Short Science Fiction Collection 025 - Various

Summary

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Science Fiction Books - Daily

“Short Science Fiction Collection 025 – Various”

Host: solgoodmedia.com
Date: August 2, 2026

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Overview

This episode of Science Fiction Books - Daily features a curated audiobook collection, “Short Science Fiction Collection 025,” presenting seven diverse and classic science fiction short stories. Each narrative immerses the listener in worlds shaped by cosmic threats, technological puzzles, dystopian futures, and existential dilemmas. The stories included are:

1. The Game of Rat and Dragon by Cordwainer Smith
2. Hall of Mirrors by Fredric Brown
3. The Hoofer by Walter M. Miller, Jr.
4. Martians Never Die by Lucius Daniel
5. Monkey on His Back by Charles V. De Vet
6. The Moon Is Green by Fritz Leiber
7. No Moving Parts by Murray F. Yaco
8. Small World by William F. Nolan
9. Spawn of the Comet by Harold Thompson Rich
10. With No Strings Attached by David Gordon

Each tale is read in full, and the selections cover a spectrum of imaginative, sometimes unsettling, always provocative visions of humanity's future, perils, and cosmic possibilities.

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Key Stories & Discussion Points

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1. The Game of Rat and Dragon by Cordwainer Smith

[00:30 – 48:09]

Synopsis

• Human telepaths, known as "pinlighters," travel through interstellar space, where incomprehensible cosmic creatures ("dragons") kill unsuspecting travelers.
• Only the telepaths can sense these beings and destroy them—by working in psychic partnership with specially trained telepathic cats ("partners").
• The story follows Underhill, a young pinlighter, and his cat-partner Lady May, as they risk their minds and sanity keeping humanity's starships safe.

Key Points & Themes

• Telepathic bonds: Humans and cats, working through a "pin set," must literally merge consciousness to have the speed and intuition required to fight dragons/rats.
• Interdependence and alienness: The necessity—and consequences—of a shared mind with a partner profoundly different from oneself.
• The physiological and psychological cost of defending humanity: Telepaths like Underhill endure trauma and are seen as strange or even outcast by "normal" humans.
• The tragedy of connection: Underhill feels a longing for the understanding and affection found only in his connection with Lady May, which no human woman can replicate.

Notable Quotes

• “Don’t call our partners cats. The right thing to call them is partners. They fight for us in a team. You ought to know. We call them partners, not cats.” — Underhill to the doctor [45:30].
• “Where would he ever find a woman who could compare with her?” — Narrator, on Underhill’s feelings toward Lady May [47:55].

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2. Hall of Mirrors by Fredric Brown

[48:09 – 70:08]

Synopsis

• Norman Hastings, a 25-year-old math professor in 1954, is abruptly transported (via a closet/time machine) to the year 2004.
• He receives a letter: he is his own 75-year-old self, wiped of memories, forced to live again as a young man, and tasked with deciding humanity's fate—should the mind-wiping "immortality" of the time machine remain secret, or be revealed to all?

Key Points & Themes

• The perils of technological immortality: Overpopulation, resource exhaustion, ethical quandaries.
• Memory, identity, and the recursive burden of self-custody.
• Science versus humanity: The loneliness and iterating pain of choosing secrecy for the greater good.
• Fate is a closed loop—Norman (and thus, humanity) is trapped in an endless cycle.

Notable Quotes

• “You are that 75-year-old man with your body returned to what it had been 50 years ago. With all the memories of 50 years of living wiped out.” — Letter, [52:00]
• “How often will you again sit at a desk like this one, thinking the thoughts you are thinking now…?” — Narrator, [69:45]

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3. The Hoofer by Walter M. Miller, Jr.

[70:08 – 97:11]

Synopsis

• Big Hoagie Parker returns from long months in space, stricken with alcohol dependency, poverty, and a profound sense of alienation from his “hoofer” (grounded) Earth-bound family.
• Through his spiraling misadventures, Hoagie becomes physically trapped (his feet concreted by accident at his father-in-law’s house), symbolizing his inability to ever reconcile his cosmic wandering with the demands of home and family.

Key Points & Themes

• The tragic impossibility of bringing the explorer home: Space-faring is both a calling and a sickness, incompatible with a stable family life.
• Dislocation: Hoagie is physically and emotionally unable to fit back into Earth life ("Damn gravity").
• The wrenching cost of progress—a classic Miller meditation on the collateral damage of human ambition.

Memorable Moment

• The sobering realization that the protagonist is literally and figuratively stuck, as he is found weeping with his feet trapped in concrete: “They're hoofers, that's all. Just an earth chained bunch of hoofers. Even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. A born tumbler.” [78:28]

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4. Martians Never Die by Lucius Daniel

[97:11 – 140:10]

Synopsis

• Dr. Curtis returns from Mars accompanied by a bizarre tentacled Martian pet, Shot Owl, only to find his wife Burl and friend Stern in the middle of plans to declare him dead and inherit his wealth.
• Stern tries to murder both Curtis and the Martian. Instead, Shot Owl’s “defense” converts Stern into a loving, mindless, dog-like devotee—an alien fate worse than death.

Key Points & Themes

• “Bodyguard” as transformation: The Martian’s defense against hatred is not violence, but mind-altering love.
• Betrayal, jealousy, and greed among humans vs. the otherworldly “nobility” of the truly alien.
• Irony: Stern’s plan to supplant Curtis, only to become, literally and spiritually, a pet.

Notable Quotes

• “Poor Al... So you killed Shot Owl.” — Dr. Curtis, to Stern, after the Martian’s revenge [139:50]
• Stern: “Gul lup, he said.” (Losing his humanity, echoing the Martian) [139:55]

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5. Monkey on His Back by Charles V. De Vet

[140:10 – 145:05] (timestamp off—story runs longer; see full transcript above)

Synopsis

• John Zarwell, plagued by amnesia, undergoes psychoanalysis on the colony world St. Martin’s and gradually uncovers—via relived memories under sedation—that he is a legendary revolutionary who overthrew corrupt governments, only to be hounded by his own reputation.
• Zarwell’s attempts to retire and escape responsibility are futile; even as he tries to lay low, he’s drawn (by his own conscience and the world’s needs) back into the struggle for justice.

Key Points & Themes

• Identity is “mission”: Purpose sticks like a monkey on your back, impossible to shake off if it's part of your core.
• The burden of legend: The world will not let you rest if you are "needed."
• The cycle of revolution: The oppressed, once freed, become oppressors, requiring endless struggle.

Memorable Quotes

• “That's the proverbial monkey on my back. I can't get rid of it.” — Zarwell [158:42]

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6. The Moon Is Green by Fritz Leiber

[145:05 – 173:05]

Synopsis

• Effie, trapped in a fallout shelter with her controlling husband Hank after nuclear war, longs for beauty and freedom. She opens the forbidden shutters, letting in an outsider—mutated, possibly contaminated.
• Hank discovers the intruder and, through a mix of jealousy and fear, forces a confrontation. Effie, desperate for beauty and life, escapes into the possibly deadly world outside, chanting her own mantra against the dust, as Hank is left behind.

Key Points & Themes

• The hunger for beauty vs. the tyranny of survival: In a post-apocalyptic world, safety is not enough for the human spirit.
• Authority and longing: Effie’s yearning (for beauty, for risk, for connection) is at odds with the rigid, fearful society.
• The seduction and danger of hope—what is the price of breaking out?

Notable Quotes

• Effie: "I'm just hungry for a little beauty." [140:11]
• “If fear holds you like a rat in the dark, then you are worse than a coward. You betray yourself and the civilization you represent.” — Effie’s internal monologue [151:13]
• The closing image: Effie walks into the green moonlight, possibly freedom, possibly death.

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7. No Moving Parts by Murray F. Yaco

[173:05 – 210:11]

Synopsis

• A “perfect” Federation starship breaks down because none of its young officers know how the ancient, mechanically complex door mechanism works. No plans, no experts, and no way in or out—until a "gypsy," a freewheeling expert, is summoned to fix it.
• The story lampoons over-codified bureaucracies and the loss of practical knowledge in favor of unthinking technology.

Key Points & Themes

• Dependence on "perfect" technology: The system is only as strong as the practical, hands-on problem-solvers.
• The value of nonconformists: True expertise and adaptability often reside outside official channels.
• A comic but pointed critique of society's drift toward automation and away from “moving parts,” both literal and metaphorical.

Memorable Quotes

• “No moving parts, eh?” — Candle, the gypsy, on the ship’s reliance on technology [208:11]

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8. Small World by William F. Nolan

[210:11 – 235:16]

Synopsis

• Lewis Stillman is possibly the last adult survivor on Earth after alien invaders wipe out everyone over age six. He navigates the ruins of Los Angeles, hunted by feral children, and confronts acute loneliness, despair, and the knowledge that civilization is lost.

Key Points & Themes

• The horror of isolation: Both physical danger and existential loneliness stalk the last man.
• Civilization’s fragility: With adults gone, children revert to savagery as society dissolves.
• The inescapable fate of being hunted by the next generation: “He was screaming when the children closed in.” [234:56]

Memorable Quotes

• “They stopped Earth before she could reach the age of the rocket… What an immensely clever plan it had been—to destroy every human being on Earth above the age of six…” [234:10]

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9. Spawn of the Comet by Harold Thompson Rich

[235:16 – 299:45]

Synopsis

• Earth is struck by mysterious “meteor eggs” from a comet, which hatch into giant, fiery, radioactive termite-like ants. They quickly devastate civilization, until a lone scientist invents a cathode-ray-based weapon to destroy them, sacrificing his own life to save humanity.

Key Points & Themes

• The cosmic indifference of disaster: Survival depends on scientific ingenuity and heroic sacrifice.
• Humanity’s vulnerability: Suddenly, everything can change, and all our achievements can burn.
• Hope and tragic cost: Salvation comes at great personal expense.

Notable Quotes

• “They were ants, or at least more like ants than anything on earth. Great fiery termites ten feet long, hideous mandibles snapping like steel hot from the forge…” [260:18]
• “The sun stood out above the eastern horizon like a huge gold coin, bright with the promise of life to spend when Jim and Joan took off at last for the return home. But the radiance of the morning was dimmed by the knowledge of the tragic burden they bore.” [298:45]

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10. With No Strings Attached by David Gordon

[299:45 – end]

Synopsis

• The U.S. Navy tests a revolutionary battery that runs submarines for months without recharge—a battery invented by the eccentric Mr. Sorensen, who jealously guards his secrets, refusing to patent the device or reveal its inner workings.
• After a series of “crackpot” demonstrations, it is revealed the device is not a battery at all but a working hydrogen fusion reactor, fundamentally misunderstood and dismissed by most because its inventor’s theory is "impossible."

Key Points & Themes

• Credibility and scientific conservatism: The world can’t believe in revolutionary ideas that lack a suitably conventional explanation.
• The irony of belief: Sorensen ultimately wraps his achievement in a lie (it’s “just a battery”) because the truth is too much for experts to accept.
• Progress sidetracked by human psychology, not by engineering limits.

Memorable Moment

• Thorn: “Only because it (the lie) made more sense than the truth.” — On believing the "battery" was possible but not the reality of a desktop fusion reactor. [end]

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Notable Quotes & Moments

• “Don’t call our partners cats. The right thing to call them is partners.” — Underhill, The Game of Rat and Dragon [45:30]
• “You are that 75-year-old man with your body returned to what it had been 50 years ago.” — Hall of Mirrors [52:00]
• “They're hoofers, that's all. Just an earth chained bunch of hoofers. Even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. A born tumbler.” — The Hoofer [78:28]
• "Gul lup," he said. — Stern, Martians Never Die [139:55]
• “That's the proverbial monkey on my back. I can't get rid of it.” — Zarwell, Monkey on His Back [158:42]
• “I'm just hungry for a little beauty.” — Effie, The Moon is Green [140:11]
• “No moving parts, eh?” — Candle, No Moving Parts [208:11]
• “He was screaming when the children closed in.” — Small World [234:56]
• “They were ants, or at least more like ants than anything on earth.” — Spawn of the Comet [260:18]
• “Only because it made more sense than the truth.” — Thorn, With No Strings Attached [end]

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Episode Structure and Tone

• Each story is read in full, in a classic, dramatic audiobook style.
• The tone shifts to suit each story—from wry comedy in No Moving Parts to existential horror in Small World and tragic yearning in The Hoofer.
• The collective effect: a celebration of the breadth of classic science fiction—its imaginative reach, emotional resonance, and analytical sharpness.

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For All Audiences: Whether considering humanity’s fate at the edge of the galaxy, the dangers of progress, or the pangs of all-too-human longing, these stories offer poignancy, adventure, and lasting questions about the future and ourselves.

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Transcript

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The Game of Rat and Dragon by Cordwainer Smith this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Greg Marguerite the Game of Rat and Dragon by Cordwainer Smith. Only partners could fight this deadliest of wars, and the one way to dissolve the partnership was to be personally dissolved. The table pin lighting is a hell of a way to earn a living. Underhill was furious as he closed the door behind himself. It didn't make much sense to wear a uniform and look like a soldier if people didn't appreciate what you did. He sat down in his chair, laid his head back in the headrest, and pulled the helmet down over his forehead. As he waited for the pin set to warm up, he remembered the girl in the outer corridor. She had looked at it, then looked at him scornfully. Meow. That was all she had said. Yet it had cut him like a knife. What did she think he was? A fool? A loafer? A uniformed nonentity? Didn't she know that for every half hour of pin lighting he got a minimum of two months recuperation in the hospital? By now the set was warm. He felt the squares of space around him, sensed himself at the middle of an immense grid, a cubic grid full of nothing. Out in that nothingness he could sense the hollow, aching horror of space itself, and could feel the terrible anxiety which his mind encountered whenever it met the faintest trace of inert dust. As he relaxed, the comforting solidity of the sun, the clockwork of the familiar planets and the moon rang in on him. Our own solar system was as charming and as simple as an ancient cuckoo clock filled with familiar ticking and with reassuring noises. The odd little moons of Mars swung around their planet like frantic mice, yet their regularity was itself an assurance that all was well. Far above the plane of the elliptic, he could feel half a ton of dust, more or less drifting outside the lanes of human travel. Here there was nothing to fight, nothing to challenge the mind, to tear the living soul out of a body with its roots dripping in effluvium, as tangible as blood. Nothing ever moved in on the solar system. He could wear the pin set forever and be nothing more than a sort of telepathic astronomer. A man who could feel the hot, warm protection of the sun throbbing and burning against his living mind. Woodley came in. Same old ticking world, said Underhill. Nothing to report. No wonder they didn't develop the pin set until they began to planoform. Down here with the hot sun around us, it feels so good and so quiet. You can feel everything spinning and turning. It's nice and sharp and compact. It's sort of like sitting around home. Woodley grunted. He was not much given to flights of fantasy. Undeterred, Underhill went on, it must have been pretty good to have been an ancient man. I wonder why they burned up their world with war. They didn't have to plano form. They didn't have to go out to earn their livings among the stars. They didn't have to dodge the rats or play. They couldn't have invented pin lighting because they didn't have any need of it. Did they, Woodley? Woodley grunted. Uh, Woodley was 26 years old and due to retire in one more year. He already had a farm picked out. He had gotten through 10 years of hard work pin lighting with the best of them. He had to keep his sanity by not thinking very much about his job, meeting the strains of the task whenever he had to meet them, and thinking nothing more about his duties until the next emergency arose. Woodley never made a point of getting popular among the partners. None of the partners liked him very much. Some of them even resented him. He was suspected of thinking ugly thoughts of the partners on occasion. But since none of the partners ever thought a complaint in articulate form, the other pinlighters and the Chiefs of the Instrumentality left him alone. Underhill was still full of wonder of their job. Happily, he babbled on. What does happen to us when we play no form? Do you think it's sort of like dying? Did you ever see anybody who had his soul pulled out? Pulling souls is just a way of talking about it, said Woodley. After all these years, nobody knows whether we have souls or not. But I saw one once. I saw what Dogwood looked like when he came apart. There was something funny. It looked wet and sort of sticky, as if it were bleeding. And it went out of him. And you know what they did to Dogwood? They took him away up in that part of the hospital where you and I never go. Way up at the top part. Where the others are. Where the others always have to go if they are alive. After the rats of the up and out have gotten them. Woodley sat down and lit an ancient pipe. He was burning something called tobacco in it. It was a dirty sort of habit, but it made him look very dashing and adventurous. Look here, youngster, you don't have to worry about that stuff. Pin lighting is getting better all the time. The partners are getting better. I've seen them pin light 2 rats 46 million miles apart in 1 1/2 milliseconds. As long as people had to try to work the pin sets themselves, there was always the chance that with a minimum of 400 milliseconds for the human mind to set a pinlate, we wouldn't light the rats up fast enough to protect our planoforming ships. The partners have changed all that. Once they get going, they're faster than rats and they always will be. I know it's not easy letting a partner share your mind. It's not easy for them either, said Underhill. Don't worry about them. They're not human. Let them take care of themselves. I've seen more pinlighters go crazy from monkeying around with partners than I have ever seen caught by the rats. How many do you actually know of them that got grabbed by rats? Underhill looked down at his fingers, which shone green and purple in the vivid light thrown by the tuned in pin set and counted ships. The thumb for the Andromeda lost with crew and passengers. The index finger and the middle finger for release. Ships 43 and 56 found with their pin sets burned out and every man, woman and child on board dead or insane. The ring finger, the little finger and the thumb of the other hand were the first three battleships to be lost to the rats. Lost as people realized that there was something out there underneath space itself, which was alive, capricious and malevolent. Planoforming was sort of funny. It felt like. Like nothing. Much like the twinge of a mild electric shock. Like the ache of a sore tooth bitten on for the first time. Like a slightly painful flash of light against the eyes. Yet in that time a 40,000 ton ship lifting free above Earth disappeared somehow or other into two dimensions and appeared half a light year or 50 light years off. At one moment he would be sitting in the fighting room, the pin set ready and the familiar solar system ticking around inside his head. For a second or a year he could never Tell how long it really was. Subjectively. The funny little flash went through him and then he was loose in the up and out the terrible open spaces between the stars where the stars themselves felt like pimples on his telepathic mind and the planets were too far away to be sensed or ready. Somewhere in this outer space, a gruesome death awaited. Death and horror of a kind which man had never encountered until he reached out for interstellar space itself. Apparently the light of the suns kept the dragons away. Dragons. That was what people called them. To ordinary people there was nothing. Nothing except the shiver of planoforming and the hammer blow of sudden death or the dark spastic note of lunacy descending into their minds. But to the telepaths, they were dragons. In the fraction of a second between the telepaths awareness of a hostile something out in the black, hollow nothingness of space and the impact of a ferocious, ruinous psychic blow against all living things within a ship, the telepaths had sensed entities, something like the dragons of ancient human lore. Beasts more clever than beasts, demons more tangible than demons. Hungry vortices of aliveness and hate compounded by unknown means. Out in the thin tenuous matter between the stars. It took a surviving ship to bring back the news. A ship in which, by sheer chance, a telepath had a light beam ready, turning it out at the innocent dust so that within the panorama of his mind the dragon dissolved into nothing at all. And the other passengers, themselves non telepathic, went about their way, not realizing that their own immediate deaths had been averted. From then on, it was easyamost. Planoforming ships always carried telepaths. Telepaths had their sensitiveness enlarged to an immense range by the pin sets which were telepathic amplifiers adapted to the mammal mind. The pin sets in turn, were electronically geared into small dirigible light bombs. Light did it. Light broke up. The dragons allowed the ships to reform three dimensionally. Skip, skip, skip. As they moved from star to star. The odds suddenly moved down from 100 to 1 against mankind to 60 to 40 in mankind's favor. This was not enough. The telepaths were trained to become ultra sensitive. Trained to become aware of the dragons in less than a millisecond. But it was found that the dragons could move a million miles in just under 2 milliseconds and that this was not enough for the human mind to activate the light beams. Attempts had been made to sheath the ships in light at all times. This defense wore out as mankind learned about the dragons, so too apparently the dragons learned about mankind somehow. They flattened their own bulk and came in on extremely flat trajectories very quickly. Intense light was needed. Light of sunlight intensity. This could be provided only by light bombs. Pin lighting came into existence. Pin lighting consisted of the detonation of ultra vivid miniature photonuclear bombs which converted a few ounces of magnesium isotope into pure visible radiance. The odds kept coming down in mankind's favor. Yet ships were being lost. It became so bad that people didn't even want to find the ships because the rescuers knew what they would see. It was sad to bring back to earth 300 bodies ready for burial and 200 or 300 lunatics damaged beyond repair to be wakened and fed and cleaned and put to sleep. Wakened and fed again until their lives were ended. Telepaths tried to reach into the minds of the psychotics who had been damaged by the dragons. But they found nothing there beyond vivid spouting columns of fiery terror bursting from the primordial ID itself, the volcanic source of life. Then came the partners. Man and partner could do together what man could not do alone. Men had the intellect, partners had the speed. The partners rode their tiny craft no larger than footballs. Outside the spaceships they planoformed with the ships. They rode beside them in their six pound craft, ready to attack. The tiny ships of the partners were swift. Each carried a dozen pinlights, bombs no bigger than thimbles. The pinlighters threw the partners quite literally through by means of mind to firing relays direct at the dragons. What seemed to be dragons to the human mind appeared in the form of gigantic rats in the minds of the partners. Out in the pitiless nothingness of space. The partners minds responded to an instinct as old as life. The partners attacked, striking with a speed faster than man's going from attack to attack until the rats or themselves were destroyed. Almost all the time it was the partners who won. With the safety of the interstellar skip, skip, skip of the ships, commerce increased immensely. The population of all the colonies went up and the demand for trained partners was increased. Underhill and Woodley were part of the third generation of pinlighters. And yet to them it seemed as though their craft had endured forever. Gearing space into mines by means of the pin set, adding the partners to those mines, keying up the mines for the tension of a fight on which all depended. This was more than human synapses could stand for long. Underhill needed his two months rest after half an Hour of fighting. Woodley needed his retirement after 10 years of service. They were young, they were good, but they had limitations. So much depended on the choice of partners. So much on the sheer luck of who drew whom the shuffle Father Moon Tree and the little girl named west entered the room. They were the other two pinlighters. The human complement of the fighting room was now complete. Father Moon Tree was a red faced man of 45 who had lived the peaceful life of a farmer until he reached his 40th year. Only then, belatedly, did the authorities find he was telepathic and agree to let him, late in life enter upon the career of a pinlighter. He did well at it, but he was fantastically old for this kind of business. Father Moon Tree looked at the glum Woodley and the musing Underhill. How are the youngsters today? Ready for a good fight? Father always wants a fight, giggled the little girl named West. She was such a little girl. Her giggle was high and childish. She looked like the last person in the world one would expect to find in rough, sharp dueling of pin fighting. Underhill had been amused one time when he found one of the most sluggish of the partners coming away happy from contact with the mind of the girl named West. Usually the partners didn't care much about the human minds with which they were paired for the journey. The partners seemed to take the attitude that human minds were complex and fouled up beyond belief anyhow. No partner ever questioned the superiority of the human mind, though very few of the partners were much impressed by that superiority. The partners liked people. They were willing to fight with them. They were even willing to die for them. But when a partner liked an individual the way, for example, that Captain Wow or Lady May liked Underhill, the liking had nothing to do with intellect. It was a matter of temperament, of feel. Underhill knew perfectly well that Captain Waugh regarded his Underhill's brains as silly. What Captain Wow liked was Underhill's friendly emotional structure. The cheerfulness and glint of wicked amusement that shot through under unconscious thought patterns and the gayety with which Underhill faced danger. The words, the history books, the ideas, the science. Underhill could sense all that in his own mind, reflected back from Captain Waugh's mind as so much rubbish. Ms. West looked at Underhill. I bet you've put stickum on the stones. I did not. Underhill felt his ears grow red with embarrassment. During his dovitiate he had tried to cheat in the lottery because he got particularly fond of a special partner, a lovely young Murr. It was so much easier to operate with Mur, and she was so affectionate toward him that he forgot pinlighting was hard work and that he was not instructed to have a good time with his partner. They were both designed and prepared to go into deadly battle together. One cheating had been enough. They had found him out, and he had been laughed at for years. Father Moon Tree picked up the imitation leather cup and shook the stone dice, which assigned them partners for the trip. By senior rights, he took first draw. He grimaced. He had drawn a greedy old character, a tough old male whose mind was full of slobbering thoughts of food veritable oceans full of half spoiled fish. Father Moon Tree had once said that he burped cod liver oil for weeks after drawing that particular glutton. So strongly had the telepathic image of fish impressed itself upon his mind. Yet the glutton was a glutton for danger as well as for fish. He had killed 63 dragons more than any other partner in the service, and was quite literally worth his weight in gold. The little girl, west, came next. She drew Captain Wow. When she saw who it was, she smiled. I like him, she said. He's such fun to fight with. He feels so nice and cuddly in my mind. Cuddly, hell, said Woodley. I've been in his mind, too. It's the most leering mind in the ship, bar none. Nasty man, said the little girl. She said it declaratively, without reproach. Underhill, looking at her, shivered. He didn't see how she could take Captain Waugh so calmly. Captain Waugh's mind did leer when Captain Wow got excited in the middle of a battle. Confused images of dragons, deadly rats, luscious beds, the smell of fish, and the shock of space all scrambled together in his mind as he and Captain Waugh. Their consciousnesses, linked together through the pin set, became a fantastic composite of human being and pers Cat. That's the trouble with working with cats, thought Underhill. It's a pity that nothing else anywhere will serve as partner. Cats were all right once you got in touch with them telepathically. They were smart enough to meet the needs of the fight, but their motives and desires were certainly different from those of humans. They were companionable enough as long as you thought tangible images at them, but their minds just closed up and went to sleep when you recited Shakespeare or Colgrove, or if you tried to tell them what space was. It was sort of funny realizing that the partners who were so grim and mature out here in space were the same cute little animals that people had used as pets for thousands of years back on Earth. He had embarrassed himself more than once while on the ground saluting perfectly ordinary non telepathic cats because he had forgotten for the moment that they were not partners. He picked up the cup and shook out his stone dice. He was lucky. He drew Lady May. The Lady May was the most thoughtful partner he had ever met. In her, the finely bred pedigree mind of a Persian cat had reached one of its highest peaks of development. She was more complex than any human woman, but the complexity was all one of emotions, memory, hope, and discriminated experience. Experience sorted through without the benefit of words. When he had first come into contact with her mind, he was astonished at its clarity with her. He remembered her kittenhood. He remembered every mating experience she had ever had. He saw in a half recognizable gallery all the other pin fighters with whom she had been paired for the fight. And he saw himself radiant, cheerful and desirable. He even thought he caught the edge of a longing, a very flattering and yearning thought. What a pity he's not a cat. Woodley picked up the last stone. He drew what he deserved, a sullen, scarred old tom cat with none of the verve of Captain Wow. Woodley's partner was the most animal of all the cats on the ship, a low, brutish type with a dull mind. Even telepathy had not refined his character. His ears were half chewed off from the first fights in which he had engaged. He was a serviceable fighter, nothing more. Woodley grunted. Underhill glanced at him oddly. Didn't Woodley ever do anything but grunt? Father Moon Tree looked at the other three. You might as well get your partners now. I'll let the scanner know we're ready to go. Into the up and out the deal. Underhill spun the combination lock on the Lady May's cage. He woke her gently and took her into his arms. She humped her back, luxuriously stretched. Her claws started to purr, thought better of it, and licked him on the wrist instead. He did not have the pin set on, so their minds were closed to each other, but in the angle of her moustache and in the movement of her ears he caught some sense of gratification she experienced in finding him as her partner. He talked to her in human speech, even though speech meant nothing to a cat when the pin set was not on. It's a damned shame sending a sweet little thing like you whirling around in the coldness of nothing to hunt for rats that are bigger and deadlier than all of us put together. You didn't ask for this kind of fight, did you? For answer, she licked his hand, purred, tickled his cheek with her long fluffy tail, turned around and faced him, golden eyes shining. For a moment they stared at each other, man squatting, cat standing erect on her hind legs, front claws digging into his knee. Human eyes and cat eyes looked across an immensity which no words could meet but which affection spanned in a single glance. Time to get in, he said. She walked docilely into her spheroid carrier. She climbed in. He saw to it that her miniature pin set rested firmly and comfortably against the base of her brain. He made sure that her claws were padded so that she could not tear herself in the excitement of battle. Softly, he said to her, ready for answer. She preened her back as much as her harness would permit and purred softly within the confines of the frame that held her. He slapped down the lid and watched the sealant ooze around the seam. For a few hours she was welded into her projectile until a workman with a short cutting arc would remove her. After she had done her duty, he picked up the entire projectile and slipped it into the ejection tube. He closed the door of the tube, spun the lock, seated himself in his chair, and put on his own pin set. Once again he flung the switch. He sat in a small room. Small, small, warm, warm. The bodies of the other three people moving close around him, the tangible lights in the ceiling bright and heavy against his closed eyelids. As the pin set warmed, the room fell away. The other people ceased to be people and became small glowing heaps of fire embers, dark red fire with the consciousness of life burning like old red coals in a country fireplace. As the pinset warmed a little more, he felt earth just below him, felt the ship slipping away, felt the turning moon as it swung on the far side of the world, felt the planets and the hot, clear goodness of the sun which kept the dragons so far from mankind's native ground. Finally, he reached complete awareness. He was telepathically alive to a range of millions of miles. He felt the dust, which he had noticed earlier, high above the elliptic. With a thrill of warmth and tenderness, he felt the consciousness of the Lady May pouring over into his own. Her consciousness was as gentle and clear and yet sharp to the taste of his mind as if it were scented with oil. It felt relaxing and reassuring. He could sense her welcome of him. It was scarcely a thought, just a raw emotion of greeting at last they were one again. In a tiny, remote corner of his mind, as tiny as the smallest toy he had ever seen in his childhood. He was still aware of the room and the ship, and of Father Moon Tree picking up a telephone and speaking to the scanner Captain in charge of the ship. His telepathic mind caught the idea long before his ears could frame the words. The actual sound followed the idea the way that thunder on an ocean beach follows the lightning inward from far out over the seas. The fighting room is ready. Clear to planoform, sir. The play Underhill was always a little exasperated the way that Lady May experienced things before he did. He was braced for the quick, vinegar thrill of planoforming, but he caught her report of it before his own nerves could register what happened. Earth had fallen so far away that he groped for several milliseconds before he found the sun in the upper rear right hand corner of his telepathic mind. That was a good jump, he thought. This way we'll get there in four or five skips. A few hundred miles outside the ship, the Lady May thought back at him. Oh, warm, oh generous, O gigantic man. O brave, O friendly, O tender and huge partner. Oh wonderful with you, with you. So good, good, good, warm, warm. Now to fight, now to go good with you. He knew that she was not thinking words, that his mind took the clear, amiable babble of her cat intellect and translated it into images which his own thinking could record. Neither one of them was absorbed in the game of mutual greetings. He reached out far beyond her range of perception to see if there was anything near the ship. It was funny how it was possible to do two things at once. He could scan space with his pin set mind and yet at the same time catch a vagrant thought of hers, a lovely, affectionate thought about a son who had a golden face and a chest covered with soft, incredibly downy white fur. While he was still searching, he caught the warning from we jump again. And so they had. The ship had moved to a second plano form. The stars were different. The sun was immeasurably far behind. Even the nearest stars were barely in contact. This was good dragon country, this open, nasty, hollow kind of space. He reached farther, faster, sensing and looking for danger, ready to fling the Lady May at danger wherever he found it. Terror blazed up in his mind so sharp, so clear that it came through as a physical wrench. The little girl named west had found something. Something immense, long, black, sharp, greedy, horrific. She flung Captain Waugh at it. Underhill tried to keep his own mind clear. Watch out. He shouted telepathically at the others, trying to move the Lady May around. At one corner of the battle, he felt the lustful rage of Captain Wow as the big Persian Tomcat detonated lights while he approached the streak of dust which threatened the ship and the people within the lights scored near misses. The dust flattened itself, changing from the shape of a stingray into the shape of a spear. Not three milliseconds had elapsed. Father Moon Tree was talking human words and was saying in a voice that moved like cold molasses out of a heavy jar, Captain Underhill knew that the sentence was going to be Captain, move fast. The battle would be fought and finished before Father Moon Tree got through talking. Now, fractions of a millisecond later, the Lady May was directly in line. Here was where the skill and speed of the partners came in. She could react faster than he. She could see the threat as an immense rat coming direct at her. She could fire the light bombs with a discrimination which he might miss. He was connected with her mind, but he could not follow it. His consciousness absorbed the tearing wound inflicted by the alien enemy. It was like no wound on Earth. Raw, crazy pain which started like a burn at his navel. He began to writhe in his chair. Actually, he had not yet had time to move a muscle when the Lady May struck back at their enemy. Five evenly spaced photonuclear bombs blazed out across a hundred thousand miles. The pain in his mind and body vanished. He felt a moment of fierce, terrible, feral elation running through the mind of the Lady May as she finished her kill. It was always disappointing to the cats to find out that their enemies, whom they sensed as gigantic space rats, disappeared at the moment of destruction. Then he felt her hurt, the pain and the fear that swept over both of them as the battle, quicker than the movement of an eyelid, had come and gone. In the same instant, there came the sharp and acid twinge of Plano form. Once more the ship went skip. He could hear Woodley thinking at him. You don't have to bother much. This old son of a gun and I will take over for a while. Twice again, the twinge, the skip. He had no idea where he was until the lights of the Caledonia Space Board shone below with a weariness that lay almost beyond the limits of thought. He threw his mind back into rapport with the pin set, fixing the Lady May's projectile gently and neatly into its launching tube. She was half dead with fatigue, but he could feel the beat of her Heart could listen to her panting, and he grasped the grateful edge of a thanks reaching from her mind to his. The score. They put him in the hospital at Caledonia. The doctor was friendly but firm. You actually got touched by that dragon. That's as close a shave as I've ever seen. It's all so quick that it'll be a long time before we know what happened scientifically. But I suppose you'd be ready for the insane asylum now if the contact had lasted several tenths of a millisecond longer. What kind of cat did you have out in front of you? Underhill felt the words coming out of him slowly. Words were such a lot of trouble compared with the speed and joy of thinking fast and sharp and clear, mind to mind. But words were all that could reach ordinary people like this doctor. His mouth moved heavily as he articulated words. Don't call our partners cats. The right thing to call them is partners. They fight for us in a team. You ought to know. We call them partners, not cats. How is mine? I don't know, said the doctor contritely. We'll find out for you. Meanwhile, old man, you take it easy. There's nothing but rest that can help you. Can you make yourself sleep, or would you like us to give you some kind of sedative? I can sleep, said Underhill. I just want to know about the lady. May. The nurse joined in. She was a little antagonistic. Don't you want to know about the other people? They're ok, said Underhill. I knew that before I came in here. He stretched his arms and sighed and grinned at them. He could see they were relaxing and were beginning to treat him as a person instead of a patient. I'm all right, he said. Just let me know when I can go see my partner. A new thought struck him. He looked wildly at the doctor. They didn't send her off with the ship, did they? I'll find out right away, said the doctor. He gave Underhill a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder and left the room. The nurse took a napkin off a goblet of chilled fruit juice. Underhill tried to smile at her. There seemed to be something wrong with the girl. He wished she would go away. First she had started to be friendly, and now she was distant again. It's a nuisance being telepathic, he thought. You keep trying to reach even when you're not making contact. Suddenly she swung around on him. You pin lighters. You and your damned cats. Just as she stamped out, he burst into her mind. He saw himself a radiant Hero, clad in his smooth suede uniform, the pinset crown shining like ancient royal jewels around his head. He saw his own face, handsome and masculine, shining out of her mind. He saw himself very far away, and he saw himself as she hated him. She hated him in the secrecy of her own mind. She hated him because he was, she thought, proud and strange and rich, better and more beautiful than people like her. He cut off the sight of her mind, and as he buried his face in the pillow, he caught an image of the Lady May. She is a cat, he thought. That's all. She is a cat. But that was not how his mind saw her, quick beyond all dreams of speed, sharp, clever, unbelievably graceful, beautiful, wordless and undemanding. Where would he ever find a woman who could compare with her. End of the game of rat and dragon? By Cordwainer Smith. Hall of Mirrors by Frederick Brown this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Greg Marguerite hall of Mirrors by Frederick Brown. It is a tough decision to make, whether to give up your life so you can live it over again. For an instant you think it is temporary blindness, this sudden dark that comes in the middle of a bright afternoon. It must be blindness, you think. Could the sun that was tanning you have gone out instantaneously, leaving you in utter blackness. The nerves of your body tell you that you are standing, whereas only a second ago you were sitting comfortably, almost reclining, in a canvas chair in the patio of a friend's house in Beverly Hills, talking to Barbara, your fiance, looking at Barbara, Barbara in a swimsuit, her skin golden tan in the brilliant sunshine. Beautiful. You wore swimming trunks now you do not feel them on you. The slightest pressure of the elastic waistband is no longer there against your waist. You touch your hands to your hips. You are naked and standing. Whatever has happened to you is more than a change to sudden darkness or to sudden blindness. You raise your hands, groping before you. They touch a plain, smooth surface, a wall. You spread them apart and each hand reaches a corner. You pivot slowly, a second wall, then a third, then a door. You are in a closet about 4ft square. Your hand finds the knob of the door. It turns and you push the door open. There is light now. The door has opened to a lighted room, a room that you have never seen before. It is not large, but it is pleasantly furnished, although the furniture is of a style that is strange to you, modesty Makes you open the door cautiously the rest of the way. But the room is empty of people. You step into the room, turning to look behind you into the closet, which is now illuminated by light from the room. The closet is and is not a closet. It is the size and shape of one, but it contains nothing. Not a single hook, no rod for hanging clothes, no shelf. It is an empty blank walled four by four foot space. You close the door to it and stand looking around the room. It is about 12 by 16ft. There is one door, but it is closed. There are no windows. Five pieces of furniture, four of them you recognize more or less. One looks like a very functional desk. One is obviously a chair, a comfortable looking one. There is a table, although its top is on several levels instead of only one. Another is a bed or couch. Something shimmering is lying across it. And you walk over and pick the shimmering something up and examine it. It is a garment. You are naked, so you put it on. Slippers are part way under the bed or couch and you slide your feet into them. They fit and they feel warm and comfortable as nothing you have ever worn on your feet has felt like lamb's wool, but softer. You are dressed now. You look at the door. The only door in the room except that of the closet. Closet from which you entered it. You walk to the door and before you try the knob you see the small typewritten sign pasted just above it. That this door has a time lock set to open in one hour. For reasons you will soon understand, it is better that you do not leave this room before then. There is a letter for you on the desk. Please read. Is not signed. You look at the desk and see that there is an envelope lying on it. You do not yet go to take that envelope from the desk and read the letter that must be in it. Why not? Because you are frightened. You see other things about the room. The lighting has no source that you can discover. It comes from nowhere. It is not indirect lighting. The ceiling and the walls are not reflecting it at all. They didn't have lighting like that back where you came from. What did you mean by back where you came from? You close your eyes. You tell. I am Norman Hastings. I am an associate professor of mathematics at the University of Southern California. I am 25 years old and this is the year 1900 and 54. You open your eyes and look again. They didn't use that style of furniture in Los Angeles or anywhere else that you know of in 1954. That thing over in the corner. You can't Even guess what it is. So might your grandfather. At your age, having looked at a television set. You look down at yourself, at the shimmering garment that you found waiting for you. With thumb and forefinger you feel its texture. It's like nothing you've ever touched before. I am Norman hastings. This is 1900 and 54. Suddenly you must know, and at once you go to the desk and pick up the envelope that lies upon it. Your name is typed on the outside. Norman Hastings. Your hands shake a little as you open it. Do you blame them? There are several pages, typewritten. Dear Norman. It starts. You turn quickly to the end to look for the signature. It is unsigned. You turn back and start reading. Do not be afraid. There is nothing to fear, but much to explain. Much that you must understand before the time lock opens that door. Much you must accept and obey. You have already guessed that you are in the future, in what to you seems to be the future. The clothes and room must have told you that I planned it that way so the shock would not be too sudden, so you would realize it over the course of several minutes, rather than read it here and quite probably disbelieve what you read. The closet from which you have just stepped is, as you have by now realized, a time machine. From it you stepped into the world of 2004. The date is April 7, just 50 years from the time you last remember you cannot return. I did this to you, and you may hate me for it. I do not know. That is up to you to decide. But it does not matter. What does matter, and not to you alone, is another decision which you must make. I am incapable of making it. Who is writing this to you? I would rather not tell you just yet. By the time you have finished reading this, even though it is not signed, for I knew you would look first for a signature. I will not need to tell you who I am. You will know. I am 75 years of age. I have, in this year 2004, been studying time for 30 of those years. I have completed the first time machine ever built, and thus far its construction, even the fact that it has been constructed, is my own secret. You have just participated in the first major experiment. It will be your responsibility to decide whether there shall ever be any more experiments with it, whether it should be given to the world or whether it should be destroyed and never used again. End of first page. You look up for a moment, hesitating to turn the next page. Already you suspect what is coming. You turn the page. I constructed the first time machine a week Ago, my calculations had told me that it would work, but not how it would work. I had expected it to send an object back in time. It works backwards in time only, not forward. Physically unchanged and intact. My first experiment showed me my error. I placed a cube of metal in the machine. It was a miniature of the one you just walked out of and set the machine to go backward 10 years. I flicked the switch and opened the door, expecting to find the cube vanished. Instead, I found it had crumbled to powder. I put in another cube and sent it two years back. The second cube came back unchanged, except that it was newer, shinier. That gave me the answer. I had been expecting the cubes to go back in time, and they had done so, but not in the sense I had expected them to. Those metal cubes had been fabricated about three years previously. I had sent the first one back years before it had existed in its fabricated form. 10 years ago it had been or the machine returned it to that state. Do you see how our previous theories of time travel have been wrong? We expected to be able to step into a time machine in, say, 2004, set it for 50 years back, and then step out in the year 1954. But it does not work that way. The machine does not move in time. Only whatever is within the machine is affected. And then just with relation to itself and not to the rest of the universe. I confirmed this with guinea pigs by sending one six weeks old, five weeks back. And it came out a baby. I need not outline all of my experiments here. You will find a record of them in the desk and you can study it later. Do you understand now what has happened to you, Norman? You begin to understand and you begin to sweat. The I who wrote that letter you are now reading is you yourself, at the age of 75, in this year of 2004. You are that 75 year old man with your body returned to what it had been 50 years ago. With all the memories of 50 years of living wiped out. You invented the time machine. And before you used it on yourself, you made these arrangements to help orient yourself. You wrote yourself the letter which you are now reading. But if those 50 years are to you gone, what of all your friends, those you loved? What of your parents? What of the girl you were going to marry? You read on. Yes, you will want to know what has happened. Mom died in 1963, dad in 1968. You married Barbara in 1956. I'm sorry to tell you that she died only three years later in a plane crash. You have one son. He is still living. His name is Walter. He is now 46 years old and is an accountant in Kansas City. Tears come into your eyes, and for a moment you can no longer read. Barbara dead. Dead for 45 years. And only minutes ago, in subjective time, you were sitting next to her, sitting in the bright sun in a Beverly Hills patio. You force yourself to read again. But back to the discovery. You begin to see some of its implications. You will need time to think, to see all of them. It does not permit time travel as we have thought of time travel, but it gives us immortality of a sort. Immortality of the kind I have temporarily given us. Is it good? Is it worth while to lose the memory of 50 years of one's life in order to return one's body to its relative youth? The only way I can find out is to try. As soon as I have finished writing this and made my other preparations, you will know the answer. But before you decide, remember that there is another problem, more important than the psychological one. I mean overpopulation. If our discovery is given to the world, if all who are old or dying can make themselves young again, the population will almost double every generation. Nor would the world, not even our own relatively enlightened country, be willing to accept compulsory birth control as a solution. Give this to the world as the world is today, in 2004, and within a generation there will be famine, suffering, war, perhaps a complete collapse of civilization. Yes, we have reached other planets, but they are not suitable for colonizing. The stars may be our answer, but we are a long way from reaching them. When we do, someday, the billions of habitable planets that must be out there will be our answer, our living room. But until then, what is the answer? Destroy the machine. But think of the countless lives it can save, the suffering it can prevent. Think of what it would mean to a man dying of cancer. Think. Think. You finished the letter and put it down. You think of Barbara, dead for 45 years, and of the fact that you were married to her for three years and that those years are lost to you. 50 years lost. You damn the old man of 75, who you became and who has done this to you. Who has given you this decision to make? Bitterly, you know what the decision must be. You think that he knew too, and realize that he could safely leave it in your hands. Damn him. He should have known. Too valuable to destroy, too dangerous to give. The other answer is painfully obvious. You must be custodian of this discovery and keep it secret until it is safe to give. Until mankind has expanded to the stars, has new worlds to populate, or until even without that, he has reached a state of civilization where he can avoid overpopulation by rationing births to the number of accidental or voluntary deaths. If neither of those things has happened in another 50 years, and are they likely too soon, then you, at 75, will be writing another letter like this one. You will be undergoing another experience similar to the one you're going through now and making the same decision. Of course, why not? You'll be the same person again, time and again, to preserve this secret until man is ready for it. How often will you again sit at a desk like this one, thinking the thoughts you are thinking now, feeling the grief you now feel? There is a click at the door and you know that the time lock has opened, that you are now free to leave this room, free to start a new life for yourself in place of the one you have already lived and lost. But you are in no hurry now to walk directly through that door. You sit there, staring straight ahead of you, blindly seeing in your mind's eye the vista of a set of facing mirrors like those in an old fashioned barber shop, reflecting the same thing over and over again, diminishing into far distance. Hall of mirrors by frederick brown. The Hoofer by Walter M. Miller, Jr. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Greg Marguerite the Hoofer by Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a man in the full vigor of youth do if his heart cries out for a home? They all knew he was a spacer because of the white goggle marks on his sun scorched face, and so they tolerated him and helped him. They even made allowances for him when he staggered and fell in the aisle of the bus while pursuing the harassed little housewife from seat to seat and cajoling her to sit and talk with him? Having fallen, he decided to sleep in the aisle. Two men helped him to the back of the bus, dumped him on the rear seat, and tucked his gin bottle safely out of sight. After all, he had not seen Earth for nine months, and judging by the crusted matter above his eyelids, he couldn't have seen it too well now, even if he had been sober. Glare blindness, gravity legs, and agoraphobia were excuses for a lot of things when a man was just back from big bottomless. And who could blame a man for acting strangely. Minutes later he was back up the aisle and swaying giddily over the little housewife.

