars. But if we waited for peace time to go to space. We might never make it. It might be too late. It was a dreadful undertaking. I saw the wealth in the company I directed and controlled at the end of the Chinese war and the idea grew strong. I saw that a huge industrial amalgamation could be undertaken and succeed. We had a weapon in our favour. The most dangerous weapon ever devised. A thousand times more potent than atomics. Hitler used it with terrible success. Stalin used it. Harald Singh used it. Why couldn't Ingersoll use it? Propaganda. A terrible weapon. It could make people think the right way. It could make them think almost any way. It made them think of war far from the end of the last war. We started with propaganda, with politics and money. The group grew stronger as their power became more clearly understood. Mariel handled propaganda through the newspapers and PIB and magazines. A very clever man. And Harry Dartmouth handled production. I handled the politics and diplomacy. We had but one aim in mind. To bring about a threat of major war that would drive men to space, to the moon, to a man made satellite. Somewhere or anywhere to break through the earth's gravity to get to space. And we aimed at a controlled war. We had the power to do it. We had the money and the plants. We just had to be certain it wasn't the ultimate war. It wasn't easy to make sure that atomic weapons weren't used this time. But they will not. Both nations are too much afraid. Thanks to our propaganda program. They both leaped at a chance to make a face saving agreement. And we hoped that the war would be held off until we got to the moon and until the Arizona rocket project could get a ship launched for the moon. The wheels we had started just moved too fast. I saw at the beginning of the Berlin conference that it would explode into war. So I decided the time for my death had arrived. I had to come here to make sure the war doesn't go on any longer than necessary. Chander looked up at the old man, his eyes tired. I still don't see where I'm supposed to fit in. I don't see why you came here at all. Was that a wild goose chase? I ran down there learning about this? Not a wild goose chase. The important work can't start, you see, until the rocket gets here. It wouldn't do much good if the Arizona rocket got here to fight the war. It may come for war, but it must go back for peace. We built this rocket to get us here first. Built it from government specifications, though they didn't know it. We had the plan to build it in and we were able to hire technologists not to find the right answers in Arizona until we were finished. Because the whole value of the war threat depended solely and completely upon our getting here first. When the Arizona rocket gets to the moon, the war must be stopped. Only then can we start the real Operation Beartrap. That ship, whether American or Russian, will meet with a great surprise when it reaches the moon. We haven't been spotted here. We left in darkness and solitude. And if we were seen it was chocked off as a guided missile. We're well camouflaged and although we don't have any sort of elaborate base, the just a couple of sealed rooms. We have a ship and we have weapons. When the first ship comes up here, the control of the situation will be in our hands. Because when it comes, it will be sent back with the ultimatum to all nations to cease warfare or suffer the most terrible non partisan bombardment the world has ever seen. A pinpoint bombardment from our ship here on the moon. There won't be too much bickering. I think the war will stop. All eyes will turn to us. And then the big work begins. He smiled, his thin face showing tired lines in the bright light. I may die before the work is done. I don't know nor care. I have no successor. Nor have we any plans to perpetuate our power. Once the work is done, as soon as the people themselves will take over the work, the job is theirs. Because no group can hope to ultimately control space. But first people must be sold on space from the bottom up. They must be forced to realize the implications of a ship on the moon. They must realize that the first ship was the hardest, that the trap is sprung. The amputation is a painful one. There wasn't any known anesthetic, but it will heal. And from here there is no further need for war. But the people must see that, understand its importance. They've got to have the whole story in terms that they can't mistake. And that means a propagandist you have, Mariel, said. Chandler. He had the work, the experience. He's getting tired. He'll tell you himself. His ideas are slow. He isn't on his toes any longer. He needs a new man, a helper to take his place when the first ship comes. His job is done. The old man smiled. I've been watching you, of course, for years. Mariel saw that you were given his job when he left PIB to edit Fighting World. He didn't think you were the man he didn't trust. You thought you had been raised too strongly on the sort of gibberish you were riding. I thought you were the only man we could use. So we let you follow the trail and watched to see how you handled it. And when you came to the Nevada plant, we knew you were the man we had to have. Chandras scowled, looking first at Ingersoll, then at Mariel's impassive face. What about Anne? He asked. His voice was unsteady. She knew about it all the time. No, she didn't know anything about it. We were afraid she had upset things when she didn't turn my files over to Dartmouth as we told her. We were afraid you'd go ahead and write the story as you saw it then, which would have wrecked our plan completely. As it was, she was helping us sidestep the danger in the long run, but she didn't know what she was really doing. He grinned. The error was ours, of course. We simply underestimated our man. We didn't know you were that tenacious. Chandra's face was haggard. Look, I. I don't know what to think. This ship in Arizona. How long? When will it come? How do you know it'll ever come? We waited until our agents here gave us a final report. The ship may be leaving at any time, but there's no doubt that it will come. If it doesn't come, one from Russia will. It won't be long. He looked at Chander closely. You'll have to decide by then, Tom. And if I don't go along with you, we could lose. It's as simple as that. Without a spokesman, the plan could fall through completely. There's only one thing you need to make your decision, Tom. Faith in men and a sure conviction that man was made for the stars and not for an endless circle of useless wars. Think of it, Tom. That's what your decision means. Chandra walked to the window, stared out at the bleak landscape, watched the great bluish globe of Earth hanging like a huge balloon in the black sky. He saw the myriad pin points of light in the blackness on all sides of it and shook his head, trying to think. So many things, to think of so very many things. I don't know, he muttered. I just don't know. It was a long night. Ideas are cruel. They become a part of a man's brain, an inner part of his chemistry. They carve grooves deep in his mind which aren't easily wiped away. He knew he'd been living a lie, a bitter, hopeless, endless lie, all his life. But a liar grows to believe his own lies, even to the point of destruction. He believes them. It was so hard to see the picture now that he had the last piece in place. A fox and a bear trap. Such a simple analogy. War was a hellish proposition. It was cruel, it was evil. It could be lost so very easily. And it seemed so completely, utterly senseless to cut off one's own leg. And then he thought somewhere, sometime, he'd see her again. Perhaps they'd be old by then, but perhaps not. Perhaps they'd still be young, and perhaps she wouldn't know the true story yet. Perhaps he could be the first to tell her, to let her know that he had been wrong. Maybe there could be a chance to be happy on Earth sometime. They might marry even. There might be children to be raised. For what? Wars and wars and more wars? Or was there another alternative? Perhaps the stars were winking brighter. A hoarse shout rang through the quiet rooms. Ingersoll sat bolt upright, turned his bright eyes to Mariel and looked down the passageway. And then they were crowding to the window as one of the men snapped off the lights in the room, and they were staring up at the pale, bluish globe that hung in the sky, squinting, breathless, and they saw the tiny, tiny burst of brightness on one side of that globe, a tiny wisp of yellow cutting an arc from the edge, moving farther and farther into the black circle of space around the Earth, slicing like a thin scimitar, moving higher and higher and then magically winking out, leaving a tiny evaporating trail behind it. You saw it, Whispered Mariel in the darkness. You saw it, David. Yes, I saw it. Ingersoll breathed deeply, staring into the blackness, searching for a glimmer, a glint, some faint reassurance that it had not been a mirage they had seen. And then Ingersoll felt a hand in his, Tom Chandor's hand, gripping his tightly, wringing it, and when the light snapped on again, he was staring at sandor tears of happiness streaming from his pale, tired eyes. You saw it? He whispered. Chander nodded, his heart suddenly too large for his chest, a peace settling down on him greater than any he had ever known in his life. They're coming, he said. End of section 3. Section 4 of 4 Science fiction stories by Alan E. Norse this Librivox recording is in the public domain. Brightside Crossing James Barron was not pleased to hear that he had had a visitor when he reached the Red lion that evening. He had no stomach for mysteries vast or trifling, and there were pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doorman had flagged him as he came in from the street. A thousand pardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman you would leave no name, he said. You'd want to see him. He will be back by eight. Now. Barron drummed his fingers on the table top, staring about the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at the Red lion, gently but persuasively, the patrons were few in number. Across to the right was a group that Baron knew vaguely, Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Over near the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mapped the first passage to the core of the Vulcan crater on Venus. Baron returned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back and waited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his time without justifying it. Presently, a small, grizzled man across the room sat down at Baron's table. He was short and wiry. His face held no key to his age. He might have been thirty or a thousand, but he looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks and forehead were twisted and brown with scars that were still healing. The stranger said, I'm glad you waited. I've heard you're planning to attempt the bright side. Bern stared at the man for a moment. I see you can read telecasts, he said coldly. The news was correct. We are going to make a bright side crossing at Perihelion. Of course. When else? The grizzled man searched Baron's face for a moment without expression. Then he said slowly, no, I'm afraid you're not going to make the crossing. Say, who are you, if you don't mind? Bierran demanded. The name is Claney, said the stranger. There was a silence. Then, Claney. Peter Claney. That's right. Baron's eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of anger gone. Great balls of fire. Man, where have you been hiding? We've been trying to contact you for months. I know. I was hoping you'd quit looking and chuck the whole idea. Quit looking. Baron bent forward over the table. My friend, we'd given up hope, but we've never quit looking. Here, have a drink. There's so much you can tell us. His fingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. I can't tell you anything you want to hear. But you've got to. You're the only man on Earth who's attempted a Bright side crossing and lived through it. And the story you cleared for the news? It was nothing. We need details. Where did your equipment fall down? Where did you miscalculate? What were the trouble spots? Baron jabbed a finger at Claney's face. That, for instance? Epithelioma. Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We've got to know those things. If you can tell us, we can make it across where your attempt failed. You want to know why we failed? Asked Claney. Of course we want to know. We have to know. It's simple. We've failed because it can't be done. We couldn't do it, and neither can you. No human beings will ever cross the bright side alive. Not if they try for centuries. Nonsense, baron declared. We will. Clay shrugged. I was there. I know what I'm saying. You can blame the equipment or the men. There were flaws in both quarters, but we just didn't know what we were fighting. It was the planet that whipped us. That and the sun. They'll whip you, too, if you try. It never, said Baron. Let me tell you, peter Claney said. I'd been interested in the Bright side for almost as long as I can remember, claney said. I guess I was about ten when Wyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt. That was in 2082, I think. I followed the news stories like a Tri V serial. And then I was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off without proper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surface conditions. Without any charts they couldn't have made a hundred miles. But I didn't know that then, and it was a terrible strategy. After that I followed Sanderson's work in the Twilight Lab up there and began to get Bright side into my blood. Sure as death. But it was Makuta's idea to attempt a crossing. Did you ever know Tom Makuta? I don't suppose you did. No. Not Japanese. Polish? American. He was a major in the Interplanetary Service for some years and hung on to the title after he gave up his commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his service days. Did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying for the colony there. I first met him on Venus. We spent five years together up there doing some of the nastiest exploring since the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on Vulcan Crater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I'd always liked the Major. He was a big and quiet and cool sort of guy who always had things figured a little further ahead of anyone else and always knew what to do in a tight place. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kind of personality that could take a crew of wild men and make them work like a well oiled machine across a thousand miles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual at first. We spent an evening here at the Red lion talking about old times. He told me about the Vulcan business and how he'd been out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury, and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of the year. And then he wanted to know what I'd been doing since Venus and what my plans were. No particular plans. I told him why. He looked me over. How much do you weigh, Peter? I told him. 1.35. That much? He said. Well, there can't be much fat on you at any rate. How do you take heat? You should know, I said. Venus was no icebox. No, I mean real heat. Then I began to get it. You're planning a trip. That's right. A hot trip. He grinned at me. Might be dangerous too. What trip? Bright side of Mercury, the major said. I whistled cautiously at Athlion. He threw his head back. Why try a crossing at Affleon? What have you done then? 4,000 miles of a butcherous heat just to have some joker come along use your data and drum you out of the glory by crossing at Perhelion 44 days later? No thanks. I want the bright side. Without any nonsense about it. He leaned across me eagerly. I want to make a crossing at Perhelion and I want to cross on the surface. If a man can do that, he's got Mercury. Until then, nobody's got Mercury. I want Mercury, but I'll need help getting it. I'd thought of it a thousand times and never dared consider it. Nobody had since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercury turns on its axis in the same time that it wheels around the sun, which means that the bright side is always facing in. That makes the bright side of Mercury at Perelion, the hottest place in the solar system, with one single exception, the surface of the sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learned just how hellish, and they never came back. To tell about was a real Hell's Crossing. But some day I thought somebody would cross it. I wanted to be along. The Twilight Lab near the northern pole of Mercury was the obvious jumping off place. The set up there wasn't very extensive. A rocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson's crew sunk deep into the crust and the tower that housed the solar scope that Sanderson had built up there 10 years before. The Twilight Lab wasn't particularly interested in the bright side, of course. The sun was Sanderson's baby and he'd picked Mercury as the closest chunk of rock to the sun that could hold his observatory. He'd chosen a good location too. On Mercury, the bright side temperature hits 770 degrees Fahrenheit at perihelion and the dark side runs pretty constant at -410 degrees Fahrenheit. No permanent installation with a human crew could survive at either extreme. But with Mercury's wobble, the twilight zone between bright side and dark side offers something closer to survival temperatures. Sanderson built the lab up near the pole where the zone is about 5 miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to 60 degrees. With the liberation, the solar scope could take that much change and they'd get a good clear observation of the sun for about 70 out of the 88 days it takes for the planet to wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing something about Mercury as well as the sun. When we camped at the lab to make final preparations, Sanderson did. He thought we'd lost our minds and he said so, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a week briefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who had arrived with us supplies and equipment a few days earlier. Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing, almost bawling. Sanderson had given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightside was like. Stone was a youngster, hardly 25, I'd say, but when he'd been with the Major at Vulcan and begged to join this trek, I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn't care for exploring too much. But he thought Makuta was God, followed him around like a puppy. It didn't matter to me as long as he knew what he was getting in for. You don't go asking people in this game why they do it. They're liable to get awfully uneasy, and none of them can ever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway. Stone had borrowed three men from the lab and had the supplies and equipment all lined up when we got there, ready to check and test. We dug right in with plenty of funds, tri v money, and some government cash, the major had talked his way around. Our equipment was new and good. Makuta had done the designing and testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson. We had four bugs, three of them the light pillow tire models with special lead cooled cut in engines when the heat set in, and one heavy duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then he said, have you heard anything from McIvor's? Who's he? Stone wanted to know. He'll be joining us. He's a good man. Got quite a name for climbing back home. The major turned to me. You've probably heard of him. I'd heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers, and I wasn't too happy to hear that he was joining us. Kind of a daredevil, isn't he? Maybe he's lucky and skillful. Where do you want to draw the line? We'll need plenty of both. Have you ever worked with him? I asked. No. Are you worried? Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck. The major laughed. I don't think we need to worry about McIvors. We understood each other when I talked up the trip to him and were going to need each other too much to do any fooling around. He turned back to the supply list. Meanwhile, let's get this stuff listed and packed. We'll need to cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson says we should leave in three days. Two days later McIvor's hadn't arrived. The major didn't say much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. We spent the second day studying charts of the bright side, such as they were the best available were pretty poor, taken from so far out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow up. They showed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, and that was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outline of our course. This range here, the major said as we crowded around the board, is largely inactive, according to Sanderson, but these to the south and west could be active. Seismograph tracing suggests a lot of activity in that region, getting worse down toward the equator. Not only volcanic but subsurface shifting. Stone nodded. Sanderson told me there was probably constant surface activity. The major shrugged. Well, it's treacherous, there's no doubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over the pole, which could lose us days and offer us no guarantee of less activity to the west. Now, we might avoid some if we could find a pass through this range and cut sharp east. It seemed that the more we considered the problem, the further we got from a solution. We knew there were active volcanoes on Bright side. Even on the dark side, though, surface activity there was pretty much slowed down and localized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside as well. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmospheric flow from Bright side to dark side. Not much. The lighter gases had reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightside millennia ago, but there was CO2 and nitrogen and traces of other heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulphur vapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the dark side, where it condensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sanderson to estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals on Brightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passage that avoided those upheavals as far as possible, but in the final analysis we were barely scraping the surface. The only way we could find out what was happening where, was to be there. Finally, on the third day, Mac Ivers blew in on a freight rocket from Venus. He'd missed the ship that the major and I had taken by a few hours and had conned his way to Venus in hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn't seem too upset about it, as though this were his usual way of doing things, and he couldn't see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long wavy hair, prematurely grey, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber's, half closed, sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness. And he never stood still. He was always moving, always doing something with his hands or talking or pacing about. Evidently the major decided not to press the issue of his arrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we were running the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening, Stone and Mac Ivers were thick as thieves, and everything was set for an early departure after we got some rest. And that, said Baron, finishing his drink and signalling the waiter for another pair, was your first big mistake. Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. Mac Ivers, of course. Claney shrugged, glanced at the small, quiet tables around them. There are Lots of bizarre personalities around a place like this, and some of the best wouldn't seem to be the most reliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren't our big problem right then. Equipment worried us first and our route next. Barron nodded in agreement. What kind of suits did you have? The best insulating suits ever made, said Claney. Each one had an inner lining of fiberglass modification to avoid the clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unit and oxygen storage, which we recharged from the sledges every eight hours. Outer layers carried a monomolecular chrome reflecting surface that made us glitter like Christmas trees, and we had a half inch dead air space under positive pressure between the two layers, warning thermocouples. Of course, at 770 degrees it wouldn't take much time to fry us to cinders if the suits failed somewhere. How about the bugs? They were insulated too, but we weren't counting on them too much for protection. You weren't? Exclaimed Baron. Why not? We'd be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobility and storage, but we knew we'd have to do a lot of forward work on foot. Claney smiled bitterly. Which meant that we had an inch of fiberglass and half inch of dead air between us, and a surface temperature where the lead flowed like water and zinc was almost at melting point, and the pools of sulphur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire. Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glass as he set it down on the tablecloth. Go on, he said tautly. You started on schedule? Oh, yes, said Claney. We started on schedule all right. We just didn't quite end on schedule, that was all. But I'm getting to that. He settled back in his chair and continued. We jumped off from Twilight on a course due Southeast, with 30 days to make it to the centre of Brightside. If we could cross an average of 70 miles a day, we could hit Centre exactly at Herion, the point of Mercury's closest approach to the sun, which made Centre the hottest part of the planet at the hottest it ever gets. The sun was already huge and yellow over the horizon when we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every day that sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day the surface would get hotter. But once we reached Centre, the job was only half done. We would still have to travel another 2,000 miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sanderson was to meet us on the other side in the laboratory scout ship approximately 60 days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan in outline. It was up to us to cross those 70 miles a day, no matter how hot it became. No matter what terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous and time consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knew that. The major briefed us on details an hour before we left. Peter, you take the lead bug, the small one we strip down for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, giving you a hundred yard lead. McIvers, you'll have the job of dragging the sledges, so we'll have to direct your course pretty closely. Peter's job is to pick the passage at any given point. If there's any doubt of safe passage, we all explore ahead on foot before we risk the bugs. Got that? Mac Ivers and Stone exchanged glances. Mac Ivers said, jack and I are planning to change round. We figured he could take the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility. The major looked up sharply at Stone. Do you buy that, Jack? Stone shrugged. I don't mind. Mac wanted. Mac Ivers made an impatient gesture with his hands. It doesn't matter. I just feel better when I'm on the move. Does it make any difference? I guess it doesn't, said the major. Then you'll flank Peter along with me, right? Sure, sure. Mac Ivers pulled at his lower lip. Who's going to do the advanced scouting? It sounds like I am, I cut in. We want to keep the lead bug as light as possible. Makuta nodded. That's right. Peter's bug is stripped down to the frame and wheels. MacGyver shook his head. No, I mean the advance work. You need somebody out ahead four or five miles at least, to pick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don't you? He stared at the major. I mean, how can we tell what sort of a hole we may be moving into unless we have a scout up ahead? That's what we have the charge for, the major said sharply. Charts. I'm talking about detail work. We don't need to worry about the major topography. It's the little faults you can't see on the pictures that can kill us. He tossed the charts down excitedly. Look, let me take a bug out ahead and work reconnaissance. Keep five, maybe 10 miles ahead of the column. I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan the area closely and radio back to Peter. Word to avoid the flaws, then. No dice, the major broke in. But why not? We could save ourselves days. I don't care what we could save. We stay together. When we get to the Centre, I want live men along with me. That means we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Any climber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one man alone. Any time, any place. MacGyvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally he gave a sullen nod. Okay, if you say so. Well, I say so, and I mean it. I don't want any fancy stuff. We're going to hit center together and finish the crossing together. Got that? Mac Ivers nodded. Makuta then looked at Stone and me, and we nodded, too. All right, he said slowly. Now that we've got it straight, let's go. It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I'll never forget that huge yellow sun glaring down without a break, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that the first few days would be the easiest, and we were rested and fresh when we started down the long, ragged gorge southeast of the Twilight Lab. I moved out first. Back over my shoulder I could see the Major and Mac Ivers crawling out behind me, their pillow tires taking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly behind them. Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30% Earth gravity, they were a strain on the big tractor until the ski blades bit into the fluffy volcanic ash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow. For the first 20 miles I kept my eyes pasted to the big Polaroid binocs picking out the track the early research teams had made out into the edge of Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson's little Outpost observatory, and the tracks stopped. We were in virgin territory, and already the sun was beginning to bite. We didn't feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refridge units kept our skins at a nice comfortable 75 degrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watched that glaring sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, and some nerve pathways got twisted up somehow. We poured sweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep period came due, we pulled the bugs together into a square, threw up a light aluminum sunshield, and lay out in the dust and rocks. The sunshield cut the temperature down 60 or 70 degrees for whatever help that was, and then we ate from the forward sledge, sucking through tubes protein, carbohydrates, bulk gelatin vitamins. The major measured water out with an iron hand because we'd have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week. Otherwise we were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologists and psychiatrists why. They can give you half a dozen interesting reasons, but we all knew or cared about was that it happened to be so. We didn't sleep the first few stops. As a consequence, our eyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches. But we couldn't sleep them off. We sat around looking at each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer would taste and off we'd go. We'd have murdered our grandmothers for one ice cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings at the wheel. We were moving down into desolation that made Earth's old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden. Huge sun baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge, with black cliffs jutting up on either side. The air was filled with a barely visible yellowish mist of sulphur and sulphurous gases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go. But the challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No one had ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who had tried it had been cruelly punished. But the land was still there, so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossed the hardest way possible, overland, through anything the land could throw up to us at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conquered before, except for that sun. We fought absolute cold before and won. We'd never fought heat like this in one. The only worse heat in the solar system was the surface of the sun itself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it would get us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods. The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we moved onto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south and east. This range had no activity since the first landing on Mercury 40 years before. But beyond it there were active cones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly. Their sides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn't detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot, sulphurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across the surface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The craters rose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock and rubble. Below were the vast yellow flat lands, smoking and hissing from the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was grey dust, silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and granite ash filling crevices and declivities, offering a soft, treacherous surface for the bug pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by the sag of the dust. I learned to spot a passable crack and tell it from an impassable cut. Time after time the bugs ground to a halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together with a light copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some more until we were sure the surface could carry the machines. It was cruel work. We slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me. And the others seemed to think so too. Maciver's restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves. He talked too much while we were resting or while we were driving. Wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thin with repetition. He took to making the side trips from the route now and then, never far but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite. He grew quieter with each stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn't like it, but I figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensive enough myself. I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the sun got bigger and whiter and higher in the sky and hotter. Without our ultra violet screens and glare filters, we would have been blinded. As it was, our eyes ached constantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at the end of an eight hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvor's to deliver the penultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had driven down a side branch of a long canyon running off west of our route and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when we heard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my bug around with my heart in my throat and spotted him through the bay nox waving frantically from the top of his machine. The Major and I took off lumbering down the gulch after him as fast as the bugs could go, with a thousand horrible pictures racing through our minds. We found him standing stock still pointing down the gorge, and for once he didn't have anything to say. It was the wreck of a bug, an old fashioned half track model of the sort that hadn't been used for years. It was wedged tight in a cut in the rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide up the middle half. Buried in a rock slide a dozen feet away were two insulated suits with white bones gleaming through the fiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside crossing. On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change. It looked the same, but every now and then it felt different. On two occasions, I felt my wheels spin with a howl of protest from my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch. I gunned my motor and nothing happened. I could see the dull grey stuff seeping up around the hubs, thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs as the wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment the wheels gave, and a few minutes later they chained me to the tractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked for all the world like thick, grey mud, but it was a pit of