[Interjector]

How?

[Narrator]

He said. Me Chief Broken Wing. You want a Indian wrestle? The girl who sat nervously staring at him smiled wanly and shook her head. Quiet little pigeon, aren't you? He burbled affectionately, crashing into the seat beside her. The two men slid out of their seats and a hand clamped his shoulder. Come on, Broken Wing, let's go back to bed. My name's Hoagie, he said. Big Hoagie Parker. I was just kidding about being an Indian. Yeah, Come on, let's go have a drink. They got him on his feet and led him stumbling back down the aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see? That's how come I said it. You want to hear a war whoop? Real stuff. Never mind. He cupped his hands to his mouth and favored them with a blood curdling proof of his ancestry. While the female passengers stirred restlessly and hunched in their seats, the driver stopped the bus and went back to warn him against any further display. The driver flashed a deputy's badge and threatened to turn him over to a constable. I gotta get home, big Hoagie told him. I got me a son now, that's why. You know, a little baby pigeon of a son. Haven't seen him yet. Will you just sit still and be quiet then, eh? Big Hoagie nodded emphatically. Sorry, Officer. I didn't mean to make any trouble. When the bus started again, he fell on his side and lay still. He made retching sounds for a time, then rested, snoring softly. The bus driver woke him again at Kanes Junction, retrieved his gin bottle from behind the seat, and helped him down the aisle and out of the bus. Big Hoagie stumbled about for a moment, then sat down hard in the gravel at the shoulder of the road. The driver paused with one foot on the step, looking around. There was not even a store at the road junction, but only a freight building next to the railroad track, a couple of farmhouses at the edge of a side road, and just across the way, a deserted filling station with a sagging roof. The land was Great Plains country, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hoagie got up and staggered around in front of the bus, clutching at it for support, losing his duffel bag. Hey, watch the traffic, the driver warned with a surge of unwelcome compassion. He trotted around after his troublesome passenger, taking his arm as he sagged again. You crossing? Yeah, hoagie muttered. Lemme alone. I'm okay. The driver started across the highway with him, the traffic was sparse but fast and dangerous in the central 90 mile lane. I'm okay, hoagie kept protesting. I'm a tumbler, you know. Gravity's got me. Damn gravity. I'm not used to gravity, you know. I used to be a tumbler, only now I gotta be a hoofer. Count a little Hoagie. You know about little Hoagie? Yeah, your son. Come on, say you got a son. I bet you got a son. Two kids, said the driver, catching Hoagie's bag as it slipped from his shoulder. Both girls say you ought to be home with them kids. Man ought to stick with his family. You ought to get another job. Hoagie eyed him owlishly, waggled a moralistic finger, skidded on the gravel as they stepped onto the opposite shoulder and sprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath, looked down at him and shook his head. Maybe it'd be kinder to find a constable. After all, this guy could get himself killed wandering around loose. Somebody supposed to meet you? He asked, squinting around at the dusty hills Hook. Who? Me? Hoagie giggled, belched and shook his head. Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming. Surprise. I'm supposed to be here a week ago. He looked up at the driver with a pained expression. Week late, you know. Marie's going to be sore. Woo hoo. Is she going to be sore. He waggled his head severely at the ground. Which way are you going? The driver grunted impatiently. Hoagie pointed down the side road that led back into the hills. Marie's Pop's place. You know where. Bout three miles from here. Gotta walk, I guess. Don't, the driver warned you sit there by the culvert till you get a ride. Ok? Hoagie nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, the driver warned, then hurried back across the highway. Moments later the atomic battery driven motors droned mournfully and the bus pulled away. Big Hoagie blinked after it, rubbing the back of his neck. Nice people, he said. Nice bunch of people. All hoofers. With a grunt and a lurch he got to his feet, but his legs wouldn't work right with his tumbler's reflexes. He fought to right himself with frantic arm motions, but gravity claimed him and he went stumbling into the ditch. Damn legs. Damn crazy legs. He cried. The bottom of the ditch was wet and he crawled up the embankment with mud soaked knees and sat on the shoulder again. The gin bottle was still intact. He had himself a long fiery drink and it warmed him Deep down. He blinked around at the gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge red on a dusty horizon. The blood streaked sky faded into sulphurous yellow toward the zenith, and the very air that hung over the land seemed full of yellow smoke, the omnipresent dust of the plains. A farm truck turned onto the side road and moaned away, its driver hardly glancing at the dark young man who sat swaying on his duffel bag near the culvert. Hoagie scarcely noticed the vehicle. He just kept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't really the sun. The sun, the real sun, was a hateful eye, sizzling horror in the dead black pit. It painted everything with pure white pain, and you saw things by the reflected pane light. The fat red sun was strictly a phony, and it didn't fool him any. He hated it for what he knew it was behind the gory mask and for what it had done to his eyes. With a grunt he got to his feet, managed to shoulder the duffel bag, and started off down the middle of the farm road, lurching from side to side and keeping his eyes on the rolling distances. Another car turned onto the side road, honking angrily. Hoagie tried to turn around to look at it, but he forgot to shift his footing. He staggered and went down on the pavement. The car's tires screeched on the hot asphalt. Hoagie lay there for a moment, groaning. That one had hurt his hip. A car door slammed and a big man with a florid face got out and stalked toward him, looking angry. What the hell's the matter with you, fella? He drawled. You soused, man. You've really got a load. Hoagie got up doggedly, shaking his head to clear it. Space legs, he prevaricated. Got space legs. Can't stand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved his gin bottle for him, still miraculously unbroken. Here's your gravity, he grunted. Listen, fella, you better get home pronto. Pronto. Hey, I know me. Honestly, I'm just space burned, you know. Yeah. Say, who are you anyway? Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big man had taken him for a hobo or a tramp. Hoagie pulled himself together, going to the Hauptman place. Marie. You know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up. Marie Hauptman? Sure I know her. Only she's Marie Parker now. Has been nigh on six years, say. He paused, then gaped. You ain't her husband by any chance? Hoagie? That's me big Hoagie Parker. Well, I'll be. Get in the car. I'm going right past John Hauptman's place. Boy, you're in no shape to walk it. He grinned wryly, waggled his head, and helped Hoagie and his bag into the back seat. A woman with sun wrinkled neck sat rigidly beside the farmer in the front, and she neither greeted the passenger nor looked around. They don't make cars like this any more, the farmer called over the growl of the ancient gasoline engine and the grind of gears. You can have them new Atomics with their loads of hot isotopes under the seat. Ain't safe, I say, eh, Martha? The woman with the sun baked neck quivered her head slightly. A car like this was good enough for Pa, and I reckon it's good enough for us, she drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drew into the side of the road. Reckon you can walk it from here, the farmer said. That's Hauptman's Road just up ahead. He helped Hoagie out of the car and drove away without looking back to see if Hoagie stayed on his feet. The woman with the sun baked neck was suddenly talking garrulously in his direction. It was twilight, the sun had set, and the yellow sky was turning gray. Hoagie was too tired to go on, and his legs would no longer hold him. He blinked around at the land, got his eyes focused, and found what looked like Hauptman's Place on a distant hillside. It was a big frame house surrounded by a wheat field and a few scrawny trees. Having located it, he stretched out in the tall grass beyond the ditch to take a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking and a cricket sang creaking monotony in the grass. Once there was the distant thunder of a rocket blast from the launching station six miles to the west, but it faded quickly. An a motored convertible whined past on the road, but Hoagie went unseen. When he awoke it was night and he was shivering. His stomach was screeching and his nerves dancing with high voltages. He sat up and groped for his watch, then remembered he had pawned it after the poker game. Remembering the game and the results of the game made him wince and bite his lip and grope for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for a moment after the stiff drink. Equating time to position had become of second nature him, but he had to think for a moment because his defective vision prevented him from seeing the earth crescent. Vega was almost straight above him in the late August sky, so he knew it wasn't much after sundown, probably about 8 o'. Clock. He braced himself with another swallow of gin, picked himself up, and got back to the road. Feeling a little sobered after the nap. He limped up on the pavement and turned left at the narrow drive that led between barbed wire fences toward The Hauptman farmhouse, 500 yards or so from the farm road. The fields on his left belonged to Marie's father. He knew he was getting close, close to home and woman and child. He dropped the bag suddenly and leaned against a fence post, rolling his head on his forearms and choking in spasms of air. He was shaking all over and his belly writhed. He wanted to turn and run. He wanted to crawl out in the grass and hide. What were they going to say? And Marie? Marie most of all. How was he going to tell her about the money? Six hitches in space, and every time the promise had been the same. One more tour, baby, and we'll have enough dough. And then I'll quit for good. One more time and we'll have our stake enough to open a little business or buy a house with a mortgage and get a job. And she had waited. But the money had never been quite enough. Until this time. This time the tour had lasted nine months and he had signed on for every run from station to moon base to pick up the bonuses, and this time he'd made it. Two weeks ago there had been 4800 in the bank. And now, why? He groaned, striking his forehead against his forearms. His arms slipped and his head hit the top of the fence post and the pain blinded him for a moment. He staggered back into the road with a low roar, wiped blood from his forehead, and savagely kicked his bag. It rolled a couple of yards up the road. He leaped after it and kicked it again. When he had finished with it, he stood panting and angry but feeling better. He shouldered the bag and hiked on toward the farmhouse. They're hoofers, that's all. Just an earth chained bunch of hoofers. Even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. A born tumbler. Know what that means? It means God. What does it mean? It means out in big bottomless, where earth's like a fat moon with fuzzy mold growing on it. Mold, that's all you are. Just mold. A dog barked and he wondered if he had been muttering aloud. He came to a fence gap and paused in the darkness. The road wound around and came up the hill in front of the house. Maybe they were sitting on the porch. Maybe they'd already heard him coming. Maybe he was trembling again. He fished the fifth of gin out of his coat pocket and sloshed it, still over half a pint. He decided to kill it. It wouldn't do to go home with a bottle sticking out of his pocket. He stood there in the night wind, sipping at it and watching the reddish moon come up in the east. The moon looked as phony as the setting sun. He straightened in sudden determination. It had to be some time. Get it over with. Get it over with now. He opened the fence gap, slipped through, and closed it firmly behind him. He retrieved his bag and waded quietly through the tall grass until he reached the hedge, which divided an area of sickly peach trees from the field. He got over the hedge somehow and started through the trees toward the house. He stumbled over some old boards and they clattered. Sh. He hissed and moved on. The dogs were barking angrily, and he heard a screen door slammed. He stopped. Ho there. A male voice called experimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers, Hoagie stood frozen in the shadow of a peach tree, waiting. Anybody out there? The man called again. Hoagie waited, then heard the man muttering, sic em, boy, sic em. The hound's bark became eager. The animal came chasing down the slope and stopped 10ft away to crouch and bark frantically at the shadow in the gloom. He knew the dog. Hookey, he whispered. Hookey, boy Here. The dog stopped barking, sniffed, trotted closer, and went woof. Then he started sniffing suspiciously again. Easy, Hooky. Here, boy, he whispered. The dog came forward silently, sniffed his hand, and whined in recognition. Then he trotted around Hoagie, panting. Doggy affection and dancing. An invitation to romp. The man whistled from the porch. The dog froze, then trotted quickly back up the slope. Nothing. Eh, Hooky? The man on the porch said. Chasing armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again and the porch light went out. Hoagie stood there staring, unable to think. Somewhere beyond the window lights were his woman, his son. What the hell was a tumbler doing with a woman and a son? After perhaps a minute he stepped forward again. He tripped over a shovel, and his foot plunged into something that went squelch and swallowed the foot past the ankle. He fell forward into a heap of sand, and his foot went deeper into the sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stinging forehead on his arms, cursing softly and crying. Finally he rolled over, pulled his foot out of the mess, and took off his shoes. They were full of mud Sticky, sandy mud. The dark world was reeling about him, and the wind was dragging at his breath. He fell back against the sand pile and let his feet sink in the mud hole and wriggled his toes. He was laughing soundlessly and his face was wet in the wind. He couldn't think. He couldn't remember where he was and why, and he stopped caring, and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming over him, dancing crazily, and the mud cooled his feet and the sand was soft behind him. He saw a rocket go up on a tail of flame from the station and waited for the sound of its blast. But he was already asleep when it came. It was far past midnight when he became conscious of the dog licking wetly at his ear and cheek. He pushed the animal away with a low curse and mopped at the side of his face. He stirred and groaned. His feet were burning up. He tried to pull them toward him, but they wouldn't budge. There was something wrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildly around in the night. Then he remembered where he was, closed his eyes, and shuddered. When he opened them again, the moon had emerged from behind a cloud, and he could see clearly the cruel trap into which he had accidentally stumbled. A pile of old boards, a careful stack of new lumber, a pick and shovel, a sand pile, heaps of fresh turned earth, and a concrete mixer. Well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled, but his feet wouldn't budge. In sudden terror, he tried to stand up, but his ankles were clutched by the concrete, too, and he fell back in the sand with a low moan. He lay still for several minutes, considering. Carefully, he pulled at his left foot. It was locked in a vise. He tugged even more desperately at his right foot. It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper and clawed at the rough concrete until his nails tore and his fingertips bled. The surface still felt damp, but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hooky began licking at his scuffed fingers. He shouldered the dog away and dug his hands into the sand pile to stop the bleeding. Hooky licked at his face, panting. Love, get away. He croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotted a short distance away, circled, and came back to a crouch down in the sand directly before Hoagie. Inching forward experimentally, Hoagie gripped fistfuls of the dry sand and cursed between his teeth while his eyes wandered over the sky. They came to rest on the sliver of light, the space station rising in the west, floating out in big bottomless, where the gang was Nichols and Guerrera and Lavrenti and Fats. And he wasn't forgetting Kesey, the rookie who'd replaced him. Kesey would have a rough time for a while, rough as a cob. The pit was no playground. The first time you went out of the station in a suit, the pit got you. Everything was falling and you fell with it. Everything. The skeletons of steel, the tire shaped station, the spheres and docks and nightmare shapes, all tied together by umbilical cables and flexible tubes like some crazy sea thing. They seemed floating in a black ocean with its tentacles bound together by drifting strands in the dark tide that bore it. Everything was pain, bright or dead black, and it wheeled around you and you went nuts trying to figure which way was down. In fact, it took you months to teach your body that all ways were down and that the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintive sound in the wind and froze to listen. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before he got the significance of it. It hit him where he lived, and he began jerking frantically at his encased feet and sobbing low in his throat. They'd hear him if he kept that up. He stopped and covered his ears to close out the cry of his first born. A light went on in the house, and when it went off again, the infant's cry had ceased. Another rocket went up from the station and he cursed it. Space was a disease, and he had it. Help. He cried out suddenly. I'm stuck. Help me. Help me. He knew he was yelling hysterically at the sky and fighting the relentless concrete that clutched his feet, and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the house again and he heard faint sounds. The stirring about woke the baby again, and once more the infant's wail came on the breeze. Make the kids shut up. Make the kids shut up. But that was no good. It wasn't the kid's fault. It wasn't Marie's fault. No father's allowed in space, they said. But it wasn't their fault either. They were right, and he had only himself to blame. The kid was an accident, but that didn't change anything. Not a thing in the world. It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with a family. But what was a man going to do? Take a skinning knife, boy, and make yourself a eunuch? But that was no good either. They needed bulls out there in the pit, not steers. And when a man came down from a year's hitch, what was he going to do live in a lonely shack and read books for kicks. Because you were a man you sought out a woman, and because she was a woman she got a kid and that was the end of it. It was nobody's fault. No bodies at all. He stared at the red eye of Mars low in the southwest. They were running out there now, and next year he would have been on the long, long run. But there was no use thinking about it. Next year and the years after belong to little Hoagie. He sat there with his feet locked in the solid concrete of the footing, staring out into big bottomless, while his son's cry came from the house and the Hauptman Menfolk came wading through the tall grass in search of someone who had cried out. His feet were stuck tight and he wouldn't ever get them out. He was sobbing softly when they found him. End of the hoofer by walter m. Miller, jr.

Martians Never Die this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Barry Eads Martians Never Die by Lucius Daniel it was a wonderful bodyguard. No bark, no bite, no sting. Just conversion of the enemy. At 3:15, a young man walked into the circular brick building and took a flattened pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Mr. Stern? He asked, throwing away the empty package. Stern looked with hard eyes at the youthful reporter. He recognized the type. So they're sending around cubs now, he said. I'm no cub. I've been on the paper a whole year. The reporter protested and then stopped, realizing his annoyance had betrayed him. Only a year. The first time they sent their best man. This ain't the first time, said the young man, assuming a bored look. It's the fourth time. And next year I don't think anybody will come at all. Why should they? Why? Because they might be able to make it. Burl spoke up. Something must have happened before. Stern watched the reporter drink in burl's loveliness. Well, Mrs. Curtis, the young man said, everyone has it figured out that Dr. Curtis got stuck in the fourth dimension or else lost or died. Maybe even Einstein can't work off the stellar currents your husband was depending on. It's very simple, replied Burl, but I can't explain it intelligibly. I wish you could have talked to Dr. Curtis. Why is it that we have to come out here just once a year to wait for him? Is that how the fourth dimension works? It's the only time when the stellar currents permit the trip back to Earth, and it's not the fourth dimension. Vide was always irritated when anyone would talk about his traveling to Mars. In the fourth dimension it's interdimensional, stern put in. And you're his broker? Asked the reporter, throwing his cigarette down on the brick floor and stepping on it. You're his old friend from college days, handled his financial affairs and helped him raise enough money to build his machine. Yes, stern replied a little pompously. It was through my efforts that several wealthy men took an interest in the machine so that Dr. Curtis did not have to bear the entire expense himself. Yeah, yeah. The reporter side. I read an old story on it before I came here. Now I'm out of cigarettes. He looked hopefully at Stern. Stern returned the look coldly. There's a store where you can buy some about three blocks down the road. Is that the room where he's expected to materialize with his machine? The reporter pointed to an inner door. Yes. Dr. Curtis wanted to be sure no one would be injured. This inner circular room was built first. Then he had the outer wall put up as an added precaution. The circular passageway we're in leads all around the old room, but this doorway is the only entrance. And what are those holes in the top of the door for if he returns? We can tell by the displaced air rushing out. Then the door will open automatically. And when is the return scheduled for? Asks the reporter. 3, 47 and 29 seconds. If it happens, the reporter added skeptically. And if it doesn't, we have to wait another year. Optimum conditions occur just once a year. Well, I'm going out to get some cigarettes. I've got time and probably nothing to wait for. I'll return, though. He walked briskly through the outer door. This is the hardest part of the year, especially now. Suppose he did come back, burl said plaintively. You don't have to worry, stern assured her. Clyde himself said that if he didn't come back the second year, he might not make it at all. Stern opened his gold case now and offered Burl a cigarette. She shook her head, but he made two trial runs in it first and came back. That was for a short distance only. That is a short distance astronomically. Figuring for Mars was another story. Maybe he missed the planet and oh, don't. It's just not knowing that I can't stand. Well, he said dryly, we'll know in. He stopped and looked at his wristwatch. In just about 15 minutes. I can't wait, she moaned. He put his arm around her. Relax. Take it easy, and stop worrying. It'll just be like last time. Not the last time at all. We hadn't. As soon as we are able to leave here, he said, drawing her close and squeezing her gently, I'll take steps to have him declared legally dead. Then we'll get married. That's not much of a proposal. She smiled. But I guess I'll have to accept you. You have Clyde's power of attorney, and we'll be rich, richer than ever. I'll be able to use some of my own ideas about the investments. As a matter of fact, I have already. And he frowned slightly. We have enough, burl said quickly. Don't try to speculate. You know how Clyde felt about that. But he spent so damn much on the machine. I had to make back those expenses somehow. Steps sounded outside and they drew apart. The reporter came in with a companion of about his own age. Better wipe the lipstick off, he grinned. It's almost time for something to happen. Stern dabbed at his mouth angrily with his handkerchief. At first the sound was so soft that it could hardly be heard, but soon a whistling grew until it became a threat to the eardrums. The reporters looked at each other with glad, excited eyes. The whistling stopped abruptly and slowly the door opened. The reporters rushed in immediately. Burl grip Stern's hand convulsively. He's come back. Yes, but that mustn't change our plans, Burl, dear. But Al. Oh, why were we so foolish? Not foolish, dear. Not at all foolish. Now we have to go in. Inside the room was the large sphere of metalloy. It had lost its original gleam and was stained and battered, standing silent, closed, enigmatic. Where is the door? Called the first reporter. The sphere rested on a number of metal stilts reaching out from the lower hemisphere, which held it about three feet from the floor like a great pincushion turned upside down. Slowly a round section of the sphere's wall swung outward and steps descended as they touched the floor. Both reporters, caught by the same idea, sprinted for it and fought to see which would climb it first. Wait. Shouted Stern. The reporters stopped their scuffling and followed Stern's gaze. Something old and leathery and horrible was emerging from the circular doorway. Several tentacles, like so many snakes, slid around the handrail, which ran down the steps. Then at the top, it paused. Stern felt an immediate and unreasoning hate for the thing, whatever it was, a hate so strong that he forgot to feel fear. It seemed to him to combine the repulsive qualities of a spider and a toad. The body, fat and repugnant, was covered by a loose skin, dull and leathery, and the fatness seemed to be pulled downward below the lower tentacles like an insect's body, until it was wider at the bottom than at the top. Like a salt shaker, Stern thought. It turned its head. It had no neck. The loose skin of the body just turned with it and looked back. Inside the sphere. The head resembled a toad's, but a long trident tongue slid in and out, quickly, changing the resemblance to that of a malformed snake from the interior. Dr. Curtis appeared beside the creature and stood there vaguely for a moment. Stern noticed that his clothes seemed just as new as one he had left, but he had grown a long, untrimmed beard and his face had a vacant expression, as if he were hypnotized. The creature looked upward at Curtis, who was head and shoulders taller, and its resemblance changed again in Stern's mind, so that now it looked like a dog, at least in attitude. From its mouth came a low hissing noise. Curtis looked down at the dog spider toad, his eyes slowly beginning to focus. The creature wiggled like a seal with a fish in sight, then slid and bumped down the steps with Curtis following him. Clyde. Cried Burl. And rushed toward Curtis. The outstretched tentacles of the beast stopped her, but at a touch from Curtis they fell away, and Burl was in his arms. Stern watched the scene sourly and with rage in his heart. Why hadn't Clyde waited another year? Then nothing could have changed things. Now he would lose not only Burl, but the management of the money that was left and the marketing of new patents on the machine. Curtis did not approve of speculation, especially when it lost money. You've changed, Clyde, burl was saying as she hugged him. What is the matter? Do you need a doctor? No, I don't want a doctor. But I have to get home, said Curtis. Stern felt anger again, beating in his brain like heavy surf on a beach. Curtis was sick. The least he could have done was die. Well, maybe he still would, and if he didn't, he could be helped to. Stern saw the beast looking at him intently, malvolently. Its face might have looked almost human now that it was so close, if it had possessed eyebrows and hair. As it was, its nose rose abruptly and flared into two really enormous nostrils, but its mouth looked small and wrinkled, like that of an old grandmother without any teeth. They turned to the doorway without noticing the absence of the reporters, who had long since run off to telephone and get photographers. Curtis walked slowly. He would stop for a moment look about as if expecting something entirely different, and then he would move forward again. They all got into the car, Curtis and Burl on the front seat, with Burl driving and Stern and the creature in the rear. As Burl drove, Stern looked savagely at the back of Curtis's head, but he felt the beast staring at him balefully. Could it be a mind reader? That was ridiculous. How could anything that couldn't speak read a person's mind? He turned to study it. The Martian, if that was what it was, had only six tentacles, three on each side. The lower ones were heavy and almost as thick as legs. The upper ones were small and were obviously used as hands, while it was possible that the middle ones could be used either way. A series of suction cups or sucking pads were at the end of each tentacle. With equipment like this, it could walk right up the side of a building, except perhaps for the higher gravity of Earth. Stern could smell it now, a dry desert smell, and that made it more revolting than ever. They were born to hate each other. When they got home, Burl was all saliciousness, the way a woman is when she has a man to impress, Stern thought. Just sit right here in your old chair, she told Curtis, and I'll call a doctor. Then I'll put some water on to heat. But first she knelt by his side and laid her head on his breast. Oh, darling, she said with a sob. Why did you wait so long? I've missed you so. A very good act, Stern told himself bitterly. Without believing it at all. She got up and turned towards Stern. Will you help me get some water on, Al? She asked. I'm going to phone. He went into the kitchen. He knew where the kettle was, the refrigerator, the mixings. He could hear her dialing. And then, before he got the kettle on the burner, she came inside and closed the kitchen door. Clyde's sick and I have to take care of him, she said anxiously. It wasn't entirely the money, he confessed to himself now. He hated the situation, but he had to give in. On the surface anyway. Okay, let's forget the whole thing, he said. Oh, Al, dear, I knew you'd understand. I've got to go back now and try the phone again. I got a busy signal. Stern followed her, still rankling at the way Curtis had forced Burl to live while he spent so generously on his own expensive interests. Shortly after their marriage, he had built a home for Burl and himself in an exclusive suburb on a hilly bit of land with a deep ravine at the back, but it was small, and Burl had not even been allowed maids except when they entertained, which was seldom. Soon he would change all that, Stern told himself. They had not dared to while Clyde was away. In the modern living room, Curtis sprawled in his easy chair as though he hadn't moved since they had placed him there, but his air of abstraction seemed to have increased. Before him sat the beast, looking, Stern thought, more like a dog than ever. Its head wasn't cocked to one side, but that, less than its alien appearance, was the one thing to spoil the illusion. Tires screeched in the driveway. While Burl was still at the telephone, Stern went to the front door, closed it, and put the chain bolt in place. The back door would still be locked, and they would hardly try to force the screen windows. Heavy steps pounded up the front walk. Did Dr. Curtis really get back? The first man shot out. The one who followed had a camera. Dr. Curtis has returned. Stern spoke through the opening of the front door, which the chain permitted, but his physical condition won't permit questioning, at least until his doctor has seen him. Did he really bring back a Martian? We want to see the Martian anyway. We can't have Dr. Curtis disturbed in any way until after his physician has examined him, stern said bluntly. Is he in there? Will give you a report when we're ready. A second car pulled up to the house as Stern shut the front door and went to check the rear one. When he came back, flashes from the window showed the cameraman was trying to take pictures through the glass. Stern drew the shades. Well, poor Shot Owl. So you had to come with me, curtis was saying to the monster. The beast wiggled again as it had on the steps of the machine. A tail to wag wasn't really necessary, Stern decided, when there was so much body to wiggle. Shot Owl, as Curtis addressed it, seemed to brighten in the darkened room. Poor dear Shot Owl, said Curtis gently. It was unmistakable now. The skin actually brightened and emitted a sort of eerie, luminous glow. Curtis leaned over and put his hand on what would have been Shot Owl's neck. The loose skin wreathed joyously and snake like. The whole body responded in rippling waves of emotion. Gul lup, the monster said wasn't the right word, but it was not a bark, growl, mew, cheep, squawk, or snarl. Gulp was as close as Stern could come, a dry and almost painful gulping noise that expressed devotion in some totally foreign way that Stern found revolting. He realized that the phone had been ringing for some time he disconnected it and then heard loud knocking. It's Dr. Anderson. He heard a man's voice calling impatiently and angrily. Cautiously, Stern opened the door, but his care was needless. With a few testy remarks, the doctor quickly cleared a space about the door and entered. He went at once to Curtis with only a single shocked glance at shot owl. Where the devil have you been? And where in hell did you get that thing? He asked as he unbuttoned Curtis's coat and shirt. Since playing with his pet, Curtis seemed more awake. I went to Mars, he said. They're incredibly advanced in ways we hardly guess. We're entirely off the track. I just came back to explain how Your friend doesn't look very intelligent, the doctor answered, busy with his stethoscope. Animals like shot owl are used for steeds or pets, said Curtis. The Landoni are pretty much like mankind, only smaller. Why did you stay so long? After I left, the Landoni told me they were going to shut off any possible communication with Earth until we advance more. They think we're at a very dangerous animal like stage of development. Once I came home, I knew I couldn't go back, so I wanted to learn as much as I could before I left them. Stand up for a minute, ordered the doctor. Not right now, said Curtis. I'm too tired. You better get to bed then. I think not. It's merely caused by the difference in gravity and heavier air. The Landoni told me to expect it, but not to lie down. After a while I'll try to take a short walk. So Clyde wasn't going to die after all, Stern thought. He had come home with a message. And remembering the determination of the man, Stern knew he wouldn't die until he had given it. But he had to die. He would die. And who was competent enough to know that it wasn't from the shock of having come home to denser air and a heavier gravity? There were ways. An oxygen tube, for example. Pure oxygen to be inhaled in his sleep by lungs accustomed to a rarefied atmosphere or stimulants in his food, so that would look like a little too much exertion on a heart already overtaxed. There were ways. Stern's scalp tingled unpleasantly and he saw the Martian looking at him intently, coldly. In that moment, Stern knew without question that his mind was being read. Not his idea, perhaps, but his intent toward Curtis. The Martian would have to be attended to first. Is it true, Dr. Anderson? Will he be all right? Burl was sitting on the arm of the chair next to Shot Owl. And she was looking at Clyde almost as adoringly as the Martian. A few hours had undone all that Sterne had managed to do in four years. If Stern had been uncertain, that alone would have decided him. I think so, said the doctor. He seems to be uncomfortable rather than in pain. I'll send you a prescription for his heart if he breathes too heavily. Be sure, though, not to give him more than one pill in three hours. Of course, Burl was never that solicitous towards Stern. And you'll be in quarantine here until the government decides what, if any, diseases he and the Martian may have brought back with them. None at all. Dr. Curtis's voice was markedly more slurred and he stared intently with unblinking eyes at the blank wall. Well, that's something we can't tell yet. We'll have to keep out the press and television men anyway because of your health. If I'm not detained, I'll be back tomorrow morning. Call me if there's any change. On his way out, the physician was besieged by reporters and photographers balked of better subjects. Shortly after the doctor's departure, police sirens came screaming up. The men waiting around the house were moved outside the gate and a guard was set at every entrance. Later a messenger came, was interrogated by the police sergeant who took a small package from him and brought it to the house. Medicine, the sergeant said, handing it gingerly to Stern. You can't leave here without permission. And he walked hurriedly away. This might be the answer. Stern had a good idea of what the doctor had prescribed. Something he said for the heart. It must have been pretty powerful, too, for the doctor to warn against an overdose. Two at once might do it. Or another two a little later. But there was Shot Owl. Al, said Burl, stay with Clyde while I fix something for him to eat. She was more beautiful than ever. Emotions, he thought, Riley, become a woman. They thrive on them in a few minutes. A woman could change like this. It was enough to make a man lose faith in the sex. Certainly, he said easily. Curtis seemed to sleep with wide open eyes, gazing blankly at the far wall. Shot Owl sat motionless before him, watchful as a dog, yet still like a snake or spider, patiently waiting. Didn't the beast ever sleep? A drink was what Stern needed. He went to the closet and poured a double brandy. He sipped it slowly as delicious fire ran down his gullet and warmed his stomach. He felt his tension ease and a sense of confidence pervade his mind. He needn't worry. He was always successful, except that once with the stocks, and he had calm nerves. There were guards out in front now, in khaki uniform. The governor must have called out a company of the National Guard. Stern noticed some state police, too. The house was well guarded on the three sides, surrounded by a neat white picket fence in the back. The severe drop into the ravine made guards there unnecessary. It was dark before Dr. Curtis moved. Burl was watching him. She had little to say to Stern. Now how about some broth, dear? She asked Curtis immediately. Slowly, Clyde's eyes focused on her. He smiled. Let's try it. He let Burl feed him, sitting on a stool beside his chair and being unnecessarily motherly and coddling about it for a while after he had eaten, Clyde sat in his chair, looking at Burl with his new and oddly gentle smile. It seemed to activate some hidden response in her, for she glowed with tenderness. I suppose, curtis slurred. I ought to try to walk now. Let me help. Stern rose and crossed the room. The Martian rustled like snakes in the weeds and hissed. Burl said without suspicion, thank you, Al. I knew you'd do whatever you could for Clyde, and she rested her hand trustingly on his arm. What was passed was past. Not to be wept over, not to be regretted. Like to walk out in the back for the air? Stern asked. The breeze is coming from that direction. That will do very well, said Curtis, obviously not caring a bit. Stern helped Curtis from his chair and supported him under the arm. They went out the back door, the Martian slithering after them. It was cooler in the garden. Stern felt a renewed surge of self confidence. The stars. Curtis stopped to look upward. The night was almost cloudless and there was no moon. The house hid any view of the crowds and the guards holding them back. They were alone in the dark. Curtis started forward again, with the Martian scraping along behind. It would never let Curtis out of its sight as long as it lived. That much was clear at a Stern. He guided Curtis to a seat close to the ravine, a favorite spot. Always the Martian was a step or a slither behind, and when Curtis sat down, Shot Owl sat between his beloved master and the precipitous drop. Stern picked up a rock from the rock garden and tossed it into the ravine. The Martian did not take his eyes off Curtis. Stern picked up a larger rock, a sharp pointed one. He was behind the Martian, and Curtis was looking away unseeingly into the night. It was simple, really, and well executed, the beast's skull bashed in easily being merely thin bones for a thin atmosphere and light Gravitation. A push sent it over the edge of the ravine. Curtis sat unnoticing, and the traffic jam out front created more than enough confusion to drown out any noise from the creature's fall. Stern's palm stung. He realized that before the Martian had pitched over the ravine, a suction pad had for a moment caught at his hand. It had done the beast no good, though curiously, the Martian had not guarded itself. Only Curtis, sitting with its back to Stern, had really invited attack. The mind reading ability was just something Stern had nervously imagined. The police would not be able to tell his rock from any other. The heavy body, its ungainly movement and thin bones would explain everything. Besides, there was no motive for killing the Martian. And what penalty could there be? It couldn't be called murder. Stern looked at the palm of his right hand, the one that had held the rock. It stung a little, but in the darkness he couldn't see it. A stinger of some kind. Like a bee, probably. To hell with it. Couldn't be fatal, or Curtis would have warned them about it. The Martian had been walking by the ravine and had clumsily fallen in. He would report it after he got Curtis back into the house. Curtis was easy to arouse and didn't seem to miss. Shot owl. Stern maneuvered him to the living room, where he sank into a chair and fell into his mood of abstraction. Burl must be in the kitchen cleaning up, Stern supposed. Perhaps he had better put some kind of germicide on his palm just to ward off infection. He looked at Curtis, relaxed in the chair. Clyde suddenly appeared oddly boyish to him, hardly different than he had been in college days. For a moment, Stern felt again the adolescent admiration and fellowship he had felt so strongly then. Don't be stupid, he told himself angrily. This man had the money and the woman that had almost belonged to him. Moving slowly, Stern deliciously savored the aroma of his triumph. On the table was the bottle. Clyde would be easy, unsuspecting, kindly. It wouldn't be safe to marry Burl right away. But there could never be any suspicion. No need to hurry. For a moment he wanted to watch Curtis. He wondered what kind of pictures Clyde was seeing on the blank wall. Martian landscapes, the strange Landoni. Too bad he hadn't stayed on Mars. Stern couldn't help having a friendly feeling for his old college chum. Pity, too, for what must happen to him soon. This was no way to kill anyone. He was growing old and soft. Nevertheless, Curtis did have a noble and striking face. Funny, he had never noticed it. Before it seemed to glow with an uncanny peace. Unnoticed, the numbness crept from Stern's palm along his right arm, and a prickly sensation appeared in his right leg. It was funny to read a person's thoughts like this. Love flowed from Curtis like the warm blow of a burning candle. A sort of halo had formed from the light above his head, symbolic. From Curtis came wave after wave of love. He could feel it pulsating toward him, and he felt his own heart turn over. Answer it. Yes, Curtis was noble. Stern sank cross legged on the floor beside Curtis and gazed at him. The prickly sensation had ascended from his leg up through his chest and to his neck. But it didn't matter now. For a last time he could feel the spell of that perfect friendship before the end. What end? Why should there be any end to this eternal moment? Curtis noticed him now. Those half closed eyes were strangely penetrating. They looked him through. Well, Al, he said. So you killed Shot Owl. Stern looked at the kindly godlike face and loved it. Killed whom? Poor Al, curtis said. He leaned over and laid his hand on the back of Stern's neck, fondling it much as one would a dog. Poor old Al Stern's heart leaped in joy. This was ecstasy. It must be expressed. It demanded expression. If he had possessed a tail, he would have wagged it. Perhaps there was a word for that bliss. There was, and with immense satisfaction he spoke it. Gul Lup, he said. End of Martians Never Die By Lucius Daniel.