molten lead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash. I picked my way more cautiously. Then we were getting into an area of recent surface activity. The surface was really treacherous. I caught myself wishing that the major had o. K. McIver's scheme for an advance scout. More dangerous for the individual, maybe. But I was driving blind now, and I didn't like it. One error in judgment could sink us all. But I wasn't thinking much about the others. I was worried about me, plenty worried. I kept thinking, better MacGyver should go than me. It wasn't healthy thinking, and I knew it, But I couldn't get the thought out of my mind. It was a gruelling eight hours, and we slept poorly. Back in the Bug again, we moved still more slowly, edging out on a broad, flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks winding back and forth in an effort to keep the machines on solid rock. I couldn't see far ahead because of the yellow haze rising from the cracks. So I was almost on top of it when I saw a sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyond a deep crack. I let out a shout to halt the others. Then I edged my bug forward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I moved 50 yards to the left, then back to the right. There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing. A long, narrow ledge of grey stuff that lay down across a section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I could feel the surface crust under the Bug trembling, and saw the ledge shift over a few feet. The major's voice sounded in my ears. How about it, Peter? I don't know. This crust is on roller skates. I called back. How about that ledge? I hesitated. I'm scared of it, Major. Let's backtrack and try to find a Way around. There was a roar of disgust in my earphones, and MacGyver's bug suddenly lurched forward. It rolled down past me, picking up speed with McIvor's hunch behind the wheel. Like a race driver, he was heading past me, straight for the gray ledge. My shout caught in my throat. I heard the major take a huge breath and roar. Mac, stop that thing, you fool. And then McIvor's bug was out on the ledge, lumbering across like a juggernaut. The ledge jolted as the tires struck it. For a horrible moment, it seemed to be sliding out from under the machine. And then the bug was across in a cloud of dust, and I heard MacGyver's voice in my ears, shouting in glee. Come on, you slowpokes. It'll hold you. Something unprintable came through the earphones as the major drew up alongside me and moved his bug out on the ledge slowly and over to the other side. Then he said, take it slow, Peter. Then give Jack a hand with the sledges. His voice sounded tight as a wire. Ten minutes later, we were on the other side of the cleft. The major checked the whole column. Then he turned on Mac Ivers angrily. One more trick like that, he said, and I'll strap you to a rock and leave you. Do you understand me? One more time. Mac Ivers voice was heavy with protest. Good Lord. If we leave it up to Claney, we'll have us out here forever. Any blind fool could see that ledge would hold. I saw it moving. I shot back at him. All right, all right. So you've got good eyes. Why all the fuss? We got across, didn't we? But I say we've got to have a little nerve and use it once in a while if we're ever going to get across this lousy hotbox. We need to use little judgment, too. The major snapped, all right, let's roll. But if you think I was joking, you try me out once. He let it soak in for a minute. Then he geared his bug on around to my flank again. At the stopover, the incident wasn't mentioned again, but the major drew me aside just as I was settling down for sleep. Peter, I'm worried, he said slowly. McIvors, don't worry. He's not as reckless as he seems. Just impatient. We are over a hundred miles behind schedule, and we're moving awfully slow. We only made 40 miles this last drive. The major shook his head. I don't mean MacGyvers. I mean the kid. Jack. What about him? Take a Look, Stone was shaking. He was over near the tractor, away from the rest of us, and he was laying on his back, but he wasn't sleeping. His whole body was shaking convulsively. I saw him grip an outcropping of rock hard. I walked over and sat down beside him. Get your water. All right, I said. He didn't answer. He just kept on shaking. Hey, boy, I said. What's the trouble? It's hot, he said, choking out the words. Sure it's hot, but don't let it throw you. We're in really good shape. We're not, he snapped. We're in rotten shape. If you ask me, we're not going to make it. Do you know that? That crazy fool's going to kill us for sure. All of a sudden he was bawling like a baby. I'm scared. I shouldn't be here. I'm scared. What am I trying to prove by coming out here? For God's sake? I'm some kind of hero or something. I tell you I'm scared. Look, I said. Makuta's scared. I'm scared. So what? We'll make it. Don't worry. And nobody's trying to be a hero. Nobody but Hero Stone, he said bitterly. He shook himself and gave a tight little laugh. Some hero, eh? We'll make it, I said. Sure, he said finally. Sorry. I'll be okay. I rolled over, but waited until he was good and quiet. Then I tried to sleep, but I didn't sleep too well. I kept thinking about that ledge I'd known from the look of what it was, a zinc slough of the sort Sanderson had warned us about, a wide sheet of almost pure zinc that had been thrown up white hot from below quite recently, just waiting for oxygen or sulphur to rot it through. I knew enough about zinc to know that these temperatures, it gets brittle as glass. Take a chance like maciver's had taken, and the whole sheet could snap like a dry pine board. And it wasn't McIver's fault that it hadn't. Five hours later we were back at the wheel. We were hardly moving at all. The ragged surface was almost impassable. Great jutting rocks peppered the plateau. Ledges crumbled the moment my tires touched them. Long open canyons turned into lead mires or sulphur pits. A dozen times I climbed out of the Bug to prod out an uncertain area with my boots and pikestaff. Whenever I did, McIvers piled out behind me, running ahead like a schoolboy at the fair, then climbing back again, red faced and panting while we moved the machines ahead another mile or two. Time was pressing us now, and MacGyvers wouldn't let me forget it. We had made only about 320 miles in six driving periods, so we were about a hundred miles or even more behind schedule. We're not going to make it, McIvors would complain angrily. That sun's going to be out to aphelion by the time we hit the centre. Sorry, but I can't take it any faster. I told him I was getting good and mad. I knew what he wanted but didn't dare let him have it. I was scared enough pushing the buck out on those ledges, even knowing that at least I was making the decisions. Put him in the lead and we wouldn't last for eight hours. Our nerves couldn't take it at any rate, even if the machines would. Jack Stone looked up from the aluminum charge sheets. Another hundred miles and we should hit a good stretch, he said. Maybe we can make up the distance there for a couple of days. The major agreed, but Mac Ivers couldn't hold his impatience. He kept staring up at the sun as if he had a personal grudge against it, and stamped back and forth under the sun shield. That'll be just fine, he said. If we ever get that far, that is. We dropped it there, but the major stopped me as we climbed aboard for the next run. That guy's going to blow wide open if we don't move faster, Peter. I don't want him in the lead no matter what happens. He's right, though, about the need to make better time. Keep your head, but crowd your luck a little. Okay, I'll try, I said. It was asking the impossible, and Makuta knew it. We were on a long downward slope that shifted and buckled all around us as though there were a molten underlay beneath the crust. The slope was broken by huge crevices partly covered with dust and zinc sheeting like a vast glacier of stone and metal. The outside temperature registered 547 degrees Fahrenheit and getting hotter. It was no place to start rushing ahead. I tried it anyway. I took half a dozen shaky passages, edging slowly out on flat zinc ledges, then toppling over and across. It seemed easy for a while, and we made progress. We hit an even stretch and raced ahead, and then I quickly jumped on my brakes and jerked the bug to a halt in a cloud of dust. I'd gone too far. We were out on a wide, flat sheet of grey stuff, apparently solid Until I suddenly caught sight of the crevice beneath. In the corner of my eye. It was an overhanging shell that trembled under me as I stopped. McIver's voice was in my ear. What's the trouble now, Claney? Move back. I shouted. It can't hold us. Looks solid enough from here. You want to argue about it? It's too thin. It'll snap. Move back. I started edging back down the ledge. I heard MacGyver swear. Then I saw his bug start to creep outward on the shelf. Not fast or reckless this time, but slowly churning up dust in a gentle cloud behind him. I just stared and felt the blood rush to my head. It seemed so hot I could hardly breathe as he edged out beyond me, further and further. I think I felt it snap before I saw it. My own machine gave a sickening lurch, and a long, black crack appeared across the shelf and widened. Then the ledge began to upend. I heard a scream as McIver's bug rose up and up and then crashed down into the crevice in a thundering slide of rock and shattered metal. I just stared for a full minute. I think I couldn't move until I heard Jack Stone groan and the major shouting, cleanie. I couldn't see what happened. It snapped on him. That's what happened. I roared. I gunned my motor, edged forward toward the fresh broken edge of the shelf. The crevice gaped. I couldn't see any sign of the machine. Dust was still billowing up blindly from below. We stood staring down, the three of us. I caught a glimpse of Jack Stone's face through his helmet. It wasn't pretty. Well, said the major heavily, that's that. I guess so. I felt the way Stone looked. Wait, said Stone. I heard something. He had. It was a cry in the earphones, faint but unmistakable. Mac. The major called. Mac, can you hear me? Yeah. Yeah, I can hear you. The voice was very weak. Are you all right? I don't know. Broken leg, I think. It's hot. There was a long pause, then. I think my cooler's gone out. The major shot me a glance, then turned to Stone. Get a cable from the second sledge, fast. He'll fry alive if we don't get him out of there. Peter, I need you to lower me. Use the tractor winch. I lowered him. He stayed down only a few moments. When I hauled him up, his face was drawn. Still alive, he panted. He won't be very long, though. He hesitated for just an instant. We've got to make a try. I don't like this ledge, I said. It's moved twice since I got out. Why not back off and lower him a cable? Not good. The bug is smashed and he's inside it. We'll need torches, and I'll need one of you to help. He looked at me, then gave Stone a long look. Peter, you'd better come. Wait, said Stone. His face was very white. Let me go down with you. Peter is lighter. I'm not so heavy. Let me go down. Okay, if that's the way you want it. The major tossed him a torch. Peter, check these hitches and lower us slowly. If you see any kind of trouble, anything, cast yourself free and back off this thing. Do you understand? This whole ledge may go. I nodded. Good luck. They went over the ledge. I let the cable down bit by bit till it hit 200ft and slacked off. How does it look? I shouted. Bad, said the major. We'll have to work fast. This whole side of the crevice is ready to crumble down. A little more minutes passed without a sound. I tried to relax, but I couldn't. Then I felt the ground shift and the tractor lurched to the side. The major it's going, Peter. Pull back. And I threw the tractor into reverse, jerked the controls as the tractor rumbled off the shelf. The cable snapped, coiled up in front like a broken clock spring. The whole surface under me was shaking wildly now. Ash rose in huge grey clouds. Then, with a roar, the whole shelf lurched and slid sideways. I teetered on the edge for seconds before it crashed into the crevice, tearing the side wall down with it in a mammoth slide. I jerked the tractor to a halt as the dust and flame