Monkey on His Back by Charles V. De Vette this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times Monkey on His Back by Charles V. De Vet under the cloud of cast off identities lay the shape of another man. Was it himself? He was walking endlessly down a long glass walled corridor. Bright sunlight slanted in through one wall on the blue knapsack across his shoulders. Who he was and what he was doing here was clouded. The truth lurked in some corner of his consciousness, but it was not reached by surface awareness. The corridor opened at last into a large, high domed room much like a railway station or an air terminal. He walked straight ahead. At the sight of him, a man leaned negligently against a stone pillar to his right, but within vision, straightened and barked an order to him. Halt. He lengthened his stride but gave no other sign. Two men hurried through a doorway of a small anteroom to his left, calling to him. He turned away and began to run. Shouts and the sound of charging feet came from behind him. He cut to the right, running toward the escalator to the second floor. Another pair of men were hurrying down two steps at a stride. With no break in pace, he veered into an opening beside the escalator. At the first turn, he saw that the aisle merely circled the stairway, coming out into the depot again on the other side. It was a trap. He glanced quickly around him. At the rear of the space was a row of lockers for traveler use. He slipped a coin into a pay slot, opened the zipper on his bag, and pulled out a flat briefcase. It took him only a few seconds to push the case into the compartment, lock it, and slide the key along the floor beneath the locker. There was nothing to do after that except wait. The men pursuing him came hurtling around the turn in the aisle. He kicked his knapsack to one side, spreading his feet wide with an instinctive motion. Until that instant he had intended to fight. Now he swiftly reassessed the odds. There were five of them, he saw. He should be able to incapacitate two or three and break out. But the fact that they had been expecting him meant that others would very probably be waiting outside. His best course now was to sham ignorance. He relaxed. He offered no resistance as they reached him. They were not gentlemen. A tall ruffian, copper brown face damp with perspiration and body oil, grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him back against the lockers. As he shifted his weight to keep his footing, someone drove a fist into his face. He started to raise his hands at a hard, flat object crashed against the side of his skull. The starch went out of his legs. Do you make anything out of it? The psychoanalyst Milton Bergstrom asked. John Zarwell shook his head. Did I talk while I was under? Oh yes, you were supposed to. That way I follow pretty well what you're reenacting. How does it tie in with what I told you before? Bergstrom's neat boned, fair skinned face betrayed no emotion other than an introspective stillness of his normally alert gaze. I see no connection, he decided, his words once again precise and meticulous. We don't have enough to go on. Do you feel able to try another comb analysis this afternoon? Afternoon yet? I don't see why not. Zarwell opened the color of his shirt. The day was hot and the room had no air conditioning, still a rare luxury on St Martin's the office window was open, but it let in no freshness, only the mildly rank odor that pervaded all the planet's habitable areas. Good. Bergstrom rose. The serum is quite harmless, John. He maintained a professional diversionary chatter as he administered the drug. A scopolamine derivative that's been well tested. The floor beneath Zara well's feet assumed abruptly the near transluent consistency of a damp sponge. It rose in a foot high wave and rolled gently toward the far wall. Berkshire continued talking with practiced urbanity when psychiatry was a less exact science. His voice went on, seeming to come from a great distance. A doctor had to spend weeks, sometimes months or years, interviewing a patient. If he was skilled enough, he could sort the relevancies from the vast amount of chaff. We are able now, with the help of the serum, to confine our discourses to matters cogent to the patient's trouble. The floor continued its transmutation, and Zarwell sank deep into viscous depths. Lie back and relax. Don't. The words tumbled down from above. They faded, were gone. Zarwell found himself standing on a vast plain. There was no sky above and no horizon. Prison in the distance. He was in a place without space or dimension. There was nothing here except himself and the gun that he held in his hand. A weapon beautiful in its efficient simplicity. He should know all about the instrument, its purpose and workings. But he could not bring his thoughts into rational focus. His forehead creased with his mental effort. Abruptly the unreality about him shifted perspective. He was approaching, not walking but merely shortening the space between them. The man who held the gun, the man who was himself the other himself, drifted nearer also, as though drawn by a mutual attraction. The man with the gun raised his weapon and pressed the trigger with the action. The perspective shifted again. He was watching the face of the man he shot jerk and twitch, expand and contract. The face was unharmed, yet it was no longer the same, no longer his own features. The stranger face smiled approvingly at him. Odd, bergstrom said. He brought his hands up and joined the tips of his fingers against his chest. But it's another piece in the jigsaw. In time it will fit into place. He paused. It means no more to you than the first, I suppose. No, zarwell answered. He was not a talking man, Bergstrom reflected. It was more than reticence, however. The man had a hard granite core only partially concealed by his presence. Perplexity. He was a man who could handle himself well in an emergency. Bergstrom shrugged, dismissing his strayed thoughts. I expected as much. A quite normal first phase of treatment he straightened a paper on his desk. I think that will be enough for today. Twice in one sitting is about all we ever try. Otherwise, some particular episode might cause undue mental stress and set up a block. He glanced down at his appointment pad. Tomorrow too, then. Zarwell grunted acknowledgment and pushed himself to his feet, apparently unaware that his shirt clung damply to his body. The sun was still high when Zarwell left the analyst's office. The white marble of the city's his buildings shimmered in the afternoon heat, squat and austere as giant tree trunks, pockmarked and gray, mottled with windows. Zarwell was careful not to rest his hand on the flesh searing surface of the stone. The evening meal hour was approaching when he reached the flats on the way to his apartment. The streets of the old section were near deserted. The only sounds he heard as he passed were the occasional cry of a baby chronically uncomfortable in the day's heat, and the lowing of imported cattle waiting in a nearby shed to be shipped to the country. All St. Martin's has a distinctive smell as of an arid, dried out swamp with a faint taint of fish. But in the flats the odor changes. Here is the smell of factories, warehouses, and trading marts, the smell of stale cooking drifting from the homes of the laborers and lower class techmen who lived there. Zarwell passed a group of smaller children playing a desultory game of lick, lick for pieces of candy and cigarettes. Slowly he climbed the stairs of a stone flat. He prepared a supper for himself, himself, and ate it without either enjoyment or distaste. He lay down fully clothed on his bed. The visit to the analyst had done nothing to dispel his ennui. The next morning when Zorwell awoke, he lay for a moment unmoving. The feeling was there again, like a scene waiting only to be gazed at directly to be perceived. It was as though a great wisdom lay at the edge of understanding. If he rested quietly, it would all come to him. Yet always, when his mind lost its sleep induced lethargy, the moment of near understanding slipped away. This morning, however, the sense of disorientation did not pass. With full wakefulness he achieved no understanding. But the strangeness did not leave his. As he sat up, he gazed about him. The room did not seem to be his own. The furnishings and the clothing he observed in a closet might have belonged to a stranger. He pulled himself from his blankets, his body moving with mechanical reaction. The slippers into which he put his feet were Larger than he had expected them to be. He walked about the small apartment. The place was familiar, but only as it would have been if he had studied it from blueprints. Not as though he lived there. The feeling was still with him when he returned to the psychoanalyst. The scene this time was more kaleidoscopic, less personal. A village was being ravaged. Men struggled and died in the streets. Zarwell moved among them, seldom taking part in the individual clashes, yet a moving force in the conflict. The background changed. He understood that he was on a different world. Here a city burned. Its resistance was nearing its end. Zarwell was riding a shaggy pony outside a high wall surrounding the stricken metropolis. He moved in and joined a party of short, bearded men, directing them as they battered at the wall with a huge log mounted on a many wheeled truck. The log broke a breach in the concrete, and the besiegers charged through, carrying back the defenders who sought vainly to plug the gap. Soon there would be rioting in the streets again, plundering and killing. Zorawell was not the leader of the invaders, only a lesser figure in the rebellion. But he had played a leading part in the planning of the strategy that led to the city's fall. The job had been well done. Time passed without visible break in the panorama. Now Zarwell was fleeing, pursued by the same bearded men who had been his comrades before. Still, he moved with the same firm purpose. Vigilant, resourceful, and well prepared for the eventuality that had befallen he made his escape without difficulty. He alighted from a spaceship on still another world, another shift in time, and the atmosphere of conflict engulfed him. Weary but resigned, he accepted it and did what he had to do. Bergstrom was regarding him with speculative scrutiny. You've had quite a past, apparently, he observed. Zarwell smiled with mild embarrassment. At least in my dreams. Dreams? Bergstrom's eyes widened in surprise. Oh, I beg your pardon. I must have forgotten to explain. This work is so routine to me that sometimes I forget it's all new to a patient. Actually, what you experienced under the drug were not dreams. They were recollections of real applications, episodes from your past. Zorwell's expression became wary. He watched Bergstrom closely. After a minute, however, he seemed satisfied, and he let himself settle back against the cushion of his chair. I remember nothing of what I saw, he observed. That's why you're here, you know, bergstrom answered. To help you remember. But everything under the drug is so haphazard. That's true. The recall episodes are always purely random, with no chronological sequence. Our problem will be to reassemble them in proper order later, or some particular scene may trigger a complete memory return. It is my considered opinion, Berkshire, buckstrom went on, that your lost memory will turn out to be no ordinary amnesia. I believe we will find that your mind has been tampered with. Nothing I've seen under the drug fits into the past. I do remember. That's what makes me so certain, bergstrom said confidently. You don't remember what we have shown to be true. Conversely, then, what you think you remember must be false. It must have been implanted there. But we can go into that later. For today, I think we have done enough. This episode was quite prolonged. I won't have any time off again until next weekend, zarwell reminded him. That's right. Bergstrom thought for a moment. We shouldn't let this hang too long. Could you come here after work tomorrow? I suppose I could. Fine, bergstrom said with satisfaction. I'll admit I'm considerably more than casually interested in your case by this time. A work truck picked Zarwell up the next morning, and he rode with a tech crew to the edge of the reclam area beside the belt, bringing ocean muck from the converter plant at the seashore. His bulldozer was waiting. He took his place behind the drive wheel and began working dirt down between windbreakers anchored in the rock along a makeshift road into the badlands. Trucks brought crushed lime and phosphorus to supplement the ocean sediment. The progress of life from the sea to the land was a mechanical process of this growing world. Nearly 200 years ago, when Earth established a colony on St. Martin's the land surface of the planet had been barren. Only its seas thrived with animal and vegetable life. The necessary machinery and technicians had been supplied by Earth, and the long struggle began to fit the world for human needs. When Zarwell arrived six months before, the vitalized area already explored extended 300 miles along the coast and 60 miles inland. And every day the progress continued. A large percentage of the energy and resources of the world were devoted to that essential expansion. The reclam crews filled and sodded the sterile rock, planted binding grasses, grain, and trees, and diverted rivers to keep it fertile. When there were no rivers to divert, they blasted out springs and lakes in the foothills to make their own. Biologists developed the necessary germ and insect life from what they found in the sea. Where that failed, they imported microorganisms from Earth. Three rubber tracked crawlers picked their way down from the mountains until they joined the road past crossing the belt. They were loaded with ore that would be smelted into metal for depleted earth or for other colonies. Short of Minerals, it was St. Martin's only export thus far. Zarwell pulled his sun helmet lower to better guard his hot, dry features. The wind blew continuously on St. Martin's but it furnished small relief from the the heat after its 3,000 mile journey across Scorched, sterile rock. It sucked the moisture from a man's body, bringing a membrane shrinking dryness to the nostrils as it was breathed. In. With it came also the cloying taste of limestone in a worker's mouth. Zarwell gazed idly about at the other laborers. Fully three quarters of them were barabza ridden. A cure for the skin fungus had not yet been found. The men's faces and hands were scabbed and red. The colony had grown to near self sufficiency would soon have a moderate prosperity, yet they still lacked adequate medical and research facilities. Not all the world's citizens were content. Bergstrom was waiting in his office when Xorwell arrived that evening. He was lying motionless on a hard cot with his eyes closed, yet with his every sense sharply quickened. Tentatively, he tightened small muscles in his arms and legs, across his wrists and thighs. He felt straps binding him to the cot. So that's our big bad man, a coarse voice above him observed caustically. He doesn't look so tough now, does he? It might have been better to kill him right away, a second, less confident voice said. It's supposed to be impossible to hold him. Don't be stupid. We just do what we're told. We'll hold him. What do you think they'll do with him? Execute him, I suppose, the harsh voice said matter of factly. They're probably just. Just curious to see what he looks like first. They'll be disappointed. Zarwell opened his eyes a slit to observe his surroundings. It was a mistake. He's out of it, the first speaker said, and Zarwell allowed his eyes to open fully. The voice he saw belonged to the big man who had bruised him against the locker at the spaceport. Irrelevantly, he wondered how he knew now that it had been a spaceport. His captors broad face jeered down at Zarwell. Have a good sleep? He asked with mock solicitude. Zarwell did not deign to acknowledge that he had heard. The big man turned. You can tell the chief he's awake, he said. Zarwell followed his gaze to where a younger man with a blonde lock of hair on his his forehead stood behind him. The youth nodded and went out while the other pulled a chair up to the side of Zarwell's cot. While their attention was away from him, Zara had unobtrusively loosened his bonds as much as possible with arm leverage. As the big man drew his chair nearer, he made the hand farthest from him tight and compact and worked it free of the leather loop. He waited. The big man belched. You're supposed to be great stuff in a situation like this, he said, his smoke tanned face splitting in a grin that revealed large square teeth. How about giving me a sample? You're a yellow livered bastard, zarwell told him. The grin faded from the oily face as the man stood up. He leaned over the cot and Zorwell's left hand shot up and locked about his throat, joined almost immediately by the right. The man's mouth opened and he tried to yell as he threw himself frantically backward. He clotted the hands about his neck. When that failed to break the grip, he suddenly reversed his weight and drove his fist at Zorwell's head. Zorwell pulled the struggling body down against his chest and held it there until all agitated movement ceased. He sat up then, letting the body slide to the floor. The straps about his thighs came loose with little effort. The analyst dabbed at his upper lip with a handkerchief. The episodes are beginning to tie together, he said with an attempt at nonchalance. The next couple should do it. Zarwell did not answer. His memory seemed on the point of complete return, and he sat quietly hopefully. However, nothing more came, and he returned his attention to his more immediate problem. Opening a button on his shirt, he pulled back a strip of plastic cloth just below his rib cage and took out a small flat pistol. He held it in the palm of his hand. He knew now why he always carried it. Bergstrom had his bad moment. You're not going to, he began. At the sight of his gun, he tried again. You must be joking. I have very little sense of humor, zarwell corrected him. You'd be foolish. Bergstrom obviously realized how close he was to death. Yet surprisingly, after the first start, he showed little fear. Zarwell had thought the man a bit soft, too, adjusted to a life of ease and some prestige to meet danger calmly. Curiosity restrained his trigger finger. Why would I be foolish? He asked. Your manager. Oath of inviolable confidence. Bergstrom shook his head. I know it's been broken before, but you need me. You're not through, you know. If you killed me. You'd still have to trust some other analyst. Is that the best you can do? No. Bergstrom was angry now. But use that logical mind you're supposed to have. Scenes before this have shown what kind of man you are. Just because this last happened here on St. Martin's makes little difference. If I was going to turn you into the police, I'd have done it for before this. Zarwell debated with himself the truth of what the other had said. Why didn't you turn me in? He asked. Because you're no mad dog killer. Now that the crisis seemed to be past, Bergstrom spoke more calmly, even allowed himself to relax. You're still pretty much in the fog about yourself. I read more in those comb analysis than you did. I even know who you are. Zara's eyebrows raised. Who am I? He asked, very interested now without attention. He put his pistol away in a trouser pocket. Bergstrom brushed the question aside with one hand. Your name makes little difference. You've used many. But you are an idealist. Your killings were necessary to bring justice to the places you visited. By now you're almost a legend among the human worlds. I'd like to talk more with you on that later. While Zara considered, Bergstrom pressed his advantage. One more scene might do it, he said. Should we try again? If you trust me, that is. Zarwell made his decision quickly. Go ahead, he answered. All Zarwell's attention seemed on the cigar he lit as he rode down the escalator. But he surveyed the terminal carefully over the rim of his hand. He spied no suspicious loungers behind the escalator. He groped along the floor beneath the lockers until he found his key. The briefcase was under his arm. A minute later, in the basement loft, he put a coin in the pay slot of a private compartment and went in. As he zipped open the briefcase, he surveyed his features in the mirror. A small muscle at the corner of one eye twitched spasmodically. One cheek wore a frozen quarter smile. 36 hours under the paralysis was longer than advisable. The muscles should be rested at least every 20 hours. Fortunately, his natural features would serve as an adequate disguise. Now he adjusted the ring setting on the pistol shaped instrument that he took from his case and carefully raid several small areas of his face, loosening muscles that had been tight too long. He sighed gratefully when he finished massaging his cheeks and forehead with considerable pleasure. Another glance in the mirror satisfied him with the changes that had been made. He turned to his briefcase again and exchanged the gun for a small syringe, which he pushed into a trouser pocket and a single edged razor blade. Removing his fiber cloth jacket, he slashed it into strips with the razor blade and flushed it down this disposal bowl. With the sleeves of his blouse rolled up, he had the appearance of a typical workman as he strolled from the compartment. Back at the locker, he replaced the briefcase and with a wad of gum glued the key to the bottom of the locker frame one step more. Taking the syringe from his pocket, he plunged the needle into his forearm and tossed the instrument down a waste chute. He took three more steps and paused uncertainly. When he looked about him, it was with the expression of a man waking from a vivid dream. Quite ingenious, graves murmured admiringly. You had your mind already preconditioned for this shot, but why would you deliberately give yourself amnesia? What better disguise than to believe the part you're playing? A good man must have done that job on your mind, bergstrom commented. I'd have hesitated to try it myself. It must have taken a lot of trust on your part. Trust and money, zarwell said dryly. Your memory's back, then? Zarwell nodded. I'm glad to hear that, bergstrom assured him. Now that you're well again, I'd like to introduce you to a man named Vernon Johnson. This world. Zarwell stopped him with an upraised hand. Good God, man, can't you see the reason for all this? I'm tired. I'm trying to quit. Quit? Bergstrom did not quite follow him. It started on my home colony, zarwell explained listlessly. A gang of hoods had taken over the government. I helped organize a movement to get them out. There was some bloodshed, but it went quite well. Several months later an unofficial envoy from another world asked several of us to give them a hand on the same kind of job. The political conditions there were rotten. We went with him again. We were successful. It seems I have a kind of genius for that sort of thing. He stretched out his legs and regarded them thoughtfully. I learned then the truth of Russell's saying, when the oppressed win their freedom, they are as oppressive as their former masters. When they went bad, I oppose them. This time I failed, but I escaped again. I have quite a talent for that. Also, I'm not a professional do Gooder. Zarwell's tone appealed to Bergstrom for understanding. I have only a normal man's indignation at injustice, and now I've done my first share. Yet wherever I go. The word eventually gets out and I'm right back in a fight again. It's like the proverbial monkey on my back. I can't get rid of it. He rose. That disguise and memory planting were supposed to get me out of it. I should have known it wouldn't work. But this time I'm not going to be drawn back in. You and your Vernon Johnson can do your own revolting, halting. I'm through. Bergstrom did not argue as he left. Restlessness drove Zarwell from his flat the next day, a legal holiday on St. Martin's at a railed off lot, he stopped and loitered in the shadow of an adjacent building, watching workmen drilling an excavation for a new structure. When a man strolled to his side and stood watching, watching the workman, he was not surprised. He waited for the other to speak. I'd like to talk to you if you can spare a few minutes, the stranger said. Zarwell turned and studied the man without answering. He was medium tall, with the body of an athlete. Though perhaps 10 years beyond the age of sports, he had a manner of contained energy. Your Johnson? He asked. The man nodded. Zarwell tried to feel the anger he wanted to feel, but somehow it would not come. We have nothing to talk about was the best he could manage. Then will you just listen after? I'll leave if you tell me to. Against his will, he found himself liking the man and wanting at least to be courteous. He inclined his head to toward a curb waistbox with a flat top. Should we sit? Johnson smiled agreeably, and they walked over to the box and sat down. When this colony was first founded, johnson began without preamble, the administrative body was a governor and a council of 12. Their successors were to be elected biennially. At first they were. Then things changed. We haven't had an election now in the last 23 years. St. Martin's is beginning to prosper, yet the only ones receiving the benefits are the rulers. The citizens work 12 hours a day. They are poorly housed, poorly fed, poorly clothed. They Zorwil found himself not listening as Johnson's voice went on. The story was always the same him. But why did they always try to drag him into their troubles? Why hadn't he chosen some other world on which to hide? The last question prompted a new thought. Just why had he chosen St. Martin's was it only a coincidence? Or had he subconsciously, at least, picked this particular world? He had always considered himself the unwilling subject of glib persuaders. But mightn't some inner compulsion of his own have put the monkey on his back. And we need your help. Johnson had finished his speech. Zarwell gazed up at the bright sky. He pulled in a long breath and let it out in a sigh. What are your plans so far? He asked wearily. End of Monkey on His Back by Charles B. De Vet. The Moon Is Green by Fritz Leiber this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times the Moon Is Green by Fritz Leiber Anybody who wanted to escape death could, by paying a very simple price. Denial of Life Effie, what the devil are you up to? Her husband's voice, chopping through her mood of terrified rapture, made her heart jump like a startled cat. Yet by some miracle of feminine self control, her body did not show a tremor. Dear God, she thought. He mustn't see it. It's so beautiful. And he always kills beauty. I'm just looking at the moon, she said listlessly. It's green. Mustn't. Mustn't see it. And now, with luck, he wouldn't. For the face, as if it also heard and sensed the menace in the voice, was moving back from the window's glow into the outside dark, but slowly, reluctantly, and still fawn, like pleading, cajoling, tempting, and incredibly beautiful. Close the shutters at once, you little fool, and come away from the window. Green as a beer bottle, she went on dreamily. Green as emeralds, green as leaves with sunshine striking through them, and green grass to lie on. She couldn't help saying those last words. They were her token to the face, even though it couldn't hear. Effie, she knew it, that last words tone meant. Wearily, she swung shut the ponderous lead inner shutters and drove home the heavy bolts that hurt her fingers. It always did. But he mustn't know that you know that those shutters are not to be touched. Not for five more years, at least. I only wanted to look at the moon, she said, turning around. And then it was all gone. The face, the night, the moon, the magic, and she was back in the grubby, stale little hole, facing an angry, stale little man. It was then that the eternal thud of the air conditioning fans and the crackle of the electrostatic precipitators that sieved out the dust reached her consciousness again, like the bite of a dentist drill. Only wanted to look at the moon, he mimicked her in falsetto. Only wanted to die like a little fool and make me that much more ashamed of you. Then his voice went gruff and professional. Here, count yourself. She silently took the Geiger counter he held at arm's length, waited until it settled down to a steady ticking, slower than a clock due only to cosmic rays and indicating nothing dangerous, and then began to comb her body with the instrument, first her head and shoulders, then out along her arms and back along their underside. There was something oddly voluptuous about her movements. Although her features were gray and sagging, the ticking did not change its tempo until she came to her waist. Then it suddenly spurted, clicking faster and faster. Her husband gave an excited grunt, took a quick step forward, froze. She goggled for a moment in fear, then grinned foolishly, dug in the pocket of her grimy apron, and guiltily pulled out a wrist watch. He grabbed it as it dangled from her fingers, saw that it had a radium dial, cursed, heaved it up as if to smash it on the floor, but instead put it carefully on the table. You imbecile, you incredible imbecile, he softly chanted to himself through clenched teeth, with eyes half closed. She shrugged faintly, put the Geiger counter on the table, and stood there, slumped. He waited until the chanting had soothed his anger before speaking again. He said quietly, I do suppose you still realize the sort of world you're living in. She nodded slowly, staring at nothingness. Oh, she realized all right, realized only too well. It was the world that hadn't realized, the world that had gone on stockpiling hydrogen bombs, the world that had put those bombs and cobalt shells, although it had promised it wouldn't because the cobalt made them much more terrible and cost no more. The world that had started throwing those bombs, always telling itself that it hadn't thrown enough of them yet to make the air really dangerous, with the deadly radioactive dust that came from the cobalt thrown them and kept on throwing until the danger danger point when air and ground would become fatal to all human life, was approached. Then for about a month the two great enemy groups had hesitated, and then each, unknown to the other, had decided it could risk one last gigantic and decisive attack without exceeding the danger point. It had been planned to strip off the cobalt cases, but the but someone forgot, and then there wasn't time. Besides, the military scientists of each group were confident that the lands of the other had got the most dust. The two attacks came within an hour of each other. After that the fury, the fury of doomed men who think only of taking with them as many as possible of the Enemy. And in this case, they hoped all the fury of suicides who know they have botched up life for good. The fury of cocksure men who realize they have been outsmarted by fate, the enemy and themselves, and know that they will never be able to improvise a defense when arraigned before the High Court of History. And whose unadmitted hope is that there will be no High Court of history left to arraign them. More cobalt bombs were dropped during the Fury than in all the preceding years of the war. After the Fury, the Terror. Men and women with death sifting into their bones, through their nostrils and skin, fighting for bare survival under a dust hazed sky that played fantastic tricks with the light of the sun and moon. Like the dust from Krakatoa that drifted around the world for years. Cities, countryside and air were alike poisoned alive with deadly radiation. The only realistic chance for continued existence was to retire for the five or 10 years. The radiation would remain deadly to some well sealed and radiation and shielded place that must also be copiously supplied with food, water, power and a means of air conditioning. Such places were prepared by the far seeing, seized by the stronger, defended by them in turn against the desperate hordes of the dying. Until there were no more of those. After that, only the waiting. The endurance. A mole's existence without beauty or tenderness, but with fear and guilt as constant companions. Never to see the sun, to walk among the trees or even know if there were still trees. Oh yes. She realized what the world was like. You understand too, I suppose, that we were allowed to reclaim this ground level apartment only because the committee believed us to be responsible people. And because I've been making a damn good showing lately. Yes, Hank. I thought you were eager for privacy. You want to go back to the basement? Tenements? God, no. Anything rather than that fetid huddling, that shameless communal sprawl. And yet, was this so much better? The nearness to the surface was meaningless. It only tantalized and the privacy magnified. Hank. She shook her head dutifully and said, no, Hank. Then why aren't you careful? I've told you a million times, Effie, that glass is no protection against the dust that's outside that window. The lead shutter must never be touched. If you make one single slip like that and it gets around, the committee will send us back to the lower levels without blinking an eye. And they'll think twice before trusting me with any important jobs. I'm sorry, Hank. Sorry? What's the good of being sorry? The only thing that counts is never to make a slip. Why the devil do you do such things, Effie? What drives you to it?

She.

She swallowed. It's just that it's so dreadful being cooped up like this, she said hesitatingly, shut away from the sky and the sun. I'm just hungry for a little beauty. And do you suppose I'm not? He demanded. Don't you suppose I want to get outside, too, and be carefree and have a good time? But I'm not so damned selfish about it. It. I want my children to enjoy the sun and my children's children. Don't you see that that's the all important thing, and that we have to behave like mature adults and make sacrifices for it? Yes, Hank. He surveyed her slumped figure, her lined and listless face. You're a fine one to talk about a hunger for beauty, he told her. Then his voice grew softer, more deliberate. You haven't forgotten, have you, Effie, that until last month the committee was so concerned about your sterility that they were about to enter my name on the list of those waiting to be allotted a free woman. Very high on the list, too. She could nod even at that one, but not while looking at him. She turned away. She knew very well that the committee was justified in worrying about the birth rate when the community finally moved back to the surface again, each additional healthy young person would be an asset not only in the struggle for bear survival but in the resumed war against communism, which some of the committee members still counted on. It was natural that they should view a sterile woman with disfavor, and not only because of the waste of her husband's germ plasm, but because sterility might indicate that she had suffered more than the average from radiation. In that case, if she did bear children later on they would be more apt to carry a defective heredity, producing an undue number of monsters and freaks in future generations, and so contaminating the race. Of course she understood it. She could hardly remember the time when she didn't. Years ago. Centuries. There wasn't much difference in a place where time was endless. His lecture finished, her husband smiled and grew almost cheerful. Now that you're going to have a child, that's all in the background again. Do you know, Effie, that when I first came in I had some very good news for you. I'm to be a member of the Junior Committee, and the announcement will be made at the banquet tonight. He cut short her mumbled congratulations. So brighten yourself up and put on your best dress. I want the other juniors to see what a handsome wife the new member has got. He paused. Well, get a move on. She spoke with difficulty, still not looking at him. I'm terribly sorry, Hank, but you'll have to go alone. I'm not well. He straightened up with an indignant jerk. There you go again. First that infantile, inexcusable business of the shutters, and now this. No feeling for my reputation at all. Don't be ridiculous, Effie. You're coming. Terribly sorry, she repeated blindly, but I really can't. I just be sick. I wouldn't make you proud of me at all. Of course you won't, he retorted sharply. As it is, I have to spend half my energy running around making excuses for you. Why you're so odd. Why you always seem to be ailing. Why you're always stupid and snobbish and say the wrong thing. But tonight's really important, Effie. It will cause a lot of bad comment if the new member's wife isn't present. You know how just a hint of sickness starts the old radiation disease rumor going. You've got to come, Effie. She shook her head helplessly. Oh, for heaven's sake. Come on. He shouted, advancing on her. This is just a silly mood. As soon as you get going, you'll snap out of it. There's nothing really wrong with you at all. He put his hand on her shoulder to turn her around, and at his touch her face suddenly grew so desperate and gray that for a moment he was alarmed in spite of himself. Really? He asked, almost with a note of concern. She nodded miserably.

[Interjector]

H'm.

[Narrator]

He stepped back and strode about irresolutely. Well, of course, if that's the way it is. He checked himself and a sad smile crossed his face. So you don't care enough about your old husband's success to make one supreme effort in spite of feeling bad? Again, the helpless head shake. I just can't go out tonight under any circumstances. And her gaze stole toward the lead shutters. He was about to say something when he caught the direction of her gaze. His eyebrows jumped for seconds. He stared at her incredulously, as if some completely new and almost unbelievable possibility had popped into his mind. The look of incredulity slowly faded, to be replaced by a harder, more calculating expression. But when he spoke again, the voice was shockingly bright and kind. Well, it can't be helped, naturally. And I certainly wouldn't want you to go if you weren't able to enjoy it. So you Hop right into bed and get a good rest. I'll run over to the men's dorm to freshen up. No, really, I don't want you to have to make any effort at all. Incidentally, Jim Barnes isn't going to be able to come to the banquet either. Touch of the old flu, he tells me. Of all things. He watched her closely as he mentioned the other man's name, but she didn't react noticeably. In fact, she hardly seemed to be hearing his chatter. I got a bit sharp with you, I'm afraid, Effie, he continued contritely. I'm sorry about that. I was excited about my new job, and I guess that was why things upset me, made me feel let down when I found you weren't feeling as good as I was. Selfish of me. Now you get into bed right away and get well. Don't worry about me a bit. I know you'd come if you possibly could. And I know you'll be thinking about me. Well, I must be off now. He started toward her as if to embrace her, then seemed to think better of it. He turned back at the doorway and said, emphasizing the you'll be completely alone for the next four hours. He waited for her nod, then bounced out. She stood still until his footsteps died away. Then she straightened up, walked over to where he'd put down the wrist watch, picked it up, and smashed it hard on the floor. The crystal shattered, the case flew apart, and something went zing. She stood there, breathing heavily. Slowly her sagged features lifted, formed themselves into the beginning of a smile. She stole another look at the shutters. The smile became more definite. She felt her hair, wet her fingers, and ran them along her hairline and back over her ears. After wiping her hands on her apron, she took it off. She straightened her dress, lifted her head with a little flourish, and stepped smartly toward the window. Then her face went miserable again and her steps slowed. No, it couldn't be, and it won't be, she told herself. It had been just an illusion, a silly romantic dream that she had somehow projected out of her beauty starved mind and given a moment's false reality. There couldn't be anything alive outside. There hadn't been for two whole years, and if there conceivably were, it would be something altogether horrible. She remembered some of the pariahs, hairless, witless creatures with radiation wilts crawling over their bodies like worms who had come begging for succor during the last months of the terror and been shot down. How they must have hated the people and refuges but even as she was thinking these things, her fingers were caressing the bolts, gingerly drawing them, and she was opening the shutters gently, apprehensively. No, there couldn't be anything outside, she assured herself wryly, peering out into the green night. Even her fears had been groundless. But the face came floating up toward the window. She started back in terror, then checked herself, for the face wasn't horrible at all, only very thin, with full lips. Lips and large eyes and a thin proud nose like the jutting beak of a bird, and no radiation wilts or scars marred the skin. Olive in the tempered moonlight. It looked in fact, just as it had when she had seen it the first time. For a long moment the face stared deep, deep into her brain. Then the full lips smiled and a half clenched, thin fingered hand materialized itself from the green darkness and wrapped twice on the grimy pane. Her heart pounding, she furiously worked the little crank that opened the window. It came unstuck from the frame with a tiny explosion of dust and a zing like that of the watch, only louder. A moment later it swung open wide and a puff of incredibly fresh air caressing her face and the inside of her nostrils, stinging her eyes with unanticipated tears. The man outside balanced on the sill, crouching like a fawn, head high, one elbow on knee. He was dressed in scarred, snug trousers and an old sweater. Is it tears I get for a welcome? He mocked her gently in amusement musical voice. Or are those only to greet God's own breath? The air? He swung down inside, and now she could see he was tall. Turning, he snapped his fingers and called Compus, a black cat with the twisted stump of a tail and feet like small boxing gloves and ears almost as big as rabbits, hopped clumsily in view. He lifted, lifted it down, gave it a pat, then, nodding familiarly to Effie, he unstrapped a little pack from his back and laid it on the table. She couldn't move. She even found it hard to breathe. The window. She finally managed to get out. He looked at her inquiringly, caught the direction of her stabbing finger. Moving without haste, he went over and closed it carelessly. The shutters too, she told him, but he ignored that, looking around. It's a snug enough place you and your man have, he commented. Or is it that this is a free love town, or a harem spot, or just a military post? He checked her before she could answer. But let's not be talking about such things now. Soon enough I'll be scared to death for both of us. Best enjoy the kick of meeting, which is always good for 20 minutes at the least. He smiled at her rather shyly. Have you food? Good, then bring it. She set cold meat and some precious canned bread before him and had water heating for coffee before he fell to. He shredded a chunk of meat and put it on the floor for the cat, which left off its sniffing inspection of the walls and ran up eagerly mewing. Then the man began to eat, chewing each mouthful slowly and appreciatively. From across the table Effie watched him drinking in his every deft movement, his every cryptic quirk of expression. She attended to making the coffee, but that took only a moment. Finally she could contain herself no longer. What's it like up there? She asked breathlessly. Outside, I mean. He looked at her oddly for quite a space. Finally he said flatly, oh, it's a wonderland for sure. More amazing than you tomb folk could ever imagine. A veritable fairyland. And he quickly went on eating. No, but really? She pressed, noting her eagerness. He smiled and his eyes filled with playful tenderness. I mean it, on my oath, he assured her. You think the bombs and the dust made only death and ugliness? That was true at first, but then, just as the doctors foretold, they changed the life in the seeds and loins that were brave enough to stay. Wonders bloomed and walked. He broke off suddenly and asked, do any of you ever venture outside? A few of the men are allowed to, she told him, for short trips in special protective suits to hunt for canned food and fuels and batteries and things like that. Aye, and those blind souled slugs would never see anything but what they're looking for, he said, nodding bitterly. They never see the garden where a dozen buds blossom where one did before, and the flowers have petals a yard across with stingless bees, biggest sparrows gently supping their nectar. House cats grown spotted and huge as leopards, not little runts like Joe Lewis here stalk through those gardens. But they're gentle beasts, no more harmful than the rainbow scaled snakes that glide around their paws, for the dust burned all the murder out of them as it burned itself out. I've even made up a little poem about it. Fire can hurt me, or water or the weight of earth, but the dust is my friend. Oh yes, and the robins like cockatoo and squirrels like a princess's ermine, all under a treasure chest of sun and moon and stars that the dust magic powder changes from ruby to emerald and sapphire and amethyst and back again. Oh, and Then the new children. You're telling the truth, she interrupted him, her eyes brimming with tears. You're not making it up? I am not, he assured her solemnly. And if you could catch a glimpse of one of the new children, you'd never doubt me again. They have long limbs, as brown as this coffee would be if it had lots of fresh cream in it, and smiling, delicate faces and the whitish teeth and the finest hair. They're so nimble that I, a sprightly man and somewhat enlivened by the dust, feel like a king cripple beside them, and their thoughts dance like flames and make me feel a very imbecile. Of course they have seven fingers on each hand and eight toes on each foot, but they're the more beautiful for that. They have large pointed ears that the sun shines through. They play in the garden all day long, slipping among the great leaves and blooms, but they're so swift that you can hardly see them unless one chooses to stand still and look at you. For that matter, you have to look a bit hard for all these things I'm telling you. But is it true? She pleaded. Every word of it, he said, looking straight into her eyes. He put down his knife and fork. What's your name? He asked softly. Mine's Patrick. Effie, she told him. He shook his head. That can't be, he said. Then his face brightened. Euphemia. He exclaimed. That's what Effie is short for. Your name is Euphemia. As he said that, looking at her, she suddenly felt beautiful. He got up and came around the table and stretched out his hand toward her. Euphemia? He began. Yes, she answered huskily, shrinking from him a little but looking up sideways and very flushed. Don't either of you move, hank said. The voice was flat and nasal because Hank was wearing a nose respirator that was just long enough to suggest an elephant's trunk. In his right hand was a large blue black automatic pistol. They turned their faces to him. Patrick's was abruptly alert, shifty, but Effie's was still smiling tenderly, as if Hank could not break the spell of the Magic Garden and should be pitied for not knowing about it. You little. Hank began with an almost gleeful fury, calling her several shameful names. He spoke in short phrases, closing tight his unmasked mouth between them while he sucked in breath through the respirator. His voice rose in the crescendo, and not with the man of the community but a pariah. A pariah. I hardly know what you're thinking, man, but you're quite wrong. Patrick took the opportunity to put in hurriedly, conciliatatingly. I just have happened to be coming by hungry tonight, a lonely tramp, and knocked at the window. Your wife was a bit foolish and let kind heartedness get the better of prudence. Don't think you've pulled the wool over my eyes, Effie, hank went on with a screechy laugh, disregarding the other man completely. Don't think I don't know why you're suddenly going to have a child after four long years. At that moment the cat came nosing up to his feet. Patrick watched him narrowly shifting his weight forward a little, but Hank only kicked the animal aside without taking his eyes off them. Even that business of carrying the wrist watch in your pocket instead of on your arm, he went on with channeled hysteria. A neat bit of camouflage, Effie, very neat. And telling me it was my child when all the while you've been seeing him for months. Man, you're mad. I've not touched her, patrick denied hotly, though still calculatingly, and risked a step forward, stopping when the gun instantly swung his way. Pretending you were going to give me a healthy child, hank raved on, when all the while you knew it would be either in body or German plasm, a thing like that. He waved his gun at the malformed cat, which had leapt to the top of the table and was eating the remains of Patrick's food, though its watchful green eyes were fixed on Hank. I should shoot him down. Hank yelled between sobbing chest racking inhalations through the mask. I should kill him this instant for the contaminated pariah he is. All this while Effie had not ceased to smile compassionately. Now she stood up without haste and went to Patrick's side. Disregarding his warning, apprehensive glance, she put her arm lightly around him and faced her husband. Then you'd be killing the bringer of the best news we've ever had, she said, and her voice was like a flood of some warm sweet liquor in that musty hate charge room. Oh, Hank, forget your silly wrong jealousy and listen to me. Patrick here has something wonderful to tell us. Hank stared at her. For once he screamed no reply. It was obvious that he was seeing for the first time how beautiful she had become, and that the realization jolted him terribly. What do you mean? He finally asked unevenly, almost fearfully. I mean that we no longer need to fear the dust, she said, and now her smile was radiant. It never really did hurt people the way the Doctors said it would remember how it was with me, Hank, the exposure I had and recovered from. Although the doctor doctor said I wouldn't at first, and without even losing my hair, Hank, those who were brave enough to stay outside, and who aren't killed by terror and suggestion and panic, they adapted to the dust. They changed, but they changed for the better. Everything, Effie, he told you. Lies, hank interrupted, but still in that same agitated, broken voice, cowed by her beauty. Everything that grew or moved was purified, she went on ringingly. You men going outside have never seen it because you've never had eyes for it. You've been blinded to beauty, to life itself. And now all the power in the dust has gone and faded anyway, burned itself out. That's true, isn't it? She smiled at Patrick for confirmation. His face was strangely veiled, as if he were calculating obscure changes. He might have given a little nod. At any rate, Effie assumed that he did, for she turned back to her husband. You see that, Hank? We can all go out now. We need never fear the dust again. Patrick is a living proof of that, she continued triumphantly, standing straighter, holding him a little tighter. Look at him. Not a scar or a sign, and he's been out in the dust for years. How could he be this way if the dust hurt the brave? Oh, believe me, Hank, believe what you see. Test it if you want. Test Patrick here, Effie, you're all mixed up. You don't know. Hank faltered, but without conviction of any sort. Just test him, effie repeated with utter confidence, ignoring not even noticing Patrick's warning nudge. All right, hank mumbled. He looked at the stranger dully. Can you count? He asked. Patrick's face was a complete enigma. Then he suddenly spoke, and his voice was like a fencer's foil light bright, alert, constantly playing, yet utterly on guard. Can I count? Do you take me for a complete simpleton, man? Of course I can count. Then count yourself, hank said, barely indicating the table. Count myself? Should I? The other retorted with a quick, facetious laugh. Is this a kindergarten? But if you want me to, I'm willing. His voice was rapid. I've two arms and two legs, that's four and ten fingers and ten toes. You'll take my word for them. That's 24, a head, 25 and two eyes and a nose and a mouth. With this, I mean, hank said heavily, advanced to the table, picked up the Geiger counter, switched it on, and handed it across the table to the other man. But while it was still an arm's length from Patrick, the clicks began to mount furiously until they were like the chatter of a pygmy machine gun. Abruptly the clicks slowed, but that was only the counter shifting to a new scaling circuit in which each click stood for five hundred and twelve of the old ones. With those horrid, rattling little volleys, fear cascaded into the room and filled it, smashing like so much colored glass all the bright barriers of words Effie had raised against it. For no dreams can stand against the geiger counter, the 20th century's mouthpiece of ultimate truth. It was as if the dust and all the terrors of the dust had incarnated themselves in one dread, invading shape that said in words stronger than audible speech, those were illusions, whistles in the dark. This is reality, the dreary, pitiless reality of the burrowing years. Hank scuttled back to the wall. Through chattering teeth he babbled enough radioactive to kill a thousand men. Freak. A freak. In his agitation he forgot for a moment to inhale through the respirator. Even Effie, taken off guard, all the fears that had been drilled into her, twanging like piano wires, shrank from the skeletal seeming shape beside her, held herself to it only by desperation. Patrick did it for her. He disengaged her arm and stepped briskly away. Then he whirled on them, smiling sardonically, and started to speak, but instead looked with distaste at the chattering Geiger counter he held between fingers and thumb. Have we listened to this racket long enough? He asked. Without waiting for an answer, he put down the instrument on the table. The cat hurried over to it curiously, and the clicks began again to mount in a minor crescendo. Effie Lunchford frantically switched it off, darted back. That's right, patrick said with another chilling smile. You do well to cringe, for I am death itself. Even in death I could kill you like a snake. And with that, his voice took on the tones of a circus barker. Yes, I'm a freak, as the gentleman so wisely said. That's what one doctor who dared talk with me for a minute told me before he kicked me out. He couldn't tell me why, but somehow the dust doesn't kill me because I'm a freak, you see, just like the men who ate nails and walked on fire and ate arsenic and stuck themselves through with pins. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, only not too close and examine the man the dust can't harm. Rapaccini's child brought up to date, his embrace death. And now, he said, breathing heavily, I'll get out and leave you in your damp lead cave. He started toward the window. Hank's gun followed him shakingly. Wait. Effie called in an agonized voice. He obeyed. She continued falteringly. When we were together earlier, you didn't act as if when we were together earlier I wanted what I wanted, he snarled at her. You don't suppose I'm a bloody saint, do you? And all the beautiful things you told me? That, he said cruelly, is just a line I've found that women fall for. They're all so bored and so starved for beauty, as they generally put it. Even the garden. Her question was barely audible through the sobs that threatened to suffocate her. He looked at her, and perhaps his expression softened just a trifle. What's outside, he said flatly, is just a little worse than either of you can imagine. He tapped his temple. The garden's all here. You've killed it, she wept. You've killed it in me. You've both killed everything that's beautiful. But you're worse. She screamed at Patrick. Because he only killed beauty once. But you brought it to life just so you could kill it again. Oh, I can't stand it. I won't stand it. And she began to scream. Patrick started toward her, but she broke off and whirled away from him to the window, her eyes crazy. You've been lying to us.

Yes.

She cried. The garden's there. I know it is. But you don't want to share it with anyone. No, no, Euphemia. Patrick protested anxiously. It's hell out there. Believe me, I wouldn't lie to you about it. Couldn't lie to me, she mocked. Are you afraid to? With a sudden pull, she jerked open the window and stood before the blank green tinged oblong of darkness that seemed to press into the room like a menacing heavy wind urged curtain. At that, Hank cried out a shocked, pleading Effie. She ignored him. I can't be cooped up in here any longer, she said. And I won't now that I know I'm going to the garden. Both men sprang at her, but they were too late. She leapt lightly to the cell, and by the time they had flung themselves against it, her footsteps were already hurrying off into the darkness. Effie, come back. Come back. Hank shouted after her desperately, no longer thinking to cringe from the man beside him or how the gun was pointed. I love you, Effie. Come back. Patrick added his voice. Come back, Euphemia. You'll be safe if you'll come back right away. Come back to your home? No answer to that at all. They both strained their eyes through the greenish murk. They could barely make out a shadowy figure about half a block down the near black canyon of the Dismal Dust blown street into which the greenish moonlight hardly reached. It seemed to them that the figure was scooping something up from the pavement and letting it sift down along its arms and over its bosom. Go out and get her, man, Patrick, urged the other, for if I go out for her, I warn you, I won't bring her back. She said something about having stood the dust better than most, and that's enough for me. But Hank, chained by his painfully learned habits and by something else, could not move. And then a ghostly voice came whispering down the street, chanting, fire can hurt me, or water, or the weight of earth, but the dust is my friend. Patrick spared the other man one more look, then without a word, he vaulted up and ran off. Hank stood there. After perhaps a minute, he remembered to close his mouth when he inhaled. Finally he was sure the street was empty. As he started to close the window, there was a little mew. He picked up the cat and gently put it outside. Then he did close the window and the shutters and bolted them and took up the Geiger counter and mechanically began to count himself. End of the moon is green by fritz leiber.

No Moving Parts this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Megan Argo no Moving Parts By Murray F. Yacko Hanson was sitting at the control board in the single building on communications relay station 43.4sc when the emergency light flashed on for the first time in 200 years. With textbook, recommended swiftness, he located the position of the ship, sending the call, identified the ship and the name of its captain, and made contact. This is Hanson on 43.4 SC. Put me through to Captain Fromer. Fromer here, said an incredibly deep voice. What the devil do you want? What do I want? Asked the astonished Hanson. It was you, sir, who sent the emergency call. I did no such thing, said Fromer with great certainty. But the light flashed. How long have you been out of school? Froma asked. Almost a year, sir. But that doesn't change the fact that that you're imagining things and that you've been sitting on that asteroid hoping that something would happen to break the monotony. Now leave me the hell alone or I'll put you on report. Now look here, hanson began, practically Beside himself with frustration. I saw that emergency light go on. Maybe it was activated automatically when something went out of order on your ship. I don't allow emergencies on the Euclid Queen, said Froma with growing anger. Now, if you don't. Hanson spared himself the indignity of being cut off. He broke contact himself. He sighed, reached for a book entitled Emergency Procedure Rules, and settled back in his chair. Fifteen minutes later, the emergency light flashed on for the second time in 200 years, with its red glow illuminating his freckled, excited face. Hanson triumphantly placed another call to the Euclid Queen. This is Hanson on 43.4 SC. Let me speak to Captain Froma, please. Er, the captain has asked me to contact you. I'm the navigator. I was just about to call you. We have a small problem that I'll speak to the captain, hanson repeated grimly. Now see here, I'm perfectly capable of handling this situation. Actually, it's hardly even an emergency. You were, it seems, signalled automatically when? If you'll check your emergency procedures, Hanson said, holding his thumb in the rulebook, you'll note that the relay station attendant contacts the captain personally during all emergencies. Of course, if you want to violate look, old man, said the navigator, now sounding on the verge of tears, try to realize the spot I'm in. Fromer has ordered me to handle this thing without his assistance. He seems to feel that you've got a grudge of some kind. If you don't put me in touch with Captain Froma in five minutes, I'll put through a call to sector headquarters. Hanson signalled off contact. If he knew nothing else about the situation, he knew that he had the upper hand. Five minutes later, Captain Fromer called him back. I'm calling in accordance with the emergency procedures, fromer said between clenched teeth. The situation is this. We are reporting an emergency. What class? Emergency? Hanson interrupted. Class asked Fromer, obviously caught off guard. Yes, Captain, there are three classes of major class, which would indicate death and injury Mechanical class, including malfunction of hegler units and such, and general class. Yes, yes, of course, General class. By all means, froma said hurriedly. You see, it's hardly even an emergency. We Just what is the nature of the trouble, Captain? Why, well, it seems that we were doing a preliminary landing procedure check and. Yes, go on. Why, it seems that we can't get the door open. It was Hanson's turn to be taken aback. You're pulling my leg, sir. I most certainly am not, Captain, Fromer said emphatically. You really mean that you can't open the door? I'm afraid so. Something's wrong with the mechanism. Our technical staff have never encountered a problem like this, and they advise me that any attempt at repair might possibly result in the opposite situation. You mean not being able to get the door closed? Precisely. In other words, we can't land. I see. Then I'm afraid there's nothing I can do except advise Sector headquarters to send an emergency repair crew. Captain Fromer sighed. I'm afraid so, too. How long will it take for a message to get there with your transmitting equipment? Two days, Captain. At a guess, there'll be a ship alongside within the week. You'll be maintaining your present position, I assume. Oh, we'll be here all right, fromer said bitterly. Then he cut contact. As the single occupant of a large asteroid with nothing but time and boredom on his hands, Hanson was enjoying the whole situation immensely. He allowed himself the luxury of several dozen fantasies in which his name was mentioned prominently in galaxy wide reports of the episode. He imagined that Captain Froma was also creating vivid accounts of quite another sort that would soon be amusing several hundred billion news hungry citizens of the Federation. When the repair ship arrived, it came to Hanson's astonishment to the asteroid and not alongside Fromer's ship. He soon found out that there was someone else who shared the captain's embarrassment. I'm Bullard, said a tall, thin, mournful man. Mind if I sit? Help yourself. Hanson waved a hand towards the meager accommodations. He had no idea why a senior engineer was being so deferential, but he enjoyed the feeling of power. You're probably wondering about a lot of things, bullard began sadly. Frankly, we don't have any ideas about how we can fix Captain Fromer's door. He waited to let that sink in. Then he continued, it took us three days back at base to find out that when these ships were built almost 500 years ago, nobody bothered to include detailed drawings of the door mechanism. But why? You certainly know how to build. We know how to build Star class ships. Sure, we've built a few in the past century or two. There's never been need for replacement. Really? These ships were designed to last forever. The original fleet was conceived to fill the system's need for a full thousand years. But the doors on the few ships that have been built how the ships we've built are exact duplicates of Captain Fromer's ship. Except for the door. Ballard's long face radiated despair. No one ever questioned why the door mechanism wasn't included in the original plans. We simply designed another type. A different type of door. Well, you can certainly find out how this particular door works, can't you? I hope so, Bullard said, wringing his hands. But we have a couple of other problems. Number One, Captain Fromer has an extremely important passenger aboard, none other than His Exalted Excellency Rathanga Barr. He is, or was, on his way home after conducting a treaty of friendship with the President of the Federation. Hanson managed a whistle. Furthermore, bullard continued, his Excellency has to be home soon to get there in time for the mating season. This occurs once in a lifetime, I'm told, and this is his only chance to continue the ancestral rule. Wait a minute, Hanson said. Are you trying to say that you can't solve a simple problem like getting him home and getting him out of the ship? You can always cut it in two, can't you? These ships were made to last forever, Ballard explained. The hull is, of course, pseudo met, but not the kind of sudamet used for other applications. In short, about the only way you'll get in that ship is to vaporise it. But can't you disassemble the door mechanism? My God, how complicated can it be? We're going to try to do just that, Bullard said without a trace of confidence. As far as the complication goes, let me just say this. It's full of moving parts. What are you getting at? Hanson asked. Just this. These ships are perfect mechanisms. There is hardly anything in them that could be called a moving part. Now, a door has to open and close. Sure. We devised a simple, safe way to do it a few hundred years after the original fleet was built. The men who designed the original door mechanism felt perhaps that it was incongruous to include it in the first place. Maybe that is why they threw away the plans. God knows it is incongruous. Look, here's a photo we took of one in a ship back at base. Hanson scanned the photograph. It was a meaningless jumble. He handed it back. Well, make yourself at home. I'm afraid the only thing I can help with will be radio communication to Captain Froma's ship. Good enough, Ballard said. I'm expecting someone else tomorrow. After you bring him down, feel free to drop over and see me anytime. Bullard went back to his ship and Hanson went to bed. He dreamed of His Exalted Excellency Rathanga Ba growing angrier day by day as the time of mating came closer. In his dream, he suddenly came upon a magnificent solution to the Problem, a solution involving a telepathic system of fertilisation. He woke up before he had completely worked out the details. Ballard's friend arrived the same morning. He was a small, dark, attractive little man whom Hanson immediately disliked. Meet Dr. Quemos, Ballard said when Hanson dropped in on them. Dr. Quemos is a specialist in the history of technology. He thinks he knows how our cute little door mechanism is made. Can't say for sure, quemos said. But I'd guess that those components are made of metal. Real metal. I thought the metal was only used in jewellery, Hanson said. Dr. Quemos grinned slyly. That's what most people think. Actually, refined metals of various types were used in large masses, formed masses, for thousands of years. Historically speaking, the pseudo mets are relatively new. It's difficult to imagine metal functioning as machinery, Hanson mused. And you say that this door mechanism has moving parts?

Parts.

Lots of them. Moving parts are nothing to be afraid of, Cuomo said. Here, look at this. He put something small on the table, much in the manner of a young boy dropping a garter snake in the midst of schoolgirls. Bullard and Hanson crowded round. Now take turns, said Quemos sharply. And don't drop it. It's priceless, I assure you. The ancient wristwatch with its transparent back was passed from hand to hand. Frightening little monster, isn't it? Ballard said. Those small round wheels are called gears, elucidated Quermos. One gear turns another, which turns another, and so on. I rather imagine that your door is operated on some similar principle. I seem to be the one who asks all the schoolboy questions, Hanson began. Would somebody tell me why Captain Framer doesn't take His Excellence Sea to his home planet, land the ship, and then let his technical staff tear off the door mechanism? We've gone through that, bullard said wearily. Unfortunately, we need special tools, and there's no way to get them into the ship. Can I speak to Captain Froma? Comas asked. Right away, hanson said. He pressed his hand in various patterns on his belt. This is Hanson. Let US Talk to Captain Fromer, please. Fromer here. Who is it? Dr. Quemos speaking. How is your passenger? My passenger is fine, but he keeps telling me that he is very anxious to plant his seed. When can you get us out of here? Plant his seed? Said Quemos. There's nothing salacious about this. I've been assured. He simply has a biological craving at this time in his life to. To plant his seed. I got problems like that too, ballard said. But I don't go around telling everybody Stop clowning. Froma snapped. You guys better find a way to fix this damn door, or you'll have a galactic war on your hands. Anybody have any ideas yet? We're sure that the door mechanism is made of metal, quemos said, and the construction is probably based on the principle of a Worm Gear. A what? A Worm Gear, captain Quemoth said patiently. It's an ancient metal device that was sometimes used for closing large doors. There is also the possibility that the door is closed and opened by dogs. These seem to have been used at least to operate doors of undersea crafts, although we're not quite certain about the function of dogs. The captain maintained a stony silence. Also, Chromos continued, we have unearthed, so to speak, a reference to a metal component called a Babbitt. Now see here. Captain Fromer roared. Who do you think you're kidding with all this talk about worms and dogs and rabbits? Babbitts, Captain. Babbitts, perhaps. A type of bearing. Anyway, we're at work on the problem, I assure you. Quemos motioned to Hanson that he was through talk during the next three days, Hanson twice visited Bullard and Cuemos. On each occasion he found the two men in trance like conditions, ostensibly thinking through the problem that they had been assigned to solve, but more probably, Hanson guessed, brooding about the reaction of Sector headquarters to their daily progress reports, which Hanson had been relaying for them. Hanson had only sympathy for the people back at Sector headquarters, for if these two experts were the galaxy's two top troubleshooters, the Federation was not, as Hanson put it to himself, in very good shape to fight a war with 100 billion enraged citizens who worshipped His Exalted Excellency Ruthanga Barr almost as much as they did his seed. Hanson went back to his reading, only to be interrupted with increasing frequency by message transmissions from an increasingly alarmed sector headquarters. Most messages were addressed to Bullard and were briefly designed to disguise the sender's hysteria, while at the same time urging Bullard on to more magnificent efforts. A few messages, fairly representative of the state of affairs as time wore on, reflected an increasing suspicion on the part of Sector headquarters that Quemos and Bullard, although certainly topped in their fields, were not topped enough. Sector Headquarters to Bullard Communications Relay 43.4 SC President would like estimate of when door will be opened. You sure you can handle Emphasize the political situation now getting touchy. Repeat touchy, Ruthanga bar calling on President today to make demand that seed be planted on time. Sure you don't need more help, Commander General? Commander General? No Help needed. Making progress. Assure President today found out metal and mechanism is very hard. In constant radio touch with Froma Passenger impatient but quieter. Sleeps more now this significant. Cuomos developing theory of mechanism. Says we'll take time to work out how much time we have. When must seed be planted? Ballard sector headquarters to Bollard Communications Relay 43.4 SC must have estimate when door opens. This an order Ambassador threatening war. Can't give deadline of seed planting time. Since subject very taboo. Our biologists say Rathanga baa sleepy significant. Maybe prelude to seeding time. Tell about Quomos theory. Next communication we'll evaluate here. Nice to know metal is hard. Keep up good work. Pressure here to send you help. President says whole federation praying for door to be fixed. Says to hurry up. Commander General to Commander General. No estimate possible. Cuomos theory almost complete. States that mechanisms built on principle of worm gear. Repeat. Worm gear. Today instructed Fromer's crew to jiggle moving parts of mechanism at random. Parts would not jiggle. Fromer states that Rathangabar sleeps all time and colour changes to blue and red on stomach. This significant. Bullard sector headquarters to Bullard Communications Relay 43.4 SC important you amplify last message. Red and blue on stomach. Why Ruthangar bhar undressed? Investigate. President orders help sent Help on way. Repeat. Why Ruthanga BHA undressed? Commander General to Commander General. Foma advisers tell you ship's physician has put Ruthanga Barr in refrigerator. Sector headquarters to quemos Communications relay 43.4sc take out of refrigerator. This an order. Why undressed? Commander General to Commander General. Bullard making a model of my drawings. Ready soon. Ruffanga bar out of refrigerator as requested. But ships physician very angry and wants to put back in colour on stomach. Pink and yellow with blue squares. The significant quemos. It went on like this for several more days. Hanson, at first amused, was now alarmed and completely convinced that both Cuomos and Bullard were thoroughly useless. The messages were his only source of information since both experts were too immersed in their work to talk with him. As his alarm grew, he decided that he might at least try to strike up a friendship with someone on board Captain Froma's sealed ship.

[Interjector]

Ship?

[Narrator]

Someone who might have something comforting to report. He called up the ship's navigator. This is Hanson. How are things going up there? Ha. What's that mean? Good or bad? It means, the navigator said while yawning, that things are falling apart rapidly. In fact, in a day or two I don't think it'll make much difference whether or not they open that damn door. You, er, care to fill me in? Why not? Said the navigator with the voice of a man who knows it is too late for anything to matter. The members of the crew are divided into two factions. It appears that our physician has rallied half the crew to support his medical contention that our exalted passenger belongs in the refrigerator. The good captain, with some justice one must admit, thinks that he is in command of the ship and prefers to believe that Ruthanga bar belongs out of the refrigerator. Who seems to be winning the argument? Argument? There's no argument, old man. It's open warfare. No weapons aboard, of course, but the two teams are grappling up and down the corridors and shuffling our exalted passenger in and out of the icebox about four times each hour. Quite a sight, really. Right now he's in the refrigerator, but the other team. Let me know who's ahead from time to time, will you? Hanson heard himself say. Glad to oblige, the navigator said, yawning again. Oh, incidentally, have they sent for help yet? Hanson said with some surprise. Why, as a matter of fact, Sector Headquarters is sending some help. How did you know? Bound to happen sooner or later, old man. When the going really gets tough, they always get around to sending a gypsy. Only way to get anything done, you know. I don't know, Hanson said reluctantly. Why is it that everyone knows except me? What, please, is a gipsy? You are too young to know everything, old man, the navigator said. You are especially too young to know about one of the Federation's best kept secrets. But you might as well, I suppose. The fact is that a gypsy is a generally vagrant, dirty, thieving, clever scoundrel who will not work, who has absolutely no respect for order or authority, who believes that our institutions are effete and. But then, why? Patience, patience, cautioned the navigator haughtily. If I am to reveal everything I know, I must do it in my own way. The description I just gave you is not necessarily true. It is simply the way that Sector Headquarters feels about gypsies. Common jealousy, really. It seems that from time to time our perfect little galactic society spawns men who don't care to be cast in the common mould. In short, there are a few men around with brains who don't think it means very much to wear pretty uniforms or fancy titles. Uniforms like yours? Asked Hanson. Precisely, the navigator said sadly. The truth of the matter is, of course, that I only play at being a navigator. I couldn't get this ship off course if I tried the same is true with the four engineering officers who stand around watching the Heglar drive units. They occasionally make a ceremonial adjustment, but beyond that they simply stand around looking pretty. No moving parts, Hanson said. No moving brains, if you like. Anyway, a gipsy has somewhere along the line learned how to do things. They'll take an emergency call about once a year, if they happen to feel like it. Then they charge about half a million credits. You mean they have an organisation? Standard rates and. Heavens, no, the navigator said. They hate anything that smells like organisation. They don't even specialise in any certain kind of work. One year they'll be fascinated by sub nucleonics, the next by horse racing. Very erratic. Can't keep attention on any one thing. Heard of one once who engaged in fishing and alcohol drinking. Brilliant mathematician too, but he'd only take a call once every three years or so for half a million credits. A crack, eh? You could live pretty well for three years on that. Strangely enough, the navigator said thoughtfully, they don't really have any interest in money. If you'd ever met one, you'd know that the high fee is sort of a penalty. They mete out to everybody else for being so dumb. Well, one thing for sure, Hanson said. If Bullard and Quemos are the cream of the crop, I'm on the side of the gypsies. Ah, youth, the navigator said. I too once had such dreams. We'll see about the dreams, Hanson said, almost menacingly. I didn't spend six years in that damn school just to sit around in a pretty uniform for the rest of my life. Oh, you'll get used to it. In fact, you'll like it. After a while the home leaves, the fuss your friends will make of you when you step off the ship. The regular and automatic promotions in grade with the extra gold band added to your sleeve, the move from one outpost to an always larger installation. You'll never do much, of course, but why should you? After all, there aren't any moving parts. Hanson cut the communicator off. He stood there for a moment, feeling depressed and betrayed. Automatically, he reached down and flicked imaginary dust from his blue sleeve with its narrow, solitary gold band. Ten minutes later, the Gypsy's ship signalled for landing. The man who walked into Hanson's control room was hardly the ogre he had been prepared for. He looked, Hanson was later to reflect, like Santa Claus with muscles in place of the fat. Wearing an almost unheard of beard and dressed in rough clothes, he walked across the room and made short work of the usual Formalities. Name's Candle, said the man. Where's those two phonies I'm supposed to replace? You'll have to go suit up and go back through the airlock, hanson said, motioning to the door. They're in the ship. It's the one next to yours. Want me to tell them you're on your way over? Hell no, said Candle, grinning. I'll surprise em. Now, suppose you and me sit down and have a little chat. They sat, and Kendall pumped Hanson of everything he knew about the entire situation. An hour later, Hanson felt almost as if he had been had. Is that all? He asked wearily. I got the facts, kendall said. Now let's go throw those experts out. It wasn't quite that simple. Neither Bullard nor Quemoss had any intention of simply clearing out. Who the hell you think you are? Bullard said to come over here and order us off. We didn't even ask for help, and God knows you couldn't supply it anyway. Bullard, with evident distaste, ran his eyes up and down candles, clothing. Dr. Quemos had some ideas, too. Letter of authority or no letter of authority, quemos said, pointing a manicured forefinger at the paper in Candle's hand. You'll ruin everything. You have no idea what you're up against. We've spent weeks working this thing out. Kendall grinned. What have you worked out? Why, we know that this is a metal double enveloping worm gear. Wrong, kendall said. It's a single enveloping worm gear. It's made of steel with an aluminium alloy wheel gear, and the two parts are corroded and stuck. The whole mechanism was originally designed for submarines. Quimos started to say something, then turned and looked at Ballard for reassurance. He's crazy, ballard said. He's making it up as he goes along. How could he possibly know what he's talking about? Why, there haven't been any submarines for centuries. I'm tired of playing games, kendall said, no longer grinning. The boy and I have work to do. You two are in the way. You'll only take up time if I have to work with you and show you what to do. I want you and your ship out of here in half an hour. Who's going to make us? Ballard asked with great originality. I am. Everybody turned around to see who else had entered the conversation. It was Hanson. I'm going to give you 15 minutes, not 30, Hanson said. Then I'm going to turn the grid power on at full intensity. You can either use it to take off or sit around and roast alive inside your ship. Candle turned and looked at Hanson with new respect. Okay, let's go back to your place. I've still got some things to figure out. Quemos was on the verge of hysteria. You're bluffing. You wouldn't dare. I'll report this. Fifteen minutes later the ship was headed for space. Back in Hanson's room, the two men ate a quick lunch, then sat at the table and talked about Candle's plans for opening the reluctant door. The way I figure it, kendall said, I think that we can handle the whole thing by radio. Which reminds me, one of these days I'm going to build a telescreen that will transmit and receive through Sudomat. Not too difficult really, if you approach the problem. I'd better get Froma for you, hanson said hurriedly. Froma here, said the bass voice. This is Candle. Let me talk to one of your so called engineering officers. Who the hell Shut up and go get em. Candle growled back. And one more Yale pad of you and you'll stay in that ship till you've rot. There was a pause, then Froma again a meek Froma. My chief engineering officer is with me. Ok, now get this. Come to think of it, you better record it. Number one. By now you know which component is a worm gear. You will notice, I'm quite certain, that it engages a large notched wheel. The reason that the door will not move is because at the point where the two gears meet, some of the metal has oxidised for possible use in future emergencies. I offer this explanation. The entire mechanism is subject to periodic vacuum when the airlock is operated in between times the mechanism is in the ship's atmosphere, a condition of lower oxygen content that's obtains around the sealed off area. And such an area is anodic. In other words corrodible with respect to the surrounding areas in which oxygen has free access. Now, since this door has opened and closed successfully for about 500 years, it appears that there's a special reason why it suddenly refuses to function. At a guess, you would experience this condition of intense corrosion only when the aluminium in the wheel gear is exposed to something like sodium hydroxide, and only at the point where it controls the worm gear. Now has the ship landed recently within such an atmosphere three weeks ago on Gorton 4, said the weak voice of the engineer. We landed to get some pictures of the cloud formations for souvenirs. We dropped on the edge of a large body of water because the view was better. Candle shook his head sadly and said, you could have avoided trouble by coming in over the land instead of the water. The heat from the ship boiled the water, which undoubtedly contained sodium carbonate and calcium hydroxide. Presto. And the air was filled with clouds of sodium hydroxide. I suggest that you steer away from all such wicked places in the future. Of course, if you'd learned how to mine ore smelt metal machine components first, they'd have to discover fire, Hanson said out of the corner of his mouth. You're catching on, son, candle replied out of the corner of his mouth. Now, gentlemen, to open the door, it will be necessary to break the corroded area apart. This is a large, heavy mechanism, as such things go. Since you have no tools heavy enough to batter the corroded area apart, you'll have to make some. How can we? Kendall sighed. I wish I had time to teach you to think, but instead you'll just have to do as I tell you to do. I think you can probably make a batching ram out of water. You just don't interrupt. Find or make a long cylindrical container, fill it with water, and quick freeze it in your refrigerator. But they put Ruthanga bhar in the refrigerator again. Then I suggest you get him the hell out, kendall said. An hour later, 10 men smashed a half ton cylinder of ice against the corroded junction of the two gears. Following Kandel's instructions, they next applied the ram to the door itself, which smoothly swung open. You'll find, Candle explained, that the only damage will be the two missing teeth on the aluminium gear. Since only two teeth are ever in contact at any time, you can simply slide the gear forward and engage it at a point where the teeth are intact. You'll find I'm quite sure that your door will function properly also, Captain. Don't pull out of there until I'm aboard. I think I'd like to bring an assistant along too. An assistant? Hanson asked. Candle twirled the ends of his long white moustache. You, my lad, if you'd like to go along. He pulled a letter from his pocket and fanned the air with it. I'm in complete command of this expedition, at least until His Exalted Excellency gets home to plant his seed. Hanson's face glowed. I can't think of anything I'd rather do. Let's get a couple of messages off to sector headquarters and get on board ship. It may not be any joyride, candle said thoughtfully. You probably haven't heard about it, but there have been a number of ship emergencies in the past few weeks. Door Failures? No. At least none that I've heard of. But at least two Hegler drives have stopped working in mid space. But there's nothing to stop working. Handel's eyes twinkled. No moving parts, eh? Hanson reddened. I hope I've outgrown that silly notion. Kendall peered into Hanson's eyes. I'm sure you have. I'm sure that you'll find out a lot more things for yourself. You're the kind, and we're going to need a lot of your kind. Because failures, failures of so called perfect mechanisms are becoming more and more commonplace. Kendall pointed to the emergency light on the traffic control panel. That light will be flashing with more and more frequency in the months to come, but not just to signal trouble in space. If I were a superstitious man, I'd think that the age of the perfect machine is about to be superseded by the age of the perfect failure. Mechanical failures that can't be explained on any level. I have several friends who've been in touch with me recently about you think it's time for a change? Candle smiled quickly. That's the idea. And the truth of the matter is that I am a superstitious man. I really believe, childishly, that the mechanics and motions of the galaxy may turn themselves upside down just to snap man out of his apathy and give him some work to do. Upside down turned out to be a good word. They boarded the big ship an hour later and were respectfully ushered into the presence of Captain Fromer and his staff. We're underway, Captain, Fromer said. We'll be landing in nine days to deliver a Thanga Bar home. How is he? Hanson asked. Froma shrugged. He's been thawed out. Frozen and thawed out so many times it's anybody's guess. Take a look for yourself. Someone pulled back a curtain to expose the recumbent, thawing, steamy form of His Exalted Excellency Rathanga Barr. Why is he undressed? Hanson asked. Funny, now that you mention it, froma said, puzzled, why is he undressed? Fascinating. Damnedest thing I've ever seen, kendall said. What's so fascinating? Fromer asked suspiciously, moving closer. His belly Never saw anything like it. Those black squares keep appearing and disappearing. If I've ever seen a truly random pattern. It started right after they froze in the first time, fromer said disconsolately. Fascinating. By heaven, said Candle, who was now down on his hands and knees. Look at that top sequence. Random yet physiological. I've got a friend on Brydon 3 who'll trade anything for some photos of this. Get me some photo equipment, will you? Captain Fromer ran his hands through what was left of his hair. Get him some photo equipment, he said to no one in particular. And somebody make a truce with that idiot doctor long enough to get me a sedative. About this time the ship turned upside down, but there's no reason for it, the chief engineer said, running alongside Hanson and Candle. The ship can't turn upside down. Everything is functioning perfectly. Really not interested, said Candle, running down the corridor's mile long ceiling. Figure something out for yourself for a change. But what I can't understand, said Hanson dutifully trotting alongside, is how you knew with such certainty how the door mechanism was made. Even if submarines were built like that, you'd have no way of knowing there haven't been any submarines in centuries. The hell you say, said Candle, increasing his pace. I built one five years ago. Built one?