billowed up. They were gone, all three of them, McIvor's and the major and Jack Stone, buried under a thousand tons of rock and zinc and molten lead. There wasn't any danger of anybody ever finding their bones. Peter Claney leaned back, finishing his drink, rubbing his scarred face as he looked across at Baron. Slowly, Baron's grip relaxed on the chair arm. You got back, he said. Cleaning nodded. I got back. Sure. I had the tractor and the sledges. I had seven days to drive back under that yellow sun. I had plenty of time to think. You took the wrong man along, baron said. That was your mistake. Without him you would have made it. Never. Claney shook his head. That's what I was thinking the first day or so. That it was McIver's fault, that he was to blame. But that isn't true. He was wild, reckless, and had lots of nerve. But his judgment was bad. It couldn't have been sounder. We had to keep to our schedule, even if it killed us. Because it would positively kill us if we didn't. But a man like that, a man like McIvor's, was necessary. Can't you see that? It was the sun that beat us, that surface. Perhaps we were licked the very day we started. Claney leaned across the table, his eyes pleading. We didn't realize that, but it was true. There are places that men can't go, conditions men can't tolerate. The others had to die to learn that. I was lucky I came back. But I'm trying to tell you what I found out. That nobody will ever make a bright side crossing. We will, said Baron. It won't be a picnic, but we'll make it. But suppose you do, said Claney suddenly. Suppose I'm all wrong. Suppose you do make it. Then what? What comes next? The sun, said Baron. Claney nodded slowly. Yes, that would be it, wouldn't it? He laughed. Good bye, Baron. Jolly talk and all that. Thanks for listening. Baron caught his wrist as he started to rise. Just one question more, Claney. Why did you come here? To try to talk you out of killing yourself, said Claney. You're a liar, said Baron. Claney stared down at him for a long moment, then he crumpled in the chair. There was defeat in his pale blue eyes. And something else. Well, Peter? Claney spread his hands, a helpless gesture. When do you leave, Baron? I want you to take me along. End of section 4. Section 5 of 4 Science fiction stories by Alan E. Norse this Librivox recording is in the Public Domain consignment. The three shots ripped through the close night air of the prison sharply, unbelievably. Three guards crumpled like puppets in the dead silence that followed. The thought flashed through Krenner's mind incredibly, that possibly no one had heard. He hurled the rope with all his might up the towering rock wall, waited a long eternity as the slim, strong line swished through the darkness and heard the dull clank as the hook took hold at the top. Like a cat, he started up frantically, scrambling and climbing, the sharp heat of the rope searing his fingers. Suddenly daylight was all around him. The bright unearthly glare of the arc lights, the siren cutting in with its fierce scream. The shouts of alarm were far below him as he fought up the line, not after knot the carefully prepared knots. Twenty seconds to climb, he thought. Just 20 seconds. Rifle shots rang out below, the shells smashing into the concrete around him. Krenner almost turned and snarled at the little circle of men in the glaring light below. But turning meant precious seconds. A dull, painful blow struck his foot as his hands grasped the jagged glass at the top of the wall. In a moment of triumph, he crouched at the top and laughed at the little men and the blazing guns below. On the other side lay the blackness of the river. He turned and plunged into the blackness, his foot throbbing down swiftly until the cool wetness of the river closed about him, soothing his pain, bathing his mind in the terrible beauty of freedom and what went with freedom. A few dozen powerful strokes would carry him across and down the river three miles below the prison fortress from which he had broken across the hill from that somewhere he'd find Sherman and a wide open road to freedom. Free. 27 years of walls and work, bitterness and hateful, growing, simmering revenge. 27 years for a fast moving world to leave him behind, far behind. He'd have to be careful about that. He wouldn't know about things. 27 years from his life to kill his ambition, to take his woman, to disgrace him in the eyes of society. But the candle had burned through. He was free with time. Free, easy, patient to find Markson. Search him out. Kill him at last. Hours passed, it seemed. In the cold, moving water, Krener struggled to stay alert. Loss of control now would be sure death. A few shots had followed him from the wall behind. Hopeless shots, hopeless little spears of light cutting across the water, searching for him, a tiny dot in the blackness. Radar could never spot him, for he wore no metal and the sound of his movements in the water were covered by the sighing wind and the splashing of water against the prison walls. Finally, after ages of pain and coldness, he dragged himself out on to the muddy shore, close to the calculated spot. He sat on the edge and panted, his foot swollen and throbbing. He wanted to scream in pain, but screams would bring farmers and dogs and questions. That would not do until he found Sherman somewhere back in those hills with a copter and food and medication and quiet, peaceful rest. He tried to struggle to his feet, but the pain was too much now. He half walked, half dragged himself into the woods and started as best he could to trek across the hills. Jerome Markson absently snapped the radio visor on his desk, sipping his morning coffee thoughtfully as he leafed through the reports on his desk, listened with half an ear until the announcer's voice seeped through to his consciousness. He tightened suddenly in his seat and the coffee cooled before him, forgotten. Eastern Pennsylvania is broadcasting a four state alarm with Special radio visor pictures in an effort to pick up the trail of a convict who escaped from the federal prison last night. The escape man, who shot and killed two guards making good his escape dived into the river adjoining the prison and is believed to have headed for an outside rendezvous somewhere in the Blue Mountain region. The prisoner is John Krenner, age 51, gray hair, blue eyes, 5 foot 9. He is armed and dangerous, with four unsuccessful escape attempts and three known murders on his record. He was serving a life term without leniency for the brutal murder in July, 1967 of Florence Markson, wife of the now famous industrialist Jerome Markson, president of Markson Foundries. Any person with information of this man's whereabouts should report. Markson stared unbelieving at the face which appeared in the visor. Krenner, all right. The same cold eyes, the same cruel mouth, the same sneer. He snapped off the set, his face white and drawn to face the bitter, unreasoning hate of this man, his former partner. Even a prison couldn't hold him. A telephone buzz, shattering the silence of the huge office. Hello, Jerry. This is Floyd Gunn in Pittsburgh. Krenner's escaped. I know. I just heard. Any word? Not yet. We got some inside dope from one of the men in the prison that he has an outside escape route and that he's digging up all the information he could find in the past three months or so about the roads. But I wanted to warn you. The policeman's voice sounded distant and unreal. He promised to get you, Jerry. I'm ordering you and your home heavily guarded. Guards won't do any good, said Markson heavily. Kranner will get me if you don't get him first. Do everything you can. The policeman's voice sounded more cheerful. At any rate, he is in the eastern part of the state now. He has 400 miles to travel before he can get to you. Unless he has a copter or somehow gets on the roads, he can't get to you for a day or so. We're doing everything we can. Markson hung up the receiver heavily. 27 years of peace since that devil had finally murdered his way out of his life. And now he was back again. A terrible mistake for a partner. A man with no reason. A man who could not understand the difference between right and wrong. A man with ruthless ambition who turned on his partner when honesty got in his way and murdered his partner's wife in a rage when his own way of business was blocked. A man so twisted with rage that he threatened on the brink of capital punishment to tear Markson's heart out. Yet Markson had saved him from the chair. An appeal, some money, some influence had snatched him from death's sure grasp so he could come back to kill again. And a man with such diabolical good fortune that he could now come safely to Markson and hunt him out and carry out the fancied revenge that his twisted mind demanded. Markson took the visiphone in hand and dialed a number. The face of a young girl appeared. Hi, dad. Did you see the news report? Yes, I saw it. I want you to round up Jerry and Mike and take the copter out to the summer place on Nantucket. Wait for me there. I don't know how soon I can make it, but I don't want you here now. Leave immediately. The girl knew better than to argue with her father. Dad, is there any chance? There's lots of chance. That's why I want you away from here. He flipped off the connection and sighed apprehensively. Now to wait. The furnaces had to keep going. The steel had to be turned out one way or another. He'd have to stay and hope. Perhaps the police would get him. The elderly lady sat on the edge of the kitchen chair, shivering. I'll be glad to help you, but you won't hurt us, will you? Shut up, said Krenner. The grey plastic of his pistol gleamed dully in the poor light of the farm kitchen. Get that foot dressed with tight pressure and plenty of myosin. I don't want it to bleed and I don't want an infection. The woman hurried, her movements swiftly wrapping the swollen foot. The man lifted a sizzling fry pan from the range. Flipping a hamburger onto a plate, he added potatoes and carrots. Here's the food, he said sullenly. And you might put the gun away. We don't have weapons and we don't have a phone. You have legs, snapped Krenner. Now shut up. The woman finished the dressing. Try it, she said. The convict stood up by the chair, placing his weight on the foot gingerly. Pain leaped through his leg, but it was a clean pain. He could stand it. He took a small map from his pocket. Any streams or gorges overland between here and Garret Valley? The farmer shook his head. No. Give me some clothes, then. No, don't leave the ones you have on. The farmer slipped out of his clothes silently, and Krenner dropped the prison greys in the corner. You'll keep your mouths shut about this, he said flatly. Oh, yes, you can count on us. Exclaimed the woman, eyeing the gun fearfully. We won't tell a soul. I'll say you won't, said Krenner, his fingers tightening on the gun. The shots were muted and flat in the stillness of the kitchen. An hour later, Krenner broke through the underbrush, crossed a rutted road, and pushed on over the ridge. His cruel face was dripping with perspiration. It should be the last ridge, he thought. I've done a good three miles. The morning sun was bright, filtering down through the trees, making beautiful wet patterns on the damp ground. The morning heat was just beginning, but the food and medications had made progress easy. He pulled himself up onto a rock ledge, over to the edge and felt his heart stop cold as he peered down into the valley below. A dark police copter nestled on the valley floor next to the sleek gray one. It must have just arrived, for the dark uniforms of the police were swarming around the grey machine. He saw the pink face and the sporty clothes of the occupant as he came down the ladder, his hands in the air. Too late. They caught Sherman. He lay back, shaking. Impossible. He had to have Sherman. They couldn't possibly have known, unless somehow they'd foreseen or heard. His mind seethed with helpless rage. Without Sherman, he was stuck. No way to reach Markson, no way to settle that score. Unless possibly. The roads. He'd heard about them way back in 1967 when he'd gone up. The roads were under way. A whole system of rolling roads was proposed then, and the first had already been built between Pittsburgh and the lakes. A crude affair, a conveyor belt system running at