[Interjector]

What for?

[Narrator]

For the hell of it. And it was a damned good outfit too. I found plans in an old museum and had the good sense not to improve on em. Always remember, boy, that something that really works can't be improved. That's why the submarine mechanism was adopted, not adapted for space. The so called better way they're building them today is simply a disguise for the fact that most of the gas has gone from our technology. What happened to the submarine? Oh, I traded it to a friend for some falcons. You interested in falconry by any chance? Er, no. Can't say that I am. You will be, kendall said prophetically. You'll succumb to every enthusiasm man has ever been devilled with. You're the type. It's a disease, boy, and the big symptom isn't just curiosity, but the kind of intense curiosity that turns you inside out, devours you and ruins you for orthodoxy. Hanson had stopped listening. He was absorbed in trying to recall the pattern he had pressed on his radio belt, a pattern never taught to him when the ship had suddenly turned upside down. Hesitantly, he played with the notion that he had been thinking of the ship travelling upside down at the time he impressed the novel pattern on the belt. Now could that have possibly the man and the boy disappeared down the ceiling, running at top speed to catch up as the rapidly vanishing form of Rathanga Bahr was dragged and pulled relentlessly towards the refrigerator in a tug of war between the ship ship's wild, divided crew. Fascinating, said Candle, his eyes glittering with their own peculiar madness. Remained riveted on the distant Imperial Belly. Never saw anything like it End of no Moving Parts by Murray F. Yacko Recording by Megan Argo.

[Interjector]

Small World by William F. Nolan this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Matt Zogel Small World by William F. Nolan he was running, running down the long tunnels, the shadows hunting him, claws clutching at him. Nearer in the waiting windless dark, Lewis Stillman pressed into the building front shadows along Wilshire Boulevard. Breathing softly, the automatic poised and ready in his hand, he advanced with animal step towards Western, gliding over the night cool concrete, past ravaged clothing shops, drug and 10 cent stores, their windows shattered, their doors ajar and swinging. The city of Los Angeles, painted in cold moonlight, was an immense graveyard. The tall white tombstone buildings thrust up from the silent pavement, shadow carved and lonely. Overturned metal corpses of trucks and buses and automobiles littered the streets. He paused under the wide marquee of the Fox Wiltern. Above his head, rows of splintered display barbs gaped, sharp glass teeth in wooden jaws. Lewis Tillman felt as though they might drop at any moment to pierce his body. Four more blocks to cover his destination, a small collar delicatessen four blocks south of Wilshire on Western. Tonight he intended bypassing the larger stores like Safeway or Thrifty Mart with their available supplies of exotic foods. A smaller grocery was far more likely to have what he needed. He was finding it more and more difficult to locate, basically, foodstuffs in the big supermarkets. Only the more exotic and highly spiced canned and bottled goods remained, and he was sick of caviar and oysters. Crossing Weston, he had almost reached the far curb when he saw some of them. He dropped immediately to his knees behind the rusting bulk of an Olds 88. The rear door on his side was open, and he cautiously he eased himself into the back seat of the deserted car, releasing the safety catch on the automatic, he peered through the cracked window at six or seven of them as they moved towards him along the street. God, had he been seen? He couldn't be sure. Perhaps they were aware of his position. He should have remained on the open street where he'd have a running chance. Perhaps, if his aim was true, he could kill most of them. But even with its silencer, the gun would be heard and more of them would come. He dared not fire until he was certain they discovered him. They came closer, their small dark bodies crowding the walk. Six of them, chattering, leaping, cruel mouths open, eyes glittering under the moon. Closer the shrill pipings increased rows of volume Closer now he could make out their sharp teeth and matted hair. Only a few feet from the car. His hand was moist on the handle of the automatic. His heart thundered in his chest. Seconds away now, Lewis Stillman fell heavily back against the dusty seat cushion, the gun loose in his trembling hand. They passed by. They had missed him. Their thin pipings diminished, grew faint with distance. The tomb silence of late night settled around him. The delicatessen proved a real windfall. The shelves were relatively untouched and he had a wide choice of tinned goods. He found an empty cardboard box and hastily began to transfer the cans from the shelf nearest him. A noise from behind a padding scraping sound. Lewis Stillman whirled around, the automatic ready. A huge mongrel dog faced him, growling deep in its throat, forelegs braced for an assault. The blunt ears were laid flat along the short haired skull and a thin trickle of saliva seeped from the killing jaws. The beast's powerful chest muscles were bunched for the spring. When Stillman acted the the gun, he knew, was useless. The shots would be heard. Therefore, with the full strength of his left arm, he hurled a heavy can at the dog's head. The stunned animal staggered under the blow, legs buckling. Hurriedly, Stillman gathered his supplies and made his way back to the street. How much longer can my luck hold, Lewis Stillman wondered as he bolted the door. He placed the placed the box of tinned goods on a wooden table and lit the tall lamp nearby. Its flickering orange glow illumined the narrow, low ceilinged room as Stillman seated himself on one of three chairs facing the table. Twice tonight, his mind told him. Twice you've escaped them. And they could have seen you easily on both occasions if they had been watching for you. They don't know you're little a but when they find out. He forced his thoughts away from the scene in his mind, away from the horror. Quickly he stood up and began to unload the box, placing the cans on a long shelf along the far side of the room. He began to think of women, of a girl named Joan and of how much he had loved her. The world of Lewis Tillman was damp and lightless. It was narrow and its cold stone walls pressed in upon him as he moved. He had been walking for several hours. Sometimes he would run because he knew his leg muscles must be kept strong. But he was walking now, following the thin yellow beam of his hooded lantern. He was searching. Tonight, he thought, I might find another like myself. Surely someone is down here. I'll find someone If I keep searching, I must find someone. But he knew he would not. He knew he would find only chill emptiness ahead of him in the tunnels. For three long years he had been searching for another man or woman down here in this world under the city. For three years he had prowled the 700 miles of storm drains, rethreaded their way under the sky, skin of Los Angeles like the veins in a giant's body, and he had found nothing. Nothing. Even now, after all the days and nights of search, he could not really accept the fact that he was alone, that he was the last man alive in a city of 7 million, that all the others were dead. He paused, resting his back against the coal stone. Some of them were moving over the street above his head. He listened to the sharp scuffling sounds on the pavement and swore bitterly. Damn you, said Lewis Stillman levelly. Damn all of you. Lewis Stillman was running down the long tunnels. Behind him a tide of midget shadows washed from wall to wall. High keening cries, doubled and tripled by echo, rang in his ears. Close reached for him. He felt panting breath like hot smoke on the back of his neck. His lungs were bursting, his entire body aflame. He looked down at his fast, pumping legs doing their job with piston precision. He listened to the sharp slap of his heels against the floor of the tunnel, and he thought, I might die at any moment, but my legs will escape. They will run on down the endless drains and never be caught. They move so fast while my heavy, awkward upper body rocks and sways above them, slowing them down, tiring them, making them angry. How my legs must hate me. I must be clever and humor them, beg them to take me along to safety. How well they run, how sleek and fine. Then he felt himself coming apart. His legs were detaching themselves from his upper body. He cried out in horror, flailing the air with his arms, beseeching them not to leave him behind. But the legs cruelly continued to unfasten themselves in a cold surge of terror. Lewis Stillman felt himself tipping, falling toward the damp floor while his legs raced on with a wild animal life of their own. He opened his mouth high above the insane legs and screamed, ending the nightmare. He sat up stiffly in his cot, grasping, drenched in sweat. He drew in a long, shuddering breath and reached for a cigarette. He lit it with a trembling hand. The nightmares were getting worse. He realized that his mind was rebelling as he slept, spilling forth the bottled up fears of the day. During the night hours he thought once more about the beginning. Six Years ago about why he was still alive. The last of his kind, the alien ships had struck Earth suddenly, without warning. Their attack had been thorough and deadly. In a matter of hours, the aliens had accomplished their clever mission and the men and women of Earth were destroyed. A few survived. He was certain he had never met any of them, but he was convinced they existed. Los Angeles was not the world after all, and if he escaped, so must have others around the globe. He'd been working alone in the drains when the alien ships appeared, finishing a special job for the construction company on B tunnel. He could still hear the weird sound of the mammoth ships and feel the intense heat of their passage. Hunger had forced him out, and overnight he became a curiosity, the last man alive for three years. He was not harmed. He worked with them, taught them many things, and tried to win their confidence. But eventually certain ones came to hate him, to be jealous of his relationship with the others. Luckily, he had been able to escape to the drains. That was three years ago, and now they had forgotten him. His later excursions to the upper level of the city had been made under the COVID of darkness, and he never ventured out unless his food supply dwindled. Water was provided by rain during the wet months and by bottled liquids during the dry. He had built his one room structure directly to the side of an overhead grating, not close enough to risk their seeing, but close enough for light to seep in during the sunlight hours. He missed the warm feel of open sun on his body almost as much as he missed the companionship of others. But he could not think of risking himself above the drains by day. Sometimes he got insane thoughts. Sometimes when the loneliness closed in like an immense fist and he could no longer stand the sound of his own voice, he would think of bringing one of them down with him into the drains, one at a time. They could be handled. Then he remembered their sharp, savage eyes, their animal ferocity, and he would realize that the idea was impossible. If one of their kind disappeared suddenly and without trace, others would certainly become suspicious, begin to search for him, and it would all be over. Lewis Stillman settled back into his pillow, pulling the blankets tight about his body. He closed his eyes and tried not to listen to the distant screams, pipings and reedy cries filtering down from the street above his head. Finally, he slept. He spent the afternoon with paper women. He lingered over the pages of some yellowed feather fashion magazines, looking at all the beautifully photographed models in their fine clothes, all slim and enchanting. These page women with their cool, enticing eyes and perfect smiles, all grace and softness and glitter and swirled cloth. He touched their images with gentle fingers, stroking the tawny paper hair as though by some magic formula he he might imbue them with life. It was easy to imagine that these women had never really lived at all. That they were simply painted in microscopic detail by sly artists to give the illusion of photos. He didn't like to think about these women and how they died. That evening Lewis Stillman watched the moon, round and high and yellow in the night sky. And he thought of his father and of the long hikes through the moonlit Maine countryside. Of hunting trips and warm campfires, of the Maine woods, rich and green in summer. He thought of his father's hopes for his future. And the words of that tall gray haired figure came back to him. You'll be a fine doctor, Lewis. Study and work hard and you'll succeed. I know you will. He remembered the long winter evenings of study at his father's great mahogany desk. Poring over medical books and journals, taking notes, sifting and re sifting facts. He remembered one set of books in particular, Erickson's monumental three volume text on sugary, richly bound and stamped in gold. He had always loved these books above all others. What had gone wrong along the way? Somehow the dream had faded. The bright gold vanished and was lost. After a year of pre med at the University of Southern Cal he had given up medicine. He had become discouraged and quit college to take a laborious job with a construction company. How ironic was this move should have saved his life? He'd wanted to work with his hands, to sweat and labour with the muscles of his body. He'd wanted to earn enough to marry Joan and then later perhaps he would have returned to finish his causes. It all seemed so far away now. His reason for quitting, for letting his father down. Now at this moment, an overwhelming desire gripped him. A desire to pour over Eric's pages once again, to recreate, even for a brief moment, the comfort and happiness of his childhood. He'd seen a duplicate set on the second floor of Pickwick's bookstore in Hollywood in their used book department. And now he knew he must go after them, bring the books back with him to the drains. It was a dangerous and foolish desire, but he knew he would obey it despite the risk of death. He will go after the books tonight. Tonight. One corner of Lewis Stillman's room was reserved for weapons. His prize, a Thompson submachine, had been procured from the Los Angeles police arsenal. Supplementing The Thompson were two semi automatic rifles, a Luger, a Colt.45, and a.22 calibre Hornet pistol equipped with a silencer. He always kept the smallest gun in a spring clip holster beneath his armpit, but it was not his habit to carry any of the larger weapons with him into the city. On this night, however, things were different. The drains ended two miles short of Hollywood, which means he would be forced to cover a long and particularly hazardous stretch of ground in order to reach the bookstore. He therefore decided to take along the.30 caliber savage rifle in addition to the small hand weapon. You're a fool, Lewis, he told himself as he slid the old Savage from its leather case. Are the books important enough to risk your life? Yes, another part of him replied. They are that important. If you want a thing badly enough and the thing is worthwhile, then you must go after it. If fear holds you like a rat in the dark, then you are worse than a coward. You betray yourself and the civilization you represent. Go out and bring the books back. Running in the chill wind, grass now, pavement now, grass beneath his feet, ducking into shadows, moving stealthily past shops and theatres, rushing under the cold moon. Santa Monica Boulevard then Highland, the Hollywood Boulevard, and finally, after an eternity of heartbeats, the bookstore. Pickwick's. Lewis Stillman, his rifle over one shoulder, the small automatic gleaming in his hand, edged silently into the store. A paper battleground met his eyes in the filtered moonlight. A white blanket of broken backed volumes spilled across the entire lower floor. Stillman shuddered. He could envision them shrieking, scrabbling at the shelves, throwing books wildly across the room at one another, screaming, ripping, destroying. What of the other floors? What of the medical section? He crossed to the stairs, spilled pages crackling like a fall of dry leaves under his step, and sprinted up the first short flight to the mezzanine. Similar chaos. He hurried up to the second floor, stumbling, terribly afraid of what he might find. Reaching the top, his heart plodding, he squinted into the dimness. The books were undisturbed. Apparently they had tired of their game. Before reaching these, he slipped the rifle from his shoulder and placed it near the stairs. Dust lay thick all around him, powdering up and swirling as he moved down the narrow aisles. A damp, leathery mustiness lived in the air, an odour of mould and neglect. Lewis Stillman paused before a dim hand lettered sign Medical section. It was just as he had remembered it. Holstering the small automatic, he struck a match, shading the flame with a cupped hand as he moved it along the rows of faded titles. Carr, Davidson, enright Ericsson. He drew in his breath sharply. All three volumes, their gold stamping dust dulled but readable, stood in tall and perfect order on the shelf in the darkness. Lewis Stillman carefully removed each volume, blowing it free of dust. At last all three books were clean and solid in his hands. Well, you've done it. You've reached the books, and now they belong to you. He smiled, thinking of the moment when he would be able to sit down at the table with his treasure and linger again and again over the wondrous pages. He found an empty carton at the rear of the store and placed the books inside. Returning to the stairs, he shouldered the rifle and began his descent to the lower floor. So far, he told himself, my luck is still holding. But as Lewis Stillman's foot touched the final stair, his luck ran out. The entire lower floor was alive with them, rustling like a mass of great insects. Gliding toward him, eyes gleaming in the half light, they converged upon the stairs. They had been waiting for him. Now suddenly the books no longer mattered. Now only his life mattered, and nothing else. He moved back against the hardwood of the stair rail and the carton of books sliding from his hands. They had stopped at the foot of the stair. They were silent, looking up at him, the hate in their eyes. If you can reach the street, Stillman told himself, then you've still got half a chance. That means you've got to get through them to the door. Alright then, move. Lewis Stillman squeezed the trigger of the automatic and trigger. Three shots echoed through the silence door. Two of them fell under the bullets as Stillman rushed into their midst. He felt sharp nails claw at his shirt and trousers, heard the cloth ripping away in their grasp. He kept firing the small automatic into them, and three more dropped under the hail of bullets, shrieking in pain and surprise. The others spilled back, screaming from the door. Door. The gun was empty. He tossed it away, swinging the heavy savage rifle free from his shoulder. As he reached the street, the night air, crisp and cool in his lungs, gave him instant hope. I can still make it, thought Stillman as he leaped the curb and plunged across the pavement. If those shots weren't heard, then I've still got the edge. My legs are strong. I can outdistance them. Luck, however, had failed him completely on this night. Near the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland, a fresh pack of them swarmed towards him over the street. He dropped to one knee and fired into their ranks, the savage jerking in his hands. They scattered to either side. He began to run steadily down the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, using the butt of the heavy rain rifle like a battering ram as they came at him. As he neared Highland, three of them darted directly into his path. Stillman fired. One doubled over, lurching crazily into a jagged plate glass storefront. Another clawed at him as he swept around the corner to Highland. He managed to shake free. The street ahead of him was clear now. His superior leg power would come heavily in his favour. Two miles. Could he make it before others cut him off, running, reloading, firing, sweat soaking his shirt, rivering down his face, stinging his eyes. A mile covered. Halfway to the drains they had fallen back, but more of them were coming, drawn by the rifle shots pouring in from side streets, stores and houses. His heart jarred in his body. His breath was ragged. How many of them around him? A hundred? Two hundred? More coming. God. He bit down on his lower lip until the salt taste of blood was on his tongue. You can't make it. A voice inside him shouted. They'll have you in another block and you know it. He fitted the rifle to his shoulder, adjusted his aim, and fired. The long rolling crack of the big weapon filled the night. Again and again he fired, the butt jerking into the flesh of his shoulder, the smell of powder in his nostrils. It was no use. Too many of them. Lewis Stillman knew that he was going to die. The rifle was empty. At last. The final bullet had been fired. He had not no place to run because they were all around him in a slowly closing circle. He looked at the ring of small, cruel faces and he thought the aliens did their job perfectly. They stopped Earth before she could reach the age of the rocket, before she could threaten planets beyond her own moon. What an immensely clever plan it had been to destroy every human being on Earth above the age of six, and then to leave as quickly as they had come, allowing our civilization to continue on a primitive level, knowing that Earth's back had been broken, that her survivors would revert to savagery as they grew into adulthood. Lewis Stillman dropped the empty rifle at his feet and threw out his hands. Listen, he pleaded. I really one of you. You'll all be like me soon. Please listen to me. But the circle tightened relentlessly around Lewis Stillman. He was screaming when the children closed in. End of Small World by William F. Nolan Recording by Matt Z.

[Narrator]

Spawn of the Comet by Harold Thompson Rich this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Reading by Bologna Times Spawn of the Comet By Harold Thompson Richard A swarm of huge fiery ants, brood of a mystery comet, burst from their shells to threaten the unsuspecting world. Tokyo, June 10 AP A number of the meteors that pelted Japan last night as the Earth passed through the tail of the mystery comet have been found and are puzzling as far astronomers everywhere. About the size of basketballs, orange in color, they appear to be of some unknown metal. So far, due to their extreme hardness, all attempts to analyze them have failed. Their uniformity of size and marking gives rise to the popular belief that they are seeds. And fantastic though this conception is, it finds support in certain scientific quarters Here. Jim Carter read the News Dispatch thoughtfully and handed it back to his chief without comment. Well, what do you make of it? Miles Overton, city editor of the New York Press, shoved his green eye shade far back on his bald head and glanced up irritably from his lettered desk. I don't know, said Jim. You don't know? Overton snorted, biting his dead cigar impatiently. And I suppose you don't know they're finding the damn things right here in New York. Not to mention Chicago, London, Rio, and a few other places, he added. Yes, I know about New York. It's a regular egg hunt. Egg hunt is right. But why tell me all this now? I didn't see any mention of them in your report of last night's proceedings. Did you see any? No, but I saw a lot of shooting stars, said Jim, recalling that weird experience he and the rest of humanity had passed through so recently. Yeah, I'll say. Overton lit his wrecked cigar and dragged on it soothingly. Now then, getting back to cases, what are these damn things, anyway? That's what I'd like to know. So would I, said Jim. Maybe they are seeds. Overton frowned. He was a solid man, not given to fancies. He had a paper to get out every day, and that taxed his imagination to the limit. There was no gray matter left for any such idle musings, as Jim suggested. What he wanted was facts, and he wanted them right away. Eggs will do, he said. Go out and get one and find out what's inside it. Okay, Chief, said Jim, but he knew it was a large order. I'll have one on your desk for breakfast. Then, with a grave face that denied his light words, he stepped from the City Room on that fantastic assignment. It was the television broadcast hour, and crowds thronged the upper level of Radio Plaza, gazing intently at the bulletin screen as Jim Carter emerged from the press Tower news from the ends of the Earth in audio picture form flashed before their view. But only the reports on the strange meteors from the tale of 1947 IV, so designated by astronomers because it was the fourth comet discovered that year, held their interest. Nothing since the great Antarctic gold rush of 33 had so gripped the public as the dramatic arrival and startling behavior of this mysterious visitant from outer space. Jim paused a moment halfway across to the plaza to take a look at the screen himself. The substance of the Tokyo dispatch, supplemented by pictures of Japanese scientists working over the baffling orange spheres, had just gone off. Now came a flash from Berlin in which a celebrated German chemist was seen directing an effort to cut into one of them with an acid drill. It failed, and the scientists turned to declare to the world that the substance seemed more like crystal than metal and was harder than diamond. Jim tarried no longer. He knew where he was going. It was still early, and Joan would be up. Joan Wentworth, daughter of Professor Stephen Wentworth, who held the chair of astrolithology at Hartford University. It was as their guest at the observatory last night that he had seen 1947 IV at close range as the Earth pass through her golden train with that awesome, unparalleled display of fireworks. Now he'd have the pleasure of seeing Joan again and at the same time get the lowdown from her father on those confounded seeds, or eggs, rather, if anyone could crack one of them, he'd bet Professor Wentworth could. So, hastening toward the base of Plaza Airport, he took an elevator to ramp level 118, where his autoplane was parked and five minutes later was winging his way to Hartford. Throttle wide, Jim did the 80 miles to the Connecticut capital in a quarter of an hour. Then, banking down through the warm June night onto the university landing field, he retracted the wings of the swift little bus and motored to the foot of Observatory Hill. Parking outside the Wentworth home, he mounted the steps and rang the bell. It was answered by a slim, appealing girl of perhaps 22. Hers was a wistful oval face with a small upturned nose, and her clear hazel eyes were the sort that always seems to be enjoying some amusing secret of their own. Her hair was a soft brown, worn loose to the shoulders after the style then in vogue. Joan blurted, jim, what brings you here at such an hour? Jimmy Carter? She asked with mock severity. You. I don't believe you. What then have I come for? You've come to interview Father about those meteorites. Nonsense. That's purely incidental, a mere byproduct you might say. Yes, you might, but I wouldn't advise you to say it to Father. All right, I won't, he promised as she led him into the library. Professor Wentworth rose as they entered and laid aside some scientific book he had been reading. A man of medium height and build, he had the same twinkling hazel eyes as his daughter, though somewhat dim from peering at too many stars for too many years. Good evening, Jim, he said. I've rather been expecting you. What is on your mind? Seeds, Eggs? Baseballs, was the reply. I don't know what you've seen the latest television reports, I suppose, said Jim, noting that the panel on the receiving cabinet across the room was still lit. I've seen some of them. Joan has been keeping an eye on the screen mostly, however, while I refreshed my mind on the known chemistry of the meteorites. You see, I have a few of those eggs myself up at the observatory. You have? Cried Jim. He was certainly on the right track. Yes, one of my assistants brought them in this afternoon. Would you like to see them? I'll say I would. I rather thought you might. The professor smiled. Come along, then. And as Jim turned, he shot a look at Joan and added, you may come too, my dear, if you want. They went out and up the hill to where the great white dome glistened under the stars. And once inside, Jim Carter of the New York Press was privileged to see two of those strange objects that had turned the world topsy turvy, as the Tokyo despatch and the Berlin television flash had indicated. They were orange in color, about the size of baseballs. Weird looking eggs. All right, said Jim. What are they made of, anyway? Some element unknown on Earth, replied Professor Wentworth. But I thought There were only 92 elements in the universe, and we discovered them all. So we have. But don't forget this. We are still trying to split the atom, which nature has done many times and will doubtless do many times again. It is merely a matter of altering the valence of the atomic in an old element, whereupon it shifts its position in the periodic scale and becomes a new element. Nature accomplishes this alchemy by means of great heat, which is certainly to be found in a meteor, particularly when it hits the Earth's atmosphere. Yes, and now then, I'd like to have you examine more closely this pair I have here. Jim lifted one and noted its peculiar smoothness, its remarkable weight for its size. He noted, too, that it was veined with concentric markings, like a series of arabesques or fleur de lis the professor lifted the other, calling attention to the fact that the size and marking of both were identical, as hitherto reported. Also, you'll observe that they are slightly warm. In fact, they are appreciably warmer than when they were first brought in. Curious behavior, this for new laid commentary. Eggs more like seeds germinating than meteorites cooling, wouldn't you say? But good Lord. Jim was somewhat taken aback to hear this celebrated scientist apparently commit himself to that wild view. You don't really think they're seeds, do you? Why not? But surely no seeds could survive the temperature they hit getting here. No seeds such as we know. True. But what, after all, do we know of the types of life to be found on other planets? Nothing, of course. Only these didn't come from a planet. They came from a comet. And who can say a comet is not a disintegrated planet. Or suppose we take the other theory, that it is an eruption from some sun, ours or another. In any event, who can say? No life can survive intense heat. Certainly these seeds, or call them meteorites if you choose, came through the ordeal curiously unscathed. Yes, that's true. Funny too. And another thing is true, Jim. If by chance they should be seeds and should germinate, the life they would produce would be something quite alien to our experience, possibly quite inimical to. Professor Wentworth broke off abruptly as a startled cry came from Joan, and turning they saw her standing with eyes fixed in fascinated horror on the laboratory table. Following her gaze, Jim saw something that caused his own eyes to bulge. The color of those mysterious orange spheres had suddenly, ominously heightened. They lay glowing there like balls of fire. Good God. He gasped. Look, Professor. Do you see that? Professor Wentworth did not answer, but himself stood gazing spellbound at the astounding scene. Even as they looked, the metal table smoldered under the fiery meteorites and melted. And in a little while, the meteorites themselves sizzled from view. Flames licked up from the floor. Dense, suffocating fumes rose and swirled through the laboratory.

Quick.

Cried Jim, seizing Joan's arm. Come on, Professor. Never mind trying to save anything. Let's get out of here. They staggered from the laboratory and once outside, plunged down the hill. It was none too soon. Behind them, as they fled, came suddenly two deafening explosions. Looking back, they saw the roof of the observatory tilt crazily, saw the whole building shatter and erupt like a volcano. But that, startling though it was, was not all they saw. For now, as they stood there speechless, two incredible forms rose, phoenix like from the flames. Two weird Monsters, orange against the red, hideous, nightmarish. They saw them hover a moment above that fiery hell, then rise on bat like wings to swoop off into the night. Nor was that all. As the odd trio stood there halfway down Observatory Hill, following the flight of that pair of demons, other explosions reached their ears, and turning to the city below, they saw vivid jets of red leap up here and there, saw other orange wings against the night, while off across the southeast sky, receding fast, spread the mystery comet whose tail had sowed the seeds of this strange life. Still silent, the trio stood gazing upon that appalling scene for some minutes while the ruddy shadows of the flaming observatory lit their tense faces. Well, the seeds have hatched, said Professor Wentworth at length in a strained voice. I'm afraid some of the curious who have been gathering those meteorites so eagerly have paid a dear price for them. Yes, I'm afraid so, echoed Jim. We were lucky. If Joan hadn't happened to spot those things. Just when she did, he broke off and pressed her hand fondly. But somehow I can't believe it even yet. What do you think the things are, Professor? God knows. As I told you, those seeds, should they germinate, would produce something quite alien to our experience. And as I feared, it is a form of life that will not blend well with humanity. Jim shuddered. But look, Father. Exclaimed Joan. They're flying away. They seem to be way up among the stars. Maybe they've left the earth altogether. Professor Wentworth, following his daughter's gaze, saw that many of the monsters were now mere orange pinpoints against the night. Let us hope so, he said fervently. But in his heart there was no conviction. Nor in Jim's, strangely. On the way back to New York, Jim had plenty to heighten his uneasiness. The scene below him everywhere was red with conflagrations, the sky everywhere orange with the wings of those fiery moths. More than one swept perilously close as he pushed his autoplane on at top speed, but they showed no inclination to attack, for which he was devoutly thankful. Over the metropolitan area, the scene was one beggaring description. All the five boroughs were a blazing checkerboard. New Jersey, Connecticut, Westchester, all were raging. Hundreds of those deadly bombs must have burst in Manhattan alone. But the fire department there seemed to have the situation in hand, he noticed as he swept down onto the plaza landing platform. Leaving his plane with an attendant, he took the first elevator to the street level and, crossing hastily to the press tower mounted to the city room, their absolute pandemonium raged. Typewriters were sputtering, firing telegraph keys, clicking, phones buzzing, reporters coming and going in a steady stream, mingled with frantic orders of editors, sub editors, copy readers, composing room men, and others. Carter fought through the bedlam to the city editor's desk. Sorry I couldn't bring you that egg, chief, he said with a grim smile. I had one right in my hand, but it hatched out on me. Overton looked up wearily. He was a man who had seen a miracle, a godless miracle that restored his faith in the devil. Don't talk, just write, he growled. I've seen and heard too much tonight. We're all going to hell, I guess, unless we're already there. But Jim wasn't ready to write yet. What's the dopel elsewhere? The same all over the map. We're frying from coast to coast and abroad. Cooked everywhere. He paused and turned an imploring face to Jim. Tell me, Carter, what's happening? You've seen Wentworth, I suppose. What's he make of it? He doesn't know. God help us. Well, go write your story. If we've got a plant by press time. We'll have something on page one tomorrow, if there's anyone to read it. By morning the fires in the metropolitan area had been brought under control, and it was found that neither the loss of life nor the damage was as great as had at first been feared. Mainly it was the older types of buildings that had suffered the most. The same thing was true in other parts of the country and elsewhere in the world. And elsewhere as in New York, people pulled themselves together, cleared up the debris, and went ahead with their occupations. Business was resumed and rebuilding operations were begun. Meanwhile, where were those fiery moths that had sprung so devastatingly from their strange cocoons? For a while no one knew, and it was believed that they had indeed winged off into interstellar space, as Joan had suggested that night on Observatory Hill. Then came rumors that damped these hopes, followed by eyewitness reports that altogether dashed them. The bat like monsters had flown not off into space but to the world's wastelands. Strange. It was the instinct that had led them unerringly to the remotest part of each continent. In North America it was the Great Arizona Desert. In South America, the pampas of Argentina. In Europe, the steps of Russia. In Asia, the desert of Gobi. In Africa, the Sahara. In Australia, the Victoria, while in the British Isles, Philippines, New Zealand, Madagascar, Iceland, the East Indies, West Indies, South Seas, and other islands of the world, the interiors were taken over by the demons, the populace fleeing for their lives. As for the oceans, no one knew exactly what had happened there, though it was obvious they, too had received their share of the bombardment on that fateful night. But while temperatures were found to be somewhat above normal, scientists were of the opinion that the deadly spawn that had fallen there had failed to incubate. Immediately, the presence of the monsters in the Arizona desert was verified. Overton called Jim Carter to his office. Well, I've got a big assignment for you, boy, he said, rather more gently than was his fashion. Maybe you know what?

Huh?

You want me to buzz out and interview those birds? You guessed it. And photograph them. Okay, Chief, said Carter. Though he knew this would be the toughest job yet, Overton knew it, too. It won't be easy, he said, and it may be dangerous. You don't have to take the assignment unless you want. But I want. Good. I thought you would. He regarded the young man admiringly, almost enviously. Now, about those photos. The television news people haven't been able to get a thing. Nor the War Department, not so much as a still. So those photos will be valuable. Overton paused to let that sink in. They'll be worth a million, in fact, in addition to what the War Department offers. And to you, they'll be worth $10,000. How come? Because that's what the old man said. Well, I can use it, said Jim, thinking of Joan. All right, then, go to Leaving New York late that night, Carter timed his flight to arrive over the eastern edge of the desert just before dawn. The trip was uneventful till he crossed the Rockies over New Mexico and eased down into Arizona. Then, flying low and fast, he suddenly caught a glow of color off ahead. For an instant, Jim thought it was the dawn, then called himself a fool. For one thing, the glow was in the west, not the east, and for another, altogether more significant, it was orange is quarry. Pulling his stick back hard, he shot like a rocket to 10,000ft, figuring that a higher altitude, besides giving him a better view of the lay of the land, would be considerably safer. Winging on now at that height, he saw the orange tide rise higher in the west by seconds. As he rushed toward God knew what eerie lair, he suddenly gasped in amazement as he saw now something so incredible it left him numb. Below, looming above the unrushing horizon, was a city. But such a city as the brain of man could scarcely conceive, much less execute, a city of some fluorescent orange material, rising tier on tier, level on level, spreading out over the sandy floor of the desert for miles. And as Jim drew nearer he saw, too, that this weird city was teeming with life. Terrible life. Thousands of those hideous monsters. Monsters were working there like an army of ants in a sandhill. A sandhill of glistening molten glass, it seemed, from the air. Were they building their city from the sand of the desert? These hellish glaciers? Carter decided to find out. Well, here goes, he muttered, diving straight for that dazzling citadel, one hand on the stick, the other gripping the trigger of his automatic camera. This'll make a picture for the old man, all right. Off to the east, the dawn was breaking, and he saw as he swept down its pearly pastel shades, blending weirdly with that blindingly orange glare. Pressing the trigger now, he drove his screaming plane on with throttle wide and yes, it was glass. Glass of some sort. That crazy nightmare down there.

Whoo.

Gasped Carter as waves of dazing heat rose about him. Boy, but it's hot. I can't stand much of this. Better get out while the getting's good. But he clenched his teeth and dove on down to see what those fiery demons looked like. Funny, they didn't make any effort to attack. Surely they must see him now. Take that, my beauties. And that. He gasped, pressing the trigger of his camera furiously. Then, at a scant 2,000ft, he leveled off, his wings blistering with the heat, and zoomed up again, when, to his horror, his engine faltered. Died. In that agonizing moment, it came to Jim that this. This perhaps, was why neither the television news nor the War Department pilots had been able to get pictures of the hell below. Had something about that daring heat killed their motors, too, as it had his? Had they plunged like fluttering, sizzling moths into that inferno of orange flame? Well, I guess it's curtains, he muttered. A glance at his object, Timitor, showed a scant 1800. Now another glance showed the western boundary of the city agonizing miles ahead. Could he make it? He'd try anyway. So, nursing his plan along in a shallow glide, Jim slipped down through that dazing heat. Got to keep her speed up, he told himself, half deliriously as he steadily lost attitude. Can't pancake here, or I'll be a flapjack. At an altitude of less than a thousand, he leveled off again, eased on down, fully expecting to feel his plane burst into flames. But though his eyebrows crisped and the gas must have boiled, the sturdy little plane made it on a long last glide. He put her wheels down on the sandy desert floor. A bare half mile beyond that searing hell, the heat was still terrific, but endurable. Now he dared breathe Deeper he found his head clearing. But what was the good of it? It was only a respite. The monsters had seen him, all right, no doubt about that. Already they were swooping out of their weird citadel like a pack of furious hornets. On they came, incredibly fast, moving in a wide half circle that obviously was planned to envelop him. Tense with horror, like a doomed man at the stake, Jim watched the flaming phalanx advance. And now he saw what they really were, saw that his first fantastic guess had been right. They were ants, or at least more like ants than anything on earth. Great fiery termites 10ft long, hideous mandibles snapping like steel hot from the forge, their huge compound eyes burning like greenish electric fire in their livid orange sockets. And another thing Jim saw something that explained why the fearful insects insects had not flown up to attack him in the air. Their wings were gone. They had molted, were earthbound. Now there was much food for thought in this, but no time to think. Already the creatures were almost on him. Jim turned his gaze from them and bent over his dials in a last frantic effort to get his motor started. The instinct of self preservation was dominant now, and to his joy, suddenly the powerful little engine began to hum with life. He drew one deep breath of infinite relief, then gave her the gun and whirled off down the desert floor, the enraged horde after him. For agonizing incidents, it was a nipentuck race. Then, as he felt his wheels lift, he pulled hard back on his stick and swept up and away from the deadly claws that clutched after him in vain. Climbing swiftly, Jim banked once, swept back, put the bead full on that scattering half circle of fiery termites, and pressed the trigger of his automatic camera. There, babies, he laughed grimly. You're in the rogues gallery now. Then, swinging off to the northeast, he continued to climb, giving that weird ant hill a wide berth. Funny about those things. Losing their wings, he was thinking now. Would they grow them again? Or were they on the ground for good? And what was their game out there in the desert anyway? Questions Jim couldn't answer, of course. Only time would tell. Meanwhile, he had some pictures that would make the old man sit up and take notice. Not to mention the War Department. They'd better get the army on the job before those babies get air minded again, he told himself as he winged on into the rising sun. Otherwise, the show they've already staged may be only a little curtain raiser. Jen's arrival in the sitting room of the New York Times Press that afternoon was a triumphant one. For he had radiophoned the story ahead, and extras were out all over the metropolitan area, with relays flashing from the front pages of papers everywhere. No sooner had he turned over his precious pictures to the photographic department for development than Overton rushed him to a microphone and made him repeat his experience for the television screen. But the city editor's enthusiasm died when the negatives came out of the developer. There are your pictures, he said, handing over a bunch of them. Carter looked at them in dismay. They were all blank. Just so much. Plain blank. Celluloid. Overexposed, rasped Overton. A hell of a photographer you are. I sure am, jim agreed, still gazing ruefully at the ruined negatives. Funny, though the camera was checked before I started. I had the range before I pulled the trigger. Every shot. He paused, then added, as though reluctant to excuse himself, it must have been the heat. Yeah, I suppose so. Well, that was damn expensive heat for you, my lad. It cost you 10,000 bucks. Yes, but Jim had been going to say it had nearly cost him his life, but thought better of it. Besides, an idea had come. Give me those negatives, he said. I'm going to find out what's wrong with them. And since they were of no use to Overton, he gave them to Jim. That night, again Jim Carter presented himself at the Wentworth home in Hartford, and again it was Joan who admitted him. Oh, Jimmy, she murmured as he took her in his arms. We are all so proud of you. I'm glad someone is, he said. But what a fearful risk you ran. If you hadn't been able to get your motor started, why think of unpleasant things? He said with a smile. Then they went into the library, where Professor Wentworth added his congratulations. But I'm afraid I didn't accomplish much, said Jim, explaining about the pictures. Let me see them, said the professor. Jim handed them over for a moment or two. Professor Wentworth examined them intently, holding them this way and that. They indeed appear to be extremely overexposed, he admitted at length. Your fire ants are doubtless radioactive to a high degree. The results could not have been much worse had you tried to photograph the sun direct. I thought as much, said Carter gloomily. But possibly the damage isn't irreparable. Suppose we try redeveloping a few of these negatives. He led the way to his study, which, since the destruction of the observatory, had been converted into a temporary laboratory. Ten minutes later, Professor Wentworth had his redeveloping bath ready in a porcelain basin and had plunged some of the negatives into it. This process is what photographers call Intensification, he explained, it consists chemically in the oxidation of a part of the silver of which the image is composed. I have here in solution uranium nitrate plus potassium ferrocyanide, acidified with acetic acid. The latter salt, in the presence of the acid, is an oxidizing agent and when applied to the image, produces silver oxide, which with the excess of acetic acid, forms silver acetate, which is all so much Greek to me, said Carter. At the same time, the ferrocyanide is reduced to ferrocyanide. The professor went on with a smile at Joan. Whereupon insoluble red uranium ferrocyanide is produced. And while some of the silver in being oxidized by this, this process is rendered soluble and removed from the negative into the solution. It is replaced by the highly non actinic and insoluble uranium compound. The process was one quite familiar to photographers experienced in astronomical work. He explained. In 15 minutes they should know what results they were getting. But when 15 minutes began passed, and the negatives were still as black as ever, Jim's hope waned. Not so, Professor Wentworth's, however. There is a definite but slow reaction taking place, he said after careful examination. Either the overexposure is even greater than I had suspected, or the actinic rays from your interesting subjects have formed a stubborn chemical union with the silver of the image. In the latter event, which is the theory I am going to work on, we must speed up the reaction and tear some of that excess silver off if we're ever to see what is underneath. But how are you going to speed up the reaction? Asked Jim. I thought that uranium was pretty strong stuff. By itself it is, but not as strong as this new substance we have in combination with the silver here. So I think I'll try a little electrolysis, or in plain English, electroplating. As he spoke, the professor clipped a couple of platinum electrodes to the basin, one at each end. To the anode, he attached one of the negatives to the cathode, a small piece of iron. Now then, we'll soon see. He passed a low current into the wires through a rheostat with startling results. There was a sudden foaming of the solution and a weird vapor rose from it, luminous, milky, faintly orange. For a moment all they could do was stare. Then Professor Wentworth switched off the current and stepped toward the tank, waving away that orange gas. He reached for the cathode and held it up. It was no longer iron, but silver, now plated. You see? He exclaimed in triumph. Yes, but those fumes. Cried Jim. Why, they were the same color as the. The fire ants, as you call them. I know. The professor was not as calm as he pretended. We have released some of their actinic rays captured by the negative in prying loose our excess silver. Later I shall repeat the process and capture some of that vapor for analysis. At present, let us have a look at the negative already treated. He lifted the anode from the solution now removed the negative and held it up. A smile of satisfaction broke over his face, followed by a shudder. There you are, Jim. Have a look. Jim looked with Joan peering over his shoulder, and his pulses tingled. It was a clear shot of that scattering half circle of fiery termites, points taken after he got away and swept back over them. Say, that's wonderful. He exclaimed. Wonderful but horrible, echoed Joan. I'll admit they're not much on looks, laughed Carter, but their homely maps are worth a lot to me. $10,000, in fact. He told her why and what he proposed to do with the money, and Joan thought it was a very good idea. While this was taking place, Professor Wentworth was redeveloping the rest of the negatives. At last, all had been salvaged, even those taken in the terrific heat over that weird glass city out there, and Jim was prepared to bear them back to Overton. In triumph, he had thanked the kindly professor from the bottom the of of his heart, had even told him something of what he had been telling John. There remained but to put one last question, then go summing it all up. What do you make of those nightmares? He asked. Do you think they can be destroyed? Professor Wentworth did not reply at once. I can perhaps answer your question better when I have analyzed this specimen of gas, he said at length, holding up a test tube in which swirled a quantity of that luminous milky orange vapor. But if you wish to quote me for publication, you may say that when I have learned the nature of it, I shall devote all my energies to combating the menace it constitutes. And that was the message. Message Jim took back with him. But it was the pictures that interested the practical Overton most. Before many days, however, Overton, with the rest of the world, was turning anxiously to Professor Wentworth, watching his every move, awaiting his every word. For before many days, terrible reports started coming in, not only from the Arizona desert, but from the assembly grounds of the fire ants. Everywhere those deadly termites were on the move. They were spreading from the central citadels in ominous expanding circles, circles that engulfed villages, towns, and cities in a swift, relentless ring of annihilation that was fairly stupefying. In North America, the cities of Phoenix, Tucson and Prescott, with all that lay between, were already gone, their frantic populaces fleeing to the four points of the compass before that fateful orange tide. In South America, Rosario and Cordoba were within the flaming ring, and Buenos Aires was threatened. In Europe, Moscow and its vast tributary plain had fallen before the invaders. In Asia, a veritable island empire was theirs, reaching from Urga to the Kingan Mountains. In Africa, southern Algeria and French Sudan, with their innumerable small villages and oases, were overrun. In Australia, Coolgardie has succumbed, and Perth was in a panic. But fearful though the destruction was on the continents, it was the islands of the world that suffered most. First, the smallest, those picturesque green gems of the South Seas crisped and perished. Then came reports of the doom of the Hawaiian group, the Philippines, the East and West Indies, New Zealand, Tasmania, and a score of others, their populations perishing by the thousands as shipping proved unavailable to transport them to safety. By far the most tragic fate, however, was that suffered by the British Isles. What happened there stunned the world and brought realization to humanity that unless some miracle intervened, it was but a mirror of the doom that awaited all. For England, Ireland and Scotland were habitable no more. London, Dublin, Glasgow, all their proud cities, all their peaceful hamlets, centuries old, were flaming ruins. Out of a population of some 60 millions, it was estimated that at least eight millions must have perished. The rest, by prodigious feats of transportation, managed to reach the mainland, where they spread as refugees throughout an apprehensive, demoralized Europe. As for the armies and navies of the world, they were powerless before this fiendish invader. Hammered with high explosives, drenched with chemicals, sprayed with machine gun bullets, the fiery termites surged on unchecked in ever widening circles of death.

[Interjector]

Death.

[Narrator]

Lead and steel passed through them harmlessly. Gas wafted off them like air. Despite the frantic efforts of scientists and military men, nothing could be devised to stem that all devouring orange tide. It was quite obvious by now, even to the most conservative minds, that the end of human life on Earth was not far off. He could only be a few more weeks before the last stronghold fell. Daily, hourly, those deadly fire ants were everywhere, expanding their fields of operations. Presently, all humanity would be driven to the sea coast, there to perish by fire or water as they chose. There were some optimists, of course, who believed that the miracle would happen, that Professor Wentworth or some other scientists would devise some means of repelling the invader before it was too late. Young Jim Carter of the York Press was not among them, however, though he would have gambled it would be Professor Wentworth, if anyone. For what hope was there that any mere man could figure out a weapon that would be effective against such a deadly, such a superhuman foe? Very little, it seemed, and he grew less and less sanguine as he, confused, continued his frenzied, sleepless work of reporting the unending catastrophes for his paper. He often thought bitterly of that $10,000. A lot of good that would do him now. As for Joan, she faced her fate with fortitude. Fortitude and a supreme faith that her father would succeed in analyzing that sinister orange vapor and find the weapon the world waited for. But agonizing days passed, and he did not find it. Then, at last, on the night of August 14, when Los Angeles and San Francisco were smoldering infernos, along with Reno, Denver, Omaha, El Paso, and a score of other great American cities, when Buenos Aires and Santiago were gone, Berlin and Peking and Cairo went to Australia was all one fiery hell. Then it was that Professor Wentworth summoned Jim Carter to Hartford. Hoping against hope, he hurried over once again. Joan ushered him into the house. She was very pale and did not speak. At her side stood her father. It was he who spoke. Good evening, Jim. You have come promptly. His voice was strained, his face grave. He had aged greatly in the past few weeks. Well, I'll admit I clipped along. You've found something. Professor Wentworth smiled wanly. Suppose you step into my study and see what I have found. He led the way toward the little makeshift labyrinth laboratory that for many days and nights had been the scene of his efforts. It was littered with strange devices now, strangest of all, perhaps a huge glass tube like a cannon, mounted on some sort of swivel base. Ignoring this for the moment, he turned to a smaller tube set upright on a table at the far end of the room. In it glowed a sinister orange lump that made the whole tube fluorescent. Behold one of your monsters in captivity, said the professor again with a wan smile. In miniature, of course. What I have done is to condense some of that vapor into a solid. The process, he explained, was similar to that employed by Madame Cure in obtaining metallic radium. Electrolyzing a radium chloride solution with mercury as cathode, then driving off the mercury by heat in a current of hydrogen. Only he had used the new element instead of radium. Incidentally, I have learned that this new element is far more radioactive than radium and possesses many curious properties. Among them, it decomposes violently in water, particularly salt Saltwater producing harmless hydrogen and chloride compounds. So we have nothing to fear from those seeds that fell in our oceans, lakes and rivers. Well, that's something anyway, said Jim. But have you found any way to combat the ones that have already hatched? Before I answer that question, Professor Wentworth replied, I shall let you witness a little demonstration. He advanced to the cannon like device at the other end of the room, swung it on its swivel till it was pointing directly at that fluorescent orange tube on the table. Watch closely, he said, throwing a switch. There was a sudden whining hum in the air and the nib of the big tube glowed a soft, velvety green. Jim gazed at the scene with rapt attention. Don't look at that one, whispered Joan. Look at the other. Jim did so and saw that its fluorescence was waning a moment more. The professor held the current on while the tube grew white. Then he threw off the switch. Now let us have a look at our captive, he said, striding over. They followed, and one glance told Jim what had happened. That sinister lump of orange metal had vanished. But where was it? That was what he wanted to know. A natural question, but not one easy to answer was Professor Wentworth's reply. I shall tell you what I have done. Then you may judge for yourself. The cannon like device which had accompanied the seeming miracle was an adaptation of the cathode tube, whose rays are identical with the beta rays of the atom and consist of a stream of negatively charged particles moving at the velocity of light 186,000 miles a second. These rays, in theory have the power to combine with the positively charged alpha rays of the atom and drag them from their electrons, causing them to discharge their full time quanta of energy at once in the form of complete disintegration. And it was this theory the professor had acted on. But good Lord, that's splitting the atom. Exclaimed Jim. You don't mean to say you've done that? I apparently have was the grave admission. But do not let it seem such a miracle. Bear in mind, as I have pointed out before, that nature has accomplished this alchemy many times. All radioactive elements are evidences of it. The feat consists merely in altering the valence of the atom, changing its electric charge, in other words. What I have done in the present instance is merely to speed up a process nature already had underway, inasmuch as we are dealing with a radioactive substance. But what happened to the by product of the reaction? Your guess is as good as mine. I have not had time to study that phase of it. Heat mainly was produced possibly a few atoms of helium, but the substance is gone. That is our chief concern just now. It was only after abandoning chemical means and turning to physics that he had met with success. He said cathode rays had finally proved the key to the riddle. But do you think this thing will work on a big scale? Asked Jim, regarding that fragile tube doubtfully. Professor Wentworth hesitated before replying. I do not know, he admitted, but I intend to find out tonight. Jim looked at him in amazement. Tonight? Yes. Or rather, the experiment will be at dawn. If successful, this continent at least will be rid of the menace. Jim's amazement turned to incredulity, and he suddenly Fear gripped him. Had the strain of the past few weeks unbalanced the professor's mind? But surely you can't hope to wipe them out with one tube. Why, it would take hundreds. No, only one. You see, I am going to place the tube in the center of the circle and direct its rays outward toward the circumference in a swinging radius, Whereupon for a moment, Jim's fear seemed confirmed. But good God. He exclaimed, it couldn't possibly be that powerful, could it? I think it can be made to be, was Professor Wentworth's grave assurance. The greatest power we know in the universe is radiant energy, which reaches us from the sun and the stars, traveling at the speed of light like light rays, these heat rays can be focused, directed. And the beta rays of the cathode, traveling at the same velocity, can be made to ride these rays of radiant heat much as electric power rides radio waves. The giant, in short, can be made to carry the dwarf with his deadly little weapon. That, at least, is the theory I am acting on. This somewhat allayed Jim's fears, fears that vanished when the professor went on to explain somewhat the working of his mechanism. But how are you going to get the thing out there? He asked, picturing with a shudder the center of the flaming hell. I imagine the War Department will provide me with a volunteer plane and pilot for the purpose, was the calm reply. And you will go? Yes, I will go. Jim debated, but not for long. Well, you needn't trouble the War Department. Here's your volunteer pilot. The plane's outside. When do we start? But, my dear young man, objected the professor, I cannot permit you to make this sacrifice. And it is suicide, sheer suicide. Is my life any more precious than yours or that of some volunteer army pilot? Jim asked him. But there is Joan. If I fail, she must depend on you. If you fail, Professor, Joan won't need me or anyone for long. No, I go. So let's chuck the argument and get ready. Oh, Jimmy. Sobbed Joan. Jimmy. But her eyes, as they met his mistily with a proud splendor. Two hours later, Jim Carter's little autoplane lifted into the night and with that precious tube mounted above the cabin, winged swiftly westward. As on his former foray into that fiery realm, Jimmy timed his flight to arrive over the eastern edge of the Arizona desert just before dawn. Somewhere in that great sandy waste, they felt there would be a place to set the plane down and get the ray going. Professor Wentworth had broadcast the particulars of his tube to his scientific colleagues. Wherever humanity still remained and the eyes of the world were on the sea flight. If successful, swift planes would bear similar tubes to the centers of the devastated regions elsewhere and sweep outward with their deadly rays. The earth would be rid of this fiery invader if it were not successful. Jim preferred not to think of that as he drove on into the night. Crossing the Missouri river at dark and deserted Kansas City, they soon saw the eastern arc of that deadly orange circle loom on the horizon. To get over it safely, Jim rose to 20,000ft. But even there, the heat as they sped across the frontier into enemy territory was terrific. Anxiously he watched his revs and prayed for his motor to hold up. If it stopped now, they were cooked. The sturdy engines purred on with scarcely a flutter, however, and soon they were behind the lines in a region pitted with the smoldering fires of towns and cities. It made them shudder. It presented such an appalling panorama of ruin, but at the same time it strengthened their hope, for very few. Flares of orange gleamed now among the red. The main forces of the invader were at the front. That meant there should be a safe place to land somewhere. An hour later, some miles beyond that weird glass citadel that had been their objective, they found a wide stretch of empty desert. And there Jim brought the little plane down to a faultless landing just as dawn was lightening the east. Stepping out, he drew a deep, deep breath of relief, for had he crashed or smashed that fragile tube, all would have been in vain. Well, here we are. He exclaimed, grimly cheerful as Professor Wentworth stepped out after him. Now let's. Then he broke off, horrified, as he saw another figure follow the professor from the cabin. Joan. He gasped, gasped. Present, she replied. But my daughter. The professor's voice broke in. My dear child. A sob shook him. Why? Why, this is. Please don't let's talk about it, she begged, giving his arm a little pat. I'm here, and it can't be helped now. I was only afraid you'd find me before it was too late and take me then. Edging over to Jim and slipping her arm in his, she murmured, oh, my dear, don't you see I could stay behind. I had to be with you at the end. Jimmy, if it won't be. He cried, pressing her cold hand, it can't be. Then he turned to give his attention to her father, who had already mounted to the cockpit and was working absorbedly over his mechanism. In the pale light of the coming day, any moment, Jim knew, those flaming termites might discover them and come. Swooping down. With keen eyes, he scanned the horizon. No sign of them yet. How are you up there? He called about. Ready, was the reply. But I shall want more light than this for my mirrors. 10 intensely counting the seconds, they waited for the sunrise. And now, as they waited, suddenly a sinister tinge of orange suffused the rosy hues of the east. The fire ants. Cried Joan, shrinking. They've seen us. They're coming. It was true, Jim saw with a heavy heart. Turning to Professor Wentworth, he gasped out, quick, quick. We've got to do something. You've no idea how fast they move. Very well. The professor's voice was strangely calm. You may start your motor. I shall do what I can, though. If we only had the sun. Jim leaped for the cabin. A touch of the starter and the powerful engine came in, breaking his wheels hard to hold the plane on the ground. He advanced the throttle as much as as he dared and sent a high tension current surging through the wires the professor had connected with his tube. Above. Soon came that high whining hum they had heard in the laboratory a thousand times magnified now, and the nib of the big tube glowed a livid, eerie green in the lemon dawn. Joan called her father sharply. Get in the cabin with Joan. She did so, her eyes still fixed in horrified fascination on the eastern horizon. And in that tense instant she saw two things. First, a great orange arc of fiery termites bearing down on them. And second, another arc far greater, the vast saffron rim of the rising sun. Those two things Joan saw, and so did Jim, as their eardrums almost burst with a stupendous vibration that came from the gun in the cockpit. Then they saw a third, something that left them mute with awe. As Professor Wentworth swung his cannon ray upon that advancing horde, it melted, leaving only the clear yellow of the morning sunlight before their bewildered eyes. But the professor did not cease for five minutes. 10, 15, he swung that mighty ray around stepping up its power, lengthening its range as it reached its invisible annihilating arm farther and farther out. Meanwhile, Jim was radiophoning frantically. The air seemed strangely full of static. At last he got Overton of the New York press. Carter speaking out in Arizona, he said, getting any reports on the ray. And back came the tremendous news. Results. Man, the world's crazy. They're gone everywhere. Tell the professor to lay off before he sends us scooting too. Right, said Jim, cutting his motor. More later. And to Professor Wentworth he called, all right, that's enough. That ray was stronger than you knew. But there came no answer, and mounting to the wingtip, Joan, following Jim, saw a sight that froze him. With horror. They beheld the professor slumped against the tube, his whole body glowing a pale fluorescent green. Father. Screamed Joan, rushing to his side. Oh, Father. The man stirred, motioned her away, gasped weakly. Do not touch me, child. Until the luminosity goes, I am highly radioactive. I had no time to insulate the tube, no time to find out how. Had to hurry. His voice waned off, and they knew he was dead. The two stood there, stunned by the realization of his great sacrifice. He and Joan had set forth on this adventure, knowing they stood at least a chance, thought Jim. But Professor Wentworth had known from the start that it was sure death for him. The sun stood out above the eastern horizon like a huge gold coin, bright with the promise of life to spend when Jim and Joan took off at last for the return home. But the radiance of the morning was dimmed by the knowledge of the tragic burden they bore. For some moments, as they winged on, both were silent. Look, said Jim at length. Look ahead, Joan. She looked brightened somewhat. Yes, I see. And after a moment, lifting her hazel eyes to his, she said, oh, Jimmy, I'm sure it means happiness for us. Yes, I'm sure. She stirred, moved closer. Jimmy, you. You're all I have now. He made no reply, save to press her trembling hand, but it was enough. Silently, understandingly, they winged onward into the morning light. End of Spawn of the Comet by Harold Thompson Rich.