a steady 75 miles per hour, carrying only ore and freight. But in the passing years reports had filtered through the prison walls. New men coming up for a visit had brought tales, gross exaggerations of the rolling roads grown huge, a tremendous system building itself up, crossing hills and valleys in unbroken lines, closed in from weather and hijackers, fast and smooth and endless. Criss crossing the nation, they had said in never slowing belts of passenger and freight livestock. The great triangle had been first From Chicago to St. Louis to Old New York and back to Chicago. Now every town, every village had its small branch, its entrance to the rolling roads, and once a man got on the roads, they had said he was safe until he tried to get off. Clearly the memory of the reports filtered through Krenner's mind. The great central roads run from old New York to Chicago, through New Washington and Pittsburgh. Markson was in Pittsburgh. Krenner started down through the underbrush, traveling south by the sun, the urgency of his mission spurring him on against the pain of his foot, the difficulty of the terrain over which he travelled. He was too far north. Somewhere to the south he'd find the roads, and once on the roads he'd find a way to get off. He stopped at the brink of the hill and gasped in amazement. They ran across the white valley like silver ribbons. The late afternoon sunlight reflected golden pink from the plastic glass encasement concealing the rushing line of travel within the covering. Like twin serpents. They lay across the hills about a mile apart, the road travelling east and the road moving west. They stretched as far as he could see and he could see the white sign which said Merivale Entrance westbound three miles. As he tramped across the field he could hear the hum of the roads grow loud in his ears, an automatic machine like hum, a rhythm of motion close to the west bound road. He moved back eastward along it toward the little port which formed the entrance to it. And soon he saw the police copter which rested near the entrance and the uniformed men with their rifles alert. Three of them. Kraner fingered his weapon easily. It was almost dark, they would not see him easily. He kept a small hill between himself and the police and moved in within gunshot range. He could see the rocket like car resting on its single rail, waiting for a passenger to enter, to touch the button which would activate the tiny rocket engines and move it forward ever and ever more swiftly until it reached the acceleration of the roads and slid over and became a part of the road. Moving carefully, he slipped from rock to rock closer to the car and the men who guarded it. Suddenly the bay of a hound cut through the gloom. Two small brown dogs with the men straining at their leashes. He hadn't counted on that. Swiftly he took cover and lined his sights with the blue uniforms. Before they knew even his approximate location, he had cut them down, and the dogs also, and raced wildly down the remainder of the hill to the car. Fare may be calculated from the accompanying charts and will be collected when your car has taken its place on the roads, said a little sign near the cockpit. Krenner studied the dashboard for a moment, then jammed in the button marked forward and settled back. The monorail slid forward without a sound and plunged into a tunnel in the hill out the other side. With ever increasing acceleration, it slid alongside the gleaming silver ribbon, faster and faster. With growing apprehension, Krenner watched the speedometer mount past 200, 200, 20, 40, 60, 80. At 300 miles per hour. The acceleration force eased. The car suddenly swerved to the left into a dark causeway and then into the brightly lighted plastiglass tunnel. He was on the roads alongside the outside lane. The little car sped, moving on an independent rail, sliding gently past other cars resting on the middle lane. An opening appeared and Krenner's car slid over another notch, disengaged its rail and settled to a stop on the central lane of the road. The speedometer fell to nothing, for the car's motion was no longer independent, but an integral part of the speeding rail itself. 300 miles per hour on a constant non stop flight across the rolling land. A loudspeaker suddenly piped up in his car. Welcome to the roads, it said. Your fare collector will be with you in a short while after he has arrived. Feel free to leave your car and be at ease on the road outside, eating, resting and sleeping quarters will be found at regular intervals. You are warned, however, not to cross either the barriers to the outside lanes nor the barriers to the freight carrying areas, front and rear. Pleasant travelling. Krenner chuckled grimly and settled down in his car, his automatic in his hand. His fare collector would get a surprise down the road a short distance. He saw the man approaching, wearing the green uniform of the roads. And then he stiffened. Three blue uniforms were accompanying him. Opening the car door swiftly, he stepped out on to the soft carpeting of the road and raced swiftly away from the approaching men. They saw him when he started to run. Ahead, he could see a crowd of passengers around a dining area. A shout went up as he knocked a woman down in his pell mell flight. But he was beyond them in an instant. His foot hindered him and his pursuers were gaining suddenly before him. He saw a barrier, a four foot metal wall. No carpet beyond it, no furnishings along the sides. The freight area. He hopped over the barrier and plunged into the blackness of the freight tunnel as he heard the shouts of his pursuers. Stop. Come back. Stop or we'll shoot. They didn't shoot. In a moment Krenner came to the first freight carrier, one of the standard metal containers resting on the steel of the road. He ran past it and the next. The third and fourth were open cars stacked high with machinery. He ran on for several moments before he glanced back. They weren't following him any more. He could see them far back where the light began. A whole crowd of people at the barrier he had crossed, but no one followed him. Odd that they should stop. He centered his mind more closely on his surroundings. Freight Might conceal him to get him off the roads where no passenger station would ever let him through. He climbed to the top of a nearby freight container and slipped down. Chunks of rock were under his feet and he fell in a heap on the hard bed. What possible kind of freight? He slipped a lighter from his pocket and snapped it on. Coal. A normal freight load. He climbed back up and looked along the road. No pursuit. An uneasy chill went through him. This was too easy to ride a coal car to safety without a single man pursuing him. To where? He examined the billing on the side of the car and he forgot his fears in the rush of excitement. The billing read, consignment coal, 20 tons. Markson Foundries via Pittsburgh. Private, cut off. His car was carrying him to Markson. His mind was full of the old ugly hate, the fearful joy of the impending revenge. Fortune's boy, he thought to himself. Even Sherman could not have done so well to ride the rolling roads. Not just to Pittsburgh, not to the mountains, but right to Markson's back yard. He shivered with anticipation. Pittsburgh was only a few hundred miles away, and at 300 miles an hour. Krenner clenched his fists in cruel pleasure. He hadn't long to wait. An hour passed slowly. Krenner's leg was growing stiff after the exertion of running. Still no sign of life. He eased his position and stiffened when he heard the little relay box above the consignment sheet give a couple of sharp clicks near the end. He hugged himself in excitement. What a neat trick to ride a consignment of coal to the very yards where Markson would be. The coal yards which he might have owned. The furnaces, the foundry. There would be men there to receive the car from the line. While he could remember the men day and night, working and sweating in those yards and mills, there would be men there to break the car and empty it. He was in old clothes, farm clothes. He would fit in so well. Soon as the car slowed, he could jump off and simply join the other men. Or he could shoot if he had to. A little agility in getting out of the car and a little care in inquiring the way to Markson's office. The car suddenly shifted to the outer lane. Krenner gripped a handle on the inside and held tight. He felt the swerving motion and suddenly the car moved out of the tunnel into the open night air. He climbed up the side and peered over the edge. There were five cars in the consignment. He was on the last, travelling almost at road speed along the Auxiliary cut off. Swiftly they moved along through the night through the edge of the Pittsburg steelyards. Outside he fancied he could hear the rattle of machinery in the yards, the shouts of men at their work. Making steel was a 24 hour proposition. Then they were clear of the first set of yards. The car made another switch and Krenner's heart beat faster. A white sign along the side said Private property. Keep off Marks and Foundries line. Soon. Now they would come to a crunching halt. Men would be there but his gun was intact. No matter how many men he met, he had to get to Marxen. The little car shuddered a little but the acceleration continued. They were rising high in the air now above the foundries. He looked down and could see the mighty furnaces thrusting their slim necks to the sky. A bolt of fear went through him. How far did the automatic system go? Automatic loading of coal from the fields, Automatic switching onto the rolling roads. Automatic transfer of cars onto a private line which led the cars to the foundries. Where did the automatic handling stop? Where did the men come into it? 27 year old concepts slid through his mind of how freight was carried, of how machines were tended, of how steel was made. In a world of rapidly changing technology 27 years can bring changes in every walk of life, in every form of production. Even steel. A voice within him screamed, get off Trenor. Get off. This is a one way road. He climbed quickly to the top of the car to find a place to jump and turned back suddenly sick with fear. The car was going too fast. The first car had moved with its load to a high point on the elevated road. A thundering crash came to Krenner's ears as its bottom opened to dislodge its contents without stopping, without men. Automatically. From below he could hear a rushing roaring sound and the air was suddenly warmer than before. The next car followed the first and the next. Krenner scrambled to the top of the car in rising horror as the car ahead moved serenely, jerked suddenly and jolted loose its load with a crash of coal against steel. 20 tons of coal hurtled down a chute into roaring redness. 27 years had changed things. He hadn't heard men, for there were no men. No men tended the fires. Glowing white hot furnaces. Markson's furnaces, which were fed on a regular, unerring merciless consignment belt running directly from the roads. Efficient, economical, completely automatic. Krenner's car gave a jolt that threw his head against the side and shook him down on to the coal load like a bag of potatoes. He clawed desperately for a grip on the side clod and missed. The bottom of the car opened and the load fell through with a roar, and the roar drowned his feeble scream. As Krenner fell with the coal, the last thing he saw below rushing up was the glowing, blistering white hot maw of the blast furnace. End of the. Section 6 of 4 Science fiction stories by Allen E. Norse this Librivox recording is in the public domain. Prime Difference being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems, but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets 140% fed up with his wife. Understand now, I've got nothing against marriage or anything like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red blooded American institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through. Especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge. It's so permanent. Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the blissful 50s. But with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968 and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if I tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an ego prime. So all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keep Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering. But that was where the dream stopped. She had a tongue like a number 10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn't crying she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastly headache, for which I was personally responsible, and the other half she was sore about something. So 99 per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used to envy guys Like Harry Folsom at the office, his wife is no joy to live with either. But at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn't even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give Marge something real to howl about and I'd be ready for the rehab center in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I found out. When Jerry came along, business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled around from time to time. Since I had an executive type job, I got an executive type secretary. Her name was Jerry and she was gorgeous. As a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort of secretary every business man ought to have in his office. Not to do any work, just to sit there. Jerry was tall and dark and she could convey more without saying anything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she was there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply the opportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. That night I could tell that Marge had been thinking something over during the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner half way to my mouth. And then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today. I muttered something into my coffee and pretended not to hear. Marge turned on her accusing Look. Number seven. I also hear that she's five foot eight, tapes out at 38 hours, 25 minutes and 36 seconds and thinks you're handsome. Marge had quite a spy system. She couldn't be much of a secretary. She added. She's a perfectly good secretary. I blurted and kicked myself mentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then. Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper and she was still going strong at midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was no stopping her. I had my ultimatum. As far as Jerry was concerned, Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee the next morning. What you need is an ego prime, he said with a grin. Solve all your problems. I hear they work like a charm. I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't be ridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway. I wouldn't think of such a thing. It' sit's indecent. Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun to think about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Even not too expensive if you've got the right contacts and I've got a friend who knows a guy. Just then Jerry walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I gripped my cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. As I said, a guy gets fed up and maybe opportunity would only knock once and an Ego prime would solve all my problems. As Harry had told me, it wasn't completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that egoprime Inc. Ever got to put their product on the market at all once the nation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. From the first there was rigid federal control and laws regulating the use of primes right down to the local level. You could get a license for a utility model prime if you were a big business executive or a high public official or movie star or something like that. But even then his circuits had to be inspected every two months and he had to have a thousand built in paralyzers. And you had to specify in advance exactly what you wanted your prime to be able to do when, where, how, why, and under what circumstances. The law didn't leave a man much leeway, but everybody knew if you really wanted a personal prime with all his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Black market prices were steep and you ran your own risk. But it could be done. Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy and a few greenbacks got lost somewhere and I found myself looking at a greasy little man with a black moustache and a bald spot up in a dingy fourth story warehouse off lower Broadway. Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth, we've been expecting you. I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of the place. I've been told you can supply me with a. He coughed. Yes, yes, I understand it might be possible. He fingered his mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Business executives often come to us to avoid the, ah, unpleasantness of formal arrangements. Naturally, we only act as agents. You might say we never see the merchandise ourselves. He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now, were you interested in the ordinary utility model, Mr. Faircloth? I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back door for utility models. Or perhaps you require one of our deluxe models. Very careful workmanship. Only a few key paralyzers in operation and practically complete circuit duplication. Very useful for close contact work. You know, social engagements, conferences. I was shaking my head. I want a super deluxe model, I told him. He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed you want perfect duplication. Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be awkward, shall we say, Very awkward. I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems were, any affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to our laboratory on 14th street to have the minute impressions taken. But I can assure you, you'll be delighted. Simply delighted. The blanks weren't very impressive. Clay and putty and steel. Faceless, brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of all sorts. He was thorough. Embarrassing. Thorough, in fact. But finally he was finished. I went on to the laboratory and that was all there was to it. Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented the neuropantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with it once he invented it. But a couple of enterprising engineers bought him body and soul, subcontracted the problems of anatomy, design, artistry, audio and visual circuitry, and so forth, and ended up with the modern ego primes we have today. I spent a busy 2 hours under the NP microprobes. The artists worked outside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it pretty woozy, but a shot of happy O set that straight. Then I waited in the recovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Prime. When I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walked in, followed by a tall, sandy haired man with worried blue eyes and a tired look on his face. Meet George Faircloth prime, the technician said, grinning at me like a nursing mother. I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly. Nothing flabby about it. I slapped George prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, brother, I said. You've got a job to do. But secretly I was wondering what Jerry was doing that night. George prime had remote controls as well as a completely recorded neurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George prime thought what I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. The only difference was that what I told George prime to do, George prime did. If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and make the smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders, he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be my signature. It would hold up in court. And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good hearted girl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any time I chose, he'd do that, too. George prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs on the back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the same mannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physical difference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger depression buried in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stop George prime dead in his tracks. He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just a pile of gears. I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him. Of course. Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds it up and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife's natural instinct to clean, poke, pry, and rearrange things. Sometimes it takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and be confident that it will stay inviolate. But if he starts early enough and sticks with it long enough and is fierce enough and persistent enough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hate him for it, but he'll win. With some men, it's just a box on their dressers or a desk or a corner of an unused back room. But I had my sights high early in the game. With me, it was the whole workshop. In the garage. At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, she said. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could clean the whole house as often as she chose. But I would clean up the workshop. After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged a strategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of wood shavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next. A wrench would be back on the rack, upside down. Of course, an open paint can would have a cover on it. I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. I swore I'd rig up a booby trap with a shotgun. So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a while to take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick in the door routine. Every time she so much as set a foot in that workshop, she had a battle on her hands for the next week or so she could count on. Was that predictable? She never found out how I knew. And after seven years or so, it wore her down. She didn't go into the workshop any more. As I said, you've got to be persistent. But you'll win eventually if you're really persistent. Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an hour or two that day and had George prime delivered and stored in the big closet in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me a manual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night, there he was, just waiting to be put to work. After supper, I went out to the workshop to get the pipe I'd left there, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him, and switched on the free behavior circuits. Go to it, brother, I said. George prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it, and walked back into the house. Five minutes later I heard them arguing. It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab on the corner and headed uptown. We had quite a night, Jerry and I. I got home just about time to start for work, and sure enough, there was George prime starting my car, business suit on, briefcase under his arm. I pushed the recall and George prime got out of the car and walked into the workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned him off and then drove away in the car. Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good bye for me. Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparkle with George prime on hand to cover the home front. For the first week I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt a little guilty leaving poor old George prime to cope with Marge. All the time he looked and acted so human it was easy to forget that he literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the same whenever I took him out of his closet. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learn to like her after a little bit. Of course I like her, George prime said. You told me, didn't you? Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all. He sounded convincing enough, but it still bothered me. You're sure you understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want any foul ups there, as you can imagine. Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait for the logical opportunity to find to come out to the workshop and you take over. But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off. George prime looked pained. Really, old man, I'm a super deluxe model, remember? I don't have 14 activated Hunyadi tubes up in this cranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous. I'll take care of everything. Relax. So I did. Jerry made good all her tacit Promises and then some. She had a very cosy little apartment on 34th street where we went to relax after a hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is. As long as Jerry didn't try too much conversation, everything was wonderful. And then when Jerry got a little boring, there was Sibyl in the accounting department or Dorothy in promotion, or Jane or Ingrid. I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite a reputation for myself round the office. Of course, it was like buying your first 3V set in a week or so. The novelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. It took a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonable program. Tuesdays and Thursday nights I was informally out while formally in. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too sticky around the house over the weekend. The rest of the time George prime cooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completely trust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. There was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George prime had to quick step some questions about my work at the office. There was no way to supply him with current data until the time for his regular two month refill and pattern accommodation at the laboratory. In the meantime, George prime had to make do with what he had. But as he himself pointed out, he was a super deluxe model. Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George prime seemed to be having a remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first. I was hardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid out for me and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair. And it brought me up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had a good fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age. I figured she was bound to mellow some time. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little too much. One night when I got home, she kissed me. Almost as though she really meant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, which happened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room by candle light with dinner music that Marge could never bear. Chiefly because I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes and it seemed almost like old times. Very old times, in fact. I even caught myself looking at Marge again. Really looking at her. Watching the light catch in her hair, almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said. Not Glint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night she was practically ravishing. What are you doing to her? I asked George prime later out in the workshop. Why, nothing, said George prime, looking innocent. He couldn't fool me with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use when I'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. There must be something. George prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend time telling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attention to her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I can give you page references. I ought to mention that George prime had a complete set of basic techs run into his circuits at a slightly additional charge. Never can tell when an odd bit of information will come in useful. Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said. I'd never managed to warm Marge up much. I try, said George Prime. Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime's feelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because it was in character. I was just curious, of course. George, I'm really delighted that you're doing so well. Thank you, George. But the next night when I was with dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous red head who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battle, except maybe Brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long and wondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. The next evening I almost tripped over George prime coming out of a liquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. What are you doing out on the street? He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out, but you're not supposed to be off the premises. Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but her husband wouldn't let me, could I? Well, certainly not. You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to get suspicious. No. But suppose somebody saw us together. If she ever got a hint. I'm sorry, george prime said contritely. It seems the right thing to do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgment center maintained. We had quite an argument. Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. I don't want it to happen again. The next night I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I was beginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control. I could snap George prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in for A complete recircuiting. But it seemed a pity he was doing such a nice job. Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathised with my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss, despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. After dinner I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look and said that she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home by the fire. I had just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the living room and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affair I'd never laid eyes on before and I caught a whiff of my favourite perfume. Georgie, she said. Huh? Do you still love me? I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course I still. Well, sometimes you don't act much like it. H'm. I guess I've got an awful headache to night. Damn that perfume. Oh, said Marge. In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep. Sleep, Said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice Now I knew that things were out of hand. The next evening I activated George prime and caught the taxi at the corner. But I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in an early movie alone and was back at 10 o'. Clock. I left the cab at the corner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George prime through the living room windows. George prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eight long years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactly fighting him off either. She was coming back for more. After a little, the lights went off. George prime was a super deluxe model, all right. I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as I could, swearing under my breath. How long has this been going on? I punched the button again viciously and waited. George prime didn't come out. It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleep a wink. About dawn, out came George prime, looking like a man with a four day hangover. Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George prime kept insisting blandly that according to my own directions he was to pick the first logical opportunity to come out when I buzzed. And that was exactly what he'd done. I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense all right. I'd have George prime rewired from top to bottom. As soon as the laboratory could take him. But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me. When I got to the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about that check of mine that had just bounced. What check? I asked. The one you wrote to cash yesterday. $500 against your regular account, Mr. Faircloth. The last I'd looked, I had about $3,000 in that account. I told the man so, rather bluntly. Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checks you've been cashing have emptied the account. He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every one of them. What about my special account? I'd learned long before that an account Marge didn't know about was sound rear guard strategy. That's been closed out for two weeks. I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year. I glared at the ceiling and tried to think things through. I came up with a horrible thought. Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to get away from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon. I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and stared down them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir, not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets one way, champagne flight to Bermuda. When I choked out, why to day, as a matter of fact, it leaves Idlewild at 11 o'. Clock. I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't know what they'd given that prime for circuits. But there was no question now that he was out of control. Way out of control. And poor Marge all worked up for a second honeymoon. Then it struck me. Poor Marge. Poor sucker. George no prime in his right circuits would behave this way without some human guidance. And that meant only one thing. Marge had spotted him. It had happened before. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd known all about George Prime. For how long. When I got home, the house was empty. George prime wasn't in his closet and Marge wasn't in the house. They were gone. I started to call the police, but I caught myself just in time. I couldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off with an Android. Worse yet, I could get 20 years for having an illegal prime wandering around. I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink, My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. It was indecent. Then I heard the front door open. And there was Marge, her arms full of grocery bundles. Why, darling, you're home early. I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, you're still here. Of course. Where did you think I'd be? But I thought. I mean, the ticket office. She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked into my eyes, almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd go running off with something out of a lab, did you? Then you knew. Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructing him either. You gave him far too much latitude, let him have ideas of his own and all that. The next thing I knew he was trying to get me to run off with him to Hawaii or someplace. Bermuda, I said. And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheek against my chest. Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be. She said he was like you, but he wasn't you, darling. And all I ever want is you. I just never appreciated you before. I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. George Faircloth, idiot. I thought she'd never been more beautiful. But what did you do with him? I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they would blot him out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more. We've got more interesting things to discuss. Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was the Marge I'd once known, and I was beginning to wonder how I could ever have been so wrong about her. In fact, unless my memory was getting awfully porous, the old Marge was never like this. I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair and felt the depression with my forefinger. And then I knew what had really happened. That Marge always had been a sly one. I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda. Marge probably thought she really put me where I belonged. But the laugh was on her. After all, as I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge prime makes Jerry and Sibyl and Dorothy and dawn and Jane and Ruby all look pretty sad by comparison. She cooks like a dream, and she always brings me my pipe and slippers. As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct any slippage, which would only be temporary. Anyhow, one of these days we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'll go to Hawaii. Ebook of section 6 ebook of 4 science fiction stories by Alan E. Norse.