With no Strings Attached By David Gordon this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Read by Troy Bond with no Strings Attached By David Gordon the United States submarine Ambitious Brill slid smoothly into her berth in the Brooklyn Navy Yard after far too many weeks at sea. As far as her crew were concerned, after all, the necessary preliminaries had been waded through. The majority of that happy crew went ashore to enjoy a well earned and long anticipated leave in the depths of the brick and glass canyons of Gomorrah on the Hudson. The trip had been uneventful in so far as nothing really dangerous or exciting had happened. Nothing indeed that could even be called out of the way, except that there was more brass aboard than usual and that the entire trip had been made under water, with the exception of one surfacing for careful position check in order to make sure that the ship's instruments gave the same position as the stars gave they had, all was well. That is not to say that the crew of the ambitious Brill were entirely satisfied in their own minds about certain questions that had been puzzling them. They weren't, but they knew better than to ask questions even among themselves, and they said nothing whatever when they got ashore. But even the novices among submarine crews know that while the nuclear powered subs like George Washington, Patrick Henry, or Benjamin Franklin are perfectly capable of circumnavigating the globe without coming up for air, such performances are decidedly rare in a presumably diesel electric vessel such as the USS Ambitious Brill. And those few members of the crew who had seen what went on in the battery room were the most secretive and the most puzzled of all. They, and they alone knew that some of the cells of the big battery that drove the ship's electric motors had been removed to make room for a big steel clad box hardly bigger than a footlocker, and that the rest of the battery hadn't been used at all. With no one aboard but the duty watch and no one in the battery room at all, Captain Dean Lacy felt no compunction whatever in saying, as he gazed at the steel clad sealed box, what a battery. The vessel's captain, Lieutenant Commander Newton Wayne, looked up from the box into the Pentagon representative's face. Yes, sir, it is. His voice sounded as though his brain were trying to catch up with it and hadn't quite succeeded. This certainly puts us well ahead of the Russians. Captain Lacy returned the look. How right you are, Commander. This means we can convert every ship in the Navy in a tenth the time we had figured. Then they both looked at the third man, a civilian. He nodded complacently. And at a tenth the cost, gentlemen, he said mildly, North American Carbide and Metals can produce these units cheaply and at a rate that will enable us to convert every ship in the Navy within the year. Captain Lacy shot a glance at Lieutenant Commander Wayne. All this is strictly top secret, you understand yes, sir, I understand, said Wayne. Very well. He looked back at the civilian. Are we ready, Mr. Thorne? Anytime you are, Captain, the civilian said. Fine. You have your instructions, Commander. Carry on. Aye aye, sir, said Lieutenant Commander Wayne. A little less than an hour later, Captain Lacy and Mr. Thorne were in the dining room of one of the most exclusive clubs in New York. Most clubs in New York are labeled as exclusive because they exclude certain people who do not measure up to the standards of wealth. A man who makes less than, say, $100,000 a year would not even qualify for scrutiny by the Executive Committee. There is one club in Manhattan which reaches what is probably close to the limit on that kind of exclusiveness. Members must be white Anglo Saxon Protestant Americans who can trace their ancestry as white Anglo Saxon Protestant Americans back at least as far as the American Revolution without exception, and who are worth at least $10 million and who can show that the fortune came into the family at least four generations back. No others need apply. It is said that this club is not a very congenial one because the two members hate each other. The club in which Lacy and Thorne ate their dinner is not of that sort. It is composed of military and naval officers and certain civilian career men in the United States government. These men are professionals. Not one of them would ever resign from government service. They are dedicated heart, body and soul to the United States of America. The life, public and private of every man jack of them is an open book to every other member. Of the three living men who have held, and the one who at present holds the title of President of the United States, only one was a member of the club before he held that high office. As an exclusive club, they rank well above England's House of Peers and just a shade below the College of Cardinals of the Roman Catholic Church. Captain Lacy was a member. Mr. Richard Thorne was not. But he was among those few who qualify to be invited as guests. The carefully guarded precincts of the club were among the very few in which these two men could talk openly and at ease. After the duck came the brandy, both men having declined dessert. And over the brandy, that ultra rare five star Hennessy which is procurable only by certain people and is believed by many not to exist at all. Captain Lacy finally asked the question that had been bothering him for so long. Thorn, he said. Three months ago that battery didn't exist. I know it and you know it. Who was the genius who invented it? Thorne smiled, and there was a subtle wryness in the smile. Genius is the word, I suppose. Now that the contracts with the Navy have been signed. I can give you the straight story, but you're wrong in saying that the thing didn't exist three months ago. It did. We just didn't know about it, that's all. Lacy raised his bushy, iron gray eyebrows. Oh, and how did it come to the attention of North American Carbide and metals? Thorne puffed out his cheeks and blew out his breath softly before he began talking as though he were composing his beginning sentences in his mind. Then he said, the first I heard about it was four months ago. Considering what's happened since then, it seems a lot longer. He inhaled deeply from his brandy snifter before continuing. As head of the development labs for NAC and M, I was asked to take part as a witness to a demonstration that had been arranged through some of the other officers of the company. It was to take place out on Salt Lake Flats where there was no chance of hanky panky. Richard Thorne, who held a PhD from one of the finest technological colleges in the east but who preferred to be addressed as Mr. Was in a bad mood. He had flown all the way out to Salt Lake City after being given only a few hours notice, and then had been bundled into a Jeep furnished by the local sales office of NACM and scooted off to the blinding gray white glare of the salt flats. It was hot and it was much too sunshiny for Thorne, but he had made the arrangements for the test himself so he couldn't argue or complain too loudly. He could only complain mildly to himself that the business office of the company which had made the final arrangements had, in his opinion, been a little too much in a hurry to get the thing over with. Thorn himself felt that the test could have at least waited until the weather cooled off. The only consolation he had was that out here the humidity was so low that he could stay fairly comfortable in spite of the heat. As long as there was plenty of drinking water, he had made sure to bring plenty. The cavalcade of vehicles arrived at the appointed spot umpteen miles from nowhere, and pulled up in a circle. Thorne climbed out wearily and saw the man who called himself Sorenson climb out of the second Jeep. From the first time he had seen him, Thorne had tagged Sorenson as an angry old man. Not that he was really getting old he was still somewhere on the brisk side of 50, but he wore a perpetual scowl on his face that looked as though it had been etched there by too many years of frustration, and his voice always seemed to have an acid edge to it, like that of an old man who has decided, after decades of observation, that all men are fools. And yet, Thorn thought he occasionally caught a glimpse of mocking humor in the pale blue eyes. He was lean and rather tall, with white hair that still showed traces of blonde, and he looked as Scandinavian as his name sounded. His accent was pure Minnesota American. As he climbed out of the Jeep, Sorensen brought with him the black suitcase. Ever since he had first seen it, Thorne had thought of it as the black suitcase, and after he had seen some of the preliminary tests, he had subconsciously put capitals to the word. But Richard Thorne was no fool. Too many men had been suckered before, and he, Richard Thorne, did not intend to be another sucker, no matter how impressed he might be by the performance of an invention. If this was a con game, it was going to have to be a good one to get by. Richard Thorne, Ph.D. he walked across the few feet of hard salt white ground that separated him from Sorensen, standing beside the second Jeep with the black suitcase in his hand. It was obvious to anyone who watched the way Sorensen handled the thing that it was heavy, £75 or better. Need any help? Thorne asked, knowing what the answer would be. Nope, sorensen said. I can handle it. The suitcase wasn't really black. It was a dark cordovan brown made even darker by long usage, which had added oily stains to the well used leather. But Thorne thought of it as the black suitcase simply because it was the perfect example of the proverbial little black box, the box that did things as a test question. In an examination, the little black box performs a useful function. The examiner draws a symbolic electronic circuit. Somewhere in the circuit, instead of drawing the component that is supposed to be there, he draws a little black box. Then he defines the waveform, voltage and amperage entering the circuit and defines whatever is coming out. What is in the little black box. Except in the simplest of cases there is never an absolute answer. The question is counted as correct if the student puts into the little black box a component or sub circuit which will produce the effect desired. The value of the answer depends on the simplicity and relative controllability of the component drawn in the place of the little black box. Sorensen's black suitcase was still a problem to Thorne. He couldn't quite figure out what was in it. Hotter' n Billy Blue Blazes, sorensen said as he put the black suitcase down on the gleaming white ground. He grinned a little, which dispelled for a moment his angry old man expression, and said, you ready to go, Mr. Thorne? I'm ready anytime you are, thorne said grumpily. Sorensen looked at the NAC and M scientist sideways. You don't sound any happier' N I am, Mr. Thorn. Thorn looked at him and thought he could see that flash of odd humor in his light blue eyes. Thorn exhaled a heavy breath. I'm no happier than you are to be out in this heat. Let's get on with it. Sorensen's chuckle sounded so out of place that Thorn was almost startled. You know the difference between you and me, Mr. Thorn? Sorensen asked. He didn't wait for an answer. You think this test is probably a waste of time. Me, on the other hand. I know it is. Let's get on with it, thorn repeated. It took two hours to set up the equipment, in spite of the fact that a lot of the circuits had been prefabricated before the caravan had come out from Salt Lake City. But Richard Thorne wanted to make certain that all his data was both correct and recorded. Sorensen had nothing to do but watch. He had no hand in setting up the equipment. He had brought the black suitcase, and that was all he was going to be allowed to do. From the top of the black suitcase projected two 1 inch copper electrodes, 14 inches apart. The North American Carbide and Metals technicians set up the circuits that were connected to the electrodes without any help from Sorensen. But just before they started to work, Sorensen said, there's just one thing I think you ought to know to warn those men about, Mr. Thorn. What's that? Thorn asked. If any of em tries to open that suit case, they're likely to get blown sky high. And I don't want em getting funny with me either. He had his hand in his trouser pocket and Thorn was suddenly quite stiff. Certain that the man was holding a revolver, he could see the outlines against the cloth. Thorn sighed. Don't worry, Mr. Sorensen. We don't have any ulterior designs on your invention. He did not add that the investigators of NACM had already assumed that anyone who was asking $1 million for an invention which was, in effect, a pig and a poke would be expected to take drastic methods to protect his gadget. But there'd be no point in telling Sorensen that his protective efforts had already been anticipated and that the technicians had already been warned against touching the blat suitcase any more than necessary to connect the leads. Giving Sorensen that information might make him even more touchy. Thorn only hoped that the bomb, or whatever it was that Sorensen had put in the suitcase was well built, properly fused, and provided with adequate safeties. When everything was set up, Sorensen walked over to his device and turned it on by shoving the blade of a heavy duty switch into place. Okay, he said. One of the technicians began flipping other switches, and a bank of ordinary incandescent light bulbs came on four at a time. Finally there were 100 of them burning, each one a hundred watt bulb that glowed brightly but did not appear to be contributing much to the general brightness of the Utah sun. The technicians checked their recording voltmeters and amp meters and reported that, sure enough, some 10 kilowatts of power at a little less than 115v DC was coming from the black suitcase. Sorensen and Thorn sat in the tent, which had been erected to ward off the sun's rays. They watched the lights shine. One of the technicians came in, wiping his forehead with a big blue bandana. Well, There she goes, Mr. Sorensen. If that thing is dangerous, hadn't we better back off a little way from isn't dangerous, Sorensen said. Nothing's going to happen. The technician looked unhappy. Then. I don't see why we couldn't have tested the thing back in the shop. Would have been a lot easier there to say nothing and more comfortable. Thorn lit a cigarette in silence. Sorensen nodded and said, yes, Mr. Siegel, it would have been. Siegel sat down on one of the camp stools and lit a cigarette. Mr. Sorensen, he asked in all innocence, have you got a patent on that battery? The humorous glint returned to Sorensen's eyes as he said, nope, I didn't patent the battery in that suit case. That's why I don't want anybody fooling around with it. How come you don't patent it? Siegel asked. Nobody could steal it if you patent it, couldn't they? Sorensen asked with a touch of acid in his voice. Do you know anything about batteries, Mr. Siegel? A little. I'm not an expert on em or anything like that. I'm an electrician, but I know a little bit about em. Sorensen nodded. Then you should know, Mr. Siegel, that battery making is an art, not a science. You don't just stick a couple of electrodes in a solution of electrolyte and consider that your work is done with the same two metals and the same electrolyte. You could make batteries that would run the gamut from terrible to excellent. Some of em maybe won't hold a charge more than an hour, while others would have a shelf life fully charged of as much as a year. Batteries don't Work according to theory. If they did, potassium chlorate would be a better depolarizer than manganese dioxide instead of the other way around. What you get out of a voltaic cell depends on the composition and strength of the electrolyte, the kind of depolarizer used, the shape of the electrode, the kind of surface they have, their arrangement and spacing, and a hundred other little things. I've heard that, Siegel said. Thorn smoked in silence. He had heard Sorensen's arguments before. Sorensen didn't mind discussing his battery in the abstract, but he was awfully close mouthed when it came to talking about it in concrete terms. He would talk about batteries in general, but not about this battery in particular. Not that Thorne blamed him in the least. Sorensen was absolutely correct in his statements about the state of the art of making voltaic cells. If Sorensen had something new, and Thorn was almost totally convinced that he did, then he was playing it smart by not trying to patent it. Now then, Sorensen went on, let's suppose that my battery is made up of lead and lead dioxide plates in a sulfuric acid solution. Except that I've added a couple of trifling things and made a few small changes in the physical structure of the plates. I'm not saying that's what the battery is, mind you. I'm saying suppose. Ok, suppose, said Siegel. Couldn't you patent it? What's the patent? The PbPO2H2SO4 cell is about half as old as the United States Patent Office itself. Can't patent that. Copper oxide, maybe? Is it a polarizer? Old hat. Can't patent that. Laminated plates, maybe? Nope, can't patent that either. Siegel looked out at the hundred glowing lightbulbs. You mean you can't patent it even if it works a hundred times better than an ordinary battery? Hell, man, Sorensen said, you can't patent performance. You've got to patent something solid and concrete. Oh, I'll grant that. The top notch patent attorney might be able to get me some kind of patent on it, but I wouldn't trust its standing up in court if I had to try to quash an infringement. Besides, even if I had an iron bound patent, what good would it do me? Ever hear of a patent pool? No, said Siegel. What's a patent pool? I'll give you an example. If all the manufacturers of a single product got together and agree to form a patent pull, it means that if one company buys a patent, all of them can use it. Say the automobile companies have one. That means if you invent a radical new design for an engine, one maybe that would save them millions of dollars. You'll be offered a few measly thousand for it. Why should they offer more? Where else are you going to sell it? If one company gets it, they all get it. There's no competition. And if you refuse to sell at all, they just wait a few years until the patent runs out and use it for free. That may take a little time, but a big industry has plenty of time. They have a longer lifespan than human beings. North American Carbide and Metals, said Thorne quietly, is not a member of any patent pool, Mr. Sorensen. I know, sorensen said agreeably. Battery patents are trickier than automotive machinery patents. That's why I'm doing this my way. I'm not selling the gadget as such. I'm selling results. For $1 million tax paid. I will agree to show your company how to build a device that will turn out electric power at such and such a rate, and that will have so and so characteristics, just like it says in the contract you read. I guarantee that it can be made at the price I quote. That's all. He looked back out of the bank of light bulbs. They were still burning. They kept burning. They kept burning for 10 solid hours, said Thorn. Then he went out and shut off his battery. Captain Lacy was scowling. That's damn funny, he muttered. What is? Asked Thorn, wondering why the naval officer had interrupted his story. What you've been telling me, lacy said. I'll swear I've heard. He stopped and snapped his fingers suddenly. Sure, by golly. He stood up from the table. Would you excuse me for a minute? I want to see if a friend of mine is here. If he is, he has a story you ought to hear. Damn funny coincidence. And he was off in a hurry, leaving Thorn staring somewhat blankly after him. Three minutes later, while Thorne was busily pouring himself a second helping of Five Star Hennessy, Captain Lacy returned to the table with an army officer wearing the insignia of a bird Colonel. Colonel Dower, the captain said, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Richard Thorne, the top research man with North American carbide and metals. Mr. Thorne, this is Colonel Edward Dower. The men shook hands. A third brandy snifter was brought, and a gentleman's potation was poured for the colonel. Ed, said Captain Lacy, as soon as his fellow officer had inhaled a goodly lungful of the heady fumes. Do you remember you were telling me a couple of years ago about some test you were in on out the Mojave Desert. Colonel Dower frowned. Test something to do with cars? No, not that one. Something to do with a power supply. Power supply?

[Interjector]

Oh.

[Narrator]

His frown faded and became a smile. You mean the crackpot with his little suitcase? Thorn looked startled, and Captain Lacy said, that's the one. Sure, I remember, said the Colonel. What about it? Oh, nothing, lacy said with elaborate unconcern. I just thought Mr. Thorne here might like to hear the story. That is, if it isn't classified. Col. Dower chuckled. Nothing classified about it. Just another crackpot inventor. Had a little suit case that he claimed was a marvelous new power source. Wanted a million dollars cash for it, tax free, no strings attached. But he wouldn't show us what was in it. Not really. Very interesting. Go ahead, Colonel, said Thorn. I'm interested, Really I am. Well, as I said, there's nothing much to it, the Colonel said. He showed us a lot of impressive looking stuff in his laboratory, but it didn't mean a thing. He had the suit case, as I told you. There were a couple of thick copper electrodes coming out of the side of it, and he claimed that they could be tapped for tremendous amounts of power. Well, we listened and we watched his demonstrations in the lab. He ran some heavy duty motors off it and a few other things like that. I don't remember what all. And he wanted to sell it to you sight unseen? Thorn asked. That's right, said the Colonel. Well, actually he wasn't trying to sell it to the army. As you know, we don't buy ideas. All we buy is hardware, the equipment itself or the components. But the company he was trying to sell his gadget to wanted me to take a look at it as an observer. I've had experience with that sort of thing and they wanted my opinion. I see, thorne said. What happened? Well, said the Colonel, we wanted him to give us a demonstration out in the Mojave Desert. Out in the Mojave Desert? The inventor asked. Whatever for, Colonel Dower, we just want to make sure you haven't got any hidden power sources hooked up to that suitcase of yours. We know a place out in the Mojave where there aren't any power lines for miles. We'll pick the place. The inventor frowned at him out of pale blue eyes. Look. He gestured at the suitcase sitting on the laboratory table. You can see there's nothing faked about that. Colonel Dower shook his head. You won't tell us what's in that suit case. All we know is that it's supposed to produce power from what? How? You won't tell us? Did you ever hear of the Keeley motor? No. What was the Keeley motor? Something along the lines of what you have here, the Colonel said dryly. Except that Keely at least had an explanation for where he was getting his power back. Around 1874, a man named John Keely claimed he had invented a wonderful new power source. He called it a breakthrough in the field of perpetual motion. An undiscovered source of power, he said, controlled by harmony. He had a machine in his lab which would begin to turn a fly wheel. When he blew a chord on a harmonica. He could stop it by blowing a sour note. He claimed that this power was all around, but that it was easiest to get it out of water. He claimed that a pint of his charged water would run a train from Philadelphia to New York and back and only cost a tenth as much as coal. The inventor folded his arms across his chest and looked grimly at Colonel Dower. I see. Go on. Well, he got some wealthy men interested. A lot of them invested money, big money in the Keeley Motor Company money. Every so often he'd bring them down to his lab and show them what progress he was making and then tell them how much more money he needed. He always got them to shell out. And he was living pretty high on the hog. He kept at it for years. Finally, in the late 90s, the Scientific American exposed the whole hoax. Keely died, and his lab was giving a thorough going over. It turned out that all his marvelous machines were run by compressed, compressed air cleverly channeled through the floor and the legs of tables. I see, repeated the inventor, narrowing his eyes. And I suppose my invention is run by compressed air. I didn't say your invention was a phony, Col. Dower said placatingly. I merely mentioned the Keeley motor to show you why we want to test it out somewhere away from your laboratory. Are you willing to go? Any time you are, Colonel. A week or so later, they went out into the Mojave and set up the test. The suit case. The suit case, said the Colonel, was connected up to a hundred hundred watt light bulbs. He let the thing run for 10 hours before he shut it off. He chuckled. He never would let us look into that suitcase. Naturally, we wouldn't buy a picnic poke, as the saying goes. We told him that any time we could be allowed to look at his invention, we'd be glad to see him again. He left in a huff, and that was the last we saw of him. How do you Explain, thorne said carefully, the fact that his suitcase did run all those lights. The Colonel chuckled again. Hell, we had that figured out. He just had a battery of some kind in the suitcase. No fancy gimmick for deriving power from perpetual motion or anything like that? Nope. Just a battery, that's all. Captain Dean Lacy was grinning hugely. Thorne said, tell me, Colonel, what was this fellow's name? Oh, I don't recall. Big blond chap had a Swedish name, or maybe Norwegian Sanderson?

No.

Something like that, though. Sorensen? Thorn asked. That's it. Sorensen. Do you know him? We've done business with him, said Thorn dryly. He didn't bomb his phony machine off on you, did he? The Colonel asked with a light laugh. No, no, thorne said. Nobody sold us a battery disguised as a perpetual motion device. Our relations with him have been quite profitable, thank you, I'd say. You still ought to watch him, said Col. Dower. Once a con man, always a con man, is my belief. Captain Lacy rubbed his hands together. Ed, tell me something. Didn't it ever occur to you that a battery which could do all that, a battery which would hold a hundred kilowatt hours of energy in a suitcase, would be worth the million he was asking for it? Colonel Dower looked startled. Why? Why, no. The man was obviously a phony. He wouldn't tell us what the power source was. He. Colonel Dower stopped. Then he said as John went on, besides, if it were a battery, why didn't he say so? A phony like that shouldn't be. He stopped again, looking at the naval officer. Lacy was still grinning. We have discovered, Ed, he said in an almost sweet voice, that Sorensen's battery will run a submarine. With all due respect to your rank and ability, Captain Thorn said, I have a feeling that you'd have been skeptical about any such story, too. Oh, I'll admit that, lacy said. But I still would have been impressed by the performance. Then he looked thoughtful. But I must admit that it lowers my opinion of your inventor to hear that he tells all these cock and bull stories. Why not just come out with the truth? Evidently he's learned something, Thorne said, let me tell you what happened after the contracts had been signed the contracts had been signed after a week of negotiation. Thorne was, he admitted to himself, a little nervous. As soon as he had seen the test out on Salt Flats, he had realized that Sorensen had developed a battery that was worth every cent he had asked for it. Thorne himself had pushed for the negotiations to get them through without too much friction. A million Bucks was a lot of loot, but there was no chance of losing it, really. As Sorensen said, the contract did not call for the delivery of a specific device. It called for a device that would produce specific results. If Sorensen's device didn't produce those results, or if they couldn't be duplicated by Thorne after having had the device explained to him then, the contract wasn't fulfilled and the ambitious Mr. Sorensen wouldn't get any million dollars. Now the time had come to see what was inside that mysterious little black suitcase. Sorensen had obligingly brought the suitcase to the main testing and development laboratory of North American Carbide and Metals. Sorensen put it on the lab table, but he didn't open it right away. Now, I want you to understand, Mr. Thorne, he began, that I myself don't exactly know how this thing works. That is, I don't completely understand what's going on inside there. I've built several of them, and I can show you how to build them, but that doesn't mean I understand them completely. That's not unusual in battery work, thorne said. We don't completely understand what's going on in a lot of cells. As long as the thing works according to the specifications in the contract, we'll be satisfied. All right, fine. But you're going to be surprised when you see what's in here. I probably will. I've been expecting a surprise, thorn said. What he got was a real surprise. There was a small pressure tank of hydrogen inside one of the little ones that are sometimes used to fill toy balloons. There was a small batch of electronic circuitry that looked as though it might be the insides of an FMAM radio. All the rest of the space was taken up by batteries, and every single one of the cells was a familiar little canister. They were small, rechargeable nickel cadmium cells, and every one bore the trademark of North American Carbide and metals. One of the other men in the lab said, what kind of joke is this? Do you mean, Mr. Sorensen, Thorne asked with controlled precision, that your million dollar process is merely some kind of gimmickry with our own batteries? No, said Sorenson. It' swait a minute, said one of the others. Is it some kind of hydrogen fuel cell? In a way, sorensen said. Yes. In a way. It isn't as efficient as I'd like, but it gets its power by converting hydrogen to helium. I need those batteries to start the thing after it gets going. These leads here from the reactor cell keep the batteries charged The. He was interrupted by five different voices, all trying to speak at once. He could hardly. He could hardly get a word in edgewise. At first, said Thorn. He was enjoying the look of shocked amazement on Colonel Dower's face when Sorensen finally did get it explained. We still didn't know much, but we built another one, and it worked as well as the one he had. And the contract didn't specifically call for a battery. He had us good, he did. Now, wait, Colonel Dower said. You mean to say it wasn't a battery after all? Of course not. Then why all the folderol? Colonel Thorn said. Sorensen patented that device nine years ago. It only has eight years to run. But he couldn't get anyone at all to believe that it would do what he said it would do. After years of beating his head against a stone wall, years of trying to convince people who wouldn't even look twice at his gadget, he decided to get smart. He began to realize that everybody knew that hydrogen fusion wasn't that simple. It was his theory that no one would listen to. As soon as he told anyone that he had a hydrogen fusion device that could be started with a handful of batteries and could be packed into a suitcase, he was instantly dismissed as a nut. I did a little investigating after he gave us the full information on what he had done. Incidentally, he signed over the patent to us, which was more than the contract called for, in return for a job with our outfit so that he could help develop the fusion device. As I said, he finally got smart. If the theory was what was making people give him the cold shoulder, he'd tell them nothing. You know the results of that, Colonel Dower. At least he got somebody to test the machine. He managed to get somebody to look at what it would do, but that wasn't enough. He didn't have, apparently, any legitimate excuse for keeping it under wraps that way, so everyone was suspicious. But why tell you it was a battery? Asked Captain Lacy. That was probably suggested by Colonel Dower's reaction to the tests he saw. Thorne said somebody. I think it was George Gamow, but I'm not certain. Once said that just having a theory isn't enough. The theory has to make sense. Well, Sorensen's theory of hydrogen fusion producing electric current didn't make sense. It was true, but it didn't make sense. So he came up with a theory that did make sense. If everyone wanted to think it was nothing but a battery, then, by heaven, he'd sell it as a battery. And that, gentlemen, was a theory. We were perfectly willing to believe it wasn't true, but it did make sense as far as I was concerned. It was perfectly natural for a man who'd invented a new type of battery to keep it under wraps that way. Naturally, after we had invested a million dollars in the thing, we had to investigate it. It worked, and we had to find out why and how. Naturally, said Col. Dower, looking somewhat uncomfortable. I presume this is all under wraps, eh? What about the Russians? Couldn't they get hold of the patent papers? They could have, thorne admitted, but they didn't. They dismissed him as a crackpot, too, if they heard about him at all. Certainly they never requested a copy of his patent. The patent number is now top secret, of course, and if anyone does write in for a copy, the patent office will reply that there are temporarily no copies available, and the FBI will find out who is making the request. Well, said Colonel Dower, at least I am glad to hear that. I was not the only one who didn't believe him. Captain Lacy chuckled. And Mr. Thorn here believed a lie. Only because it made more sense than the truth, thorne said, and he added, you shouldn't laugh, Captain. Remember, we suckered the Navy in almost the same way. With no strings attached by David Gordon.